“Yes, mother, I understand that now. Reindeer life is much safer than caribou life, but—”
“But what?”
White Sox seemed to be puzzled about something. He thought about it for a minute, and then he said, “Mother, you never said a word when the herders killed my two big brothers. Did you think it right?”
Mother Reindeer did not speak, but she nodded her head upward and downward, very slowly.
“They killed two of my uncles also,” continued White Sox, “but they never touched my sisters or my aunts. And now I come to think of it, mother, it is always the brothers and uncles that are killed. Are we born to be eaten?”
Mother Reindeer looked very serious. “It is time I told you the big story,” she said. “After you have heard it you will understand many things that seem strange to you now. Come, if you’ve finished your meal. Lie here by my side. No wolves can surprise us on this knoll. The beautiful moon is our friend. I am going to tell you how the first wild caribou was tamed and became a reindeer.”
After they had made themselves comfortable, Mother Reindeer said, “First I must tell you that it will be a white world for seven moons. From now until we shed our coats next summer, you may be known in the big herd as ‘Black Sox’!”
Poor White Sox! He looked sadly at his dark stockings, which were almost as black as the feathers of a raven; but he answered thoughtfully: “I am thankful my nose is still white. But I am not worrying about my name and color. I want to hear the story of how the first caribou was tamed, mother.”
This pleased Mother Reindeer very much. “Good, my son!” she said. “Now for the story!”
And under the bright arctic moon, on the very top of the great American continent, she told him the story.