went to his lodge,
and the tribe made the preparations for the funeral, and opened a grave in
the earth.

CHAPTER XVI.

A SILENT TRIBE.

It was sunset on the bluffs and valleys of the Columbia. Through the tall,
dark pines and firs the red west glowed like the lights in an oriel or
mullioned window. The air was voiceless. The Columbia rolled silently in
the shadows with a shimmering of crimson on its deep middle tides. The
long, brown boats of the salmon-fishers sat motionless on the tide. Among
the craft of the fishermen glided a long, airy canoe, with swift paddles.
It contained an old Umatilla Indian, his daughter, and a young warrior.
The party were going to the young chief's funeral.

[Illustration: _Multnomah Falls._]

As the canoe glided on amid the still fishermen of other tribes, the
Indian maiden began to sing. It was a strange song, of immortality, and of
spiritual horizons beyond the visible life. The Umatillas have poetic
minds. To them white Tacoma with her gushing streams means a mother's
breast, and the streams themselves, like the Falls of the distant
Shoshone, were "falling splendors."

She sang in Chinook, and the burden of her song was that horizons will
lift forever in the unknown future. The Chinook word _tamala_ means
"to-morrow"; and to-morrow, to the Indian mind, was eternal life.

The young warrior joined in the refrain, and the old Indian listened. The
thought of the song was something as follows:

"Aha! it is ever to-morrow, to-morrow--
Tamala, tamala, sing as we row;
Lift thine eye to the mount; to the wave give thy sorrow;
The river is bright, and the rivulets flow;
Tamala, tamala,
Ever and ever;
The morrows will come and the morrows will go--
Tamala! tamala!

"Happy boat, it is ever to-morrow, to-morrow--
Tamala, whisper the waves as they flow;
The crags of the sunset the smiles of light borrow,
And soft from the ocean the Chinook winds blow:
Tamala, tamala,
Ever and ever;
The morrows will come and the morrows will go--
Tamala! tamala!

"Aha! the night comes, but the light is to-morrow--
Tamala, tamala, sing as we go;
The waves ripple past, like the heart-beats of sorrow,
And the oar beats the wave to our song as we row:
Tamala, tamala,
Ever and ever;
The morrows will come and the morrow