And where the two fell, there sprang from the earth a new flower, the purple violet, which speaks of courage and of love.
THE BEGINNING OF BIRDS
(Blackfeet)
IN very early times, the Red Children believe, there were no birds. And this is the way they account for their beginning:
All summer the trees had been full of leaves, shaking, whispering, dancing, as the winds blew upon them. “I wish I might fly,” said one little leaf. “I would go sailing straight up into the heavens. But the tree holds me tightly; I cannot get away.”
“If the tree should let you go, you would only fall to the ground and die,” said a bigger leaf. “It is better to be content as you are.”
So the leaves fluttered and danced and whispered one to another, day after day.
One morning the wind was cold, and the leaves had to dance fast to keep warm. Then the old tree said, “It is the breath of Po-poon-o-ki. He lives in the ice lodge of the far North. He will soon visit us, with his war paints. I must hold you tightly, little leaves, as long as I can.” But the little leaves did not understand what the tree meant.
Then, one still night, Po-poon-o-ki came. He went from tree to tree, and over each one he splashed his war paints, till the leaves were no longer green, but dashed with red, and brown, and yellow, and crimson.
“How beautiful the trees are!” cried the Indian children the next morning. “See their bright colors.”