ry tales would be lost to
posterity by the passing of the primitive Indian.

The notes of a song or a strain of music coming to us through the night
not only give us pleasure by the melody they bring, but also give us
knowledge of the character of the singer or of the instrument from which
they proceed. There is something in the music which unerringly tells us
of its source. I believe musicians call it the "timbre" of the sound. It
is independent of, and different from, both pitch and rhythm; it is the
texture of the music itself.

The "timbre" of a people's stories tells of the qualities of that
people's heart. It is the texture of the thought, independent of its
form or fashioning, which tells the quality of the mind from which it
springs.

In the "timbre" of these stories of the Sioux, told in the lodges and
at the camp fires of the past, and by the firesides of the Dakotas of
today, we recognize the very texture of the thought of a simple, grave,
and sincere people, living in intimate contact and friendship with the
big out-of-doors that we call Nature; a race not yet understanding all
things, not proud and boastful, but honest and childlike and fair; a
simple, sincere, and gravely thoughtful people, willing to believe that
there may be in even the everyday things of life something not yet fully
understood; a race that can, without any loss of native dignity, gravely
consider the simplest things, seeking to fathom their meaning and to
learn their lesson--equally without vain-glorious boasting and trifling
cynicism; an earnest, thoughtful, dignified, but simple and primitive
people.

To the children of any race these stories can not fail to give pleasure
by their vivid imaging of the simple things and creatures of the great
out-of-doors and the epics of their doings. They will also give an
intimate insight into the mentality of an interesting race at a most
interesting stage of development, which is now fast receding into the
mists of the past.

MARIE L. McLAUGHLIN (Mrs. James McLaughlin).

McLaughlin, S. D., May 1, 1913.

THE FORGOTTEN EAR OF CORN

An Arikara woman was once gathering corn from the field to store away
for winter use. She passed from stalk to stalk, tearing off the ears and
dropping them into her folded robe. When all was gathered she started to
go, when she heard a faint voice, like a child's, weeping and calling:

"Oh, do not leave me! Do not go away without me."

The woman was