MR. ROBERT CHAMBERS,

New York.

Dear sir:  I have not replied to your gracious letter, as I relied upon Dr. Morris to prove to you the authorship of the verses you used in your story of “The Hidden Children.”  I now inclose a letter from him, hoping that you will carry out his suggestion.  Is it asking too much for you to insert a footnote in the next magazine or in the story when it comes out in book form?  I think with Dr. Morris that this should be done as a “tribute to a patriotic citizen.”

Trusting that you will appreciate the interest we have shown in this matter, I am

Sincerely yours,

HelenDodge Kneeland.

May 21st, 1914.

Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Mrs. Frank G. Kneeland,

727 E. University Avenue.
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The long house

“Onenh jatthondek sewarih-wisa-anongh-kwe kaya-renh-kowah! 
Onenh wa-karigh-wa-kayon-ne. 
Onenh ne okne joska-wayendon. 
Yetsi-siwan-enyadanion ne
Sewari-wisa-anonqueh.”

  “Now listen, ye who established the Great League! 
   Now it has become old. 
   Now there is nothing but wilderness. 
   Ye are in your graves who established it.”

“At the Wood’s Edge.”
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  Nene Karenna

  When the West kindles red and low,
  Across the sunset’s sombre glow,
  The black crows fly—­ the black crows fly! 
  High pines are swaying to and fro
  In evil winds that blow and blow. 
  The stealthy dusk draws nigh—­ draws nigh,
  Till the sly sun at last goes down,
  And shadows fall on Catharines-town.

  Oswaya swaying to and fro.

  By the Dark Empire’s Western gate
  Eight stately, painted Sachems wait
  For Amochol—­ for Amochol! 
  Hazel and samphire consecrate
  The magic blaze that burns like Hate,
  While the deep witch-drums roll—­ and roll. 
  Sorceress, shake thy dark hair down! 
  The Red Priest comes from Catharines-town.

  Ha-ai!  Karenna!  Fate is Fate.

  Now let the Giants clothed in stone
  Stalk from Biskoonah; while, new grown,
  The Severed Heads fly high—­ fly high! 
  White-throat, White-throat, thy doom is known! 
  O Blazing Soul that soars alone
  Like a Swift Arrow to the sky,
  High winging—­ fling thy Wampum down,
  Lest the sky fall on Catharines-town.

White-throat, White-throat, thy course is flown.

R. W. C.
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CHAPTER I

The Bedford road

In the middle of the Bedford Road we three drew bridle.  Boyd lounged in his reeking saddle, gazing at the tavern and at what remained of the tavern sign, which seemed to have been a new one, yet now dangled mournfully by one hinge, shot to splinters.