them the Master asked humbly how they expected to kill him. And the
Toad answered savagely, "What is that to thee, and what hast thou to do
with this thing?" "Truly," he replied, "I meant no harm," and saying
this he softly touched the tips of their noses, and rising went his
way. But the two, witches, looking one at the other, saw presently that
their noses were both gone, and they screamed aloud in terror, but
their faces were none the less flat. And so it came that the Toad and
the Porcupine both lost their noses and have none to this day.

Glooskap had two dogs. One was the Loon (Kwemoo), the other the Wolf
(Malsum). Of old all animals were as men; the Master gave them the
shapes which they now bear. But the Wolf and the Loon loved Glooskap so
greatly that since he left them they howl and wail. He who hears their
cries over the still sound and lonely lake, by the streams where no
dwellers are, or afar at night in the forests and hollows, hears them
sorrowing for the Master.

I am indebted for this legend to Mr. Edward Jack, of Fredericton, N. B.
"I give it to you," he writes, "just as it came from an Indian's lips,
as he sat before the fire in my room this evening, smoking his tobacco
mixed with willow bark. He has an endless store of Indian lore." It may
be observed that this story gives a far more ingenious reason for
Glooskap's telling his brother what would be his bane than appears in
the other version. For he tells him what would indeed deprive him of
life, but not forever.

No one can compare the story of Glooskap with that of Manobozho-Hiawatha
and the like, as given by Schoolcraft or Cusick, and not decide that the
latter seems to be a second-hand version of the former. In one we have
the _root_ of the bulrush,--not the light, feathery rush itself. In