hells,
and pointed out to her a wabeno-tree, in whose tops spirits were supposed
to whisper, and around which Indian visitors sometimes danced in the
summer evenings.

The Indian maid was eager to hear the violin, but the old chief said: "It
is the voice of the Merciful; let it be still--the god should not speak
much."

He seemed to wish to reserve the influence of the instrument for the
Potlatch, to make it an object of wonder and veneration for a time, that
its voice might be more magical when it should be heard.

There was a kind of tambourine, ornamented with fan-like feathers, in the
lodge. Fair Cloud used to play upon it, or rather shake it in a rhythmic
way. There was also a war-drum in the lodge, and an Indian called
Blackhoof used to beat it, and say:

"I walk upon the sky,
My war-drum 'tis you hear;
When the sun goes out at noon,
My war-drum 'tis you hear!

"When forked lightnings flash,
My war-drum 'tis you hear.
I walk upon the sky,
And call the clouds; be still,
My war-drum 'tis you hear!"

The tribes of the Oregon at this time were numerous but small. They
consisted chiefly of the Chinooks, Vancouvers, the Walla Wallas, the
Yacomars, the Spokans, the Cayuses, the Nez-Perces, the Skagits, the
Cascades, and many tribes that were scarcely more than families. They were
for the most part friendly with each other, and they found in the Oregon
or Columbia a common fishing-ground, and a water-way to all their
territories. They lived easily. The woods were full of game, and the river
of salmon, and berries loaded the plateaus. Red whortleberries filled the
woodland pastures and blackberries the margins of the woods.

The climate was an almost continuous April; there was a cloudy season in
winter with rainy nights, but the Japanese winds ate up the snows, and the
ponies grazed out of doors in mid-winter, and spring came in February. It
was almost an ideal existence that these old tribes or families of Indians
lived.

[Illustration: _An Indian village on the Columbia._]

Among the early friends of these people was Dick Trevette, whose tomb
startles the tourist on the Columbia as he passes Mamaloose, or the Island
of the Dead. He died in California, and his last request was that he might
be buried in the Indian graveyard on the Columbia River, among a race
whose hearts had always been true to him.

The old chief taught Gretchen to fish in the Columbia, and