" she said. "You,
also, enjoyed yourself with no thought of any one else. You shall
blow in the parching heat of your sister, the Sun, and wither and
blast all that you touch. No one shall love you any longer, but all
men will dislike and avoid you."

And that is why, to this day, the Wind, blowing in hot weather, is so
unpleasant.

But, last, the mother spoke to her kind daughter, the Moon.

"You remembered your mother, and were unselfish," she said. "To those
who are thoughtful of their mother, great blessings come. For all time
your light shall be cool, and calm, and beautiful. You shall wane, but
you shall wax again. You shall make the dark night bright, and all men
shall call you blessed."

And that is why, to this day, the Moon is so cool, and bright, and
beautiful.

THE RABBIT WHO WAS GRATEFUL

Everything in the woods was covered deep with snow, the berries, the
juicy young bushes, and the roots. The animals had stowed themselves
away for the winter to sleep; the bear in a deep cave, the chipmunk in
a hollow log, and the wild mouse in a cozy hole beneath the roots of a
tree. The wind sang a high, shrill song in the tops of the pine
trees, and the doors of the wigwams were shut tight.

But the door of Son-of-a-Brave's wigwam suddenly opened a little way
and the Indian boy, himself, looked out. He had his bow and a newly
tipped arrow in his hands.

While the snow and the ice had been piling up outside in the Indian
village, Son-of-a-Brave had been very busy working beside the home
fire making his new arrow head. First, he had gone to the wigwam of
the village arrow maker to ask him for a piece of stone, and the arrow
maker had been good enough to give Son-of-a-Brave a piece of beautiful
white quartz. Then Son-of-a-Brave had set to work on it. He had shaped
it with a big horn knife and chipped it with a hammer. He had polished
it in a dish of sand until it shone like one of the icicles outside.
Then he had fitted it to a strong arrow and wished that he had a
chance to shoot. That was why Son-of-a-Brave stood at the entrance of
the wigwam, looking out across the snow that not even a deer had
tracked because the winter was so severe.

All at once Son-of-a-Brave saw something. An old hare struggled out of
a snow bank and limped down the path that led by the wigwam. In the
summer the hare was gray, the color of the trees among which he
lived, but in the winter he turned white so as not to be seen by