ands 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 the
wonders of its winding course; a spirit that can never free itself
from the canyons, to rise above the heights and follow its fellows
to the Happy Hunting Grounds, but which is contented to entwine its
laughter, its sobs, its lonely whispers, its still lonelier call for
companionship, with the wild music of the waters that sing forever
beneath the western stars.

As your horses plod up and up the almost perpendicular trail t