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"There," said the swans; "you are now close to the Sun's lodge. Follow that trail, and soon you will see it." "Well for my part I hate people who sing a little. I always wish it was even less. I hold that they are a social nuisance, and ought to be put down by law. My eldest brother Nick sings really very well,—a charming tenor, you know, good enough to coax the birds off the bushes. He does all that sort of dilettante business,—paints, and reads tremendously about things dead and gone, that can't possibly advantage anybody. Understands old china as well as most people (which isn't saying much), and I think—but as yet this statement is unsupported—I think he writes poetry." "Where are people when they are not at home?" asks Mona, simply..

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The song seemed to come from a big cotton-wood tree near the trail leading down to the water. As she looked closely at this tree she saw a queer stone jammed in a fork where the tree was split, and with it a few hairs from a buffalo which had rubbed against the tree. The woman was frightened and dared not pass the tree. Soon the singing stopped and the I-nĭs´kĭm said to the woman, "Take me to your lodge, and when it is dark call in the people and teach them the song you have just heard. Pray, too, that you may not starve, and that the buffalo may come back. Do this, and when day comes your hearts will be glad." "No, indeed," says Mona, laughing. "But it surely wasn't English, was it? That is not the way everybody talks, surely." "No," answered the man, "I am afraid. Who could look at such dreadful things and live?" "No; not a petty squire," says Mona; "and I think you do know him. And why should I be ashamed to tell my name to any one?".