She continues her spiritual teaching, at first silently--a
mere pointing of the index finger to nature; then in whispered
songs, bird-like, at morning and evening. To her and to the child
the birds are real people, who live very close to the "Great
Mystery"; the murmuring trees breathe His presence; the falling
waters chant His praise.

If the child should chance to be fretful, the mother raises
her hand. "Hush! hush!" she cautions it tenderly, "the spirits may
be disturbed!" She bids it be still and listen--listen to the
silver voice of the aspen, or the clashing cymbals of the
birch; and at night she points to the heavenly, blazed trail,
through nature's galaxy of splendor to nature's God. Silence,
love, reverence,--this is the trinity of first lessons; and to
these she later adds generosity, courage, and chastity.

In the old days, our mothers were single-eyed to the trust
imposed upon them; and as a noted chief of our people was wont to
say: "Men may slay one another, but they can never overcome the
woman, for in the quietude of her lap lies the child! You may
destroy him once and again, but he issues as often from that same
gentle lap--a gift of the Great Good to the race, in which
man is only an accomplice!"

This wild mother has not only the experience of her mother and
grandmother, and the accepted rules of her people for a guide, but
she humbly seeks to learn a lesson from ants, bees, spiders,
beavers, and badgers. She studies the family life of the birds, so
exquisite in its emotional intensity and its patient devotion,