oluk.

"When at last he stood in the doorway of his home he said, 'My mother,
I could not have killed the monster of greed amongst my people had you
not helped me by keeping one place for me at home fresh and clean for
my return.'

"She looked at him as only mothers look. 'Each day these four years,
fresh furs have I laid for your bed. Sleep now, and rest, oh! my Tenas
Tyee,' she said."

* * * * *

The Chief unfolded his arms, and his voice took another tone as he
said, "What do you call that story--a legend?"

"The white people would call it an allegory," I answered. He shook his
head.

"No savvy," he smiled.

I explained as simply as possible, and with his customary alertness he
immediately understood. "That's right," he said. "That's what we say
it means, we Squamish, that greed is evil and not clean, like the
salt-chuck oluk. That it must be stamped out amongst our people,
killed by cleanliness and generosity. The boy that overcame the
serpent was both these things."

"What became of this splendid boy?" I asked.

"The Tenas Tyee? Oh! some of our old, old people say they sometimes
see him now, standing on Brockton Point, his bare young arms
outstretched to the rising sun," he replied.

"Have you ever seen him, Chief?" I questioned.

"No," he answered simply. But I have never heard such poignant regret
as his wonderful voice crowded into that single word.

[1] Money.

The Lost Island

"Yes," said my old tillicum, "we Indians have lost many things. We
have lost our lands, our forests, our game, our fish; we have lost our
ancient religion, our ancient dress; some of the younger people have
even lost their fathers' language and the legends and traditions of
their ancestors. We cannot call those old things back to us; they will
never come again. We may travel many days up the mountain trails, and
look in the silent places for them. They are not there. We may paddle
many moons on the sea, but our canoes will never enter the channel that
leads to the yesterdays of the Indian people. These things are lost,
just like 'The Island of the North Arm.' They may be somewhere nearby,
but no one can ever find them."

"But there are many islands up the North Arm," I asserted.

"Not the island we Indian people have sought for many tens of summers,"
he replied sorrowfully.

"Was it ever there?" I questioned.

"Yes, it was there," he said. "My grand-sires and my