I do not know.

I am like my mother.

She was very wise, but she died after it." Now Quonab arose, cut some more hair from Skookum, added a pinch of tobacco, then, setting it ablaze, he sang in the rank odour of the burning weed and hair, his strongest song to kill ill magic; and Rolf, as he chuckled and sweetly sank to sleep, knew that the fight was won.
His friend would never, never more install Skookum in the high and sacred post of pot-licker, dishwasher, or final polisher..