the Boulka, the tribe moved their camp to where, on the far side were more trees for shelter and firewood, for the winter was at hand.
Before the winter had gone a son was born to Wimbakobolo and Purleemil, and seeing what a big baby he was, the tribe laughingly called him "The Little Chief," and brought him offerings of toy boomerangs, throwing sticks and such things until the eyes of his mother shone with pride, and the father already began to make him weapons to be used one day against the enemies of the tribe who had sheltered them.
And Purleemil sang new songs, which she said the spirits taught her, about her little son, whom she said was to live for ever, the most beautiful thing on the plains of the back country.
Purleemil would sing her songs, and her baby would crow and laugh, and the father would say little, but bear so proud a look on his face as he glanced, from his carving of weapons with an opossum's tooth, from time to time at his wife and child, that all would smile to see his happy pride, and their hearts were glad that the elders had not given up Purleemil to be the bride of Tirlta, the wife-slayer.
The winter passed away, and with the coming of the summer all made ready to return to their hunting ground where the fugitives had first come to them.
But Purleemil sang no longer. The spirits she said told her that misfortune was at hand.
"Let us stay in the winter camp," she said to her husband, "where we have been so happy. I fear we shall lose our Little Chief if we go. Let us stay, my husband."
