d all
about us a drooping white spirea, a most bridal-looking flower. Here and
there, on some precipitous bank, was the red Indian-flame. Every once in
a while, we came to a little opening looking down upon the sea; and the
sound of it was always in our ears. At last we reached a partially
cleared space, and there stood the house; behind it a mountain range,
with snow filling all the ravines, and, below, the fulness and prime of
summer. We are nearly at the foot of the hills, which send us down their
snow-winds night and morning, and their ice-cold water. Between us and
them are the fir-trees, two hundred and fifty and three hundred feet
high; and all around, in the burnt land, a wilderness of bloom,--the
purple fireweed, that grows taller than our heads, and in the richest
luxuriance, of the same color as the Alpine rose,--a beautiful
foreground for snowy hills.

The house is not ready for us. We are obliged at present, for want of a
chimney, to stop with our nearest neighbor. But we pay it frequent
visits. Yesterday, as we sat there, we received a call from two Indians,
in extreme undress. They walked in with perfect freedom, and sat down
on the floor. We shall endeavor to procure from Victoria a dictionary of
the Haidah, Chinook, and other Indian languages, by the aid of which we
shall be able to receive such visitors in a more satisfactory manner. At
present, we can only smile very much at them. Fortunately, on this
occasion, our carpenter was present, who told us that the man was called
"Hunter," which served as an introduction. Hunter took from the woman a
white bag, in which was a young wild bird, and put it into my hands. The
carpenter said that this Indian had done some work for him, bringing up
lumber from the beach, etc., and had come for his pay; that he would not
take a white man's word for a moment, but if, in making an agreement
with him, a white man gave him a little bit of paper with _any thing_
written on it, he was perfectly satisfied, and said, "You my _tilikum_
[relation]--I wait."

The neighbor with whom we are stopping says, that, the night before we
came, a wildcat glared in at her as she sat at her window.

It looks very wild here, the fir-trees are so shaggy. I think the bears
yet live under them. Many of the trees are dead. When the setting sun
lights up the bare, pointed trunks, the great troops of firs look like
an army with spears of gold, climbing the hills.

JULY 30, 1865.

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