All were dressed for hunting; all looked toward the new father. He gripped his best bone-headed spear, its butt grounded against the frozen earth. His deep voice obscured the crackling of the fire, carrying his proud complaints through the leather walls of the tent. 'No doubt that useless woman of mine has birthed a puny, whimpering babe no bigger than a squirrel. Such is my luck. She is too young and foolish to bear a child.'

'Foolish man!' chided one of the passing women daringly. Her voice carried clearly through the cold night, meant to be overheard by all. 'Your firstborn is so large a child, doubtless your wife will have all she can do to pack him about and tend him, let alone see to your needs!' The laughter of the other women of Benu's band swept the night.

'He will fill her arms and bend her back,' crowed another.

'To sew a shirt for such a babe will be the work of a day and a night, while you, poor man, will go naked in the wind, and spend every moment hunting meat enough to fill him!'

'Bold ones!' chided one of the men. 'Dare you speak to a man so? Get back to your own fire!'

But the shouts of laughter that greeted her daring compliment belied the rebuking words. Such tribute made the young father flush even darker with pride. Meanwhile the rejoicing women were cooking delicacies for him, fresh tender tongues and fat ribs simmering in their own rich broth. The tempting odors penetrated the tent, making Tillu aware of her own hunger. She did not need to peer out to know what went on. The young man basked in the honor due one whose wife had just increased the strength of the hunting band. The men of Benu's folk paid their silent respects with the items they dropped unmentioned at the young father's feet. Sinews for bowstrings and bone arrowheads; fit gifts for a firstborn son.