Big Moggasen’s veins swelled with the rush of his hot blood. He leaped to his feet tense and rigid. “No. My children shall not come. I do not believe in the white man or his ways. I do not like the white man’s ways. I am old and I have seen many things. The white man makes our young men drunk. He steals away our daughters. He takes away their hearts with sweet drinks and clothes. He is a wolf.”
The Little Father remained calm. “It is true there are bad white men, but there are those who are good.”
“Those I do not see,” growled the chief. “All my life I have thrust the white men away because they came to steal our land. I do not want my children to learn their ways.”
“Then you can’t have any of the great fellow’s presents.”
“Then I will go home as I came, hungry and cold,” replied the old man, wrapping his blanket around him.
“To show that I am not angry,” said the Little Father. “I will give you something to eat on your way home.”
The old man grew stern and set. “I did not come to beg of the white man. I did not come to ask anything for myself. I came because my people in council decided to send me. I have come. I am old and I have not departed from the ways of my fathers. I have lived thus far without the white man’s help, I will die as I have lived. I have spoken.”
Turning abruptly he went out, followed by his companions and old White-hairs, whose face was very sad.
THE STORM-CHILD