ese eyes, and most of them toe out; but they are, all
things considered, the least interesting, the most ungainly and the most
unpicturesque of people. If there is work for them to do they do it,
heedless of the presence of inquisitive, pale-faced spectators. Indeed
they seem to look down upon the white-man, and perhaps they have good
reasons for so doing. If there is no work to be done, they are not at
all disconcerted.

I very much doubt if a Haida Indian--or any other Indian, for that
matter--knows what it is to be bored or to find the time hanging heavily
on his hands. I took note of one old Indian who sat for four solid hours
without once changing his position. He might have been sitting there
still but that his wife routed him out after a lively monologue, to
which he was an apparently disinterested listener. At last he arose with
a grunt, adjusted his blanket, strode grimly to his canoe and bailed it
out; then he entered and paddled leisurely to the opposite shore, where
he disappeared in the forest.

Filth was everywhere, and evil odors; but far, far aloft the eagles were
soaring, and the branches of a withered tree near the settlement were
filled with crows as big as buzzards. Once in awhile some one or another
took a shot at them--and missed. Thus the time passed at Casa-an. One
magnifies the merest episode on the Alaskan voyage, and is grateful for
it.

Killisnoo is situated in a cosy little cove. It is a rambling village
that climbs over the rocks and narrowly escapes being pretty, but it
manages to escape. Most of the lodges are built of logs, have small,
square windows, with glass in them, and curtains; and have also a kind
of primitive chimney. We climbed among these lodges and found them quite
deserted. The lodgers were all down at the dock. There were inscriptions
on a few of the doors: the name of the tenant, and a request to observe
the sacredness of the domestic hearth. This we were careful to do; but
inasmuch as each house was set in order and the window-curtains looped
back, we were no doubt welcome to a glimpse of an Alaskan interior. It
was the least little bit like a peep-show, and didn't seem quite real.
One inscription was as follows--it was over the door of the lodge of the
laureate:

JOSEPH HOOLQUIN.

My tum-tum is white,
I try to do right:
All are welcome to come
To my hearth and my home.
So call in and see me, white,