Frost is in the air; the blue haze of early dawn touches the mirth of all the boys and girls. The moon lies fallen outside. Visions of sugar plumes dance in their heads, not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse. Little foots and little eyes enlighten with curiosity near the tents. The night breeze meets an obstacle as dried leaves dance before the wild hurricane storm. Rose cheeks, cherry noses and beards of white snow slump before the campfire. Smoke encircles their heads like a wreath, turning with a jerk then setting fingers aside on their noses, the medicine man glare back blindly. The children’s lips give a whistle but speak not a word. “Peace and pleasure until we reach the final stage,” breaks the silent prayer of the one who speaks.