tself was dying away unheeded, when a bright youth with red blood
in his cheeks walked lightly through the open doorway. On his head was a
crown of fresh and sweet-smelling grasses; his lips were curved in a
beautiful smile, and he carried in his hand a bunch of flowers that
filled the lodge with the fragrance of the wildwood.

"Ah, my son," said the old man, "it does my old eyes good to gaze upon
you! Take a seat beside my fire, and we will pass the night together!
Tell me of your travels and your strange adventures, and let me tell you
of all the wonderful deeds that I have done."

The old man drew a peace-pipe from his pouch, filled it with willow-bark
and handed it to the beautiful young stranger, who smoked in silence
while he listened to the old man's words.

"When I blow my breath about me," said the old man, "the water becomes
as hard as stone and the rivers cannot move."

"When I breathe upon the meadows and the woodlands," answered the young
stranger with a sunny smile, "the flowers rise like magic, and the
rivers, with a song, go rushing on again."

"When I shake my long white hair," said the old man scowling, "the land
is buried with snow and the leaves all fade away and fall to earth. When
I raise my voice the ground becomes like flint, the wild fowl fly away
and the wild beasts of the forest hide for fear."

"When I shake my flowing ringlets," said the young man with a light
laugh, "the warm rain falls on the hills and fields, and the wild geese
and the heron come back to the marshes. Homeward flies the swallow, and
the robin and the bluebird sing for joy. Wherever I go the woodlands
ring with music, and the meadows become blue with violets."

While they were speaking, the great sun leaped up above the horizon and
shot his beams of orange gold through the doorway of the wigwam. The air
became warm and pleasant, and in the light of morning the young stranger
saw the icy face of the old man and knew that he had spent the night
with Peboan, the winter. From the old man's eyes the tears were running
in two streams, the water was dripping from his hair, and his body
shrank until it vanished into the ground. And on the hearth-stone where
the old man's fire had been smoking, blossomed the earliest flower of
springtime.

Thus did the young stranger, Spring, come back again and drive away the
icy chill of that dreadful winter of famine and death. To the northward
passed the wild swans, calling to one anothe