johnson, pauline - legends of vancouver

8/9/2019 Johnson, Pauline - Legends of Vancouver

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LegendV ancouver

ByE. PAULINE JOHNSON

(Tekanionwake)

Privately Printed

Vancouver, Britisk Columbianineteen hundred ana eleven


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PrefaceI HAVE been asked to write a preface to theseLegends of Vancouver, which, in conjunctionwith the members of the Publication Sub-committeeMrs. 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 shouldersof our grey mountains, our trail-threaded forests,our tide-swept waters, and the streets and sky-scrapers of our hurrying city, a gracious mantle ofromance. Pauline Johnson has linked the vividpresent with the immemorial past. Vancouver takeson a new aspect as we view it through her eyes. Inthe imaginative power that she has brought to thesesemi-historical sagas, and in the liquid flow of herrhythmical prose, she has shown herself to be aliterary worker of whom we may well be proud: shehas made a most estimable contribution to purelyCanadian literature. BERNARD McEVOY


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Biographical Noticee PAULINE JOHNSON (Tekahionwake) isthe youngest child of a family of fourborn to the late G. H. M. Johnson (On-wanonsyshon), Head Chief of the Six NationsIndians, and his wife Emily S. Howells. The latterwas of English parentage, her birthplace beingBristol, but the land of her adoption Canada.Chief Johnson was of the renowned Mohawktribe, being a scion of one of the fifty noble familieswhich composed the historical confederation found-ed by Hiawatha upwards of four hundred years ago,and known at that period as the Brotherhood of theFive Nations, but which was afterwards named theIroquois by the early French missionaries and ex-plorers. For their loyalty to the British Crownthey were granted the magnificent lands borderingthe 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. Theloyalty of her ancestors breathes in her prose, aswell 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, threeyears at an Indian day school half a mile from herhome, and two years in the Central School of thecity of Brantford, was the extent of her educationaltraining. But, besides this, she acquired a widegeneral knowledge, having been through childhoodand early girlhood a great reader, especially ofpoetry. Before she was twelve years old she hadread Scott, Longfellow, Byron, Shakespeare, andsuch books as Addison's "Spectator," Foster's Es-says and Owen Meredith's writings.The first periodicals to accept her poems and placethem before the public were "Gems of Poetry," asmall magazine published in New York, and "TheWeek," established by the late Prof. Goldwin Smith,of Toronto, the New York "Independent" andToronto "Saturday Night." Since then she has con-tributed to most of the high-grade magazines, bothon this continent and England.Her writings having brought her into notice, thenext step in Miss Johnson's career was her appear-ance on the public platform as a reciter of her ownpoems. For this she had natural talent, and in theexercise of it she soon developed a marked ability,joined with a personal magnetism, that was destinedto make her a favorite with audiences from theAtlantic to the Pacific. Her friend, Mr. FrankYeigh, of Toronto, provided for a series of recitalshaving that scope, with the object of enabling her togo to England to arrange for the publication of her


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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICEpoems. 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 bothsocial and literary standing. Her book was receivedwith much favor, both by reviewers and the public.After giving many recitals in fashionable drawing-rooms, she returned to Canada, and made her firsttour to the Pacific Coast, giving recitals at all thecities and towns en route. Since then she hascrossed the Rocky Mountains no fewer thannineteen times.Miss Johnson's pen had not been idle, and in 1903the George Morang Co., of Toronto, published hersecond 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 toEngland again in 1906 and made her first appearancein Steinway Hall, under the distinguished patronageof Lord and Lady Strathcona. In the following yearshe again visited London, returning by way of theUnited States, where she gave many recitals. Afteranother tour of Canada she decided to give up publicwork, to make Vancouver, B. C., her home, and todevote herself to literary work.Only a woman of remarkable powers of endurancecould have borne up under the hardships necessarilyencountered in travelling through North-westernCanada in pioneer days as Miss Johnson did; and

shortly after settling down in Vancouver the ex-posure and hardship she had endured began to tellon her, and her health completely broke down.For almost a year she has been an invalid, and asshe is unable to attend to the business herself, atrust has been formed by some of the leading citizensof her adopted city for the purpose of collecting andpublishing for her benefit her later works. Amongthese are the beautiful Indian Legends contained inthis volume, which she has been at great pains tocollect, and a series of boys' stories, which havebeen 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 beforethe railroad went through, and across the Boundarycountry in British Columbia in the romantic daysof the early pioneers. Once she took an eight hun-dred and fifty mile drive up the Cariboo trail to thegold fields. She has always been an ardent canoeist,and has run many strange rivers, crossed many alonely lake, and camped in many an unfrequentedplace. These venturesome trips she made more fromher inherent love of Nature and adventure thanfrom any necessity of her profession.


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ContentsPage

Preface ........ yAuthor's Foreword - - - - - - viiBiographical Notice ------ ixThe Two Sisters - - - ... 1The Siwash Rock i 7The Recluse 13The Lost Salmon Run 21The Deep Waters 27The Sea-Serpent 33The Lost Island 39Point Grey 43The Tulameen Trail 47The Grey Archway ------ 53Deadman's Island ------ 61A Squamish Legend of Napoleon 67The Lure in Stanley Park -> - - - 73Deer Lake 79A Royal Mohawk Chief 85


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The Two SistersTHE LIONSOU can see them as you look to-wards the north and the west,where the dream hills swim into

the sky amid their ever-driftingclouds of pearl and grey. Theycatch the earliest hint of sunrise, they holdthe last color of sunset. Twin mountains theyare, lifting their twin peaks above the fairestcity in all Canada, and known throughout theBritish Empire as "The Lions of Vancouver."Sometimes the smoke of forest fires blursthem until they gleam like opals in a purpleatmosphere, too beautiful for words to paint.Sometimes the slanting rains festoon scarfsof mist about their crests, and the peaks fadeinto shadowy outlines, melting, melting, for-ever melting into the distances. But for mostdays in the year the sun circles the twinglories with a sweep of gold. The moonwashes them with a torrent of silver. Often-times, when the city is shrouded in rain, thesun yellows their snows to a deep orange, butthrough sun and shadow they stand immov-able, smiling westward above the waters ofthe restless Pacific, eastward above the superbbeauty of the Capilano Canyon. But the In-dian tribes do not know these peaks as "TheLions." Even the Chief, whose feet have sorecently wandered to the Happy HuntingGrounds, never heard the name given themuntil I mentioned it to him one dreamy Augustday, as together we followed the trail leadingto the canyon. He seemed so surprised at thename that I mentioned the reason it had beenapplied to them, asking him if he recalled theLandseer Lions in Trafalgar Square. Yes, heremembered those splendid sculptures, and hisquick eye saw the resemblance instantly. Itappeared to please him, and his fine face ex-pressed the haunting memories of the far-away roar of Old London. But the "call of theblood" was stronger, and presently he re-ferred to the Indian legend of those peaks a


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERlegend that I have reason to believe is absolute-ly unknown to thousands of Palefaces who lookupon "The Lions" daily, without

the love forthem that is in the Indian heart; withoutknowledge of the secret of "The Two Sisters."The legend was far more fascinating as it lefthis lips in the quaint broken English that isnever so dulcet as when it slips from anIndian tongue. His inimitable gestures,strong, graceful, comprehensive, were like aperfectly chosen frame embracing a delicatepainting, and his brooding eyes were asthe 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. Theywere placed there long after the first creation,when the Sagalie Tyee moulded the moun-tains, and patterned the mighty rivers wherethe salmon run, because of His love for HisIndian children, and His Wisdom for their ne-cessities. In those times there were manyand mighty Indian tribes along the Pacificin the mountain ranges, at the shores andsources of the great Fraser River. Indianlaw ruled the land. Indian customs prevailed.Indian beliefs were regarded. Those werethe legend-making ages when great thingsoccurred to make the traditions we repeat toour children today. Perhaps the greatest ofthese traditions is the story of 'The TwoSisters,' for they are known to us as 'TheChief's Daughters,' and to them we owe theGreat Peace in which we live, and have livedfor many countless moons. There is an an-cient custom amongst the Coast tribes thatwhen our daughters step from childhood intothe great world of womanhood the occa-sion must be made one of extreme rejoicing.The being who possesses the possibility ofsomeday mothering a man child, a warrior, abrave, receives much consideration in mostnations, but to us, the Sunset Tribes, she ishonored above all people. The parents usual-ly give a great potlatch, and a feast that lastsmany days. The entire tribe and the sur-rounding tribes are bidden to this festival.More than that, sometimes when a great


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THE TWO SISTERSTyee celebrates for his daughter, the tribesfrom far up the coast, from the distant north,from inland, from the island, from theCariboo country, are gathered as gueststo the feast. During these days of rejoic-ing, the girl is placed in a high seat, anexalted position, for is she not marriageable?And does not marriage mean motherhood? Anddoes not motherhood mean a vaster nation ofbrave sons and of gentle daughters, who, intheir turn, will give us sons and daughters oftheir own?"But it was many thousands of years agothat a great Tyee had two daughters thatgrew to womanhood at the same springtime,when the first great run of salmon thronged

the rivers, and the ollallie bushes were heavywith blossoms. These two daughters wereyoung, lovable, and oh! very beautiful. Theirfather, the great Tyee, prepared to make afeast such as the Coast had never seen. Therewere to be days and days of rejoicing, thepeople were to come for many leagues, wereto bring gifts to the girls and to receive giftsof great value from the Chief, and hospitalitywas to reign as long as pleasuring feet coulddance, and enjoying lips could laugh, andmouths partake of the excellence of the Chief'sfish, game and ollallies."The only shadow on the joy of it all waswar, for the tribe of the great Tyee was atwar with the Upper Coast Indians, those wholived north, near what is named by the Pale-face as the port of Prince Rupert. Giant warcanoes slipped along the entire coast, warparties paddled up and down, war songs brokethe silences of the nights, hatred, vengeance,strife, horror festered everywhere like soreson the surface of the earth. But the greatTyee, after warring for weeks, turned andlaughed at the battle and the bloodshed, forhe had been victor in every encounter, and hecould well afford to leave the strife for a briefweek and feast in his daughters' honor, norpermit any mere enemy to come between himand the traditions of his race and household.So he turned insultingly deaf ears to their warcries; he ignored with arrogant indifference


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.LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERtheir paddle dips that encroached within hisown coast waters, and he prepared, as a greatTyee should, to royally entertain his tribesmenin honor of his daughters."But seven suns before the great feast thesetwo maidens came before him, hand claspedin hand." 'Oh ! our father,' they said, 'may wespeak?'"

'Speak, my daughters, my girls with theeyes of April, the hearts of June' " (earlyspring and early summer would be the moreaccurate Indian phrasing)." 'Some day, Oh ! our father, we may mothera man child, who may grow to be just such apowerful Tyee as you are, and for this honorthat may some day be ours we have come tocrave a favor of you you, Oh! our father.'" 'It is your privilege at this celebration toreceive any favor your hearts may wish,' hereplied graciously, placing his fingers beneaththeir girlish chins. 'The favor is yours beforeyou ask it, my daughters.'"

'Will you, for our sakes, invite the greatnorthern hostile tribe the tribe you warupon to this, our feast?' they asked fear-lessly." 'To a peaceful feast, a feast in the honorof women?' he exclaimed incredulously." 'So we would desire it,' they answered." 'And so shall it be,' he declared. 'I candeny you nothing this day, and some time youmay bear sons to bless this peace you haveasked, and to bless their mother's sire forgranting it.' Then he turned to all the youngmen of the tribe and commanded, 'Build firesat sunset on all the coast headlands fires ofwelcome. Man your canoes and face the north,greet the enemy, and tell them that I, the Tyeeof the Capilanos, ask no, command that theyjoin me for a great feast in honor of my twodaughters.' And when the northern tribesgot this invitation they flocked down the coastto this feast of a Great Peace. They broughttheir women and their children: they broughtgame and fish, gold and white stone beads,baskets and carven ladles, and wonderfulwoven blankets to lay at the feet of their now


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THE TWO SISTERSacknowledged ruler, the great Tyee. And he,in turn, gave such a potlatch that nothing buttradition can vie with it. There were long,glad days of joyousness, long pleasurablenights of dancing and camp fires, and vastquantities of food. The war canoes wereemptied of their deadly weapons and filledwith the daily catch of salmon. The hostilewar songs ceased, and in their place were heardthe soft shuffle of dancing feet, the singingvoices of women, the play-games of the chil-dren of two powerful tribes which had beenuntil now ancient enemies, for a great andlasting brotherhood was sealed betweenthem their war songs were ended forever."Then the Sagalie Tyee smiled on His In-dian children: 'I will make these young-eyedmaidens immortal,' He said. In the cup ofHis hands He lifted the Chief's two daughtersand set them forever in a high place, for theyhad borne two offspring Peace and Brother-hood each of which is now a great Tyeeruling this land."And on the mountain crest the Chief'sdaughters can be seen wrapped in the suns,the snows, the stars of all seasons, for theyhave stood in this high place for thousandsof years, and will stand for thousands ofyears to come, guarding the peace of thePacific Coast and the quiet of the CapilanoCanyon."This is the Indian legend of "The Lions ofVancouver" as I had it from one who will tellme no more the traditions of his people.


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The Siwash RockNIQUE,and so distinct from its sur-roundings as to suggest rather thehandicraft of man than a whim ofNature, it looms up at the entranceto the Narrows, a symmetricalcolumn of solid grey stone. There are nosimilar formations within the range of vision,

or indeed within many a day's paddle up anddown 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 yawningcanyons, 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 redlysetting August sun; the little tuft of greenshrubbery that crests its summit was blackagainst the crimson of sea and sky, and itscolossal base of grey stone gleamed likeflaming polished granite.My old tillicum lifted his paddle blade topoint towards it. "You know the story?" heasked. I shook my head (experience hadtaught me his love of silent replies, his moodsof legend-telling). For a time we paddledslowly; the rock detached itself from its back-ground of forest and shore, and it stood forthlike a sentinel erect, enduring, eternal."Do you think it stands straight like aman?" 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 thatwas noble and upright.""What do you regard as everything that isnoble and upright, Chief?" I asked, curious asto his ideas. I shall not forget the reply: itwas but two words astounding, amazingwords. He said simply:"Clean fatherhood."


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERThrough 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 fromthe lips of a Squamish Indian Chief the onlytreatise on the nobility of "clean fatherhood"that I have yet unearthed. And this treatisehas been an Indian legend for centuries; andlest they forget how all-important those twolittle words must ever be, Siwash Rock standsto remind them, set there by the Deity as amonument to one who kept his own life clean,that cleanliness might be the heritage of thegenerations to come.

It was "thousands of years ago" (all Indianlegends begin in extremely remote times)that a handsome boy chief journeyed in hiscanoe to the upper coast for the shy littlenorthern girl whom he brought home as hiswife. Boy though he was, the young chiefhad proved himself to be an excellent warrior,a fearless hunter, and an upright, courageousman among men. His tribe loved him, hisenemies respected him, and the base and meanand cowardly feared him.The customs and traditions of his ancestorswere a positive religion to him, the sayingsand the advices of the old people were hiscreed. He was conservative in every rite andritual of his race. He fought his tribal enemieslike the savage that he was. He sang his warsongs, danced his war dances, slew his foes,but the little girl-wife from the north hetreated with the deference that he gave hisown mother, for was she not to be the motherof his warrior son?The year rolled round, weeks merged intomonths, winter into spring, and one glorioussummer at daybreak he wakened to her voicecalling him. She stood beside him, smiling,"It will be to-day," she said proudly.He sprang from his couch of wolf skins andlooked out upon the coming day: the promiseof what it would bring him seemed breathingthrough all his forest world. He took hervery gently by the hand and led her throughthe tangle of wilderness down to the water'sedge, where the beauty spot we moderns call


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THE SIWASH ROCKStanley Park bends about Prospect Point. "Imust swim," he told her.

"I must swim, too," she smiled with the per-fect understanding of two beings who aremated. For to them the old Indian customwas law the custom that the parents of acoming child must swim until their flesh is soclear and clean that a wild animal cannotscent their proximity. If the wild creatures ofthe forests have no fear of them, then, and onlythen, are they fit to become parents, and toscent a human is in itself a fearsome thing toall wild things.So those two plunged into the watersof the Narrows as the grey dawn slipped upthe eastern skies and all the forest awoke tothe life of a new, glad day. Presently he tookher ashore, and smilingly she crept awayunder the giant trees. "I must be alone,"she said, "but come to me at sunrise : you willnot find me alone then." He smiled also, andplunged back into the sea. He must swim,swim, swim through this hour when hisfatherhood was coming upon him. It was thelaw that he must be clean, spotlessly clean,so that when his child looked out upon theworld it would have the chance to live its ownlife clean. If he did not swim hour upon hourhis child would come to an unclean father.He must give his child a chance in life; hemust not hamper it by his own uncleanlinessat its birth. It was the tribal law the law ofvicarious purity.As he swam joyously to and fro, a canoebearing four men headed up the Narrows.These men were giants in stature, and thestroke of their paddles made huge eddies thatboiled like the seething tides."Out from our course!" they cried as hislithe, copper-colored body arose and fell withhis splendid stroke. He laughed at them,giants though they were, and answered thathe could not cease his swimming at theirdemand."But you shall cease!" they commanded."We are the men (agents) of the Sagalie Tyee

(God), and we command you ashore out ofour way!" (I find in all these Coast Indian


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERlegends that the Deity is represented by fourmen, usually paddling an immense canoe.)He ceased swimming, and, lifting his head,defied them. "I shall not stop, nor yet goashore," he declared, striking out once moreto the middle of the channel."Do you dare disobey us," they cried "we,the men of the Sagalie Tyee? We can turnyou into a fish, or a tree, or a stone for this;do you dare disobey the Great Tyee?""I dare anything for the cleanliness andpurity of my coming child. I dare even theSagalie Tyee Himself, but my child must beborn to a spotless life."The four men were astounded. They con-sulted together, lighted their pipes and sat incouncil. Never had they, the men of theSagalie Tyee, been defied before. Now, forthe sake of a little unborn child, they wereignored, disobeyed, almost despised. Thelithe young copper-colored body still dis-ported itself in the cool waters; superstitionheld that should their canoe, or even theirpaddle blades, touch a human being theirmarvellous power would be lost. The hand-some young chief swam directly in theircourse. They dared not run him down; if so,they would become as other men. While theyyet counselled what to do, there floated fromout the forest a faint, strange, compellingsound. They listened, and the young chiefceased his stroke as he listened also. Thefaint sound drifted out across the waters oncemore. It was the cry of a little, little child.Then one of the four men, he that steered thecanoe, the strongest and tallest of them all,arose and, standing erect, stretched out hisarms towards the rising sun and chanted, nota curse on the young chief's disobedience, buta promise of everlasting days and freedomfrom death."Because you have defied all things thatcame in your path we promise this to you,"he chanted; "you have defied what interferes

with your child's chance for a clean life, youhave lived as you wish your son to live, youhave defied us when we would have stoppedyour swimming and hampered your child's10


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THE SIWASH ROCKfuture. You have placed that child's futurebefore all things, and for this the Sagalie Tyeecommands us to make you forever a patternfor your tribe. You shall never die, but youshall stand through all the thousands ofyears to come, where all eyes can see you.You shall live, live, live as an indestructiblemonument to Clean Fatherhood."The four men lifted their paddles, and asthe handsome young chief swam inshore, ashis feet touched the line where sea and landmet, he was transformed into stone.Then the four men said, "His wife and childmust ever be near him ; they shall not die, butlive also," And they, too, were turned intostone. If you penetrate the hollows in thewoods near Siwash Rock you will find a largerock and a smaller one beside it. They arethe shy little bride-wife from the north, withher hour-old baby beside her. And from theuttermost parts of the world vessels come dailythrobbing and sailing up the Narrows. Fromfar trans-Pacific ports, from the frozen North,from the lands of the Southern Cross, theypass and repass the living rock that was therebefore their hulls were shaped, that will bethere when their very names are forgotten,when their crews and their captains havetaken their long last voyage, when their mer-chandise has rotted, and their owners areknown no more. But the tall, grey column ofstone will still be there a monument to oneman's fidelity to a generation yet unbornand will endure from everlasting to ever-lasting.


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The RecluseOURNEYING toward the uppercourse of the Capilano River,about a mile citywards from thedam, you will pass a disusedlogger's shack. Leave the trailat this point and strike through the under-growth for a few hundred yards and you willbe on the rocky borders of that purest, mostrestless river in all Canada. The stream ishaunted with tradition, teeming with a scoreof romances that vie with its grandeur and

loveliness, and of which its waters are perpet-ually whispering. But I learned this legendfrom one whose voice was as dulcet as theswirling rapids; but, unlike them, that voiceis hushed today, while the river still sings on

sings on.It was singing in very melodious tonesthrough the long August afternoon two sum-mers ago, while we, the chief, his happy-hearted wife and bright, young daughter, alllounged amongst the boulders and watchedthe lazy clouds drift from peak to peak farabove us. It was one of his inspired days;

legends crowded to his lips as a whistle teasesthe mouth of a happy boy, his heart wasbrimming with tales of the bygones, his eyeswere dark with dreams and that strangemournfulness that always haunted them whenhe spoke of long-ago romances. There wasnot a tree, a boulder, a dash of rapid uponwhich his glance fell that he had not someancient superstition to link with it. Thenabruptly, 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 bringtrouble later on will foretell evil?" he asked.

I made some evasive answer, which, how-ever, seemed to satisfy him, for he plungedinto the strange tale of the recluse of thecanyon with more vigor than dreaminess; butfirst he asked me the question:


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVER"What do your own tribes, those east ofthe 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 withus," 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 talemight die on his lips before it was born tospeech, but we understood each other so wellthat I finally ventured the truth:"We Iroquois say that twin children are asrabbits," I explained. "The nation alwaysnicknames 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 twinchildren 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 amongthe Palefaces, what do they say of twins?""Oh! the Palefaces like them. They arethey 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 toenquire what his own people of the Squamishthought of this discussed problem."It is no pride to us," he said decidedly;"nor yet is it disgrace of rabbits, but it is afearsome thing a sign of coming evil to thefather, and, worse than that, of coming dis-aster to the tribe."Then I knew he held in his heart somestrange incident that gave substance to the

superstition. "Won't you tell it to me?" Ibegged.He leaned a little backward against a giantboulder, clasping his thin, brown hands abouthis knees; his eyes roved up the gallopingriver, then swept down the singing waters towhere they crowded past the sudden bend,and during the entire recital of the strangelegend his eyes never left that spot where


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THE RECLUSEthe stream disappeared in its hurrying jour-ney to the sea. Without preamble he began:"It was a grey morning when they told himof this disaster that had befallen him. Hewas a great chief, and he ruled many tribeson the North Pacific Coast; but what was hisgreatness now? His young wife had bornehim twins, and was sobbing out her anguishin the little fir-bark lodge near the tidewater."Beyond the doorway gathered many oldmen and women old in years, old in wisdom,old in the lore and learning of their nations.Some of them wept, some chanted solemnlythe dirge of their lost hopes and happiness,which would never return because of this

calamity; others discussed in hushed voicesthis awesome thing, and for hours their gravecouncil was broken only by the infant criesof the two boy-babies in the bark lodge, thehopeless sobs of the young mother, the agon-ized moans of the stricken chief theirfather." 'Something dire will happen to the tribe,'said the old men in council." 'Something dire will happen to him, myhusband,' 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 tohush the lamenting throng. His voice shookwith the weight of many winters, but his eyeswere yet keen and mirrored the clear thoughtand brain behind them, as the still trout poolsin the Capilano mirror the mountain tops.His words were masterful, his gestures com-manding, his shoulders erect and kindly. Hiswas a personality and an inspiration that noone dared dispute, and his judgment was ac-cepted as the words fell slowly, like a doom." 'It is the olden law of the Squamish thatlest evil befall the tribe the sire of twinchildren must go afar and alone into themountain fastnesses, there by his isolation andhis loneliness to prove himself stronger thanthe threatened evil, and thus to beat back theshadow that would otherwise follow him andall his people. I, therefore, name for him the


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERlength of days that he must spend alone fight-ing his invisible enemy. He will know bysome great sign in Nature the hour that theevil is conquered, the hour that his race issaved. He must leave before this sun sets,taking with him only his strongest bow, hisfleetest arrows, and going up into the moun-tain wilderness remain there ten days alone*alone.'"The masterful voice ceased, the tribewailed their assent, the father arose speech-less, his drawn face revealing great agonyover this seemingly brief banishment. Hetook leave of his sobbing wife, of the two tinysouls that were his sons, grasped his favoritebow and arrows, and faced the forest like awarrior. But at the end of the ten days hedid not return, nor yet ten weeks, nor yet tenmonths." 'He is dead,' wept the mother into thebaby ears of her two boys. 'He could notbattle against the evil that threatened; it wasstronger than he he so strong, so proud, sobrave.'

" 'He is dead,' echoed the tribesmen and thetribeswomen. 'Our strong, brave chief, he isdead.' So they mourned the long yearthrough, but their chants and their tears butrenewed their grief; he did not return tothem."Meanwhile, far up the Capilano the ban-ished chief had built his solitary home; forwho can tell what fatal trick of sound, whatcurrent of air, what faltering note in the voiceof the Medicine Man had deceived his alert

Indian ears? But some unhappy fate had ledhim to understand that his solitude must beof ten years' duration, not ten days, and hehad accepted the mandate with the heroismof a stoic. For if he had refused to do so hisbelief was that although the threatened dis-aster would be spared him, the evil would fallupon his tribe. This was one more added tothe long list of self-forgetting souls whosecreed has been, 'It is fitting that one shouldsuffer for the people.' It was the world-oldheroism of vicarious sacrifice."With his hunting-knife the banished

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THE RECLUSESquamish chief stripped the bark from the firsand cedars, building for himself a lodge be-side the Capilano River, where leaping troutand salmon could be speared by arrow-headsfastened to deftly shaped, long handles. Allthrough the salmon run he smoked and driedthe fish with the care of a housewife. Themountain sheep and goats, and even hugeblack and cinnamon bears, fell before his un-erring arrows; the fleet-footed deer never re-turned to their haunts from their eveningdrinking at the edge of the stream their wildhearts, their agile bodies were stilled when hetook aim. Smoked hams and saddles hung inrows from the cross poles of his bark lodge,and the magnificent pelts of animals carpetedhis floors, padded his couch and clothed hisbody. He tanned the soft doe hides, makingleggings, moccasins and shirts, stitching themtogether with deer sinew as he had seen hismother do in the long-ago. He gathered thejuicy salmonberries, their acid flavor being agratifying change from meat and fish. Monthby month and year by year he sat beside hislonely camp-fire, waiting for his long term ofsolitude to end. One comfort alone was hishe was enduring the disaster, fighting theevil, that his tribe might go unscathed, thathis people be saved from calamity. Slowly,laboriously the tenth year dawned; day byday it dragged its long weeks across his wait-ing heart, for Nature had not yet given thesign that his long probation was over."Then one hot summer day the ThunderBird came crashing through the mountainsabout him. Up from the arms of the Pacificrolled the storm cloud, and the Thunder Bird,with its eyes of flashing light, beat its hugevibrating wings on crag and canyon."Upstream, a tall shaft of granite rears its

needle-like length. It is named 'ThunderRock,' and wise men of the Paleface peoplesay it is rich in ore copper, silver and gold.At the base of this shaft the Squamish chiefcrouched when the storm cloud broke andbellowed through the ranges, and on its sum-mit the Thunder Bird perched, its gigantic


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERwings threshing the air into booming sounds,into splitting terrors, like the crash of a giantcedar hurtling down the mountain side."But when the beating of those black pin-ions ceased and the echo of their thunderwaves died down the depths of the canyon, the

Squamish chief arose as a new man. Theshadow on his soul had lifted, the fears of evilwere cowed and conquered. In his brain, hisblood, his veins, his sinews, he felt that thepoison of melancholy dwelt no more. He hadredeemed his fault of fathering twin children;he had fulfilled the demands of the law of histribe."As he heard the last beat of the ThunderBird's wings dying slowly, slowly, faintly,faintly, among the crags, he knew that thebird, too, was dying, for its soul was leavingits monster black body, and presently thatsoul appeared in the sky. He could see itarching overhead, before it took its long jour-ney to the Happy Hunting Grounds, for the soulof the Thunder Bird was a radiant half-circleof glorious color spanning from peak to peak.He lifted his head then, for he knew it wasthe sign the ancient Medicine Man had toldhim to wait for the sign that his long banish-ment was ended."And all these years, down in the tidewatercountry, the little brown-faced twins wereasking childwise, 'Where is our father? Whyhave we no father like other boys?' To bemet only with the oft-repeated reply, 'Yourfather is no more. Your father, the greatchief, is dead.'"But some strange filial intuition told theboys that their sire would some day return.Often they voiced this feeling to their mother,but she would only weep and say that noteven the witchcraft of the great MedicineMan could bring him to them. But whenthey were ten years old the two children cameto their mother, hand within hand. Theywere armed with their little hunting-knives,their salmon spears, their tiny bows andarrows.

' 'We go to find our father,' they said." 'Oh ! useless quest,' wailed the mother.18


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THE RECLUSE" 'Oh ! useless quest,' echoed the tribes-people."But the great Medicine Man said, "Theheart of a child has invisible eyes, perhaps the

child-eyes see him. The heart of a child hasinvisible ears, perhaps the child-ears hear himcall. Let them go.' So the little childrenwent forth into the forest; their young feetflew as though shod with wings, their younghearts pointed to the north as does the whiteman's compass. Day after day they journeyedup-stream, until rounding a sudden bend theybeheld a bark lodge with a thin blue curl ofsmoke drifting from its roof." 'It is our father's lodge,' they told eachother, for their childish hearts were unerringin 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 hisarms 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 andmy canyons!' And with a child clinging toea/ch hand he faced once more the country ofthe tidewater."The legend was ended.For a long time he sat in silence. He hadremoved his gaze from the bend in the river,around which the two children had come andwhere the eyes of the recluse had first restedon 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 toobeautiful to mar with comments, and as the

twilight fell, we threaded our way through theunderbrush, past the disused logger's campand into the trail that leads citywards.


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The Lost Salmon RunREAT had been the "run," andthe sockeye season was almostover. For that reason I won-dered many times why my oldfriend, the klootchman, had failed

to make one of the fishing fleet. Shewas an indefatigable workwoman, rivallingher husband as an expert catcher, and all theyear through she talked of little else but thecoming run. But this especial season she hadnot appeared amongst her fellow-kind. Thefleet and the canneries knew nothing of her,and when I enquired of her tribes-people theywould reply without explanation, "She nothere this year."But one russet September afternoon I foundher. I had idled down the trail from theswans' basin in Stanley Park to the rim thatskirts the Narrows, and I saw her graceful,high-bowed canoe heading for the beach thatis the favorite landing place of the "tillicums"from the Mission. Her canoe looked like adream-craft, for the water was very still andeverywhere a blue film hung like a fragrantveil, for the peat on Lulu Island had beensmoldering for days and its pungent odors andblue-grey haze made a dream-world of sea andshore and sky.I hurried upshore, hailing her in theChinook, and as she caught my voice she liftedher paddle directly above her head in theIndian signal of greeting.As she beached, I greeted her with extendedeager hands to assist her ashore, for theklootchman is getting to be an old woman;

albeit she paddles against tidewater like a boyin his teens."No," she said, as I begged her to comeashore. "I not wait me. I just come tofetch Maarda; she been city; she come soonnow." But she left her "working" attitudeand curled like a schoolgirl in the bow of the


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERcanoe, her elbows resting on her paddle whichshe had flung across the gunwales.

"I have missed you, klootchman; you havenot been to see me for three moons, and youhave not fished or been at the canneries," Iremarked."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, soI stay."So this explained her absence. I, of course,offered congratulations and enquired all aboutthe great event, for this was her first grand-child, and the little person was of importance."And are you going to make a fisherman ofhim?" I asked."No, no, not boy-child, it is girl-child," sheanswered with some indescribable trick of ex-pression that led me to know she preferredit so."You are pleased it is a girl?" I questionedin surprise."Very pleased," she replied emphatically."Very good luck to have girl for first grand-

child. Own tribe not like yours; we wantgirl children first; we not always wish boy-child born just for fight. Your people, theycare only for war-path; our tribe more peace-ful. Very good sign first grandchild to begirl. I tell you why: girl-child maybe sometime mother herself; very grand thing to bemother."

I felt I had caught the secret of her mean-ing. She was rejoicing that this little oneshould some time become one of the mothersof her race. We chatted over it a little longerand she gave me several playful "digs" aboutmy own tribe thinking so much less of mother-hood than hers, and so much more of battleand bloodshed. Then we drifted into talk ofthe sockeye run and of the hyiu chickimin theIndians would get."Yes, hyiu chickimin," she repeated with asigh of satisfaction. "Always; and hyiumuck-a-muck when big salmon run. No moreever come that bad year when not any fish.""When was that?" I asked.


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THE LOST SALMON RUN"Before you born, or I, or" pointingacross the park to the distant city of Van-

couver, that breathed its wealth and beautyacross the September afternoon "before thatplace born, before white man came hereoh! long before."Dear old klootchman! I knew by the duskin her eyes that she was back in her Land ofLegends, and that soon I would be the richerin my hoard of Indian lore. She sat, stillleaning on her paddle; her eyes, half-closed,rested on the distant outline of the blurredheights across the Inlet. I shall not furtherattempt her broken English, for this is but theshadow of her story, and without her uniquepersonality the legend is as a flower that lacksboth color and fragrance. She called it "TheLost Salmon Run.""The wife of the Great Tyee was but a wispof a girl, but all the world was young in thosedays; even the Fraser River was young andsmall, not the mighty water it is now; butthe pink salmon crowded its throat just asthey do now, and the tillicums caught andsalted and smoked the fish just as they havedone this year, just as they will always do.But it was yet winter, and the rains wereslanting and the fogs drifting, when the wifeof the Great Tyee stood before him and said:" 'Before the salmon run I shall give to youa great gift. Will you honor me most if itis the gift of a boy-child or a girl-child?' TheGreat Tyee loved the woman. He was sternwith his people, hard with his tribe; he ruledhis council fires with a will of stone. Hismedicine men said he had no human heart inhis body; his warriors said he had no humanblood 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 hischoice they arose in great anger. They sur-rounded him in a deep indignant circle. 'Youare a slave to the woman,' they declared, 'andnow you desire to make yourself a slave to a


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERwoman-baby. We want an heir a man-childto be our Great Tyee in years to come. Whenyou are old and weary of tribal affairs, whenyou sit wrapped in your blanket in the hotsummer sunshine, because your blood is oldand thin, what can a girl-child do to helpeither you or us? Who, then, will be ourGreat Tyee?'"He stood in the centre of the menacingcircle, his arm folded, his chin raised, his eyeshard 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 willbelong to you, not to me; he will become thepossession of the people. But if the child isa girl she will belong to me she will be mine.You cannot take her from me as you took mefrom 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 ofmy grandchildren, and her husband will bemy son.'" 'You do not care for the good of yourtribe. You care only for your own wishes anddesires,' they rebelled. 'Suppose the salmonrun is small, we will have no food; supposethere is no man-child, we will have no GreatTyee to show us how to get food from othertribes, and we shall starve.'" 'Your hearts are black and bloodless,'thundered the Great Tyee, turning upon themfiercely, 'and your eyes are blinded. Do youwish the tribe to forget how great is the im-portance of a child that will some day be amother herself, and give to your children andgrandchildren a Great Tyee? Are the peopleto live, to thrive, to increase, to become morepowerful with no mother-women to bearfuture sons and daughters? Your minds aredead, your brains are chilled. Still, even inyour ignorance, you are my people: you andyour wishes must be considered. I call to-gether the great medicine men, the men ofwitchcraft, the men of magic. They shall de-cide the laws which will follow the bearingof either boy or girl-child. What say you, oh !mighty men?'"Messengers were then sent up and down


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THE LOST SALMON RUNthe coast, sent far up the Fraser River, andto the valley lands inland for many leagues,gathering as they journeyed all the men ofmagic that could be found. Never were somany medicine men in council before. Theybuilt fires and danced and chanted for manydays. They spoke with the gods of the moun-tains, with the gods of the sea, then 'thepower' of decision came to them. They wereinspired with a choice to lay before the tribes-people, and the most ancient medicine man inall the coast region arose and spoke theirresolution :" 'The people of the tribe cannot be allowedto have all things. They want a boy-childand they want a great salmon run also. Theycannot have both. The Sagalie Tyee has re-vealed to us, the great men of magic, thatboth these things will make the people arro-gant and selfish. They must choose betweenthe two.'" 'Choose, oh ! you ignorant tribes-people,'commanded the Great Tyee. 'The wise menof our coast have said that the girl-child whowill some day bear children of her own willalso 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 usthe boy-child.'"And when the child was born it was a boy." 'Evil will fall upon you,' wailed the GreatTyee. 'You have despised a mother-woman.You will suffer evil and starvation and hungerand poverty, oh! foolish tribes-people. Didyou not know how great a girl-child is?'"That spring, people from a score of tribescame up to the Fraser for the salmon run.They came great distances from the moun-tains, the lakes, the far-off dry lands, but notone fish entered the vast rivers of the PacificCoast. The people had made their choice.They had forgotten the honor that a mother-child would have brought them. They werebereft of their food. They were strickenwith poverty. Through the long win-ter that followed they endured hunger andstarvation. Since then our tribe has always


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERwelcomed girl-children we want no morelost runs."The klootchman lifted her arms from herpaddle as she concluded; her eyes left theirregular outline of the viplet mountains. Shehad come back to this year of grace herLegend Land had vanished.

"So," she added, "you see now, maybe,why I glad my grandchild is girl; it meansbig salmon run next year.""It is a beautiful story, klootchman," I said,"and I feel a cruel delight that your men ofmagic punished the people for their ill-choice."

"That, because you girl-child yourself," shelaughed.There was the slightest whisper of a stepbehind me. I turned to find Maarda almost

at my elbow. The rising tide was unbeachingthe canoe, and as Maarda stepped in and theklootchman slipped astern it drifted afloat."Kla-how-ya," nodded the klootchman asshe dipped her paddle-blade in exquisite

silence."Kla-how-ya," smiled Maarda."Kla-how-ya, tillicums," I replied, andwatched for many moments as they slippedaway into the blurred distance, until the canoemerged into the violet and grey of the farthershore.


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The Deep WatersAR over your left shoulder asyour boat leaves the Narrows tothread the beautiful waterwaysthat lead to Vancouver Island,you will see the summit of MountBaker robed in its everlasting whiteness and

always reflecting some wonderful glory fromthe rising sun, the golden noontide, or theviolet and amber sunset. This is the MountArarat of the Pacific Coast peoples; for thosereaders who are familiar with the ways andbeliefs and faiths of primitive races will agreethat it is difficult to discover anywhere in theworld a race that has not some story of theDeluge, which they have chronicled and local-ized to fit the understanding and the condi-tions of the nation that composes their ownimmediate world.Amongst the red nations of America I doubtif any two tribes have the same ideas regard-

ing the Flood. Some of the traditions con-cerning this vast whim of Nature are grotesquein the extreme; some are impressive; someeven profound; but of all the stories of theDeluge that I have been able to collect I knowof not a single one that can even begin toequal in beauty of conception, let alone rivalin possible reality and truth, the Squamishlegend of "The Deep Waters."

I here quote the legend of "mine ownpeople," the Iroquois tribes of Ontario, ^re-garding the Deluge. I do this to paint thecolor of contrast in richer shades, for I ambound to submit that we who pride ourselveson ancient intellectuality have but a childishtale of the Flood when compared with thejealously preserved annals of the Squamish,which savour more of history than tradition.With "mine own people," animals always playa much more important part and are endowedwith a finer intelligence than humans. I donot find amid my notes a single tradition ofthe Iroquois wherein animals do not figure,


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERand our story of the Deluge rests entirely withthe intelligence of sea-going and river-goingcreatures. With us, animals in olden timeswere greater than man; but it is not so withthe Coast Indians, except in rare instances.When a Coast Indian consents to tell you alegend he will, without variation, begin itwith, "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 animalworld as intelligent co-habitants of the Pacificslope, but he will not lead you to think heregards them as equals, much less superiors.But to revert to "mine own people" : they holdthe intelligence of wild animals far above thatof man, for perhaps the one reason thatwhen an animal is sick it effects its own cure;it knows what grasses and herbs to eat, whatto avoid, while the sick human calls the medi-cine man, whose wisdom is not only the resultof years of study, but also heredity; conse-quently any great natural event, such as theDeluge, has much to do with the wisdom ofthe creatures of the forests and the rivers.

Iroquois tradition tells us that once thisearth was entirely submerged in water, andduring this period for many days a busy littlemuskrat swam about vainly looking for a foot-hold of earth wherein to build his house. Inhis search he encountered a turtle leisurelyswimming about, so they had speech together,and the muskrat complained of weariness; hecould find no foothold; he was tired of inces-sant swimming, and longed for land such ashis ancestors enjoyed. The turtle suggestedthat the muskrat should dive and endeavor tofind earth at the bottom of the sea. Actingon this advice the muskrat plunged down, thenarose with his two little forepaws graspingsome earth he had found beneath the waters.

"Place it on my shell and dive again formore," directed the turtle. The muskrat didso, but when he returned with his paws filledwith earth he discovered the small quantityhe had first deposited on the turtle's shell had


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THE DEEP WATERSdoubled in size. The return from the thirdtrip found the turtle's load again doubled. Sothe building went on at double compound in-crease, and the world grew its continents andits island with great rapidity, and now rests onthe shell of a turtle.

If you ask an Iroquois, "And did no mensurvive this flood?" he will reply, "Whyshould men survive? The animals are wiserthen men; let the wisest live."How, then, was the earth re-peopled?The Iroquois will tell you that the otterwas a medicine man; that in swimming and

diving about he found corpses of men andwomen; he sang his medicine songs and theycame to life, and the otter brought them fishfor food until they were strong enough to pro-vide for themselves. Then the Iroquois willconclude his tale with, "You know well thatthe otter has greater wisdom than a man."So much for "mine own people" and ourprofound respect for the superior intelligenceof our little brothers of the animal world.But the Squamish tribe hold other ideas.It was on a February day that I first listenedto this beautiful, humane story of the Deluge.My royal old tillicum had come to see me

through the rains and mists of late winterdays. The gateways of my wigwam alwaysstood open very widely open for his feet toenter, and this especial day he came with theworst downpour of the season.Womanlike, I protested with a thousandcontradictions 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 onsuch 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 usedwas his as long as the Sagalie Tyee allowedhis dear feet to wander my way. The im-mense cup stands idle and empty now for thesecond time.

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


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERremarked it was not so very bad, as one couldyet walk.

"Fortunately, yes, for I cannot swim," Itold him.He laughed, replying, "Well, it is not sobad as when the Great Deep Waters coveredthe world."Immediately I foresaw the coming legend,so crept into the shell of monosyllables."No?" I questioned."No," he replied. "For one time there wasno land here at all ; everywhere there was justwater.""I can quite believe it," I remarked

caustically.He laughed that irresistible, though silent,David Warfield laugh of his that alwaysbrought a responsive smile from his listeners.Then he plunged directly into the tradition,with no preface save a comprehensive sweepof his wonderful hands towards my wide win-dow, against which the rains were beating."It was after a long, long time of this thisrain. The mountain streams were swollen,the rivers choked, the sea began to rise andyet it rained; for weeks and weeks it rained."He ceased speaking, while the shadows ofcenturies gone crept into his eyes. Tales ofthe misty past always inspired him.

"Yes," he continued. "It rained for weeksand weeks, while the mountain torrents roaredthunderingly down, and the sea crept silentlyup. The level lands were first to float in seawater, then to disappear. The slopes werenext to slip into the sea. The world wasslowly being flooded. Hurriedly the Indiantribes gathered in one spot, a place of safetyfar above the reach of the on-creeping sea. Thespot 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 meanscontrived to anchor it in case the watersmounted to the heights. The men undertookthe canoe, the women the anchorage."A giant tree was felled, and day and nightthe men toiled over its construction into themost stupendous canoe the world has ever


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THE DEEP WATERSknown. Not an hour, not a moment, butmany worked, while the toil-wearied onesslept, only to awake to renewed toil. Mean-while the women also worked at a cable thelargest, the longest, the strongest that Indianhands and teeth had ever made. Scores ofthem gathered and prepared the cedar fibre;scores of them plaited, rolled and seasoned it;scores of them chewed upon it inch by inchto make it pliable; scores of them oiled andworked, oiled and worked, oiled and workedit into a sea-resisting fabric. And still thesea crept up, and up, and up. It was the lastday; hope of life for the tribe, of land for theworld, was doomed. Strong hands, self-sacrificing hands fastened the cable the womenhad made one end to the giant canoe, theother about an enormous boulder, a vast im-movable rock as firm as the foundations ofthe world for might not the canoe with itspriceless freight drift out, far out, to sea, andwhen the water subsided might not this shipof safety be leagues and leagues beyond thesight of land on the storm-driven Pacific?"Then with the bravest hearts that everbeat, noble hands lifted every child of thetribe into this vast canoe; not one single babywas overlooked. The canoe was stocked withfood and fresh water, and lastly, the ancientmen and women of the race selected as guar-dians to these children the bravest, moststalwart, handsomest young man of the tribe,and the mother of the youngest baby in thecamp she was but a girl of sixteen, her childbut two weeks old ; but she, too, was brave andvery beautiful. These two were placed, she atthe bow of the canoe to watch, he at the sternto guide, and all the little children crowdedbetween."And still the sea crept up, and up, and up.At the crest of the bluffs about LakeBeautiful the doomed tribes crowded. Not asingle person attempted to enter the canoe.There was no wailing, no crying out forsafety. 'Let the little children, the youngmother, and the bravest and best of our youngmen live,' was all the farewell those in thecanoe heard as the waters reached the summit,


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERand the canoe floated. Last of all to be seenwas the top of the tallest tree, then all was aworld of water."For days and days there was no land justthe rush of swirling, snarling sea; but thecanoe rode safely at anchor, the cable thosescores of dead, faithful women had made held

true as the hearts that beat behind the toiland labor of it all."But one morning at sunrise, far to thesouth a speck floated on the breast of thewaters; at midday it was larger; at eveningit was yet larger. The moon arose, and in itsmagic light the man at the stern saw it wasa patch of land. All night he watched itgrow, and at daybreak looked with glad eyesupon the summit of Mount Baker. He cutthe cable, grasped his paddle in his strong,young hands, and steered for the south. Whenthey landed, the waters were sunken half downthe mountain side. The children were liftedout; the beautiful young mother, the stalwartyoung brave, turned to each other, claspedhands, looked into each others eyes andsmiled."And down in the vast country that liesbetween Mount Baker and the Fraser Riverthey 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 giganticcrevice half way to the crest of Mount Bakermay yet be seen the outlines of an enormouscanoe, but I have never seen it myself."He ceased speaking with that far-off cadencein his voice with which he always ended alegend, and for a long time we both sat insilence listening to the rains that were stillbeating against the window.


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The Sea-Serpent|HERE is one vice that is absolutelyunknown to the red man; he wasborn without it, and amongst allthe deplorable things he haslearned from the white races, this,at least, he has never acquired. That is thevice of avarice. That the Indian looks upon

greed of gain, miserliness, avariciousness andwealth accumulated above the head of hispoorer neighbor as one of the lowest degrada-tions he can fall to is perhaps more aptly illus-trated in this legend than anything I couldquote to demonstrate his horror of what hecalls "the white man's unkindness." In a verywide and varied experience with many tribes,I have yet to find even one instance ofavarice, and I have encountered but onesingle case of a "stingy Indian," and this manwas so marked amongst his fellows that atmention of his name his tribes-people jeeredand would remark contemptuously that he waslike a white man hated to share his moneyand his possessions. All red races are bornSocialists, and most tribes carry out theircommunistic ideas to the letter. Amongst theIroquois it is considered disgraceful to havefood if your neighbor has none. To be acreditable member of the nation you mustdivide your possessions with your less for-tunate fellows. I find it much the sameamongst the Coast Indians, though they areless bitter in their hatred of the extremes ofwealth and poverty than are the Easterntribes. Still, the very fact that they have pre-served this legend, in which they liken avariceto a slimy sea-serpent, shows the trend of theirideas ; shows, too, that an Indian is an Indian,no matter what his tribe ; shows that he cannotor will not hoard money ; shows that his nativemorals demand that the spirit of greed mustbe strangled at all cost.

33 E


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERThe Chief and I had sat long over our

luncheon. He had been talking of his trip toEngland and of the many curious things hehad 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 reallyseen everything in the world."His face clouded; for a moment he sat insilence; then looking directly at me said,"Maybe none now, but long ago there wasone here in the Inlet.""How long ago?" I asked."When first the white gold-hunters came,"he replied. "Came with greedy, clutchingfingers, greedy eyes, greedy hearts. The whitemen fought, murdered, starved, went madwith love of that gold far up the Fraser River.Tillicums were tillicums no more, brotherswere foes, fathers and sons were enemies.Their love of the gold was a curse.""Was it then the sea-serpent was seen?" Iasked, perplexed with the problem of tryingto connect the gold-seekers with such amonster.

"Yes, it was then, but " he hesitated,then plunged into the assertion, "but you willnot believe the story if you think there is nosuch thing as a sea-serpent.""I shall believe whatever you tell me,Chief," I answered; "I am only too ready tobelieve. You know I come of a superstitiousrace, and all my association with the Palefaceshas never yet robbed me of my birthright tobelieve strange traditions.""You always understand," he said after apause."It's my heart that understands," I remark-ed quietly.He glanced up quickly, and with one of hisall too few radiant smiles, he laughed.

"Yes, skookum turn-turn." Then withoutfurther hesitation he told the tradition, which,although not of ancient happening, is held ingreat reverence by his tribe. During its re-cital he sat with folded arms, leaning on thetable, his head and shoulders bending eagerly


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THE SEA-SERPENTtowards me as I sat at the opposite side. Itwas the only time he ever talked to me whenhe did not use emphasising gesticulations, buthis hands never once lifted : his wonderful eyesalone gave expression to what he called "TheLegend of the 'Salt-chuck Oluk' " (sea-serpent).

"Yes, it was during the first gold craze, andmany of our young men went as guides tothe whites far up the Eraser. When they re-turned they brought these tales of greed andmurder back with them, and our old peopleand our women shook their heads and saidevil would come of it. But all our young men,except one, returned as they went kind tothe poor, kind to those who were foodless,sharing whatever they had with their tilli-cums. But one, by name Shak-shak (TheHawk), came back with hoards of gold nug-gets, chickimin,* everything; he was rich likethe white men, and, like them, he kept it. Hewould count his chickimin, count his nuggets,gloat over them, toss them in his palms. Herested his head on them as he slept, he packedthem about with him through the day. Heloved them better than food, better than histillicums, better than his life. The entire tribearose. They said Shak-shak had the diseaseof greed; that to cure it he must give a greatpotlatch, divide his riches with the poorerones, share them with the old, the sick, thefoodless. But he jeered and laughed and toldthem No, and went on loving and gloatingover his gold."Then the Sagalie Tyee spoke out of thesky and said, 'Shak-shak, you have made ofyourself a loathsome thing ; you will not listento the cry of the hungry, to the call of the oldand sick; you will not share your possessions;you have made of yourself an outcast fromyour tribe and disobeyed the ancient laws ofyour people. Now I will make of you a thingloathed and hated by all men, both white andred. You will have two heads, for your greedhas two mouths to bite. One bites the poor,and one bites your own evil heart and thefangs in these mouths are poison, poison that

*Money.


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kills the hungry, and poison that kills yourown manhood. Your evil heart will beat inthe very centre of your foul body, and he thatpierces it will kill the disease of greed foreverfrom amongst his people.' And when the sunarose above the North Arm the next morningthe tribes-people saw a gigantic sea-serpentstretched across the surface of the waters. Onehideous head rested on the bluffs at BrocktonPoint, the other rested on a group of rocksjust below Mission, at the western edge ofNorth Vancouver. If you care to go theresome day I will show you the hollow in onegreat stone where that head lay. The tribes-people were stunned with horror. Theyloathed the creature, they hated it, they fearedit. Day after day it lay there, its monstrousheads lifted out of the waters, its mile-longbody blocking all entrance from the Narrows,all outlet from the North Arm. The chiefsmade council, the medicine men danced andchanted, but the salt-chuck oluk never moved.It could not move, for it was the hated totemof what now rules the white man's worldgreed and love of chickimin. No one can evermove the love of chickimin from the whiteman's heart, no one can ever make him divideall with the poor. But after the chiefs andmedicine men had done all in their power, andstill the salt-chuck oluk lay across the waters,a handsome boy of sixteen approached themand reminded them of the words of theSagalie Tyee, 'that he that pierced the mon-ster's heart would kill the disease of greedforever amongst his people.'" 'Let me try to find this evil heart, oh !great men of my tribe,' he cried. 'Let me warupon this creature ; let me try to rid my peopleof this pestilence.'"The boy was brave and very beautiful. Histribes-people called him the Tenas Tyee(Little Chief) and they loved him. Of allhis wealth of fish and furs, of game andhykwa (large shell money) he gave to theboys who had none; he hunted food for theold people; he tanned skins and furs for thosewhose feet were feeble, whose eyes were fad-ing, whose blood ran thin with age.


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THE SEA-SERPENT" 'Let him go!' cried the tribes-people. 'Thisunclean monster can only be overcome by

cleanliness, this creature of greed can onlybe overthrown by generosity. Let him go!'The chiefs and the medicine men listened, thenconsented. 'Go,' they commanded, 'and fightthis thing with your strongest weaponscleanliness and generosity.'"The Tenas Tyee turned to his mother. 'Ishall be gone four days,' he told her, 'and Ishall swim all that time. I have tried all mylife to be generous, but the people say I mustbe clean also to fight this unclean thing. WhileI am gone put fresh furs on my bed everyday, even if I am not here to lie on them; if Iknow my bed, my body and my heart are allclean I can overcome this serpent.'" 'Your bed shall have fresh furs everymorning,' his mother said simply."The Tenas Tyee then stripped himself and,with no clothing save a buckskin belt intowhich he thrust his hunting-knife, he flunghis lithe young body into the sea. But at theend of four days he did not return. Some-times his people could see him swimming farout in mid-channel, endeavoring to find theexact centre of the serpent, where lay its evil,selfish heart; but on the fifth morning theysaw him rise out of the sea, climb to the sum-mit of Brockton Point and greet the risingsun with outstretched arms. Weeks andmonths went by, still the Tenas Tyee wouldswim daily searching for that heart of greed;and each morning the sunrise glinted on hisslender young copper-colored body as he stoodwith outstretched arms at the tip of BrocktonPoint, greeting the coming day and thenplunging from the summit into the sea."And at his home on the north shore hismother dressed his bed with fresh furs eachmorning. The seasons drifted by, winterfollowed summer, summer followed winter.But it was four years before the Tenas Tyeefound the centre of the great salt-chuck olukand plunged his hunting-knife into its evilheart. In its death-agony it writhed throughthe Narrows, leaving a trail of blackness onthe waters. Its huge body began to shrink, to


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERshrivel ; it became dwarfed and withered, untilnothing but the bones of its back remained,and they, sea-bleached and lifeless, soon sankto the bed of the ocean leagues off from therim of land. But as the Tenas Tyee swamhomeward and his clean, young body crossedthrough the black stain left by the serpent,the waters became clear and blue and spark-ling. He had overcome even the trail of thesalt-chuck oluk."When at last he stood in the doorway ofhis home he said, 'My mother, I could nothave killed the monster of greed amongst mypeople had you not helped me by keeping oneplace for me at home fresh and clean for myreturn.'"She looked at him as only mothers look.'Each day these four years, fresh furs have Ilaid for your bed. Sleep now, and rest, oh ! myTenas Tyee,' she said."*******The Chief unfolded his arms, and his voicetook 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 withhis customary alertness he immediately un-derstood. "That's right," he said. "That'swhat we say it means, we Squamish, thatgreed is evil and not clean, like the salt-chuckoluk. That it must be stamped out amongstour people, killed by cleanliness and generos-ity. The boy that overcame the serpent wasboth these things.""What became of this splendid boy?", Iasked."The Tenas Tyee? Oh! some of our old,old people say they sometimes see him now,standing on Brockton Point, his bare youngarms outstretched to the rising sun," he re-plied."Have you ever seen him, Chief?" Iquestioned."No," he answered simply. But I havenever heard such poignant regret as his won-derful voice crowded into that single word.


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The Lost IslandES," said my old tillicum, "weIndians have lost many things.We have lost our lands, ourforests, our game, our fish; wehave lost our ancient religion,our ancient dress; some of the younger peoplehave even lost their fathers' language and the

legends and traditions of their ancestors. Wecannot call those old things back to us; theywill never come again. We may travel manydays up the mountain trails, and look in thesilent places for them. They are not there.We may paddle many moons on the sea, butour canoes will never enter the channel thatleads to the yesterdays of the Indian people.These things are lost, just like 'The Island ofthe North Arm.' They may be somewherenearby, but no one can ever find them.""But there are many islands up the NorthArm," I asserted."Not the island we Indian people havesought for many tens of summers," he repliedsorrowfully."Was it ever there?" I questioned.

"Yes, it was there," he said. "My grand-sires and my great-grandsires saw it; but thatwas long ago. My father never saw it, thoughhe spent many days in many years searching,always searching, for it. I am an old manmyself, and I have never seen it, though frommy youth I, too, have searched. Sometimesin the stillness of the nights I have paddledup in my canoe." Then, lowering his voice:"Twice I have seen its shadow: high rockyshores, reaching as high as the tree tops onthe mainland, then tall pines and firs on itssummit like a king's crown. As I paddled upthe Arm one summer night, long ago, theshadow of these rocks and firs fell across mycanoe, across my face, and across the watersbeyond. I turned rapidly to look. There wasno island there, nothing but a wide stretch ofwaters on both sides of me, and the moon

39


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERalmost directly overhead. Don't say it wasthe shore that shadowed me," he hastened,catching my thought. "The moon was aboveme; my canoe scarce made a shadow on thestill waters. No, it was not the shore.""Why do you search for it?" I lamented,thinking of the old dreams in my own lifewhose realization I have never attained."There is something on that island that Iwant. I shall look for it until I die, for it is

there," he affirmed.There was a long silence between us afterthat. I had learned to love silences when withmy old tillicum, for they always led to alegend. After a time he began voluntarily:

"It was more than one hundred years ago.This great city of Vancouver was but thedream of the Sagalie Tyee (God) at that time.The dream had not yet come to the white man ;only one great Indian medicine man knewthat some day a great camp for Palefaceswould lie between False Creek and the Inlet.This dream haunted him ; it came to him nightand day when he was amid his peoplelaughing and feasting, or when he was alonein the forest chanting his strange songs, beat-ing his hollow drum, or shaking his woodenwitch-rattle to gain more power to cure thesick and the dying of his tribe. For years thisdream followed him. He grew to be an old, oldman, yet always he could hear voices, strongand loud, as when they first spoke to him inhis youth, and they would say: 'Between thetwo narrow strips of salt water the white menwill camp many hundreds of them, manythousands of them. The Indians will learntheir ways, will live as they do, will becomeas they are. There will be no more great wardances, no more fights with other powerfultribes; it will be as if the Indians had lost allbravery, all courage, all confidence.' He hatedthe voices, he hated the dream; but all hispower, all his big medicine, could not drivethem away. He was the strongest man on allthe North Pacific Coast. He was mighty andvery tall, and his muscles were as those ofLeloo, the timber wolf, when he is strongestto kill his prey. He could go for many days


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THE LOST ISLANDwithout food ; he could fight the largest moun-tain lion; he could overthrow the fiercestgrizzly bear; he could paddle against thewildest winds and ride the highest waves.He could meet his enemies and kill wholetribes single-handed. His strength, his cour-age, his power, his bravery, were those of agiant. He knew no fear; nothing in the sea,or in the forest, nothing in the earth or thesky, could conquer him. He was fearless, fear-less. Only this haunting dream of the comingwhite man's camp he could not drive away; itwas the one thing in life he had tried to killand failed. It drove him from the feasting,drove him from the pleasant lodges, the fires,the dancing, the story-telling of his people intheir camp by the water's edge, where thesalmon thronged and the deer came down todrink of the mountain streams. He left theIndian village, chanting his wild songs as hewent. Up through the mighty forests heclimbed, through the trailless deep mosses andmatted vines, up to the summit of what thewhite men call Grouse Mountain. For manydays he camped there. He ate no food, hedrank no water, but sat and sang his medicinesongs through the dark hours and throughthe day. Before him far beneath his feetlay the narrow strip of land between the twosalt waters. Then the Sagalie Tyee gave himthe power to see far into the future. Helooked across a hundred years, just as helooked across what you call the Inlet, and hesaw mighty lodges built close together, hun-dreds and thousands of them; lodges of stoneand wood, and long straight trails to dividethem. He saw these trails thronging withPalefaces; he heard the sound of the whiteman's paddle-dip on the waters, for it is notsilent like the Indian's ; he saw the white man'strading posts, saw the fishing nets, heard hisspeech. Then the vision faded as graduallyas it came. The narrow strip of land was hisown forest once more."

'I am old,' he called, in his sorrow and histrouble for his people. 'I am old, oh, SagalieTyee! Soon I shall die and go to the HappyHunting Grounds of my fathers. Let not my


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERstrength die with me. Keep living for all timemy courage, my bravery, my fearlessness.Keep them for my people that they may bestrong enough to endure the white man's rule.Keep my strength living for them; hide it sothat the Paleface may never find or see it.'"Then he came down from the summit ofGrouse Mountain. Still chanting his medicinesongs he entered his canoe, and paddledthrough the colors of the setting sun far upthe North Arm. When night fell he came toan island with misty shores of great greyrock; on its summit tall pines and firs circledlike a king's crown. As he neared it he feltall his strength, his courage, his fearlessness,leaving him; he could see these things driftfrom him on to the island. They were as theclouds that rest on the mountains, grey-whiteand half transparent. Weak as a woman hepaddled back to the Indian village; he toldthem to go and search for 'The Island,' wherethey would find all his courage, his fearless-ness and his strength, living, living forever.He slept then, but in the morning he did notawake. Since then our young men and ourold have searched for 'The Island.' It is theresomewhere, up some lost channel, but we can-not find it. When we do, we will get backall the courage and bravery we had before thewhite man came, for the great medicine mansaid those things never die they live for one'schildren and grandchildren."His voice ceased. My whole heart went outto him in his longing for the lost island. Ithought of all the splendid courage I knewhim to possess, so made answer: "But yousay that the shadow of this island has fallenupon you; is it not so, tillicum?""Yes," he said half mournfully. "But onlythe shadow."


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Point GreyAVE you ever sailed around PointGrey?" asked a young Squamishtillicum of mine who often comesto see me, to share a cup of teaand a taste of muck-a-muck, thatotherwise I should eat in solitude.

"No," I admitted, I had not had that plea-sure, for I did not know the uncertain watersof English Bay sufficiently well to ventureabout its headlands in my frail canoe."Some day, perhaps next summer, I'll takeyou there in a sail-boat, and show you the bigrock at the southwest of the Point. It is astrange rock; we Indian people call itHomolsom.""What an odd name," I commented. "Is ita Squamish word? it does not sound to melike one."

"It is not altogether Squamish, but halfEraser River language. The Point was thedividing line between the grounds and watersof the two tribes, so they agreed to make thename 'Homolsom' from the two languages."

I suggested more tea, and, as he sipped it,he told me the legend that few of the youngerIndians 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 peoplethat have to do with water craft are supersti-tious about some things, and I freely acknow-ledge that times innumerable I have "whistledup" a wind when dead calm threatened, orstuck a jack-knife in the mast, and afterwardswatched witn great contentment the idle sailfill, and the canoe pull out to a light breeze.So, perhaps, I am prejudiced in favor of thislegend of Homolsom Rock, for it strikes a veryresponsive chord in that portion of my heartthat has always throbbed for the sea."You know," began my young tillicum,"that only waters unspoiled by human handscan be of any benefit. One gains no strength


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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVERby swimming in any waters heated or boiledby fires that men build. To grow strong andwise one must swim in the natural rivers, themountain torrents, the sea, just as the Sag-alie Tyee made them. Their virtues diewhen human beings try to improve them byheating or distilling, or placing even tea inthem, and so what makes Homolsom Rockso full of 'good medicine' is that the watersthat wash up about it are straight from thesea, made by the hand of the Great Tyee, andunspoiled by the hand of man.

"It was not always there, that great rock,drawing its strength and its wonderful powerfrom the seas, for it, too, was once a GreatTyee, who ruled a mighty tract of waters. Hewas god of all the waters that wash the coast,of the Gulf of Georgia, of Puget Sound, of theStraits of Juan de Fuca, of the waters thatbeat against even the west coast of Vancou-ver Island, and of all the channels that cut be-tween the Charlotte Islands. He was Tyeeof the West Wind, and his storms andtempests were so mighty that the SagalieTyee Himself could not control the havoc thathe created. He warred upon all fishing craft,he demolished canoes and sent men to gravesin the sea. He uprooted forests and drove thesurf on shore heavy with wreckage of de-spoiled trees and with beaten and bruised fish.He did all this to reveal his powers, for hewas cruel and hard of heart, and he wouldlaugh and defy the Sagalie Tyee, and look-ing up to the sky he would call, 'See howpowerful I am, how mighty, how strong ; I amas great as you.'

"It was at this time that the Sagalie Tyeein the persons of the Four Men came in thegreat canoe up over the river of the Pacific, inthat age thousands of years ago when theyturned the evil into stone, and the kindly intotrees." 'Now,' said the god of the West Wind, 'Ican show how great I am. I shall blow atempest that these men may not land on mycoast. They shall not ride my seas and soundsand channels in safety. I shall wreck themand send their bodies into the great deeps, and


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POINT GREYI shall be Sagalie Tyee in their place andruler of all the world.' So the god of theWest Wind blew forth his tempests. Thewaves arose mountain high, the seas lashedand thundered along the shores. The roar ofhis mighty breath could be heard wrenchinggiant limbs from the forest trees, whistlingdown the canyons and dealing death and de-struction for leagues and leagues along thecoast. But the canoe containing the FourMen rode upright through all the heights andhollows of the seething ocean. No curlingcrest or sullen depth could wreck that magiccraft, for the hearts it bore were filled withkindness for the human race, and kindnesscannot die.

"It was all rock and dense forest, andunpeopled; only wild animals and sea birdssought the shelter it provided from the terrorsof the West Wind; but he drove them outin sullen anger, and made on this strip of landhis last stand against the Four Men. ThePaleface calls the place Point Grey, but theIndians yet speak of it as 'The Battle Groundof the West Wind.' All his mighty forces henow brought to bear against the oncomingcanoe; he swept great hurricanes about itsstony ledges; he caused the sea to beat andswirl in tempestuous fury along its narrowfastnesses, but the canoe came nearer andnearer, invincible as those shores, and strong-er than death itself. As the bow touched theland th

johnson, pauline - legends of vancouver

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