"Ugh, that's the name; Pah-dash-ka-anja we call it."

The waning of the moon brought new songsters, with many a
nightingale among them. A low bush near the plain was vocal
during the full moon with the sweet but disconnected music of the
yellow-breasted chat. The forest rang again and again with a
wild, torrential strain of music that seemed to come from the
stars. It sent peculiar thrill into Rolf's heart, and gave him a
lump his throat as he listened.

"What is that, Quonab?"

"The Indian shook his head. Then, later, when it ended, he said:
"That is the mystery song of some one I never saw him."

There was a long silence, then the lad began, "There's no good
hunting here now, Quonab. Why don't you go to the north woods,
where deer are plentiful?"

The Indian gave a short shake of his head, and then to prevent
further talk, "Put up your dew cloth; the sea wind blows
to-night."

He finished; both stood for a moment gazing into the fire. Then
Rolf felt something wet and cold thrust into his hand. It was
Skookum's nose. At last the little dog had made up his mind to
accept the white boy as a friend.