"I suppose so," replied Thinbone, "but I think that a little patience will probably-ouch!"

Fleetpaw had come up from below and butted his flat head against Thinbone's haunches.

"Come now!" Fleetpaw cried. "What is all this deep discussion? Bristlejaw's going to tell a story, and here you sit like two fat eunuchs!"

Tailchaser and Thinbone bounced down after their friend. Felas were felas, but a story was nothing to sniff at!

The Folk squeezed closer around the Meeting Wall-an ocean of waving tails. Slowly, and with immense dignitv, Bnstlejaw mounted a crumbled section of the wall At the highest point he paused, and waited. He had seen some eleven or twelve summers, Bristlejaw was certainly no longer a young cat, but iron control was in all his movements. His tortoise-shell fur, once brilliant with patches of rust and black, had dulled somewhat with age, and the stiff fur jutting from around his muzzle had gone gray-white. His eyes were bright and clear, though, and could bring a sporting kitten to a halt from three jumps away.

Bristlejaw was an Oel-cir'va: a Master Old-singer, one of the keepers of the Lore of the Folk. All the history of the Folk was in their songs-passed on in the Higher Singing of the Elder Days from one generation to another as a sacred trust. Bristlejaw was the only Old-singer within some distance of the Meeting Wall, and his stories were as important to his Folk as water, or the freedom to run and jump as they pleased.

From his position atop the Wall he surveyed the cats below for a long time. The expectant murmur-ings quieted to soft purring. Some of the young cats-tremendously excited and unable to sit still- began frantically grooming themselves. Bristlejaw flicked his tail three times, and there was silence.

"We thank our Elders, who watch over us." he began. "We praise Meerclar, whose Eye lights our hunting. We salute our quarry for making the chase sweet."