"Now, boys, to-night will be Christmas Eve. You know in the heart of the forest we can't get much in the way of entertainment, and I don't want our young Jamaica friends to feel homesick for their beautiful, Southern country to-night of all nights. I've racked my brains to think of some amusement after supper this Christmas Eve, but I seem to have failed. Can't you, Tom and Jerry, help me out?" There was a brief silence; then, of course, the sweet busy mother spoke: "Peter Ottertail and I have schemed together for that. I have invited him to supper, and we are to have a roaring fire built here in the kitchen, and Peter is to tell the four boys some Indian stories, while you and I, father, finish the Christmas tree in the parlor. What do you think of my idea?" She need not have asked, for such a clamor of delight went up that her own words were drowned. "Excellent!" cried Mr. Duncan, when finally he could be heard. "Excellent, for we don't want you young mischiefs in the parlor at all, seeing your presents the day before; and the only one I know who could keep you out is Peter. Splendid idea of yours, Mary. Boys, it's these mothers who have the real Christmas things in their hearts." "Yes, and in the oven, too!" laughed Mrs. Duncan, extracting therefrom a big pan of deliciously light cake, whose spicy fragrance assailed the boys' nostrils temptingly. "This," she continued, "is to be eaten here in the kitchen to-night. It goes with Peter's stories." "Jolly!" said someone, and the four youthful voices immediately swung into: "For mother's a jolly good fellow, For mother's a jolly good fellow, For mother's a jolly good fellow, Which nobody can deny!" And, joining in the last line, there boomed a fifth voice which sounded suspiciously like Mr. Duncan's. * * * * * * * * A crackling wood fire was roaring up the chimney from the large stove in the kitchen. On the spotlessly white pine floor were spread soft, grey lynx skins, one or two raccoon skins with their fluffy, ringed tails, and a couple of red fox pelts. On these sprawled the four boys in various and intricate attitudes. In the corner back of the stove lounged Peter Ottertail, on a single brown buffalo robe. With a bit of sharp-edged flint he scraped tiny curls of shavings from a half-formed ashwood arrow, which, from time to time, he lifted even with one eye to look along its glimmering length toward the light, to see that it was straight and flawless, his soft, even voice warbling out the strangely beautiful Indian tradition of THE SHADOW TRAIL