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Pokračování textu ze strany 97
mother Grouse clucked hoarsely to her brood, there was no answer, for dead were they lying around her.
O Wabung! the Wind of the Morning, O Mudjeekeewis, the West Wind! Are ye dead?
O Master of Life! art thou sleeping?
Mes-cha-cha-gan-is! thou swiftest of runners, take word.
Pai-hung! thou trumpet-voiced herald away.
Chewusson! best loved of singers, proclaim to the Master our fearful condition.
But Mes-cha-cha-gan-is was lying as dead. Pai-hung was feeble, and Che-wusson silent as Pauguk. Only the Hot-weather Bug, the Cicada, was heard as he sang, as though glad of our torment, “B-z-z-z-z-z”.
And louder in glee he sang and thrilled ..text pokračuje
