First, he had gone to the wigwam of
the village arrow maker to ask him for a piece of stone, and the arrow
maker had been good enough to give Son-of-a-Brave a piece of beautiful
white quartz. Then Son-of-a-Brave had set to work on it. He had shaped
it with a big horn knife and chipped it with a hammer. He had polished
it in a dish of sand until it shone like one of the icicles outside.
Then he had fitted it to a strong arrow and wished that he had a
chance to shoot. That was why Son-of-a-Brave stood at the entrance of
the wigwam, looking out across the snow that not even a deer had
tracked because the winter was so severe.
All at once Son-of-a-Brave saw something. An old hare struggled out of
a snow bank and limped down the path that led by the wigwam. In the
summer the hare was gray, the color of the trees among which he
lived, but in the winter he turned white so as not to be seen by
hunters when he went along through the snow. He did not think now,
however, whether any one saw him or not. He was a very old hare
indeed, and the winter was proving too hard for him. He was lame and
hungry and half frozen. He stopped right in front of Son-of-a-Brave
and sat up on his haunches, his ears drooping.
"Don't shoot me," he was trying to say. "I am at your mercy, too
starved to run away from you.
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