"For the chase," said the old man, "I make the long shape of flint, three fingers wide, and to this I bind a long and heavy shaft. Such an arrow will hold in the side of the running deer, and may be plucked out after death."
"I have even seen it, father," replied the young man, in supercilious tones; for he considered himself a mighty hunter.
"For the battle," continued the arrow-maker, "I chip the flint and shape the narrow splinters of slate. All three are good in their way if the bow be strong—and the arm."
The old craftsman made a song. It was rough as his arrow-heads.
"Arrows of gray and arrows of black
Soon shall be red.
What will the white moon say to the proud
Warriors, dead?
"Arrows of jasper, arrows of flint,
Arrows of slate.