among the floor mats and sing where she plays," he chirps.

But the cricket is sad when the baby is a boy. "He will shoot me, he will shoot me!" chirps the cricket. For, as soon as the boy is old enough, he will be given a tiny bow; and he will fit the sharp arrow and shoot the cricket and the grasshopper.

The woodpecker welcomes the girl baby. He sings of the wood worms he will find when the girl goes with her mother for wood. For the women of the wigwam break the dry branches for the fire, and the wood worms fall from their hiding places.

But the raven rejoices at the sight of the boy baby in his cradle. "My food, my food!" he croaks. A hunter has come to the camp. He will shoot the rabbit and the squirrel and the deer; and food for the hungry ravens will be left where his arrows fall.

The Indian father rejoices when he looks at his son. "May he grow to be a brave hunter and a fearless warrior." Such is the Indian's wish.

THE INDIAN BABY AND HER CRADLE

Why is the happy song of the robin heard beside the lodge? Why chirps the cricket so merrily?

Can you not guess? There is a new daughter in the wigwam. Another wood gatherer and fire maker has come to the tribe.

"Bring the new cradle, Nokomis. Let me have the beautiful cradle I have made for my little daughter." And Good Bird, the mother, points with pride to a strange-looking object that is not at all like the cradle your baby sleeps in.

A straight board leans against the inner lining of the lodge. To one side of it is fastened a white doeskin bag which is trimmed with beautiful fringes and beadwork. Can this be a baby's cradle?

Nokomis, the grandmother, opens the bag, which is laced down the middle with colored strings. She makes a bed of soft moss upon the hard board and lays the papoose very straight in its little frame.

Laced and bound, this strange cradle is hung to the top of the lodge. A bow of curved wood protects the baby's head from injury, should the cradle fall.

As the little papoose swings gently, the Indian mother sings a lullaby, and this is the one she often sings:

Slower and slower swings the cradle and the black eyes close in sleep.

"What shall we name the little one?" asks the mother.

Nokomis stands in the door of the wigwam. Through the trees she sees the blue water of the lake. White clouds are moving rapidly across the sky.

"White Cloud shall be her name," answers Nokomis.

Good Bird, the mother, smiles and nods. As she watches the cradle, she talks to the sleeping child.

"My little woman, you shall be a fire maker and a lodge keeper like your mother. You shall help me tan the skins for clothing. I will teach you to make beautiful dresses and trim them with beadwork and quills. Your father and your brother will be proud to wear the moccasins you make.

"You shall go with me to the lake when the rice is ready to harvest. Together we will hunt the wild berries and the nuts. You shall be your mother's helper, my little daughter, White Cloud."

WHITE CLOUD'S FIRST RIDE

White Cloud, the baby daughter of Good Bird, is having her first ride out of doors. Do you think she is in a baby buggy like your little sister's? Or do you suppose her mother draws her in a tiny cart?

You can never guess unless you know how Indian mothers contrive to take their babies with them when they are carrying heavy loads. White Cloud is laced in her strange cradle and bound securely to her mother's back.

On the bent strip of board that arches over the head of the cradle are fastened playthings made of carved wood and bone. The bright toys jingle and rattle, and the baby laughs.

To-day the little arms and hands are firmly laced inside the beaded bag. So the child can not reach out and play with the noisy images as she loves to do.

Laced, bound, and protected, the baby is safe even when her mother pushes through the thickest forest.

The boys, who run everywhere, have brought good news to the camp. "The June berries are ripe in the forest," they say. So the mothers are starting with children and bags for the berry picking.

It is not yet sunrise; but it is the custom of the Indians to rise early. The men, with bows and arrows, knives and spears, have already gone away to their daily business—the hunt.

The older lads are with their fathers, and the little boys have begun a long summer's day of shouting, swimming, mud throwing, and mischief. Among them is White Cloud's brother, a sturdy boy of four years.

Here and there are old men sitting in front of their lodges and smoking their long pipes. Inside, the grandmothers are busy preparing food and dressing skins for clothing.

Most of the women, like Good Bird, carry their babies and berry sacks upon their backs; but some of them have large dogs trained as burden carriers.

Here comes Two Joys, the mother of twins. She is followed by a pair of dogs, each dragging a strapping brown baby boy.

One by one, the women and girls wade the streams and climb the hills, following the trail that leads to the forest. There they separate, each to make her own choice of bushes.

White Cloud's mother chooses a thicket where the berries are large and abundant. She fastens her baby's cradle to the top of a low tree. The wind swings the cradle, and, like the Mother Goose baby, the Indian papoose rocks on the tree top. Let us hope that the bough will not break.

The birds chirp and sing in the branches. A squirrel comes near to see what strange object is hanging in his tree. The baby wakes and cries with fright, and the squirrel scampers away.

Good Bird is filling her bags of woven grass with purple berries. She does not pick them as we do, but breaks off long branches loaded with fruit. Then, with a heavy stick, she beats the branch and the berries fall on a large skin that is spread on the ground.

For dinner Good Bird has only dried meat and the sweet, juicy berries. But she does not think of wishing for more.

At last the ripe fruit is gathered. The baby is fretting, and the mother takes the cradle from the tree top. She unlaces the bag and lays the little one on the warm grass.

Now the fruit must be packed and tied and the large skin be rolled up. While the mother works the child grows restless and cries. You can never guess why. She is asking in baby language to be put back on her stiff board!

Very soon Good Bird is ready and, with the cradle and bags strapped to her back, she starts for home. Other berry pickers loaded