Hoopa Valley, on the Trinity River. I went up to help in the harvesting,
being charged with the weighing of the sacked grain. It was a fine
experience for an innocent Yankee boy. We lived out of doors, following
the threshers from farm to farm, eating under an oak tree and sleeping
on the fragrant straw-piles. I was also the butt of about the wildest
lot of jokers ever assembled. They were good-natured, but it was their
concerted effort to see how much I could stand in the way of highly
flavored stories at mealtime. It was fun for them, besides they felt it
would be a service to knock out some of the Boston "sissiness." I do not
doubt it was. They never quite drove me away from the table.

In the meantime I had a great good time. It was a very beautiful spot
and all was new and strange. There were many Indians, and they were
interesting. They lived in rancherias of puncheons along the river. Each
group of dwellings had a musical name. One village was called Matiltin,
another Savanalta. The children swam like so many ducks, and each
village had its sweathouse from which every adult, to keep in health and
condition, would plunge into the swiftly flowing river. They lived on
salmon, fresh or dried, and on grass-seed cakes cooked on heated stones.
They were handsome specimens physically and were good workers. The river
was not bridged, but it was not deep and canoes were plenty. If none
were seen on the side which you chanced to find yourself, you had only
to call, "Wanus, matil!" (Come, boat!) and one would come. If in a
hurry, "Holish!" would expedite the service.

The Indian language was fascinating and musical. "Iaquay" was the word
of friendly greeting. "Aliquor" was Indian, "Waugee" was white man,
"Chick" was the general word for money. When "Waugee-chick" was
mentioned, it meant gold or silver; if "Aliquor-chick," reference was
made to the spiral quill-like shells which served as their currency,