"Hoolool, I _did_ dream last night," he told her one early April day,
when he awoke dewy-eyed and bird-like from a long night's rest. "But it
was not of the bands of grey geese; it was of our great Totem Pole."
"Did it speak to you in your dreams, little April Eyes?" she asked,
playfully.
"No-o," he hesitated, "it did not really _speak_, but it showed me
something strange. Do you think it will come true, Hoolool?" His
dark, questioning eyes were pathetic in appeal. He _did_ want it to
come true.
"Tell your Hoolool," she replied indulgently, "and perhaps she can
decide if the dream will come true."
"You know how I longed to dream of the great flocks of young geese
flying southward in September," he said, longingly, his little thin
elbows propped each on one of her knees, his small, dark chin in his
hands, his wonderful eyes shadowy with the fairy dreams of childhood.
"But the flocks I saw were not flying grey geese, that make such fat
eating, but around the foot of our Totem Pole I saw flocks and flocks of
little tenas Totem Poles, hundreds of them.
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