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Strong, and she smiled in assent and sang the quaint, crooning lullaby of her Esquimo mother "The wind blows over the Yukon. My husband hunts the deer on the Koyukun Mountains, Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, wake not. Long since my husband departed. Why does he wait in the mountains? Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, softly. Where is my own? Does he lie starving on the hillside? Why does he linger?
"Him bird him button," replied the imperturbable one. "Seeing Kaviak's feather reminded me of a native cradle-song that's a kind of a story, too. It's been roughly translated." "Can you say it?" "I used to know how it went." He began in a deep voice: "'The wind blows over the Yukon. My husband hunts deer on the Koyukun mountains. Ahmi, ahmi, sleep, little one.
The Boy began to feel that, if he did finally say something it would be as surprising as to hear an aged monkey break into articulate speech. Nicholas edged towards the Shamán, presenting something in a birch-bark dish. "What's that?" "A deer's tongue," whispered Muckluck. The Boy remembered the Koyukun song, "Thanks for a good meal to Kuskokala, the Shamán."
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