It is a summer evening. There is no moon, and the stars twinkle brightly in the sky. A half circle of Indian lodges fronts a small lake. Wide meadows slope to its shores.

All the air is alive with lights, twinkling, whirling, sparkling. Thousands of fireflies are swarming above the grass.

The meadow is full of Indian boys and girls, little and big, dancing the firefly dance. Advancing and retreating, turning and twisting, bowing and whirling, they imitate the moving lights about them and above them.

In front of the lodges sit the warriors and the squaws looking on.

Good Bird is watching every move of her son. He is one of the most active dancers on the field.

"Look, Nokomis!" she says, "No boy is straighter than your grandson, and there is no better dancer."

Fleet Deer says nothing, but he is thinking of the time when his son will take part in the war dance of his tribe.

Little White Cloud stands by her mother. She has known three winters and is now a chubby, pretty little Indian girl.

Suddenly she begins to imitate her brother. She throws out her tiny brown arms, turns round and round, jumps and bows, while Nokomis and Good Bird shout with laughter.

Listen! the children are singing. What do they say? It is the song of the fireflies that we hear.

Nokomis has chanted the same words and melody for many a lullaby, and she keeps time, singing the same song: