She made no reply; and he went about his duties, gathering food for his little home, which he did each day by flying along the beach, and picking up a dead fish or a bird.

He gathered more than enough for two, while in the village the hunger was keener each day. When the famine was at its worst, the raven came to the chief, and asked, “Chief, what will you give me, if I bring you food?”

The chief looked at him a while, and answered, “You shall have my oldest daughter for a wife.” No other reward would have pleased him better; he flew away in a joyful mood, and said to his grandmother: “Clean out the barrabara. Make everything ready. I am going to get food for the people, and marry the chief’s oldest daughter.”

“Ai, Ai, Y-a-h! You are not going to marry. Our barrabara is small and dirty. Where will you put your wife ?”

“Caw! Caw! Caw! Never mind. Do as I say,” he screamed, at the same time pecking her.

Early next morning he flew away, and later in the day appeared with a bundle of “yukelah” (dried salmon) in his talons. “Come with me to the chief’s house, grandmother,” he called to her. He handed the fish over to the chief, and received the daughter in exchange. Telling his grandmother to bring the bride home, he preceded them, and cleared out of the barrabara all the straw and bedding. When the two women arrived, they found an empty barrabara, and the old woman began to scold him : —

“What are you doing? Why are you throwing out everything?”

“I am cleaning house,” was his curt reply.

When the time for retiring came, the raven spread out one wing, and asked his bride to lie on it, and then covered her with the other. She spent a miserable and sleepless night in that position. The odor of his body and the breath of his mouth almost smothered her, and she determined to leave him in the morning. But in the morning she decided to stay and try and bear it. During the day she was cheerless and worried, and when the raven offered her food, she would not eat it. On the second night he again invited her to lay her head on his breast, and seek rest in his arms, but she cried and would not; and only after much threatening did he prevail on her to comply with his wish. The second night was not better than the first, and early in the morning she stole away from him and went back to her father, telling him everything.

On awaking and finding his wife gone, the raven inquired of his grandmother whether she knew aught of her whereabouts. She assured him that she did not. “Go, then,” he said, “to the chief, and bring her back.” She feared him, and did his bidding. When she came to the chief’s house, and as soon as she put her foot into it, she was pushed out. This she reported to the raven on her return.

The summer passed, followed by a hard winter and famine. As in the winter before, the raven and his grandmother had plenty, but the others suffered greatly for lack of food. With the return of the hard times, the grandson’s thoughts turned to love. This time it was a girl, young and beautiful, at the other end of the village. When he mentioned the subject and girl to his grandmother, and asked her to “go and bring the girl here — I want to marry her,” she was quite indignant, and told him what she thought about it.

“Ai, Ai, Y-a-h! Are you going to marry again? Your first wife could not live with you, because you smell so strong. The girls do not wish to marry you.”

“Caw! Caw! Caw! Never mind the smell! Never mind the smell! Go — do as I say.” To impress his commands and secure obedience he continued pecking her until she was glad to go. While she was gone, he was very restless and anxious. He hopped about the barrabara and near-by hillocks, straining his eyes for a sight of the expected bride. At last he saw them coming, his grandmother accompanied by the girl. Hurriedly he began cleaning out the barrabara, throwing out not only the straw, but bedding, baskets, and all. The old woman on her return scolded him, but he paid no attention to it.

The young bride, like her predecessor, was enfolded tightly in his wings, and like her predecessor had a wretched and sleepless night, but determined to endure it if possible; for with him she would have enough to eat, at least. The second night was as bad as the first, but she stayed on, and concluded to do so until spring. On the third day the raven, seeing that she was still with him, said to the old woman: “Tomorrow I will go and get a big, fat whale. While I am gone, make a belt and a pair of torbarsars (native shoes) for my wife.”

“Ai, Ai, Y-a-h! How will you bring a whale? The hunters cannot kill one, and how will you do it?”

“Caw! Caw! Caw! Be quiet, and do what I tell you : make the belt and torbarsars. I will do what I say,” he angrily exclaimed, also using his more effective method of silencing her.

Before dawn next morning the raven flew away over the sea. In his absence the old woman was busily engaged making the things for the young bride, who was watching and talking to her. About midday they espied him flying toward the shore, carrying a whale. The grandmother started the fire, and the young woman tucked up her parka (native dress), belted it with the new belt, put on the new torbarsars, sharpened the stone knife, and went to the beach to meet her husband. As he drew near, he cried: “Grandmother, go into the village, and call the people; tell them I have brought a big, fat whale.” She ran as hard as she could, and told the joyful news. The half-dead village of a sudden became alive. Some began sharpening their knives, others to dress; but most of them ran just as they were and with such knives as they had, to the beach where the whale was. His importance was not lost on the raven, who hopped up and down the whale’s back, viewing the scene of carnage and gorging below him. Every now and then he would take out a pebble from the tool bag which he had about him, and after a seeming consultation put it back. When the chief or any of his relatives came near, he drove them off, and they had to satisfy themselves with watching and feasting with their eyes from the distance, while the others were revelling in fat and even carrying off the blubber to their homes. (Later, in the village, the people shared with the chief.)

The raven’s first wife, the chief’s daughter, had a son by him, a little raven. She had it in her arms on this occasion, and walked in front of the raven where he would have to notice her. “Here is your child, look at it,” she called. But he acted as if he heard not. She called several times, and continued forcing the baby before his eyes until he said, “Come nearer, nearer still;” and when quite close to him, he turned around and excreted on them, almost covering up the child. She turned away, and left him without a word.

Death was the result of the feast. A part of the people ate so much fat on the spot that they died soon after; the rest had eaten so much and filled their barrabaras so full of blubber that during the night they suffocated. In the whole village only three were left, the raven, his wife, and his grandmother, and there they live to this day.

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