One night when the Indian was sitting by his fire, the Ice King stepped to the door of the wigwam. He walked boldly to the fire and sat down opposite the Indian.
How cold the Ice King's breath felt! It nearly put out the fire. The poor Indian shivered, but he said to himself, "The Ice King shall not conquer me." He jumped up and threw dry wood on the fire. Then he poured oil upon the wood. The fire blazed up. The Indian put on more wood and more oil. The fire roared and crackled.
The Ice King began to feel too warm. He moved back a little way. The fire became hotter. The Ice King moved farther back. He began to sweat and to grow smaller and weaker. Then he cried out, "My friend, I am conquered. Let me go! Oh, let me go!"
The Indian arose and pushed the fire back from the Ice King. Then he took his trembling hand, lifted him up, and led him to the door of the wigwam.
As the Ice King passed out he said, "You have conquered me twice. You shall always be my master."
Ever since that time men have been masters of the Ice King. When his cold breath blows, they make the fires warmer and their clothing thicker.
[Footnote: Adapted from "The Ice Man" in Legends of the MicMacs, published by S. T. Rand; permission to use given by Helen S. Webster, owner of copyright.]
THE WOLF, THE GOAT, AND THE KID
"Good-by, little one," said Mrs. White Paw, the goat, to her daughter.