“Sewed them.”
“Thread?”
“The slender roots of spruces. See!” And pulling up a tiny spruce that grew by the rock on which he sat, he showed them the delicate, tough rootlets. “Then,” he added, “of course the bark is very useful for kindling, in the woods. The White Birch is almost always found with or near the White Pine.”
“I like to think of their being ‘princes,’ in ‘silver rags’,” said Pet. “I should think there ought to be a legend about that, among the Indians.”
Something in their uncle’s expression made them all shout at once, “There is! There is! O, please tell it!”
“Well, well,” laughed Mr. Percival, “fortunately for all of us, it isn’t very long. Tom, keep the fire going, while you listen. The rest of you may interrupt and ask questions, whenever you wish.
“A great, great many years ago, centuries before Columbus dreamed of America, the Indians say the country was ruled by a king whose like was never known before nor since. In an encampment high up on the slopes of the Rocky Mountains he lived, and held his royal court. No one knew his age, but though his beard fell in white waves over his aged breast, his eye was as bright as an eagle’s and his voice strong and wise in every council of the chiefs.”
“What was his name?” asked Randolph.
“He was called Manitou the Mighty. In his reign the Indian people grew prosperous and happy. So deeply did they love and revere him that it was quite as common to speak of him as ‘father,’ as to address him as ‘king.’
“‘Yes,’ said the monarch, when he heard of this, ‘yes, truly they are my children. They are all princes, are they not?—my forest children!’