The bleak wind swept across the great lakes and piled snow-drifts all around a wigwam which stood at the edge of a pine forest. An Indian pulled aside a curtain of wolf-skin and stood listening in the doorway of his rude house. His dark eyes were fixed on the richly-tinted western sky. Long hair white as the frost fell about his bent shoulders and framed a thin dark face deeply lined with wrinkles.

“I thought I heard footsteps,” he muttered in a weak voice. He drew a deerskin mantle close about his shoulders, turned from the doorway and sat down on a mat of beaver fur which lay before a few dying embers. A shiver ran through his gaunt figure. He stirred the smouldering ashes and threw some dried sticks into the small flame.

“How weak and weary I am to-night,” he thought. “What has become of the hunter’s game? I could find none in the forest to-day.” His head drooped forward and he fell asleep.

At sunrise he was aroused by a flood of light in the wigwam. He looked up and saw standing in the doorway a beautiful maiden, clad in a robe of sweet-grass and ferns. Her moccasins were made of velvet mosses, and the fairest blossoms were entwined in her long dark hair. She carried an armful of budding twigs.

“Who art thou?” cried the old man.

“I am the Spring Manito,” she answered, merrily.

“Then thou wilt perish here,” said the old man, “for alas! I have no cheer to offer thee!”

“Art thou the great Winter Manito?” asked the maiden.

“I am the great Winter Manito! Thou hast no doubt heard of my power. At my command the North Wind rushes madly through the forest and the giant trees bow before him as he twists and tears their branches.”

“Cruel Manito,” sighed the maiden, but the old man did not hear her.

“I cover the pine-trees with sleet and drive the birds southward. With my sceptre of ice I silence the brooks and rivers. My breath turns the dew into frost. I shake my locks and a face-cloth of snow covers the withered leaves and blossoms. Mighty is the Winter Manito!”

“Mighty is the Winter Manito,” repeated the Maiden, sadly. “But my power is greater than his!”

“What meanest thou?” asked the old man quickly.

“At my call the soft breezes from the South caress the trees and heal the wounds the Winter Manito has made. My warm breath turns the frost into dew; my golden wand melts the frozen streams and their waters flow again toward the sea. I shake my tresses and the gentle rain falls; then the velvet buds burst forth and the birds hasten back to build their nests and to sing in the leafy branches. Where I walk in the fields and meadows the grass and blossoms spring forth to greet me. The children of the red men rejoice in the beauty which I bring to gladden the earth. The Winter Manito is mighty but his is the power of cruelty; the Spring Manito is strong, and hers is the strength of kindness. The Winter Manito’s sceptre is the biting frost; his rule brings pain and death; the Spring Manito bears the golden wand of sunshine and her hand-maidens bring joy and life.”

As she spoke the maiden noticed that the old man grew weaker and weaker until he finally sank down on the floor of his lodge. A flood of sunshine filled the wigwam. The Winter Manito grew smaller and smaller until he disappeared. Then the old man’s tent faded away and left the maiden standing under a tree. The sunshine had melted the snowdrifts, and a warm breeze was blowing.

The maiden stooped down and brushed away the dried leaves which had lain all winter under the snow. Then she enamelled the brown earth about her feet with star-like blossoms, pink and white, and shining green leaves.

“My precious Arbutus,” she whispered, bending low, “thou art born to bring joy to the children of the red men and thou shalt trail after me through the pine-forest and over the distant hilltops.”

She moved quickly through the woods and across the meadows. “Spring has come,” whispered the trees and flowers. “Spring has come,” sang the birds. Wherever she stepped the lovely Arbutus trailed after her on its delicate rosy vine and scented the air with sweetest fragrance.