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