Years ago, on the banks of the White river, an old Indian story teller sat by the fire, telling his midnight tales. And he said: "My story winds as winds a river, sometimes on one side of the valley, and sometimes on the other side, and sometimes turning backward for a distance, then turning again to continue its journey onward to the Big Water." So, while these events, and the chronicles thereof, move steadily forward with the years, they will occasionally hark back to earlier dates.

No matter what the hour of the night, a story teller always has his audience huddled around the fire ; and his stories range from adventure full of action, to the wierd mythology of the tribe. Night is the time when all mankind is stirred by vagaries of the dark, and receptive brains absorb the stories heard or read.

This story teller assured us, there in the shadow of the pines, the glow of the campfire illumining his face, and not so brilliantly the faces of his listeners, that, when the moon was full, the evil spirits began to eat it, and they never ceased until it was entirely devoured. Then the Great Spirit knowing it was not well

to let evil spirits run about at all times of the night, and that they shunned the light as much as possible, began making a new moon. This he worked upon night after night until he had it complete. Hanging it in the sky, he went about his business, and then it would be again attacked and devoured by the evil ones.