the great valleys of the Dry Belt. That is why this laughter, the
sobbing murmur of the beautiful Tulameen, will haunt for evermore
the ear that has once listened to its song.





THE GREY ARCHWAY


The steamer, like a huge shuttle, wove in and out among the
countless small islands; its long trailing scarf of grey smoke
hung heavily along the uncertain shores, casting a shadow over the
pearly waters of the Pacific, which swung lazily from rock to rock
in indescribable beauty.

After dinner I wandered astern with the traveller's ever-present
hope of seeing the beauties of a typical Northern sunset, and by
some happy chance I placed my deck-stool near an old tillicum, who
was leaning on the rail, his pipe between his thin, curved lips, his
brown hands clasped idly, his sombre eyes looking far out to sea,
as though they searched the future--or was it that they were seeing
the past?

"Kla-how-ya, tillicum!" I greeted.

He glanced round, and half smiled.

"Kla-how-ya, tillicum!" he replied, with the warmth of friendliness