Page:Folk-lore - A Quarterly Review. Volume 24, 1913.djvu/527

 Collectanea. 489

the guests. The tears from my right eye will rain upon the face of my child, and the sound of their fall will be heard. Thou hadst no father, and I could not feed thee, my orphan, my little child. And now from the other world I hear thy voice. Thy father rejected thee, and I sought high and low for food wherewith to nourish my daughter. The burden was heavy, and now, even after death, I shall be parted from her. Wandering along the banks of the river to the villages high and low I gathered fragments into my dish, and with these I fed my daughter. I nourished her but to throw her to the water of the swamps." Thus will she sing of her daughter. My mothers ^ will ask news of me, and they will know that I am dead, and from the swamp they will hear my voice. Thou, my eldest sister, in my place wilt cherish the dog I reared with eyes of two colours, and tell my kindred of my death. And you, my fathers,-* keep the great cauldron that was paid for me at my marriage, for I know that my husband and his clan will try to take it back again after my death. Keep it. Do not give it to him. My dear sister, cast my big ear-rings in the place of my burial. I have nothing more that I wish to take with me. But yet, break in half the knife with which I cleaned the fish, and throw it into my grave. I will go away. I will get into my boat; but my knees are limp and they will not support me. I cannot stand in the prow of the boat. My slender willow-stem bends, and I cannot move the boat. Listen, my father, as I sing sitting in my boat. Thou wilt be sorry for me to-day when I shall die. Thou wilt see me no more. To-morrow I shall be dead. I unbind ray left plait and I sit and think. My needle sheath, my little knife, I will bind to the rope. My weeping will resound to the furthest mountains. I will raise my left hand to wipe my tears. Listen, dear mother, although I die sing to the young girls, and tell them and the little children about me. Tell my story to all the young. I dread the water of the swamps, and yet I think about it always, when I enter my hut and when I leave it. Life is so sad. My path is cut short. Far and wide on the lakes I shall wander, seeking the frogs for my food. From my steps will arise a sound like that of thunder. I shall catch frogs instead

^ The Gilyaks call " >Fothers " all ihe sisters of their mother. ■• " Fathers," the brothers of their father. 2 I