s
pointed to the north as does the white man's compass. Day after day
they journeyed up-stream, until, rounding a sudden bend, they beheld
a bark lodge with a thin blue curl of smoke drifting from its roof.

"'It is our father's lodge,' they told each other, for their
childish hearts were unerring in response to the call of kinship.
Hand in hand they approached, and entering the lodge, said the
one word, 'Come.'

"The great Squamish chief outstretched his arms towards them, then
towards the laughing river, then towards the mountains.

"'Welcome, my sons!' he said. 'And good-bye, my mountains, my
brothers, my crags, and my canyons!' And with a child clinging to
each hand he faced once more the country of the tidewater."

* * * * *

The legend was ended.

For a long time he sat in silence. He had removed his gaze from the
bend in the river, around which the two children had come and where
the eyes of the recluse had first rested on them after ten years of
solitude.

The chief spoke again: "It was here, on this spot we are sitting,
that he built his lodge: here he dwelt those ten years alone,
alone."

I nodded silently. The legend was too beautiful to mar with
comments, and, as the twilight fell, we threaded our way through
the underbrush, past the disused logger's camp, and into the trail
that leads citywards.

THE LOST SALMON-RUN

Great had been the "run," and the sockeye season was almost over.
For that reason I wondered many times why my old friend, the
klootchman, had failed to make one of the fishing fleet. She was an
indefatigable work-woman, rivalling her husband as an expert catcher,
and all the year through she talked of little else but the coming
run. But this especial season she had not appeared amongst her
fellow-kind. The fleet and the canneries knew nothing of her, and
when I enquired of her tribes-people they would reply without
explanation, "She not here this year."

But one russet September afternoon I found her. I had idled down
the trail from the swans' basin in Stanley Park to the rim that
skirts the Narrows, and I saw her graceful, high-bowed canoe heading
for the beach that is the favorite landing-place of the "tillicums"
from the Mission. Her canoe looked like a dream-craft, for the
water was very still, and everywhere a blue film hung like a fragrant
veil, for the peat on Lulu Island had been smoldering for days and
its pungent odors and blue-g