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 with fruit join her, and together they walk the trail that leads back to the camp.

Nokomis is watching for the baby. She lifts the cradle and hangs it to the lodge pole. The little one is restless. She turns her head from side to side, her black eyes shining.

Then the grandmother sings the owl song in which Indian babies delight:

The singer changes her voice to imitate a little screech owl and answers:

As she sings, she springs toward the baby and down goes the little head. How the papoose laughs and crows! Again Nokomis sings:

Over and over the lullaby is sung, now softer and now slower. The eyelids droop, and the little one is quiet.