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Privately Printed 

Vancouver, Britisk Columbia 
nineteen hundred ana eleven 



I HAVE been asked to write a preface to these 
Legends of Vancouver, which, in conjunction 
with the members of the Publication Sub-committee 
Mrs. Lefevre, Mr. L. W. Makovski and Mr. R. W. 
Douglas I have helped to put through the press. 
But scarcely any prefatory remarks are necessary. 
This book may well stand on its own merits. Still, 
it may be permissible to record one's glad satisfac- 
tion that a poet has arisen to cast over the shoulders 
of our grey mountains, our trail-threaded forests, 
our tide-swept waters, and the streets and sky- 
scrapers of our hurrying city, a gracious mantle of 
romance. Pauline Johnson has linked the vivid 
present with the immemorial past. Vancouver takes 
on a new aspect as we view it through her eyes. In 
the imaginative power that she has brought to these 
semi-historical sagas, and in the liquid flow of her 
rhythmical prose, she has shown herself to be a 
literary worker of whom we may well be proud: she 
has made a most estimable contribution to purely 
Canadian literature. 


Author's Foreword 

HESE legends (with two or three exceptions) 
were told to me personally by my honored 
friend, the late Chief Joe Capilano, of Vancouver, 
whom I had the privilege of first meeting in 
London in 1906, when he visited England and was 
received at Buckingham Palace by their Majesties 
King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra. 

To the fact that I was able to greet Chief Capilano 
in the Chinook tongue, while we were both many 1 
thousands of miles from home, I owe the friendship 
and the confidence which he so freely gave me when 
I came to reside on the Pacific Coast. These legends 
he told me from time to time, just as the mood 
possessed him, and he frequently remarked that 
they had never been revealed to any other English- 
speaking person save myself. 

E. PAULINE JOHNSON (Tekahionwake) 

These legends are printed by courtesy of the "Vancouver 
Daily Province," in which journal they first appeared. 


Biographical Notice 

e PAULINE JOHNSON (Tekahionwake) is 
the youngest child of a family of four 
born to the late G. H. M. Johnson (On- 
wanonsyshon), Head Chief 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 of one of the fifty noble families 
which composed the historical confederation found- 
ed 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 French missionaries and ex- 
plorers. For their loyalty to the British Crown 
they 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," that Pauline Johnson was born. The 
loyalty of her ancestors breathes in her prose, as 
well as in her poetic writings. 

Her education was neither extensive nor elabor- 
ate. It embraced neither high school nor college. 
A nursery governess for two years at home, three 
years at an Indian day school half a mile from her 
home, and two years in the Central School of the 
city of Brantford, was the extent of her educational 
training. But, besides this, she acquired a wide 
general knowledge, having been through childhood 
and early girlhood a great reader, especially of 
poetry. Before she was twelve years old she had 
read Scott, Longfellow, Byron, Shakespeare, and 
such books as Addison's "Spectator," Foster's Es- 
says and Owen Meredith's writings. 

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

Her writings having brought her into notice, the 
next step in Miss Johnson's career was her appear- 
ance on the public platform as a reciter of her own 
poems. For this she had natural talent, and in the 
exercise of it she soon developed a marked ability, 
joined with a personal magnetism, that was destined 
to make her a favorite with audiences from the 
Atlantic to the Pacific. Her friend, Mr. Frank 
Yeigh, of Toronto, provided for a series of recitals 
having that scope, with the object of enabling her to 
go to England to arrange for the publication of her 


poems. Within two years this aim was accomp- 
lished, her book of poems, "The White Wampum," 
being published by John Lane, of the Bodley Head. 
She took with her numerous letters of intro- 
duction, including one from the Governor-General, 
the Earl of Aberdeen, and she soon gained both 
social and literary standing. Her book was received 
with much favor, both by reviewers and the public. 
After giving many recitals in fashionable drawing- 
rooms, she returned to Canada, and made her first 
tour to the Pacific Coast, giving recitals at all the 
cities and towns en route. Since then she has 
crossed the Rocky Mountains no fewer than 
nineteen times. 

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

After a number of recitals, which included New- 
foundland and the Maritime Provinces, she went to 
England again in 1906 and made her first appearance 
in Steinway Hall, under the distinguished patronage 
of Lord and Lady Strathcona. In the following year 
she again visited London, returning by way of the 
United States, where she gave many recitals. After 
another tour of Canada she decided to give up public 
work, to make Vancouver, B. C., her home, and to 
devote herself to literary work. 

Only a woman of remarkable powers of endurance 
could have borne up under the hardships necessarily 
encountered in travelling through North-western 
Canada in pioneer days as Miss Johnson did; and 
shortly after settling down in Vancouver the ex- 
posure and hardship she had endured began to tell 
on her, and her health completely broke down. 
For almost a year she has been an invalid, and as 
she is unable to attend to the business herself, a 
trust has been formed by some of the leading citizens 
of her adopted city for the purpose of collecting and 
publishing for her benefit her later works. Among 
these 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 magazine readers. 

During the sixteen years Miss Johnson was tra- 
velling, she had many varied and interesting exper- 
iences. She travelled the old Battleford trail before 
the railroad went through, and across the Boundary 
country in British Columbia in the romantic days 
of the early pioneers. Once she took an eight hun- 
dred and fifty mile drive up the Cariboo trail to the 
gold fields. She has always been an ardent canoeist, 
and has run many strange rivers, crossed many a 
lonely lake, and camped in many an unfrequented 
place. These venturesome trips she made more from 
her inherent love of Nature and adventure than 
from any necessity of her profession. 



Preface ........ y 

Author's Foreword - - - - - - vii 

Biographical Notice ------ ix 

The Two Sisters - - - ... 1 

The Siwash Rock i 7 

The Recluse 13 

The Lost Salmon Run 21 

The Deep Waters 27 

The Sea-Serpent 33 

The Lost Island 39 

Point Grey 43 

The Tulameen Trail 47 

The Grey Archway ------ 53 

Deadman's Island ------ 61 

A Squamish Legend of Napoleon 67 

The Lure in Stanley Park -> - - - 73 

Deer Lake 79 

A Royal Mohawk Chief 85 

The Two Sisters 


OU can see them as you look to- 
wards the north and the west, 
where the dream hills swim into 
the sky amid their ever-drifting 
clouds of pearl and grey. They 
catch the earliest hint of sunrise, they hold 
the last color of sunset. Twin mountains they 
are, lifting their twin peaks above the fairest 
city in all Canada, and known throughout the 
British Empire as "The Lions of Vancouver." 
Sometimes the smoke of forest fires blurs 
them until they gleam like opals in a purple 
atmosphere, too beautiful for words to paint. 
Sometimes the slanting rains festoon scarfs 
of mist about their crests, and the peaks fade 
into shadowy outlines, melting, melting, for- 
ever melting into the distances. But for most 
days in the year the sun circles the twin 
glories with a sweep of gold. The moon 
washes them with a torrent of silver. Often- 
times, when the city is shrouded in rain, the 
sun yellows their snows to a deep orange, but 
through sun and shadow they stand immov- 
able, smiling westward above the waters of 
the restless Pacific, eastward above the superb 
beauty of the Capilano Canyon. But the In- 
dian tribes do not know these peaks as "The 
Lions." Even the Chief, whose feet have so 
recently wandered to the Happy Hunting 
Grounds, never heard the name given them 
until I mentioned it to him one dreamy August 
day, as together we followed the trail leading 
to the canyon. He seemed so surprised at 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 saw the resemblance instantly. It 
appeared to please him, and his fine face ex- 
pressed the haunting memories of the far- 
away roar of Old London. But the "call of the 
blood" was stronger, and presently he re- 
ferred to the Indian legend of those peaks a 


legend that I have reason to believe is absolute- 
ly unknown to thousands of Palefaces who look 
upon "The Lions" daily, without the love for 
them that is in the Indian heart; without 
knowledge of the secret of "The Two Sisters." 
The legend was far more fascinating as it left 
his lips in the quaint broken English that is 
never so dulcet as when it slips from an 
Indian tongue. His inimitable gestures, 
strong, graceful, comprehensive, were like a 
perfectly chosen frame embracing a delicate 
painting, and his brooding eyes were as 
the light in which the picture hung. 
"Many thousands of years ago," he began, 
"there were no twin peaks like sentinels guard- 
ing the outposts of this sunset coast. They 
were placed there long after the first creation, 
when the Sagalie Tyee moulded the moun- 
tains, and patterned the mighty rivers where 
the salmon run, because of His love for His 
Indian children, and His Wisdom for their ne- 
cessities. In those times there were many 
and mighty Indian tribes along the Pacific 
in the mountain ranges, at the shores and 
sources of the great Fraser River. Indian 
law ruled the land. Indian customs prevailed. 
Indian beliefs were regarded. Those were 
the legend-making ages when great things 
occurred to make the traditions we repeat to 
our children today. Perhaps the greatest of 
these traditions is the story of 'The Two 
Sisters,' for they are known to us as 'The 
Chief's Daughters,' and to them we owe the 
Great Peace in which we live, and have lived 
for many countless moons. There is an an- 
cient custom amongst the Coast tribes that 
when our daughters step from childhood into 
the great world of womanhood the occa- 
sion must be made one of extreme rejoicing. 
The being who possesses the possibility of 
someday mothering a man child, a warrior, a 
brave, receives much consideration in most 
nations, but to us, the Sunset Tribes, she is 
honored above all people. The parents usual- 
ly give a great potlatch, and a feast that lasts 
many days. The entire tribe and the sur- 
rounding tribes are bidden to this festival. 
More than that, sometimes when a great 


Tyee celebrates for his daughter, the tribes 
from far up the coast, from the distant north, 
from inland, from the island, from the 
Cariboo country, are gathered as guests 
to the feast. During these days of rejoic- 
ing, the girl is placed in a high seat, an 
exalted position, for is she not marriageable? 
And does not marriage mean motherhood? And 
does not motherhood mean a vaster nation 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 two daughters that 
grew to womanhood at the same springtime, 
when the first great run of salmon thronged 
the rivers, and the ollallie bushes 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. There 
were to be days and days of rejoicing, the 
people were to come for many leagues, were 
to bring gifts to the girls and to receive gifts 
of great value from the Chief, and hospitality 
was to reign as long as pleasuring feet could 
dance, and enjoying lips could laugh, and 
mouths partake of the excellence of the Chief's 
fish, game and ollallies. 

"The only shadow on the joy of it all was 
war, for the tribe of the great Tyee was at 
war with the Upper Coast Indians, those who 
lived north, near what is named by the Pale- 
face as the port of Prince Rupert. Giant war 
canoes slipped along the entire coast, war 
parties paddled up and down, war songs broke 
the silences of the nights, hatred, vengeance, 
strife, horror festered everywhere like sores 
on the surface of the earth. But the great 
Tyee, after warring for weeks, turned and 
laughed at the battle and the bloodshed, for 
he had been victor in every encounter, and he 
could well afford to leave the strife for a brief 
week and feast in his daughters' honor, nor 
permit any mere enemy to come between him 
and the traditions of his race and household. 
So he turned insultingly deaf ears to their war 
cries; he ignored with arrogant indifference 


their paddle dips that encroached within his 
own coast waters, and he prepared, as a great 
Tyee should, to royally entertain his tribesmen 
in honor of his daughters. 

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

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

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

" 'Some day, Oh ! our father, we may mother 
a man child, who may grow to be just such a 
powerful Tyee as you are, and for this honor 
that may 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 your hearts may wish,' he 
replied graciously, placing his fingers beneath 
their girlish chins. 'The favor is yours before 
you ask it, my daughters.' 

" 'Will you, for our sakes, invite the great 
northern hostile tribe the tribe you war 
upon to this, our feast?' they asked fear- 

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

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

" 'And so shall it be,' he declared. 'I can 
deny you nothing this day, and some time you 
may bear sons to bless this peace you have 
asked, and to bless their mother's sire for 
granting it.' Then he turned to all the young 
men of the tribe and commanded, 'Build fires 
at sunset on all the coast headlands fires of 
welcome. Man your canoes 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 a great feast in honor of my two 
daughters.' And when the northern tribes 
got this invitation they flocked down the coast 
to this feast of a Great Peace. They brought 
their women and their children: they brought 
game and fish, gold and white stone beads, 
baskets and carven ladles, and wonderful 
woven blankets to lay at the feet of their now 


acknowledged ruler, the great Tyee. And he, 
in turn, gave such a potlatch that nothing but 
tradition can vie with it. There were long, 
glad days of joyousness, long pleasurable 
nights of dancing and camp fires, and vast 
quantities of food. The war canoes were 
emptied of their deadly weapons and filled 
with the daily catch of salmon. The hostile 
war songs ceased, and in their place were heard 
the soft shuffle of dancing feet, the singing 
voices of women, the play-games of the chil- 
dren of two powerful tribes which had been 
until now ancient enemies, for a great and 
lasting brotherhood was sealed between 
them their war songs were ended forever. 

"Then the Sagalie Tyee smiled on His In- 
dian children: 'I will make these young-eyed 
maidens immortal,' He said. In the cup of 
His hands He lifted the Chief's two daughters 
and set them forever in a high place, for they 
had borne two offspring Peace and Brother- 
hood each of which is now a great Tyee 
ruling this land. 

"And on the mountain crest the Chief's 
daughters can be seen wrapped in the suns, 
the snows, the stars of all seasons, for they 
have stood in this high place for thousands 
of years, and will stand for thousands of 
years to come, guarding the peace of the 
Pacific Coast and the quiet of the Capilano 

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

The Siwash Rock 

NIQUE,and so distinct from its sur- 
roundings as to suggest rather the 
handicraft of man than a whim of 
Nature, it looms up at the entrance 
to the Narrows, a symmetrical 
column of solid grey stone. There are no 
similar formations within the range of vision, 
or indeed within many a day's paddle up and 
down the coast. Amongst all the wonders, 
the natural beauties that encircle Vancouver, 
the marvels of mountains shaped into crouch- 
ing lions and brooding beavers, the yawning 
canyons, the stupendous forest firs and cedars, 
Siwash Rock stands as distinct, as individual, 
as if dropped from another 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 black 
against the crimson of sea and sky, and its 
colossal base of grey stone gleamed like 
flaming polished granite. 

My old tillicum lifted his paddle blade to 
point towards it. "You know the story?" he 
asked. I shook my head (experience had 
taught me his love of silent replies, his moods 
of legend-telling). For a time we paddled 
slowly; the rock detached itself from its back- 
ground of 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 war- 
rior," I replied. 

"It is a man," he said, "and a warrior man, 
too; a man who fought for 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: it 
was but two words astounding, amazing 
words. He said simply: 

"Clean fatherhood." 


Through my mind raced tumultuous recol- 
lections of numberless articles in yet number- 
less magazines, all dealing with the recent 
"fad" of motherhood, but I had to hear from 
the lips of a Squamish Indian Chief the only 
treatise on the nobility of "clean fatherhood" 
that I have yet unearthed. And this treatise 
has been an Indian legend for centuries; and 
lest they forget how all-important those two 
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 life clean, 
that cleanliness might be the heritage of the 
generations to come. 

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

The customs and traditions of his ancestors 
were a positive religion to him, the sayings 
and the advices of the old people were his 
creed. He was conservative in every rite and 
ritual of his race. He fought his tribal enemies 
like the savage that he was. He sang his war 
songs, danced his war dances, slew his foes, 
but the little girl-wife from the north he 
treated with the deference that he gave his 
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 
calling him. 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 the coming day: the promise 
of what it would bring him seemed breathing 
through all his forest world. He took her 
very gently by the hand and led her through 
the tangle of wilderness down to the water's 
edge, where the beauty spot we moderns call 



Stanley Park bends about Prospect Point. "I 
must swim," he told her. 

"I must swim, too," she smiled with the per- 
fect understanding of two beings who are 
mated. For to them the old Indian custom 
was law the custom that the parents of a 
coming child must swim until their flesh is so 
clear and clean that a wild animal cannot 
scent their proximity. If the wild creatures of 
the forests have no fear of them, then, and only 
then, are they fit to become parents, and to 
scent a human is in itself a fearsome thing to 
all wild things. 

So those two plunged into the waters 
of the Narrows as the grey dawn slipped up 
the eastern skies and all the forest awoke to 
the life of a new, glad day. Presently he took 
her ashore, and smilingly she crept away 
under the giant trees. "I must be alone," 
she said, "but come to me at sunrise : you will 
not find me alone then." He smiled also, and 
plunged back into the sea. He must swim, 
swim, swim through this hour when his 
fatherhood was coming upon him. It was the 
law that he must be clean, spotlessly clean, 
so that when his child looked out upon the 
world it would have the chance to live its own 
life clean. If he did not swim hour upon hour 
his child would come 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 was the tribal law the law of 
vicarious purity. 

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

"Out from our course!" they cried as his 
lithe, copper-colored body arose and fell with 
his splendid stroke. He laughed at them, 
giants though they were, and answered that 
he could not cease his swimming at their 

"But you shall cease!" they commanded. 
"We are the men (agents) of the Sagalie Tyee 
(God), and we command you ashore out of 
our way!" (I find in all these Coast Indian 


legends that the Deity is represented by four 
men, usually paddling an immense canoe.) 

He ceased swimming, and, lifting his head, 
defied them. "I shall not stop, nor yet go 
ashore," he declared, striking out once more 
to the middle of the channel. 

"Do you dare disobey us," they cried "we, 
the men of the Sagalie Tyee? 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 a spotless life." 

The four men were astounded. They con- 
sulted together, lighted their pipes and sat in 
council. Never had they, the men of the 
Sagalie Tyee, been defied before. Now, for 
the sake of a little unborn child, they were 
ignored, disobeyed, almost despised. The 
lithe young copper-colored body still dis- 
ported itself in the cool waters; superstition 
held that should their canoe, or even their 
paddle blades, touch a human being their 
marvellous power would be lost. The hand- 
some young chief swam directly in their 
course. They dared not run him down; if so, 
they would become as other men. While they 
yet counselled what to do, there floated from 
out the forest a faint, strange, compelling 
sound. They listened, and the young chief 
ceased his stroke as he listened also. The 
faint sound drifted out across the waters once 
more. It was the cry of a little, little child. 
Then one of the four men, he that steered the 
canoe, the strongest and tallest of them all, 
arose and, standing erect, stretched out his 
arms towards the rising sun and chanted, not 
a curse on the young chief's disobedience, but 
a promise of everlasting days and freedom 
from death. 

"Because you have defied all things that 
came in your path we promise this to you," 
he chanted; "you have defied what interferes 
with your child's chance for a clean life, you 
have lived as you wish your son to live, you 
have defied us when we would have stopped 
your swimming and hampered your child's 



future. You have placed that child's future 
before all things, and for this the Sagalie Tyee 
commands us to make you forever a pattern 
for your tribe. You shall never die, but you 
shall stand through all the thousands of 
years to come, where all eyes can see you. 
You shall live, live, live as an indestructible 
monument to Clean Fatherhood." 

The four men lifted their paddles, and as 
the handsome young chief swam inshore, as 
his feet touched the line where sea and land 
met, he 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 into 
stone. If you penetrate the hollows in the 
woods near Siwash Rock you will find a large 
rock and a smaller one beside it. They are 
the shy little bride-wife from the north, with 
her hour-old baby beside her. And from the 
uttermost parts of the world vessels come daily 
throbbing and sailing up the Narrows. From 
far trans-Pacific ports, from the frozen North, 
from the lands of the Southern Cross, they 
pass and repass the living rock that was there 
before their hulls were shaped, that will be 
there when their very names are forgotten, 
when their crews and their captains have 
taken their long last voyage, when their mer- 
chandise has rotted, and their owners are 
known no more. But the tall, grey column of 
stone will still be there a monument to one 
man's fidelity to a generation yet unborn 
and will endure from everlasting to ever- 


The Recluse 

OURNEYING toward the upper 
course of the Capilano River, 
about a mile citywards from the 
dam, you will pass a disused 
logger's shack. Leave the trail 
at this point and strike through the under- 
growth for a few hundred yards and you will 
be on the rocky borders of that purest, most 
restless river in all Canada. The stream is 
haunted with tradition, teeming with a score 
of romances that vie with its grandeur and 
loveliness, and of which its waters are perpet- 
ually whispering. But I learned this legend 
from one whose voice was as dulcet as the 
swirling rapids; but, unlike them, that voice 
is hushed today, while the river still sings on 
sings on. 

It was singing in very melodious tones 
through the long August afternoon two sum- 
mers ago, while we, the chief, his happy- 
hearted wife and bright, young daughter, all 
lounged amongst the boulders and 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 a whistle teases 
the mouth of a happy boy, his heart was 
brimming with tales of the bygones, his eyes 
were dark with dreams and that strange 
mournfulness that always haunted them when 
he spoke of long-ago romances. There was 
not a tree, a boulder, a dash of rapid upon 
which his glance fell that he had not some 
ancient superstition to link with it. Then 
abruptly, in the very midst of his verbal re- 
veries, he turned and asked me if I were sup- 
erstitious. Of course I replied that I was. 

"Do you think some happenings will bring 
trouble later on will foretell evil?" he asked. 
I made some evasive answer, which, how- 
ever, seemed to satisfy him, for he plunged 
into the strange tale of the recluse of the 
canyon with more vigor than dreaminess; but 
first he asked me the question: 



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

I shook my head. 

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

"Twin children are almost unknown with 
us," I hastened. "They are rare, 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 wrong thing, the coming tale 
might die on his lips before it was born to 
speech, but we understood each other so well 
that I finally ventured 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 awhile, then with evident de- 
sire to learn how all races regarded this oc- 
currence, he said, "You have been much among 
the Palefaces, what do they say of twins?" 

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

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

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

He leaned a little backward against a giant 
boulder, clasping his thin, brown hands about 
his knees; his eyes roved up the galloping 
river, then swept down the singing waters to 
where they crowded past the sudden bend, 
and during the entire recital of the strange 
legend his eyes never left that spot where 



the stream disappeared in its hurrying jour- 
ney to the sea. Without preamble he began: 

"It was a grey morning when they told him 
of this disaster that had befallen him. He 
was a great chief, and he ruled many tribes 
on the North Pacific Coast; but what was his 
greatness now? His young wife had borne 
him twins, and was sobbing out her anguish 
in the little fir-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. 
Some of them wept, some chanted solemnly 
the dirge of their lost hopes and happiness, 
which would never return because of this 
calamity; others discussed in hushed voices 
this awesome thing, and for hours their grave 
council was broken only by the infant cries 
of the two boy-babies in the bark lodge, the 
hopeless sobs of the young mother, the agon- 
ized moans of the stricken chief their 

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

" 'Something dire will happen to him, my 
husband,' wept the afflicted young mother. 

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

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

" 'It is the olden law of the Squamish that 
lest evil befall the tribe the sire of twin 
children must go afar and alone into the 
mountain fastnesses, there by his isolation and 
his loneliness to prove himself stronger than 
the threatened evil, and thus to beat back the 
shadow that would otherwise follow him and 
all his people. I, therefore, name for him the 



length of days that he must spend alone fight- 
ing his invisible enemy. He will know by 
some great sign in Nature the hour that the 
evil is conquered, the hour that his race is 
saved. He must leave before this sun sets, 
taking with him only his strongest bow, his 
fleetest arrows, and going up into the moun- 
tain wilderness remain there ten days alone* 

"The masterful voice ceased, the tribe 
wailed their assent, the father arose speech- 
less, his drawn face revealing great agony 
over this seemingly brief banishment. He 
took leave of his sobbing wife, of the two tiny 
souls that were his sons, grasped his favorite 
bow and arrows, and faced the forest like a 
warrior. But at the end of the ten days he 
did not return, nor yet ten weeks, nor yet ten 

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

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

"Meanwhile, far up the Capilano the ban- 
ished chief had built his solitary home; for 
who can tell what fatal trick of sound, what 
current of air, what faltering note in the voice 
of the Medicine Man had deceived his alert 
Indian ears? But some unhappy fate had led 
him to understand that his solitude must be 
of ten years' duration, not ten days, and he 
had accepted the mandate with the heroism 
of a stoic. For if he had refused to do so his 
belief was that although the threatened dis- 
aster would be spared him, the evil would fall 
upon his tribe. This was one more added to 
the long list of self-forgetting souls whose 
creed has been, 'It is fitting that one should 
suffer for the people.' It was the world-old 
heroism of vicarious sacrifice. 

"With his hunting-knife the banished 



Squamish chief stripped the bark from the firs 
and cedars, building for himself a lodge be- 
side the Capilano River, where leaping trout 
and salmon could be speared by arrow-heads 
fastened to deftly shaped, long handles. All 
through the salmon run he smoked and dried 
the fish with the care of a housewife. The 
mountain sheep and goats, and even huge 
black and cinnamon bears, fell before his un- 
erring arrows; the fleet-footed deer never re- 
turned to their haunts from their evening 
drinking at the edge of the stream their wild 
hearts, their agile bodies were stilled when he 
took aim. Smoked hams and saddles hung in 
rows from the cross poles of his bark lodge, 
and the magnificent pelts of animals 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 do in the long-ago. He gathered the 
juicy salmonberries, their acid flavor being a 
gratifying change from meat and fish. Month 
by month and year by year he sat beside his 
lonely camp-fire, waiting for his long term of 
solitude to end. One comfort alone was his 
he was enduring the disaster, fighting the 
evil, that his tribe might go unscathed, that 
his people be saved from calamity. Slowly, 
laboriously the tenth year dawned; day by 
day it dragged its long weeks across his wait- 
ing heart, for Nature had not yet given the 
sign that his long probation was over. 

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

"Upstream, a tall shaft of granite rears its 
needle-like length. It is named 'Thunder 
Rock,' and wise men of the Paleface people 
say it is rich in ore copper, silver and gold. 
At the base of this shaft the Squamish chief 
crouched when the storm cloud broke and 
bellowed through the ranges, and on its sum- 
mit the Thunder Bird perched, its gigantic 

17 c 


wings threshing the air into booming sounds, 
into splitting terrors, like the crash of a giant 
cedar hurtling down the mountain side. 

"But when the beating of those black pin- 
ions ceased and the echo of their thunder 
waves died down the depths of the canyon, the 
Squamish chief arose as a new man. The 
shadow on his soul had lifted, the fears of evil 
were cowed and conquered. In his brain, his 
blood, his veins, his sinews, he felt that the 
poison of melancholy dwelt no more. He had 
redeemed his fault of fathering twin children; 
he had fulfilled the demands of the law of his 

"As he heard the last beat of the Thunder 
Bird's wings dying slowly, slowly, faintly, 
faintly, among the crags, he knew that the 
bird, too, was dying, for its soul was leaving 
its monster black body, and presently that 
soul appeared in the sky. He could see it 
arching overhead, before it took its long jour- 
ney to the Happy Hunting Grounds, for the soul 
of the Thunder Bird was a radiant half-circle 
of glorious color spanning from peak to peak. 
He lifted his head then, for he knew it was 
the sign the ancient Medicine Man had told 
him to wait for the sign that his long banish- 
ment was ended. 

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

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

' '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 has invisible eyes, perhaps the 
child-eyes see him. The heart of a child 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 
hearts pointed to the north as does the white 
man's compass. Day after day they journeyed 
up-stream, until rounding a sudden bend they 
beheld a bark lodge with a thin blue curl of 
smoke drifting from its roof. 

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

"The great Squamish chief outstretched his 
arms towards them, then towards the laugh- 
ing river, then towards the mountains. 

" 'Welcome, my sons !' he said. 'And good- 
bye, my mountains, my brothers, my crags and 
my canyons!' And with a child clinging to 
ea/ch 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 the bend in the river, 
around which the two children had come and 
where the eyes of the recluse had first rested 
on them after ten years of solitude. 

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 with comments, and as the 
twilight fell, we threaded our way through the 
underbrush, past the disused logger's camp 
and into the trail that leads citywards. 

The Lost Salmon Run 

REAT had been the "run," and 
the sockeye season was almost 
over. For that reason I won- 
dered many times why my old 
friend, the klootchman, had failed 
to make one of the fishing fleet. She 
was an indefatigable workwoman, rivalling 
her husband as an expert catcher, and all the 
year through she talked of little else but the 
coming run. But this especial season she had 
not appeared amongst her fellow-kind. The 
fleet and the canneries knew nothing of her, 
and when I enquired of her tribes-people they 
would reply without explanation, "She not 
here this year." 

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

I hurried upshore, hailing her in the 
Chinook, and as she caught my voice she lifted 
her paddle directly above her head in the 
Indian signal of greeting. 

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

"No," she said, as I begged her to come 
ashore. "I not wait me. I just come to 
fetch Maarda; she been city; she come soon 
now." But she left her "working" attitude 
and curled like a schoolgirl in the bow of the 



canoe, her elbows resting on her paddle which 
she had flung across the gunwales. 

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

"No," she said. "I stay home this year." 
Then leaning towards me with 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, 
offered congratulations and enquired all about 
the great event, for this was her first grand- 
child, 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 some indescribable trick of ex- 
pression that led me to know she preferred 
it so. 

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

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

I felt I had caught the secret of her mean- 
ing. She was rejoicing that this little one 
should some time become one of the mothers 
of her race. We chatted over it a little longer 
and she gave me several playful "digs" about 
my own tribe thinking so much less of mother- 
hood than hers, and so much more of battle 
and bloodshed. Then we drifted into talk of 
the sockeye run and of the hyiu chickimin the 
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 
ever come that bad year when not any fish." 

"When was that?" I asked. 



"Before you born, or I, or" pointing 
across the park to the distant city of Van- 
couver, that breathed its wealth and beauty 
across the September afternoon "before that 
place born, before white man came here 
oh! long before." 

Dear old klootchman! I knew by the dusk 
in her eyes that she was back in her Land of 
Legends, and that soon I would be the richer 
in my hoard of Indian lore. She sat, still 
leaning on her paddle; her eyes, half-closed, 
rested on the distant outline of the blurred 
heights across the Inlet. I shall not further 
attempt her broken English, for this is but the 
shadow of her story, and without her unique 
personality the legend is as a flower that lacks 
both color and fragrance. She called it "The 
Lost Salmon Run." 

"The wife of the Great Tyee was but a wisp 
of a girl, but all the world was young in those 
days; even the Fraser River was young and 
small, not the mighty water it is now; but 
the pink salmon crowded its throat just as 
they do now, and the tillicums caught and 
salted and smoked the fish just as they have 
done this year, just as they will always do. 
But it was 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 you honor 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, hard with his tribe; he ruled 
his council fires with a will of stone. His 
medicine men said he had no human heart in 
his body; his warriors said he had no human 
blood in his veins. But he clasped this wo- 
man's hands, and his eyes, his lips, his voice, 
were gentle as her own, as he replied: 

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

"But when the tribes-people heard of his 
choice they arose in great anger. They sur- 
rounded him in a deep indignant circle. 'You 
are a slave to the woman,' they declared, 'and 
now you desire to make yourself a slave to a 



woman-baby. We want an heir a man-child 
to be our Great Tyee in years to come. When 
you are old and weary of tribal affairs, when 
you sit wrapped in your blanket in the hot 
summer sunshine, because your blood is old 
and thin, what can a girl-child do to help 
either you or us? Who, then, will be our 
Great Tyee?' 

"He stood in the centre of the menacing 
circle, his arm 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 child is yours; he will 
belong to you, not to me; he will become the 
possession of the people. But if the child is 
a girl she will belong to me she will be mine. 
You cannot take her from me as you took me 
from my mother's side and forced me to for- 
get my aged father in my service to my tribe ; 
she will belong to me, will be the mother of 
my grandchildren, and her husband will be 
my son.' 

" 'You do not care for the good of your 
tribe. You care only for your own wishes and 
desires,' they rebelled. 'Suppose the salmon 
run is 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 other 
tribes, 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 
wish the tribe to forget how great is the im- 
portance of a child that will some day be a 
mother herself, and give to your children and 
grandchildren a Great Tyee? Are the people 
to live, to thrive, to increase, to become more 
powerful with no mother-women to bear 
future sons and daughters? Your minds are 
dead, your brains are chilled. Still, even in 
your ignorance, you are my people: you and 
your wishes must be considered. I call to- 
gether the great medicine men, the men of 
witchcraft, the men of magic. They shall de- 
cide the laws which will follow the bearing 
of either boy or girl-child. What say you, oh ! 
mighty men?' 

"Messengers were then sent up and down 



the coast, sent far up the Fraser River, and 
to the valley lands inland for many leagues, 
gathering as they journeyed all the men of 
magic that could be found. Never were so 
many medicine men in council before. They 
built fires and danced and chanted for many 
days. They spoke with the gods of the moun- 
tains, with the gods of the sea, then 'the 
power' of decision came to them. They were 
inspired with a choice to lay before the tribes- 
people, and the most ancient medicine man in 
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. They 
cannot have both. The Sagalie Tyee has re- 
vealed to us, the great men of magic, that 
both these things will make the people arro- 
gant and selfish. They must choose between 
the two.' 

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

" 'Let the salmon go," shouted the people, 
'but give us a future Great 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 have despised a mother-woman. 
You will suffer evil and starvation and hunger 
and poverty, oh! foolish tribes-people. Did 
you not know how great a girl-child is?' 

"That spring, people from a score of tribes 
came up to the Fraser for the salmon run. 
They came great distances from the moun- 
tains, the lakes, the far-off dry lands, but not 
one fish entered the vast rivers of the Pacific 
Coast. The people had made their choice. 
They had forgotten the honor that a mother- 
child would have brought them. They were 
bereft of their food. They were stricken 
with poverty. Through the long win- 
ter that followed they endured hunger and 
starvation. Since then our tribe has always 



welcomed girl-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 viplet mountains. She 
had come back to this year of grace her 
Legend Land had vanished. 

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

"It is a beautiful story, klootchman," I said, 
"and I feel a cruel delight that your men of 
magic punished the people for their ill- 

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

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

"Kla-how-ya," nodded the klootchman as 
she dipped her paddle-blade in exquisite 

"Kla-how-ya," smiled Maarda. 

"Kla-how-ya, tillicums," I replied, and 
watched for many moments as they slipped 
away into the blurred distance, until the canoe 
merged into the violet and grey of the farther 


The Deep Waters 

AR over your left shoulder as 
your boat leaves the Narrows to 
thread the beautiful waterways 
that lead to Vancouver Island, 
you will see the summit of Mount 
Baker robed in its everlasting whiteness and 
always reflecting some wonderful glory from 
the rising sun, the golden noontide, or the 
violet and amber sunset. This is the Mount 
Ararat of the Pacific Coast peoples; for those 
readers who are familiar with the ways and 
beliefs and faiths of primitive races will agree 
that it is difficult to discover anywhere in the 
world a race that has not some story of the 
Deluge, which they have chronicled and local- 
ized to fit the understanding and the condi- 
tions of the nation that composes their own 
immediate world. 

Amongst the red nations of America I doubt 
if any two tribes have the same ideas regard- 
ing the Flood. Some of the traditions con- 
cerning this vast whim of Nature are grotesque 
in the extreme; some are impressive; some 
even profound; but of all the stories of the 
Deluge that I have been able to collect I know 
of not a single one that can even begin to 
equal in beauty of conception, let alone rival 
in possible reality and truth, the Squamish 
legend of "The Deep Waters." 

I here quote the legend of "mine own 
people," the Iroquois tribes of Ontario, ^re- 
garding the Deluge. I do this to paint the 
color of contrast in richer shades, for I am 
bound to submit that we who pride ourselves 
on ancient intellectuality have but a childish 
tale of the Flood when compared with the 
jealously preserved annals of the 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 
not find amid my notes a single tradition of 
the Iroquois wherein animals do not figure, 



and our story of the Deluge rests entirely with 
the intelligence of sea-going and river-going 
creatures. With us, animals in olden times 
were greater than man; but it is not so with 
the Coast Indians, except in rare instances. 

When a Coast Indian consents to tell you a 
legend he will, without variation, 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, and fishes, and a few birds." 

So you are prepared to accept the animal 
world as intelligent co-habitants of the Pacific 
slope, but he will not lead you to think he 
regards them as equals, much less superiors. 
But to revert to "mine own people" : they hold 
the intelligence of wild animals far above that 
of man, for perhaps the one reason that 
when an animal is sick it effects its own cure; 
it knows what grasses and herbs to eat, what 
to avoid, while the sick human calls the medi- 
cine man, whose wisdom is not only the result 
of years of study, but also heredity; conse- 
quently any great natural event, such as the 
Deluge, has much to do with the wisdom of 
the creatures of the forests and the rivers. 

Iroquois tradition tells us that once this 
earth was entirely submerged in water, and 
during this period for many days a busy little 
muskrat swam about vainly looking for a foot- 
hold of earth wherein to build his house. In 
his search he encountered a turtle leisurely 
swimming about, so they had speech together, 
and the muskrat complained of weariness; he 
could find no foothold; he was tired of inces- 
sant swimming, and longed for land such as 
his ancestors enjoyed. The turtle suggested 
that the muskrat should dive and endeavor to 
find earth at the bottom of the sea. Acting 
on this advice the muskrat plunged down, then 
arose with his two little forepaws grasping 
some earth he had found beneath the waters. 

"Place it on my shell and dive again for 
more," directed the turtle. The muskrat did 
so, but when he returned with his paws filled 
with earth he discovered the small quantity 
he had first deposited on the turtle's shell had 



doubled in size. The return from the third 
trip found the turtle's load again doubled. So 
the building went on at double compound in- 
crease, and the world grew its continents and 
its island with great rapidity, and now rests on 
the shell of a turtle. 

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

How, then, was the earth re-peopled? 

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 otter brought them fish 
for food until they were strong enough to pro- 
vide for 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 the superior intelligence 
of our little brothers of the animal world. 

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

Womanlike, I protested with a thousand 
contradictions in my voice that he should ven- 
ture 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't you 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 my own father always used 
was his as long as the Sagalie Tyee allowed 
his dear feet to wander my way. The im- 
mense cup stands idle and empty now for the 
second time. 

Helping him off with his great-coat, I 
chatted on about the deluge of rain, and he 



remarked it was not so very bad, as one could 
yet walk. 

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

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

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

"No?" I questioned. 

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

"I can quite believe it," I remarked 

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

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

"Yes," he continued. "It rained for weeks 
and weeks, while the mountain torrents roared 
thunderingly down, and the sea crept silently 
up. The level lands were first to float in sea 
water, then to disappear. The slopes were 
next to slip into the sea. The world was 
slowly being flooded. Hurriedly the Indian 
tribes gathered in one spot, a place of safety 
far above the reach of the on-creeping sea. The 
spot was the circling shore of Lake Beautiful, 
up the North Arm. They held a Great Coun- 
cil and decided at once upon a plan of action. 
A giant canoe should be built, and some means 
contrived 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 over its construction into the 
most stupendous canoe the world has ever 



known. Not an hour, not a moment, but 
many worked, while the toil-wearied ones 
slept, only to awake to renewed toil. Mean- 
while the women also worked at a cable the 
largest, the longest, the strongest that Indian 
hands and teeth had ever made. Scores of 
them gathered and prepared the cedar fibre; 
scores of them plaited, rolled and seasoned it; 
scores of them chewed upon it inch by inch 
to make it pliable; scores of them oiled and 
worked, oiled and worked, oiled and worked 
it into a sea-resisting fabric. And still the 
sea crept up, and up, and up. It was the last 
day; hope of life for the tribe, of land for the 
world, was doomed. Strong hands, self- 
sacrificing hands fastened the cable the women 
had made one end to the giant canoe, the 
other about an enormous boulder, a vast im- 
movable rock as firm as the foundations of 
the world for might not the canoe with its 
priceless freight drift out, far out, to sea, and 
when the water subsided might not this ship 
of safety be leagues and leagues beyond the 
sight of land on the storm-driven Pacific? 

"Then with the bravest hearts that ever 
beat, noble hands lifted every child of the 
tribe into this vast canoe; not one single baby 
was overlooked. The canoe was stocked with 
food and fresh water, and lastly, the ancient 
men and women of the race selected as guar- 
dians to these children the bravest, most 
stalwart, handsomest young man of the tribe, 
and the mother of the youngest baby in the 
camp 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 

"And still the sea crept up, and up, and up. 
At the crest of the bluffs about Lake 
Beautiful the doomed tribes crowded. Not a 
single person attempted to enter the canoe. 
There was no wailing, no crying out for 
safety. 'Let the little children, the young 
mother, and the bravest and best of our young 
men live,' was all the farewell 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 the tallest 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 those 
scores of dead, faithful women had made held 
true as the hearts that beat behind the toil 
and labor of it all. 

"But one morning at sunrise, far to the 
south a speck floated on the breast of the 
waters; at midday it was larger; at evening 
it was yet larger. The moon arose, and in its 
magic light the man at the stern saw it was 
a patch of land. All night he watched it 
grow, and at daybreak looked with glad eyes 
upon the summit of Mount Baker. He cut 
the cable, grasped his paddle in his strong, 
young hands, and steered for the south. When 
they landed, the waters were sunken half down 
the mountain side. The children were lifted 
out; the beautiful young mother, the stalwart 
young brave, turned to each other, clasped 
hands, looked into each others eyes and 

"And down in the vast country that lies 
between Mount Baker and the Fraser River 
they made a new camp, built new lodges, 
where the little children grew and thrived, 
and lived and loved, and the earth was re- 
peopled by them. 

"The Squamish say that in a gigantic 
crevice half way to the crest of 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 which he always ended a 
legend, and for a long time we both sat in 
silence listening to the rains that were still 
beating against the window. 

The Sea-Serpent 

|HERE is one vice that is absolutely 
unknown to the red man; he was 
born without it, and amongst all 
the deplorable things he has 
learned from the white races, this, 
at least, he has never acquired. That is the 
vice of avarice. That the Indian looks upon 
greed of gain, miserliness, avariciousness and 
wealth accumulated above the head of his 
poorer neighbor as one of the lowest degrada- 
tions he can fall to is perhaps more aptly illus- 
trated in this legend than anything I could 
quote to demonstrate his horror of what he 
calls "the white man's unkindness." In a very 
wide and varied experience with many tribes, 
I have yet to find even one instance of 
avarice, and I have encountered but one 
single case of a "stingy Indian," and this man 
was so marked amongst his fellows that at 
mention of his name his tribes-people jeered 
and would remark contemptuously that he was 
like a white man hated to share his money 
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 if your neighbor has none. To be a 
creditable member of the nation you must 
divide your possessions with your less for- 
tunate fellows. I find it much the same 
amongst the Coast Indians, though they are 
less bitter in their hatred of the extremes of 
wealth and poverty than are the Eastern 
tribes. Still, the very fact that they have pre- 
served this legend, in which they liken avarice 
to a slimy sea-serpent, shows the trend of their 
ideas ; shows, too, that an Indian is an Indian, 
no matter what his tribe ; shows that he cannot 
or will not hoard money ; shows that his native 
morals demand that the spirit of greed must 
be strangled at all cost. 

33 E 


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

"But there is no such thing as a sea-ser- 
pent," I laughed, "so you must have really 
seen everything in the world." 

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

"How long ago?" I asked. 

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

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

"Yes, it was then, but " he hesitated, 

then plunged into the assertion, "but you will 
not believe the story if you think there is no 
such thing as a sea-serpent." 

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

"You always understand," he said after a 

"It's my heart that understands," I remark- 
ed quietly. 

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

"Yes, skookum turn-turn." Then without 
further hesitation he told the tradition, which, 
although not of ancient happening, is held in 
great reverence by his tribe. During its re- 
cital he sat with folded arms, leaning on the 
table, his head and shoulders bending eagerly 



towards me as I sat at the opposite side. It 
was the only time he ever talked to me when 
he did not use emphasising gesticulations, but 
his hands never once lifted : his wonderful eyes 
alone gave expression to what he called "The 
Legend of the 'Salt-chuck Oluk' " (sea- 

"Yes, it was during the first gold craze, and 
many of our young men went as guides to 
the whites far up the Eraser. When they re- 
turned they brought these tales of greed and 
murder back with them, and our old people 
and our women shook their heads and said 
evil would come of it. But all our young men, 
except one, returned as they went kind to 
the poor, kind to those who were foodless, 
sharing whatever they had with their tilli- 
cums. But one, by name Shak-shak (The 
Hawk), came back with hoards of gold nug- 
gets, chickimin,* everything; he was rich like 
the white men, and, like them, he kept it. He 
would count his chickimin, count his nuggets, 
gloat over them, toss them in his palms. He 
rested his head on them as he slept, he packed 
them about with him through the day. He 
loved them better than food, better than his 
tillicums, better than his life. The entire tribe 
arose. They said Shak-shak had the disease 
of greed; that to cure it he must give a great 
potlatch, divide his riches with the poorer 
ones, share them with the old, the sick, the 
foodless. But he jeered and laughed and told 
them No, and went on loving 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 
to the cry of the hungry, to the call of the old 
and sick; you will not share your possessions; 
you have made of yourself an outcast from 
your tribe and disobeyed the ancient laws of 
your people. Now I will make of you a thing 
loathed and hated by all men, both white and 
red. You will have two heads, for your greed 
has two mouths to bite. One bites the poor, 
and one bites your own evil heart and the 
fangs in these mouths are poison, poison that 



kills the hungry, and poison that kills your 
own manhood. Your evil heart will beat in 
the very centre of your foul body, and he that 
pierces it will kill the disease of greed forever 
from amongst his people.' And when the sun 
arose above the North Arm the next morning 
the tribes-people saw a gigantic sea-serpent 
stretched across the surface of the waters. One 
hideous head rested on the bluffs at Brockton 
Point, the other rested on a group of rocks 
just below Mission, at the western edge of 
North Vancouver. If you care to go there 
some day I will show you the hollow in one 
great stone where that head lay. The tribes- 
people were stunned with horror. They 
loathed the creature, they hated it, they feared 
it. Day after day it lay there, its monstrous 
heads lifted out of the waters, its mile-long 
body blocking all entrance from the Narrows, 
all outlet from the North Arm. The chiefs 
made council, the medicine men danced and 
chanted, but the salt-chuck oluk never moved. 
It could not move, for it was the hated totem 
of what now rules the white man's world 
greed and love of chickimin. No one can ever 
move the love of chickimin from the white 
man's heart, no one can ever make him divide 
all with the poor. But after the chiefs and 
medicine men had done all in their power, and 
still the salt-chuck oluk lay across the waters, 
a handsome boy of sixteen approached them 
and reminded them of the words of the 
Sagalie Tyee, 'that he that pierced the mon- 
ster's heart would kill the disease of greed 
forever amongst his people.' 

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

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



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

"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 my 
life to be generous, but the people say I must 
be clean also to fight this unclean thing. While 
I am gone put fresh furs on my bed every 
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 mother said simply. 

"The Tenas Tyee then stripped himself and, 
with no clothing save a buckskin belt into 
which he thrust his hunting-knife, he flung 
his lithe young body into the sea. But at the 
end of four days he did not return. Some- 
times his people could see him swimming far 
out in mid-channel, endeavoring to find the 
exact centre of the serpent, where lay its evil, 
selfish heart; but on the fifth morning they 
saw him rise out of the sea, climb to the sum- 
mit of Brockton Point and greet the rising 
sun with outstretched arms. Weeks and 
months went by, still the Tenas Tyee would 
swim daily searching for that heart of greed; 
and each morning the sunrise glinted on his 
slender young copper-colored body as he stood 
with outstretched arms at the tip of Brockton 
Point, greeting the coming day and then 
plunging from the summit into the sea. 

"And at his home on the north shore his 
mother dressed his bed with fresh furs each 
morning. The seasons drifted by, winter 
followed summer, summer followed winter. 
But it was four years before the Tenas Tyee 
found the centre of the great salt-chuck oluk 
and plunged his hunting-knife into its evil 
heart. In its death-agony it writhed through 
the Narrows, leaving a trail of blackness on 
the waters. Its huge body began to shrink, to 



shrivel ; it became dwarfed and withered, until 
nothing but the bones of its back remained, 
and they, sea-bleached and lifeless, soon sank 
to the bed of the ocean leagues off from the 
rim of land. But as the Tenas Tyee swam 
homeward and his clean, young body crossed 
through the black stain left by the serpent, 
the waters became clear and blue and spark- 
ling. He had overcome even the trail of the 
salt-chuck oluk. 

"When at last he stood in the doorway of 
his home he said, 'My mother, I could not 
have killed the monster of greed amongst my 
people had you not helped me by keeping one 
place for me at home fresh and clean for my 

"She looked at him as only mothers look. 
'Each day these four years, 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 he said, "What do you 
call that story a legend?" 

"The white people would call it an alle- 
gory," I answered. He shook his head. 

"No savvy," he smiled. 

I explained as simply as possible, and with 
his customary alertness he immediately un- 
derstood. "That's right," he said. "That's 
what we say it means, we Squamish, that 
greed is evil and not clean, like the salt-chuck 
oluk. That it must be stamped out amongst 
our people, killed by cleanliness and generos- 
ity. The boy that overcame the serpent was 
both these things." 

"What became of this splendid boy?", I 

"The Tenas Tyee? Oh! some of our old, 
old people say they sometimes see him now, 
standing on Brockton Point, his bare young 
arms outstretched to the rising sun," he re- 

"Have you ever seen him, Chief?" I 

"No," he answered simply. But I have 
never heard such poignant regret as his won- 
derful voice crowded into that single word. 


The Lost Island 

ES," said my old tillicum, "we 
Indians have lost many things. 
We have lost our lands, our 
forests, our game, our fish; we 
have lost our ancient religion, 
our ancient dress; some of the younger people 
have even lost their fathers' language and the 
legends and traditions of their ancestors. We 
cannot call those old things back to us; they 
will never come again. We may travel many 
days up the mountain trails, and look in the 
silent places for them. They are not there. 
We may paddle many moons on the sea, but 
our canoes will never enter the channel that 
leads to the yesterdays of the Indian people. 
These things are lost, just like 'The Island of 
the North Arm.' 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 of summers," he replied 

"Was it ever there?" I questioned. 

"Yes, it was there," he said. "My grand- 
sires and my great-grandsires saw it; but that 
was long ago. My father never saw it, though 
he spent many days in many years searching, 
always searching, for it. I am an old man 
myself, and I have never seen it, though from 
my youth I, too, have searched. Sometimes 
in the stillness of the nights I have paddled 
up in my canoe." Then, lowering his voice: 
"Twice I have seen its shadow: high rocky 
shores, reaching as high as the tree tops on 
the mainland, then tall pines and firs on its 
summit like a king's crown. As I paddled up 
the Arm one summer night, long ago, the 
shadow of these rocks and firs fell across my 
canoe, across my face, and across the waters 
beyond. I turned rapidly to look. There was 
no island there, nothing but a wide stretch of 
waters on both sides of me, and the moon 



almost directly overhead. Don't say it was 
the shore that shadowed me," he hastened, 
catching my thought. "The moon was above 
me; my canoe scarce made a shadow on the 
still waters. No, it was not the shore." 

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

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

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

"It was more than one hundred years ago. 
This great city of Vancouver 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 Indian medicine man knew 
that some day a great camp for Palefaces 
would lie between False Creek and the Inlet. 
This dream haunted him ; it came to him night 
and day when he was amid his people 
laughing and feasting, or when he was alone 
in the forest chanting his strange songs, beat- 
ing his hollow drum, or shaking his wooden 
witch-rattle to gain more power to cure the 
sick and the dying of his tribe. For years this 
dream followed him. He grew to be an old, old 
man, yet always he could hear voices, strong 
and loud, as when they first spoke to him in 
his youth, and they would say: 'Between the 
two narrow strips of salt water the white men 
will camp many hundreds of them, many 
thousands of them. The Indians will learn 
their ways, will live as they do, will become 
as they are. There will be no more great war 
dances, no more fights with other powerful 
tribes; it will be as if the Indians had lost all 
bravery, all courage, all confidence.' He hated 
the voices, he hated the dream; but all his 
power, all his big medicine, could not drive 
them away. He was the strongest man on all 
the North Pacific Coast. He was mighty and 
very 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 days 



without food ; he could fight the largest moun- 
tain lion; he could overthrow the fiercest 
grizzly bear; he could paddle against the 
wildest winds and ride the highest waves. 
He could meet his enemies and kill whole 
tribes single-handed. His strength, his cour- 
age, his power, his bravery, were those of a 
giant. He knew no fear; nothing in the sea, 
or in the forest, nothing in the earth or the 
sky, could conquer him. He was fearless, fear- 
less. Only this haunting dream of the coming 
white man's camp he could not drive away; it 
was the one thing in life he had tried to kill 
and failed. It drove him from the feasting, 
drove him from the pleasant lodges, the fires, 
the dancing, the story-telling of his people in 
their camp by the water's edge, where the 
salmon thronged and the deer came down to 
drink of the mountain streams. He left the 
Indian village, chanting his wild songs as he 
went. Up through the mighty forests he 
climbed, through the trailless deep mosses and 
matted vines, up to the summit of what the 
white men call Grouse Mountain. For many 
days he camped there. He ate no food, he 
drank no water, but sat and sang his medicine 
songs through the dark hours and through 
the day. Before him far beneath his feet 
lay the narrow strip of land between the two 
salt waters. Then the Sagalie Tyee gave him 
the power 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 mighty lodges built close together, hun- 
dreds and thousands of them; lodges of stone 
and wood, and long straight trails to divide 
them. He saw these trails thronging with 
Palefaces; he heard the sound of the white 
man's paddle-dip on the waters, for it is not 
silent like the Indian's ; he saw the white man's 
trading posts, saw the fishing nets, heard his 
speech. Then the vision faded as gradually 
as it came. The narrow strip of land was his 
own forest once more. 

" 'I am old,' he called, in his sorrow and his 
trouble for his people. 'I am old, oh, Sagalie 
Tyee! Soon I shall die and go to the Happy 
Hunting Grounds of my fathers. Let not my 


strength die with me. Keep living for all time 
my courage, my bravery, my fearlessness. 
Keep them for my people that they may be 
strong enough to endure the white man's rule. 
Keep my strength living for them; hide it so 
that the Paleface may never find or see it.' 

"Then he came down from the summit of 
Grouse Mountain. Still chanting his medicine 
songs he entered his canoe, and paddled 
through the colors of the setting sun far up 
the North Arm. When night fell he came to 
an island with misty shores of great grey 
rock; on its summit tall pines and firs circled 
like a king's crown. As he neared it he felt 
all his strength, his courage, his fearlessness, 
leaving him; he could see these things drift 
from him on to the island. They were as the 
clouds that rest on the mountains, grey-white 
and half transparent. Weak as a woman he 
paddled back to the Indian village; he told 
them to go and search for 'The Island,' where 
they would find all his courage, his fearless- 
ness and his strength, living, living forever. 
He slept then, but in the morning he did not 
awake. Since then our young men and our 
old have searched for 'The Island.' It is there 
somewhere, up some lost channel, but we can- 
not find it. When we do, we will get back 
all the courage and bravery we had before the 
white man came, for the great medicine man 
said those things never die they live for one's 
children and grandchildren." 

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

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


Point Grey 

AVE you ever sailed around Point 
Grey?" asked a young Squamish 
tillicum of mine who often comes 
to see me, to share a cup of tea 
and a taste of muck-a-muck, that 
otherwise I should eat in solitude. 

"No," I admitted, I had not had that plea- 
sure, for I did not know the uncertain waters 
of English Bay sufficiently well to venture 
about 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 southwest of the Point. It is a 
strange rock; we Indian people call it 

"What an odd name," I commented. "Is it 
a Squamish word? it does not sound to me 
like one." 

"It is not altogether Squamish, but half 
Eraser River language. The Point was the 
dividing line between the grounds and waters 
of the two tribes, so they agreed to make the 
name 'Homolsom' from the two languages." 

I suggested more tea, and, as he sipped it, 
he told me the legend that few of the younger 
Indians know. That he believes the story him- 
self is beyond question, for many times he ad- 
mitted having tested the virtues of this rock, 
and it had never once failed him. All people 
that have to do with water craft are supersti- 
tious about some things, and I freely acknow- 
ledge that times innumerable I have "whistled 
up" a wind when dead calm threatened, or 
stuck a jack-knife in the mast, and afterwards 
watched witn great contentment the idle sail 
fill, and the canoe pull out to a light breeze. 
So, perhaps, I am prejudiced in favor of this 
legend of Homolsom Rock, for it strikes a very 
responsive chord in that portion of my heart 
that has always throbbed for the sea. 

"You know," began my young tillicum, 
"that only waters unspoiled by human hands 
can be of any benefit. One gains no strength 



by swimming in any waters heated or boiled 
by fires that men build. To grow strong and 
wise one must swim in the natural rivers, the 
mountain torrents, the sea, just as the Sag- 
alie Tyee made them. Their virtues die 
when human beings try to improve them by 
heating or distilling, or placing even tea in 
them, and so what makes Homolsom Rock 
so full of 'good medicine' is that the waters 
that wash up about it are straight from the 
sea, made by the hand of the Great Tyee, and 
unspoiled by the hand of man. 

"It was not always there, that great rock, 
drawing its strength and its wonderful power 
from the seas, for it, too, was once a Great 
Tyee, who ruled a mighty tract of waters. He 
was god of all the waters 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 even the west coast of Vancou- 
ver Island, and of all the channels that cut be- 
tween the Charlotte Islands. He was Tyee 
of the West Wind, and his storms and 
tempests were so mighty that the Sagalie 
Tyee Himself could not control the havoc that 
he created. He warred upon all fishing craft, 
he demolished canoes and sent men to graves 
in the sea. He uprooted forests and drove the 
surf on shore heavy with wreckage of de- 
spoiled trees and with beaten and bruised fish. 
He did all this to reveal his powers, for he 
was cruel and hard of heart, and he would 
laugh and defy the Sagalie Tyee, and look- 
ing up to the sky he would call, 'See how 
powerful I am, how mighty, how strong ; I am 
as great as you.' 

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

" '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. I shall wreck them 
and send their bodies into the great deeps, and 



I shall be Sagalie Tyee in their place and 
ruler of all the world.' So the god of the 
West Wind blew forth his tempests. The 
waves arose mountain high, the seas lashed 
and thundered along the shores. The roar of 
his mighty breath could be heard wrenching 
giant limbs from the forest trees, whistling 
down the canyons and dealing death and de- 
struction for leagues and leagues along the 
coast. But the canoe containing the Four 
Men rode upright through all the heights and 
hollows of the seething ocean. No curling 
crest or sullen depth could wreck that magic 
craft, for the hearts it bore were filled with 
kindness for the human race, and kindness 
cannot die. 

"It was all rock and dense forest, and 
unpeopled; only wild animals and sea birds 
sought the shelter it provided from the terrors 
of the West Wind; but he drove them out 
in sullen anger, and made on this strip of land 
his last stand against the Four Men. The 
Paleface calls the place Point Grey, but the 
Indians yet speak of it as 'The Battle Ground 
of the West Wind.' All his mighty forces he 
now brought to bear against the oncoming 
canoe; he swept great hurricanes about its 
stony ledges; he caused the sea to beat and 
swirl in tempestuous fury along its narrow 
fastnesses, but the canoe came nearer and 
nearer, invincible as those shores, and strong- 
er than death itself. As the bow touched the 
land the Four Men arose and commanded the 
West Wind to cease his war cry, and, mighty 
though he had been, his voice trembled and 
sobbed itself into a gentle breeze, then fell to 
a whispering note, then faded into exquisite 

" 'Oh, you evil one with the unkind heart,' 
cried the Four Men, 'you have been too great 
a god for even the Sagalie Tyee to obliterate 
you forever, but you shall live on, live now to 
serve, not to hinder mankind. You shall turn 
into stone where you now stand, and you 
shall rise only as men wish you to. Your life 
from this day shall be for the good of man, for 
when the fisherman's sails are idle and his 
lodge is leagues away you shall fill those 



sails and blow his craft free, in whatever direc- 
tion he desires. You shall stand where you 
are through all the thousands upon thousands 
of years to come, and he who touches you 
with his paddle-blade shall have his desire of 
a breeze to carry him home.' " 

My young tillicum had finished his tradi- 
tion, and his great solemn eyes regarded me 

"I wish you could see Homolsom Rock," 
he said. "For that is he who was 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 with the tip of my 
paddle-blade, and no matter which way I want 
to go the wind will blow free for me, if I wait 
a little while." 

"I suppose your people all do this?" I 

"Yes, all of them," he answered. "They 
have done it for hundreds of years. 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 Sagalie Tyee made." 


The Tulameen Trail 

ID you ever "holiday" through the 
valley lands of the Dry Belt? 
Ever spend days and days in a 
swinging, swaying coach, behind 
a four-in-hand, when "Curly" or 
"Nicola Ned" held the ribbons, and tooled his 
knowing little leaders and wheelers down 
those horrifying mountain trails that wind like 
russet skeins of cobweb through the heights 
and depths of the Okanagan, the Nicola and 
the Similkameen countries? If so, you have 
listened to the call of the Skookum Chuck, as 
the Chinook speakers call the rollicking, 
tumbling streams that sing their way through 
the canyons with a music so dulcet, so insis- 
tent, that for many moons the echo of it ling- 
ers in your listening ears, and you will, 
through all the years to come, hear the voices 
of those mountain rivers calling you to return. 
But the most haunting of all the melodies 
is the warbling laughter of the Tulameen; its 
delicate note is far more powerful, more far- 
reaching than the throaty thunders of Niagara. 
That is why the Indians of the Nicola 
country still cling to their old-time story that 
the Tulameen carries the spirit of a young girl 
enmeshed in the wonders of its winding 
course; a spirit that can never free itself from 
the canyons, to rise above the heights and fol- 
low its fellows to the Happy Hunting 
Grounds, but which is contented to entwine 
its laughter, its sobs, its lonely whispers, its 
still lonelier call for companionship, with the 
wild music of the waters that sing forever be- 
neath the western stars. 

As your horses plod up and up the almost 
perpendicular trail that leads out of the Nicola 
Valley to the summit, a paradise of beauty 
outspreads at your feet; the color is indescrib- 
able in words, the atmosphere thrills you. 
Youth and the pulse of rioting blood are yours 
again, until, as you near the heights, you be- 
come strangely calmed by the voiceless silence 



of it all, a silence so holy that it seems the 
whole world about you is swinging its censer 
before an altar in some dim remote cathedral! 
The choir voices of the Tulameen are yet very 
far away across the summit, but the heights 
of the Nicola are the silent prayer that holds 
the human soul before the first great chords 
swell down from the organ loft. In this first 
long climb up miles and miles of trail, even 
the staccato of the drivers' long black-snake 
whip is hushed. He lets his animals pick their 
own sure-footed way, but once across the 
summit he gathers the reins in his steely fin- 
gers, gives a low, quick whistle, the whiplash 
curls about the ears of the leaders and the 
plunge down the dip of the mountain begins. 
Every foot of the way is done at a gallop. 
The coach rocks and swings as it dashes 
through a trail rough-hewn from the heart of 
the forest; at times the angles are so abrupt 
that you cannot see the heads of the leaders 
as they swing around the grey crags that al- 
most scrape the tires on the left, while within 
a foot of the rim of the trail the right wheels 
whirl along the edge of a yawning canyon. 
The rhymes of the hoof-beats, the recurrent 
low whistle and crack of the whiplash, the 
occasional rattle of pebbles showering down 
to the depths, loosened by rioting wheels, 
have broken the sacred silence. Yet above 
all those nearby sounds there seems to be an 
indistinct murmur, which grows sweeter, 
more musical, as you gain the base of the 
mountains, where it rises above all harsher 
notes. It is the voice of the restless Tulameen 
as it dances and laughs through the rocky 
throat of the canyon, three hundred feet be- 
low. Then, following the song, comes a 
glimpse of the river itself white garmented 
in the film of its countless rapids, its showers 
of waterfalls. It is as beautiful to look at as 
to listen to, and it is here, where the trail 
winds about and above it for leagues, that the 
Indians say it caught the spirit of the maiden 
that is still interlaced in its loveliness. 

It was in one of the terrible battles that 
raged between the valley tribes before the 
white man's footprints were seen along these 



trails. None can now tell the cause of this 
warfare, but the supposition is that it was 
merely for tribal supremacy that primeval 
instinct that assails the savage in both man 
and beast, that drives the hill men to blood- 
shed and the leaders of buffalo herds to con- 
flict. It is the greed to rule; the one bar- 
barous instinct that civilization has never yet 
been able to eradicate from armed nations. 
This war of the tribes of the valley lands was 
of years 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 sons were pitted against a 
single young Tulameen brave. Both factors 
had their loyal followers, both were indom- 
itable as to courage and bravery, both were 
determined and ambitious, both were skilled 

But on the older man's side were experience 
and two other wary, strategic brains to help 
him, while on the younger was but the ad- 
vantage of splendid youth and unconquerable 
persistence. But at every pitched battle, at 
every skirmish, at every single-handed con- 
flict the younger man gained little by little, 
the older man lost step by step. The expe- 
rience of age was gradually but inevitably giv- 
ing way to the strength and enthusiasm of 
youth. Then one day they met face to face 
and alone the old war-scarred chief, the 
young battle-inspired brave. It was an un- 
equal combat, and at the close of a brief but 
violent struggle the younger had brought the 
older to his knees. Standing over him with 
up-poised knife the Tulameen brave laughed 
sneeringly, and said: 

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

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

49 o 


"My daughter!" he answered sternly. "My 
daughter who is barely out of her own cradle 
basket give her to you, whose hands are 
blood-dyed with the killing of a score of my 
tribe? You ask for this thing?" 

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

The old chief sprang to his feet and spat 
out his refusal. "Keep your victory, and I 
keep my girl-child," though he knew he was 
not only defying his enemy, but defying death 
as well. 

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

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

The next morning the chief's daughter was 
loitering along the heights, listening to the 
singing river, and sometimes leaning over the 
precipice to watch its curling eddies and 
dancing waterfalls. Suddenly she heard a 
slight rustle, as though some passing bird's 
wing had dipt the air. Then at her feet there 
fell a slender, delicately shaped arrow. It fell 
with spent force, and her Indian woodcraft 
told her it had been shot to her, not at her. 
She started like a wild animal. Then her 
quick eye caught the outline of a handsome, 
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 be 
young, stalwart and of extraordinary, manly 
beauty. The spirit of youth and of a certain 
savage coquetry awoke within her. Quickly 
she fitted one of her own dainty arrows to 
the bow string and sent it 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 noise- 
lessly to the brink of the heights. Would she 
see him again that handsome brave? Would 
he speed another arrow to her? She had not 
yet emerged from the tangle of forest before 
it fell, its faint-winged flight heralding its 



coming. Near the feathered end was tied a 
tassel of beautiful ermine tails. She took from 
her wrist a string of shell beads, fastened it to 
one of her little arrows and winged it across 
the canyon, as yesterday. 

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

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

She looked up into his handsome young face. 
So this was her father'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 led her far up the rocky 
shores to the narrow belt of quiet waters, 
where they crossed in silence into his own 
country. A week, a month, a long golden 
summer, slipped by, but the insulted old chief 
and his enraged sons failed to find her. 

Then one morning as the lovers walked to- 
gether on the heights above the far upper 
reaches of the river, even the ever-watchful 
eyes of the Tulameen failed to detect the lurk- 
ing enemy. Across the narrow canyon 
crouched and crept the two outwitted broth- 
ers of the girl-wife at his side; their arrows 
were on their bow-strings, their hearts on fire 
with hatred and vengeance. Like two evil- 
winged birds of prey those arrows sped across 
the laughing river, but before they found their 



mark in the breast of the victorious Tulameen 
the girl had unconsciously stepped before him. 
With a little sigh, she slipped into his arms, 
her brothers' arrows buried into her soft, 
brown flesh. 

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

dead in the Tulameen River." 

* * * * * 

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

The Grey Archway 

| HE steamer, like a huge shuttle, 
wove in and out among the count- 
less small islands; its long trailing 
scarf of grey smoke hung heavily 
along the uncertain shores, cast- 
ing a shadow over the pearly waters of the 
Pacific, which sung lazily from rock to rock 
in indescribable beauty. 

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

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

He glanced round, and half smiled. 

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

I drew my deck stool nearer to him, and he 
acknowledged the action with another half 
smile, but did not stir from his entrenchment, 
remaining as if hedged about with an inviol- 
able fortress of exclusiveness. Yet I knew 
that my Chinook salutation would be a draw- 
bridge by which I might hope to cross the 
moat into his castle of silence. 

Indian-like, he took his time before continu- 
ing 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 of the deck, up the 
channels and narrows we were threading, to 
a broad strip of waters off the port bow. Then 
he pointed, with that peculiar, thoroughly 
Indian gesture of the palm, uppermost. 

"Do you see it over there? The small 



island? It rests on the edge of the water, like 
a grey gull." 

It took my unaccustomed eyes some mom- 
ents to discern it ; then all at once 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 are one of us," he said, 
with evidently no thought of a possible con- 
tradiction. "And you will understand, or I 
should not tell you. 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 of us spoke during that 
time; then, as the "grey gull" shaped itself 
into rock and tree and crag, I noticed in the 
very centre a stupendous pile of stone lifting 
itself skyward, without fissure or cleft; but a 
peculiar haziness about the base made me 
peer narrowly to catch the perfect outline. 

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

Only then did I grasp the singular forma- 
tion before us; the rock was a perfect arch- 
way, through which we could see the placid 
Pacific shimmering in the growing colors of 
the coming sunset at the opposite rim of the 

"What a remarkable whim of Nature!" I 
exclaimed, but his brown hand was laid in a 
contradictory grasp on my arm, and he 
snatched up my comment almost with im- 

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

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

"Long time ago," he began, stumbling into 
a half-broken English language, because, I 
think, of the atmosphere and environment, 



"long before you were born, or your father, 
or grandfather, or even his father, this strange 
thing happened. It is a story for women to 
hear, to remember. Women are the future 
mothers of the tribe, and we of the Pacific 
Coast hold such in high regard, in great rever- 
ence. The women who are mothers o-ho! 
they are the important ones we say. War- 
riors, fighters, brave men, fearless daughters, 
owe their qualities to these mothers eh, is it 
not always so?" 

I nodded silently. The island was swinging 
nearer to us, the "Grey Archway" loomed al- 
most 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 expresses every quality, every 
attribute, every intensity, emotion and passion 
embraced in those four little letters. Surely 
this was an exceptional story I was to hear. 

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

"You have not heard of Yaada?" he ques- 
tioned. Then fortunately he continued with- 
out waiting for a reply. He well knew that I 
had never heard of Yaada, so why not begin 
without preliminary to tell me of her? so 

"Yaada was the loveliest daughter of the 
Haida tribe. Young braves from all the islands, 
from the mainland, from the upper Skeena 
country came, hoping to carry her to their far- 
off lodges, but they always returned alone. 
She was the most desired of all the island 
maidens, beautiful, brave, modest, the daugh- 
ter of her own mother. 

"But there was a great man, a very great 
man a medicine man, skilful, powerful, in- 
fluential, old, deplorably old, and very, very 
rich; he said, 'Yaada shall be my wife.' And 
there was a young fisherman, handsome, loyal, 
boyish, poor, oh! very poor, and gloriously 



young, and he, too, said, 'Yaada shall be my 

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

"But the laws of the great Haida tribe pre- 
vailed. Its wise men said, 'Give the girl to 
the greatest man, give her to the most power- 
ful, the richest. The man of magic must have 
his choice.' 

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

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

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

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

"The medicine man never looked so old as 
at that moment ; so hopelessly old, so wrinkled, 
so palsied: he was no mate for Yaada. Ulka 
never looked so god-like in his young beauty, 
so gloriously young, so courageous. The girl, 
looking at him, loved him almost was she 



placing her hand in his, but the spirit of her 
forefathers halted her. She had spoken the 
word she must abide by it. 'Throw!' she 

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

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

" 'Oh, wonderful power and magic !' clam- 
ored the entire tribe. 'The very rocks do his 

"But Yaada stood with eyes that burned in 
agony. Ulka could never command such 
magic she knew it. But at her side Ulka was 
standing erect, tall, slender and beautiful, but 
just as he cast his missile the evil voice of the 
old medicine man began a still more evil in- 
cantation. He fixed his poisonous eyes on the 
younger man, eyes with hideous magic in their 
depths ill-omened and enchanted with 'bad 
medicine.' The stone left Ulka's fingers; 
for a second it flew forth in a straight line, 
then as the evil voice of the old man grew 
louder in its incantations the stone curved. 
Magic had waylaid the strong arm of the 
young brave. The stone poised an instant 
above the forehead of Yaada's mother, then 
dropped with the weight of many mountains, 
and the last long sleep fell upon her. 

" 'Slayer of my mother !' stormed the girl, 
her suffering eyes fixed upon the medicine 
man. 'Oh, I now see your black heart through 
your black magic. Through good magic you 
cut the 'Great Archway,' but your evil magic 
you used upon young Ulka. I saw your 
wicked eyes upon him; I heard your 
wicked incantations; I know your wicked 
heart. You used your heartless magic in 

57 H 


hope of winning me in hope of making 
him an outcast of the tribe. You cared not for 
my sorrowing heart, my motherless life to 
come.' Then, turning to the tribe, she de- 
manded : '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,' they shouted. '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 cold as 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 fare- 
well, she moved slowly towards the edge of 
the cliff. On its brink she hovered a moment 
with outstretched arms, as a sea gull poises 
on its weight then she called: 

" 'Ulka, my Ulka ! Your hand is innocent 
of wrong; it was the evil magic of your rival 
that slew my mother. I must go to her; even 
you cannot keep me here; will you stay, or 
come with me? Oh! my Ulka!' 

"The slender, gloriously young boy sprang 
toward her; their hands closed one within the 
other; for a second they poised on the brink 
of the rocks, radiant as stars; then together 

they plunged into the 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, I watched the sea and 
sky for something that would give me a clue 



to 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 throw from the steamer. 
I leaned forward, watching it intently. Two 
silvery fish were making a succession of little 
leaps and plunges along the surface of the sea, 
their bodies catching the last tints of 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; "you do know us and our 
ways, for you are one of us. Yes, those fish 
are seen only in these waters; there are never 
but two of them. They are Yaada and her 
mate, seeking for the soul of the Haida woman 
her mother." 


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 tonight 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. 

OR many minutes we stood silent- 
ly, leaning on the western rail of 
the bridge as we watched the 
sun set across that beautiful little 
basin of water known as Coal 
Harbor. I have always resented that jarring, 
unattractive name, for years ago, when I first 
plied paddle across the gunwale of a light 
little canoe that idled about its margin, I 
named the sheltered little cove the Lost La- 
goon. This was just to please my own fancy, 
for as that perfect summer month drifted on, 
the ever-restless tides left the harbor devoid 
of water at my favorite canoeing hour, and 
my pet idling place was lost for many days 
hence my fancy to call it the Lost Lagoon. 
But the chief, Indian-like, immediately adopt- 
ed the name, at least when he spoke of the 
place to me, and as we watched the sun slip 
behind the rim of firs, he expressed the wish 
that his dugout were here instead of lying 
beached at the farther side of the park. 

"If canoe was here, you and I we paddle 
close to shores all 'round your Lost Lagoon: 
we make track just like half moon. Then we 
paddle under this bridge, and go channel be- 
tween Deadman's Island and park. Then 



'round where cannon speak time at nine 
o'clock. Then 'cross Inlet to Indian side of 

I turned to look eastward, following in 
fancy the course he had sketched; the waters 
were still as the footstep of the oncoming twi- 
light, and, floating in a pool of soft purple, 
Deadman's Island rested like a large circle of 
candle moss. 

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

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

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

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

"Oh! that the way always," he said as 
though speaking of a long accepted fact. "Al- 
ways fight over that place. Hundreds of 
years ago they fight about it; Indian people; 
they say hundreds of years to come everybody 
will still fight never be settled what that 
place 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 legend 
I knew was coming. 

"Fought like lynx at close quarters," he 
answered. "Fought, killed each 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 growing 
along this coast." 

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

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



We crossed to the eastern rail of the bridge, 
and stood watching the deep shadows that 
gathered slowly and silently about the island; 
I have seldom looked upon anything more 

The chief sighed. "We have no such men 
now, no fighters like those men, no hearts, no 
:ourage 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 it 
happen those spirits fought." 

"And the legend?" I ventured. 

"Oh ! yes," he replied, as if suddenly return- 
ing to the present from out a far country in 
the realm of time. "Indian people, they call 
it 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 forests smoked with camp fires, 
the Narrows were choked with war canoes, 
and the Sagalie Tyee He who is a man of 
peace turned His face away from His Indian 
children. About this island there was dispute 
and contention. The medicine men from the 
North claimed it as their chanting ground. 
The medicine men from the South laid equal 
claim to it. Each wanted it as the stronghold 
of their witchcraft, their magic. 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 
rim of the island ; those from the South settled 
along the southern edge, looking towards 
what is now the great city of Vancouver. 
Both factions danced, chanted, burned their 
magic powders, built their magic fires, beat 
their magic rattles, but neither would give 
way, yet neither conquered. About them, on 
the waters, on the mainlands, raged the war- 
fare of their respective tribes the Sagalie 
Tyee had forgotten His Indian children. 

"After many months, the warriors on both 
sides weakened. They said the incantations 
of the rival medicine men were bewitching 



them, were making their hearts like children's, 
and their arms nerveless as women's. So 
friend and foe arose as one man and drove the 
medicine men from the island, hounded them 
down the Inlet, herded them through the Nar- 
rows and banished them out to sea, where 
they took refuge on one of the outer islands 
of the gulf. Then the tribes once more fell 
upon each other in battle. 

"The warrior blood of the North will always 
conquer. They are the stronger, bolder, more 
alert, more keen. The snows and the ice of 
their country make swifter pulse than the 
sleepy suns of the South can awake in a man ; 
their muscles are of sterner stuff, their endur- 
ance greater. Yes, the northern tribes will al- 
ways be victors.* But the craft and the strategy 
of the southern tribes are hard things to battle 
against. While those of the North followed 
the medicine men farther out to sea to make 
sure of their banishment, those from the South 
returned under cover of night and seized the 
women and children and the old, enfeebled 
men in their enemy's camp, transported them 
all to the Island of Dead Men, and there held 
them as captives. Their war canoes circled 
the island like a fortification, through which 
drifted the sobs of the imprisoned women, the 
mutterings of the aged men, the wail of little 

"Again and again the men of the North 
assailed that circle of canoes, and again and 
again were repulsed. The air was thick with 
poisoned arrows, the water stained with blood. 
But day by day the circle of southern canoes 
grew thinner and thinner ; the northern arrows 
were telling and truer of aim. Canoes drifted 
everywhere, empty, or worse still, manned 
only by dead men. The pick of the southern 
warriors had already fallen, when their great- 
est Tyee mounted a large rock on the eastern 
shore. Brave and unmindful of a thousand 
weapons aimed at his heart, he uplifted his 

*Note. It would almost seem that the chief knew that won- 
derful poem of "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. 



hand, palm outward the signal for confer- 
ence. Instantly every northern arrow was 
lowered, and every northern ear listened for 
his words. 

" 'Oh! men of the upper coast,' he said, 'you 
are more numerous than we are; your tribe 
is larger; your endurance greater. We are 
growing hungry, we are growing less in num- 
bers. Our captives your women and children 
and old men have lessened, too, our stores of 
food. If you refuse our terms we will yet 
fight to the finish. Tomorrow we will kill all 
our captives before your eyes, for we can feed 
them no longer, or you can have your wives, 
your mothers, your fathers, your children, by 
giving us for each and every one of them one 
of your best and bravest young warriors, who 
will consent to suffer death in their stead. 
Speak! You have your choice.' 

"In the northern canoes scores and scores 
of young warriors leapt to their feet. The air 
was filled with glad cries, with exultant 
shouts. The whole world seemed to ring with 
the voices of those young 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 

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

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

"The released captives were quickly sur- 
rounded by their own people, but the flower 
of their splendid nation was in the hands of 
their enemies, those valorous young men who 



thought so little of life that they willingly, 
gladly laid it down to serve and to save those 
they loved and cared for. Amongst them were 
war-tried warriors who had fought fifty 
battles, and boys not yet full grown, who were 
drawing a 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. Their chins uplifted, their eyes 
defiant, their breasts bared. Each leaned for- 
ward and laid his weapons at his feet, then 
stood erect, with empty hands, and laughed 
forth their challenge to death. A thousand 
arrows ripped the air, two hundred gallant 
northern throats flung forth a death cry exul- 
tant, triumphant as conquering kings then 
two hundred fearless northern hearts ceased 
to beat. 

"But in the morning the southern tribes 
found the spot where they fell peopled with 
flaming fire-flowers. Dread terror seized upon 
them. They abandoned the island, and when 
night again shrouded them they manned their 
canoes and noiselessly slipped through the 
Narrows, turned their bows southward and 
this coast line knew them no more." 

"What glorious men," I half whispered as 
the chief concluded the strange 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 of 
Dead Men." 

The clustering pines and the outlines of the 
island's margin were now dusky and indistinct. 
Peace, peace lay over the waters, and the 
purple of the summer twilight had turned to 
grey, but I knew that in the depths of the 
undergrowth on Deadman's Island there blos- 
somed a flower of flaming beauty ; its colors 
were veiled in the coming nightfall, but some- 
where down in the sanctuary of its petals 
pulsed the heart's blood of many and valiant 


A Squamish Legend of 

OLDING an important place among 
the majority of curious tales held 
in veneration by the coast tribes 
are those of the sea-serpent. The 
monster appears and reappears with 
almost monotonous frequency in connection 
with history, traditions, legends and supersti- 
tions; but perhaps the most wonderful part it 
ever played was in the great drama that held 
the stage of Europe, and incidentally all the 
world during the stormy days of the first 

Throughout Canada I have never failed to 
find an amazing knowledge of Napoleon Bona- 
parte amongst the very old and "uncivilized" 
Indians. Perhaps they may be unfamiliar with 
every other historical character from Adam 
down, but they will all tell you they have 
heard of the "Great French Fighter," as they 
call the wonderful little Corsican. 

Whether this knowledge was obtained 
through the fact that our earliest settlers and 
pioneers were French, or whether Napoleon's 
almost magical fighting career attracted the 
Indian mind to the exclusion of lesser war- 
riors, I have never yet decided. But the fact 
remains that the Indians of our generation are 
not as familiar with Bonaparte's name as were 
their fathers and grandfathers, so either the 
predominance of English-speaking settlers or 
the thinning of their ancient war-loving blood 
by modern civilization and peaceful times, 
must one or the other account for the younger 
Indian's ignorance of the Emperor of the 

In telling me the legend of The Lost Talis- 
man, my good tillicum, the late Chief Capilano, 
began the story with the almost amazing 
question, Had I ever heard of Napoleon Bona- 
parte? It was some moments before I just 
caught the name, for his . English, always 




quaint and beautiful, was at times a little halt- 
ing; but when he said by way of explanation, 
"You know big fighter, Frenchman. The Eng- 
lish they beat him in big battle," I grasped 
immediately of whom he spoke. 

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

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

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

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

"In telling me the story of Brockton Point 
and the valiant boy who killed the monster, he 
dwelt lightly on the fact that all people who 
approach the vicinity of the creature are 
palsied, both mentally and physically be- 
witched, in fact so that their bones become 
disjointed and their brains incapable; but to- 
day he elaborated upon this peculiarity until 
I harked back to the boy of Brockton Point 
and asked how it was that his body and brain 
escaped this affliction. 

"He was all good, and had no greed," he re- 
plied. "He proof against all bad things." 

I nodded understandingly, and he pro- 
ceeded to tell me that all successful Indian 
fighters and warriors carried somewhere about 
their person a joint of a sea-serpent's vertebra, 
that the medicine men threw "the power" 
about them so that they were not personally 
affected by this little "charm," but that imme- 
diately they approached an enemy the "charm" 
worked disaster, and victory was assured the 
fortunate possessor of the talisman. There 
was one particularly effective joint that had 
been treasured and carried by the warriors of 
a great Squamish family for a century. These 
warriors had conquered every foe they en- 
countered, until the talisman had become so 
renowned that the totem pole of their entire 
"clan" was remodelled, and the new one 



crested by the figure of a single joint of a sea- 
serpent's vertebra. 

About this time stories of Napoleon's first 
great achievements drifted across the seas ; not 
across the land and just here may be a clue 
to buried coast-Indian history, which those 
who are cleverer at research than I, can puzzle 
over. The chief was most emphatic about the 
source of Indian knowledge of Napoleon. 

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

"No, no," he contradicted hurriedly. "Not 
from East; we hear it from over the Pacific, 
from the place they call Russia." But who 
conveyed the news or by what means it came 
he could not further enlighten me. But a 
strange thing happened to the Squamish 
family about this time. There was a large 
blood connection, but the only male member 
living was a very old warrior, the hero of 
many battles, and the possessor of the talis- 
man. On his death-bed his women of three 
generations gathered about him; his wife, his 
sisters, his daughters, his granddaughters, but 
not one man, nor yet a boy of his own blood 
stood by to speed his departing warrior spirit 
to the land of peace and plenty. 

"The charm cannot rest in the hands of 
women," he murmured almost with his last 
breath. "Women may not war and fight other 
nations or other tribes; women are for the 
peaceful lodge and for the leading of little 
children. They are for holding baby hands, 
teaching baby feet to walk. No, the charm 
cannot rest with you, women. I have no 
brother, no cousin, no son, no grandson, and 
the charm must not go to a lesser warrior 
than I. None of our tribe, nor of any tribe on 
the coast, ever conquered me. The charm 
must go to one as unconquerable as I have 
been. When I am dead send it across the 
great salt chuck, to the victorious 'French- 
man'; they call him Napoleon Bonaparte." 
They were his last words. 

The older women wished to bury the charm 
with him, but the younger women, inspired 
with the spirit of their generation, were 



determined to 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 great- 
ness and victory." 

As if to confirm their decision, the next day 
a small sealing vessel anchored in the Inlet. 
All the men aboard spoke Russian, save two 
thin, dark, agile sailors, who kept aloof from 
the crew and conversed in another language. 
These two came ashore with part of the crew 
and talked in French with a wandering Hud- 
son's Bay trapper, who often lodged with the 
Squamish people. Thus the women, who yet 
mourned over their dead warrior, knew these 
two strangers to be from the land where the 
great "Frenchman" was fighting against the 

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

"Captives," he replied. "Almost slaves, and 
hated by their captors, as the majority always 
hate the few. So the women drew those two 
Frenchmen apart from the rest and told them 
the story of the bone of the sea-serpent, urg- 
ing them to carry it back to their own country 
and give it to the great 'Frenchman' who was 
as courageous and as brave as their dead 

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

"As the crew boarded the sealer, the women 
watching from the shore observed strange con- 
tortions seize many of the men; some fell on 
the deck; some crouched, shaking as with 
palsy; some writhed for a moment, then fell 
limp and seemingly boneless; only the two 



Frenchmen stood erect and strong and vital 
the Squamish talisman had already over- 
come their foes. As the little sealer set sail 
up the gulf she was commanded by a crew of 
two Frenchmen men who had entered these 
waters as captives, who were leaving them as 
conquerors. The palsied Russians were worse 
than useless, and what became of them the 
chief could not state; presumably they were 
flung overboard, and by some trick of a kindly 
fate the Frenchmen at last reached the coast 
of France. 

"Tradition is so indefinite about their move- 
ments subsequent to sailing out of the Inlet, 
that even the ever-romantic and vividly 
colored imaginations of the Squamish people 
have never supplied the details of this beauti- 
fully childish, yet strangely historical fairy 
tale. But the voices of the trumpets of war, 
the beat of drums throughout Europe heralded 
back to the wilds of the Pacific Coast forests 
the intelligence that the great Squamish 
'charm' eventually reached the person of 
Napoleon; that from this time onward his 
career was one vast victory, that he won battle 
after battle, conquered nation after nation, and 
but for the direst calamity that could befall a 
warrior would eventually have been master of 
the world." 

"What was this calamity, Chief?" I asked, 
amazed at his knowledge of the great histor- 
ical soldier and strategist. 

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

"He lost the Squamish charm lost it just 
before one great fight with the English 

I looked at him curiously; he had been tell- 
ing me the oddest mixture of history and sup- 
erstition, of intelligence and ignorance, the 
most whimsically absurd, yet impressive, tale 
I ever heard from Indian 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 place at 
the other side of the world a century agone. 

"Yes," he said, carefully, thoughtfully; "I 


hear the name sometime in 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 

| HERE is a well-known trail in 
Stanley Park that leads to what 
I always love to call the "Cath- 
edral Trees" that group of some 
half-dozen forest giants that arch 
overhead with such superb loftiness. But in 
all the world there is no cathedral whose 
marble or onyx columns can vie with those 
straight, clean, brown cedar boles that teem 
with the sap and blood of life. There is no 
fresco that can rival the delicacy of lace-work 
they have festooned between you and the far 
skies. No tiles, no mosaic or inlaid marbles, 
are as fascinating as the bare, russet, fragrant 
floor outspreading about their feet. They are 
the acme of Nature's architecture, and in 
building them she has outrivalled all her erst- 
while conceptions. She will never originate a 
more faultless design, never erect a more per- 
fect edifice. But the divinely moulded cedars 
and the man-made cathedral have one ex- 
quisite characteristic in common. It is the 
atmosphere of holiness. Most of us have 
better impulses after viewing a stately cath- 
edral, and none of us can stand amid that 
majestic group of cedars without experiencing 
some elevating thoughts, some refinement of 
our coarser nature. Perhaps those who read 
this little legend will never again stand amid 
those cathedral trees without thinking of the 
glorious souls they contain, for according to 
the Coast Indians they do harbor human souls, 
and the world is better because they once had 
the speech and the hearts of mighty 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 the 
gestures of his voiceful hands so expressed 
the quality of something between magnetism 
and charm that I have selected this word 
"lure" as best fitting what he wished to con- 
vey. Some few yards beyond the cathedral 
trees, an overgrown disused trail turns into the 



dense wilderness to the right. Only Indian 
eyes could discern that trail, and the Indians 
do not willingly go to that part of the park to 
the right of the cedar group. Nothing in this, 
nor yet the next world would tempt a Coast 
Indian into the compact centres of the wild 
portions of the park, for therein, concealed 
cunningly, is the "lure" they all believe in. 
There is not a tribe in the entire district that 
does not know of this strange legend. You 
will hear the tale from those that gather at 
Eagle Harbor for the fishing, from the Fraser 
River tribes, from the Squamish at the Nar- 
rows, from the Mission, from up the Inlet, 
even from the tribes at North Bend, but no 
one will volunteer to be your guide, for having 
once come within the "aura" of the lure it is 
a human impossibility to leave it. Your will- 
power is dwarfed, your intelligence blighted, 
your feet will refuse to lead you out by a 
straight trail, you will circle, circle for ever- 
more about this magnet, for if death kindly 
conies to your aid your immortal spirit 
will go on in that endless circling that will 
bar it from entering the Happy Hunting 

And, like the cathedral trees, the lure once 
lived, a human soul, but in this instance it 
was a soul depraved, not sanctified. The In- 
dian belief is very beautiful concerning the 
results of good and evil in the human body. 
The Sagalie Tyee (God) has His own way of 
immortalizing each. People who are wilfully 
evil, who have no kindness in their hearts, 
who are bloodthirsty, cruel, vengeful, unsym- 
pathetic, the Sagalie Tyee turns to solid stone 
that will harbor no growth, even that of moss 
or lichen, for these stones contain no moisture, 
just as their wicked hearts lacked the milk of 
human kindness. The one famed exception, 
wherein a good man was transformed into 
stone, was in the instance of Siwash Rock, 
but as the Indian tells you of it he smiles with 
gratification as he calls your attention to the 
tiny tree cresting that imperial monument. He 
says the tree was always there to show the 
nations that the good in this man's heart kept 
on growing even when his body had ceased 



to be. On the other hand the Sagalie Tyee 
transforms the kindly people, the humane, 
sympathetic, charitable-loving people into 
trees, so that after death they may go on for- 
ever benefiting all mankind; they may yield 
fruit, give shade and shelter, afford unending 
service to the living, by their usefulness as 
building material and as firewood. Their saps 
and gums, their fibres, their leaves, their blos- 
soms, enrich, nourish and sustain the human 
form; no evil is produced by trees all, all is 
goodness, is hearty, is helpfulness and growth. 
They give refuge to the birds, they give music 
to the winds, and from them are carved the 
bows and arrows, the canoes and paddles, 
bowls, spoons and baskets. Their service to 
mankind is priceless ; the Indian that tells you 
this tale will enumerate all these attributes 
and virtues of these trees. No wonder the 
Sagalie Tyee chose them to be the abode of 
souls good and great. 

But the lure in Stanley Park is that most 
dreaded of all things, an evil soul. It is em- 
bodied in a bare, white stone, which is shunned 
by moss and vine and lichen, but over which 
are splashed innumerable jet-black spots that 
have eaten into the surface like an acid. 

This condemned soul once animated the 
body of a witch-woman, who went up and 
down the coast, over seas and far inland, cast- 
ing her evil eye on innocent people, and bring- 
ing them untold evils and diseases. About 
her person she carried the renowned "Bad 
Medicine" that every Indian believes in 
medicine that weakened the arm of the war- 
rior in battle, that caused deformities, that 
poisoned minds and characters, that engen- 
dered madness, that bred plagues and epi- 
demics; in short, that was the seed of every 
evil that could befall mankind. This witch- 
woman herself was \immune from death; gen- 
erations were born and grew to old age, and 
died, and other generations arose in their 
stead, but the witch-woman went about, her 
heart set against her kind; her acts were evil, 
her purposes wicked, she broke hearts and 
bodies and souls; she gloried in tears, and 
revelled in unhappiness, and sent them 



broadcast wherever she wandered. And in his 
high heaven the Sagalie Tyee wept with 
sorrow for his afflicted human children. He 
dared not let her die, for her spirit would still 
go on with its evil doing. In mighty anger 
he gave command to his Four Men (always 
representing the Deity) that they should turn 
this witch-woman into a stone and enchain her 
spirit in its centre, that the curse of her might 
be lifted from the unhappy race. 

So the Four Men entered their giant canoe, 
and headed, as was their custom, up the Nar- 
rows. As they neared what is now known as 
Prospect Point they heard from the heights 
above them a laugh, and looking up they be- 
held the witch-woman jeering defiantly at 
them. They landed and, scaling the rocks, 
pursued her as she danced away, eluding them 
like a will-o'-the-wisp as she called out to them 
sneeringly : 

"Care for yourselves, oh! men of the Sag- 
alie Tyee, or I shall blight you with my evil 
eye. Care for yourselves and do not follow 
me." On and on she danced through the 
thickest of the wilderness, on and on they fol- 
lowed until they reached the very heart of 
the seagirt neck of land we know as Stanley 
Park. Then the tallest, the mightiest of the 
Four Men, lifted his hand and cried out : "Oh ! 
woman of the stony heart, be stone for ever- 
more, and bear forever a black stain for each 
one of your evil deeds." And as he spoke the 
witch-woman was transformed into this stone 
that tradition says is in the centre of the park. 

Such is the legend of the Lure, whether or 
not this stone is really in existence who 
knows? One thing is positive, however, no 
Indian will ever help to discover it. 

Three different Indians have told me that 
fifteen or eighteen years ago 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 each of 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 has a most 
beautiful conclusion. The Four Men, fearing 



that the evil heart imprisoned in the stone 
would still work destruction, said: "At the 
end of the trail we must place so good and 
great a thing that it will be mightier, stronger, 
more powerful than this evil." So they chose 
from the nations the kindliest, most benevo- 
lent men, men whose hearts were filled with 
the love of their fellow-beings, and trans- 
formed these merciful souls into the stately 
group of "Cathedral Trees." 

How well the purpose of the Sagalie Tyee 
has wrought its effect through time! The 
good has predominated as He planned it to, 
for is not the stone hidden in some unknown 
part of the park where eyes do not see it and 
feet do not follow and do not the thousands 
who come to us from the nethermost parts of 
the world seek that wondrous beauty spot, and 
stand awed by the majestic silence, the almost 
holiness of that group of giant cedars? 

More than any other legend that the Indians 
about Vancouver have told me does this tale 
reveal the love of the Coast native for kindness, 
and his hatred of cruelty. If these tribes really 
have ever been a warlike race I cannot think 
they pride themselves much on the occupa- 
tion. If you talk with any of them and they 
mention some man they particularly like or 
admire, their first qualification of him is : "He's 
a kind man." They never say he is brave, or 
rich, or successful, or even strong, that char- 
acteristic so loved by the red man. To these 
Coast tribes if a man is "kind" he is every- 
thing. And almost without exception their 
legends deal with rewards for tenderness and 
self-abnegation, and personal and mental 

Call them fairy tales if you wish to, they all 
have a reasonableness that must have origin- 
ated in some mighty mind, and better than 
that, they all tell of the Indian's faith in the 
survival of the best impulses of the human 
heart, and the ultimate extinction of the worst. 

In talking with my many good tillicums, I 
find this witch-woman legend is the most uni- 
versally known and thoroughly believed in of 
all traditions they have honored me by reveal- 
ing to me. 


Deer Lake 

EW white men ventured inland, 
a century ago, in the days of 
the first Chief Capilano, when 
the spoils of the mighty Eraser 
River poured into copper-colored 
hands, but did not find their way to the 
remotest corners of the earth, as in our times, 
when the gold from its sources, the salmon 
from its mouth, the timber from its shores are 
world-known riches. 

The fisherman's craft, the hunter's cunning 
were plied where now cities and industries, 
trade and commerce, buying and selling hold 
sway. In those days the moccasined foot 
awoke no echo in the forest trails. Primitive 
weapons, arms, implements, and utensils were 
the only means of the Indians' food-getting. 
His livelihood depended upon his own personal 
prowess, his skill in woodcraft and water lore. 
And, as this is a story of an elk-bone spear, 
the reader must first be in sympathy with the 
fact that this rude instrument, deftly fash- 
ioned, was of priceless value to the first 
Capilano, to whom it had come through three 
generations of ancestors, all of whom had 
been experienced hunters and dexterous 

Capilano himself was without a rival as a 
spearsman. He knew the moods of the Eraser 
River, the habits of its thronging tenants, as 
no other man has ever known them before or 
since. He knew every isle and inlet along the 
coast, every boulder, the sand-bars, the still 
pools, the temper of the tides. He knew the 
spawning grounds, the secret streams that fed 
the larger rivers, the outlets of rock-bound 
lakes, the turns and tricks of swirling rapids. 
He knew the haunts of bird and beast and 
fish and fowl, and was master of the arts and 
artifice that man must use when matching his 
brain against the eluding wiles of the untamed 
creatures of the wilderness. 

Once only did his cunning fail him, once 



only did Nature baffle him with her myster- 
ious fabric of waterways and land lures. It 
was when he was led to the mouth of the un- 
known river, which has evaded discovery 
through all the centuries, but which so say 
the Indians still sings on its way through 
some buried channel that leads from the lake 
to the sea. 

He had been sealing along the shores of 
what is now known as Point Grey. His canoe 
had gradually crept inland, skirting up the 
coast to the mouth of False Creek. Here he 
encountered a very king of seals, a colossal 
creature that gladdened the hunter's eyes as 
game worthy of his skill. For this particular 
prize he would cast the 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 had woven 
and plaited that rope, had beaten and oiled it 
until it was soft and flexible as a serpent. This 
he attached to the spearhead, and with deft, 
unerring aim cast it at the king seal. The 
weapon struck home. The gigantic creature 
shuddered and, with a cry like a hurt child, it 
plunged down into the sea. With the rapidity 
and strength of a giant fish it scudded inland 
with the rising tide, while Capilano paid out 
the rope its entire length, and, as it stretched 
taut, felt the canoe leap forward, propelled by 
the mighty strength of the creature which 
lashed the waters into whirlpools, as though 
it was possessed with the power and pro- 
perties of a whale. 

Up the stretch of False Creek the man and 
monster drove their course, where a century 
hence great city bridges were to over-arch the 
waters. They strove and struggled each for 
the mastery, neither of them weakened, neither 
of them faltered the one dragging, the other 
driving. In the end it was to be a matching 
of brute and human wits, not forces. As they 
neared the point where now Main Street 
bridge flings its shadow across the waters, the 
brute leaped high into the air, then plunged 
headlong into the depths. The impact ripped 
the rope from Capilano's hands. It rattled 



across the gunwale. He stood staring at the 
spot where it had disappeared the brute had 
been victorious. At low tide the Indian made 
search. No trace of his game, of his precious 
elk-bone spear, of his cedar-fibre rope, could 
be found. With the loss of the latter he firmly 
believed his luck as a hunter would be gone. 
So he patrolled the mouth of False Creek for 
many moons. His graceful, high-bowed 
canoe rarely touched other waters, but the seal 
king had disappeared. Often he thought long 
strands of drifting sea grasses were his lost 
cedar-fibre rope. With other spears, with 
other cedar-fibres, with paddle blade and cun- 
ning traps he dislodged the weeds from their 
moorings, but they slipped their slimy lengths 
through his eager hands: his best spear with 
its attendant coil was 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 the 
west, which seemed to transfer itself to the 
eastern skies. Far into the night dashes of 
flaming scarlet pulsed far beyond the head of 
False Creek. The color rose and fell like a 
beckoning hand, and, Indian-like, he imme- 
diately attached some portentous meaning to 
the unusual sight. That it was some omen 
he never doubted, so he paddled inland, 
beached his canoe, and took the trail towards 
the little group of lakes that crowd themselves 
into the area that lies between the present 
cities of Vancouver and New Westminster. 
But long before he reached the shores of Deer 
Lake he discovered that the beckoning hand 
was in reality flame. The little body of water 
was surrounded by forest fires. One avenue 
alone stood open. It was 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 things leaving the lake and 
hurrying northward through this one egress. 
He stood, listening, intently watching with 
alert eyes ; the swirr of myriads of little travel- 
ling feet caught his quick ear the moving 
mass was an immense colony of beaver. 
Thousands upon thousands of them. Scores 
of baby beavers staggered along, following 



their mothers ; scores of older beavers that had 
felled trees and built dams through many sea- 
sons ; a countless army of trekking fur beavers, 
all under the generalship of a wise old leader, 
who, as king of the colony, advanced some 
few yards ahead of his battalions. Out of the 
waters through the forest towards the country 
to the north they journeyed. Wandering 
hunters said they saw them cross Burrard 
Inlet at the Second Narrows, heading inland 
as they reached the farther shore. But where 
that mighty army of royal little Canadians 
set up their new colony, no man knows. Not 
even the astuteness of the first Capilano ever 
discovered their destination. Only one thing 
was certain, Deer Lake knew them no more. 

After their passing, the Indian retraced 
their trail to the water's edge. In the red 
glare of the encircling fires he saw what he 
at first thought was some dead and dethroned 
king beaver on the shore. A huge carcass lay 
half in, half out, of the lake. Approaching it 
he saw the wasted body of a giant seal. There 
could never be two seals of that marvellous 
size. His intuition now grasped the meaning of 
the omen of the beckoning flame that had 
called him from the far coasts of Point Grey. 
He stooped above his dead conqueror and 
found, embedded in its decaying flesh, the elk- 
bone spear of his 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," that men of magic possess, 
creep up his sinewy arms. It entered his 
heart, his blood, his brain. For a long time 
he sat and chanted songs that only great 
medicine men may sing, and, as the hours 
drifted by, the heat of the forest fires subsided, 
the flames diminished into smouldering black- 
ness. At daybreak the forest fire was dead, 
but its beckoning fingers had served their pur- 
pose. The magic elk-bone spear had come 
back to its own. 

Until the day of his death the first Capilano 
searched for the unknown river up which the 
seal travelled from False Creek to Deer Lake, 



but its channel is a secret that even Indian 
eyes have not seen. 

But although those of the Squamish tribe 
tell and believe that the river still sings 
through its hidden trail that leads from Deer 
Lake to the sea, its course is as unknown, its 
channel is as hopelessly lost as the brave little 
army of beavers that a century ago mar- 
shalled their forces and travelled up into the 
great lone north. 

A Royal Mohawk Chief 

OW many Canadians are aware 
that in Prince Arthur, Duke of 
Connaught, and only surviving 
son of Queen Victoria, who has 
been appointed to represent King 
George V in Canada, they undoubtedly 
have what many wish for one bearing an 
ancient Canadian title as Governor-General of 
all the Dominion? It would be difficult to 
find a man more Canadian than any one of 
the fifty chiefs who compose the parliament 
of the ancient Iroquois nation, that royal race 
of Redskins that has fought for the British 
crown against all of the enemies thereof, ad- 
hering to the British flag through the wars 
against both the French and the colonists. 

Arthur Duke of Connaught is the only liv- 
ing white man who to-day has an undisputed 
right to the title of "Chief of the Six Nations 
Indians" (known collectively as the Iroquois). 
He possesses the privilege of sitting in their 
councils, of casting his vote on all matters 
relative to the governing of the tribes, the 
disposal of reservation lands, the appropria- 
tion of both the principal and interest of the 
more than half a million dollars these tribes 
hold in Government bonds at Ottawa, accum- 
ulated from the sales of their lands. In short, 
were every drop of blood in his royal veins 
red, instead of blue, he could not be more fully 
qualified as an Indian chief than he now is, 
not even were his title one of the fifty heredi- 
tary ones whose illustrious names composed 
the Iroquois confederacy before the Paleface 
ever set foot in America. 

It was on the occasion of his first visit to 
Canada in 1869, when he was little more than 
a boy, that Prince Arthur received, upon his 
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 of him: would he 



accept the title of Chief and visit their 
reserve to give them the opportunity of con- 
ferring it? 

One of the great secrets of England's suc- 
cess with savage races has been her consid- 
eration, her respect, her almost reverence of 
native customs, ceremonies and potentates. 
She wishes her own customs and kings to be 
honored, so she freely accords like honor to 
her subjects, it matters not whether they be 
white, black or red. 

Young Arthur was delighted royal lads 
are pretty much like all other boys; the 
unique ceremony would be a break in the end- 
less round of state receptions, banquets and 
addresses. So he accepted the Red Indians' 
compliment, knowing well that it was the 
loftiest honor those people could confer upon 
a white man. 

It was the morning of October first when the 
royal train steamed into the little city of Brant- 
ford, where carriages awaited to take the Prince 
and his suite to the "Old Mohawk Church," 
in the vicinity of which the ceremony was 
to take place. As the Prince's especial escort, 
Onwanonsyshon, head chief of the Mohawks, 
rode on a jet-black pony beside the carriage. 
The chief was garmented in full native cos- 
tume a buckskin suit, beaded moccasins, 
headband of owl's and eagle's feathers, and 
ornaments hammered from coin silver that 
literally covered his coat and leggings. About 
his shoulders was flung a scarlet blanket, 
consisting of the identical broadcloth from 
which the British army tunics are made; this 
he "hunched" with his shoulders from time to 
time in true Indian fashion. As they drove 
along, the Prince chatted boyishly with his 
Mohawk escort, and once leaned forward to 
pat the black pony on its shining neck and 
speak admiringly of it. It was a warm 
autumn day: the roads were dry and dusty, 
and, after a mile or so, the boy-prince brought 
from beneath the carriage seat a basket of 
grapes. With his handkerchief he flicked the 
dust from them, handed a bunch to the 
chief and took one himself. An odd spectacle 
to be traversing a country road: an English 



prince and an Indian chief, riding amicably 
side-by-side, enjoying a banquet of grapes 
like two schoolboys. 

On reaching the church, Arthur leapt 
lightly to the green sward. For a moment 
he stood, rigid, gazing before him at his future 
brother-chiefs. His escort had given him a 
faint idea of what he was to see, but he cer- 
tainly never expected to be completely sur- 
rounded by three hundred full-blooded Iro- 
quois braves and warriors, such as now 
encircled him on every side. Every Indian 
was in war paint and feathers, some stripped 
to the waist, their copper-colored skins bril- 
liant with paints, dyes and "patterns"; all 
carried tomahawks, scalping-knives, and bows 
and arrows. Every red throat gave a tremen- 
dous war-whoop as he alighted, which was 
repeated again and again, as for that half 
moment he stood silent, a slim boyish figure, 
clad in light grey tweeds a singular contrast 
to the stalwarts in gorgeous costumes who 
crowded about him. His young face paled to 
ashy whiteness, then with true British grit 
he extended his right hand and raised his 
black "billy-cock" hat with his left. At the 
same time he took one step forward. Then 
the war cries broke forth anew, deafening, 
savage, terrible cries, as one by one the entire 
three hundred filed past, the Prince shaking 
hands with each one, and removing his glove 
to do so. This strange reception over, 
Onwanonsyshon rode up, and, flinging his 
scarlet blanket on the grass, dismounted, 
and asked the Prince to stand on it. 

Then stepped forward an ancient chief, 
father of Onwanonsyshon, and Speaker of the 
Council. He was old in inherited and personal 
loyalty to the British crown. He had fought 
under Sir Isaac Brock at Queenston Heights 
in 1812, while yet a mere boy, and upon him 
was laid the honor of making his Queen's son 
a chief. Taking Arthur by the hand this ven- 
erable warrior walked slowly to and fro across 
the blanket, chanting as he went the strange, 
wild formula of induction. From time to time 
he was interrupted by loud expressions of 
approval and assent from the vast throng of 



encircling braves, but apart from this no 
sound was heard but the low, weird monotone 
of 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 the Mohawks shall assist in 
this ceremony. The veteran chief, who sang 
the formula, was of the Bear clan. His son, 
Onwanonsyshon, was of the Wolf (the clan- 
ship descends through the mother's side of 
the family). Then one other chief, of the 
Turtle clan, and in whose veins coursed the 
blood of the historic Brant, now stepped to 
the edge of the scarlet blanket. The chant 
ended, these two young chiefs received the 
Prince into the Mohawk tribe, conferring 
upon him the name of "Kavakoudge," which 
means "the sun flying from East 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 dyed moose 
hair, placing it over the Prince's left shoulder 
and knotting it beneath his right arm. The 
ceremony was ended. The Constitution that 
Hiawatha had founded centuries ago, a Consti- 
tution wherein fifty chiefs, no more, no less, 
should form the parliament of the "Six 
Nations," had been shattered and broken, be- 
cause this race of loyal 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 the imperative members of the three 
clans assisting, save that borne by Arthur of 

After the ceremony the Prince entered the 
church to autograph his name in the ancient 
Bible, which, with a silver Holy Communion 
service, a bell, two tablets inscribed with the 
Ten Commandments, and a bronze British 
coat-of-arms, had been presented to the 
Mohawks by Queen Anne. He inscribed 
"Arthur" just below the "Albert Edward," 
which, as Prince of Wales, the late king wrote 
when he visited Canada in 1860. 



When he returned to England, Chief Kava- 
koudge sent his portrait, together with one of 
Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort, to be 
placed in the Council House of the "Six Na- 
tions," where they decorate the walls today. 

As I write, I glance up to see, in a corner of 
my room, a draping scarlet blanket, made 
of British army broadcloth, for the chief who 
rode the jet-black pony so long ago was the 
writer's father. He was not here to wear it 
when Arthur of Connaught again set foot on 
Canadian 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, 




PS Johnson, Etoily Pauline 
84.69 Legends of Vancouver