I am the sister of the Morning Wind,
And he and I awake the lazy Sun.
We ruffle up the down of sleeping birds,
And blow our laughter in the rabbits' ears,
And bend the saplings till they kiss my feet,
And the long grass till it obeisance makes.

I am the sister of the wan Moonbeam
Who calls to me when I have fallen asleep:
Come, see how I have witched the world in white.-
So faint his voice no other ear can hear.
And I steal forth from out my father's lodge,
And of the world there only waketh I
And bears and wildcats and the sly raccoon
And deer from out whose eyes there look the souls
Of maidens who have died ere they knew love.
And then the world we shorten with our feet
That wake no echoes, but the hornèd owl
Sigheth to think that thus our wingless speed
All but outdoes that of the tree-dwellers.

"I heard thee singing, little White Feather; what was thy song?"

"I made it many moons ago," she answered, "and I sing it always when I dance here at night. Listen then, thou shalt hear the song Matoaka, daughter of Powhatan, made to sing in the woods by Werowocomoco."

And she danced slowly, imitating with head and hands, body and feet, the words of her song.

When she had finished she threw herself down at his feet, asking:

"Dost thou like my song, my brother?"

"Yes, it is a new song, Matoaka, and some day thou must sing it for our father. But it seemeth to me that thou art different from other maids. They do not care to rise from their sleeping mats and go forth alone into the forest."

"Perhaps they have not an arrow inside of them as have I."

Nautauquas had seated himself in the crotch of a dogwood-tree and looked with interest at his sister below him.

"An arrow?" he queried; "what dost thou mean?"

"I think," she answered, speaking slowly, "that within me is an arrow - not of wood and stone, but one of manitou - how shall I explain it to thee? I must go forth to distances, to deeds. I am shot forward by some bow and I may not hang idle in a quiver. I know," she continued, fingering the quiver on his back, "how thine own arrow feels after thou hast fashioned it carefully of strong wood and bound its head upon it with thongs. It says to itself; 'I am happy here, hanging in my warm bed on Nautauquas's back.' And then when thou takest it in thy hand and fittest its notch to the bowstring, it crieth out: 'Now I shall speed forth; now shall I cut the wind; now shall I journey where no arrow ever journeyed before; now shall I achieve what I was fashioned for!