“Nonsense,” replied Koane, “there is so much milk in Koumongoé that he will never miss a little. If you won’t give it to me, I sha’n’t take the cattle out. They will just have to stay all day in the hut, and you know that they will starve.” And he turned from her in a rage, and sat down in the corner. After a while Thakane said to him: “It is getting hot, had you better drive out the cattle now?” But Koane only answered sulkily: “I told you I am not going to drive them out at all. If I have to do without milk, they shall do without grass.” Thakane did not know what to do. She was afraid to disobey her parents, who would most likely beat her, yet the beasts would be sure to suffer if they were kept in, and she would perhaps be beaten for that too. So at last she took an axe and a tiny earthen bowl, she cut a very small hole in the side of Koumongoé, and out gushed enough milk to fill the bowl. “Here is the milk you wanted,” said she, going up to Koane, who was still sulking in his corner. “What is the use of that?” grumbled Koane; “why, there is not enough to drown a fly. Go and get me three times as much!” Trembling with fright, Thakane returned to the tree, and struck it a sharp blow with the axe. In an instant there poured forth such a stream of milk that it ran like a river into the hut. “Koane! Koane!” cried she, “come and help me to plug up the hole. There will be no milk left for our father and mother.” But Koane could not stop it any more than Thakane, and soon the milk was flowing through the hut downhill towards their parents in the fields below. The man saw a white stream a long way off, and guessed what had happened. “Wife, wife,” he called loudly to the woman, who was working at a little distance: “Do you see Koumongoé running fast down the hill? That is some mischief of the children’s, I am sure. I must go home and find out what is the matter.” And they both threw down their hoes and hurried to the side of Koumongoé. Kneeling on the grass, the man and his wife made a cup of their hands and drank the milk from it. And no sooner had they done this, than Koumongoé flowed back again up the hill, and entered the hut. “Thakane,” said the parents, severely, when they reached home panting from the heat of the sun, “what have you been doing? Why did Koumongoé come to us in the fields instead of staying in the garden?” “It was Koane’s fault,” answered Thakane. “He would not take the cattle to feed until he drank some of the milk from Koumongoé. So, as I did not know what else to do, I gave it to him.” The father listened to Thakane’s words, but made no answer. Instead, he went outside and brought in two sheepskins, which he stained red and sent for a blacksmith to forge some iron rings. The rings were then passed over Thakane’s arms and legs and neck, and the skins fastened on her before and behind. When all was ready, the man sent for his servants and said: “I am going to get rid of Thakane.”