To the northward, where great boulders
Lie in tumbled piles and masses,
And a Thousand Oaks are clustered,
And the crags upthrust their fingers
Through the meadows of the uplands,
Was another Indian village,
Ancient stronghold of the Tamals.

In the village on the hillside
Men were hunters, brave and fearless,
Skillful with the bow and arrow,
Artful with the snare and deadfall;
Hunting deer and elk and bison
In the open grassy meadows,
Tracking wolf and mountain lion
To their lairs among the redwoods;
Bearing on their backs the trophies
To their camp when night was falling.

In the village maids and matrons
Dressed the furs and tanned the buckskin,
Dried the venison, and traded
With the Shell Mound folks for salmon,
Mussels, clams and abalones,
Ornaments of bone or seashell,
Weapons chipped from flint or jasper.
From the oaks they gathered acorns,
And beneath the fragrant bay trees
And the heavy blooming buckeyes,