The Great Spirit whispered to the heart of a warrior that he must go and seek the Happy Hunting Grounds. His squaw shed many tears when he told her. His children wailed loudly, for they knew no one ever returned from that journey. “We will follow you on the long trail,” said his squaw. The warrior hid his arrows and his bow, put on the new moccasins that lay by his wigwam door, and started. Behind him followed in the same trail his squaw, his sons, and his dog. He sang the death chant, and their voices echoed the chant. The dog knew its meaning and howled for sorrow. After a time the younger boy grew weary and hid himself. They did not miss the child, and he ran back to the wigwam, lay down, and fell asleep. Soon the older son missed his brother. He said: “I will go back and find Keweenaw. He is small; I will care for him.” The father and mother were not alone. The dog walked softly behind them. The warrior did not look back, but his squaw called to him: “I am here. I am strong. I will follow you to the gate of the Happy Hunting Grounds.” Then the trail became rough and steep. The wild cactus tore their moccasins. The thorn tree caught their blankets and tore their flesh. The wife was weary and cried: “Let us rest. Let us wait.” She fell on her face in the trail. When she arose no one was before her. She said: “I will go and find our children; then I will come back to the trail and find my husband.” The warrior was now alone. No, not alone, for his dog, footsore and heated with the long journey, kept at his heels. His master had not known that he had followed. Now in the dark night his dog pressed his head against him to comfort him. The trail led westward, but the morning sun cast no long shadows of the wife and children. They had not taken up the trail again. And still forever toward the west went the two, the Indian and his dog. Moons and suns rose and set. At last, across the wide plains, he saw two great rocks, like tall trees. These marked the gateway of the Happy Hunting Grounds. Tired, sick, and nearly fainting with weariness, the Indian kept on his way. Tired, hungry, and very weak, behind him came the faithful dog. At the gateway the Indian raised his voice and cried: “I am here. The Great Spirit called me; I have come.” The watchman opened the gate and, taking the brave by the hand, led him past the two great rocks that held the wonderful gate. “Where are those who were with you at the first?” asked the watchman. “The way was long. Their feet were weary,” was the answer. “Who is this that stands watching you, with eyes that show the tears they cannot shed?” “He who loved me best,” said the Indian. The watchman put his hand on the head of the hound. The dog gave a joyful leap, and the gates of the Happy Hunting Grounds shut both the Indian and his dog into the Land of Rest, from which there is no return. XII. THE MARTEN AND THE WHITE RABBIT (Micmac)