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Legend of Wonalansett 







19 14 







eOPti^WiHT OrfiOt 

AUG 3 191* 

JUL 16 1914 



The events recorded in this legend belong far 
back in the dim past. I heard the story as it 
fell from the lips of a wrinkled old squaw in the 
White Hills, who sold beaded and braided 
baskets, and who claimed to be a direct descend- 
ant of the Penacook Indians. She told it as it 
had been handed down in the tribe for more than 
five hundred years. No history has chronicled 
the acts set forth in the story of the old squaw; 
only in the traditions of the red men do they 
find a place. 

In that shadowy age of which the legend treats 
the land was supremely fertile. It bore wonder- 
ful harvests of golden maize and rich fruits, 
and the waters were full of fish, while in the 
forests the deer were as plentiful as sparrows. 
The seasons were not as severe, and the blasts 
of winter bit less keenly. The waters of Winne- 
pesaukee rose higher then, for they had not cut 
for themselves so deep a channel through the 
outlet at Aquidaukenash (The Weirs), and 



the silver waves swashed on many a meadow 
where now the yellow corn ripens in the sun. 
The waters of the lake covered the valleys far 
back, diked by a low line of hillocks which have 
now in many places disappeared. Mighty 
forests waved their tall plumes in the summer 
breezes, and the maize rustled in the September 

In those days of long ago the Penacooks 
were the principal tribe of Indians dwelling 
beside the Winnepesaukee. The braves of this 
people ranged from the entrance to the White 
Hills, to the Atlantic. Their wigwams were 
scattered about the lake, along the sunny mead- 
ows of the Merrimac, and northward to the 
confines of the Agiacooks. 

Beside the Winnepesaukee at Aquidaukenash 
the Penacooks were encamped. This was the 
favorite fishing ground of the tribe, and here 
they delighted to pass many days of the summer 
months. Passaconaway was sachem of the 
tribe, and his only son, the pride of his declining 
years, was Wonalansett. To Passaconaway 
the braves of all the region from the sacred 
White Hills to the Piscataqua yielded a willing 



submission. He was mighty in war, and wise 
in time of peace. Under him the land of the 
Penacooks prospered. The harvests were plen- 
teous in the fertile meadows, and the corn 
grew to unusual size. Even the fierce Mo- 
hawks, who dwelt away to the westward 
in the wild Adirondacks, had ceased to molest 
them, and there was peace on every hand. 
Many times in the past Passaconaway had 
led his warriors against the Mohawks encroach- 
ing upon his domains, and driven them back 
to their wigwams and council fires in the Adi- 
rondacks. They feared him as they feared no 
other foe, and they were wont to say that he was 
in league with some spirit which gave mysterious 
power to his arm, and made him proof against 
their weapons. 

Wonalansett was a brave young man, and in 
him his father lived his years over again. He 
loved the beautiful Mineola, the eldest daughter 
of the old chief Chocorua, and the aged sachem 
smiled upon their affection. The form of Mine- 
ola was straight and graceful as the willow, and 
in her eyes there dwelt a world of tenderness. 

Rimmon was the youngest daughter of Cho- 



corua. She, too, was lithe and graceful, but 
though she was beautiful, Mineola surpassed 
her in loveliness. A long time Wonalansett 
had loved the gentle Mineola, even from the 
days when as children they had played together 
on the shores of the beautiful Winnepesaukee. 
And even as he loved her, so Mineola loved the 
young brave; and Rimmon loved him also. 

The days of Passaconaway were fourscore 
years and ten. Old age had set its seal upon 
him. The fountains of his youth were dried 
up and slowly his strength ebbed away. His 
pulse grew weak and feeble, and he felt that he 
was about to die. And so he sent for Wonalan- 
sett and told him that, like the aged oak rocked 
by a thousand storms, so he must soon fall 
and lie prostrate in the forest. 

"The days of Passaconaway are nearly done,'* 
he said. "He will soon join his fathers in the 
dim lands of Ponemah. Many moons have 
passed since first he fitted the arrow to the 
string by the shores of the Winnepesaukee, 
and many winters have sifted their snows in 
his hair. Twenty summers has the maize rip- 
ened in the meadows since the squaw of Passa- 



conaway went to the happy hunting grounds, 
and twenty summers have cast their sunlight 
upon the face of Wonalansett. Like the aged 
eagle when his wings are weary, Passaconaway 
floats away, but when he has taken his last 
flight, Wonalansett shall be sachem in place 
of his father.'* 

So the strength of the old sachem waned, 
and one day he fell asleep. Sorrowfully the 
people of his tribe laid him at rest in the dark 
pine forest, and over his grave the winds sighed 
through the pine branches. There the whip- 
poor-will sung his mournful song, the wild 
flowers blossomed, and the little brook babbled 
past on its way to the lake. And Wonalansett 
was now sachem in place of his father, and all 
the people loved him as they had loved the 
old sachem. Before Passaconaway had grown 
weary with the burden of years, he had sent 
for Chocorua, the old chief, and talked to him 
of their children. And Wonalansett according 
to the customs of the tribe, wooed Mineola; 
and the time for the marriage feast was fixed. 
Then there was great rejoicing throughout the 



Far away toward the blazing sunset, amid 
the wild scenery of the Adirondacks, dwelt the 
savage Mohawks. Reared under the shadow 
of the grand old mountains, it was not strange 
that they partook of the wildness and sternness 
of their surroundings. They were a terror to 
the Indians who dwelt near them, and they had 
often blotted out whole tribes in their warlike 

Of all the Indians dwelling between the Adi- 
rondacks and the sea, the Mohawks feared no 
foe as they feared the Penacooks. These they 
dreaded more on account of the prowess of 
Passaconaway than for any other reason. And 
now the news had come that Passaconaway 
was dead, and his son Wonalansett was sachem 
in his stead. So in the council house of the 
tribe the Mohawk warriors assembled. 

Pontiac, the old sachem, arose in the council, 
his form straight as the gray pine in the forest, 
and looking around upon his chiefs he said; 



"Many moons have passed over the head of 
Pontiac since first the fame of Passaconaway 
was borne to his ears on the east wind, and many 
Mohawks have since fallen by his hand, as 
the trees in the forest by the crooked lightning. 
Their spirits from the far-off shores of Ponemah 
call upon us to be avenged. While Passa- 
conaway lived the Mohawks feared him; for 
he was mightier than any Mohawk, and he 
loved to send his foes unsummoned to the Great 
Spirit. But the Great Spirit has now called 
the old sachem to himself, and in Ponemah he 
chases the shadowy deer beside the murmuring 
waters; and his son is sachem in his place. 
The tree which grows by the wigwam of Pontiac 
was a small shoot when the sunlight first fell 
upon the face of Wonalansett. It may be 
that his arm is not the strong arm of his father, 
nor his cunning as the cunning of theold sachem. 
But the spirit of Passaconaway may still hover 
over the hunting grounds of the Penacooks, 
and it may be that he will wreak a terrible venge- 
ance upon any invader. The sachem of the 
Mohawks is an old man. He is like the aged 
oak in the forest through whose branches the 



sap moves in sluggish flow. The trunk is 
decaying slowly, and not long will it put 
forth leaves in the springtime when the forest 
is bursting with life. No longer does the old 
sachem thirst for the blood of his foes, and he 
longs to hear the voice of the Great Spirit 
when it shall summon him to Ponemah. If the 
Mohawk warriors wish to go to the hunting 
grounds of the Penacooks, let young Konassa- 
den lead them. But the old sachem fears 
that where many shall depart few may return. 
Almost he can see them lying under the shadow 
of the Great White Hills, their faces upturned 
to the sky in the stillness of death." 

When the old man finished speaking, his 
son Konassaden arose. He was tall and supple, 
and with graceful gestures he spoke: 

**Is the young hawk stronger than the eagle 
when the parent birds have left the nest, or 
will the nestlings put the king of birds to flight ? 
Will the black bear flee when he chances upon 
the red fox and hide himself among the cliffs 
lest he be torn in pieces? The summers of 
Konassaden are few. He is only a slender 
sapling in the midst of a great forest. But the 



young tree may bend to the blast which up- 
roots the aged and majestic oak. The heart 
of Konassaden is not the heart of a squaw, and 
he knows no fear. The Great Spirit has given 
his arm some of the power there is in the crooked 
lightning, and many Penacooks shall fall by 
his hand. If the Mohawk warriors shall follow 
him, they will swoop down upon the nest of 
the hawk whence the parent bird is flown, and 
overcome the fledgelings that guard it. The old 
medicine man of the tribe has said that Konas- 
saden shall not fall by the hand of any warrior; 
neither shall those who follow him to the aerie 
of the hawk in the pine woods of Aquidaukenash 
perish at the hands of the Penacooks." 

The words of the young man aroused the 
Mohawks to a thirst for conflict, and when 
they went forth from the council house it had 
been decided to go on the warpath to the 
hunting grounds of the peaceful Penacooks. 
The next morning they started. A band of 
five hundred warriors strode noiselessly away 
toward the dawn, hurrying eagerly on to pitch 
their camp by the Merrimac and sound their 
war whoop in the ears of the unsuspecting 



Penacooks. For three days they proceeded on 
their trail ; and now they were not far away from 
the lake. Their scouts ascertained that the 
encampment at Aquidaukenash was unguard- 
ed. The warriors were away upon a fishing 
expedition, and only the women and children 
were there, with a few old men too infirm to 
join the warriors. 

Immediately they fell upon the encampment, 
captured the women and children and, setting 
fire to the wigwams and the council house, they 
put themselves in motion toward the north. 


When Wonalansett and his braves returned 
from their fishing trip they found nothing but 
devastation where they had left order and peace. 
The sachem was much disturbed for the safety 
of Mineola and Rimmon and with his braves 
he started in swift pursuit of the enemy. They 
followed the trail along verdant valleys bordered 
with lofty trees centuries old and covered with 
gray moss, valleys where harebells blossomed 



and slender willows waved above the soft green 
carpet; through streams which dashed and 
swirled in their mad course to the ocean; through 
deep forests where the sunlight never entered 
to banish the twilight gloom and drink up the 
moisture; and over hills which caught the last 
rays of the setting sun. 

Aquidaukenash was now far away, and the 
trail of the Mohawks was growing fresher. 
The sun had dropped down the golden west 
and was almost at the horizon. The warriors 
were weary with the march, and camp was 
fixed that they might rest. At early dawn 
they started on the trail again, and all day 
they pursued it. As the sun was going down 
the scouts came in to report that the Mohawks 
were in a gorge some distance ahead, and were 
preparing to encamp for the night. Wonalan- 
sett halted his warriors and determined upon 
an immediate attack. He waited until all 
was still in the Mohawk camp, and then with 
his braves he crept silently along through the 
forest gloom. The sentinels, wearied with their 
forced marches, slept at their posts or were 
unmindful of danger until it was too late to 



give the alarm. They were silenced without 
awakening the slumbering braves, and then a 
dash was made for the captives, while at the 
same moment the Penacook war whoop burst 
out upon the air. The surprise was complete, 
and the captives were easily rescued. 

The war whoop of the Penacooks had hardly 
ceased to re-echo in the narrow defile, when the 
Mohawks, seeing that resistance was useless 
and their captives were lost, under the lead of 
Konassaden sprung into the stream, which at 
this point was shallow near the bank, and 
entering the narrow gorge cut by the river for its 
passage, disappeared around one of its sharp 
angles without a moment's warning. The 
movement was so utterly unexpected by the 
Penacooks, that before they had recovered from 
their surprise the Mohawks had emerged from 
the gorge some distance up the stream and were 
hastening with all speed toward the north. 
Far behind them they could hear the Penacooks 
pursuing, but the sound soon died away, and 
a silence which was oppressive succeeded. 

After a short time they came to the Ammon- 
oosuc, where it flowed into the Connecticut. 



They followed the course of the former to the 
northeast, unaware that they were entering the 
confines of the sacred Agiacooks, where no 
Penacook was ever known to tread without the 
command of the medicine man of the tribe. On 
every side they were surrounded by the ever- 
lasting hills, and about them was the stillness 
of the forest. There was to be heard neither 
the chirp of the cricket nor the wail of the whip- 
poor-will. The only sound was the soft foot- 
fall of the Mohawk warriors as each glided 
steadily on. They were aware that their pur- 
suers had been left far behind, and yet, like 
men whose senses are asleep, they continued 
their way, instinctively, without apparent pur- 
pose. The unbroken silence awed them. A 
presentiment of impending danger began to 
break in upon their minds. Now their course 
turns to the right, and leaving the river, they 
plunge into the pathless forest, where human 
feet have not trod for many a day. 

But who is the chief in whose footsteps they 
follow without volition of their own? It is 
dark and they cannot see, but he seems black 
as night. Blindly they follow him and the 



darkness grows deeper. They have no wills 
but that of their leader, and he pushes straight 
on. They are automatons in his hands. The 
trail grows rougher and the forest is becoming 
less dense. The way is steep, but they go 
forward in the same hot haste. Their breath 
comes quick and fast and their lips are parched 
with thirst, but the grim warrior speeds on 
over the uneven ground, and; they forget all 
save an overpowering desire not to fall behind. 
Though they follow quickly in his footsteps, 
they never quite approach him. Always he is 
just a little ahead of them; they cannot over- 
take him. It grows lighter now, and the stars 
shine out through the filmy clouds. 

Now they are in a valley; and lo ! the day 
has begun to break. Underneath the over- 
hanging side of a mountain their leader halts. 
They are spent with the toilsome march and 
lie down upon the soft earth. Just as the rosy 
light of dawn touches the mountain-tops, danc- 
ing from peak to peak, they fall asleep. In 
their troubled dreams they see once more the 
Mohawk villages, their hunting grounds in the 
Adirondacks, and those who are dear to them. 



They recall the words of the old sachem when 
he said he feared that where many departed 
few would return. 

How long they slept they knew not. Sudden- 
ly they became conscious of some power which 
awoke them from their dreams. They arose 
affrighted and looked about them. Far above 
upon the mountain they saw a sight which 
congealed the very blood in their veins. A face, 
awful in its majestic proportions, looked down 
upon them. The eyes blazed with fire, and the 
brow was stern and solemn. The sky became 
dark, while the red lightnings flashed omin- 
ously about that impassive countenance, and 
the whole earth seemed to be shaken to its 
foundations. The sun, which had begun to 
slide down the western horizon, was obscured, 
and twilight slowly descended upon the land. 
The Mohawks fell upon their faces in terror. 

"It is the Manitou !" one said, and an- 
other, breathlessly. An overwhelming, super- 
natural fear fell upon them all. The dark- 
ness came on apace. The darker it grew, so 
much the brighter became that awful face upon 
the mountain. The earth rocked. The forked 



lightnings quivered and writhed in the black 
gloom like a nest of angry serpents. Every 
line upon that face of flame was set and immu- 
table as the features of inexorable justice. It 
did not soften at the sight of the terror dis- 
played by the braves; not a line relaxed. The 
winds sighed mournfully through the stunted 
pines. It sounded like the blended sobbing 
voices of many mourners borne to them from 
far away. Then the voice of the Manitou, 
like the blast of a bugle, aroused them: 

"Draw nearer, my children, and listen to 
your judgment. Ye have made war upon your 
brethren, the Penacooks, and your hands are 
stained with blood. The Mohawks and the 
Penacooks are both children of Manitou, and 
should possess the land in peace: yet ye have 
warred. But it is not for this alone that the 
Manitou is angry. Unsummoned ye have en- 
tered into the sacred home of the Great Spirit, 
and the irrevocable penalty is death. But the 
Manitou is merciful. In sleep ye shall pass 
away to Ponemah, and your bodies shall be 
turned into bowlders upon this mountain-side; 
and they shall be as a remembrance to the 



medicine men who shall come hither to speak 
to the Manitou, that in the days to come they 
may tell it to his children, lest these too in 
like manner should offend." 

As he finished speaking there rose from the 
mountain-top a song such as no man ever heard 
before. It was the song which is sung only in 
the presence of the Great Spirit. It thrilled 
the hearts of the Mohawks as the strings of a 
harp are thrilled when the hand of a master 
touches them and snaps them asunder. Their 
heads began to droop upon their breasts, and 
they fell asleep. A mist floated over the great 
face upon the mountain. When it had passed, 
there was no longer to be seen fire flashing from 
its eyes; the sun came out again, and the clouds 
disappeared. In the place where the Mohawk 
braves had stood were now to be seen only rough 
bowlders of granite strewn upon the ground. 
A tiny spring burst forth from the spot, and its 
waters gurgled downward to the valley in a 
crystal thread-like stream. 

Never again would the old sachem of the 
Mohawks look upon the face of his son Kon- 
assaden, and never again would the Mohawk 



warriors rally at his call. Among the cool, 
dark forests of the Adirondacks the old sachem 
wearily waited the coming of the young chief 
who had gone forth strong and hopeful, but 
who would not return. For many days there 
was anxious watching in the tribe. The days 
grew into months, and the months to years, 
before they ceased to hope that Konassaden 
and his warriors would reappear. 


The golden maize was ripening in the mead- 
ows, the brown leaves floated softly to the 
ground, and the wood pigeons tried their 
wings by long flights for the journey south- 
ward. The martins had already flown, and 
diving loons were making preparations for 
their annual migration. 

New wigwams graced the shores of the Winne- 
pesaukee at Aquidaukenash, from which the 
smoke curled lightly upward and then slowly 
vanished beyond the thick forest. Peace had 
once more folded her wings over the tribe, and 
the heart of Wonalansett was glad. 



Happy days to Mineola were those which 
followed the rescue and return to Aquidauken- 
ash, as she sat in the wigwam of Chocorua, her 
father, and wove her bridal gear. 

But one there was in whose face no gladness 
shone. Rimmon, sitting by the side of her 
sister, watched Wonalansett and Mineola in 
their joy, and no smile lighted up her face, 
but instead a look of pain and sorrow settled 
down upon it, for she too loved the young 
sachem of the Penacooks. In their own happi- 
ness neither Mineola nor Wonalansett noticed 
the sadness and silence of Rimmon. Often in 
those days she would roam alone in the dark 
pine forests and listen to the winds sighing 
through the pine needles, which seemed to 
whisper of happier lands, where the sunlight 
fell softly down upon the valley and the mount- 
ain-top, like a smile of the Great Spirit. She 
would listen to the languid murmur of the 
wavelets on the shore of the lake, and fancy 
they told in undertones of Ponemah, where the 
aching heart would be at rest. 

One day in the harvest time, when the mead- 
ows waved with golden maize, Wonalansett 



led Mineola to his own wigwam, and there was 
joy among the people of the tribe. Then there 
was a feast upon the shore of the beautiful 
Winnepesaukee, and all the tribe was there. 
Adiwando, the old medicine man, was there with 
all the rest; and when the feast was over the 
smoke of the pipe went curling upward in fan- 
tastic rings. The beautiful waters of the lake 
spread out before them, and beyond rose like 
grim sentinels the immutable mountains. 

"Show us, Adiwando, the future of Wonal- 
ansett and Mineola and the fortunes of the 
Penacooks," said Chocorua. 

The old man bowed his head upon his breast 
and for some time was lost in meditation. 
Then he waved his hand over the waters and 

"Look upon the bosom of the water, my 
people, and read what the future holdeth in 

Every eye was turned quickly toward the 
lake. As they looked a white mist, as it were 
a great wall, arose out of the water and, stand- 
ing out like a shadowy curtain, obscured the 
land beyond. Slowly and indistinctly at first 



there appeared upon this background a vision 
which held spellbound every one. Upon the 
vapory curtain was seen a smiling land, where 
harvests rustled in the wind; peaceful villages 
with their graceful wigwams, and children at 
play; golden maize and grapes of wonderful 
size; peaceful rivers meandering through green 
meadows, and cool forests where wild roses 
grew among soft mosses. 

Then the scene changed. They saw a great 
mountain whose side sloped gently to its base. 
Upon one side, which was bathed in light, 
they saw two forms beginning the ascent. They 
were young and buoyant with life. As they 
gayly climbed the mountain, the sun rose higher 
in the east. On every hand wild flowers sprang 
up, and the heavens were without a cloud. 
As they moved up the slope, hand in hand, the 
sunlight fell upon them gently, while soft 
breezes played lovingly in their dark locks. 
Now they have reached the crest of the moun- 
tain, and the sun is in the zenith. Slowly, then, 
they go down on the other side. As they passed 
along one could see that the forms were getting 
feeble, the step weak, and that they leaned upon 



each other for support. The sun went gliding 
down the western sky, and the base of the moun- 
tain already lay in shadow. The last beams 
shone caressingly upon the two forms at the 
foot of the mountain, where a wide sea laved 
the coast with its sparkling tide. Far away 
its waters stretched beyond the reach of human 
vision, and lapped the boundless shores of 
Ponemah. Near the shore, lightly rocking up- 
on the waters, was fastened a canoe. Feebly 
the two embarked, and it went gliding away 
swiftly on the golden tide. Upon the two 
fading forms fell the last reflection of declining 
day, like a farewell word, until, passing out of 
sight, they neared the unseen shores beyond. 

Like a thin mist the vision melted away. 
The lake lay in silver beauty at the feet of the 
Penacooks, and the far-away hills glimmered 
peacefully in the distance. 

"Thus shall be the days of Wonalansett and 
Mineola, and peace shall dwell in the land of the 
young sachem," said Adiwando. 




For many days the tribe dwelt by the beau- 
tiful water, then journeyed to the dashing 
waterfalls and the fertile meadows of Amoskeag. 
Chill winds blew the dead leaves hither and 
thither, and white frosts nightly covered the 

It was a beautiful day in October. In her 
father's wigwam Rimmon sat with folded 
hands, and her eyes were fixed upon the far-off 
hills. Farther than the limit of the mountains 
bounding the horizon her vision penetrated 
that day. Farther than the sun-kissed sea, 
on the wings of thought she passed, and her 
eyes were wet with tears. As she gazed upon the 
forests from which the foliage had been scattered 
and upon the hills grown dry and brown, and 
as all the pain and bitterness of her aching heart 
came upon her, she wished that to such a land 
as Ponemah her steps might tend. Wearily 
she rose and went forth from the wigwam into 
the forest. All day the hunters had been roam- 
ing the woodlands in search of game, and now, 



as they returned, was heard the splash of 
paddles upon the river. 

Toward the golden sunset the steps of Rim- 
mon turned. She climbed the steep hill to the 
westward of the falls of Amoskeag. The last 
rays of the sun fell on the lofty crag on which 
she stood. Upon her face, which looked a 
carved image of the face of sorrow, the sunset 
hues cast a strange radiance. Long time she 
sat beside the lofty cliff, watching the red sky 
fade to gold, and then to cheerless gray. Thus 
she mused, had her own life been; every joy 
had faded, and only the sorrow remained. 

She stood now upon the topmost edge of the 
cliff, and she chanted the death song of her 
race. Her voice was clear and sweet as the 
song of a bird. Her eyes were filled with tears 
as she took a farewell look at the river, sky, and 

When she did not return they sought her 
everywhere. At last at the base of the hill they 
found her, and tenderly bore her to the wigwam 
of Chocorua. There was grief throughout the 
tribe, and Wonalansett and Mineola gazed 
at her form through their tears. The old 



chief willed that Rimmon should rest in the 
forest at Aquidaukenash, where Passaconaway 
slept, and where he, too, wished one day to 
lie. So it was that they returned to the Lake. 

Chocorua was now an old man. His sorrow 
made him doubly aged, and his form began to 
droop, and his step lost its vigor. The cold 
winds of winter chilled him, and he said to 
Adiwando that the sun of Chocorua was nearly 
set. And so one day the old chief folded his 
hands across his breast and fell asleep. 

Long years Wonalansett ruled his people 
wisely and well. In all these years the tribe 
prospered and grew strong. Brave sons and 
comely daughters had fallen to the lot of 
Wonalansett and Mineola, and their hearts 
were glad. Many winters had sifted their 
snows over the land since Passaconaway passed 
to the Happy Hunting Grounds, and Wona- 
lansett was now an old man whose form was 
bent, and his end seemed near. Mineola too 
was no longer young, as when in the days of 
long ago she had given her love to the young 
sachem by the sparkling waters of Winne- 
pesaukee. But through all these years their 



love had grown deeper and fuller, like the 
little stream which rises in far-off hills, growing 
as it flows on, until at last as a broad river it 
casts its wealth of waters into the wide sea. 

It was sunset at Aquidaukenash, and the two 
sat at the door of their wigwam, watching the 
golden west. They were weary, and as they 
gazed they were thinking of that scene called 
up by Adiwando at their marriage feast so 
long ago. 

They felt that they had reached the foot of the 
mountain of life. At their feet the wide ocean 
rolled its resistless tide, on which they would 
soon be borne away to the far-off Ponemah. 

The hills grew a darker purple, and the 
sighing pines made music in their ears like the 
notes of some celestial harmony. Hand in 
hand they listened, while the peaceful light of 
love and trust illumined their faces. 

In the whisper of the pines they heard 
another sound, the voice of the Great Spirit, 
and it called them softly to himself. The tired 
eyes closed and, locked fast in each other's 
arms they fell asleep, and their bark went 
gliding out to sea.