terate you
forever, but you shall live on, live now to serve, not to hinder
mankind. You shall turn into stone where you now stand, and you shall
rise only as men wish you to. Your life from this day shall be for the
good of man, for when the fisherman's sails are idle and his lodge is
leagues away you shall fill those sails and blow his craft free, in
whatever direction he desires. You shall stand where you are through
all the thousands upon thousands of years to come, and he who touches
you with his paddle-blade shall have his desire of a breeze to carry
him home.'"

My young tillicum had finished his tradition, and his great solemn eyes
regarded me half-wistfully.

"I wish you could see Homolsom Rock," he said. "For that is he who was
once the Tyee of the West Wind."

"Were you ever becalmed around Point Grey?" I asked irrelevantly.

"Often," he replied. "But I paddle up to the rock and touch it with
the tip of my paddle-blade, and no matter which way I want to go the
wind will blow free for me, if I wait a little while."

"I suppose your people all do this?" I replied.

"Yes, all of them," he answered. "They have done it for hundreds of
years. You see the power in it is just as great now as at first, for
the rock feeds every day on the unspoiled sea that the Sagalie Tyee
made."

The Tulameen Trail

Did you ever "holiday" through the valley lands of the Dry Belt? Ever
spend days and days in a swinging, swaying coach, behind a
four-in-hand, when "Curly" or "Nicola Ned" held the ribbons, and tooled
his knowing little leaders and wheelers down those horrifying mountain
trails that wind like russet skeins of cobweb through the heights and
depths of the Okanagan, the Nicola and the Similkameen countries? If
so, you have listened to the call of the Skookum Chuck, as the Chinook
speakers call the rollicking, tumbling streams that sing their way
through the canyons with a music so dulcet, so insistent, that for many
moons the echo of it lingers in your listening ears, and you will,
through all the years to come, hear the voices of those mountain rivers
calling you to return.

But the most haunting of all the melodies is the warbling laughter of
the Tulameen; its delicate note is far more powerful, more far-reaching
than the throaty thunders of Niagara. That is why the Indians of the
Nicola country still cling to their old-time story that the Tulameen
carries the spirit of a young girl enmeshed in