“The water is cold and sweet,” she said, “not like that bitter water in the swamp.” She held her cupped hands for me to drink from. And I kissed the fragrant cup.

As we rose and I shouldered my rifle, the Grey-Feather began to sing in a low, musical, chanting voice; and all the Indians turned merry faces toward Lois and me as they nodded time to the refrain:

“Continue to listen and hear the truth, Maiden Hidden and Hidden Youth. The song of those who are ‘more than men’! Thi-ya-en-sa-y-e-ken!”

“It is the chant of the Stone Throwers — the Little People!” said Mayaro, laughing. “Ye two are fit to hear it.”

“They are singing the Song of the Hidden Children,”