country. The fields of snow and the beautiful northern lights made the night almost as light as day.

The white bear saw no living thing save a few fur-clad animals and a little gray robin chirping cheerily as it picked away at an old bone.

Again the white bear looked down. Almost at the foot of the iceberg crouched a hunter and his little son. Between the two a tiny fire was blazing.

When the white bear saw the hunter and the boy guarding the fire he growled terribly. He leaped across from one iceberg to another. He went into his icy cave still growling.

"It is the only fire in the whole north country," growled the white bear to himself. "If I could only put out that fire the land of ice and snow would be mine.

"Neither the hunter nor the hunter's son could live, without fire. I will watch my chance. Perhaps some day I shall be so lucky as to put the fire out."

Now the Eskimo night is weeks long. All through the long night the hunter kept the fire. All through the long night the white bear crouched near and growled deeply.

At length the hunter fell ill. The brave little boy kept the fire burning. He also cared for his sick father.

The white bear crept closer now, and growled more loudly.

He longed to jump on the fire with his wet feet and tramp it out. But he dared not. The boy's bright eyes watched faithfully. The hunter's arrows were deadly, and the boy's aim was true.

But by and bye the boy could endure the long watch no longer. His head drooped. His eyes closed. He slept.

The white bear's growl sounded like a hideous laugh. The little gray robin twittered loudly in warning. But the poor tired little fellow heard neither the white bear's growl nor the gray robin's twitter.

Then the white bear ran swiftly to the fire. He tramped upon it with his cold wet feet. He rolled upon it with his cold wet fur. The cheerful blaze died out.

When he arose the white bear saw only a little pile of gray ashes. He laughed so loudly that the boy awoke and snatched up his bow and arrows.

But the white bear ran away to his cave, still growling laughingly. He knew that no human being could live in that cruelly cold north country without fire.

Now when the white bear was gone, the little gray robin hopped near. Her chirp was quite sad. She, too, saw nothing but a little heap of ashes as gray as her own feathers.

She hopped nearer. She scratched among the ashes with her cold little claws. She looked eagerly at each cinder with her sharp little eyes. She found—a tiny live coal.

It was only the tiniest spark! The least flake of the fast-falling snow would put it out!

The little gray robin hovered over it that the cold wind might not reach the spark. She fanned it softly with her wings for a long, long time.

The gray robin hovered so close that the coal touched her gray breast. As she fanned it glowed larger and redder. Her breast was scorched quite red, as the coal grew.

But the robin did not leave until a fine red flame blazed up.

Then the robin with her poor scorched red breast flew away. She flew wearily, for she was very tired. Now and again she touched the ground.

And wherever the robin's red breast touched the earth a fire was kindled. Soon the whole north country was blazing with tiny fires over which the Eskimos might cook their food and dry their clothes.

The white bear crept far, far back into his cave. He growled fiercely. He knew now that he could never have the north country to himself.

[1] Adapted from Flora J. Cook's "Nature Myths," by permission of A. Flanigan, Chicago.

WHICH WAS THE WISER?[1]

One morning in the early spring a raven was sitting on one of the branches of an old oak. He felt very ugly and cross, and could only say, "Croak! Croak!"

Soon a little robin, who was looking for a place to build her nest, came, with a merry song, into the same tree. "Good morning to you," she said to the raven.

But the raven made no answer; he only looked at the clouds and croaked something about the cold wind. "I said good morning to you," said the robin, hopping from branch to branch.

"You seem very merry this morning about nothing," croaked the raven.

"Why should I not be merry?" asked the robin. "Spring has come, and everybody should be glad and happy."

"I am not happy," said the raven. "Don't you see those black clouds above us? It is going to snow."

"Very well," answered the robin, "I shall keep on singing till it comes, at any rate. A merry song will not make it any colder."

"You are very silly," croaked the raven.

The robin flew to another tree and kept on singing; but the raven sat still and made himself very unhappy.

"The wind is so cold," he said. "It always blows the wrong way for me."

Very soon the sun came out warm and bright, and the clouds went away. But the raven was as sad as ever.

The grass began to spring up in the meadows. Green leaves and flowers were seen in the woods. Birds and bees flew here and there in the glad sunshine. The raven sat alone on the branch of the old oak.

"It is always too warm or too cold," said he. "To be sure it is quite pleasant just now; but I know that the sun will soon shine hot enough to burn one up. Then to-morrow it will be colder than ever before. I do not see how any one can be so silly as to sing at such a time as this."

Just then the robin came back to the tree, carrying a straw in her mouth.

"Well, my friend," asked she, "where is your snow?"

"Don't say anything," croaked the raven. "It will snow all the harder for this sunshine."

"And snow or shine," said the robin, "you will keep on croaking. For my part, I shall look on the bright side of everything, and have a song for every day in the year."

Which was the wiser, the raven or the robin?

[1] Permission of American Book Company.

ALL ABOUT THE ROBIN

SUGGESTIONS FOR FIELD LESSONS

One of the first birds to return in the spring—migrates north early in March—sometimes remains during winter—stays north as late as October or November.

Domestic—generally preferring to live near the home of man.

Song—though short and always the same is in tone wonderfully expressive of happiness, love, anger, or fear, as the case may be.

Black head—wings and tail brown—touches of white on throat—entire breast a rusty red.—Female duller and paler in colouring, growing almost as bright as the male in the autumn.

Food—principally insects and worms—does not disdain fruit, berries, cherries, etc., but prefers insect food—a ravenous eater.

Nest—outer layer composed of sticks, coarse grasses, etc., seemingly rather carelessly arranged—on this the rather large round nest is woven with grasses—plastered with mud—lined with softer grasses.

Eggs—greenish blue—four in number—young have black spots on breast—generally two broods reared in a season—sometimes three.

THE SWALLOW