And where the two fell, there sprang from the earth a new flower, the purple violet, which speaks of courage and of love. THE BEGINNING OF BIRDS (Blackfeet) IN very early times, the Red Children believe, there were no birds. And this is the way they account for their beginning: All summer the trees had been full of leaves, shaking, whispering, dancing, as the winds blew upon them. “I wish I might fly,” said one little leaf. “I would go sailing straight up into the heavens. But the tree holds me tightly; I cannot get away.” “If the tree should let you go, you would only fall to the ground and die,” said a bigger leaf. “It is better to be content as you are.” So the leaves fluttered and danced and whispered one to another, day after day. One morning the wind was cold, and the leaves had to dance fast to keep warm. Then the old tree said, “It is the breath of Po-poon-o-ki. He lives in the ice lodge of the far North. He will soon visit us, with his war paints. I must hold you tightly, little leaves, as long as I can.” But the little leaves did not understand what the tree meant. Then, one still night, Po-poon-o-ki came. He went from tree to tree, and over each one he splashed his war paints, till the leaves were no longer green, but dashed with red, and brown, and yellow, and crimson. “How beautiful the trees are!” cried the Indian children the next morning. “See their bright colors.” For a few days the leaves danced and whispered, laughing over their beautiful hues. Then Po-poon-o-ki came back, and with his swift, cold breath, he blew against the trees, and the little leaves were tossed and torn from the friendly branches. They did not fly up into the heavens, but frightened and sobbing they dropped to the earth. “We shall die!” they cried. “We shall die!” Then a strange thing happened. The guardian spirit of the tree whispered, “No, little leaves, you shall not die. You shall be changed into living forms. I will give you breath and life.” And instantly there arose from the earth where the leaves had dropped, a great flock of winged birds, red, and brown, and yellow, and crimson, all the beautiful colors that Po-poon-o-ki had given the leaves. Then they flew away to the South Land, where winter’s breath could not reach them. [Illustration: “THERE AROSE A GREAT FLOCK OF WINGED BIRDS”] But in the spring, when Ni-poon-o-ki, the spirit of summer, came stealing up from the South, and Po-poon-o-ki went back to his ice lodge in the far North, then the birds came back, too. There were new leaves on the trees, but the birds flew straight to the branches which had been their home, and there, safely sheltered by the new leaves, they built their nests. And after awhile, when there were eggs in all the home nests, the hearts of the birds became so full of joy that they could no longer be silent. Their throats swelled, and opening wide their little mouths, they filled all the air with bursts of happy song. WHY THE WIND WAILS