Legends of Vancouver
E. Pauline Johnson

Part 2 out of 2

The steamer, like a huge shuttle, wove in and out among the
countless small islands; its long trailing scarf of grey smoke
hung heavily along the uncertain shores, casting a shadow over the
pearly waters of the Pacific, which swung 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 inviolable fortress of
exclusiveness. Yet I knew that my Chinook salutation would be a
drawbridge by which I might hope to cross the moat into his castle
of silence.

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

"You do not know these northern waters?"

I shook my head.

After many moments he leaned forward, looking along the curve 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 moments 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
contradiction. "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, simply.

Only then did I grasp the singular formation before us: the rock
was a perfect archway, through which we could see the placid
Pacific shimmering in the growing colors of the coming sunset at
the opposite rim of the island.

"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 impatience.

"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

"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
reverence. The women who are mothers--o-ho!--they are the important
ones, we say. Warriors, 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 almost above us, the mysticism crowded close,
it enveloped me, caressed me, appealed to me.

"And?" I hinted.

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

An Indian rarely uses the word "love," and when he does it 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

"You have not heard of Yaada?" he questioned. Then, fortunately,
he continued without 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 daughter of her own mother.

"But there was a great man, a very great man--a medicine-man,
skilful, powerful, influential, old, deplorably old, and very, 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 wife.'

"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 prevailed. Its wise men
said, 'Give the girl to the greatest man, give her to the most
powerful, 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 commanded.

"Into his shrivelled fingers the great medicine-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 open to this day.

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

"But Yaada stood with eyes that burned in agony. Ulka could 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
incantation. 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 "Grey 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 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 demanded: 'Who of you saw his evil eyes fixed on Ulka?
Who of you heard his evil song?'

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

"'The very air is poisoned that we breathe about him,' 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 farewell 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

"'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


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

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

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

For many minutes we stood silently, leaning on the western rail of
the bridge as we watched the sunset 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, and idled about its
margin, I named the sheltered little cove the Lost Lagoon. 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 adopted 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 dug-out 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 between Deadman's Island and
park. Then 'round where cannon speak time at nine o'clock. Then
'cross Inlet to Indian side of Narrows."

I turned to look eastward, following in fancy the course he had
sketched. The waters were still as the footsteps of the oncoming
twilight, 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 heart."

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

"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. "Always 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 said.

"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 peaceful.

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

"And the legend?" I ventured.

"Oh! yes," he replied, as if suddenly returning 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 warfare 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 Narrows, 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 endurance greater. Yes, the northern tribes will always 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 children.

* Note.--It would almost seem that the chief knew that wonderful 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.

"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 greatest Tyee
mounted a large rock on the eastern shore. Brave and unmindful of
a thousand weapons aimed at his heart, he uplifted his hand, palm
outward--the signal for conference. 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 numbers. 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.
To-morrow 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 sister.'

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

"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 surrounded 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 forward and laid his weapons at his feet, then stood erect,
with empty hands, and laughed forth his challenge to death.
A thousand arrows ripped the air, two hundred gallant northern
throats flung forth a death cry exultant, 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 blossomed
a flower of flaming beauty; its colors were veiled in the coming
nightfall, but somewhere down in the sanctuary of its petals pulsed
the heart's blood of many and valiant men.


Holding 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 superstitions; 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 Napoleon.

Throughout Canada I have never failed to find an amazing knowledge
of Napoleon Bonaparte 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

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 warriors, 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 French.

In telling me the legend of "The Lost Talisman," my good tillicum,
the late Chief Capilano, began the story with the almost amazing
question, Had I ever heard of Napoleon Bonaparte? It was some
moments before I just caught the name, for his English, always
quaint and beautiful, was at times a little halting; but when he
said, by way of explanation, "You know big fighter, Frenchman.
The English 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 tradition.

"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--bewitched, 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 replied. "He was proof
against all bad things."

I nodded understandingly, and he proceeded 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 immediately
they approached an enemy the "charm" worked disaster, and victory
was assured to 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 encountered, 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 talisman. 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 'Frenchman'; 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 greatness
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 Hudson'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 world.

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, urging 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 leader.

"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 promised 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 contortions 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 overcome 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 movements 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 beautifully 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 historical 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 people."

I looked at him curiously; he had been telling me the oddest mixture
of history and superstition, 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."


There is a well-known trail in Stanley Park that leads to what I
always love to call the "Cathedral 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 tree-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 erstwhile conceptions.
She will never originate a more faultless design, never erect a more
perfect edifice. But the divinely moulded trees and the man-made
cathedral have one exquisite characteristic in common. It is the
atmosphere of holiness. Most of us have better impulses after
viewing a stately cathedral, and none of us can stand amid that
majestic forest group without experiencing some elevating
thoughts, some refinement of our coarser nature. Perhaps those who
read this little legend will never again look at 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 convey. 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 great 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 Narrows, 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 evermore about this magnet, for if death kindly
comes to your aid your immortal spirit will go on in that endless
circling that will bar it from entering the Happy Hunting Grounds.

And, like the cathedral trees, the lure once lived, a human soul,
but in this instance it was a soul depraved, not sanctified. The
Indian 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,
unsympathetic, 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 forever 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 blossoms, 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 the 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 embodied 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, casting her
evil eye on innocent people, and bringing 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 warrior in battle, that caused deformities, that poisoned minds
and characters, that engendered madness, that bred plagues and
epidemics; in short, that was the seed of every evil that could
befall mankind. This witch-woman herself was immune from death;
generations 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 Narrows. As they neared what is now known
as Prospect Point they heard from the heights above them a laugh,
and, looking up, they beheld 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 Sagalie 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 followed until they reached the very heart of the sea-girt
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 evermore, 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, had 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 benevolent men, men whose hearts were
filled with the love of their fellow-beings, and transformed 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 uttermost parts of the world seek that
wondrous beauty spot, and stand awed by the majestic silence, the
almost holiness of that group of giants?

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 occupation. 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 characteristic so loved by
the red man. To these coast tribes if a man is "kind" he is
everything. 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 originated 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

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


Few white men ventured inland, a century ago, in the days of the
first Chief Capilano, when the spoils of the mighty Fraser 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, most
deftly fashioned, 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 fishermen.

Capilano himself was without a rival as a spearman. He knew the
moods of the Fraser 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 mysterious fabric of waterways and land-lures. It
was when he was led to the mouth of the unknown 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 the 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 properties 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 cunning 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 immediately 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 zwirr of
myriads of little travelling 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 seasons; a countless army of trekking fur-bearers,
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 blackness. At daybreak the forest
fire was dead, but its beckoning fingers had served their purpose.
The magic elk-bone spear had come back to its own.

Until the day of his death the first Capilano searched for 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
marshalled their forces and travelled up into the great lone north.


How 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 loyal race of
Redskins that has fought for the British crown against all of the
enemies thereof, adhering to the British flag through the wars
against both the French and the colonists.

Arthur, Duke of Connaught, is the only living 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 appropriation of both the principal and
interest of the more than half a million dollars these tribes hold
in Government bonds at Ottawa, accumulated 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
hereditary 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 conferring?

One of the great secrets of England's success with savage races has
been her consideration, 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 endless
round of state receptions, banquets, and addresses. So he accepted
the Red Indians' compliment, knowing well that it was the loftiest
honor these people could confer upon a white man.

It was the morning of October first when the royal train steamed
into the little city of Brantford, 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 costume--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 school-boys.

On reaching the church, Arthur leapt lightly to the greensward.
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 certainly never expected to be completely
surrounded by three hundred full-blooded Iroquois 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 brilliant with paints, dyes, and "patterns";
all carried tomahawks, scalping-knives, and bows and arrows. Every
red throat gave a tremendous 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 venerable 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 clanship 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 constitution wherein
fifty chiefs, no more, no less, should form the parliament of the
"Six Nations," had been shattered and broken, because 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 Connaught.

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 Kavakoudge sent his portrait,
together with one of Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort, to
be placed in the Council House of the "Six Nations," where they
decorate the walls to-day.

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, Arthur."


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