Thoughtless and loud, uncouth in speech, he
walked along the outskirts of the village. He joked fearlessly even of
fearful things, for all his words and deeds were the reverse of his
sacred being. He sat down on a heap of vile refuse, saying he would have
a feast.
"My poor little children," he said. But he spoke to aged priests and
white-haired matrons.
"Good-night to you all," he said, though it was in full dawning. So he
perplexed them with his speeches.
"We beseech thy favor, oh father, and thy aid, in finding our beautiful
Maidens." So the priests mourned.
"Oh, that is all, is it? But why find that which is not lost, or summon
those who will not come?"
Then he reproached them for not preparing the sacred plumes, and picked
up the very plumes he had said were not there.
Then the wise Pekwinna, the Speaker of the Sun, took two plumes and the
banded wing-tips of the turkey, and approaching Paiyatuma stroked him
with the tips of the feathers and then laid the feathers upon his lips.
. . .
Then Paiyatuma became aged and grand and straight, as is a tall tree
shorn by lightning. He said to the father:
"Thou are wise of thought and good of heart. Therefore I will summon
from Summer-land the beautiful Maidens that ye may look upon them once
more and make offering of plumes in sacrifice for them, but they are
lost as dwellers amongst ye."
Then he told them of the song lines and the sacred speeches and of the
offering of the sacred plume wands, and then turned him about and sped
away so fleetly that none saw him.
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