ever at his side.
She must go where he goes, stay where he stays."

Next morning at sunrise, the voice of Corn Plume was again heard,
singing from the hilltop, "_Che che hen! Che che hen!_ Some one I would
marry! Some one I would marry! _Che che hen! Che che hen!_"

This time his song reached the ears of the Bean Maiden. Her heart sang,
when she heard the voice of Corn Plume, for she knew that he was calling
her. So light of heart was Bean Maiden, that she ran like a deer up the
hillside. On and on, up and over the brow of the hill she climbed, till
she reached the young chieftain's side.

Then Corn Plume turned and beheld the most beautiful maiden he had ever
seen. Her eyes were deep and dark, like mountain pools. Her breath was
sweet as the waters of the maple. She threw off her blanket of green,
and purple, and white, and stretched her twining arms to him.

Corn Plume desired to keep Bean Maiden forever close to him. He bent his
tall plumed head to her. Her arms wound round and round the young
chieftain, and Corn Plume was content.

So closely were the arms of Corn Plume and the Bean Maiden entwined, so
truly were they wed, that the Indians never attempted to separate them.
Ever after, corn and beans were planted in the same hill, and often a
squash seed was added.

Since the Great Spirit had placed the corn, the bean, and the squash
together on a hill, the Indian said they should continue to live and
grow and occupy a hill together.

The door of Corn Plume's lodge was ever open to the Squash Maiden, if
she chose to enter. But seldom did she stay in his wigwam. More often,
she was found running off on a long trail.

But Bean Maiden remained true to Corn Plume. Always she was found by his
side. Never did she leave the lodge unless he went with her. Corn
Plume's lodge was her lodge, and her trail was his trail.

And because the Spirits of the corn and the bean are as one, the Indians
not only plant and grow them together, but cook and eat them together.
"In life, they were one," they say, "We will not separate them in
death."

And now, when a great rustling and sighing of the corn is heard in the
White man's land, the Indians often say, "'Tis the Spirit of Corn Plume,
crying for his lost Bean Maiden!"

[Illustration]

HOW THE ROBIN BURNED HIS BREAST

Some Indian hunters once made their way north, to hunt for moose. It was
at the time of Falling Leaves.

They journeyed for several days, until t