"Grandfather, I shall be careful," said the rabbit. With a stroke
he struck off a little flake of flint from the bear's body.

"Ni-sko-ke-cha? So big?" he asked.

"Harder, grandson; strike off bigger pieces," said the bear.

The rabbit struck a little harder.

"Ni-sko-ke-cha? So big?" he asked.

The bear grew impatient. "No, no, strike off bigger pieces. I
can't be here all day. Tanka kaksa wo! Break off a big piece."

The rabbit struck again--hard! "Ni-sko-ke-cha?" he cried, as the
hammer fell. But even as he spoke the bear's body broke in two,
the flesh part fell away and only the flint part remained. Like a
flash the rabbit darted out of the hut.

There was a great outcry in the village. Openmouthed, all the
bears gave chase. But as he ran the rabbit cried: "Wa-hin-han-yo
(snow, snow) Ota-po, Ota-po--lots more, lots more," and a great
storm of snow swept down from the sky.

The rabbit, light of foot, bounded over the top of the snow. The
bears sunk in and floundered about helpless. Seeing this, the
rabbit turned back and killed them one by one with his club. That
is why we now have so few bears.