"And are you going to make a fisherman of him?" I asked.

"No, no, not boy-child, it is girl-child," she answered with some
indescribable trick of expression that led me to know she preferred
it so.

"You are pleased it is a girl?" I questioned in surprise.

"Very pleased," she replied emphatically. "Very good luck to have
girl for first grandchild. Our tribe not like yours; we want girl
children first; we not always wish boy-child born just for fight.
Your people, they care only for war-path; our tribe more peaceful.
Very good sign first grandchild to be girl. I tell you why:
girl-child may be some time mother herself; very grand thing to be
mother."

I felt I had caught the secret of her meaning. She was rejoicing
that this little one should some time become one of the mothers
of her race. We chatted over it a little longer and she gave me
several playful "digs" about my own tribe thinking so much less of
motherhood than hers, and so much more of battle and bloodshed.
Then we drifted into talk of the sockeye and of the hyiu chickimin
the Indians would get.

"Yes, hyiu chickimin," she repeated with a sigh of satisfaction.
"Always; and hyiu muck-a-muck when big salmon run. No more ever
come that bad year when not any fish."

"When was that?" I asked.