Laced and bound, this strange cradle is hung to the top of the lodge. A bow of curved wood protects the baby's head from injury, should the cradle fall.
As the little papoose swings gently, the Indian mother sings a lullaby, and this is the one she often sings:
"Wa wa—wa wa—wa wa yea,
Swinging, swinging, lullaby.
Sleep thou, sleep thou, sleep thou.
Little daughter, lullaby.
Wa wa—wa wa—wa wa."
Slower and slower swings the cradle and the black eyes close in sleep.
"What shall we name the little one?" asks the mother.
Nokomis stands in the door of the wigwam. Through the trees she sees the blue water of the lake. White clouds are moving rapidly across the sky.
"White Cloud shall be her name," answers Nokomis.
Good Bird, the mother, smiles and nods. As she watches the cradle, she talks to the sleeping child.
"My little woman, you shall be a fire maker and a lodge keeper like your mother. You shall help me tan the skins for clothing. I will teach you to make beautiful dresses and trim them with beadwork and quills. Your father and your brother will be proud to wear the moccasins you make.
"You shall go with me to the lake when the rice is ready to harvest. Together we will hunt the wild berries and the nuts. You shall be your mother's helper, my little daughter, White Cloud."