and snow.

The boy's father was called the fisher. He taught his little son to
hunt, and made him a bow like his own, only smaller. The boy was proud
of his arrows, and was always happy when he went out to hunt. He had
often shot a lynx, and once or twice he had shot a wolverine. Sometimes
it chanced that he found nothing to shoot, and then he was not happy,
for he realized how cold it was. His fingers ached, and his feet ached,
and the end of his nose ached. "Oh, if I could only carry the wigwam
fire about with me!" he cried, for he had no idea of any other warmth
than that which came from the fire.

Now it chanced that Adjidaumo, the squirrel, was on a tree over the
boy's head, and he heard this cry. He dropped a piece of ice upon the
end of the boy's little red nose, and the boy bent his bow. Then he
realized who it was, and he cried, "O Adjidaumo, you are warm. You have
no fingers to ache with the cold. I am warm just twice a day, once in
the morning and once at night."

"Boys do not know much," replied Adjidaumo, dancing lightly on the
topmost bough. "The end of _my_ nose is warm, and I have no fingers like
yours to be cold, but if I had chanced to have any, I have an idea that
would have kept them warm."

"What is an idea?" asked the boy.

"An idea is something that is better than a fire," replied the squirrel,
"for you can carry an idea about with you, and you have to leave the
fire at home. A lynx has an idea sometimes, and a wolverine has one
sometimes, but a squirrel has one twice as often as a boy."

The poor boy was too cold to be angry, and he begged, "Adjidaumo, if
there is any way for me to keep warm, will you not tell me what it is? A
lynx would be more kind to me than you are, and I am sure a wolverine
would tell me."

Adjidaumo had rarely been cold, but when he realized how cold the boy
was, he was sorry for him, and he said, "All you have to do is to go
home and cry. When your father says, 'Why do you cry?' answer nothing
but 'Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, boo-hoo! Get me summer, get me summer!'"

Now this boy rarely cried, but his hands and feet were so very cold that
he thought he would do as the squirrel had told him, and he started for
home. As soon as he reached the wigwam, he threw himself down upon the
ground and cried. He cried so hard that his tears made a river that ran
out of the wigwam door. It was a frozen river, of course, but when the
fisher saw it, he knew it was made of the tears of his