One of them obeyed, and coming near to Manabozho he presented him the end of his own bushy tail, which was now nicely seasoned with burs gathered in the course of the hunt. Manabozho jumped up and called out: “You dog, do you think I am going to eat you?” And he walked off in anger. “Come back brother,” cried the Wolf. “You are losing your eyes. You do the child injustice. Look there!” and behold a heap of fresh meat was lying on the spot, all prepared. Manabozho turned back, and at the sight of so much good food put on a smiling face. “Wonderful!” he said, “how fine the meat is!” “Yes,” replied the Old Wolf, “it is always so with us; we know our work and always get the best. It is not a long tail that makes the hunter.” Manabozho bit his lip. WHY THE WOODPECKER HAS RED HEAD FEATHERS Adapted from H. R. Schoolcraft When his wounds had all been cured by his grandmother’s skill in medicine, Manabozho, as big and sturdy as ever, was ripe for new adventures. He set his thoughts immediately upon a war excursion against the Pearl Feather, a wicked old manito, living on the other side of the great lake, who had killed his grandfather. He began his preparations by making huge bows and arrows without number, but he had no arrow heads. At last his grandmother, Noko, told him that an old man who lived at some distance could furnish him with some, and he sent her to get them. Though she returned with her wrapper full, he told her that he had not enough and sent her again for more. In the meanwhile he thought to himself, “I must find out the way of making these heads.” Instead of directly asking how it was done, he preferred—just like Manabozho—to deceive his grandmother, in order to learn what he wanted by a trick. “Noko,” said he, “while I take my drum and rattle, and sing my war songs, do you go and try to get me some larger heads, for these you have brought me are all of the same size. Go and see whether the old man is not willing to make some a little larger.” He followed her at a distance as she went, having left his drum at the lodge, with a great bird tied at the top, whose fluttering wings should keep up the drumbeat, the same as if he were standing there beating the drum himself. He saw the old workman busy, and learned how he prepared the heads; he also beheld the old man’s daughter, who was very beautiful. Manabozho discovered for the first time that he had a heart of his own, and the sigh he heaved passed through the arrow maker’s lodge like a young gale of wind. “My how it blows!” said the old man. “It must be from the south, though,” said the daughter, “it is so fragrant.” Manabozho slipped away, and in two strides he was at home, shouting forth his songs as though he had never left the lodge. He had just time to untie the bird which had been beating the drum when his grandmother came in and gave him the big arrowheads.