“What a nice man that is! Look at him,” said one sister to the other.
He stopped all at once, seemed to sit down and disappear through the earth. That day they saw him no more.
“Oh, we should like to see that man,” said the sisters, “and talk to him.” They watched, talked, and forgot to dig roots. At last, a short time before sunset, they said, “Let us go for roots!” They ran down the mountain, dug a basketful quickly, and hurried home.
“Oh, father, will you teach us how to sing?” said the younger sister to Kele that evening. “We tried all day to sing. I tried to teach my sister, she tried to teach me. We could do nothing.”
“You can sing this way,” said Kele, and he began,—
“O wi, no á, O wi, no í,
O wi, no á, O wi, no í.”
“That is good,” said she, going away. She said nothing to her sister and lay down.
Soon after the twenty brothers came. Ten of them made a great noise. The house just trembled and shook from the uproar. The second ten had smeared themselves with deer blood, hung deer entrails around their necks. They looked wild and ferocious. When inside, they were quiet; in going out and coming in they always rushed and shouted.
Next morning Kele kept the twenty brothers in the sweat-house. “Rest a day,” said he.
The sisters went to the mountain top and looked westward. Soon they saw some one go toward the north, as on the first day.