The fathers in thought bowed their faces, And secretly prayed, in their hearts. The people who watched them, held breath, And covered their mouths with their robes. In dread of the powers of magic And in woe for the doom of their fathers. The gods, to the right and the left Took their stand by the side of the waters, As erst they had stood by the cloud-shield, Their weapons of magic between them, The plumes of the warriors placed duly In lines, to the eastward before them; The warriors made ready for travel, Apart from, but circling around them. Then the Twain gave the word of beginning! The master of words raised his song-staff, On its shoulder the plume-wand of man-folk; The drum-master lifted his sound-hoop, In its circle the symbol of thunder, On its handle, the red sign of lightning; Six times did they lift up in silence The song-staff and hoop of the drum, Then struck, with the might of their sinews. The sound shook the valley with thunder And above and below echoed thunder; The meal on the drum-head was lifted And danced as a rain-cloud around them. Then the water below moved and bubbled, And mists like a cold breath ascended; As wind in a vase the song sounded; Black cloud-steps rose up from the quarters And darkened the day with their shadows. When the first name was named by the singers, The world rocked with earthquake and thunder And the roar of swift storms in the northland. Hä‘hl´tunk‘ya, with dire eyes and staring-- Gleaming yellow as firelight in winter-- And teeth with rage gnashing, and yellow As shucks of the corn-plant grown aged-- Tumbled down from the north with his hail-balls, And, mingling with mud the deep water, In a voice like the sound of a torrent, Bellowed loud to the Twain and the singers: "Why call ye, small worms of the waters And spawn of the earth and four quarters, Ye disturbers of thought, lacking shame; Why call ye the words of my name?" "Thy feet stay with patience, grandfather; We are small, but we joy in thy fury, Whence we yearn for thy counsel and spirit; For we long to smite foes from the pathways As thou canst the trees from the highlands." "Being so, it is well," said the ancient. Lo! the seed-stuff of hail, bound with treasure, Gleamed with ice from the breath of his answer.