The Indians in some nations have a kind of picture to represent Menabozho. It looks something like a child’s picture of a rabbit. People have thought of many reasons why the red men should have called him the Great White Hare. The Indians themselves do not seem to explain why they did it. We know from many Indian customs and from their records, for they have kept many records, that the red men lived in America for hundreds of years before Columbus came. Where the first Indians came from the most learned white man cannot tell. He can only guess. Some of the Indian stories tell that the red man was created here in America. That is not strange for them to say, for they have no remembrance of another land. If they came from across the great ocean at the west, or drifted across the one at the east, they may have brought this story of Menabozho, the god of light, with them. Early travelers found some tribes expecting the Great Spirit to come among them again in the shape of palefaced men. The same belief was found far south in Mexico. It seems very strange to us. Many have thought that it was the coming of Menabozho the red men expected when the white men came. This same Great Spirit who was to come was kind and good. He would be a brother to all creatures, man and beast. Menabozho called everything his brother. Stories that the Indians are telling of him to-day speak of him as calling the trees his brothers. Those who are much among the Indians now, as the hunters in the northern forests are, tell of how real this kindly manitou is to the red man in his every-day life. There is a certain little black swimming bird that looks much like a duck, which is called a diver. When this bird rushes from the reeds by the river into the water, the Indian who sees it often cries out, “There goes the bird Menabozho kicked.” If the white fisherman tells a story of some great fish that he has caught, or that nearly came into his net, then the Indians, among themselves, grunt and scoff at his story. They can tell of a larger fish than any white man ever saw or brought to shore. Menabozho sailed into its mouth in his canoe. And so this same being is as real to them as any we have learned of in our childhood’s days. The stories recently collected are interesting in showing how alive is all Nature to those who live nearest to her. The Indian still seems to understand with the heart of a poet the voices of trees, stones, and brooks. We are glad to know that many whites have learned that the red men have a strong love for justice and truth and can show mercy to those who have been merciful. The Indian is not a dull-minded being. His wits are keen, and his judgment as fine as many a civilized man can claim. But he lives a life far apart from the busy city or town life of the white man, and it is hard for each to understand the life of the other. I. MENABOZHO AND HIS THREE BROTHERS