hey came to a lake. Close by the
lake they built a log cabin. Moss was placed between the logs to keep
out the wind, and a thick roof was made from hemlock boughs. In the
center of the roof, a small opening was left for the smoke from the
lodge fire to pass out.

Here the hunters lived during the Moon of Falling Leaves. Every day they
went on the moose trail, but they found no moose. Their arrows brought
them little game of any kind. They became discouraged and sick, and one
by one the hunters lay down and died.

At last there was but one hunter left. He, too, was sick, and he grew
weaker day by day. His food was nearly gone. It was growing cold, and
there was little wood in the cabin to burn.

But the man did not give up. Again and again he cried aloud, "Some one
will come and help me! Some one will come and help me!"

One day, as he lay there too weak to rise, the fire flickered and went
out. It seemed that he must die. But even then he did not give up. Again
and again, with his weak voice he cried, "Some one will come and help
me! Some one will come and help me!"

And some one did come and help him. His cry was heard, for a bird came
flying in through the smoke hole in the roof of the lodge.

The bird had such a cheery, brave voice that the man felt better the
moment he flew in. The bird said to the man, "I was near; I heard you
calling. I have come to help you."

Then the bird saw that the fire was out, and that the man was cold. He
fluttered among the ashes until he found a bit of live coal. With a glad
chirp, he flew out through the roof. Soon he was back, with his bill
full of dried twigs. He placed them on the fire and began to fan them
into flame with his wings. Soon the twigs were blazing. Then he flew out
for more twigs,--and more, and more, and more.

The brave little bird kept on carrying twigs until the fire burned hot,
and the lodge was warm once more.

When the bird had flown into the lodge, he had had a clean, white
breast. After the fire was built, his breast was covered with red and
brown spots. He tried to pick them off with his bill, but they would
not come off. Instead, they seemed to spread, and his whole breast
became red-brown. Then the bird knew that he must have burned his breast
to a red-brown, when he was fanning the fire into flame.

But the little bird did not care if he had soiled his white breast, and
burned it red-brown. Had he not brought cheer and life to a dying man?

He