FLORA J. COOKE
ong ago in the far North, where it is very cold, there was only one fire. A hunter and his little son took care of this fire and kept it burning day and night. They knew that if the fire went out the people would freeze and the white bear would have the Northland all to himself. One day the hunter became ill, and his son had all the work to do.
For many days and nights he bravely took care of his father and kept the fire burning.
The white bear was always hiding near, watching the fire. He longed to put it out, but he did not dare, for he feared the hunter's arrows.
When he saw how tired and sleepy the little boy was, he came closer to the fire and laughed to himself.
One night the poor boy could endure the fatigue no longer and fell fast asleep.
The white bear ran as fast as he could and jumped upon the fire with his wet feet, and rolled upon it. At last he thought it was all out and went happily away to his cave.
A brown robin was flying near and saw what the white bear was doing.
She waited until the bear went away. Then she flew down and searched with her sharp little eyes until she found a tiny live coal. This she fanned patiently with her wings for a long time.
Her little breast was scorched red, but she did not stop until a fine red flame blazed up from the ashes.
Then she flew away to every hut in the Northland. Wherever she touched the ground, a fire began to burn. Soon, instead of one little fire, the whole North country was lighted up.
The white bear went farther back into his cave in the iceberg and growled terribly. He knew that there was now no hope that he would ever have the Northland all to himself.
This is the reason that the people in the North countries love the robin, and are never tired of telling their children how its breast became red.
How the Robin Came[4]
ong ago, as you know, the Indians roved over the plains and through the forests of America. Their leaders were called chiefs. This story tells about an Indian chief and his son.
[4] This story is based upon a legend of the Algonquin Indians. John Greenleaf Whittier has a poem with a similar title, written upon the same theme.
The Indian chief was very strong and very brave. He could bear cold, hunger and pain without a word. He was a wonderful hunter and a fierce enemy. Nothing ever made him afraid.
He had one son, whom he loved with all his heart. He hoped that this son would grow up to be a warrior, greater than his father.
But the lad was slender and white-faced. He did not seem strong; long marches wearied him. When the Indian boys are about eighteen years of age, they like to show that they will make brave warriors. To do this they take certain tests. These are some of them. They go without food and water, five, seven, or even ten days. Again they go without sleep for ten days. They let their friends cut them with knives and never even cry out.
The time came when the son of the chief must take the test. He went away to the wigwam, or lodge, where the testing took place. His father hoped that he would act like a brave young man.
When some days had passed, the father went to see his son. Pale and weak, he lay on the ground. He had not eaten nor slept.
"Father," he whispered, "I cannot bear this. Let me go free."
"Ah no, my boy," said the chief. "They will call you woman, if you fail. It is but two days more. Then you shall have good meat and deep sleep. Think of the time when you will be a great chief, with a hundred scalps at your belt. Be strong."
But the lad only shook his head.
Two days later, the father rose with the sun. He heaped moose-meat and corn into a wooden bowl and set off to his son.
As he drew near the wigwam he called, "Here is food, my son."
There was no reply.
He entered, and there, on the ground before him, lay his boy, dead.
They dug his grave close by the lodge, and brought his bow, pipe, and knife to bury with him.
As they were placing the youth in his grave, they heard a strange, new song. They looked up and saw, on the top of the lodge, an unknown bird. It had a brown coat and a red breast. As they watched, it began to sing. Its song seemed to say:
"I was once the chief's son. But now I am a bird. I am happier than if I had lived to be a fierce warrior, with scalps at my belt. Now I shall make all glad with my song. I shall tell the little children when spring has come. Then they will search for pussy-willows and anemones. I am the robin, a little brother to man! Who so happy as I?"
Even the father's grief was comforted by the bright little messenger. "It is best after all," he said. "My son could not kill men nor beasts; he is happier as a singer, even as this little bird."
The Story of the Red-Headed Woodpecker[5]
ong, long ago, there lived an old woman in a little cottage by the forest. She was not a poor old woman. She had plenty of wood to burn in winter, and plenty of meal to bake into bread all the year round. Her clothes were old-fashioned but warm. She always wore a grey dress and a little red cap.
[5] This story is told in verse in Phœbe Cary's A Legend of the Northland.
Late one summer afternoon, the cottage door was open. The old woman stood by her fire, baking cakes for her evening meal. How good they smelled!
A tall old man who was passing by the cottage stopped a moment. Then he pushed open the garden gate and walked up the path to the door.
The old woman was bending low over the cakes, but she saw his shadow and looked up.
"Will you give me one of your cakes?" said the man.
The woman thought to herself, "Why did I leave the door open? The smell of these hot cakes will bring every beggar within miles to my house." Then she looked a second time at the man and saw that he was no beggar. He stood like a king in the doorway. His blue eyes were kind but very keen.
She looked at the six cakes that lay crisp and hot on the hearth. "Well, I will give him one," she thought, "but these are all too large."
She took a small handful of meal from the barrel and began to bake it into a cake. The man watched her from the door. As she turned the cake, it seemed to her too large to give away.
"I will bake a smaller one," she said to herself. She did not glance toward the stranger, but caught up a wee bit of meal and began to cook the second cake.
But that also looked too large to give away. She cooked a third cake that was no larger than a thimble. But when it was done, she shook her head, for it also was too large to give away. And still the old man waited patiently in the doorway, watching it all.
Then the old woman gathered up the cakes, large and small, and put them on a plate. The plate she set on the pantry shelf and then locked the door.
"I have no food for you," she said to the old man. "My cakes seem very small when I eat them, but they are far too large to give away. Ask bread at another door."
The old man's blue eyes flashed with fire as he drew himself up proudly.
"I have been round the world but never have I met a soul so small. You have shelter, food, and fire, but you will not share with another. This is your punishment. You shall seek your scanty food with pain. You shall bore, bore, bore in hard tree-trunks for your food."
The old man struck his staff on the floor. A strong gust of wind carried the old woman up the chimney. The flames scorched her grey clothes black; but her red cap was unharmed.
A woodpecker flew out of the chimney and away to the wood. Rap! rap! rap! you can hear her tapping her beak on the tree-trunks as she hunts for food. But always and everywhere, she wears a black coat and a little red cap. Watch for the woodpecker and see if it is not so.