extended west from the Sacramento River to the mountain tops, was
consummated.

"An incredible price," said Mr. Crockett.

"Incredibly cheap," said Dick. "You ought to see my soil reports. You
ought to see my water-reports. And you ought to hear me sing. Listen,
guardians, to a song that is a true song. I am the singer and the
song."

Whereupon, in the queer quavering falsetto that is the sense of song
to the North American Indian, the Eskimo, and the Mongol, Dick sang:

"Hu'-tim yo'-kim koi-o-di'!
Wi'-hi yan'-ning koi-o-di'!
Lo'-whi yan'-ning koi-o-di'!
Yo-ho' Nai-ni', hal-u'-dom yo nai, yo-ho' nai-nim'!"

"The music is my own," he murmured apologetically, "the way I think it
ought to have sounded. You see, no man lives who ever heard it sung.
The Nishinam got it from the Maidu, who got it from the Konkau, who
made it. But the Nishinam and the Maidu and the Konkau are gone. Their
last rancheria is not. You plowed it under, Mr. Crockett, with you
bonanza gang-plowing, plow-soling farming. And I got the song from a
certain ethnological report, volume three, of the United States
Pacific Coast Geographical and Geological Survey. Red Cloud, who was
formed out of the sky, first sang this song to the stars and the
mountain flowers in the morning of the world. I shall now sing it for
you in English."