When they had gone, leaving the poor Camel half killed, the little Jackal came dancing back from somewhere or other.

“I think it’s time to go home, now,” he said; “don’t you?”

“Well, you are a pretty friend!” said the Camel.  “The idea of your making such a noise, with your shouting and singing!  You brought this upon me.  What in the world made you do it?  Why did you shout and sing?”

“Oh, I don’t know why,” said the little Jackal,—­“I always sing after dinner!”

“So?” said the Camel, “Ah, very well, let us go home now.”

He took the little Jackal kindly on his back and started into the water.  When he began to swim he swam out to where the river was the very deepest.  There he stopped, and said,—­

“Oh, Jackal!”

“Yes,” said the little Jackal.

“I have the strangest feeling,” said the Camel,—­“I feel as if I must roll over.”

“`Roll over’!” cried the Jackal.  “My goodness, don’t do that!  If you do that, you’ll drown me!  What in the world makes you want to do such a crazy thing?  Why should you want to roll over?”

“Oh, I don’t know why,” said the Camel slowly, “but I always roll over after dinner!”

So he rolled over.

And the little Jackal was drowned, for
his sins, but the Camel came safely home.

THE GULLS OF SALT LAKE

The story I am going to tell you is about something that really happened, many years ago, when most of the mothers and fathers of the children here were not born, themselves.  At that time, nearly all the people in the United States lived between the Atlantic Ocean and the Mississippi River.  Beyond were plains, reaching to the foot of the mighty Rocky Mountains, where Indians and wild beasts roamed.  The only white men there were a few hunters and trappers.

One year a brave little company of people traveled across the plains in big covered wagons with many horses, and finally succeeded in climbing to the top of the great Rockies and down again into a valley in the very midst of the mountains.  It was a valley of brown, bare, desert soil, in a climate where almost no rain falls; but the snows on the mountain-tops sent down little streams of pure water, the winds were gentle, and lying like a blue jewel at the foot of the western hills was a marvelous lake of salt water,—­an inland sea.  So the pioneers settled there and built them huts and cabins for the first winter.

It had taken them many months to make the terrible journey; many had died of weariness and illness on the way; many died of hardship during the winter; and the provisions they had brought in their wagons were so nearly gone that, by spring, they were living partly on roots, dug from the ground.  All their lives now depended on the crops of grain and vegetables which they could raise in the valley.  They made the barren land good by spreading water from the little streams over it,—­what we call “irrigating;” and they planted enough corn and grain and vegetables for all the people.  Every one helped, and every one watched for the sprouting, with hopes, and prayers, and careful eyes.