was growing late in the autumn. The birds were flying high toward the
south. The teepees around the lakes were gone, save one lonely dwelling.

Till the winter snow covered the ground and ice covered the lakes, the
wailing woman's voice was heard from that solitary wigwam. From some far
distance was also the sound of the father's voice singing a sad song.

Thus ten summers and as many winters have come and gone since the
strange disappearance of the little child. Every autumn with the hunters
came the unhappy parents of the lost baby to search again for him.

Toward the latter part of the tenth season when, one by one, the teepees
were folded and the families went away from the lake region, the mother
walked again along the lake shore weeping. One evening, across the lake
from where the crying woman stood, a pair of bright black eyes peered at
her through the tall reeds and wild rice. A little wild boy stopped his
play among the tall grasses. His long, loose hair hanging down his brown
back and shoulders was carelessly tossed from his round face. He wore a
loin cloth of woven sweet grass. Crouching low to the marshy ground, he
listened to the wailing voice. As the voice grew hoarse and only sobs
shook the slender figure of the woman, the eyes of the wild boy grew dim
and wet.

At length, when the moaning ceased, he sprang to his feet and ran like a
nymph with swift outstretched toes. He rushed into a small hut of reeds
and grasses.

"Mother! Mother! Tell me what voice it was I heard which pleased my
ears, but made my eyes grow wet!" said he, breathless.

"Han, my son," grunted a big, ugly toad. "It was the voice of a weeping
woman you heard. My son, do not say you like it. Do not tell me it
brought tears to your eyes. You have never heard me weep. I can please
your ear and break your heart. Listen!" replied the great old toad.

Stepping outside, she stood by the entrance way. She was old and badly
puffed out. She had reared a large family of little toads, but none
of them had aroused her love, nor ever grieved her. She had heard
the wailing human voice and marveled at the throat which produced the
strange sound. Now, in her great desire to keep the stolen boy awhile
longer, she ventured to cry as the Dakota woman does. In a gruff, coarse
voice she broke forth:

"Hin-hin, doe-skin! Hin-hin, Ermine, Ermine! Hin-hin, red blanket, with
white border!"

Not knowing that the syllables of a Dakota's cry are the names o