Why Leaves Change Color

Nanabozho is considered the great-uncle of the Ojibwe people. He is part man, part manito (spirit) and so is capable of silly mischief as well as great deeds.

When Nanabozho was a boy and the earth was new, his grandmother, Nokomis, made him some paints. She mixed dyes out of moonlight and shadows, snowflakes and sand. She made silky blues from night and soft greens from reindeer moss. She squeezed the sparkle out of shooting stars. Then she put all the colors into pots and put the pots into a pouch for her grandson.

“Make beauty, Nanabozho,” she said. “Paint the flowers today.”

Nanabozho skipped off to a field full of pale white coneflowers. He dipped his brush into the purple paint pot. Then he painted the petals gently, one by one, being careful not to slop over the edges.

He saw a ladybug crawling among the blossoms. In those days, ladybugs were plain red. Nanabozho painted a black dot on the ladybug. That was interesting, he thought, and he painted another spot. This was great fun, and he ran about the field, dotting every ladybug he could find. He only missed one. If you ever see a ladybug without spots, that’s a great-great-granddaughter of the one he missed.

Nanabozho caught a bee in his hand. This was before bees had stingers. They didn’t have stripes, either. Nanabozho painted stripes around the bee’s body.

What else can I decorate? he wondered.

Raccoon’s plain, gray tail hung down from a tree. Nanabozho quickly painted rings around it. That was pretty!

Nanabozho caught Heron and painted him blue. He grabbed Fox and painted her red. Nanabozho put spots on Salamander. He painted a red cap on Woodpecker and a black cap on Chickadee.

Then he noticed Sparrow, perched on a low tree branch.

“Poor Sparrow,” Nanabozho cried, “not a shimmery feather nor a speck of bright color… ”

Sparrow hopped onto a higher branch.

“Come here!” Nanabozho called.

Sparrow hopped one branch higher.

“I want to make you beautiful!”

Sparrow fluttered yet higher, perched, and peeked down at Nanabozho.

Nanabozho slung the pouch with his paint pots and brushes over his shoulder and climbed onto the lower branches. “Don’t you hear me, little brother?” said Nanabozho. “You’d look handsome with a red coat.”

Sparrow hopped up two more branches. Nanabozho struggled after him. “Orange?” called Nanabozho.

Sparrow flitted to the uppermost branch and watched as Nanabozho clambered up the tree.

“Pink and purple stripes? Yellow-green feathers?” He reached out to grab Sparrow, but the little bird darted away. Nanabozho lost his balance and tumbled backward. His shirt snagged on a branch, and there Nanabozho swung.

But the paints and dyes! They spilled! Every pot of twilight, dawn, and sunset. Every pot of flame and fire, sunlight and starlight, gold and silver. And worse, Wind chose that very moment to rush over to see what was happening. Wind’s sudden whoosh spattered the falling colors all over the trees.

The trees shrieked, “Look what you’ve done! Our lovely green leaves!”

“I’m sorry!” said Nanabozho. “It was an accident.”

“Oh!” the trees groaned and shook their branches. “Nanabozho, you must scrub us clean!”

Nanabozho looked around at the trees. The colors were everywhere! How could he ever clean them up?

All the birds and animals were gathering to see what had happened. They stared up at the trees.

“Aaaah… ,” said Raven.

“Oooooh… ,” said Owl.

“Beautiful,” croaked Frog.

Chickadee twittered, “So pretty! So pretty!”

The trees hushed their shaking branches and listened. Were they really prettier now? Oak blushed deep red. Aspen’s golden leaves glowed.

Then Maple whispered, “Don’t feel bad, Nanabozho. I think I will like my new colors.”

“Thank you, Maple,” said Nanabozho.

Soon the other trees decided their bright new colors were not so bad after all. They forgave Nanabozho, too.

Now, every year we remember when Nanabozho spilled his paints and made the trees so beautiful. And every year, Maple, the one who forgave Nanabozho first, is the prettiest of all.