They called upon Brother Bear to speak and tell them what to do; for he was the nearest relative to man.  The Bear sat up on his haunches and spoke to the sad assembly with tears in his eyes, begging each animal to look carefully through his medicine-box and see whether there might not be some balm which would restore the Good Hunter to life.  Then each animal looked carefully through his medicine-box of herbs and healing roots, bark and magic leaves, and they tried every remedy that they knew.  But nothing brought the color to their friend’s pale cheeks, nor light into his eyes.  He who had helped them so often was helpless now, and they could not aid him.  Again the kind beasts sank back on their haunches and raised a mighty howl, a requiem for the dead.

Wild and piercing and long-drawn, the sound swept through the forest, such a sound of sorrow as had never been heard before.  The Oriole, who was flying overhead, heard and was surprised.  Soon his brightness came flashing down through the leafy boughs like a ray of sunlight into the gloom and darkness of the forest.

“What has happened, O four-footed friends,” he asked, “that you mourn so mightily?” Then they showed him the body of the Good Hunter lying in the midst of their sad company, and the Oriole joined his voice of sorrow to theirs.

“O friend of the birds,” he cried, “is there no bird who can aid you now, you who have fed us so many times from the door of your generous wigwam?  I will call all the feathered tribes, and we will do our best.”

So the Oriole went forth and summoned the birds to the forest council.  There was a great flapping of wings, a great twittering and chirping, questioning and exclamation when the birds assembled to hear the sad news.  Every one was there, from the tiny Humming Bird to the great Eagle of the Iroquois, who left his lonely eyrie to pay his respects to the Good Hunter’s memory.  The poor little birds tried everything in their power to bring back to life their dear friend.  With beak and claw and tender wing they strove, but all their efforts were in vain.  Their Good Hunter was dead, and his scalp was gone.

Then the great Eagle, whose head was white with years of wisdom and experience, spoke to the despairing assemblage of creatures.  From his lofty perch above the world the Eagle had looked down upon centuries of change and decay.  He knew every force of nature and all the strange things of life.  The hoary-headed sage said that the Good Hunter could not be restored until his scalp was found.  Then all the animals clamored that they might be allowed to go and seek for the missing scalp.  But to the Fox was given this honor, because he had first found the body of the Good Hunter in the forest.  The Fox set out upon his search, in his foxy way.  He visited every hen-roost and every bird’s-nest, but no scalp did he find.  “Of course not!” screamed the birds when he returned from his fruitless quest, “Of course no bird has taken the Good Hunter’s scalp.  You should have known better than that, Master Fox.”