Bringing brightness and the odor
Of the burning pitch that lingers
As the incense of the forests.

By the fireplace sat the Tamal,
Lone survivor of her people -
Sat and listened to the patter
Of the raindrops on the shingles,
To the soughing of the west-wind
In the branches of the redwoods.
Long she gazed upon the harbor,
Lying leaden-gray below us.
Then, she told this ancient legend -
Legend of her tribe, the Tamals,
Legend of an ancient deluge.

"Do you see," she said, "the Islands
Of the Albatross and Beaver?
By another name you call them.
One is crested by a prison,
Grim and somber, melancholy;
One is gay with flags and bunting,
Ringing with the martial music
Of your sailor boys in training;
Yet, if you observe them closely,
You will see in one the profile
Of an Albatross, a giant
Sea bird, sleeping on the water;
While the other is a Beaver
Facing always to the eastward.