I stormed out of the house. I spun the jeep out of the yard and ripped off through the woods.
The chief was sitting at home as comfortable as you please. He was leaning back against the great oak that hid his tree house. He had a little fire going and one of the women was roasting a sparrow for him. He greeted me in volpla language.
"Do you realize," I blurted angrily, "that there are two volplas in my daughter's bedroom?"
"Why, yes," he answered calmly. "They go there every day. Is there anything wrong with that?"
"She's teaching them the words of men."
"You told us some men may be our enemies. We are anxious to know their words, the better to protect ourselves."
He reached around behind the tree and, right there in broad daylight, that volpla pulled a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle out of hiding. He held it up apologetically. "We have been taking it for some time from the box in front of your house."
He spread the paper on the ground between us. I saw by the date that it was yesterday's. He said proudly, "From the two who go to your house, I have learned the words of men. As men say, I can 'read' most of this."
I just stood there gaping at him. How could I possibly recoup this situation so that the stunning joke of the volplas wouldn't be lost? Would it seem reasonable that the volplas, by observing and listening to men, had learned their language? Or had they been taught it by a human friend?