robed like the Eight Thunders in snowy white.

“Listen, Loskiel,” he said, “my younger brother, blood-brother to a Siwanois. Listen, also, O Rosy-Throated Pigeon of the Woods — home from the unseen flight to mate at last!”

He plucked four ghost-flowers, and cast the pale blossoms one by one to the four great winds.

“O untainted winds that blow the Indian corn,” he said, “winds of the wilderness, winds of the sounding skies — clean and pure as ye are, not one of you has blown the green and silken blankets loose from these, our Hidden Children, nestling unseen, untouched, unstained, close cradled in a green embrace. Nor wind, nor rain, nor hail, not the fierce heat of many summers have revealed these