KILLOOLEET, LITTLE SWEET-VOICE.
[Illustration: Killooleet]
The day was cold, the woods were wet, and the weather was beastly
altogether when Killooleet first came and sang on my ridgepole. The
fishing was poor down in the big lake, and there were signs of
civilization here and there, in the shape of settlers' cabins, which
we did not like; so we had pushed up river, Simmo and I, thirty miles
in the rain, to a favorite camping ground on a smaller lake, where we
had the wilderness all to ourselves.
The rain was still falling, and the lake white-capped, and the forest
all misty and wind-blown when we ran our canoes ashore by the old
cedar that marked our landing place. First we built a big fire to
dry some boughs to sleep upon; then we built our houses, Simmo a
bark _commoosie_, and I a little tent; and I was inside, getting
dry clothes out of a rubber bag, when I heard a white-throated
sparrow calling cheerily his Indian name, _O hear, sweet
Killooleet-lillooleet-lillooleet!_ And the sound was so sunny, so good
to hear in the steady drip of rain on the roof, that I went out to see
the little fellow who had bid us welcome to the wilderness.
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