The Book of Stories for the Story-teller Part 3

He blamed North Wind again. "You have taken back your sheep. I don't like you. You are as cold-hearted as you can be."

But North Wind said nothing. He put a queer stick into a bag and gave it to the boy and told him to go back and lock his door as tightly as before.

"Talk to the bag," he said, "and guard it as carefully as if there were a jewel in it."

That night the boy was wakened out of his soundest sleep by screams for help in his room. There was the innkeeper running about, and that queer stick was pounding him, first on the head, then on the feet, then on his back, then in his face.

"Help! help!" he cried.

"Give me back my sheep," said the boy.

"Get it, it is hidden in the barn," said the innkeeper.

The boy went out and found his sheep in the barn and drove it away as fast as he could, but he forgot about the innkeeper, and maybe that stick is pounding him to this day.

_How the Robin's Breast became Red_

FLORA J. COOKE

Long ago in the far North, where it is very cold, there was only one fire. A hunter and his little son took care of this fire and kept it burning day and night. They knew that if the fire went out the people would freeze and the white bear would have the Northland all to himself. One day the hunter became ill, and his son had all the work to do.

For many days and nights he bravely took care of his father and kept the fire burning.

The white bear was always hiding near, watching the fire. He longed to put it out, but he did not dare, for he feared the hunter's arrows.

When he saw how tired and sleepy the little boy was, he came closer to the fire and laughed to himself.

One night the poor boy could endure the fatigue no longer and fell fast asleep.

The white bear ran as fast as he could and jumped upon the fire with his wet feet, and rolled upon it. At last he thought it was all out and went happily away to his cave.

A brown robin was flying near and saw what the white bear was doing.

She waited until the bear went away. Then she flew down and searched with her sharp little eyes until she found a tiny live coal. This she fanned patiently with her wings for a long time.

Her little breast was scorched red, but she did not stop until a fine red flame blazed up from the ashes.

Then she flew away to every hut in the Northland. Wherever she touched the ground, a fire began to burn. Soon, instead of one little fire, the whole North country was lighted up.

The white bear went farther back into his cave in the iceberg and growled terribly. He knew that there was now no hope that he would ever have the Northland all to himself.

This is the reason that the people in the North countries love the robin, and are never tired of telling their children how its breast became red.

_How the Robin Came_[4]

Long ago, as you know, the Indians roved over the plains and through the forests of America. Their leaders were called chiefs. This story tells about an Indian chief and his son.

[Footnote 4: This story is based upon a legend of the Algonquin Indians. John Greenleaf Whittier has a poem with a similar t.i.tle, written upon the same theme.]

The Indian chief was very strong and very brave. He could bear cold, hunger and pain without a word. He was a wonderful hunter and a fierce enemy. Nothing ever made him afraid.

He had one son, whom he loved with all his heart. He hoped that this son would grow up to be a warrior, greater than his father.

But the lad was slender and white-faced. He did not seem strong; long marches wearied him. When the Indian boys are about eighteen years of age, they like to show that they will make brave warriors. To do this they take certain tests. These are some of them. They go without food and water, five, seven, or even ten days. Again they go without sleep for ten days. They let their friends cut them with knives and never even cry out.

The time came when the son of the chief must take the test. He went away to the wigwam, or lodge, where the testing took place. His father hoped that he would act like a brave young man.

When some days had pa.s.sed, the father went to see his son. Pale and weak, he lay on the ground. He had not eaten nor slept.

"Father," he whispered, "I cannot bear this. Let me go free."

"Ah no, my boy," said the chief. "They will call you woman, if you fail. It is but two days more. Then you shall have good meat and deep sleep. Think of the time when you will be a great chief, with a hundred scalps at your belt. Be strong."

But the lad only shook his head.

Two days later, the father rose with the sun. He heaped moose-meat and corn into a wooden bowl and set off to his son.

As he drew near the wigwam he called, "Here is food, my son."

There was no reply.

He entered, and there, on the ground before him, lay his boy, dead.

They dug his grave close by the lodge, and brought his bow, pipe, and knife to bury with him.

As they were placing the youth in his grave, they heard a strange, new song. They looked up and saw, on the top of the lodge, an unknown bird. It had a brown coat and a red breast. As they watched, it began to sing. Its song seemed to say:

"I was once the chief's son. But now I am a bird. I am happier than if I had lived to be a fierce warrior, with scalps at my belt. Now I shall make all glad with my song. I shall tell the little children when spring has come. Then they will search for p.u.s.s.y-willows and anemones. I am the robin, a little brother to man! Who so happy as I?"

Even the father's grief was comforted by the bright little messenger.

"It is best after all," he said. "My son could not kill men nor beasts; he is happier as a singer, even as this little bird."

_The Story of the Red-Headed Woodp.e.c.k.e.r_[5]

Long, long ago, there lived an old woman in a little cottage by the forest. She was not a poor old woman. She had plenty of wood to burn in winter, and plenty of meal to bake into bread all the year round.

Her clothes were old-fas.h.i.+oned but warm. She always wore a grey dress and a little red cap.