he white men, they journeyed into the great unknown.
Wise men who are nearing the height of the trail say they can hear the
booming of myriad hoofs, and see the tossing of unnumbered horns as
the herds of bison yet travel far ahead. This is the Shadow Trail the
Northern Lights dance upon, shimmering and pale and silvery. We Indians
call them the 'Dead Men's Fingers,' though sometimes they pour out in
great splashes of cold blue, of poisonous-looking purple, of burning
crimson and orange. We speak of them then as the 'Sky Flowers of the
North,' that scatter their deathless masses along the lifting way.

"And this is the Shadow Trail the red man has followed these many, many
moons. His moccasined feet have climbed the heights silently, slowly,
firmly. He knows it will lead beyond the canyons, beyond the crests;
that behind the mountains it merges into a vast valley of untold beauty.
We Indians call it 'the Happy Hunting Grounds.'

"Only one person ever returns from the 'Shadow Trail,' and he comes
once a year on this night--Christmas Eve. The stars wake and sing as he
passes, the Sky Flowers of the North surround him on his journey from
the summits to this valley where we live. He is a little Child, who was
born hundreds of years ago in a manger beneath the Eastern stars, in the
Land of Morning. Many times I have met him on the Shadow Trail, for I
have travelled towards its heights for nearly eighty years. Perhaps I
shall see the little Child again to-night, for Indian eyes can see a
long way. Indian ears catch oftenest the singing of the stars, and the
Indian heart both sees and hears."

Peter Ottertail's voice ceased. The boys lay very silent, the soft
fur rugs half hiding their rapt faces. No one spoke, for each was
watching the "Shadow Trail." Then the deep-toned clock struck
one--two--three--four--evenly on to twelve--midnight!

The door opened from the inner hall.

"Merry Christmas, dears! Merry Christmas!" came the hearty, loving
voices of Mr. and Mrs. Duncan, as they bustled into the kitchen, the
boys and Peter all scrambling to their feet to meet them.

"Merry Christmas! And off to bed with the whole lot of you, or we'll
have a nice pack of sleepyheads in the morning! Peter, you're surely not
going home to-night!" as the old Indian began to get into his overcoat
and scarlet sash.

"Yes," he said, "I'll go." And, after gay good wishes and handshakes,
the old man went out into the night, perhaps to watch for