that early age he stood half a head above any other member of the tribe and was built in proportion. It had been hinted on more than one occasion that he was to be their next leader. But, if he knew of it, he gave not the slightest evidence of the fact. He went about his affairs as stolidly as ever, indifferent to all but the urge of the water, the lure of the forest and those other things that rounded out the well-filled days of the annual period of recreation.

And now the time had arrived when that period must soon come to a close. But the sun was shining still, the wind blew and the birds shrieked in their revels overhead.

The men were dozing in their hammocks; the women had built fires over which to roast the turtle meat for the evening meal. And the children played in the sand.

A shout went up suddenly from one of the group.

“Here comes Oomah now.”

“Yes! We will run to meet Oomah,” another said. “See, he brings birds from the forest.”

They raced toward the oncoming figure still a few hundred yards away on the edge of the sandbank. Each wanted to be the first to reach his side and to hear from his lips the story of the afternoon’s hunt.

“Oh, look,” the leader said in wide-eyed wonder when they all came to a stop in front of the mighty hunter. “A gura and a chapla. Tell us, Oomah, how did you get them?”

“In the forest, high up in the trees,” the youth replied with a smile. “Now look at the birds and tell me what you see.”

A chorus of answers came instantly, for close observation of all things is part of the life training of the wild people.

“One has a short tail,” said one.

“The big one has a long tail,” said another.

“The feathers on its head are all curled and twisted,” added a third. “And they both have long necks and long legs.”

“Listen,” said Oomah, “and I will tell you why these things are true.”

He sat down in the sand and crossed his legs and the group of eager urchins dropped down in a semi-circle before him.

“In the very beginning of things, many, many changes of the season ago, the gura and the Chapla were just alike,” Oomah said impressively, holding up one hand for further emphasis. “They were married one day just as the rains were about to stop for good and the floods were going back into the rivers where they belonged. But, they were not happy. Before long they quarrelled. The gura,” holding up the trumpeter, which was like a turkey without a tail, for such it was, “was forever cackling and scolding and the chapla” pointing to the curassow, which resembled a turkey with a long tail, “resented this and answered in loud squawks. Then they began to fight. The chapla pushed the gura into the fire over which she was cooking and burned off her tail. In rage, the gura pushed her husband into the fire, scorching the feathers on his head so that they curled up. Now, Wallaha, god of the forest saw the fight and it made him angry. ‘For shame,’ he said, ‘fighting like that when you should be peaceful and happy. I will punish you. You will bear the marks of your disgrace with you forever.’ And that is why the gura has a short tail and the feathers on the head of the chapla are singed even to this day.”

A chorus of “Oh’s” escaped the cluster of eager listeners. “Tell us another story.”

“What do you want me to tell about?” Oomah asked indulgently.

“Tell us about the rivers.”

The youth was silent for a moment, as if lost in thought. Then he began.

“The little streams that come from the mountains so far away and rush through the forest are always talking, always babbling. They are never silent. Have you not noticed that?”

“Yes, and they are always in a hurry,” came the prompt reply. “What are they saying?”

“They are praying,'Father of Waters,' they are pleading, 'wait for us and take us into your arms and carry us away with you to the great sea where the land ends. We are small and cannot travel the distance alone; the hungry ground would drink us up or the wind would dry us up. But in your embrace we will safely reach our home.'”

“Tell us, Oomah,” one of the boys said in an awestruck tone, “are there still greater rivers than the Father of Waters we know?”

“The Father of Waters is but as a drop compared to the great sea into which it empties,” Oomah said wistfully. “It is so large that there is no other side. The fish in it are bigger than the tallest tree and when the wind blows the waves are high as mountains.”

“Oh, did you see these things Oomah,” the eager listeners asked.

“No,” came the reply, regretfully.

“Then, who did see them? Who told you of them?”

“Long, long ago the Cantanas were a powerful people. They built the largest canoes and travelled to the river’s end. They saw them. The story of their wandering came to me from my mother.”

“When we are men,” one of the boys said, “we will make a great canoe. Then you will take us to see the water that is so broad it has no other side.”

“No,” Oomah said sadly. “It is impossible, for since that day white men have come in countless numbers and settled along the borders of the Father of Waters. Little by little they are pushing up the river. Some day they will be even here.”

“Not so long as there is a Cantana alive,” the oldest of the youths replied. “We will fight them and drive them back.”

“I am glad to hear you say that and I would that I could be the leader against them. But, that too is not possible,” regretfully. “The white men are numerous as the stars in the heavens. They fight with sticks that roar like thunder and throw the lightning that kills instantly. Their boats vomit fire and smoke and are longer than from here to the water’s edge.”

“What terrible savages they must be,” one of the boys said breathlessly.

“Some day,” Oomah continued, a strange light brightening his face, “I will take you down the river to the border of the region where the white men live. We will travel at night and hide by day. From our places of concealment we will watch them but they shall not see us.”

“What would Choflo say?” one of the more timid ones asked.

“We will not ask Choflo,” another promptly replied. “He says too many things and always makes us do the things we hate to do.”

“You forget,” Oomah advised them, “that Choflo is leader of the tribe. So long as he lives he must be obeyed.”

This calmed the threatened insurrection. Oomah’s words had been calculated to uphold their respect for the one who was their leader and they had accomplished their purpose, so the subject was dismissed.

“Would you hear more?” the youth asked.

“Yes, yes,” came the response in a chorus of eager voices. “Tell us another story.”

“This, also have I not seen,” the storyteller continued, “nor do I hope ever to see it. But it has been known that at certain intervals of time a mysterious spirit appears in the forest—a huge black being, so powerful and so ferocious that every living thing shrinks from it in terror. Our sharpest arrows, shot from the most powerful bows do not harm it. It roars at night so that the sound of its voice may be heard a distance of a full day’s travel and it slays on sight but does not devour the men it kills.”

The hearers drew closer together. They were too