e with an Indian, whether he was _memaloost_, or on the
_illahie_ (the earth); meaning that he was equally alive. We were told
at the store, that Tommy still bought sugar and biscuits for his child
who had died.

When we reached the other side of the portage, the surf roared so loud,
it seemed frightful to launch the canoe in it; but Tommy praised R. as
_skookum_ (very strong) in helping to conduct it over. He seemed much
more good-natured than the Indians we had travelled with before. He
smiled at the loon floating past us, and spoke to it.

When we reached Dungeness, he represented that it would be very rough
outside, in the straits. So he took us to a farmhouse. I began to
suspect his motive, when I saw that there was a large Indian encampment
there, and he pointed to some one he said was all the same as his mamma.
It was the exact representation of a sphinx,--an old gray creature lying
on the sand, with the upper part of her body raised, and her lower limbs
concealed by her blanket. I expected to see Tommy run and embrace her:
but he walked coolly by, without giving her any greeting whatever; and
she remained perfectly imperturbable, never stirred, and her expression
did not change in the least. I was horror-stricken, but afterwards
altered my views of her, and came to the conclusion that she was a good,
kind mother, only that it was their way to refrain from all appearance
of emotion. When we started the next morning, she came down to the canoe
with the little _klootchman_, loaded with presents, which she carried in
a basket on her back, supported by a broad band round her
head,--smoking-hot venison, and a looking-glass for the child's grave,
among them. The old lady waded into the water, and pushed us off with
great energy and strong ejaculations.

As we approached Port Angeles, we had a fine view of the Olympic Range
of mountains,--shining peaks of silver in clear outline; later, only
dark points emerging from seas of yellow light. Little clouds were drawn
towards them, and seemed like birds hovering over them, sometimes
lighting, or sailing slowly off.

EDIZ HOOK LIGHT, September 23, 1865.

This light-house is at the end of a long, narrow sand-spit, known by the
unpoetical name of Ediz Hook, which runs out for three miles into the
Straits of Fuca, in a graceful curve, forming the bay of Port Angeles.
Outside are the roaring surf and heavy swell of the sea; inside that
slender arm, a safe shelter.

In