LETTER XV. 163 



loving as women. At last Kee-kee-was escaped, 

 and now, when the traps are empty, no man sits 

 up for the poachers. 



It would take too long to tell you the story of 

 ' Sour-grub,' the snake-like chief who stole the 

 good horse Nehoggets, and by treachery im- 

 prisoned the fire-god in his pipe, and of how 

 Tumisco released the fire-spirit, and by his aid 

 recovered Nehoggets, and in a storm of vivid light- 

 ning turned Sour-grub and all his men into those 

 ruinous rocks which lie about in the valley ; it 

 would take too long, too, to tell of the gambler 

 brother of Tumisco, who sat up all night with 

 the devil and played for all he owned and lost it 

 all and his life so we pass on from daylight to 

 darkness, from the chief's life to his death. A 

 dreary wail rises from the valleys ; it swells 

 louder and louder, and the voices of Nature 

 mourn in chorus. The pine-trees creak in the 

 wind, the river moans between its hollow banks, 

 the night - owls flitting by hoot to the wolf 

 howling on the mountain-side. What is it 

 Shnena, the night-owl, calls from the gloomy 

 wood to his mate, who sits watching on the 

 tallest pole of Tumisco's tent ? ' Pooin pa ! 

 poom, poom !' he says ; and his mate makes 

 answer : ' Poom pa ! poom, poom !' (I come for 

 you, I come for you !) 



11 2 



