LEGENDS OF VANCOUVER

By E. Pauline Johnson(Tekahionwake)

PREFACE

I have been asked to write a preface to these Legends of Vancouver, which, in conjunction with the members of the PublicationSub-committee--Mrs. Lefevre, Mr. L. W. Makovski and Mr. R. W. Douglas--I have helped to put through the press. But scarcely anyprefatory remarks are necessary. This book may well stand on itsown merits. Still, it may be permissible to record one's gladsatisfaction that a poet has arisen to cast over the shoulders ofour grey mountains, our trail-threaded forests, our tide-sweptwaters, and the streets and sky-scrapers of our hurrying city, agracious mantle of romance. Pauline Johnson has linked the vividpresent with the immemorial past. Vancouver takes on a new aspectas we view it through her eyes. In the imaginative power that shehas brought to these semi-historical sagas, and in the liquid flowof her rhythmical prose, she has shown herself to be a literaryworker of whom we may well be proud: she has made a most estimablecontribution to purely Canadian literature. 

 BERNARD McEVOY

AUTHOR'S FOREWORD

These legends (with two or three exceptions) were told to mepersonally by my honored friend, the late Chief Joe Capilano, ofVancouver, whom I had the privilege of first meeting in London in1906, when he visited England and was received at Buckingham Palaceby their Majesties King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra. 

To the fact that I was able to greet Chief Capilano in the Chinooktongue, while we were both many thousands of miles from home, Iowe the friendship and the confidence which he so freely gave mewhen I came to reside on the Pacific coast. These legends hetold me from time to time, just as the mood possessed him, and hefrequently remarked that they had never been revealed to any otherEnglish-speaking person save myself. 

 E. PAULINE JOHNSON (Tekahionwake)

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE

E. Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake) is the youngest child of a familyof four born to the late G. H. M. Johnson (Onwanonsyshon), HeadChief of the Six Nations Indians, and his wife Emily S. Howells. The latter was of English parentage, her birthplace being Bristol, but the land of her adoption Canada. 

Chief Johnson was of the renowned Mohawk tribe, being a scion ofone of the fifty noble families which composed the historicalconfederation founded by Hiawatha upwards of four hundred years ago, and known at that period as the Brotherhood of the Five Nations, but which was afterwards named the Iroquois by the early Frenchmissionaries and explorers. For their loyalty to the British Crownthey were granted the magnificent lands bordering the Grand River, in the County of Brant, Ontario, on which the tribes still live. 

It was upon this Reserve, on her father's estate, "Chiefswood, " thatPauline Johnson was born. The loyalty of her ancestors breathes inher prose, as well as in her poetic writings. 

Her education was neither extensive nor elaborate. It embracedneither high school nor college. A nursery governess for two yearsat home, three years at an Indian day school half a mile from herhome, and two years in the Central School of the city of Brantford, was the extent of her educational training. But, besides this, sheacquired a wide general knowledge, having been through childhood andearly girlhood a great reader, especially of poetry. Before she wastwelve years old she had read Scott, Longfellow, Byron, Shakespeare, and such books as Addison's "Spectator, " Foster's Essays and OwenMeredith's writings. 

The first periodicals to accept her poems and place them before thepublic were "Gems of Poetry, " a small magazine published in NewYork, and "The Week, " established by the late Prof. Goldwin Smith, of Toronto, the New York "Independent" and Toronto "Saturday Night. "Since then she has contributed to most of the high-grade magazines, both on this continent and England. 

Her writings having brought her into notice, the next step in MissJohnson's career was her appearance on the public platform as areciter of her own poems. For this she had natural talent, and inthe exercise of it she soon developed a marked ability, joined witha personal magnetism, that was destined to make her a favorite withaudiences from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Her friend, Mr. FrankYeigh, of Toronto, provided for a series of recitals having thatscope, with the object of enabling her to go to England to arrangefor the publication of her poems. Within two years this aim wasaccomplished, her book of poems, "The White Wampum, " being publishedby John Lane, of the Bodley Head. She took with her numerousletters of introduction, including one from the Governor-General, the Earl of Aberdeen, and she soon gained both social and literarystanding. Her book was received with much favor, both by reviewersand the public. After giving many recitals in fashionabledrawing-rooms, she returned to Canada, and made her first tour tothe Pacific Coast, giving recitals at all the cities and towns enroute. Since then she has crossed the Rocky Mountains no fewerthan nineteen times. 

Miss Johnson's pen had not been idle, and in 1903 the GeorgeMorang Co. , of Toronto, published her second book of poems, entitled "Canadian Born, " which was also well received. 

After a number of recitals, which included Newfoundland and theMaritime Provinces, she went to England again in 1906 and made herfirst appearance in Steinway Hall, under the distinguished patronageof Lord and Lady Strathcona. In the following year she againvisited London, returning by way of the United States, where shegave many recitals. After another tour of Canada she decided togive up public work, to make Vancouver, B. C. , her home, and todevote herself to literary work. 

Only a woman of remarkable powers of endurance could have borne upunder the hardships necessarily encountered in travelling throughNorth-western Canada in pioneer days as Miss Johnson did; andshortly after settling down in Vancouver the exposure and hardshipshe had endured began to tell on her, and her health completelybroke down. For almost a year she has been an invalid, and as sheis unable to attend to the business herself, a trust has been formedby some of the leading citizens of her adopted city for the purposeof collecting and publishing for her benefit her later works. Amongthese are the beautiful Indian Legends contained in this volume, which she has been at great pains to collect, and a series of boys'stories, which have been exceedingly well received by magazinereaders. 

During the sixteen years Miss Johnson was travelling, she hadmany varied and interesting experiences. She travelled the oldBattleford trail before the railroad went through, and across theBoundary country in British Columbia in the romantic days of theearly pioneers. Once she took an eight hundred and fifty miledrive up the Cariboo trail to the gold fields. She has always beenan ardent canoeist, and has run many strange rivers, crossed manya lonely lake, and camped in many an unfrequented place. Theseventuresome trips she made more from her inherent love of Natureand adventure than from any necessity of her profession. 

CONTENTS

 Preface Author's Foreword Biographical Notice The Two Sisters The Siwash Rock The Recluse The Lost Salmon-run The Deep Waters The Sea-Serpent The Lost Island Point Grey The Tulameen Trail The Grey Archway Deadman's Island A Squamish Legend of Napoleon The Lure in Stanley Park Deer Lake A Royal Mohawk Chief

THE TWO SISTERS-----THE LIONS

You can see them as you look towards the north and the west, wherethe dream-hills swim into the sky amid their ever-drifting cloudsof pearl and grey. They catch the earliest hint of sunrise, theyhold the last color of sunset. Twin mountains they are, liftingtheir twin peaks above the fairest city in all Canada, and knownthroughout the British Empire as "The Lions of Vancouver. "

Sometimes the smoke of forest fires blurs them until they gleam likeopals in a purple atmosphere, too beautiful for words to paint. Sometimes the slanting rains festoon scarfs of mist about theircrests, and the peaks fade into shadowy outlines, melting, melting, forever melting into the distances. But for most days in the yearthe sun circles the twin glories with a sweep of gold. The moonwashes them with a torrent of silver. Oftentimes, when the city isshrouded in rain, the sun yellows their snows to a deep orange; butthrough sun and shadow they stand immovable, smiling westward abovethe waters of the restless Pacific, eastward above the superb beautyof the Capilano Canyon. But the Indian tribes do not know thesepeaks as "The Lions. " Even the chief, whose feet have so recentlywandered to the Happy Hunting Grounds, never heard the name giventhem until I mentioned it to him one dreamy August day, as togetherwe followed the trail leading to the canyon. He seemed so surprisedat the name that I mentioned the reason it had been applied to them, asking him if he recalled the Landseer Lions in Trafalgar Square. Yes, he remembered those splendid sculptures, and his quick eye sawthe resemblance instantly. It appeared to please him, and his fineface expressed the haunting memories of the far-away roar of OldLondon. But the "call of the blood" was stronger, and presently hereferred to the Indian legend of those peaks--a legend that I havereason to believe is absolutely unknown to thousands of Palefaceswho look upon "The Lions" daily, without the love for them that isin the Indian heart, without knowledge of the secret of "The TwoSisters. " The legend was intensely fascinating as it left his lipsin the quaint broken English that is never so dulcet as when itslips from an Indian tongue. His inimitable gestures, strong, graceful, comprehensive, were like a perfectly chosen frameembracing a delicate painting, and his brooding eyes were as thelight in which the picture hung. "Many thousands of years ago, "he began, "there were no twin peaks like sentinels guarding theoutposts of this sunset coast. They were placed there long afterthe first creation, when the Sagalie Tyee moulded the mountains, and patterned the mighty rivers where the salmon run, becauseof His love for His Indian children, and His wisdom for theirnecessities. In those times there were many and mighty Indiantribes along the Pacific--in the mountain ranges, at the shoresand sources of the great Fraser River. Indian law ruled the land. Indian customs prevailed. Indian beliefs were regarded. Thosewere the legend-making ages when great things occurred to make thetraditions we repeat to our children to-day. Perhaps the greatestof these traditions is the story of 'The Two Sisters, ' for theyare known to us as 'The Chief's Daughters, ' and to them we owe theGreat Peace in which we live, and have lived for many countlessmoons. There is an ancient custom amongst the coast tribes that, when our daughters step from childhood into the great world ofwomanhood, the occasion must be made one of extreme rejoicing. The being who possesses the possibility of some day mothering aman-child, a warrior, a brave, receives much consideration in mostnations; but to us, the Sunset tribes, she is honored above allpeople. The parents usually give a great potlatch, and a feastthat lasts many days. The entire tribe and the surrounding tribesare bidden to this festival. More than that, sometimes when agreat Tyee celebrates for his daughter, the tribes from far up thecoast, from the distant north, from inland, from the island, fromthe Cariboo country, are gathered as guests to the feast. Duringthese days of rejoicing the girl is placed in a high seat, anexalted position, for is she not marriageable? And does notmarriage mean motherhood? And does not motherhood mean a vasternation of brave sons and of gentle daughters, who, in their turn, will give us sons and daughters of their own?

"But it was many thousands of years ago that a great Tyee had twodaughters that grew to womanhood at the same springtime, when thefirst great run of salmon thronged the rivers, and the ollalliebushes were heavy with blossoms. These two daughters were young, lovable, and oh! very beautiful. Their father, the great Tyee, prepared to make a feast such as the Coast had never seen. Therewere to be days and days of rejoicing, the people were to come formany leagues, were to bring gifts to the girls and to receive giftsof great value from the chief, and hospitality was to reign as longas pleasuring feet could dance, and enjoying lips could laugh, andmouths partake of the excellence of the chief's fish, game, andollallies. 

"The only shadow on the joy of it all was war, for the tribe of thegreat Tyee was at war with the Upper Coast Indians, those who livednorth, near what is named by the Paleface as the port of PrinceRupert. Giant war-canoes slipped along the entire coast, warparties paddled up and down, war-songs broke the silences of thenights, hatred, vengeance, strife, horror festered everywhere likesores on the surface of the earth. But the great Tyee, afterwarring for weeks, turned and laughed at the battle and thebloodshed, for he had been victor in every encounter, and he couldwell afford to leave the strife for a brief week and feast in hisdaughters' honor, nor permit any mere enemy to come between him andthe traditions of his race and household. So he turned insultinglydeaf ears to their war-cries; he ignored with arrogant indifferencetheir paddle-dips that encroached within his own coast waters, andhe prepared, as a great Tyee should, to royally entertain histribesmen in honor of his daughters. 

"But seven suns before the great feast these two maidens came beforehim, hand clasped in hand. 

"'Oh! our father, ' they said, 'may we speak?'

"'Speak, my daughters, my girls with the eyes of April, the heartsof June'" (early spring and early summer would be the more accurateIndian phrasing). 

"'Some day, oh! our father, we may mother a man-child, who may growto be just such a powerful Tyee as you are, and for this honor thatmay some day be ours we have come to crave a favor of you--you, Oh!our father. '

"'It is your privilege at this celebration to receive any favor yourhearts may wish, ' he replied graciously, placing his fingers beneaththeir girlish chins. 'The favor is yours before you ask it, mydaughters. '

"'Will you, for our sakes, invite the great northern hostiletribe--the tribe you war upon--to this, our feast?' they askedfearlessly. 

"'To a peaceful feast, a feast in the honor of women?' he exclaimedincredulously. 

"'So we would desire it, ' they answered. 

"'And so shall it be, ' he declared. 'I can deny you nothing thisday, and some time you may bear sons to bless this peace you haveasked, and to bless their mother's sire for granting it. ' Then heturned to all the young men of the tribe and commanded: 'Build firesat sunset on all the coast headlands--fires of welcome. Man yourcanoes and face the north, greet the enemy, and tell them that I, the Tyee of the Capilanos, ask--no, command--that they join me for agreat feast in honor of my two daughters. ' And when the northerntribes got this invitation they flocked down the coast to this feastof a Great Peace. They brought their women and their children;they brought game and fish, gold and white stone beads, baskets andcarven ladles, and wonderful woven blankets to lay at the feet oftheir now acknowledged ruler, the great Tyee. And he, in turn, gavesuch a potlatch that nothing but tradition can vie with it. Therewere long, glad days of joyousness, long, pleasurable nights ofdancing and camp-fires, and vast quantities of food. The war-canoeswere emptied of their deadly weapons and filled with the daily catchof salmon. The hostile war-songs ceased, and in their place wereheard the soft shuffle of dancing feet, the singing voices of women, the play-games of the children of two powerful tribes which had beenuntil now ancient enemies, for a great and lasting brotherhood wassealed between them--their war-songs were ended forever. 

"Then the Sagalie Tyee smiled on His Indian children: 'I willmake these young-eyed maidens immortal, ' He said. In the cup ofHis hands He lifted the chief's two daughters and set them foreverin a high place, for they had borne two offspring--Peace andBrotherhood--each of which is now a great Tyee ruling this land. 

"And on the mountain crest the chief's daughters can be seen wrappedin the suns, the snows, the stars of all seasons, for they havestood in this high place for thousands of years, and will stand forthousands of years to come, guarding the peace of the Pacific Coastand the quiet of the Capilano Canyon. "

 * * * * *

This is the Indian legend of "The Lions of Vancouver" as I had itfrom one who will tell me no more the traditions of his people. 

THE SIWASH ROCK

Unique, and so distinct from its surroundings as to suggest ratherthe handicraft of man than a whim of Nature, it looms up at theentrance to the Narrows, a symmetrical column of solid grey stone. There are no similar formations within the range of vision, orindeed within many a day's paddle up and down the coast. Amongstall the wonders, the natural beauties that encircle Vancouver, the marvels of mountains, shaped into crouching lions and broodingbeavers, the yawning canyons, the stupendous forest firs and cedars, Siwash Rock stands as distinct, as individual, as if dropped fromanother sphere. 

I saw it first in the slanting light of a redly setting August sun;the little tuft of green shrubbery that crests its summit was blackagainst the crimson of sea and sky, and its colossal base of greystone gleamed like flaming polished granite. 

My old tillicum lifted his paddle-blade to point towards it. "Youknow the story?" he asked. I shook my head (experience has taughtme his love of silent replies, his moods of legend-telling). For atime we paddled slowly; the rock detached itself from its backgroundof forest and shore, and it stood forth like a sentinel--erect, enduring, eternal. 

"Do you think it stands straight--like a man?" he asked. 

"Yes, like some noble-spirited, upright warrior, " I replied. 

"It is a man, " he said, "and a warrior man, too; a man who foughtfor everything that was noble and upright. "

"What do you regard as everything that is noble and upright, Chief?"I asked, curious as to his ideas. I shall not forget the reply; itwas but two words--astounding, amazing words. He said simply:

"Clean fatherhood. "

Through my mind raced tumultuous recollections of numberlessarticles in yet numberless magazines, all dealing with the recent"fad" of motherhood, but I had to hear from the lip of a SquamishIndian chief the only treatise on the nobility of "clean fatherhood"that I have yet unearthed. And this treatise has been an Indianlegend for centuries; and, lest they forget how all-important thosetwo little words must ever be, Siwash Rock stands to remind them, set there by the Deity as a monument to one who kept his own lifeclean, that cleanliness might be the heritage of the generationsto come. 

It was "thousands of years ago" (all Indian legends begin inextremely remote times) that a handsome boy chief journeyed in hiscanoe to the upper coast for the shy little northern girl whom hebrought home as his wife. Boy though he was, the young chief hadproved himself to be an excellent warrior, a fearless hunter, and anupright, courageous man among men. His tribe loved him, his enemiesrespected him, and the base and mean and cowardly feared him. 

The customs and traditions of his ancestors were a positive religionto him, the sayings and the advices of the old people were hiscreed. He was conservative in every rite and ritual of his race. He fought his tribal enemies like the savage that he was. He sanghis war-songs, danced his war-dances, slew his foes, but the littlegirl-wife from the north he treated with the deference that he gavehis own mother, for was she not to be the mother of his warrior son?

The year rolled round, weeks merged into months, winter into spring, and one glorious summer at daybreak he wakened to her voice callinghim. She stood beside him, smiling. 

"It will be to-day, " she said proudly. 

He sprang from his couch of wolf-skins and looked out upon thecoming day: the promise of what it would bring him seemed breathingthrough all his forest world. He took her very gently by the handand led her through the tangle of wilderness down to the water'sedge, where the beauty spot we moderns call Stanley Park bendsabout Prospect Point. "I must swim, " he told her. 

"I must swim, too, " she smiled, with the perfect understanding oftwo beings who are mated. For, to them, the old Indian custom waslaw--the custom that the parents of a coming child must swim untiltheir flesh is so clear and clean that a wild animal cannot scenttheir proximity. If the wild creatures of the forests have no fearof them, then, and only then, are they fit to become parents, andto scent a human is in itself a fearsome thing to all wild creatures. 

So those two plunged into the waters of the Narrows as the grey dawnslipped up the eastern skies and all the forest awoke to the life ofa new, glad day. Presently he took her ashore, and smilingly shecrept away under the giant trees. "I must be alone, " she said, "butcome to me at sunrise: you will not find me alone then. " He smiledalso, and plunged back into the sea. He must swim, swim, swimthrough this hour when his fatherhood was coming upon him. It wasthe law that he must be clean, spotlessly clean, so that when hischild looked out upon the world it would have the chance to live itsown life clean. If he did not swim hour upon hour his child wouldcome to an unclean father. He must give his child a chance in life;he must not hamper it by his own uncleanliness at its birth. It wasthe tribal law--the law of vicarious purity. 

As he swam joyously to and fro, a canoe bearing four men headed upthe Narrows. These men were giants in stature, and the stroke oftheir paddles made huge eddies that boiled like the seething tides. 

"Out from our course!" they cried as his lithe, copper-colored bodyarose and fell with his splendid stroke. He laughed at them, giantsthough they were, and answered that he could not cease his swimmingat their demand. 

"But you shall cease!" they commanded. "We are the men [agents] ofthe Sagalie Tyee [God], and we command you ashore out of our way!"(I find in all these Coast Indian legends that the Deity isrepresented by four men, usually paddling an immense canoe. )

He ceased swimming, and, lifting his head, defied them. "I shallnot stop, nor yet go ashore, " he declared, striking out once moreto the middle of the channel. 

"Do you dare disobey us, " they cried--"we, the men of the SagalieTyee? We can turn you into a fish, or a tree, or a stone for this;do you dare disobey the Great Tyee?"

"I dare anything for the cleanliness and purity of my coming child. I dare even the Sagalie Tyee Himself, but my child must be born to aspotless life. "

The four men were astounded. They consulted together, lighted theirpipes, and sat in council. Never had they, the men of the SagalieTyee, been defied before. Now, for the sake of a little unbornchild, they were ignored, disobeyed, almost despised. The litheyoung copper-colored body still disported itself in the coolwaters; superstition held that should their canoe, or even theirpaddle-blades, touch a human being, their marvellous power would belost. The handsome young chief swam directly in their course. Theydared not run him down; if so, they would become as other men. While they yet counselled what to do, there floated from out theforest a faint, strange, compelling sound. They listened, andthe young chief ceased his stroke as he listened also. The faintsound drifted out across the waters once more. It was the cry ofa little, little child. Then one of the four men, he that steeredthe canoe, the strongest and tallest of them all, arose, and, standing erect, stretched out his arms towards the rising sunand chanted, not a curse on the young chief's disobedience, buta promise of everlasting days and freedom from death. 

"Because you have defied all things that come in your path wepromise this to you, " he chanted; "you have defied what interfereswith your child's chance for a clean life, you have lived as youwish your son to live, you have defied us when we would have stoppedyour swimming and hampered your child's future. You have placedthat child's future before all things, and for this the Sagalie Tyeecommands us to make you forever a pattern for your tribe. You shallnever die, but you shall stand through all the thousands of years tocome, where all eyes can see you. You shall live, live, live as anindestructible monument to Clean Fatherhood. "

The four men lifted their paddles and the handsome young chiefswam inshore; as his feet touched the line where sea and land methe was transformed into stone. 

Then the four men said, "His wife and child must ever be near him;they shall not die, but live also. " And they, too, were turned intostone. If you penetrate the hollows in the woods near Siwash Rockyou will find a large rock and a smaller one beside it. They arethe shy little bride-wife from the north, with her hour-old babybeside her. And from the uttermost parts of the world vessels comedaily throbbing and sailing up the Narrows. From far trans-Pacificports, from the frozen North, from the lands of the Southern Cross, they pass and repass the living rock that was there before theirhulls were shaped, that will be there when their very names areforgotten, when their crews and their captains have taken theirlong last voyage, when their merchandise has rotted, and theirowners are known no more. But the tall, grey column of stone willstill be there--a monument to one man's fidelity to a generation yetunborn--and will endure from everlasting to everlasting. 

THE RECLUSE

Journeying toward the upper course of the Capilano River, abouta mile citywards from the dam, you will pass a disused logger'sshack. Leave the trail at this point and strike through theundergrowth for a few hundred yards to the left and you will beon the rocky borders of that purest, most restless river in allCanada. The stream is haunted with tradition, teeming with a scoreof romances that vie with its grandeur and loveliness, and of whichits waters are perpetually whispering. But I learned this legendfrom one whose voice was as dulcet as the swirling rapids; but, unlike them, that voice is hushed to-day, while the river, theriver still sings on--sings on. 

It was singing in very melodious tones through the long Augustafternoon two summers ago, while we, the chief, his happy-heartedwife, and bright young daughter, all lounged amongst the bouldersand watched the lazy clouds drift from peak to peak far above us. It was one of his inspired days; legends crowded to his lips as awhistle teases the mouth of a happy boy; his heart was brimmingwith tales of the bygones, his eyes were dark with dreams and thatstrange mournfulness that always haunted them when he spoke oflong-ago romances. There was not a tree, a boulder, a dash of rapidupon which his glance fell which he could not link with some ancientpoetic superstition. Then abruptly, in the very midst of his verbalreveries, he turned and asked me if I were superstitious. Of courseI replied that I was. 

"Do you think some happenings will bring trouble later on--willforetell evil?" he asked. 

I made some evasive answer, which, however, seemed to satisfy him, for he plunged into the strange tale of the recluse of the canyonwith more vigor than dreaminess; but first he asked me the question:

"What do your own tribes, those east of the great mountains, thinkof twin children?"

I shook my head. 

"That is enough, " he said before I could reply. "I see, yourpeople do not like them. "

"Twin children are almost unknown with us, " I hastened. "They arerare, very rare; but it is true we do not welcome them. "

"Why?" he asked abruptly. 

I was a little uncertain about telling him. If I said the wrongthing, the coming tale might die on his lips before it was bornto speech, but we understood each other so well that I finallyventured the truth:

"We Iroquois say that twin children are as rabbits, " I explained. "The nation always nicknames the parents. 'Tow-wan-da-na-ga. 'That is the Mohawk for rabbit. "

"Is that all?" he asked curiously. 

"That is all. Is it not enough to render twin children unwelcome?"I questioned. 

He thought a while, then, with evident desire to learn how all racesregarded this occurrence, he said, "You have been much among thePalefaces, what do they say of twins?"

"Oh! the Palefaces like them. They are--they are--oh! well, theysay they are very proud of having twins, " I stammered. Once again Iwas hardly sure of my ground. He looked most incredulous, and I wasled to enquire what his own people of the Squamish thought of thisdiscussed problem. 

"It is no pride to us, " he said decidedly, "nor yet is it disgraceof rabbits; but it is a fearsome thing--a sign of coming evil to thefather, and, worse than that, of coming disaster to the tribe. "

Then I knew he held in his heart some strange incident thatgave substance to the superstition. "Won't you tell it to me?"I begged. 

He leaned a little backward against a giant boulder, clasping histhin, brown hands about his knees; his eyes roved up the gallopingriver, then swept down the singing waters to where they crowded pastthe sudden bend, and during the entire recital of the strange legendhis eyes never left that spot where the stream disappeared in itshurrying journey to the sea. Without preamble he began:

"It was a grey morning when they told him of this disaster that hadbefallen him. He was a great chief, and he ruled many tribes on theNorth Pacific Coast; but what was his greatness now? His young wifehad borne him twins, and was sobbing out her anguish in the littlefir-bark lodge near the tidewater. 

"Beyond the doorway gathered many old men and women--old in years, old in wisdom, old in the lore and learning of their nations. Someof them wept, some chanted solemnly the dirge of their lost hopesand happiness, which would never return because of this calamity;others discussed in hushed voices this awesome thing, and for hourstheir grave council was broken only by the infant cries of the twoboy-babies in the bark lodge, the hopeless sobs of the young mother, the agonized moans of the stricken chief--their father. 

"'Something dire will happen to the tribe, ' said the old men incouncil. 

"'Something dire will happen to him, my husband, ' wept the youngmother. 

"'Something dire will happen to us all, ' echoed the unhappy father. 

"Then an ancient medicine-man arose, lifting his arms, outstretchinghis palms to hush the lamenting throng. His voice shook with theweight of many winters, but his eyes were yet keen and mirrored theclear thought and brain behind them, as the still trout-pools inthe Capilano mirror the mountain tops. His words were masterful, his gestures commanding, his shoulders erect and kindly. His wasa personality and an inspiration that no one dared dispute, andhis judgment was accepted as the words fell slowly, like a doom. 

"'It is the olden law of the Squamish that, lest evil befall thetribe, the sire of twin children must go afar and alone, into themountain fastnesses, there by his isolation and his loneliness toprove himself stronger than the threatened evil, and thus to beatback the shadow that would otherwise follow him and all his people. I, therefore, name for him the length of days that he must spendalone fighting his invisible enemy. He will know by some great signin Nature the hour that the evil is conquered, the hour that hisrace is saved. He must leave before this sun sets, taking with himonly his strongest bow, his fleetest arrows, and, going up into themountain wilderness, remain there ten days--alone, alone. '

"The masterful voice ceased, the tribe wailed their assent, thefather arose speechless, his drawn face revealing great agony overthis seemingly brief banishment. He took leave of his sobbing wife, of the two tiny souls that were his sons, grasped his favorite bowand arrows, and faced the forest like a warrior. But at the endof the ten days he did not return, nor yet ten weeks, nor yet tenmonths. 

"'He is dead, ' wept the mother into the baby ears of her two boys. 'He could not battle against the evil that threatened; it wasstronger than he--he, so strong, so proud, so brave. '

"'He is dead, ' echoed the tribesmen and the tribeswomen. 'Ourstrong, brave chief, he is dead. ' So they mourned the long yearthrough, but their chants and their tears but renewed their grief;he did not return to them. 

"Meanwhile, far up the Capilano the banished chief had built hissolitary home; for who can tell what fatal trick of sound, whatcurrent of air, what faltering note in the voice of the medicine-manhad deceived his alert Indian ears? But some unhappy fate had ledhim to understand that his solitude must be of ten years' duration, not ten days, and he had accepted the mandate with the heroism of astoic. For if he had refused to do so his belief was that, althoughthe threatened disaster would be spared him, the evil would fallupon his tribe. Thus was one more added to the long list ofself-forgetting souls whose creed has been, 'It is fitting thatone should suffer for the people. ' It was the world-old heroismof vicarious sacrifice. 

"With his hunting-knife the banished Squamish chief stripped thebark from the firs and cedars, building for himself a lodge besidethe Capilano River, where leaping trout and salmon could be spearedby arrow-heads fastened to deftly shaped, long handles. All throughthe salmon-run he smoked and dried the fish with the care of ahousewife. The mountain sheep and goats, and even huge black andcinnamon bears, fell before his unerring arrows; the fleet-footeddeer never returned to their haunts from their evening drinking atthe edge of the stream--their wild hearts, their agile bodies werestilled when he took aim. Smoked hams and saddles hung in rows fromthe cross-poles of his bark lodge, and the magnificent pelts ofanimals carpeted his floors, padded his couch, and clothed his body. He tanned the soft doe-hides, making leggings, moccasins and shirts, stitching them together with deer sinew as he had seen his mother doin the long-ago. He gathered the juicy salmon-berries, their acida sylvan, healthful change from meat and fish. Month by monthand year by year he sat beside his lonely camp-fire, waiting forhis long term of solitude to end. One comfort alone was his--hewas enduring the disaster, fighting the evil, that his tribe mightgo unscathed, that his people be saved from calamity. Slowly, laboriously the tenth year dawned; day by day it dragged its longweeks across his waiting heart, for Nature had not yet given thesign that his long probation was over. 

"Then, one hot summer day, the Thunder-bird came crashing through themountains about him. Up from the arms of the Pacific rolled thestorm-cloud, and the Thunder-bird, with its eyes of flashing light, beat its huge vibrating wings on crag and canyon. 

"Up-stream, a tall shaft of granite rears its needle-like length. Itis named 'Thunder Rock, ' and wise men of the Paleface people say itis rich in ore--copper, silver, and gold. At the base of this shaftthe Squamish chief crouched when the storm-cloud broke and bellowedthrough the ranges, and on its summit the Thunder-bird perched, itsgigantic wings threshing the air into booming sounds, into splittingterrors, like the crash of a giant cedar hurtling down the mountain-side. 

"But when the beating of those black pinions ceased and the echo oftheir thunder-waves died down the depths of the canyon, the Squamishchief arose as a new man. The shadow on his soul had lifted, thefears of evil were cowed and conquered. In his brain, his blood, his veins, his sinews, he felt that the poison of melancholy dweltno more. He had redeemed his fault of fathering twin children; hehad fulfilled the demands of the law of his tribe. 

"As he heard the last beat of the Thunder-bird's wings dying slowly, faintly, faintly, among the crags, he knew that the bird, too, was dying, for its soul was leaving its monster black body, andpresently that soul appeared in the sky. He could see it archingoverhead, before it took its long journey to the Happy HuntingGrounds, for the soul of the Thunder-bird was a radiant half-circleof glorious color spanning from peak to peak. He lifted his headthen, for he knew it was the sign the ancient medicine-man had toldhim to wait for--the sign that his long banishment was ended. 

"And all these years, down in the tidewater country, the littlebrown-faced twins were asking childwise, 'Where is our father?Why have we no father, like other boys?' To be met only with theoft-repeated reply, 'Your father is no more. Your father, thegreat chief, is dead. '

"But some strange filial intuition told the boys that their sirewould some day return. Often they voiced this feeling to theirmother, but she would only weep and say that not even the witchcraftof the great medicine-man could bring him to them. But when theywere ten years old the two children came to their mother, handwithin hand. They were armed with their little hunting-knives, their salmon-spears, their tiny bows and arrows. 

"'We go to find our father, ' they said. 

"'Oh! useless quest, ' wailed the mother. 

"'Oh! useless quest, ' echoed the tribes-people. 

"But the great medicine-man said, 'The heart of a child hasinvisible eyes; perhaps the child-eyes see him. The heart of achild has invisible ears; perhaps the child-ears hear him call. Let them go. ' So the little children went forth into the forest;their young feet flew as though shod with wings, their young heartspointed to the north as does the white man's compass. Day after daythey journeyed up-stream, until, rounding a sudden bend, they behelda bark lodge with a thin blue curl of smoke drifting from its roof. 

"'It is our father's lodge, ' they told each other, for theirchildish hearts were unerring in response to the call of kinship. Hand in hand they approached, and entering the lodge, said theone word, 'Come. '

"The great Squamish chief outstretched his arms towards them, thentowards the laughing river, then towards the mountains. 

"'Welcome, my sons!' he said. 'And good-bye, my mountains, mybrothers, my crags, and my canyons!' And with a child clinging toeach hand he faced once more the country of the tidewater. "

 * * * * *

The legend was ended. 

For a long time he sat in silence. He had removed his gaze from thebend in the river, around which the two children had come and wherethe eyes of the recluse had first rested on them after ten years ofsolitude. 

The chief spoke again: "It was here, on this spot we are sitting, that he built his lodge: here he dwelt those ten years alone, alone. "

I nodded silently. The legend was too beautiful to mar withcomments, and, as the twilight fell, we threaded our way throughthe underbrush, past the disused logger's camp, and into the trailthat leads citywards. 

THE LOST SALMON-RUN

Great had been the "run, " and the sockeye season was almost over. For that reason I wondered many times why my old friend, theklootchman, had failed to make one of the fishing fleet. She was anindefatigable work-woman, rivalling her husband as an expert catcher, and all the year through she talked of little else but the comingrun. But this especial season she had not appeared amongst herfellow-kind. The fleet and the canneries knew nothing of her, andwhen I enquired of her tribes-people they would reply withoutexplanation, "She not here this year. "

But one russet September afternoon I found her. I had idled downthe trail from the swans' basin in Stanley Park to the rim thatskirts the Narrows, and I saw her graceful, high-bowed canoe headingfor the beach that is the favorite landing-place of the "tillicums"from the Mission. Her canoe looked like a dream-craft, for thewater was very still, and everywhere a blue film hung like a fragrantveil, for the peat on Lulu Island had been smoldering for days andits pungent odors and blue-grey haze made a dream-world of sea andshore and sky. 

I hurried up-shore, hailing her in the Chinook, and as she caught myvoice she lifted her paddle directly above her head in the Indiansignal of greeting. 

As she beached, I greeted her with extended eager hands to assisther ashore, for the klootchman is getting to be an old woman; albeitshe paddles against tidewater like a boy in his teens. 

"No, " she said, as I begged her to come ashore. "I will wait--me. I just come to fetch Maarda; she been city; she soon come--now. "But she left her "working" attitude and curled like a school-girl inthe bow of the canoe, her elbows resting on her paddle which shehad flung across the gunwales. 

"I have missed you, klootchman; you have not been to see me forthree moons, and you have not fished or been at the canneries, "I remarked. 

"No, " she said. "I stay home this year. " Then, leaning towards mewith grave import in her manner, her eyes, her voice, she added, "I have a grandchild, born first week July, so--I stay. "

So this explained her absence. I, of course, offeredcongratulations and enquired all about the great event, for thiswas her first grandchild, and the little person was of importance. 

"And are you going to make a fisherman of him?" I asked. 

"No, no, not boy-child, it is girl-child, " she answered with someindescribable trick of expression that led me to know she preferredit so. 

"You are pleased it is a girl?" I questioned in surprise. 

"Very pleased, " she replied emphatically. "Very good luck to havegirl for first grandchild. Our tribe not like yours; we want girlchildren first; we not always wish boy-child born just for fight. Your people, they care only for war-path; our tribe more peaceful. Very good sign first grandchild to be girl. I tell you why:girl-child may be some time mother herself; very grand thing to bemother. "

I felt I had caught the secret of her meaning. She was rejoicingthat this little one should some time become one of the mothersof her race. We chatted over it a little longer and she gave meseveral playful "digs" about my own tribe thinking so much less ofmotherhood than hers, and so much more of battle and bloodshed. Then we drifted into talk of the sockeye and of the hyiu chickiminthe Indians would get. 

"Yes, hyiu chickimin, " she repeated with a sigh of satisfaction. "Always; and hyiu muck-a-muck when big salmon run. No more evercome that bad year when not any fish. "

"When was that?" I asked. 

"Before you born, or I, or"--pointing across the park to the distantcity of Vancouver that breathed its wealth and beauty across theSeptember afternoon--"before that place born, before white man camehere--oh! long before. "

Dear old klootchman! I knew by the dusk in her eyes that she wasback in her Land of Legends, and that soon I would be the richer inmy hoard of Indian lore. She sat, still leaning on her paddle; hereyes, half-closed, rested on the distant outline of the blurredheights across the Inlet. I shall not further attempt her brokenEnglish, for this is but the shadow of her story, and without herunique personality the legend is as a flower that lacks both colorand fragrance. She called it "The Lost Salmon-run. "

"The wife of the Great Tyee was but a wisp of a girl, but all the worldwas young in those days; even the Fraser River was young and small, notthe mighty water it is now; but the pink salmon crowded its throat justas they do now, and the tillicums caught and salted and smoked the fishjust as they have done this year, just as they will always do. But itwas yet winter, and the rains were slanting and the fogs drifting, when the wife of the Great Tyee stood before him and said:

"'Before the salmon-run I shall give to you a great gift. Will youhonor me most if it is the gift of a boy-child or a girl-child?'The Great Tyee loved the woman. He was stern with his people, hardwith his tribe; he ruled his council-fires with a will of stone. His medicine-men said he had no human heart in his body; hiswarriors said he had no human blood in his veins. But he claspedthis woman's hands, and his eyes, his lips, his voice, were gentleas her own, as he replied:

"'Give to me a girl-child--a little girl-child--that she may growto be like you, and, in her turn, give to her husband children. '

"But when the tribes-people heard of his choice they arose in greatanger. They surrounded him in a deep, indignant circle. 'You area slave to the woman, ' they declared, 'and now you desire to makeyourself a slave to a woman-baby. We want an heir--a man-child tobe our Great Tyee in years to come. When you are old and weary oftribal affairs, when you sit wrapped in your blanket in the hotsummer sunshine, because your blood is old and thin, what can agirl-child do to help either you or us? Who, then, will be ourGreat Tyee?'

"He stood in the centre of the menacing circle, his arms folded, his chin raised, his eyes hard as flint. His voice, cold as stone, replied:

"'Perhaps she will give you such a man-child, and, if so, the childis yours; he will belong to you, not to me; he will become thepossession of the people. But if the child is a girl she willbelong to me--she will be mine. You cannot take her from me as youtook me from my mother's side and forced me to forget my aged fatherin my service to the tribe; she will belong to me, will be the motherof my grandchildren, and her husband will be my son. '

"'You do not care for the good of your tribe. You care only foryour own wishes and desires, ' they rebelled. 'Suppose the salmon-runis small, we will have no food; suppose there is no man-child, we will have no Great Tyee to show us how to get food from othertribes, and we shall starve. '

"'Your hearts are black and bloodless, ' thundered the Great Tyee, turning upon them fiercely, 'and your eyes are blinded. Do you wishthe tribe to forget how great is the importance of a child thatwill some day be a mother herself, and give to your children andgrandchildren a Great Tyee? Are the people to live, to thrive, to increase, to become more powerful with no mother-women to bearfuture sons and daughters? Your minds are dead, your brains arechilled. Still, even in your ignorance, you are my people: youand your wishes must be considered. I call together the greatmedicine-men, the men of witchcraft, the men of magic. They shalldecide the laws which will follow the bearing of either boy orgirl-child. What say you, oh! mighty men?'

"Messengers were then sent up and down the coast, sent far up theFraser River, and to the valley lands inland for many leagues, gathering as they journeyed all the men of magic that could befound. Never were so many medicine-men in council before. Theybuilt fires and danced and chanted for many days. They spoke withthe gods of the mountains, with the gods of the sea; then 'thepower' of decision came to them. They were inspired with a choiceto lay before the tribes-people, and the most ancient medicine-manin all the coast region arose and spoke their resolution:

"'The people of the tribe cannot be allowed to have all things. They want a boy-child and they want a great salmon-run also. Theycannot have both. The Sagalie Tyee has revealed to us, the greatmen of magic, that both these things will make the people arrogantand selfish. They must choose between the two. '

"'Choose, oh! you ignorant tribes-people, ' commanded the GreatTyee. 'The wise men of our coast have said that the girl-child whowill some day bear children of her own will also bring abundance ofsalmon at her birth; but the boy-child brings to you but himself. '

"'Let the salmon go, ' shouted the people, 'but give us a futureGreat Tyee. Give us the boy-child. '

"And when the child was born it was a boy. 

"'Evil will fall upon you, ' wailed the Great Tyee. 'You havedespised a mother-woman. You will suffer evil and starvation andhunger and poverty, oh! foolish tribes-people. Did you not knowhow great a girl-child is?'

"That spring, people from a score of tribes came up to the Fraserfor the salmon-run. They came great distances--from the mountains, the lakes, the far-off dry lands, but not one fish entered the vastrivers of the Pacific Coast. The people had made their choice. They had forgotten the honor that a mother-child would have broughtthem. They were bereft of their food. They were stricken withpoverty. Through the long winter that followed they enduredhunger and starvation. Since then our tribe has always welcomedgirl-children--we want no more lost runs. "

The klootchman lifted her arms from her paddle as she concluded;her eyes left the irregular outline of the violet mountains. Shehad come back to this year of grace--her Legend Land had vanished. 

"So, " she added, "you see now, maybe, why I am glad my grandchild isgirl; it means big salmon-run next year. "

"It is a beautiful story, klootchman, " I said, "and I feel acruel delight that your men of magic punished the people fortheir ill choice. "

"That because you girl-child yourself, " she laughed. 

There was the slightest whisper of a step behind me. I turned tofind Maarda almost at my elbow. The rising tide was unbeaching thecanoe, and as Maarda stepped in and the klootchman slipped astern, it drifted afloat. 

"Kla-how-ya, " nodded the klootchman as she dipped her paddle-bladein exquisite silence. 

"Kla-how-ya, " smiled Maarda. 

"Kla-how-ya, tillicums, " I replied, and watched for many moments asthey slipped away into the blurred distance, until the canoe mergedinto the violet and grey of the farther shore. 

THE DEEP WATERS

Far over your left shoulder as your boat leaves the Narrows tothread the beautiful waterways that lead to Vancouver Island, you will see the summit of Mount Baker robed in its everlastingwhiteness and always reflecting some wonderful glory from the risingsun, the golden noontide, or the violet and amber sunset. This isthe Mount Ararat of the Pacific Coast peoples; for those readers whoare familiar with the ways and beliefs and faiths of primitive raceswill agree that it is difficult to discover anywhere in the worlda race that has not some story of the Deluge, which they havechronicled and localized to fit the understanding and the conditionsof the nation that composes their own immediate world. 

Amongst the red nations of America I doubt if any two tribes havethe same ideas regarding the Flood. Some of the traditionsconcerning this vast whim of Nature are grotesque in the extreme;some are impressive; some even profound; but of all the stories ofthe Deluge that I have been able to collect I know of not a singleone that can even begin to equal in beauty of conception, let alonerival in possible reality and truth, the Squamish legend of "TheDeep Waters. "

I here quote the legend of "mine own people, " the Iroquois tribesof Ontario, regarding the Deluge. I do this to paint the color ofcontrast in richer shades, for I am bound to admit that we whopride ourselves on ancient intellectuality have but a childish taleof the Flood when compared with the jealously preserved annals ofthe Squamish, which savour more of history than tradition. With"mine own people, " animals always play a much more important part, and are endowed with a finer intelligence, than humans. I do notfind amid my notes a single tradition of the Iroquois whereinanimals do not figure, and our story of the Deluge rests entirelywith the intelligence of sea-going and river-going creatures. Withus, animals in olden times were greater than man; but it is not sowith the Coast Indians, except in rare instances. 

When a Coast Indian consents to tell you a legend he will, withoutvariation, begin it with, "It was before the white people came. "

The natural thing for you, then, to ask is, "But who were here then?"

He will reply, "Indians, and just the trees, and animals, andfishes, and a few birds. "

So you are prepared to accept the animal world as intelligentco-habitants of the Pacific slope; but he will not lead you to thinkhe regards them as equals, much less superiors. But to revert to"mine own people": they hold the intelligence of wild animals farabove that of man, for perhaps the one reason that when an animalis sick it effects its own cure; it knows what grasses and herbs toeat, what to avoid, while the sick human calls the medicine-man, whose wisdom is not only the result of years of study, but alsoheredity; consequently any great natural event, such as the Deluge, has much to do with the wisdom of the creatures of the forests andthe rivers. 

Iroquois tradition tells us that once this earth was entirelysubmerged in water, and during this period for many days a busylittle muskrat swam about vainly looking for a foothold of earthwherein to build his house. In his search he encountered a turtlealso leisurely swimming; so they had speech together, and themuskrat complained of weariness; he could find no foothold; hewas tired of incessant swimming, and longed for land such as hisancestors enjoyed. The turtle suggested that the muskrat shoulddive and endeavor to find earth at the bottom of the sea. Acting onthis advice, the muskrat plunged down, then arose with his two littleforepaws grasping some earth he had found beneath the waters. 

"Place it on my shell and dive again for more, " directed theturtle. The muskrat did so; but when he returned with his pawsfilled with earth he discovered the small quantity he had firstdeposited on the turtle's shell had doubled in size. The returnfrom the third trip found the turtle's load again doubled. So thebuilding went on at double compound increase, and the world grewits continents and its islands with great rapidity, and now restson the shell of a turtle. 

If you ask an Iroquois, "And did no men survive this flood?" hewill reply, "Why should men survive? The animals are wiser thanmen; let the wisest live. "

How, then, was the earth repeopled?

The Iroquois will tell you that the otter was a medicine-man; that, in swimming and diving about, he found corpses of men and women;he sang his medicine-songs and they came to life, and the otterbrought them fish for food until they were strong enough to providefor themselves. Then the Iroquois will conclude his tale with, "You know well that the otter has greater wisdom than a man. "

So much for "mine own people" and our profound respect for thesuperior intelligence of our little brothers of the animal world. 

But the Squamish tribe hold other ideas. It was on a Februaryday that I first listened to this beautiful, humane story of theDeluge. My royal old tillicum had come to see me through the rainsand mists of late winter days. The gateways of my wigwam alwaysstood open--very widely open--for his feet to enter, and thisespecial day he came with the worst downpour of the season. 

Woman-like, I protested with a thousand contradictions in my voice, that he should venture out to see me on such a day. It was "Oh!Chief, I am so glad to see you!" and it was "Oh! Chief, why didn'tyou stay at home on such a wet day--your poor throat will suffer. "But I soon had quantities of hot tea for him, and the huge cup myown father always used was his--as long as the Sagalie Tyee allowedhis dear feet to wander my way. The immense cup stands idle andempty now for the second time. 

Helping him off with his great-coat, I chatted on about the delugeof rain, and he remarked it was not so very bad, as one could yetwalk. 

"Fortunately, yes, for I cannot swim, " I told him. 

He laughed, replying, "Well, it is not so bad as when the Great DeepWaters covered the world. "

Immediately I foresaw the coming legend, so crept into the shell ofmonosyllables. 

"No?" I questioned. 

"No, " he replied. "For, one time, there was no land here at all;everywhere there was just water. "

"I can quite believe it, " I remarked caustically. 

He laughed--that irresistible, though silent, David Warfield laughof his that always brought a responsive smile from his listeners. Then he plunged directly into the tradition, with no preface save acomprehensive sweep of his wonderful hands towards my wide window, against which the rains were beating. 

"It was after a long, long time of this--this rain. The mountainstreams were swollen, the rivers choked, the sea began to rise--andyet it rained; for weeks and weeks it rained. " He ceased speaking, while the shadows of centuries gone crept into his eyes. Tales ofthe misty past always inspired him. 

"Yes, " he continued. "It rained for weeks and weeks, while themountain torrents roared thunderingly down, and the sea creptsilently up. The level lands were first to float in sea-water, thento disappear. The slopes were next to slip into the sea. The worldwas slowly being flooded. Hurriedly the Indian tribes gathered inone spot, a place of safety far above the reach of the on-creepingsea. The spot was the circling shore of Lake Beautiful, up theNorth Arm. They held a Great Council and decided at once upon aplan of action. A giant canoe should be built, and some meanscontrived to anchor it in case the waters mounted to the heights. The men undertook the canoe, the women the anchorage. 

"A giant tree was felled, and day and night the men toiled overits construction into the most stupendous canoe the world has everknown. Not an hour, not a moment, but many worked, while thetoil-wearied ones slept, only to awake to renewed toil. Meanwhile, the women also worked at a cable--the largest, the longest, thestrongest that Indian hands and teeth had ever made. Scores ofthem gathered and prepared the cedar-fibre; scores of them plaited, rolled, and seasoned it; scores of them chewed upon it inch by inchto make it pliable; scores of them oiled and worked, oiled andworked, oiled and worked it into a sea-resisting fabric. And stillthe sea crept up, and up, and up. It was the last day; hope of lifefor the tribes, of land for the world, was doomed. Strong hands, self-sacrificing hands, fastened the cable the women had made--oneend to the giant canoe, the other about an enormous boulder, a vastimmovable rock as firm as the foundations of the world--for mightnot the canoe, with its priceless freight drift out, far out, to sea, and when the water subsided might not this ship of safety be leaguesand leagues beyond the sight of land on the storm-driven Pacific?

"Then, with the bravest hearts that ever beat, noble hands liftedevery child of the tribe into this vast canoe; not one single babywas overlooked. The canoe was stocked with food and fresh water, and lastly, the ancient men and women of the race selected asguardians to these children the bravest, most stalwart, handsomestyoung man of the tribes, and the mother of the youngest baby in thecamp--she was but a girl of sixteen, her child but two weeks old;but she, too, was brave and very beautiful. These two were placed, she at the bow of the canoe to watch, he at the stern to guide, and all the little children crowded between. 

"And still the sea crept up, and up, and up. At the crest of thebluffs about Lake Beautiful the doomed tribes crowded. Not a singleperson attempted to enter the canoe. There was no wailing, nocrying out for safety. 'Let the little children, the young mother, and the bravest and best of our young men live, ' was all thefarewell those in the canoe heard as the waters reached the summit, and--the canoe floated. Last of all to be seen was the top of thetallest tree, then--all was a world of water. 

"For days and days there was no land--just the rush of swirling, snarling sea; but the canoe rode safely at anchor, the cable thosescores of dead, faithful women had made held true as the heartsthat beat behind the toil and labor of it all. 

"But one morning at sunrise, far to the south, a speck floated on thebreast of the waters; at midday it was larger; at evening it was yetlarger. The moon arose, and in its magic light the man at the sternsaw it was a patch of land. All night he watched it grow, and atdaybreak looked with glad eyes upon the summit of Mount Baker. Hecut the cable, grasped his paddle in his strong, young hands, andsteered for the south. When they landed, the waters were sunkenhalf down the mountain-side. The children were lifted out; thebeautiful young mother, the stalwart young brave, turned to eachother, clasped hands, looked into each other's eyes--and smiled. 

"And down in the vast country that lies between Mount Baker andthe Fraser River they made a new camp, built new lodges, where thelittle children grew and thrived, and lived and loved, and theearth was repeopled by them. 

"The Squamish say that in a gigantic crevice half-way to the crestof Mount Baker may yet be seen the outlines of an enormous canoe, but I have never seen it myself. "

He ceased speaking with that far-off cadence in his voice with whichhe always ended a legend, and for a long time we both sat in silencelistening to the rains that were still beating against the window. 

THE SEA-SERPENT

There is one vice that is absolutely unknown to the red man; hewas born without it, and amongst all the deplorable things hehas learned from the white races, this, at least, he has neveracquired. That is the vice of avarice. That the Indian looksupon greed of gain, miserliness, avariciousness, and wealthaccumulated above the head of his poorer neighbor as one of thelowest degradations he can fall to is perhaps more aptly illustratedthan anything I could quote to demonstrate his horror of whathe calls "the white man's unkindness. " In a very wide andvaried experience with many tribes, I have yet to find even oneinstance of avarice, and I have encountered but one single case of a"stingy Indian, " and this man was so marked amongst his fellows thatat mention of his name his tribes-people jeered and would remarkcontemptuously that he was like a white man--hated to share hismoney and his possessions. All red races are born Socialists, and most tribes carry out their communistic ideas to the letter. Amongst the Iroquois it is considered disgraceful to have food ifyour neighbor has none. To be a creditable member of the nationyou must divide your possessions with your less fortunate fellows. I find it much the same amongst the Coast Indians, though they areless bitter in their hatred of the extremes of wealth and povertythan are the Eastern tribes. Still, the very fact that they havepreserved this legend, in which they liken avarice to a slimysea-serpent, shows the trend of their ideas; shows, too, that anIndian is an Indian, no matter what his tribe; shows that he cannot, or will not, hoard money; shows that his native morals demand thatthe spirit of greed must be strangled at all cost. 

The chief and I had sat long over our luncheon. He had been talkingof his trip to England and of the many curious things he had seen. At last, in an outburst of enthusiasm, he said: "I saw everythingin the world--everything but a sea-serpent!"

"But there is no such thing as a sea-serpent, " I laughed, "so youmust have really seen everything in the world. "

His face clouded; for a moment he sat in silence; then, lookingdirectly at me, said, "Maybe none now, but long ago there was onehere--in the Inlet. "

"How long ago?" I asked. 

"When first the white gold-hunters came, " he replied. "Came withgreedy, clutching fingers, greedy eyes, greedy hearts. The whitemen fought, murdered, starved, went mad with love of that gold farup the Fraser River. Tillicums were tillicums no more, brotherswere foes, fathers and sons were enemies. Their love of the goldwas a curse. "

"Was it then the sea-serpent was seen?" I asked, perplexed with theproblem of trying to connect the gold-seekers with such a monster. 

"Yes, it was then, but----" he hesitated, then plunged into theassertion, "but you will not believe the story if you think thereis no such thing as a sea-serpent. "

"I shall believe whatever you tell me, Chief, " I answered. "I amonly too ready to believe. You know I come of a superstitious race, and all my association with the Palefaces has never yet robbed meof my birthright to believe strange traditions. "

"You always understand, " he said after a pause. 

"It's my heart that understands, " I remarked quietly. 

He glanced up quickly, and with one of his all too few radiantsmiles, he laughed. 

"Yes, skookum tum-tum. " Then without further hesitation he toldthe tradition, which, although not of ancient happening, is held ingreat reverence by his tribe. During its recital he sat with foldedarms, leaning on the table, his head and shoulders bending eagerlytowards me as I sat at the opposite side. It was the only time heever talked to me when he did not use emphasising gesticulations, but his hands never once lifted: his wonderful eyes alone gaveexpression to what he called "The Legend of the 'Salt-chuck Oluk'"(sea-serpent). 

"Yes, it was during the first gold craze, and many of our young menwent as guides to the whites far up the Fraser. When they returnedthey brought these tales of greed and murder back with them, andour old people and our women shook their heads and said evil wouldcome of it. But all our young men, except one, returned as theywent--kind to the poor, kind to those who were foodless, sharingwhatever they had with their tillicums. But one, by name Shak-shak(The Hawk), came back with hoards of gold nuggets, chickimin(money), everything; he was rich like the white men, and, like them, he kept it. He would count his chickimin, count his nuggets, gloatover them, toss them in his palms. He rested his head on them ashe slept, he packed them about with him through the day. He lovedthem better than food, better than his tillicums, better than hislife. The entire tribe arose. They said Shak-shak had the diseaseof greed; that to cure it he must give a great potlatch, divide hisriches with the poorer ones, share them with the old, the sick, thefoodless. But he jeered and laughed and told them No, and went onloving and gloating over his gold. 

"Then the Sagalie Tyee spoke out of the sky and said, 'Shak-shak, you have made of yourself a loathsome thing; you will not listen tothe cry of the hungry, to the call of the old and sick; you will notshare your possessions; you have made of yourself an outcast fromyour tribe and disobeyed the ancient laws of your people. Now Iwill make of you a thing loathed and hated by all men, both whiteand red. You will have two heads, for your greed has two mouths tobite. One bites the poor, and one bites your own evil heart; andthe fangs in these mouths are poison--poison that kills the hungry, and poison that kills your own manhood. Your evil heart willbeat in the very centre of your foul body, and he that pierces itwill kill the disease of greed forever from amongst his people. 'And when the sun arose above the North Arm the next morning thetribes-people saw a gigantic sea-serpent stretched across thesurface of the waters. One hideous head rested on the bluffs atBrockton Point, the other rested on a group of rocks just belowMission, at the western edge of North Vancouver. If you care to gothere some day I will show you the hollow in one great stone wherethat head lay. The tribes-people were stunned with horror. Theyloathed the creature, they hated it, they feared it. Day after dayit lay there, its monstrous heads lifted out of the waters, itsmile-long body blocking all entrance from the Narrows, all outletfrom the North Arm. The chiefs made council, the medicine-mendanced and chanted, but the salt-chuck oluk never moved. It couldnot move, for it was the hated totem of what now rules the whiteman's world--greed and love of chickimin. No one can ever move thelove of chickimin from the white man's heart, no one can ever makehim divide all with the poor. But after the chiefs and medicine-menhad done all in their power, and still the salt-chuck oluk layacross the waters, a handsome boy of sixteen approached them andreminded them of the words of the Sagalie Tyee, 'that he thatpierced the monster's heart would kill the disease of greed foreveramongst his people. '

"'Let me try to find this evil heart, oh! great men of my tribe, ' hecried. 'Let me war upon this creature; let me try to rid my peopleof this pestilence. '

"The boy was brave and very beautiful. His tribes-people called himthe Tenas Tyee (Little Chief) and they loved him. Of all his wealthof fish and furs, of game and hykwa (large shell-money) he gave tothe boys who had none; he hunted food for the old people; he tannedskins and furs for those whose feet were feeble, whose eyes werefading, whose blood ran thin with age. 

"'Let him go!' cried the tribes-people. 'This unclean monster canonly be overcome by cleanliness, this creature of greed can onlybe overthrown by generosity. Let him go!' The chiefs and themedicine-men listened, then consented. 'Go, ' they commanded, 'andfight this thing with your strongest weapons--cleanliness andgenerosity. '

"The Tenas Tyee turned to his mother. 'I shall be gone four days, 'he told her, 'and I shall swim all that time. I have tried all mylife to be generous, but the people say I must be clean also tofight this unclean thing. While I am gone put fresh furs on my bedevery day, even if I am not here to lie on them; if I know my bed, my body and my heart are all clean I can overcome this serpent. '

"'Your bed shall have fresh furs every morning, ' his mothersaid simply. 

"The Tenas Tyee then stripped himself, and, with no clothing save abuckskin belt into which he thrust his hunting-knife, he flung hislithe young body into the sea. But at the end of four days he didnot return. Sometimes his people could see him swimming far out inmid-channel, endeavoring to find the exact centre of the serpent, where lay its evil, selfish heart; but on the fifth morning they sawhim rise out of the sea, climb to the summit of Brockton Point, andgreet the rising sun with outstretched arms. Weeks and months wentby, still the Tenas Tyee would swim daily searching for that heartof greed; and each morning the sunrise glinted on his slender youngcopper-colored body as he stood with outstretched arms at the tipof Brockton Point, greeting the coming day and then plunging fromthe summit into the sea. 

"And at his home on the north shore his mother dressed his bed withfresh furs each morning. The seasons drifted by; winter followedsummer, summer followed winter. But it was four years before theTenas Tyee found the centre of the great salt-chuck oluk and plungedhis hunting-knife into its evil heart. In its death-agony itwrithed through the Narrows, leaving a trail of blackness on thewaters. Its huge body began to shrink, to shrivel; it becamedwarfed and withered, until nothing but the bones of its backremained, and they, sea-bleached and lifeless, soon sank to the bedof the ocean leagues off from the rim of land. But as the TenasTyee swam homeward and his clean, young body crossed through theblack stain left by the serpent, the waters became clear and blueand sparkling. He had overcome even the trail of the salt-chuckoluk. 

"When at last he stood in the doorway of his home he said, 'Mymother, I could not have killed the monster of greed amongst mypeople had you not helped me by keeping one place for me at homefresh and clean for my return. '

"She looked at him as only mothers look. 'Each day, these fouryears, fresh furs have I laid for your bed. Sleep now, and rest, oh! my Tenas Tyee, ' she said. "

 * * * * *

The chief unfolded his arms, and his voice took another tone as hesaid, "What do you call that story--a legend?"

"The white people would call it an allegory, " I answered. He shookhis head. 

"No savvy, " he smiled. 

I explained as simply as possible, and with his customary alertnesshe immediately understood. "That's right, " he said. "That's whatwe say it means, we Squamish, that greed is evil and not clean, like the salt-chuck oluk. That it must be stamped out amongst ourpeople, killed by cleanliness and generosity. The boy that overcamethe serpent was both these things. "

"What became of this splendid boy?" I asked. 

"The Tenas Tyee? Oh! some of our old, old people say theysometimes see him now, standing on Brockton Point, his bare youngarms outstretched to the rising sun, " he replied. 

"Have you ever seen him, Chief?" I questioned. 

"No, " he answered simply. But I have never heard such poignantregret as his wonderful voice crowded into that single word. 

THE LOST ISLAND

"Yes, " said my old tillicum, "we Indians have lost many things. We have lost our lands, our forests, our game, our fish; we havelost our ancient religion, our ancient dress; some of the youngerpeople have even lost their fathers' language and the legends andtraditions of their ancestors. We cannot call those old things backto us; they will never come again. We may travel many days up themountain-trails, and look in the silent places for them. They arenot there. We may paddle many moons on the sea, but our canoes willnever enter the channel that leads to the yesterdays of the Indianpeople. These things are lost, just like 'The Island of the NorthArm. ' They may be somewhere nearby, but no one can ever find them. "

"But there are many islands up the North Arm, " I asserted. 

"Not the island we Indian people have sought for many tens ofsummers, " he replied sorrowfully. 

"Was it ever there?" I questioned. 

"Yes, it was there, " he said. "My grandsires and mygreat-grandsires saw it; but that was long ago. My father neversaw it, though he spent many days in many years searching, alwayssearching for it. I am an old man myself, and I have never seenit, though from my youth, I, too, have searched. Sometimes in thestillness of the nights I have paddled up in my canoe. " Then, lowering his voice: "Twice I have seen its shadow: high rockyshores, reaching as high as the tree-tops on the mainland, then tallpines and firs on its summit like a king's crown. As I paddled upthe Arm one summer night, long ago, the shadow of these rocks andfirs fell across my canoe, across my face, and across the watersbeyond. I turned rapidly to look. There was no island there, nothing but a wide stretch of waters on both sides of me, and themoon almost directly overhead. Don't say it was the shore thatshadowed me, " he hastened, catching my thought. "The moon was aboveme; my canoe scarce made a shadow on the still waters. No, it wasnot the shore. "

"Why do you search for it?" I lamented, thinking of the old dreamsin my own life whose realization I have never attained. 

"There is something on that island that I want. I shall look forit until I die, for it is there, " he affirmed. 

There was a long silence between us after that. I had learned tolove silences when with my old tillicum, for they always led to alegend. After a time he began voluntarily:

"It was more than one hundred years ago. This great city ofVancouver was but the dream of the Sagalie Tyee [God] at that time. The dream had not yet come to the white man; only one great Indianmedicine-man knew that some day a great camp for Palefaces would liebetween False Creek and the Inlet. This dream haunted him; it cameto him night and day--when he was amid his people laughing andfeasting, or when he was alone in the forest chanting his strangesongs, beating his hollow drum, or shaking his wooden witch-rattleto gain more power to cure the sick and the dying of his tribe. Foryears this dream followed him. He grew to be an old, old man, yetalways he could hear voices, strong and loud, as when they firstspoke to him in his youth, and they would say: 'Between the twonarrow strips of salt water the white men will camp, many hundredsof them, many thousands of them. The Indians will learn their ways, will live as they do, will become as they are. There will be nomore great war-dances, no more fights with other powerful tribes;it will be as if the Indians had lost all bravery, all courage, allconfidence. ' He hated the voices, he hated the dream; but all hispower, all his big medicine, could not drive them away. He was thestrongest man on all the North Pacific Coast. He was mighty andvery tall, and his muscles were as those of Leloo, the timber-wolf, when he is strongest to kill his prey. He could go for many dayswithout food; he could fight the largest mountain-lion; he couldoverthrow the fiercest grizzly bear; he could paddle against thewildest winds and ride the highest waves. He could meet his enemiesand kill whole tribes single-handed. His strength, his courage, hispower, his bravery, were those of a giant. He knew no fear; nothingin the sea, or in the forest, nothing in the earth or the sky, couldconquer him. He was fearless, fearless. Only this haunting dreamof the coming white man's camp he could not drive away; it was theonly thing in life he had tried to kill and failed. It drove himfrom the feasting, drove him from the pleasant lodges, the fires, the dancing, the story-telling of his people in their camp by thewater's edge, where the salmon thronged and the deer came down todrink of the mountain-streams. He left the Indian village, chantinghis wild songs as he went. Up through the mighty forests heclimbed, through the trailless deep mosses and matted vines, up tothe summit of what the white men call Grouse Mountain. For manydays he camped there. He ate no food, he drank no water, but satand sang his medicine-songs through the dark hours and through theday. Before him--far beneath his feet--lay the narrow strip of landbetween the two salt waters. Then the Sagalie Tyee gave him thepower to see far into the future. He looked across a hundred years, just as he looked across what you call the Inlet, and he saw mightylodges built close together, hundreds and thousands of them--lodgesof stone and wood, and long straight trails to divide them. He sawthese trails thronging with Palefaces; he heard the sound of thewhite man's paddle-dip on the waters, for it is not silent like theIndian's; he saw the white man's trading posts, saw the fishing-nets, heard his speech. Then the vision faded as gradually as itcame. The narrow strip of land was his own forest once more. 

"'I am old, ' he called, in his sorrow and his trouble for hispeople. 'I am old, O Sagalie Tyee! Soon I shall die and go tothe Happy Hunting Grounds of my fathers. Let not my strength diewith me. Keep living for all time my courage, my bravery, myfearlessness. Keep them for my people that they may be strongenough to endure the white man's rule. Keep my strength livingfor them; hide it so that the Paleface may never find or see it. '

"Then he came down from the summit of Grouse Mountain. Stillchanting his medicine-songs, he entered his canoe and paddledthrough the colors of the setting sun far up the North Arm. Whennight fell he came to an island with misty shores of great greyrock; on its summit tall pines and firs encircled like a king'scrown. As he neared it he felt all his strength, his courage, hisfearlessness, leaving him; he could see these things drift fromhim on to the island. They were as the clouds that rest on themountains, grey-white and half transparent. Weak as a woman, hepaddled back to the Indian village; he told them to go and searchfor 'The Island, ' where they would find all his courage, hisfearlessness and his strength, living, living forever. He sleptthen, but--in the morning he did not awake. Since then our youngmen and our old have searched for 'The Island. ' It is theresomewhere, up some lost channel, but we cannot find it. When wedo, we will get back all the courage and bravery we had before thewhite man came, for the great medicine-man said those things neverdie--they live for one's children and grandchildren. "

His voice ceased. My whole heart went out to him in his longingfor the lost island. I thought of all the splendid courage I knewhim to possess, so made answer: "But you say that the shadow ofthis island has fallen upon you; is it not so, tillicum?"

"Yes, " he said half mournfully. "But only the shadow. "

POINT GREY

"Have you ever sailed around Point Grey?" asked a young Squamishtillicum of mine who often comes to see me, to share a cup oftea and a taste of muck-a-muck that otherwise I should eat insolitude. 

"No, " I admitted, I had not had that pleasure, for I did not knowthe uncertain waters of English Bay sufficiently well to ventureabout its headlands in my frail canoe. 

"Some day, perhaps next summer, I'll take you there in a sail-boat, and show you the big rock at the south-west of the Point. It is astrange rock; we Indian people call it Homolsom. "

"What an odd name!" I commented. "Is it a Squamish word?--it doesnot sound to me like one. "

"It is not altogether Squamish, but half Fraser River language. ThePoint was the dividing-line between the grounds and waters of thetwo tribes; so they agreed to make the name 'Homolsom' from the twolanguages. "

I suggested more tea, and, as he sipped it, he told me the legendthat few of the younger Indians know. That he believes the storyhimself is beyond question, for many times he admitted having testedthe virtues of this rock, and it had never once failed him. Allpeople that have to do with water-craft are superstitious aboutsome things, and I freely acknowledge that times innumerable Ihave "whistled up" a wind when dead calm threatened, or stucka jack-knife in the mast, and afterwards watched with greatcontentment the idle sail fill, and the canoe pull out to a lightbreeze. So, perhaps, I am prejudiced in favor of this legend ofHomolsom Rock, for it strikes a very responsive chord in thatportion of my heart that has always throbbed for the sea. 

"You know, " began my young tillicum, "that only waters unspoiledby human hands can be of any benefit. One gains no strength byswimming in any waters heated or boiled by fires that men build. To grow strong and wise one must swim in the natural rivers, themountain torrents, the sea, just as the Sagalie Tyee made them. Their virtues die when human beings try to improve them by heatingor distilling, or placing even tea in them, and so--what makesHomolsom Rock so full of 'good medicine' is that the waters thatwash up about it are straight from the sea, made by the hand ofthe Great Tyee, and unspoiled by the hand of man. 

"It was not always there, that great rock, drawing its strength andits wonderful power from the seas, for it, too, was once a GreatTyee, who ruled a mighty tract of waters. He was god of all thewaters that wash the coast, of the Gulf of Georgia, of Puget Sound, of the Straits of Juan de Fuca, of the waters that beat against eventhe west coast of Vancouver Island, and of all the channels that cutbetween the Charlotte Islands. He was Tyee of the West Wind, andhis storms and tempests were so mighty that the Sagalie Tyee Himselfcould not control the havoc that he created. He warred upon allfishing craft, he demolished canoes, and sent men to graves in thesea. He uprooted forests and drove the surf on shore heavy withwreckage of despoiled trees and with beaten and bruised fish. Hedid all this to reveal his powers, for he was cruel and hard ofheart, and he would laugh and defy the Sagalie Tyee, and, looking upto the sky, he would call, 'See how powerful I am, how mighty, howstrong; I am as great as you. '

"It was at this time that the Sagalie Tyee in the persons of theFour Men came in the great canoe up over the rim of the Pacific, in that age thousands of years ago when they turned the evil intostone, and the kindly into trees. 

"'Now, ' said the god of the West Wind, 'I can show how great I am. I shall blow a tempest that these men may not land on my coast. They shall not ride my seas and sounds and channels in safety. Ishall wreck them and send their bodies into the great deeps, and Ishall be Sagalie Tyee in their place and ruler of all the world. 'So the god of the West Wind blew forth his tempests. The wavesarose mountain high, the seas lashed and thundered along the shores. The roar of his mighty breath could be heard wrenching giant limbsfrom the forest trees, whistling down the canyons and dealing deathand destruction for leagues and leagues along the coast. But thecanoe containing the Four Men rode upright through all the heightsand hollows of the seething ocean. No curling crest or sullen depthcould wreck that magic craft, for the hearts it bore were filledwith kindness for the human race, and kindness cannot die. 

"It was all rock and dense forest, and unpeopled; only wild animalsand sea-birds sought the shelter it provided from the terrors of theWest Wind; but he drove them out in sullen anger, and made on thisstrip of land his last stand against the Four Men. The Palefacecalls the place Point Grey, but the Indians yet speak of it as'The Battle Ground of the West Wind. ' All his mighty forces henow brought to bear against the oncoming canoe; he swept greathurricanes about the stony ledges; he caused the sea to beat andswirl in tempestuous fury along its narrow fastnesses; but the canoecame nearer and nearer, invincible as those shores, and strongerthan death itself. As the bow touched the land the Four Men aroseand commanded the West Wind to cease his war-cry, and, mighty thoughhe had been, his voice trembled and sobbed itself into a gentlebreeze, then fell to a whispering note, then faded into exquisitesilence. 

"'Oh, you evil one with the unkind heart, ' cried the Four Men, 'youhave been too great a god for even the Sagalie Tyee to obliterateyou forever, but you shall live on, live now to serve, not to hindermankind. You shall turn into stone where you now stand, and youshall rise only as men wish you to. Your life from this day shallbe for the good of man, for when the fisherman's sails are idle andhis lodge is leagues away you shall fill those sails and blow hiscraft free, in whatever direction he desires. You shall stand whereyou are through all the thousands upon thousands of years to come, and he who touches you with his paddle-blade shall have his desireof a breeze to carry him home. '"

My young tillicum had finished his tradition, and his great, solemneyes regarded me half-wistfully. 

"I wish you could see Homolsom Rock, " he said. "For that is he whowas once the Tyee of the West Wind. "

"Were you ever becalmed around Point Grey?" I asked irrelevantly. 

"Often, " he replied. "But I paddle up to the rock and touch it withthe tip of my paddle-blade, and, no matter which way I want to go, thewind will blow free for me, if I wait a little while. "

"I suppose your people all do this?" I replied. 

"Yes, all of them, " he answered. "They have done it for hundreds ofyears. You see the power in it is just as great now as at first, for the rock feeds every day on the unspoiled sea that the SagalieTyee made. "

THE TULAMEEN TRAIL

Did you ever "holiday" through the valley lands of the Dry Belt?Ever spend days and days in a swinging, swaying coach, behind afour-in-hand, when "Curly" or "Nicola Ned" held the ribbons, andtooled his knowing little leaders and wheelers down those horrifyingmountain-trails that wind like russet skeins of cobweb through theheights and depths of the Okanagan, the Nicola, and the Similkameencountries? If so, you have listened to the call of the SkookumChuck, as the Chinook speakers call the rollicking, tumbling streamsthat sing their way through the canyons with a music so dulcet, so insistent, that for many moons the echo of it lingers in yourlistening ears, and you will, through all the years to come, hearthe voices of those mountain-rivers calling you to return. 

But the most haunting of all the melodies is the warbling laughterof the Tulameen; its delicate note is far more powerful, morefar-reaching than the throaty thunders of Niagara. That is why theIndians of the Nicola country still cling to their old-time storythat the Tulameen carries the spirit of a young girl enmeshed in thewonders of its winding course; a spirit that can never free itselffrom the canyons, to rise above the heights and follow its fellowsto the Happy Hunting Grounds, but which is contented to entwine itslaughter, its sobs, its lonely whispers, its still lonelier call forcompanionship, with the wild music of the waters that sing foreverbeneath the western stars. 

As your horses plod up and up the almost perpendicular trail thatleads out of the Nicola Valley to the summit, a paradise of beautyoutspreads at your feet; the color is indescribable in words, theatmosphere thrills you. Youth and the pulse of rioting blood areyours again, until, as you near the heights, you become strangelycalmed by the voiceless silence of it all--a silence so holy thatit seems the whole world about you is swinging its censer beforean altar in some dim remote cathedral! The choir-voices of theTulameen are yet very far away across the summit, but the heights ofthe Nicola are the silent prayer that holds the human soul beforethe first great chords swell down from the organ-loft. In thisfirst long climb up miles and miles of trail, even the staccato ofthe drivers' long black-snake whip is hushed. He lets his animalspick their own sure-footed way, but once across the summit hegathers the reins in his steely fingers, gives a low, quick whistle, the whiplash curls about the ears of the leaders and the plunge downthe dip of the mountain begins. Every foot of the way is done ata gallop. The coach rocks and swings as it dashes through a trailrough-hewn from the heart of the forest; at times the angles are soabrupt that you cannot see the heads of the leaders as they swingaround the grey crags that almost scrape the tires on the left, while within a foot of the rim of the trail the right wheels whirlalong the edge of a yawning canyon. The rhythm of the hoof-beats, the recurrent low whistle and crack of the whiplash, the occasionalrattle of pebbles showering down to the depths, loosened by riotingwheels, have broken the sacred silence. Yet, above all those nearbysounds, there seems to be an indistinct murmur, which grows sweeter, more musical, as you gain the base of the mountains, where it risesabove all harsher notes. It is the voice of the restless Tulameenas it dances and laughs through the rocky throat of the canyon, three hundred feet below. Then, following the song, comes a glimpseof the river itself--white-garmented in the film of its countlessrapids, its showers of waterfalls. It is as beautiful to look at asto listen to, and it is here, where the trail winds about and aboveit for leagues, that the Indians say it caught the spirit of themaiden that is still interlaced in its loveliness. 

It was in one of the terrible battles that raged between the valleytribes before the white man's footprints were seen along thesetrails. None can now tell the cause of this warfare, but thesupposition is that it was merely for tribal supremacy--thatprimeval instinct that assails the savage in both man and beast, that drives the hill-men to bloodshed and the leaders of buffaloherds to conflict. It is the greed to rule; the one barbarousinstinct that civilization has never yet been able to eradicate fromarmed nations. This war of the tribes of the valley lands was ofyears in duration; men fought, and women mourned, and children wept, as all have done since time began. It seemed an unequal battle, for the old, experienced, war-tried chief and his two astute sonswere pitted against a single young Tulameen brave. Both factorshad their loyal followers, both were indomitable as to courage andbravery, both were determined and ambitious, both were skilledfighters. 

But on the older man's side were experience and two other wary, strategic brains to help him, while on the younger was but theadvantage of splendid youth and unconquerable persistence. But atevery pitched battle, at every skirmish, at every single-handedconflict the younger man gained little by little, the older man loststep by step. The experience of age was gradually but inevitablygiving way to the strength and enthusiasm of youth. Then, one day, they met face to face and alone--the old, war-scarred chief, theyoung battle-inspired brave. It was an unequal combat, and at theclose of a brief but violent struggle the younger had brought theolder to his knees. Standing over him with up-poised knife theTulameen brave laughed sneeringly, and said:

"Would you, my enemy, have this victory as your own? If so, I giveit to you; but in return for my submission I demand of you--yourdaughter. "

For an instant the old chief looked in wonderment at his conqueror;he thought of his daughter only as a child who played about theforest-trails or sat obediently beside her mother in the lodge, stitching her little moccasins or weaving her little baskets. 

"My daughter!" he answered sternly. "My daughter--who is barelyout of her own cradle-basket--give her to you, whose hands areblood-dyed with the killing of a score of my tribe? You ask forthis thing?"

"I do not ask it, " replied the young brave. "I demand it; I haveseen the girl and I shall have her. "

The old chief sprang to his feet and spat out his refusal. "Keepyour victory, and I keep my girl-child, " though he knew he was notonly defying his enemy, but defying death as well. 

The Tulameen laughed lightly, easily. "I shall not kill the sireof my wife, " he taunted. "One more battle must we have, but yourgirl-child will come to me. "

Then he took his victorious way up the trail, while the old chiefwalked with slow and springless step down into the canyon. 

The next morning the chief's daughter was loitering along theheights, listening to the singing river, and sometimes leaning overthe precipice to watch its curling eddies and dancing waterfalls. Suddenly she heard a slight rustle, as though some passing bird'swing had clipt the air. Then at her feet there fell a slender, delicately shaped arrow. It fell with spent force, and her Indianwoodcraft told her it had been shot to her, not at her. She startedlike a wild animal. Then her quick eye caught the outline of ahandsome, erect figure that stood on the heights across the river. She did not know him as her father's enemy. She only saw him to beyoung, stalwart, and of extraordinary manly beauty. The spirit ofyouth and of a certain savage coquetry awoke within her. Quicklyshe fitted one of her own dainty arrows to the bow-string and sentit winging across the narrow canyon; it fell, spent, at his feet, and he knew she had shot it to him, not at him. 

Next morning, woman-like, she crept noiselessly to the brink of theheights. Would she see him again--that handsome brave? Would hespeed another arrow to her? She had not yet emerged from the tangleof forest before it fell, its faint-winged flight heralding itscoming. Near the feathered end was tied a tassel of beautifulermine-tails. She took from her wrist a string of shell beads, fastened it to one of her little arrows, and winged it across thecanyon, as yesterday. 

The following morning, before leaving the lodge, she fastened thetassel of ermine-tails in her straight black hair. Would he seethem? But no arrow fell at her feet that day, but a dearer messagewas there on the brink of the precipice. He himself awaited hercoming--he who had never left her thoughts since that first arrowcame to her from his bow-string. His eyes burned with warm fires, as she approached, but his lips said simply: "I have crossed theTulameen River. " Together they stood, side by side, and looked downat the depths before them, watching in silence the little torrentrollicking and roystering over its boulders and crags. 

"That is my country, " he said, looking across the river. "Thisis the country of your father, and of your brothers; they are myenemies. I return to my own shore to-night. Will you come with me?"

She looked up into his handsome young face. So this was herfather's foe--the dreaded Tulameen!

"Will you come?" he repeated. 

"I will come, " she whispered. 

It was in the dark of the moon and through the kindly night he ledher far up the rocky shores to the narrow belt of quiet waters, where they crossed in silence into his own country. A week, amonth, a long golden summer, slipped by, but the insulted oldchief and his enraged sons failed to find her. 

Then, one morning, as the lovers walked together on the heights abovethe far upper reaches of the river, even the ever-watchful eyesof the Tulameen failed to detect the lurking enemy. Across thenarrow canyon crouched and crept the two outwitted brothers of thegirl-wife at his side; their arrows were on their bow-strings, theirhearts on fire with hatred and vengeance. Like two evil-wingedbirds of prey those arrows sped across the laughing river, butbefore they found their mark in the breast of the victoriousTulameen the girl had unconsciously stepped before him. With alittle sigh, she slipped into his arms, her brothers' arrowsburied into her soft, brown flesh. 

It was many a moon before his avenging hand succeeded in slayingthe old chief and those two hated sons of his. But when this wasfinally done the handsome young Tulameen left his people, his tribe, his country, and went into the far north. "For, " he said, as hesang his farewell war-song, "my heart lies dead in the TulameenRiver. "

 * * * * *

But the spirit of his girl-wife still sings through the canyon, itssong blending with the music of that sweetest-voiced river in allthe great valleys of the Dry Belt. That is why this laughter, thesobbing murmur of the beautiful Tulameen, will haunt for evermorethe ear that has once listened to its song. 

THE GREY ARCHWAY

The steamer, like a huge shuttle, wove in and out among thecountless small islands; its long trailing scarf of grey smokehung heavily along the uncertain shores, casting a shadow over thepearly waters of the Pacific, which swung lazily from rock to rockin indescribable beauty. 

After dinner I wandered astern with the traveller's ever-presenthope of seeing the beauties of a typical Northern sunset, and bysome happy chance I placed my deck-stool near an old tillicum, whowas leaning on the rail, his pipe between his thin, curved lips, hisbrown hands clasped idly, his sombre eyes looking far out to sea, as though they searched the future--or was it that they were seeingthe past?

"Kla-how-ya, tillicum!" I greeted. 

He glanced round, and half smiled. 

"Kla-how-ya, tillicum!" he replied, with the warmth of friendlinessI have always met with among the Pacific tribes. 

I drew my deck-stool nearer to him, and he acknowledged the actionwith another half smile, but did not stir from his entrenchment, remaining as if hedged about with an inviolable fortress ofexclusiveness. Yet I knew that my Chinook salutation would be adrawbridge by which I might hope to cross the moat into his castleof silence. 

Indian-like, he took his time before continuing the acquaintance. Then he began in most excellent English:

"You do not know these northern waters?"

I shook my head. 

After many moments he leaned forward, looking along the curve ofthe deck, up the channels and narrows we were threading, to abroad strip of waters off the port bow. Then he pointed withthat peculiar, thoroughly Indian gesture of the palm uppermost. 

"Do you see it--over there? The small island? It rests on theedge of the water, like a grey gull. "

It took my unaccustomed eyes some moments to discern it; then all atonce I caught its outline, veiled in the mists of distance--grey, cobwebby, dreamy. 

"Yes, " I replied, "I see it now. You will tell me of it--tillicum?"

He gave a swift glance at my dark skin, then nodded. "You areone of us, " he said, with evidently no thought of a possiblecontradiction. "And you will understand, or I should not tellyou. You will not smile at the story, for you are one of us. "

"I am one of you, and I shall understand, " I answered. 

It was a full half-hour before we neared the island, yet neither ofus spoke during that time; then, as the "grey gull" shaped itselfinto rock and tree and crag, I noticed in the very centre astupendous pile of stone lifting itself skyward, without fissure orcleft; but a peculiar haziness about the base made me peer narrowlyto catch the perfect outline. 

"It is the 'Grey Archway, '" he explained, simply. 

Only then did I grasp the singular formation before us: the rockwas a perfect archway, through which we could see the placidPacific shimmering in the growing colors of the coming sunset atthe opposite rim of the island. 

"What a remarkable whim of Nature!" I exclaimed, but his brown handwas laid in a contradictory grasp on my arm, and he snatched up mycomment almost with impatience. 

"No, it was not Nature, " he said. "That is the reason I say youwill understand--you are one of us--you will know what I tell you istrue. The Great Tyee did not make that archway, it was--" here hisvoice lowered--"it was magic, red man's medicine and magic--yousavvy?"

"Yes, " I said. "Tell me, for I--savvy. "

"Long time ago, " he began, stumbling into a half-broken Englishlanguage, because, I think, of the atmosphere and environment, "longbefore you were born, or your father, or grandfather, or even hisfather, this strange thing happened. It is a story for women tohear, to remember. Women are the future mothers of the tribe, and we of the Pacific Coast hold such in high regard, in greatreverence. The women who are mothers--o-ho!--they are the importantones, we say. Warriors, fighters, brave men, fearless daughters, owetheir qualities to these mothers--eh, is it not always so?"

I nodded silently. The island was swinging nearer to us, the"Grey Archway" loomed almost above us, the mysticism crowded close, it enveloped me, caressed me, appealed to me. 

"And?" I hinted. 

"And, " he proceeded, "this 'Grey Archway' is a story of mothers, of magic, of witchcraft, of warriors, of--love. "

An Indian rarely uses the word "love, " and when he does it expressesevery quality, every attribute, every intensity, emotion, and passionembraced in those four little letters. Surely this was anexceptional story I was to hear. 

I did not answer, only looked across the pulsing waters towardthe "Grey Archway, " which the sinking sun was touching with softpastels, tints one could give no name to, beauties impossible todescribe. 

"You have not heard of Yaada?" he questioned. Then, fortunately, he continued without waiting for a reply. He well knew that Ihad never heard of Yaada, so why not begin without preliminary totell me of her?--so--

"Yaada was the loveliest daughter of the Haida tribe. Young bravesfrom all the islands, from the mainland, from the upper Skeenacountry, came, hoping to carry her to their far-off lodges, but theyalways returned alone. She was the most desired of all the islandmaidens, beautiful, brave, modest, the daughter of her own mother. 

"But there was a great man, a very great man--a medicine-man, skilful, powerful, influential, old, deplorably old, and very, veryrich; he said, 'Yaada shall be my wife. ' And there was a youngfisherman, handsome, loyal, boyish, poor, oh! very poor, andgloriously young, and he, too, said, 'Yaada shall be my wife. '

"But Yaada's mother sat apart and thought and dreamed, as motherswill. She said to herself, 'The great medicine-man has power, hasvast riches, and wonderful magic, why not give her to him? ButUlka has the boy's heart, the boy's beauty; he is very brave, verystrong; why not give her to him?'

"But the laws of the great Haida tribe prevailed. Its wise mensaid, 'Give the girl to the greatest man, give her to the mostpowerful, the richest. The man of magic must have his choice. '

"But at this the mother's heart grew as wax in the summersunshine--it is a strange quality that mothers' hearts are made of!'Give her to the best man--the man her heart holds highest, ' saidthis Haida mother. 

"Then Yaada spoke: 'I am the daughter of my tribe; I would judge ofmen by their excellence. He who proves most worthy I shall marry;it is not riches that make a good husband; it is not beauty thatmakes a good father for one's children. Let me and my tribe seesome proof of the excellence of these two men--then, only, shall Ichoose who is to be the father of my children. Let us have a trialof their skill; let them show me how evil or how beautiful is theinside of their hearts. Let each of them throw a stone with someintent, some purpose in their hearts. He who makes the noblest markmay call me wife. '

"'Alas! Alas!' wailed the Haida mother. 'This casting of stonesdoes not show worth. It but shows prowess. '

"'But I have implored the Sagalie Tyee of my father, and of hisfathers before him, to help me to judge between them by this means, 'said the girl. 'So they must cast the stones. In this way onlyshall I see their innermost hearts. '

"The medicine-man never looked so old as at that moment; sohopelessly old, so wrinkled, so palsied: he was no mate for Yaada. Ulka never looked so god-like in his young beauty, so gloriouslyyoung, so courageous. The girl, looking at him, loved him--almostwas she placing her hand in his, but the spirit of her forefathershalted her. She had spoken the word--she must abide by it. 'Throw!' she commanded. 

"Into his shrivelled fingers the great medicine-man took a small, round stone, chanting strange words of magic all the while; hisgreedy eyes were on the girl, his greedy thoughts about her. 

"Into his strong young fingers Ulka took a smooth, flat stone; hishandsome eyes were lowered in boyish modesty, his thoughts wereworshipping her. The great medicine-man cast his missile first; itswept through the air like a shaft of lightning, striking the greatrock with a force that shattered it. At the touch of that stonethe 'Grey Archway' opened and has remained open to this day. 

"'Oh, wonderful power and magic!' clamored the entire tribe. 'The very rocks do his bidding. '

"But Yaada stood with eyes that burned in agony. Ulka could nevercommand such magic--she knew it. But at her side Ulka was standingerect, tall, slender, and beautiful, but just as he cast his missilethe evil voice of the old medicine-man began a still more evilincantation. He fixed his poisonous eyes on the younger man, eyeswith hideous magic in their depths--ill-omened and enchanted with'bad medicine. ' The stone left Ulka's fingers; for a second it flewforth in a straight line, then, as the evil voice of the old man grewlouder in its incantations, the stone curved. Magic had waylaid thestrong arm of the young brave. The stone poised an instant abovethe forehead of Yaada's mother, then dropped with the weight of manymountains, and the last long sleep fell upon her. 

"'Slayer of my mother!' stormed the girl, her suffering eyes fixedupon the medicine-man. 'Oh, I now see your black heart through yourblack magic. Through good magic you cut the "Grey Archway, " butyour evil magic you used upon young Ulka. I saw your wicked eyesupon him; I heard your wicked incantations; I know your wickedheart. You used your heartless magic in hope of winning me--inhope of making him an outcast of the tribe. You cared not for mysorrowing heart, my motherless life to come. ' Then, turning to thetribe, she demanded: 'Who of you saw his evil eyes fixed on Ulka?Who of you heard his evil song?'

"'I, ' and 'I, ' and 'I, ' came voice after voice. 

"'The very air is poisoned that we breathe about him, ' theyshouted. 'The young man is blameless, his heart is as the sun;but the man who has used his evil magic has a heart black and coldas the hours before the dawn. '

"Then Yaada's voice arose in a strange, sweet, sorrowful chant:

 My feet shall walk no more upon this island, With its great, Grey Archway. My mother sleeps forever on this island, With its great, Grey Archway. My heart would break without her on this island, With its great, Grey Archway. 

 My life was of her life upon this island, With its great, Grey Archway. My mother's soul has wandered from this island, With its great, Grey Archway. My feet must follow hers beyond this island, With its great, Grey Archway. 

"As Yaada chanted and wailed her farewell she moved slowly towardsthe edge of the cliff. On its brink she hovered a moment withoutstretched arms, as a sea gull poises on its weight--then shecalled:

"'Ulka, my Ulka! Your hand is innocent of wrong; it was the evilmagic of your rival that slew my mother. I must go to her; even youcannot keep me here; will you stay, or come with me? Oh! my Ulka!'

"The slender, gloriously young boy sprang toward her; their handsclosed one within the other; for a second they poised on the brinkof the rocks, radiant as stars; then together they plunged intothe sea. "

 * * * * *

The legend was ended. Long ago we had passed the island with its"Grey Archway"; it was melting into the twilight, far astern. 

As I brooded over this strange tale of a daughter's devotion, Iwatched the sea and sky for something that would give me a clueto the inevitable sequel that the tillicum, like all his race, was surely withholding until the opportune moment. 

Something flashed through the darkening waters not a stone's-throwfrom the steamer. I leaned forward, watching it intently. Twosilvery fish were making a succession of little leaps and plungesalong the surface of the sea, their bodies catching the last tintsof sunset, like flashing jewels. I looked at the tillicum quickly. He was watching me--a world of anxiety in his half-mournful eyes. 

"And those two silvery fish?" I questioned. 

He smiled. The anxious look vanished. "I was right, " he said; "youdo know us and our ways, for you are one of us. Yes, those fish areseen only in these waters; there are never but two of them. Theyare Yaada and her mate, seeking for the soul of the Haida woman--hermother. "

DEADMAN'S ISLAND

 It is dusk on the Lost Lagoon, And we two dreaming the dusk away, Beneath the drift of a twilight grey-- Beneath the drowse of an ending day And the curve of a golden moon. 

 It is dark in the Lost Lagoon, And gone are the depths of haunting blue, The grouping gulls, and the old canoe, The singing firs, and the dusk and--you, And gone is the golden moon. 

 O! lure of the Lost Lagoon-- I dream to-night that my paddle blurs The purple shade where the seaweed stirs-- I hear the call of the singing firs In the hush of the golden moon. 

For many minutes we stood silently, leaning on the western rail ofthe bridge as we watched the sunset across that beautiful littlebasin of water known as Coal Harbor. I have always resented thatjarring, unattractive name, for years ago, when I first plied paddleacross the gunwale of a light little canoe, and idled about itsmargin, I named the sheltered little cove the Lost Lagoon. Thiswas just to please my own fancy, for, as that perfect summer monthdrifted on, the ever-restless tides left the harbor devoid of waterat my favorite canoeing hour, and my pet idling-place was lost formany days--hence my fancy to call it the Lost Lagoon. But thechief, Indian-like, immediately adopted the name, at least when hespoke of the place to me, and, as we watched the sun slip behind therim of firs, he expressed the wish that his dug-out were here insteadof lying beached at the farther side of the park. 

"If canoe was here, you and I we paddle close to shores all 'roundyour Lost Lagoon: we make track just like half-moon. Then we paddleunder this bridge, and go channel between Deadman's Island andpark. Then 'round where cannon speak time at nine o'clock. Then'cross Inlet to Indian side of Narrows. "

I turned to look eastward, following in fancy the course he hadsketched. The waters were still as the footsteps of the oncomingtwilight, and, floating in a pool of soft purple, Deadman's Islandrested like a large circle of candle-moss. 

"Have you ever been on it?" he asked as he caught my gaze centeringon the irregular outline of the island pines. 

"I have prowled the length and depth of it, " I told him, "climbedover every rock on its shores, crept under every tangled growth ofits interior, explored its overgrown trails, and more than oncenearly got lost in its very heart. "

"Yes, " he half laughed, "it pretty wild; not much good foranything. "

"People seem to think it valuable, " I said. "There is a lot oflitigation--of fighting going on now about it. "

"Oh! that the way always, " he said, as though speaking of a longaccepted fact. "Always fight over that place. Hundreds of yearsago they fight about it; Indian people; they say hundreds of yearsto come everybody will still fight--never be settled what thatplace is, who it belong to, who has right to it. No, never settle. Deadman's Island always mean fight for someone. "

"So the Indians fought amongst themselves about it?" I remarked, seemingly without guile, although my ears tingled for the legendI knew was coming. 

"Fought like lynx at close quarters, " he answered. "Fought, killedeach other, until the island ran with blood redder than that sunset, and the sea-water about it was stained flame color--it was then, my people say, that the scarlet fire-flower was first seen growingalong this coast. "

"It is a beautiful color--the fire-flower, " I said. 

"It should be fine color, for it was born and grew from the heartsof fine tribes-people--very fine people, " he emphasized. 

We crossed to the eastern rail of the bridge, and stood watching thedeep shadows that gathered slowly and silently about the island; Ihave seldom looked upon anything more peaceful. 

The chief sighed. "We have no such men now, no fighters like thosemen, no hearts, no courage like theirs. But I tell you the story;you understand it then. Now all peace; to-night all good tillicums;even dead man's spirit does not fight now, but long time after ithappen those spirits fought. "

"And the legend?" I ventured. 

"Oh! yes, " he replied, as if suddenly returning to the present fromout a far country in the realm of time. "Indian people, they callit the 'Legend of the Island of Dead Men. '

"There was war everywhere. Fierce tribes from the northern coast, savage tribes from the south, all met here and battled and raided, burned and captured, tortured and killed their enemies. The forestssmoked with camp-fires, the Narrows were choked with war-canoes, andthe Sagalie Tyee--He who is a man of peace--turned His face awayfrom His Indian children. About this island there was dispute andcontention. The medicine-men from the North claimed it as theirchanting-ground. The medicine-men from the South laid equal claimto it. Each wanted it as the stronghold of their witchcraft, theirmagic. Great bands of these medicine-men met on the small space, using every sorcery in their power to drive their opponents away. The witch-doctors of the North made their camp on the northern rimof the island; those from the South settled along the southern edge, looking towards what is now the great city of Vancouver. Bothfactions danced, chanted, burned their magic powders, built theirmagic fires, beat their magic rattles, but neither would give way, yet neither conquered. About them, on the waters, on the mainlands, raged the warfare of their respective tribes--the Sagalie Tyee hadforgotten His Indian children. 

"After many months, the warriors on both sides weakened. They saidthe incantations of the rival medicine-men were bewitching them, were making their hearts like children's, and their arms nervelessas women's. So friend and foe arose as one man and drove themedicine-men from the island, hounded them down the Inlet, herdedthem through the Narrows, and banished them out to sea, where theytook refuge on one of the outer islands of the gulf. Then thetribes once more fell upon each other in battle. 

"The warrior blood of the North will always conquer. They arethe stronger, bolder, more alert, more keen. The snows and theice of their country make swifter pulse than the sleepy suns ofthe South can awake in a man; their muscles are of sterner stuff, their endurance greater. Yes, the northern tribes will always bevictors. * But the craft and the strategy of the southern tribesare hard things to battle against. While those of the Northfollowed the medicine-men farther out to sea to make sure of theirbanishment, those from the South returned under cover of night andseized the women and children and the old, enfeebled men in theirenemy's camp, transported them all to the Island of Dead Men, andthere held them as captives. Their war-canoes circled the islandlike a fortification, through which drifted the sobs of theimprisoned women, the mutterings of the aged men, the wail oflittle children. 

* Note. --It would almost seem that the chief knew that wonderful poemof "The Khan's, " "The Men of the Northern Zone, " wherein he says:

 If ever a Northman lost a throne Did the conqueror come from the South? Nay, the North shall ever be free . . . Etc. 

"Again and again the men of the North assailed that circle ofcanoes, and again and again were repulsed. The air was thick withpoisoned arrows, the water stained with blood. But day by day thecircle of southern canoes grew thinner and thinner; the northernarrows were telling, and truer of aim. Canoes drifted everywhere, empty, or, worse still, manned only by dead men. The pick of thesouthern warriors had already fallen, when their greatest Tyeemounted a large rock on the eastern shore. Brave and unmindful ofa thousand weapons aimed at his heart, he uplifted his hand, palmoutward--the signal for conference. Instantly every northern arrowwas lowered, and every northern ear listened for his words. 

"'Oh! men of the upper coast, ' he said, 'you are more numerousthan we are; your tribe is larger, your endurance greater. We aregrowing hungry, we are growing less in numbers. Our captives--yourwomen and children and old men--have lessened, too, our stores offood. If you refuse our terms we will yet fight to the finish. To-morrow we will kill all our captives before your eyes, for we canfeed them no longer, or you can have your wives, your mothers, yourfathers, your children, by giving us for each and every one of themone of your best and bravest young warriors, who will consent tosuffer death in their stead. Speak! You have your choice. '

"In the northern canoes scores and scores of young warriors leaptto their feet. The air was filled with glad cries, with exultantshouts. The whole world seemed to ring with the voices of thoseyoung men who called loudly, with glorious courage:

"'Take me, but give me back my old father. '

"'Take me, but spare to my tribe my little sister. '

"'Take me, but release my wife and boy-baby. '

"So the compact was made. Two hundred heroic, magnificent young menpaddled up to the island, broke through the fortifying circle ofcanoes, and stepped ashore. They flaunted their eagle plumes withthe spirit and boldness of young gods. Their shoulders were erect, their step was firm, their hearts strong. Into their canoes theycrowded the two hundred captives. Once more their women sobbed, their old men muttered, their children wailed, but those youngcopper-colored gods never flinched, never faltered. Their weak andtheir feeble were saved. What mattered to them such a little thingas death?

"The released captives were quickly surrounded by their own people, but the flower of their splendid nation was in the hands of theirenemies, those valorous young men who thought so little of life thatthey willingly, gladly laid it down to serve and to save those theyloved and cared for. Amongst them were war-tried warriors who hadfought fifty battles, and boys not yet full grown, who were drawinga bow-string for the first time; but their hearts, their courage, their self-sacrifice were as one. 

"Out before a long file of southern warriors they stood. Theirchins uplifted, their eyes defiant, their breasts bared. Eachleaned forward and laid his weapons at his feet, then stood erect, with empty hands, and laughed forth his challenge to death. A thousand arrows ripped the air, two hundred gallant northernthroats flung forth a death cry exultant, triumphant as conqueringkings--then two hundred fearless northern hearts ceased to beat. 

"But in the morning the southern tribes found the spot where theyfell peopled with flaming fire-flowers. Dread terror seized uponthem. They abandoned the island, and when night again shroudedthem they manned their canoes and noiselessly slipped through theNarrows, turned their bows southward, and this coast-line knewthem no more. "

"What glorious men!" I half whispered as the chief concluded thestrange legend. 

"Yes, men!" he echoed. "The white people call it Deadman's Island. That is their way; but we of the Squamish call it The Island ofDead Men. "

The clustering pines and the outlines of the island's margin werenow dusky and indistinct. Peace, peace lay over the waters, and thepurple of the summer twilight had turned to grey, but I knew that inthe depths of the undergrowth on Deadman's Island there blossomeda flower of flaming beauty; its colors were veiled in the comingnightfall, but somewhere down in the sanctuary of its petals pulsedthe heart's blood of many and valiant men. 

A SQUAMISH LEGEND OF NAPOLEON

Holding an important place among the majority of curious tales heldin veneration by the coast tribes are those of the sea-serpent. Themonster appears and reappears with almost monotonous frequency inconnection with history, traditions, legends and superstitions; butperhaps the most wonderful part it ever played was in the greatdrama that held the stage of Europe, and incidentally all the worldduring the stormy days of the first Napoleon. 

Throughout Canada I have never failed to find an amazing knowledgeof Napoleon Bonaparte amongst the very old and "uncivilized"Indians. Perhaps they may be unfamiliar with every other historicalcharacter from Adam down, but they will all tell you they have heardof the "Great French Fighter, " as they call the wonderful littleCorsican. 

Whether this knowledge was obtained through the fact that ourearliest settlers and pioneers were French, or whether Napoleon'salmost magical fighting career attracted the Indian mind to theexclusion of lesser warriors, I have never yet decided. But thefact remains that the Indians of our generation are not as familiarwith Bonaparte's name as were their fathers and grandfathers, so either the predominance of English-speaking settlers or thethinning of their ancient war-loving blood by modern civilizationand peaceful times must, one or the other, account for the youngerIndian's ignorance of the Emperor of the French. 

In telling me the legend of "The Lost Talisman, " my good tillicum, the late Chief Capilano, began the story with the almost amazingquestion, Had I ever heard of Napoleon Bonaparte? It was somemoments before I just caught the name, for his English, alwaysquaint and beautiful, was at times a little halting; but when hesaid, by way of explanation, "You know big fighter, Frenchman. The English they beat him in big battle, " I grasped immediatelyof whom he spoke. 

"What do you know of him?" I asked. 

His voice lowered, almost as if he spoke a state secret. "I knowhow it is that English they beat him. "

I have read many historians on this event, but to hear the Squamishversion was a novel and absorbing thing. "Yes?" I said--my usual"leading" word to lure him into channels of tradition. 

"Yes, " he affirmed. Then, still in a half-whisper, he proceeded totell me that it all happened through the agency of a single jointfrom the vertebra of a sea-serpent. 

In telling me the story of Brockton Point and the valiant boywho killed the monster, he dwelt lightly on the fact that allpeople who approach the vicinity of the creature are palsied, both mentally and physically--bewitched, in fact--so that theirbones become disjointed and their brains incapable; but to-day heelaborated upon this peculiarity until I harked back to the boyof Brockton Point and asked how it was that his body and brainescaped this affliction. 

"He was all good, and had no greed, " he replied. "He was proofagainst all bad things. "

I nodded understandingly, and he proceeded to tell me that allsuccessful Indian fighters and warriors carried somewhere abouttheir person a joint of a sea-serpent's vertebra; that themedicine-men threw "the power" about them so that they were notpersonally affected by this little "charm, " but that immediatelythey approached an enemy the "charm" worked disaster, and victorywas assured to the fortunate possessor of the talisman. There wasone particularly effective joint that had been treasured andcarried by the warriors of a great Squamish family for a century. These warriors had conquered every foe they encountered, untilthe talisman had become so renowned that the totem-pole of theirentire "clan" was remodelled, and the new one crested by thefigure of a single joint of a sea-serpent's vertebra. 

About this time stories of Napoleon's first great achievementsdrifted across the seas; not across the land--and just here maybe a clue to buried Coast-Indian history, which those who arecleverer at research than I can puzzle over. The chief was mostemphatic about the source of Indian knowledge of Napoleon. 

"I suppose you heard of him from Quebec, through, perhaps, someof the French priests, " I remarked. 

"No, no, " he contradicted hurriedly. "Not from East; we hear itfrom over the Pacific from the place they call Russia. " But whoconveyed the news or by what means it came he could not furtherenlighten me. But a strange thing happened to the Squamish familyabout this time. There was a large blood connection, but the onlymale member living was a very old warrior, the hero of many battlesand the possessor of the talisman. On his death-bed his women ofthree generations gathered about him; his wife, his sisters, hisdaughters, his granddaughters, but not one man, nor yet a boy ofhis own blood, stood by to speed his departing warrior spirit tothe land of peace and plenty. 

"The charm cannot rest in the hands of women, " he murmured almostwith his last breath. "Women may not war and fight other nations orother tribes; women are for the peaceful lodge and for the leadingof little children. They are for holding baby hands, teaching babyfeet to walk. No, the charm cannot rest with you, women. I haveno brother, no cousin, no son, no grandson, and the charm must notgo to a lesser warrior than I. None of our tribe, nor of any tribeon the coast, ever conquered me. The charm must go to one asunconquerable as I have been. When I am dead send it across thegreat salt chuck, to the victorious 'Frenchman'; they call himNapoleon Bonaparte. " They were his last words. 

The older women wished to bury the charm with him, but the youngerwomen, inspired with the spirit of their generation, were determinedto send it over-seas. "In the grave it will be dead, " they argued. "Let it still live on. Let it help some other fighter to greatnessand victory. "

As if to confirm their decision, the next day a small sealing-vesselanchored in the Inlet. All the men aboard spoke Russian, savetwo thin, dark, agile sailors, who kept aloof from the crew andconversed in another language. These two came ashore with part ofthe crew and talked in French with a wandering Hudson's Bay trapper, who often lodged with the Squamish people. Thus the women, who yetmourned over their dead warrior, knew these two strangers to befrom the land where the great "Frenchman" was fighting againstthe world. 

Here I interrupted the chief. "How came the Frenchmen in a Russiansealer?" I asked. 

"Captives, " he replied. "Almost slaves, and hated by their captors, as the majority always hate the few. So the women drew those twoFrenchmen apart from the rest and told them the story of the bone ofthe sea-serpent, urging them to carry it back to their own countryand give it to the great 'Frenchman' who was as courageous and asbrave as their dead leader. 

"The Frenchmen hesitated; the talisman might affect them, they said;might jangle their own brains, so that on their return to Russiathey would not have the sagacity to plan an escape to their owncountry; might disjoint their bodies, so that their feet and handswould be useless, and they would become as weak as children. Butthe women assured them that the charm only worked its magical powersover a man's enemies, that the ancient medicine-men had 'bewitched'it with this quality. So the Frenchmen took it and promised that ifit were in the power of man they would convey it to 'the Emperor. '

"As the crew boarded the sealer, the women watching from the shoreobserved strange contortions seize many of the men; some fell onthe deck; some crouched, shaking as with palsy; some writhed fora moment, then fell limp and seemingly boneless; only the twoFrenchmen stood erect and strong and vital--the Squamish talismanhad already overcome their foes. As the little sealer set sailup the gulf she was commanded by a crew of two Frenchmen--men whohad entered these waters as captives, who were leaving them asconquerors. The palsied Russians were worse than useless, andwhat became of them the chief could not state; presumably theywere flung overboard, and by some trick of a kindly fate theFrenchmen at last reached the coast of France. 

"Tradition is so indefinite about their movements subsequent tosailing out of the Inlet that even the ever-romantic and vividlycolored imaginations of the Squamish people have never suppliedthe details of this beautifully childish, yet strangely historicalfairy-tale. But the voices of the trumpets of war, the beat of drumsthroughout Europe heralded back to the wilds of the Pacific Coastforests the intelligence that the great Squamish 'charm' eventuallyreached the person of Napoleon; that from this time onward hiscareer was one vast victory, that he won battle after battle, conquered nation after nation, and, but for the direst calamitythat could befall a warrior, would eventually have been master ofthe world. "

"What was this calamity, Chief?" I asked, amazed at his knowledgeof the great historical soldier and strategist. 

The chief's voice again lowered to a whisper--his face was almostrigid with intentness as he replied:

"He lost the Squamish charm--lost it just before one great fightwith the English people. "

I looked at him curiously; he had been telling me the oddest mixtureof history and superstition, of intelligence and ignorance, themost whimsically absurd, yet impressive, tale I ever heard fromIndian lips. 

"What was the name of the great fight--did you ever hear it?"I asked, wondering how much he knew of events which took placeat the other side of the world a century agone. 

"Yes, " he said, carefully, thoughtfully; "I hear the name sometimein London when I there. Railroad station there--same name. "

"Was it Waterloo?" I asked. 

He nodded quickly, without a shadow of hesitation. "That the one, "he replied. "That's it, Waterloo. "

THE LURE IN STANLEY PARK

There is a well-known trail in Stanley Park that leads to what Ialways love to call the "Cathedral Trees"--that group of somehalf-dozen forest giants that arch overhead with such superbloftiness. But in all the world there is no cathedral whose marbleor onyx columns can vie with those straight, clean, brown tree-bolesthat teem with the sap and blood of life. There is no fresco thatcan rival the delicacy of lace-work they have festooned betweenyou and the far skies. No tiles, no mosaic or inlaid marbles, areas fascinating as the bare, russet, fragrant floor outspreadingabout their feet. They are the acme of Nature's architecture, andin building them she has outrivalled all her erstwhile conceptions. She will never originate a more faultless design, never erect a moreperfect edifice. But the divinely moulded trees and the man-madecathedral have one exquisite characteristic in common. It is theatmosphere of holiness. Most of us have better impulses afterviewing a stately cathedral, and none of us can stand amid thatmajestic forest group without experiencing some elevatingthoughts, some refinement of our coarser nature. Perhaps those whoread this little legend will never again look at those cathedraltrees without thinking of the glorious souls they contain, foraccording to the Coast Indians they do harbor human souls, and theworld is better because they once had the speech and the hearts ofmighty men. 

My tillicum did not use the word "lure" in telling me this legend. There is no equivalent for the word in the Chinook tongue, but thegestures of his voiceful hands so expressed the quality of somethingbetween magnetism and charm that I have selected this word "lure"as best fitting what he wished to convey. Some few yards beyondthe cathedral trees, an overgrown disused trail turns into the densewilderness to the right. Only Indian eyes could discern that trail, and the Indians do not willingly go to that part of the park to theright of the great group. Nothing in this, nor yet the next worldwould tempt a Coast Indian into the compact centres of the wildportions of the park, for therein, concealed cunningly, is the"lure" they all believe in. There is not a tribe in the entiredistrict that does not know of this strange legend. You will hearthe tale from those that gather at Eagle Harbor for the fishing, from the Fraser River tribes, from the Squamish at the Narrows, fromthe Mission, from up the Inlet, even from the tribes at North Bend, but no one will volunteer to be your guide, for having once comewithin the "aura" of the lure it is a human impossibility to leaveit. Your will-power is dwarfed, your intelligence blighted, yourfeet will refuse to lead you out by a straight trail, you willcircle, circle for evermore about this magnet, for if death kindlycomes to your aid your immortal spirit will go on in that endlesscircling that will bar it from entering the Happy Hunting Grounds. 

And, like the cathedral trees, the lure once lived, a human soul, but in this instance it was a soul depraved, not sanctified. TheIndian belief is very beautiful concerning the results of good andevil in the human body. The Sagalie Tyee [God] has His own wayof immortalizing each. People who are wilfully evil, who have nokindness in their hearts, who are bloodthirsty, cruel, vengeful, unsympathetic, the Sagalie Tyee turns to solid stone that willharbor no growth, even that of moss or lichen, for these stonescontain no moisture, just as their wicked hearts lacked the milk ofhuman kindness. The one famed exception, wherein a good man wastransformed into stone, was in the instance of Siwash Rock, but asthe Indian tells you of it he smiles with gratification as he callsyour attention to the tiny tree cresting that imperial monument. He says the tree was always there to show the nations that the goodin this man's heart kept on growing even when his body had ceasedto be. On the other hand, the Sagalie Tyee transforms the kindlypeople, the humane, sympathetic, charitable, loving people intotrees, so that after death they may go on forever benefiting allmankind; they may yield fruit, give shade and shelter, affordunending service to the living by their usefulness as buildingmaterial and as firewood. Their saps and gums, their fibres, theirleaves, their blossoms, enrich, nourish, and sustain the human form;no evil is produced by trees--all, all is goodness, is hearty, ishelpfulness and growth. They give refuge to the birds, they givemusic to the winds, and from them are carved the bows and arrows, the canoes and paddles, bowls, spoons, and baskets. Their serviceto mankind is priceless; the Indian that tells you this tale willenumerate all these attributes and virtues of the trees. Nowonder the Sagalie Tyee chose them to be the abode of souls goodand great. 

But the lure in Stanley Park is that most dreaded of all things, anevil soul. It is embodied in a bare, white stone, which is shunnedby moss and vine and lichen, but over which are splashed innumerablejet-black spots that have eaten into the surface like an acid. 

This condemned soul once animated the body of a witch-woman, whowent up and down the coast, over seas and far inland, casting herevil eye on innocent people, and bringing them untold evils anddiseases. About her person she carried the renowned "Bad Medicine"that every Indian believes in--medicine that weakened the arm ofthe warrior in battle, that caused deformities, that poisoned mindsand characters, that engendered madness, that bred plagues andepidemics; in short, that was the seed of every evil that couldbefall mankind. This witch-woman herself was immune from death;generations were born and grew to old age, and died, and othergenerations arose in their stead, but the witch-woman went about, her heart set against her kind. Her acts were evil, her purposeswicked. She broke hearts and bodies and souls; she gloried in tears, and revelled in unhappiness, and sent them broadcast wherever shewandered. And in His high heaven the Sagalie Tyee wept with sorrowfor His afflicted human children. He dared not let her die, forher spirit would still go on with its evil doing. In mighty angerHe gave command to His Four Men (always representing the Deity)that they should turn this witch-woman into a stone and enchainher spirit in its centre, that the curse of her might be liftedfrom the unhappy race. 

So the Four Men entered their giant canoe, and headed, as wastheir custom, up the Narrows. As they neared what is now knownas Prospect Point they heard from the heights above them a laugh, and, looking up, they beheld the witch-woman jeering defiantly atthem. They landed, and, scaling the rocks, pursued her as shedanced away, eluding them like a will-o'-the-wisp as she calledout to them sneeringly:

"Care for yourselves, oh! men of the Sagalie Tyee, or I shall blightyou with my evil eye. Care for yourselves and do not follow me. "On and on she danced through the thickest of the wilderness, on andon they followed until they reached the very heart of the sea-girtneck of land we know as Stanley Park. Then the tallest, themightiest of the Four Men, lifted his hand and cried out: "Oh!woman of the stony heart, be stone for evermore, and bear forevera black stain for each one of your evil deeds. " And as he spokethe witch-woman was transformed into this stone that tradition saysis in the centre of the park. 

Such is the "Legend of the Lure. " Whether or not this stone is reallyin existence who knows? One thing is positive, however: no Indianwill ever help to discover it. 

Three different Indians have told me that fifteen or eighteen yearsago, two tourists--a man and a woman--were lost in Stanley Park. When found a week later the man was dead, the woman mad, and eachof my informants firmly believed they had, in their wanderings, encountered "the stone" and were compelled to circle around it, because of its powerful lure. 

But this wild tale, fortunately, had a most beautiful conclusion. The Four Men, fearing that the evil heart imprisoned in the stonewould still work destruction, said: "At the end of the trail wemust place so good and great a thing that it will be mightier, stronger, more powerful than this evil. " So they chose from thenations the kindliest, most benevolent men, men whose hearts werefilled with the love of their fellow-beings, and transformed thesemerciful souls into the stately group of "Cathedral Trees. "

How well the purpose of the Sagalie Tyee has wrought its effectthrough time! The good has predominated, as He planned it to, foris not the stone hidden in some unknown part of the park where eyesdo not see it and feet do not follow--and do not the thousandswho come to us from the uttermost parts of the world seek thatwondrous beauty spot, and stand awed by the majestic silence, thealmost holiness of that group of giants?

More than any other legend that the Indians about Vancouver havetold me does this tale reveal the love of the coast native forkindness and his hatred of cruelty. If these tribes really haveever been a warlike race I cannot think they pride themselves muchon the occupation. If you talk with any of them, and they mentionsome man they particularly like or admire, their first qualificationof him is: "He's a kind man. " They never say he is brave, or rich, or successful, or even strong, that characteristic so loved bythe red man. To these coast tribes if a man is "kind" he iseverything. And almost without exception their legends deal withrewards for tenderness and self-abnegation, and personal and mentalcleanliness. 

Call them fairy-tales if you wish to, they all have a reasonablenessthat must have originated in some mighty mind, and, better than that, they all tell of the Indian's faith in the survival of the bestimpulses of the human heart, and the ultimate extinction of theworst. 

In talking with my many good tillicums, I find this witch-womanlegend is the most universally known and thoroughly believed inof all traditions they have honored me by revealing to me. 

DEER LAKE

Few white men ventured inland, a century ago, in the days of thefirst Chief Capilano, when the spoils of the mighty Fraser Riverpoured into copper-colored hands, but did not find their way to theremotest corners of the earth, as in our times, when the gold fromits sources, the salmon from its mouth, the timber from its shoresare world-known riches. 

The fisherman's craft, the hunter's cunning, were plied where nowcities and industries, trade and commerce, buying and selling, holdsway. In those days the moccasined foot awoke no echo in the foresttrails. Primitive weapons, arms, implements, and utensils were theonly means of the Indians' food-getting. His livelihood dependedupon his own personal prowess, his skill in woodcraft and waterlore. And, as this is a story of an elk-bone spear, the reader mustfirst be in sympathy with the fact that this rude instrument, mostdeftly fashioned, was of priceless value to the first Capilano, towhom it had come through three generations of ancestors, all of whomhad been experienced hunters and dexterous fishermen. 

Capilano himself was without a rival as a spearman. He knew themoods of the Fraser River, the habits of its thronging tenants, asno other man has ever known them before or since. He knew everyisle and inlet along the coast, every boulder, the sand-bars, thestill pools, the temper of the tides. He knew the spawning-grounds, the secret streams that fed the larger rivers, the outlets ofrock-bound lakes, the turns and tricks of swirling rapids. Heknew the haunts of bird and beast and fish and fowl, and wasmaster of the arts and artifice that man must use when matchinghis brain against the eluding wiles of the untamed creatures ofthe wilderness. 

Once only did his cunning fail him, once only did Nature bafflehim with her mysterious fabric of waterways and land-lures. Itwas when he was led to the mouth of the unknown river, which hasevaded discovery through all the centuries, but which--so say theIndians--still sings on its way through some buried channel thatleads from the lake to the sea. 

He had been sealing along the shores of what is now known as PointGrey. His canoe had gradually crept inland, skirting up the coastto the mouth of False Creek. Here he encountered a very king ofseals, a colossal creature that gladdened the hunter's eyes asgame worthy of his skill. For this particular prize he would castthe elk-bone spear. It had never failed his sire, his grandsire, his great-grandsire. He knew it would not fail him now. A long, pliable, cedar-fibre rope lay in his canoe. Many expert fingers hadwoven and plaited the rope, had beaten and oiled it until it wassoft and flexible as a serpent. This he attached to the spearhead, and with deft, unerring aim cast it at the king seal. The weaponstruck home. The gigantic creature shuddered, and, with a cry likea hurt child, it plunged down into the sea. With the rapidity andstrength of a giant fish it scudded inland with the rising tide, while Capilano paid out the rope its entire length, and, as itstretched taut, felt the canoe leap forward, propelled by the mightystrength of the creature which lashed the waters into whirlpools, asthough it was possessed with the power and properties of a whale. 

Up the stretch of False Creek the man and monster drove theircourse, where a century hence great city bridges were to over-archthe waters. They strove and struggled each for the mastery; neitherof them weakened, neither of them faltered--the one dragging, theother driving. In the end it was to be a matching of brute andhuman wits, not forces. As they neared the point where now MainStreet bridge flings its shadow across the waters, the bruteleaped high into the air, then plunged headlong into the depths. The impact ripped the rope from Capilano's hands. It rattledacross the gunwale. He stood staring at the spot where it haddisappeared--the brute had been victorious. At low tide the Indianmade search. No trace of his game, of his precious elk-bone spear, of his cedar-fibre rope, could be found. With the loss of thelatter he firmly believed his luck as a hunter would be gone. So hepatrolled the mouth of False Creek for many moons. His graceful, high-bowed canoe rarely touched other waters, but the seal king haddisappeared. Often he thought long strands of drifting sea grasseswere his lost cedar-fibre rope. With other spears, with othercedar-fibres, with paddle-blade and cunning traps he dislodged theweeds from their moorings, but they slipped their slimy lengthsthrough his eager hands: his best spear with its attendant coilwas gone. 

The following year he was sealing again off the coast of Point Grey, and one night, after sunset, he observed the red reflection from thewest, which seemed to transfer itself to the eastern skies. Farinto the night dashes of flaming scarlet pulsed far beyond the headof False Creek. The color rose and fell like a beckoning hand, and, Indian-like, he immediately attached some portentous meaning tothe unusual sight. That it was some omen he never doubted, so hepaddled inland, beached his canoe, and took the trail towards thelittle group of lakes that crowd themselves into the area that liesbetween the present cities of Vancouver and New Westminster. Butlong before he reached the shores of Deer Lake he discovered thatthe beckoning hand was in reality flame. The little body of waterwas surrounded by forest fires. One avenue alone stood open. Itwas a group of giant trees that as yet the flames had not reached. As he neared the point he saw a great moving mass of living thingsleaving the lake and hurrying northward through this one egress. Hestood, listening, intently watching with alert eyes; the zwirr ofmyriads of little travelling feet caught his quick ear--the movingmass was an immense colony of beaver. Thousands upon thousandsof them. Scores of baby beavers staggered along, following theirmothers; scores of older beavers that had felled trees and builtdams through many seasons; a countless army of trekking fur-bearers, all under the generalship of a wise old leader, who, as king of thecolony, advanced some few yards ahead of his battalions. Out ofthe waters through the forest towards the country to the north theyjourneyed. Wandering hunters said they saw them cross Burrard Inletat the Second Narrows, heading inland as they reached the farthershore. But where that mighty army of royal little Canadians setup their new colony no man knows. Not even the astuteness of thefirst Capilano ever discovered their destination. Only one thingwas certain: Deer Lake knew them no more. 

After their passing the Indian retraced their trail to the water'sedge. In the red glare of the encircling fires he saw what he atfirst thought was some dead and dethroned king beaver on the shore. A huge carcass lay half in, half out, of the lake. Approachingit, he saw the wasted body of a giant seal. There could never betwo seals of that marvellous size. His intuition now grasped themeaning of the omen of the beckoning flame that had called him fromthe far coasts of Point Grey. He stooped above his dead conquerorand found, embedded in its decaying flesh, the elk-bone spear ofhis forefathers, and, trailing away at the water's rim, was a long, flexible, cedar-fibre rope. 

As he extracted this treasured heirloom he felt the "power, " thatmen of magic possess, creep up his sinewy arms. It entered hisheart, his blood, his brain. For a long time he sat and chantedsongs that only great medicine-men may sing, and, as the hoursdrifted by, the heat of the forest fires subsided, the flamesdiminished into smouldering blackness. At daybreak the forestfire was dead, but its beckoning fingers had served their purpose. The magic elk-bone spear had come back to its own. 

Until the day of his death the first Capilano searched for theunknown river up which the seal travelled from False Creek toDeer Lake; but its channel is a secret that even Indian eyes havenot seen. 

But although those of the Squamish tribe tell and believe that theriver still sings through its hidden trail that leads from Deer Laketo the sea, its course is as unknown, its channel is as hopelesslylost as the brave little army of beavers that a century agomarshalled their forces and travelled up into the great lone north. 

A ROYAL MOHAWK CHIEF

How many Canadians are aware that in Prince Arthur, Duke ofConnaught, and only surviving son of Queen Victoria, who has beenappointed to represent King George V. In Canada, they undoubtedlyhave what many wish for--one bearing an ancient Canadian title asGovernor-General of all the Dominion? It would be difficult to finda man more Canadian than any one of the fifty chiefs who composethe parliament of the ancient Iroquois nation, that loyal race ofRedskins that has fought for the British crown against all of theenemies thereof, adhering to the British flag through the warsagainst both the French and the colonists. 

Arthur, Duke of Connaught, is the only living white man who to-dayhas an undisputed right to the title of "Chief of the Six NationsIndians" (known collectively as the Iroquois). He possesses theprivilege of sitting in their councils, of casting his vote on allmatters relative to the governing of the tribes, the disposal ofreservation lands, the appropriation of both the principal andinterest of the more than half a million dollars these tribes holdin Government bonds at Ottawa, accumulated from the sales of theirlands. In short, were every drop of blood in his royal veins red, instead of blue, he could not be more fully qualified as an Indianchief than he now is, not even were his title one of the fiftyhereditary ones whose illustrious names composed the Iroquoisconfederacy before the Paleface ever set foot in America. 

It was on the occasion of his first visit to Canada in 1869, whenhe was little more than a boy, that Prince Arthur received, uponhis arrival at Quebec, an address of welcome from his royal mother's"Indian Children" on the Grand River Reserve, in Brant county, Ontario. In addition to this welcome they had a request to make ofhim: would he accept the title of Chief and visit their reserve togive them the opportunity of conferring?

One of the great secrets of England's success with savage races hasbeen her consideration, her respect, her almost reverence of nativecustoms, ceremonies, and potentates. She wishes her own customsand kings to be honored, so she freely accords like honor to hersubjects, it matters not whether they be white, black, or red. 

Young Arthur was delighted--royal lads are pretty much like allother boys; the unique ceremony would be a break in the endlessround of state receptions, banquets, and addresses. So he acceptedthe Red Indians' compliment, knowing well that it was the loftiesthonor these people could confer upon a white man. 

It was the morning of October first when the royal train steamedinto the little city of Brantford, where carriages awaited totake the Prince and his suite to the "Old Mohawk Church, " in thevicinity of which the ceremony was to take place. As the Prince'sespecial escort, Onwanonsyshon, head chief of the Mohawks, rode on ajet-black pony beside the carriage. The chief was garmented in fullnative costume--a buckskin suit, beaded moccasins, headband of owl'sand eagle's feathers, and ornaments hammered from coin silver thatliterally covered his coat and leggings. About his shoulders wasflung a scarlet blanket, consisting of the identical broadcloth fromwhich the British army tunics are made; this he "hunched" with hisshoulders from time to time in true Indian fashion. As they drovealong the Prince chatted boyishly with his Mohawk escort, and onceleaned forward to pat the black pony on its shining neck and speakadmiringly of it. It was a warm autumn day: the roads were dry anddusty, and, after a mile or so, the boy-prince brought from beneaththe carriage seat a basket of grapes. With his handkerchief heflicked the dust from them, handed a bunch to the chief, and tookone himself. An odd spectacle to be traversing a country road: anEnglish prince and an Indian chief, riding amicably side by side, enjoying a banquet of grapes like two school-boys. 

On reaching the church, Arthur leapt lightly to the greensward. For a moment he stood, rigid, gazing before him at his futurebrother-chiefs. His escort had given him a faint idea of whathe was to see, but he certainly never expected to be completelysurrounded by three hundred full-blooded Iroquois braves andwarriors, such as now encircled him on every side. Every Indianwas in war-paint and feathers, some stripped to the waist, theircopper-colored skins brilliant with paints, dyes, and "patterns";all carried tomahawks, scalping-knives, and bows and arrows. Everyred throat gave a tremendous war-whoop as he alighted, which wasrepeated again and again, as for that half moment he stood silent, aslim, boyish figure, clad in light grey tweeds--a singular contrastto the stalwarts in gorgeous costumes who crowded about him. Hisyoung face paled to ashy whiteness, then with true British grit heextended his right hand and raised his black "billy-cock" hat withhis left. At the same time he took one step forward. Then thewar-cries broke forth anew, deafening, savage, terrible cries, asone by one the entire three hundred filed past, the Prince shakinghands with each one, and removing his glove to do so. This strangereception over, Onwanonsyshon rode up, and, flinging his scarletblanket on the grass, dismounted and asked the Prince to standon it. 

Then stepped forward an ancient chief, father of Onwanonsyshon, and Speaker of the Council. He was old in inherited and personalloyalty to the British crown. He had fought under Sir Isaac Brockat Queenston Heights in 1812, while yet a mere boy, and upon him waslaid the honor of making his Queen's son a chief. Taking Arthurby the hand, this venerable warrior walked slowly to and fro acrossthe blanket, chanting as he went the strange, wild formula ofinduction. From time to time he was interrupted by loud expressionsof approval and assent from the vast throng of encircling braves, but apart from this no sound was heard but the low, weird monotoneof a ritual older than the white man's foot-prints in North America. 

It is necessary that a chief of each of the three "clans" of theMohawks shall assist in this ceremony. The veteran chief, who sangthe formula, was of the Bear clan. His son, Onwanonsyshon, was ofthe Wolf (the clanship descends through the mother's side of thefamily). Then one other chief, of the Turtle clan, and in whoseveins coursed the blood of the historic Brant, now stepped to theedge of the scarlet blanket. The chant ended, these two youngchiefs received the Prince into the Mohawk tribe, conferring uponhim the name of "Kavakoudge, " which means "the sun flying fromEast to West under the guidance of the Great Spirit. "

Onwanonsyshon then took from his waist a brilliant deep-red sash, heavily embroidered with beads, porcupine quills, and dyedmoose-hair, placing it over the Prince's left shoulder and knottingit beneath his right arm. The ceremony was ended. The constitutionthat Hiawatha had founded centuries ago, a constitution whereinfifty chiefs, no more, no less, should form the parliament of the"Six Nations, " had been shattered and broken, because this race ofloyal red men desired to do honor to a slender young boy-prince, who now bears the fifty-first title of the Iroquois. 

Many white men have received from these same people honorary titles, but none has been bestowed through the ancient ritual, with theimperative members of the three clans assisting, save that borneby Arthur of Connaught. 

After the ceremony the Prince entered the church to autograph hisname in the ancient Bible, which, with a silver Holy Communionservice, a bell, two tablets inscribed with the Ten Commandments, and a bronze British coat of arms, had been presented to theMohawks by Queen Anne. He inscribed "Arthur" just below the"Albert Edward, " which, as Prince of Wales, the late King wrotewhen he visited Canada in 1860. 

When he returned to England Chief Kavakoudge sent his portrait, together with one of Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort, tobe placed in the Council House of the "Six Nations, " where theydecorate the walls to-day. 

As I write, I glance up to see, in a corner of my room, a drapingscarlet blanket, made of British army broadcloth, for the chief whorode the jet-black pony so long ago was the writer's father. Hewas not here to wear it when Arthur of Connaught again set foot onCanadian shores. 

Many of these facts I have culled from a paper that lies on my desk;it is yellowing with age, and bears the date, "Toronto, October 2, 1869, " and on the margin is written, in a clear, half-boyish hand, "Onwanonsyshon, with kind regards from your brother-chief, Arthur. "