"Do you think some happenings will bring trouble later on--will
foretell evil?" he asked.

I made some evasive answer, which, however, seemed to satisfy him,
for he plunged into the strange tale of the recluse of the canyon
with more vigor than dreaminess; but first he asked me the question:

"What do your own tribes, those east of the great mountains, think
of twin children?"

I shook my head.

"That is enough," he said before I could reply. "I see, your
people do not like them."

"Twin children are almost unknown with us," I hastened. "They are
rare, very rare; but it is true we do not welcome them."

"Why?" he asked abruptly.

I was a little uncertain about telling him. If I said the wrong
thing, the coming tale might die on his lips before it was born
to speech, but we understood each other so well that I finally
ventured the truth:

"We Iroquois say that twin children are as rabbits," I explained.
"The nation always nicknames the parents. 'Tow-wan-da-na-ga.'
That is the Mohawk for rabbit."

"Is that all?" he asked curiously.