nly two were to be seen in
the air: the Eagle and the Turkey-buzzard still going up. At last they
got so high that the Turkey-buzzard froze his ears off for they were
naked. Then he gave it up. The Eagle went still higher to show how
strong he was, then sailed downward to claim the royal honours.

But just as they were about to give him the crown, the Wren hopped off
the top of the Eagle's head, where he had been hiding in the long
feathers, and squeaked out, "No matter how high he was, I was a little
bit higher, so I am King."

"You," said the Eagle; "Why I carried you up."

"Nothing to do with it," said the Wren.

"Then let's try it over," said the Eagle.

"No, no," said the Wren, "one try was agreed on, and it's settled now, I
was higher than you."

And they have been disputing over it ever since. The lawyers take the
Wren's side and the soldiers take the Eagle's side.

The peasants in Europe sometimes speak of the Eagle as "the King of the
Birds," but they always call the Wren the "Little King." And that is why
we call our gold-crowned Wrens, Kinglets, or Kingwrens and I suppose
that is why they wear a crown of gold.

TALE 100

The Snowstorm

It was at the great winter Carnival of Montreal not long ago. Looking
out of a window on a stormy day were five children of different races:
an Eskimo, a Dane, a Russian, an Indian, and a Yankee. The managers of
the Carnival had brought the first four with their parents; but the
Yankee was the son of a rich visitor.

"Look," cried the little Eskimo from Alaska, as he pointed to the
driving snow. "Look at the ivory chips falling! El Sol is surely carving
a big Walrus tusk into a fine dagger for himself. See how he whittles,
and sends the white dust flying."

Of course he didn't say "El Sol," but used the Eskimo name for him.

Then the Dane said: "No, that isn't what makes it. That is Mother Earth
getting ready for sleep. Those are the goose feathers of her feather
bed, shaken up by her servants before she lies down and is covered with
her white mantle."

The little Indian, with his eyes fixed on the storm, shook his head
gravely and said: "My father taught me that these are the ashes from
Nana-bo-jou's pipe; he has finished his smoke and is wrapping his
blanket about him to rest. And my father always spake true."

"Nay, you are all wrong," said the little Russian. "My grandmother told
me that it is Mother Carey. She is out riding in her strongest, freshest