lated the old tales they had heard
when they were children.

[Illustration]

Night after night the boys were drilled in repeating the stories they
had heard. The whole family listened attentively, helping all, and
praising the one who did the best.

Special training was given to the boys of the tribe who showed the most
talent. They were carefully prepared to take the places of the older
story-tellers, for the tribal tales must never be lost nor forgotten.

The Indian belief that animals can talk is shown in many of their best
stories. Here is one about the birds.

[Illustration]

WELCOME TO A PAPOOSE

[Illustration]

Little Wren flies here and there about the village of wigwams. She is
the news gatherer for the bird council.

She peers into the tent openings and listens to the talk of the
mothers. She flits about the trees where children play.

When a little son is born, she carries the news to the birds, and they
are sad. "Alas, alas!" they cry. "We hear the whistle of his arrow.
The boy will grow, and he will shoot us with his bow and arrows."

But when the wren chatters about the coming of a baby girl, the birds
chirp merrily. They sing of the grains she will scatter when she
grinds the corn into meal.

They sing of the wild rice she will let drop when she comes with her
loaded canoe from the rice harvest. "Sing merrily, sing merrily," they
say. "Another woman child has come to feed us!"

The cricket hops in the wigwam. And the cricket is glad when the baby
is a girl. "I shall hide among the floor mats and sing where she
plays," he chirps.

But the cricket is sad when the baby is a boy. "He will shoot me, he
will shoot me!" chirps the cricket. For, as soon as the boy is old
enough, he will be given a tiny bow; and he will fit the sharp arrow
and shoot the cricket and the grasshopper.

The woodpecker welcomes the girl baby. He sings of the wood worms he
will find when the girl goes with her mother for wood. For the women
of the wigwam break the dry branches for the fire, and the wood worms
fall from their hiding places.

But the raven rejoices at the sight of the boy baby in his cradle. "My
food, my food!" he croaks. A hunter has come to the camp. He will
shoot the rabbit and the squirrel and the deer; and food for the
hungry ravens will be left where his arrows fall.

The Indian father rejoices when he looks at his son. "May he grow to
be a brave hunter and a fearless warrior." Such is