hen a man loses
that desire, for we put it away as men by eating put away the desire
of food. All things come to us in their season. This month the corn
ripens, and at home my wife and children are gathering it; but anon
comes the Moon of Travel, and they will weary of the village and
watch the lake for me to arrive and lead them away to the
hunting-grounds. So the beasts have their seasons; the buck his
month for belling, and the beaver his month for taking shelter in his
house which he has stored. And with us, when the snow melts, it may
happen that the war-talk begins--none knowing how--and spreads
through the villages: first the young men take to dancing and
painting their faces, and the elder men catch fire, and a day sees us
taking leave of our womankind to follow the war-path. But in time we
surfeit even of fighting, and remember our lodges again."

Menehwehna paused awhile, and patted the dog's head.

"Therefore, brother, were you of our race, I should not wonder that
the spirit of war has gone out of you. I myself am weary of it
for a season; I forget that Frenchman differs from Englishman, and
think of the sound of thin ice above the beaver's wash, the blood of
the red-deer's hocks on the snow, the smell of his steak over the
fire. But of the pale-faces some are warriors, some are not;
and the warriors fight, year in and year out, whenever they can.
That is your calling, brother, is it not?"

"I am not grown a coward, I hope."

"No," said Menehwehna thoughtfully, "you are not a coward; else my
heart had never gone out to you. But I think there is something dead
within you that must come to life, and something alive within you
that must die, before you grow into a warrior again. As for your
going back to-day, listen--

"There was war once between our nation and the Pottawatamies, and
in an open fight our braves killed many of their enemies and
scattered the rest to their villages. Great was the victory, but
mournful; for in the chase that followed it an arrow pierced the
throat of the leader of the Ojibways. His name was Daimeka, and he a
chief in my own island of Michilimackinac. Where he fell there he
lay. His people lifted the body and propped it against a tree,
seated, with its face towards the forest into which the Pottawatamies
had fled. They wiped the dirt from his head-dress, set his bow
against his shoulder, and so, having lamented him, turned their faces
northward to their own cou