Long ago a family of doves made their home and nesting place on a level bench of land, about half a mile up from the Pec-wan village on the north-east side. On this bench-like piece of land on the hill side stood a very large live oak tree and close by the vicinity of this tree is a small spring of water which gushes forth, the rest of the flat being covered with grasses. In a little sheltered cove of this flat the Doves would make their nests and rear their families. When the baby doves grew strong and large enough to fly they would all fly up into the live oak tree. There they would hide among the branches when danger was near and all the families would roost among the branches of the trees every night. At this time there was a handsome young male Dove who announced his intentions of taking a trip up the river to Weitchpec, and while visiting among friends went with shiftless companions who taught him how to play Indian cards, which are made of small sticks and called pair-cauk, and the game wah-choo. The game became so fascinating that he spent the remainder of his time gambling and did not realize that he had left a sick grandmother at home and that she wished him to come back home at once. He was so deeply interested in the game that he did not take any heed of the message and continued to play cards. Later he received a message that his Grandmother was dead, but in the revelry of the game it seemed to him but folly and played on, not heeding the words of the messenger who kept repeating the words that his grandmother was dead until he succeeded in diverting the attention of the youthful gambler. The young gambler looked up sadly from his cards and said, “I will now shuffle the cards again and again, yes, shuffle them again and again. My grandmother is dead, and to let the world know that I mourn her loss deeply, I will coo among the lonesome bushes the mournful coo of a broken heart, the piteous coo of a grief that knows no ending while I live.” The beautiful moral of this story is to teach and impress upon the minds of the children that they should not drift into shiftless ways, neglecting to respect and cherish their grandmothers and to love them as dearly as their own mothers and even more in respect to old age. Indian mothers repeat the story to their children and mourn as the doves, by repeating the words: Wee-poo-poo, wee-poo-poo-poo-poo, whee-whee-whee-poo-poo. Thus illustrating that they might become very sad and mournful by not being kind and thoughtful to the aged, and making their sunset years bright and cheerful. I could give enough of these Fairy Stories to make a book. All classes of my people, can on meeting his white brother sit down and tell him these Fairy tales, as a part of our religion, with a twinkle in his eye, and let him pass on. Some of our fairy stories are partly founded on truth and then carried off into an imaginary sense, so as to make them long. THE END.