“Hush—sh, sh!” replied the man. “You must wait till meeting is over before asking such questions.” Then a young man beckoned to him to come in, and he listened till the end to a long sermon on the wickedness of being vindictive and rapacious; and the preacher was a gray ancient, and his ears stood up over his little cap like the two handles of a pitcher, yet for all that the Wild-Cat’s heart was not moved one whit. And when it was all at an end he said to the obliging young man, “But have you seen a Rabbit running by?”
“Rabbits! Rab-bits!” replied the young man. “Why, there are hundreds racing about in the cedar swamps near this place, and you can have as many as you want.” “Ah!” replied Wild-Cat, “but they are not what I seek. Mine is an entirely different kind.” The other said that he knew of no sort save the wild wood-rabbits, but that perhaps their Governor, or Chief, who was very wise, could tell him all about them. Then the Governor, or Sagamore, came up. Like the preacher, he was very remarkable and gray, with the long locks standing up one on either side of his head. And he invited the stranger to his house, where his two very beautiful daughters cooked him a fine supper. And when he wished to retire they brought out blankets and a beautiful white bear’s skin, and made up a bed for him by the fire. Truly, his eyes were closed as soon as he lay down, but when he awoke there had been a great change. For now he was in a wet cedar swamp, the wind blowing ten times worse than ever, and his supper and sleep had done him little good, for they were all a delusion. All around him were rabbits’ tracks and broken twigs, but nothing more.
Yet he sprang up, more enraged than ever, and swearing more terribly by his tail, teeth, and claws that he would be revenged. So he ran on all day, and at night, when he came to another large village, he was so weary that he could just gasp, “Have—you—seen a Rab—bit run this way?” With much concern and kindness they all asked him what was the matter. So he told them all this story, and they pitied him very much; yea, one gray old man—and this was the Chief—with two beautiful daughters, shed tears and comforted him, and advised him to stay with them. So they took him to a large hall, where there was a great fire burning in the middle thereof. And over it hung two pots with soup and meat, and two Indians stood by and gave food to all the people. And he had his share with the rest, and all feasted gayly.
Now, when they had done eating, the old Governor, who was very gray, and from either side of whose head rose two very venerable, long white feathers, rose to welcome the stranger, and in a long speech said it was, indeed, the custom of their village to entertain guests, but that they expected from them a song. Then Wild-Cat, who was vain of his voice, uplifted it in vengeance against the Rabbits:
Oh, how I hate them!
How I despise them!
How I laugh at them!
May I scalp them all!
Then he said that he thought the Governor should sing. And to this the Chief consented, but declared that all who were present should bow their heads while seated, and shut their eyes, which they did. Then Chief Rabbit, at one bound, cleared the heads of his guests, and drawing his timheyen, or tomahawk, as he jumped, gave Wild-Cat a wound which cut deeply into his head and only fell short of killing him by entirely stunning him. When he recovered, he was again in snow, slush and filth, more starved than ever, his head bleeding from a dreadful blow, and he himself almost dead. Yet, with all that, the Indian devil was stronger in him than ever, for every new disgrace did but bring more resolve to be revenged, and he swore it by his tail, claws, teeth, and eyes.