“Yes, it ain't much; jest 'Oh, thou that walkest in the sky in the morning, I greet thee.”'
“Why, I didn't know Indians had such performances; that's exactly like the priests of Osiris. Did any one teach him? I mean any white folk.”
“No, it's always been the Indian way. They have a song or a prayer for most every big event, sunrise, sunset, moonrise, good hunting, and another for when they're sick, or when they're going on a journey, or when their heart is bad.”
“You astonish me. I had no idea they were so human. It carries me back to the temple of Delphi. It is worthy of Cassandra of Ilion. I supposed all Indians were just savage Indians that hunted till their bellies were full, and slept till they were empty again.”
“H'm,” rejoined Rolf, with a gentle laugh. “I see you also have been doing some 'hair-trigger, steel-trap, cocksure jedgin'.'”
“I wonder if he'd like to hear some of my songs?”
“It's worth trying; anyway, I would,” said Rolf.
That night, by the fire, Van sang the “Gay Cavalier,” “The Hunting of John Peel,” and “Bonnie Dundee.” He had a fine baritone voice. He was most acceptable in the musical circles of Albany. Rolf was delighted, Skookum moaned sympathetically, and Quonab sat nor moved till the music was over. He said nothing, but Rolf felt that it was a point gained, and, trying to follow it up, said:
“Here's your drum, Quonab; won't you sing 'The Song of the Wabanaki?'” But it was not well timed, and the Indian shook his head.
“Say, Van,” said Rolf, (Van Cortlandt had suggested this abbreviation) “you'll never stand right with Quonab till you kill a deer.”