“Ah, great is the Manito,” said the maiden, “and his mighty name is feared by all living things in the land. ‘Great is the Manito,’ says all the world, and his fame has spread among the children of the Great Spirit till they crouch with fear and say: ‘Mighty and cruel is the Manito! Terrible is the Manito, and more cruel and cunning in his tortures than the red men. His strength is greater than the strength of the giant trees of the forest, for does he not rend them with his mighty hands?’ But when I, the gentle maiden, walk forth, the trees cover with many leaves the nakedness which thou, the great Manito, hath caused; the birds sing in the branches and build again the nests from which thou drivest them; the animals seek their mates and rear their young; the wind sings soft and pleasant music to the ears of the red man, while his wives and pappooses sport in the warm sunshine near his wigwam.” As the maiden spoke the lodge grew warm and bright, but the boasting Manito heeded it not, for his head drooped forward on his breast, and he slept. Then the maiden passed her hands above the Manito’s head and he began to grow small. The bluebirds came and filled the trees about the lodge, and sang, while the rivers lifted up their waters and boiled with freedom. Streams of water poured from the Manito’s mouth, and the garments that covered his shrunken and vanishing form turned into bright and glistening leaves. Then the maiden knelt upon the ground and took from her bosom most precious and beautiful rose-white flowers. She hid them under the leaves all about her, and as she breathed with love upon them, said: “I give to you, oh, precious jewels, all my virtues and my sweetest breath, and men shall pluck thee with bowed head on bended knee.” Then the maiden moved over the plains, the hills and the mountains. The birds and the winds sang together in joyous chorus, while the flowers lifted up their heads and greeted her with fragrance. Wherever she stepped, and nowhere else, grows the arbutus. * * * * * In the two little poems following, by an ancient Mexican Indian, the poet calls the songs he sings “flowers,” which he seems to think he gathers in some mysterious land of the spirit. The idea is a very beautiful one, worthy of any poet, and certainly shows that some, at least, of the Indians had reached a high plane of poetic fancy. SONG AT THE BEGINNING (_Ancient Mexican Indian_)