He turned over stones and he ran to and fro
And drove out poor crabbies as their fiercest foe.
But at last he grew weary and to the squaw came,
While limping so slowly as if he were lame,
And crying, "Ho, mama, ho nika, ho til!"
Which meant of crab sporting that he'd had his fill.
That squaws are so cross I have read in a book,
But not so this mother, who gently did look
Upon her wee torment, while patting his head,
And "Cultus Mitlite," so sweetly she said.