Part 4 (1/2)

Once, twice, thrice, did the eager child outrun his playmate amid shouts and laughter. His little feet seemed to fly over the ground.

”He is as swift as a young elk,” said the bystanders. And before the racing was ended, the child was called again to the trial of speed, this time with an older lad. Again he was first at the goal.

”He will be a runner like his father,” said the warriors who had come near to watch the sports of their children.

Fleet Deer, when a young man, was the fastest runner in his tribe. And now his little son had won a race and the father was proud. He walked slowly toward his lodge and entered the curtained opening.

”Prepare a feast in honor of our son,” he said to Good Bird, his wife.

Standing in front of his wigwam, he called in a loud voice the names of his brothers and kinsmen in the camp.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

They came, one by one, entered the low doorway, and were seated in a circle close to the inner wall of the wigwam, some on the low beds and some on mats.

Nokomis and Good Bird pa.s.sed to each a wooden dish containing meat, dried berries, parched rice, and maple sugar.

There were many prayers and much smoking of the long pipe which was pa.s.sed from host to guest. Then Fleet Deer led his son to the middle of the wigwam. The child's face and body were painted, and his long hair was braided and wound around his head.

”You have seen my son outrun his playmates,” said the father. ”You know that he has taken the honors of victory from a companion that is older and larger. One and another who watched the race have said that my son is like a young elk in his running.

”I was but a lad, my kinsmen, when your former chief, my father, gave me the name I bear. He has taken the long journey to the land of spirits. Will you agree that his grandson bear the name of Swift Elk?”

The warriors gravely bowed their heads in approval. Again the pipe was pa.s.sed, and the smoke curled and rose in the lodge.

Swift Elk, the grandson of a great chief, had earned his name.

FIRE AND THE FIRE MAKERS

”Are you going away, Grandmother? Take me with you.”

”I am on my way to the forest, White Cloud. It will be a long walk for you. We need dry moss and decayed wood for tinder. Some cold morning we shall wake and find no red coals in the ashes. Then we shall need some pieces of the driest of wood to kindle a new fire.”

”Let me go, and I will help you look for dry wood. I know I am big enough to be a fire maker. Haven't I seen seven winters?”

So Nokomis and White Cloud started on the trail that led to the wild forest. There great trees had died and fallen, and the branches had been decaying for many moons--no one can tell how many.

”Is the fire always lost when we move our camp, Grandmother?”

”Not always. Some lodge keepers try to carry a few coals, and the one who succeeds is glad to share with others. But one person is often sent ahead to the new camp to make a central fire out of doors. You know it takes a long time to get a spark by rubbing two sticks together.”

”How did the Indians get fire in the first place? And how did fire get into wood?” asked White Cloud.

”I will tell you, my child. I have heard all about it from the story-tellers.

”Once there was only one fire in all the world. It was kept in a sacred wigwam and guarded by an old blind man.

”All the Indians had heard about fire and wanted very much to get it.