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The boy who had walked into our hearts to stay was a fugitive with only a small chance to live that he might prove he was not a criminal. The evening household dinner remained untouched. The servants hung about the doors, eager to be of service, refusing to believe the sick man was anything but a prince of whom the gods were jealous. Only old Ishi was happy.
Now the word Ishi means my husband; while the word Baali means my Lord, and the language, therefore, points to an experience or a relation of marriage. The bride is exalted immeasurably above the servant.
I assist honorable gods celebrate downfall of 'Merca and women." Having locked up the gates and Ishi, I went back to the living-room, where I found Jane and Zura. Zura was called from the room by some household duty. Jane and I were left alone. Though my companion looked tired and a little anxious, she seemed buoyed up by some mental vision to which she hopefully clung.
To avoid this and make a silent shot, the Indian bound his bow at the nocks with weasel fur; this effectually damped the vibration of the string, while the passage of the arrow across the bow, which gives the slight crack, is abolished by a heavy padding of buckskin at this point. Ishi never wore an arm guard or glove or finger stalls to protect himself as other archers do.
I learned the call myself, not perfectly, but well enough to bring squirrels down from the topmost branches of tall pines, to have foxes and lynx approach me, and to get rabbits. Not only could Ishi call the animals, but he understood their language. Often when we have been hunting he has stopped and said, "The squirrel is scolding a fox." At first I said to him, "I don't believe you."
Ishi often referred to one old Indian, named Chu no wa yahi, who lived at the base of a great cliff with his crazy wife. This man owned an ax, and thus was famous for his possessions as well as his skill as a maker of bows. From a distant mountain crest one day Ishi pointed out to me the camp of this Indian who was long since dead.
Because he is such a commanding figure in the history of our craft, I think it proper to quote from one of his letters: "MY DEAR DR. POPE: "The Sunset Magazine containing your charming account of Ishi and your hunting adventures, and the bunch of photographs of the transfixed deer, quail, and rabbits came duly, and are mine, now, tomorrow, and for life.
It was the custom for every member of my household to assemble in the living-room after supper for evening prayer. Jane and I, the cook, and the two little maids were there because we found comfort and joy. Old Ishi, the gardener, attended because he hoped to discover the witch that made the music inside the baby organ.
This he repeated with heartrending appeals until suddenly one or two or sometimes three rabbits appeared in the opening. They came from distances of a hundred yards or more, hopped forward, stopped and listened, hopped again, listened, and ultimately came within ten or fifteen yards while Ishi dragged out his squeak in a most pathetic manner. Then he would shoot.
"Ishi, if it weren't for hurting the feelings of the august pig I would say you were it. Stand aside and let me cut those roses. There's a thousand of them, if there's one." The protest came high and shrill. "Decapitate heads! You sha'n't not! All of ones convey soul of great ancestors."
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