Little Wren flies here and there about the village of wigwams. She is the news gatherer for the bird council.

She peers into the tent openings and listens to the talk of the mothers. She flits about the trees where children play.

When a little son is born, she carries the news to the birds, and they are sad. "Alas, alas!" they cry. "We hear the whistle of his arrow. The boy will grow, and he will shoot us with his bow and arrows."

But when the wren chatters about the coming of a baby girl, the birds chirp merrily. They sing of the grains she will scatter when she grinds the corn into meal.

They sing of the wild rice she will let drop when she comes with her loaded canoe from the rice harvest. "Sing merrily, sing merrily," they say. "Another woman child has come to feed us!"

The cricket hops in the wigwam. And the cricket is glad when the baby is a girl. "I shall hide 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.