I leave them nodding in the breeze, but take along with me their impress
upon my heart. I pause to rest me upon a rock embedded on the side of a
foothill facing the low river bottom. Here the Stone-Boy, of whom the
American aborigine tells, frolics about, shooting his baby arrows and
shouting aloud with glee at the tiny shafts of lightning that flash from
the flying arrow-beaks. What an ideal warrior he became, baffling the
siege of the pests of all the land till he triumphed over their united
attack. And here he lay--Inyan our great-great-grandfather, older than
the hill he rested on, older than the race of men who love to tell of
his wonderful career.

Interwoven with the thread of this Indian legend of the rock, I fain
would trace a subtle knowledge of the native folk which enabled them to
recognize a kinship to any and all parts of this vast universe. By the
leading of an ancient trail I move toward the Indian village.

With the strong, happy sense that both great and small are so surely
enfolded in His magnitude that, without a miss, each has his allotted
individual ground of opportunities, I am buoyant with good nature.

Yellow Breast, swaying upon the slender stem of a wild sunflower,
warbles a sweet assurance of this as I pass near by. Breaking off the
clear crystal song, he turns his wee head from side to side eyeing me
wisely as slowly I plod with moccasined feet. Then again he yields
himself to his song of joy. Flit, flit hither and yon, he fills the
summer sky with his swift, sweet melody. And truly does it seem his
vigorous freedom lies more in his little spirit than in his wing.

With these thoughts I reach the log cabin whither I am strongly drawn by
the tie of a child to an aged mother. Out bounds my four-footed friend