Forthwith she made a vicious grab at his ebony locks, with the pointed remark,-- "Down with you, you stinking weed!" But Mitsha interfered.
"Mother," she said gently, "do not harm him.

He was defending his brother and me.

He is none of the others." "What!" the woman screamed, "was it you whom they were about to strike, these night-owls made of black corn?
You, my child?
Let me tell them again what they are," and she ran to the brink of the roof, raised handfuls of dust from it, and hurled them in the direction of the caves of the offenders.

She stamped, she spat; she raved, and heaped upon the heads of the Corn people, their ancestors, and their descendants, every invective the Queres language contains.

To those below this appeared decidedly entertaining; the men especially enjoyed the performance, but Mitsha felt sorry,--she disliked to see her mother display such frenzy and to hear her use such vulgar language.