“None,” said Miskwa;—“no game has crossed my path to-day:—it heard the storm in the whistling wind, and went to its hiding place.”
“And was Miskwa wise?”
“Miskwa searched for food for her mother; the path was far from her lodge, yet she returned, and reached it before the night grew dark.”
“Thou wer't more wise than thy mother, Miskwa. Her blood is now like a sluggish stream; it creeps slowly. The howling storm spent its force upon the old oak, and racked it to its roots. Had Netnokwa remained out an hour longer, she would not now want food; her spirit would be in the happy hunting grounds with her warriors who have gone before her. What would have become of her children?”
Miskwa renewed the fire, and drawing closer to her mother;—“Miskwa always begs her mother that her path may not be far from her wigwam,—She has seen many years, and should rest. Her daughter will supply her with food.”
“We hunger now,—when morning comes, will it bring forth food?” inquired Netnokwa.
“It will,” said Miskwa;—“the Great Spirit will take care of his children. When morning comes, if Miskwa can find no game, she will break the ice, and catch the dory.”
“Thou art good, my daughter. The Great Spirit will take care of his children who love him. Let us pray to him, and ask him to give us food in the morning. The pale face cannot live so long as we can without food.”
“Be it as the Great Spirit wills,” said the captive, “but I had rather do without it than that you should go out such weather as this to seek it.”
“He that does not seek, shall never find,” said Netnokwa; “the Great Spirit will not help those who do not help themselves.”