It is not to be wondered at that there
were times when, on reaching some distant wigwam, there were little hard,
white spots on their cheeks or noses which told the watchful Indians that
the Frost King had been at work and that speedily those frostbites must be
removed. Little cared they for the momentary pain that ensued, when the
frozen parts were being thawed out. They were out for a good time, and they
had too much grit and courage to let such trifles as a few frostbites
disturb their happiness. The bright fires burning in the center of the
wigwams, or in the fireplaces at the end or side of the little Indian
houses, were of course always welcome after a long run in the bitter cold.
"Tell us, Souwanas," said Sagastao one very cold day, as they were gathered
around his wigwam fire, "how it was that Nanahboozhoo stole the fire from
those who were guarding it and gave it to the Indians."
"It must not be too long a story," said Minnehaha, "as we have yet to go to
the wigwam of Kinnesasis, Little Fish, with his presents, and it would be
too bad to be late when they know we are coming."
So Souwanas pledged himself to make the story as short as he could without
spoiling it, and then, after a few more whiffs from his beloved calumet, he
began:
"It was long ago, when there were fewer people in the forests and on the
prairies than now. They did not have as many comforts as they have now, and
one of the rarest things among them was fire.
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