THE PUNISHING OF PISEW 217 



&quot; How fares The Boy, Swift-flyer ? &quot; Mooswa 

 asked of the Jay. 



&quot; Badly, great Bull, badly. One time he takes 

 the two Fish this dead thief left, unwillingly 

 enough no doubt, in his hand, and looks at 

 them pitiably; takes the white Dry-eating 

 Flour, Men call it, and decides of its weight : 

 then with the little stick which makes a black 

 mark he lines cross-trails on a board, and mutters 

 about so many pounds of Eating for so many 

 days, and always ends by saying : c It can t be 

 done I shall starve/ Then he comes to the 

 door and looks over the river trail which way 

 went Fran9ois, as though he too would pull out 

 for The Landing.&quot; 



&quot; That he must not attempt,&quot; cried Mooswa, 

 decidedly. &quot; Turn your noses, Brothers, to the 

 wind which comes from the big West-hills 

 moisten them first, so ! &quot; and a bluish-gray tongue 

 damped the cushion bulk of his nostrils. All 

 the Council pointed their heads up wind, and 

 it smote raw in their questioning faces. 



&quot;Gh-u-r-r!&quot; growled Blue Wolf, &quot;I know; 

 when comes this wind-wrath of the Mountains, 

 Mooswa? &quot; 



&quot; To-night, or to-morrow,&quot; answered the Bull. 



&quot; Then lie we close from the time the light 

 fails this day until it is all over; each to his 



