When Moh-Kwa came into his cavern, he found Ish-koo-dah, the Fire, grown small an’ hot an’ angry, for he had not been fed for two days. Moh-Kwa gave the Fire a bundle of dry wood to eat, an’ when the Fire’s stomach was full an’ he had grown big an’ bright with plenty, he sat up on his bed of coals an’ found fault with Moh-Kwa for his neglect.
“An’ should you neglect me again for two days,” said the Fire, “I will know I am not wanted an’ shall go away.”
Moh-Kwa was much tired with no sleep, so he answered Ish-koo-dah, the Fire, sharply.
“You are always hungry,” said Moh-Kwa; “also you are hard to suit. If I give you green wood, you will not eat it; if the wood be wet, you turn away. Nothing but old dry wood will you accept. Beggars like you should not own such fine tastes. An’ do you think, Fire, that I who have much to do an’ say an’ many places to go—I, Moh-Kwa, who am as busy as the bees in the Moon of Blossoms, have time to stay ever by your side to pass you new dry wood to eat? Go to; you are more trouble that a papoose!”
Ish-koo-dah, the Fire, did not say anything to this, for the Fire’s feelings were hurt; an’ Moh-Kwa who was heavy with his labors over the blackberries lay down an’ took a big sleep.
When Moh-Kwa awoke, he sat blinking in the darkness of his cavern, for Ish-koo-dah, while Moh-Kwa slept, had gone out an’ left night behind.
For five days Moh-Kwa had no fire an’ it gave him a bad heart; for while Moh-Kwa could eat his food raw an’ never cared for that, he could not smoke his kinnikinick unless Ish-koo-dah, the Fire, was there to light his pipe for him.
For five days Moh-Kwa smoked no kinnikinick; an’ Moh-Kwa got angry because of it an’ roared an’ shouted up an’ down the canyons, an’ to show he did not care, Moh-Kwa smashed his redstone pipe on a rock. But in his stomach Moh-Kwa cared, an’ would have traded Ish-koodah, the Fire, four armsful of dry cedar just to have him light his kinnikinick but once. But Ish-koo-dah, the Fire, was gone out an’ would not come back.
