The time of his absence lengthened out. The little boys kept looking for their father day by day. Their mother, also, did not sleep, but sat up night after night, when finally they saw him coming. Then he came ashore. His wife was disposed to be angry. “What a long time you have been gone!” said she. “The grass has grown, and the leaves have come out, and the mosquitoes have come, while you have been away. How many deer you used to get!” said she. “What a long time you have been gone! Is that one kayakful all that you have killed?” “I couldn’t hit anything,” said he. “I saw game enough, but I missed them.” “And you used to pile up the deer-skins and the beaver-skins on the racks, too,” said she. “I don’t know what made me shoot so badly,” said he.

At length the fish began to run. The salmon-run came, and he worked at his fishing; but while they were still running, he began to talk about going up the river. “I believe I will go,” said he. “No,” said she, “it’s too soon. What a hurry you are in!” said she. “Wait, and go after those leaves have turned,” said she. “Remember how little game you killed last spring. You might not be back for a long time,” said she. At last, although his wife urged him to remain, he went away. “Now, hurry up and get back!” said she, “for we are thinking of you.”

He went, and again he was missing. By and by the ice formed at the edge of the water, and he came in sight. “Only one kayakful again! What a long time you have been gone!” said she. “You used to get game.” Then the man said, “Because, when there was plenty of game near by, up the river, I could get them; but now that they are far away, I kill but few.” Then said his wife, “Why is it that you get so few? There’s only one kayakful.”

So then the frosty weather came. When the days grew short, he fell sick. All winter long he continued to be sick; yet his appetite kept up, sick as he was. It came midwinter, and he grew worse. One day he said to his wife, “Listen! for I am going to die. Then, when I am gone, you must put many fine marten-skins beside me in the kayak, many of them,” said he; “and beaver too, fine ones, and wolf and wolverene, and good deer-fat, and my arrows and bow, and tie a deer-skin over the opening of the kayak, and put poles underneath it (i.e., place it on a scaffold). And now, be good to the boys! Make them fine parkas, and do not be harsh with them! Treat them well!” said he. So he died. His wife put him into the kayak, among fine skins, and tied on a cover, just as he had told her to do. Then they made a fire, and sat by it day by day, weeping. His wife also cut off her hair and burned it, for grief at the loss of her husband.

By and by spring approached. The wife and the boys still kept on mourning. At length pools of water stood on the surface of the rivers. Flocks of geese came, and the smaller birds with them. One morning, while the boys were still asleep, the woman went out early, before sunrise, to weep.

She weeps; and just here, overhead, a little bird is singing. Still she weeps, and does not hear him.

All at once she heard it was the name of her husband. She listened, and looked at him. “Wretched bird!” she thought, “why does it speak the name of the dead?” She looked, they say, she listened. There! It speaks! “Tdjo’xwullik up the river is married: he has a wife, — he, Tdjo’xwullik, Tdjo’xwullik!”

So the woman heard him. “What is it that this bird is saying?” thought she. She got up and untied the string that was around the opening of the kayak. “I will find out what the bird says,” she thought. She removed the deer-skin. What did she find? There was nothing in the kayak. Where was her husband? The wolf-skins and wolverene-skins and his arrows, that had been with him, were gone. She was angry, because she thought it was true that he had been dead. “That’s why the bird said it,” she thought. “Since yesterday it has said it; but while I kept crying, I did not listen. Too truly it spoke,” she thought. She went up into her cache. There were many skins of deer and of bear. An enormous brownbear skin also she found, with light fur. This one she chose, and she wet it with warm water. Hurriedly she wet it all day long, and stretched it. At length it became larger. While she was wetting it, she brought in water for the boys. Meanwhile she continued to wet it. She would wet it, and then put it back in its place wet. At length she had filled the pails and the birch-bark bowls with an abundance of water, and it became dark. Finally, while the boys were asleep, she brought in, from off her cache, meat and fat and king-salmon dried, and piled it up in the house. And then she fitted that bear-skin upon herself, and stretched it out, its claws being attached to it. Then she searched in her work-bag, and found the great teeth of a brown bear. And she put these on, also; the teeth she put into her mouth. And she became a great brown bear, like that one, and rushed furiously up the ravine. She tore up spruces by the roots. In her rage, she broke down the trees also. She came down the ravine and returned to the outside of the house. She took off the skin, and laid it down. The teeth also she put with it. She had not slept when the boys awoke. Neither had she eaten anything, for her anger. Then she brought in to those boys a forked birch stick that had been cut. That birch stick she carried into the house. Then said she, “Listen! I am going away. Do not wish for me,” said she. “I will come soon. Now eat the food and drink the water that I have brought in for you. Do not go to get water, for you will fall in; nor go up into the cache, for you will fall down. If any great beast comes in where you are, hold the stick tightly against his breast,” said she. Do not be afraid of him. I will come to you,” said she. Then she went up the ravine, and went along a mountain that formed the bank of the river. She rushed along in her wrath, going in her might, as the ice moves with the crashing of the trees. Another great mountain she climbed. She went up over a place where there were flat stones; and she thought, “I will put these stones at the sides of my chest, and on my breast and forehead.”

While she was going on, some one overhead, on a spruce, began to laugh. “Why,” said some one, “you have made a great mistake. You are very ridiculous. Take off the stones! they are of no use. Why,” said he, “in time to come it will be a thing for people to laugh about.” So she took them off. Then said the Raven, “There! That’s it! Now you look all right. Now go ahead!”

Then again she went on, hurrying, for she was thinking of the boys. She followed the river-bank. There, below her, she saw a large village, full of people. Toward it she went, and again she took off the skin; and the teeth, too, she removed, and put them under a little spruce. Here she found a good path, and she followed it to the village. She came near to the village from behind it. A large village it was, indeed, with a great kashime, and next to the kashime a large house. She went on in this direction, and there she ran in. On each side of the fire two beautiful women had set their pots to cook. They called to her. “Cousin,” said they, “you have come in, then! That is right, stay with us!” One of them said, “Sit down on my side of the room!” So she sat down on the platform. One was cooking deer-meat in a large pot, and the other was cooking beaver-meat in a large pot. “Cousins,” she said to them, “your husbands, where have they gone?” for she was thinking, as she looked at all the finery there in the house. Beautiful mats there were, and beds of deer-skin, and marten-skin parkas. Then they said to her, “Why, there is only one man living with us! Last spring, after the ice had gone out, a stranger came to us and took us,” said they; “but when the grass had begun to grow, then he left us; and last winter, at midwinter, he came back, and lives with us. He has gone to get wood,” said they.

Then they offered her food. “No,” said she, “I am not hungry. I ate only just now.” — “Come,” said they, “stay with us!” “Yes,” said she. “How very little oil there is on the surface of your pots!” said she to them. “Smile,” said she to one of them, “and bend over the surface of your pot!” When she did it, an abundance of oil covered the surface. “And you,” said she, “squint, and bend over yours!” Then she seized them both by the hair on their foreheads, and pushed their heads down into the big pots until they were dead and then she lifted them up, and put them back in their places. She made one of them appear as if she were sewing, and afterward she did the same thing to the other. One was squinting, and the other was smiling. Then she. ran out and rushed up the hill. Now came their husband, with logs in tow. He tied them up at the beach, and went up to the house and entered it. The woman who was bending over, squinting, he struck. When he did so, her face sloughed off. The other, who was smiling as she sewed, he struck also, and the skin sloughed off. Thereupon he ran out, crying. “What ails my wives?” said he. “My wife has been with them!”

As he goes out, the village is in an uproar. Just now they were walking around quietly outside the houses. What is the matter? Some are crying, and yonder some are shouting. “There goes a brown bear up on the big mountain!” they yell. Up streams a swarm of villagers, armed with spears and ice-picks and arrows. Up, up, they go. On the mountain the great beast stands looking at them. It is Tdjo’xwullik who is in the lead. In an instant she catches him. “My wife, I have come to you!” he says, for the woman has pushed the hood from her face; but that is all he says, for she crushes his head between her jaws, and tears him in pieces. And all the men of the village, too, she destroys on the spot, and down upon the village she rushes. She begins at one end of the village, and goes to the other. Caches and houses, she destroys them all, and the children and the women, and then she leaves.

She left, and went toward her own village, for she was thinking of the boys. She went into her house, and the older of the two boys cried out, “Ulli’yu!” in terror, and began to scream. Meanwhile his younger brother, the little man, caught up the stick that their mother had given them, and set it quickly against that bear’s breast. There he held it firmly. At that, she pulled back her hood. “My children,” said she, “well done! Stay where you are!” said she. Then she went out. Outside, near the house, she took off the skin, and removed the teeth also, and put them under a log and went in. Then she took the two boys on her knees, caressing them fondly. “Ah,” said she, “you have done well. While I was far from you, I was thinking about you.” There, then, they remained all that summer. The leaves turned, and still they staid on. The cold weather came; and then she said to her children, “Let us go now to the place where:our house is to be!” The younger of the two children she loved exceedingly. “As you have done,” said she, “so will men do in years to come. While the older brothers are fearful, the younger brothers will be brave.” They dressed themselves in brown-bear skins, for it had grown cold. Their mother, also, put on the skin that she had worn; and they went up the ravine to the place where their house was to be. On either side of the place stood a large spruce. On the farther one the mother exercised herself, and on this side the children; and when they had finished thus sharpening their claws, they dug out a place for the house. They completed it; and then she said to her children, “From this time on, men shall see but little of us.”

So, then, my story is ended.

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