The wind roared in the trees, and the snow was falling. But Fleet Deer's lodge was warm and comfortable. Good Bird, his wife, knew how to make a lodge, and how to keep it from being smoky.

She had sewed heavy skins together for the outside cover of the wigwam. Inside, the lower walls were of tanned doeskin, nearly white. The cold air passing between the lining and the cover ventilated the room and carried the smoke out of the smoke hole.

In the middle of the circular floor was a stone-lined fire pit, now filled with glowing coals that gave light to the room.

Warm skins with the fur uppermost covered the three long platforms that were used for seats in the daytime and for beds at night.

Good Bird took great pride in her home. She kept the floor swept with a cedar broom and everything in its place.

When not busy in preparing food, she made clothing and moccasins. She stained porcupine quills for trimmings, and made necklaces of shells. The teeth of wild animals were used for ornaments.

On this cold winter evening Good Bird was dressed in a handsome garment trimmed with fringe and colored quills. Her moccasins and leggings were also ornamented.

She had braided her hair neatly, and drawn a line of fresh red paint along the parting. Her forehead and cheeks were also touched with red.

"Are you going to a dance, Mother?" asked White Cloud.

Good Bird said nothing, but smiled as she thought of the guest who was expected and the pleasant surprise in store for her children.

The evening meal was over. Nokomis had opened her stores of maple sugar and corn in honor of Swift Elk, who had won the game of tops that day.

Whipping his winter top over level snow and high drifts alike, he had outdistanced his companions by fifty paces.

White Cloud sat by the fire drying her moccasins. She had been out sliding with her playmates until the sun left the sky. You would have thought their sleds very funny, for they were made of the curved rib bones of a large deer.

Swift Elk was studying the strange signs and markings on the lining of the wigwam. He was never tired of hearing the pictures explained, for they showed in order the chief events in his father's life.

Here was the grizzly bear that Fleet Deer had killed single-handed. For this deed of bravery he was entitled to wear an eagle's feather.

Here was the deer that was killed in time of famine, after a long and dangerous hunt.

Other pictures showed Indians in the war dance, on the war trail, surprising the foe, returning with the honors of battle, holding a council, and smoking the peace pipe.

Fleet Deer was master of the Indian art of picture writing, and he had, that very day, added new paintings to the record. His children had never heard of any other way to read or write, and they had never seen a book.

The flap of skin covering the lodge entrance was raised and a man entered.

"The story-teller! The story-teller!" shouted the children with delight. He was given the seat of honor and the best food that Good Bird could provide.

When the guest was warm and his meal over, favorite stories were asked for.

"We ought to hear again of the great gift of corn to our people," said Good Bird.

"New stories, I want new stories. Will you tell us some new stories?" asked White Cloud.

"War stories, I want, and stories of boys," said Swift Elk.

Then Fleet Deer, the father, spoke: "I wish my son to know the tale of the White Canoe and how a great warrior honored his parents."

Nokomis had no request. She was a fine story-teller herself and interested in hearing everything that might be related.

Then, to the joy of his hearers, the story-teller began.

First he delighted the children by telling of the ground hog that saved his own life by teaching a new dance.

The next tale was about the first animals and how they came to live in the forests and on the plains.

After the story-teller had explained how sickness came into the world, Fleet Deer wanted to be a medicine man and find all the plants that cure disease.

And so they all listened to one tale after another until the midnight stars shone overhead and the embers grew white where the burning logs had sparkled.

Now you may read for yourselves the stories that were told in an Indian lodge on a winter evening.