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 93