The cold December moon is just showing above the tree-tops, pointing a white finger here and there at the clustered teepees of the Sioux, while opposite their winter camp on the lake shore a lonely, wooded island is spread like a black buffalo robe between the white, snow-covered ice and the dull gray sky. All by itself at the further end of the village stands the teepee of Smoky Day, the old story-teller, the school-master of the woods. The paths...