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understand all of what she said. But the tone of her voice was so smooth and sweet he knew that she meant no harm. He peeped his head out.
    â€œAh!” cried the Sisters.
    â€œHe’s a terrible mess,” said Seraphica. “Neglected, so sad.”
    â€œCan we take him with us?”
    â€œYes, yes, let’s!”
    â€œHe is such a nice-looking boy under all that dirt!”
    The priest put his hands out, too.
    â€œCome along,” he said. “We have a place prepared for you!”
    â€œYou’ll be fed, warm, happy!”
    The Sisters called melodiously and the priest was so pink and jolly that Chickadee found himself sliding from the slough grass into their arms. Seraphica brought him to the wagon, and the Sisters laughed and held their noses, but climbed in and made a place for him in the straw with the little black dog. The dog had the sort of mouth that curls up in a cheerful smile. He seemed to grin as Chickadee settled in beside him. How could a boy resist what seemed to be a happy family? From the few words he understood, they called the priest Father and there was a woman in the wagon, worn and stern, whom they called Mother.
    â€œMother,” said Seraphica, “wasn’t it a blessing that we found this boy? He might have starved to death, the poor orphan.”
    â€œOrphan, my foot,” said Mother. “He is a filthy savage.”
    â€œMother, you shouldn’t say that,” said the jolly priest.
    â€œDon’t you dare tell me what to say,” said Mother. “He could kill us in our sleep.”
    â€œHe’s a little boy!” said Seraphica.
    â€œJust you keep on eye on him,” said Mother. She fixed a cold gray eye on Chickadee and held him in her glare.

    As Chickadee bounced along on the straw bedding with the dog, the six Sisters, the Mother and the Father, he didn’t know if he was leaving his family behind or if, through this new adventure, he might be brought closer to them. He knew only that to stay behind was impossible. He would certainly have starved before the two brothers returned. And once they did return, he would once again have been their servant.
    Wherever he ended up, he hoped he’d find an Anishinabe who could bring word back to his parents. As the wagon went on and on, roughly following the path of the river, he tried talking to the nice Sister, the one who pointed to herself and said Seraphica.
    Chickadee pointed to himself, and said the word for Chickadee in Ojibwe, which is Gijigijigaaneshiinh. No matter how hard Seraphica tried, her tongue got tangled up when she repeated the word. But once, when the wagon stopped and the Sisters got out to eat their tiny scraps of food and to pray, a small bird landed in the bushes near the wagon. Chickadee looked at the bird for a long time, and it looked back at him.
    â€œStay with me,” he said to his namesake. The bird seemed to understand.
    Chickadee took Seraphica’s sleeve and pointed to himself, to the bird, and back again. She understood.
    â€œYour name means Chickadee!”
    Excited, she told the other women, who smiled at him and told Seraphica that the name was perfect for such a thin and lively little boy.
    Only the one called Mother frowned and gave Seraphica a sour look.
    â€œHe’ll be baptized and given a proper name,” she said, “a saint’s name. How typically pagan, to be named after a bird!”
    For two days the little wagonload of women traveled. At night they all slept, curled in the straw. During the day, Chickadee saw them secretly wincing whenever the wagon jounced over a big rock. He had the soft straw to sit on, while they were arranged across two hard board benches. At last, they reached a river crossing.
    At this crossing, there was a ferryboat that ran along underneath a huge cable. The river was much calmer here—though still icy and gray and flowing fast. It would be possible to cross.
    The priest and the