Ground the acorns into flour
To be baked upon the hot-stones.

To this day the smoke of campfires
May be traced in caves, and crannies
Where the overhanging cliffsides
Gives protection from the rainstorms.
If you search among the thickets
Of the low widespreading buckeyes
You will find their ancient mortars
In the bedrock still remaining -
Mortar holes ground deep, and polished
By the toil of many women
Pounding, grinding with a pestle
Fashioned from a stream-worn boulder.

Gone are all those ancient people,
Perished now for many ages.
Many oaks have grown and withered,
Many buckeyes bloomed and faded,
Many tribes have fought and conquered,
Lived for many generations,
Then were driven out by others.
Still the mortar holes will linger
As our monuments forever."

Fainter grew the voice, still fainter,
Sinking almost to a whisper,
With a hesitating quaver,
As the picture came before her