Soon what at first appeared to be unbroken shore breaks up into many
passage ways. By one of these we enter, to find ourselves among a
hundred isles. Each one is wooded to the water's edge, which often
the trees overspread with outstretched boughs. Entranced, we paddle
on until we leave behind all trace of ocean swell, and if the tide
be low so that old sea-soaked snags are seen upon the shore, and
boulders thick with barnacles and varied coloured sea-weeds in shades
of brown and red, and here and there great clusters of blue mussel
shells, these all, if the water be calm and undisturbed by wind, are
mirrored on the surface of the stream, forming pictures most rare
and beautiful. Thus for hours with ever fresh delight we thread the
calm passage-ways between those isles. Beachlets of white sand and
powdered shells are found where ocean swells at times may reach. On
these we stroll and gather abalone shells and empty sea eggs and
other relics up-thrown by winter storms. At evening we may reach
a sheltered nook where years ago Indians built a little shelter
in which to sit and watch the sun descend into the western sea.
Perhaps we may conjure up the Indian's thought, who built that
little shelter, and night on night in glorious summer time, squatted
and watched the sun go down.

Such is the setting for the following tales. Amid such scenes as
these, the Indians lived and died.

[Illustration: A WEST COAST INDIAN WEARING THE KUT-SACK]



THE SUMMER HOME OF THE SESHAHTS