One of the greatest of pleasures to me

Whenever I happen to be near the sea,

Is clam digging to go upon the broad beach

And get all the clams that my shovel can reach.

Along Puget Sound I was clamming one day,

When a poor Indian squaw and child came my way.

The mother was digging up clams with her toes,

And was dressed very poorly in very few clothes.

But her face seemed so kind as she smiled at her child,

A wee Indian warrior, who seemed very wild.

He turned over stones and he ran to and fro

And drove out poor crabbies as their fiercest foe.

But at last he grew weary and to the squaw came,

While limping so slowly as if he were lame,

And crying, "Ho, mama, ho nika, ho til!"

That squaws are so cross I have read in a book,

But not so this mother, who gently did look

Upon her wee torment, while patting his head,

And "Cultus Mitlite," so sweetly she said.

This meant that the warrior might take a long rest,

The pleasure of pleasures that red men like best.