THE WONDER-WORKER’S PIPE 213

“Shim is tired,” he said. “Sing for Shim before he
goes to sleep.”

Teka hesitated. The tide was coming in. Before
long the reefs would be covered and they would be
marooned upon the rock. The wind was cold, biting,
carrying with it little stinging flecks of snow. Gray
clouds from the east were drifting over the moon and
all signs pointed toward a storm.

“Let us go back where there is a big fire, Shim,”
he begged, trying to pull the old man from behind
the sheltering pile of rocks. “There is plenty of food
in the Haida camp and a warm comfortable place to
sleep.”

But Shim would not move. Teka could not carry
him—not down the face of the steep rock and over
the reefs. So, at last, Teka sat down beside the old
man and began to sing. It was the only thing to be
done, for Shim would not be quieted otherwise. When-
ever he stopped singing, Shim begged him to con-
tinue. For hours he sang, stamping upon the rocks
and beating his hands against his body as he tramped
slowly back and forth to keep warm. For hours he
sang of Thaimshim’s exploits and misfortunes; sang
of Thaimshim’s pipe that was carefully hidden be-
neath his ragged furs. His pipe now! The pipe that
would win him his freedom!

He did not know that the pipe had been lost upon
the beach by a trader who had obtained it from a chief
in a distant country. To him, and to the others also,

ae nh een ene

ee
SE a _—

a a a a a