," he said; "you do
know us and our ways, for you are one of us. Yes, those fish are seen
only in these waters; there are never but two of them. They are Yaada
and her mate, seeking for the soul of the Haida woman--her mother."

[Illustration: Native art]

Deadman's Island

It is dusk on the Lost Lagoon,
And we two dreaming the dusk away,
Beneath the drift of a twilight grey--
Beneath the drowse of an ending day.
And the curve of a golden moon.

It is dark in the Lost Lagoon.
And gone are the depths of haunting blue,
The grouping gulls, and the old canoe,
The singing firs, and the dusk and--you,
And gone is the golden moon.

O! lure of the Lost Lagoon--
I dream tonight that my paddle blurs
The purple shade where the seaweed stirs--
I hear the call of the singing firs
In the hush of the golden moon.

For many minutes we stood silently, leaning on the western rail of the
bridge as we watched the sun set across that beautiful little water
known as Coal Harbor. I have always resented that jarring,
unattractive name, for years ago, when I first plied paddle across the
gunwale of a light little canoe, and idled about its margin, I named
the sheltered little cove the Lost Lagoon. This was just to please my
own fancy, for as that perfect summer month drifted on, the
ever-restless tides left the harbor devoid of water at my favorite
canoeing hour, and my pet idling place was lost for many days--hence my
fancy to call it the Lost Lagoon. But the chief, Indian-like,
immediately adopted the name, at least when he spoke of the place to
me, and as we watched the sun slip behind the rim of firs, he expressed
the wish that his dugout were here instead of lying beached at the
farther side of the park.

"If canoe was here, you and I we paddle close to shores all 'round your
Lost Lagoon: we make track just like half moon. Then we paddle under
this bridge, and go channel between Deadman's Island and park. Then
'round where cannon speak time at nine o'clock. Then 'cross Inlet to
Indian side of Narrows."

I turned to look eastward, following in fancy the course he had
sketched; the waters were still as the footstep of the oncoming
twilight, and, floating in a pool of soft purple, Deadman's Island
rested like a large circle of candle moss.

"Have you ever been on it?" he asked as he caught my gaze centering on
the irregular outline of the island pines.

"I have prowled the len