“The teacher was right,” said another.

At last, the farmers grew ashamed of having killed the birds.  They met and did away with the wicked law, but it was too late.

[Illustration:  The wagon filled with branches and cages]

Harvest time came, but there was no harvest.  In many a home there was want and sorrow.

The next spring a strange sight was seen—­a sight never seen before or since.  Through the streets there went a wagon filled with great branches of trees.  Upon them were hung cages of birds that were making sweet music.

From all the country round these birds had been brought by order of the farmers.  The cages were opened, and once more the woods and fields were filled with the beautiful birds, who flew about singing their songs of joy.  And again the harvests grew in the fields and filled to overflowing the farmers’ barns.

—­Adapted from LONGFELLOW.

THE TRAILING ARBUTUS

I

Many, many moons ago, in a lodge in a forest, there lived an old man.  His hair was white as the snowdrift.  All the world was winter; snow and ice were everywhere, and the old man wore heavy furs.

The winds went wildly through the forest searching every bush and tree for birds to chill.  The old man looked in vain in the deep snow for pieces of wood to keep up the fire in his lodge.  Then he sat down by his dull and low fire.

Shaking and trembling he sat there, hearing nothing but the tempest as it roared through the forest, seeing nothing but the snowstorm as it whirled and hissed and drifted.

All the coals became white with ashes, and the fire was slowly dying.  Suddenly the wind blew aside the door of the lodge, and there came in a most beautiful maiden.

Her cheeks were like the wild rose, her eyes were soft and glowed like the stars in springtime; and her hair was as brown as October’s nuts.

Her dress was of ferns and sweet grasses, her moccasins were of white lilies, on her head was a wreath of wild flowers, and in her hands were beautiful blossoms.  When she breathed, the air became warm and fragrant.

“Ah, my daughter,” exclaimed the old man.  “Happy are my eyes to see you.  Sit here on the mat beside me; sit here by the dying embers.  Tell me of your strange adventures, and I will tell you of my deeds of wonder.”

From his pouch he drew his peace pipe, very old and strangely fashioned.  He filled the pipe with bark of willow, and placed a burning coal upon it.

Then he said, “I am Manito, the Mighty.  When I blow my breath about me, the rivers become motionless and the waters hard as stone.”

The maiden smiling said, “When I blow my breath about me, flowers spring up over all the meadows.  And all the rivers rush onward, singing songs of joy.”