Legends of Vancouver by E. Pauline Johnson (the best books of all time .txt) 📕

men live,’ was all the farewell those in the canoe heard as the waters reached the summit, and⁠—the canoe floated. Last of all to be seen was the top of the tallest tree, then⁠—all was a world of water.

“For days and days there was no land⁠—just the rush of swirling, snarling sea; but the canoe rode safely at anchor, the cable those scores of dead, faithful women had made held true as the hearts that beat behind the toil and labour of it all.

“But one morning at sunrise, far to the south, a speck floated on the breast of the waters; at midday it was larger; at evening it was yet larger. The moon arose, and in its magic light the man at the stern saw it was a patch of land. All night he watched it grow, and at daybreak looked with glad eyes upon the summit of Mount Baker. He cut the cable, grasped his paddle in his strong, young hands, and steered for the south. When they landed, the waters were sunken half down the mountainside. The children were lifted out; the beautiful young mother, the stalwart young brave, turned to each other, clasped hands, looked into each other’s eyes⁠—and smiled.

“And down in the vast country that lies between Mount Baker and the Fraser River they made a new camp, built new lodges, where the little children grew and thrived, and lived and loved, and the earth was repeopled by them.

“The Squamish say that in a gigantic crevice halfway to the crest of Mount Baker may yet be seen the outlines of an enormous canoe, but I have never seen it myself.”

He ceased speaking with that far-off cadence in his voice with which he always ended a legend, and for a long time we both sat in silence listening to the rains that were still beating against the window.

The Sea-Serpent

There is one vice that is absolutely unknown to the red man; he was born without it, and amongst all the deplorable things he has learned from the white races, this, at least, he has never acquired. That is the vice of avarice. That the Indian looks upon greed of gain, miserliness, avariciousness, and wealth accumulated above the head of his poorer neighbour as one of the lowest degradations he can fall to is perhaps more aptly illustrated than anything I could quote to demonstrate his horror of what he calls “the white man’s unkindness.” In a very wide and varied experience with many tribes, I have yet to find even one instance of avarice, and I have encountered but one single case of a “stingy Indian,” and this man was so marked amongst his fellows that at mention of his name his tribespeople jeered and would remark contemptuously that he was like a white man⁠—hated to share his money and his possessions. All red races are born Socialists, and most tribes carry out their communistic ideas to the letter. Amongst the Iroquois it is considered disgraceful to have food if your neighbour has none. To be a creditable member of the nation you must divide your possessions with your less fortunate fellows. I find it much the same amongst the Coast Indians, though they are less bitter in their hatred of the extremes of wealth and poverty than are the Eastern tribes. Still, the very fact that they have preserved this legend, in which they liken avarice to a slimy sea-serpent, shows the trend of their ideas; shows, too, that an Indian is an Indian, no matter what his tribe; shows that he cannot, or will not, hoard money; shows that his native morals demand that the spirit of greed must be strangled at all cost.

The chief and I had sat long over our luncheon. He had been talking of his trip to England and of the many curious things he had seen. At last, in an outburst of enthusiasm, he said: “I saw everything in the world⁠—everything but a sea-serpent!”

“But there is no such thing as a sea-serpent,” I laughed, “so you must have really seen everything in the world.”

His face clouded; for a moment he sat in silence; then, looking directly at me, said, “Maybe none now, but long ago there was one here⁠—in the Inlet.”

“How long ago?” I asked.

“When first the white gold-hunters came,” he replied. “Came with greedy, clutching fingers, greedy eyes, greedy hearts. The white men fought, murdered, starved, went mad with love of that gold far up the Fraser River. Tillicums were tillicums no more, brothers were foes, fathers and sons were enemies. Their love of the gold was a curse.”

“Was it then the sea-serpent was seen?” I asked, perplexed with the problem of trying to connect the gold-seekers with such a monster.

“Yes, it was then, but⁠—” he hesitated, then plunged into the assertion, “but you will not believe the story if you think there is no such thing as a sea-serpent.”

“I shall believe whatever you tell me, Chief,” I answered. “I am only too ready to believe. You know I come of a superstitious race, and all my association with the Palefaces has never yet robbed me of my birthright to believe strange traditions.”

“You always understand,” he said after a pause.

“It’s my heart that understands,” I remarked quietly.

He glanced up quickly, and with one of his all too few radiant smiles, he laughed.

“Yes, skookum tum-tum.” Then without further hesitation he told the tradition, which, although not of ancient happening, is held in great reverence by his tribe. During its recital he sat with folded arms, leaning on the table, his head and shoulders bending eagerly towards me as I sat at the opposite side. It was the only time he ever talked to me when he did not use emphasising gesticulations, but his hands never once lifted: his wonderful eyes alone gave expression to what he called “The Legend of the Salt-Chuck Oluk.”4

“Yes, it