t, their hungry claws, their
unblinking eyes, their beaks of greed shining in the sunlight.
'God of my fathers, keep safe my Morning-child' was again wrung
from the mother's lips. For one long moon, that dawned, and
shone and darkened, that mother's heart lived out its torture.
Then one pale daybreak a great fleet of canoes came down the
Frazer River. Those that paddled were of a strange tribe, they
spoke in a strange tongue, but their hearts were human, and their
skins were of the rich copper-color of the Upper Lillooet country.
As they steered downstream, running the rapids, braving the
whirlpools, they chanted, in monotone:

"'We have a lost child
A beautiful lost child.
We love this lost child,
But the heart of the child
Calls the mother of the child.
Come and claim this lost child.'

"The music of the chant was most beautiful, but no music in the
world of the white man's Tyee could equal that which rang through
the heart of Be-be, the Indian mother-woman.

"Heart upon heart, lips upon lips, the Morning-child and the
mother caught each other in embrace. The strange tribe told of how
they had found the girl-child wandering fearfully in the forest,
crouching from the claws of eagles, shrinking from the horror of
wolves, but the mother with her regained treasure in her arms
begged them to cease their tales. 'I have gone through agonies
enough, oh, my friends,' she cried aloud. 'Let me rest from torture
now.' Then her people came and made a great feast and potlatch for
this strange Upper Lillooet tribe, and at the feast Be-be arose,
and, lifting the girl-child to her shoulder, she commanded silence
and spoke:

"'O Sagalie Tyee (God of all the earth), You have given back to me
my treasure; take my tears, my sobs, my happy laughter, my joy--take
the cobweb chains that bind my Morning-child and me--make them
sing to others, that they may know my gratitude. O Sagalie Tyee,
make them sing.' As she spoke, she kissed the child. At that moment
the Falls of Lillooet came like a million strands, dashing and
gleaming down the canyon, sobbing, laughing, weeping, calling,
singing. You have listened to them."

The Klootchman's voice was still. Outside, the rains still slanted
gently, like a whispering echo of the far-away falls. "Thank you,
Tillicum of mine; it is a beautiful legend," I said. She did not
reply until, wrapped about in her shawl, she had clasped my hand
in good-bye. At the door she paus