THE PIPES OF VICTORY

Kacan the Lame One was hobbling slowly along the
beach not far from Quasset, bearing on his back a
basket of clams. He had found clams plentiful in the
beds uncovered at low tide. Slowly, painfully, he
climbed up the steep winding trail that led to the
forest above and threw himself down upon the soft
green moss as soon as he reached the welcome shade
of the giant cedars.

As he lay there, all the sounds of the village, forest,
and cove were borne to his sensitive ears. In the
village the shamans were performing noisy magic in
the lodge of Shala, a sick woman. Tum, tum, tum!
came the throb of their drums, plainly heard above

their weird chantings, the din of their horns, and the
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