Ah, it was such a basket, fit
for an English princess to sleep in! Everything about it was fine,
soft, delicate, and everything born of her mother-love.
So, for weeks, for even months, the little Tenas Klootchman laughed
and smiled, waked and slept, dreamed and dimpled in her pretty
playhouse. Then one day, in the hot, dry summer, there was no
smile. The dimples did not play. The little flower paled, the small
face grew smaller, the tiny hands tinier; and one morning, when the
birds awoke in the forests of the Squamish, the eyes of the little
Tenas Klootchman remained closed.
They put her to sleep under the giant cedars, the lulling, singing
firs, the whispering pines that must now be her lullaby, instead of
her mother's voice crooning the child-songs of the Pacific, that
tell of baby foxes and gamboling baby wolves and bright-eyed baby
birds. Nothing remained to Maarda but an empty little cradle
basket, but smoothly-folded silken "blankets," but disused beaded
bands. Often at nightfall she would stand alone, and watch the sun
dip into the far waters, leaving the world as gray and colorless
as her own life; she would outstretch her arms--pitifully empty
arms--towards the west, and beneath her voice again croon the
lullabies of the Pacific, telling of the baby foxes, the soft,
furry baby wolves, and the little downy fledglings in the nests.
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