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 of loved ones gone, the ugly toad mother sought to please the boy's ear with the names of valuable articles. Having shrieked in a torturing voice and mouthed extravagant names, the old toad rolled her tearless eyes with great satisfaction. Hopping back into her dwelling, she asked:
'My son, did my voice bring tears to your eyes? Did my words bring gladness to your ears? Do you not like my wailing better?'
'No, no!' pouted the boy with some impatience. 'I want to hear the woman's voice! Tell me, mother, why the human voice stirs all my feelings!'
The toad mother said within her breast, 'The human child has heard and seen his real mother. I cannot keep him longer, I fear. Oh, no, I cannot give away the pretty creature I have taught to call me 'mother' all these many winters.'
'Mother,' went on the child voice, 'tell me one thing. Tell me why my little brothers and sisters are all unlike me.'
The big, ugly toad, looking at her pudgy children, said: 'The eldest is always best.'
This reply quieted the boy for a while. Very closely watched the old toad mother her stolen human son. When by chance he started off alone, she shoved out one of her own children after him, saying: 'Do not come back without your big brother.'
Thus the wild boy with the long, loose hair sits every day on a marshy island hid among the tall reeds. But he is not alone. Always at his feet hops a little toad brother. One day an Indian hunter, wading in the deep waters, spied the boy. He had heard of the baby stolen long ago.
'This is he!' murmured the hunter to himself as he ran to his wigwam. 'I saw among the tall reeds a black- haired boy at play!' shouted he to the people.
At once the unhappy father and mother cried out, ''Tis he, our boy!' Quickly he led them to the lake. Peeping through the wild rice, he pointed with unsteady finger toward the boy playing all unawares.
''Tis he! 'tis he!' cried the mother, for she knew him.
In silence the hunter stood aside, while the happy father and mother caressed their baby boy grown tall.
IYA, THE CAMP-EATER
FROM the tall grass came the voice of a crying babe. The huntsmen who were passing nigh heard and halted.
The tallest one among them hastened toward the high grass with long, cautious strides. He waded through the growth of green with just a head above it all. Suddenly exclaiming 'Hunhe!' he dropped out of sight. In another instant he held up in both his hands a tiny little baby, wrapped in soft brown buckskins.
'Oh ho, a wood-child!' cried the men, for they were hunting along the wooded river bottom where this babe was found.
While the hunters were questioning whether or no they should carry it home, the wee Indian baby kept up his little howl.
'His voice is strong!' said one.
'At times it sounds like an old man's voice!' whispered a superstitious fellow, who feared some bad spirit hid in the small child to cheat them by and by.
'Let us take it to our wise chieftain,' at length they said; and the moment they started toward the camp ground the strange wood-child ceased to cry.
Beside the chieftain's teepee waited the hunters while the tall man entered with the child.
'How! how!' nodded the kind-faced chieftain, listening to the queer story. Then rising, he took the infant in his strong arms; gently he laid the black-eyed babe in his daughter's lap. 'This is to be your little son!' said he, smiling.
'Yes, father,' she replied. Pleased with the child, she smoothed the long black hair fringing his round brown face.
'Tell the people that I give a feast and dance this day for the naming of my daughter's little son,' bade the chieftain.
In the meanwhile among the men waiting by the entrance way, one said in a low voice: 'I have heard that bad spirits come as little children into a camp which they mean to destroy.'
'No! no! Let us not be overcautious. It would be cowardly to leave a baby in the wild wood where prowl the hungry wolves!' answered an elderly man.
The tall man now came out of the chieftain's teepee. With a word he sent them to their dwellings half running with joy.
'A feast! a dance for the naming of the chieftain's grandchild!' cried he in a loud voice to the village people.
'What? what?' asked they in great surprise, holding a hand to the ear to catch the words of the crier.
There was a momentary silence among the people while they listened to the ringing voice of the man walking in the center ground. Then broke forth a rippling, laughing babble among the cone-shaped teepees. All were glad to hear of the chieftain's grandson. They were happy to attend the feast and dance for its naming. With excited fingers they twisted their hair into glossy braids and painted their cheeks with bright red paint. To and fro hurried the women, handsome in their gala-day dress. Men in loose deerskins, with long tinkling metal fringes, strode in small numbers toward the center of the round camp ground.
Here underneath a temporary shade-house of green leaves they were to dance and feast. The children in deerskins and paints, just like their elders, were jolly little men and women. Beside their eager parents they skipped along toward the green dance house.
Here seated in a large circle, the people were assembled, the proud chieftain rose with the little baby in his arms. The noisy hum of voices was hushed. Not a tinkling of a metal fringe broke the silence. The crier came forward to greet the chieftain, then bent attentively over the small babe, listening to the words of the chieftain. When he paused the crier spoke aloud to the people:
'This woodland child is adopted by the chieftain's eldest daughter. His name is Chaske. He wears the title of
