 
in the early days of the world the people had no fire to warm them and to 
cook their food. 
because they saw its destructive power when lightning set the forest 
ablaze, they were afraid of it. 
once the coyote went to the underworld and brought back a brand of fire 
for the tribes. 
but the people forbade its use and appointed an old warrior-magician to 
watch over it. 
some fearless braves tried to steal it for themselves, but it was always 
well guarded by the magician and his two fierce daughters. 
as nanabozho himself was young and strong, the lack of fire for heat did 
not trouble him particularly. 
his grandmother, however, was growing old and felt the cold severely. 
in the winter she spent much of the time huddled in her fur robe 
complaining bitterly. 
nanabozho entered the wigwam one day and, finding her thus, sought to 
cheer her. 
"come, noko, come!" he cried. 
"get up and go with me into the forest. 
we will follow the hunting trail of the wolf, and the blood will flow 
warmly once more through your veins." 
nokomis huddled deeper into her robe and turned her face away from him. 
"it is well for you to talk," she muttered wearily, "but i am old and 
slow. 
hunting trails are not for me and the bitter wind bites to the marrow of 
my bones." 
the thoughtless nanabozho was touched with pity. 
with his own hand he brought her a piece of venison, hoping that food 
would put new spirit into her. 
but the raw deer meat was frozen hard, and nokomis had great difficulty 
gnawing it with her poor old teeth. 
