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is your wigwam.” The little voice entered and took possession, but Ninna-bo-jou had breathed the spark of life into it. The smoke-vent wings began to move and to flap, and the little wigwam turned into a beautiful Bluebird with a red sun on its breast and a shirt of white. Away it flew, but every Spring it comes, the Bluebird of the Spring. The voice still dwells in it, and we feel that it has lost nothing of its earliest power when we hear it cry: “Awake; the Spring is coming!”
