y; some writhed for a moment,
then fell limp and seemingly boneless; only the two Frenchmen stood
erect and strong and vital--the Squamish talisman had already overcome
their foes. As the little sealer set sail up the gulf she was
commanded by a crew of two Frenchmen--men who had entered these waters
as captives, who were leaving them as conquerors. The palsied Russians
were worse than useless, and what became of them the chief could not
state; presumably they were flung overboard, and by some trick of a
kindly fate the Frenchmen at last reached the coast of France.

"Tradition is so indefinite about their movements subsequent to sailing
out of the Inlet, that even the ever-romantic and vividly colored
imaginations of the Squamish people have never supplied the details of
this beautifully childish, yet strangely historical fairy tale. But
the voices of the trumpets of war, the beat of drums throughout Europe
heralded back to the wilds of the Pacific Coast forests the
intelligence that the great Squamish 'charm' eventually reached the
person of Napoleon; that from this time onward his career was one vast
victory, that he won battle after battle, conquered nation after
nation, and but for the direst calamity that could befall a warrior
would eventually have been master of the world."

"What was this calamity, Chief?" I asked, amazed at his knowledge of
the great historical soldier and strategist.

The chief's voice again lowered to a whisper--his face was almost rigid
with intentness as he replied:

"He lost the Squamish charm--lost it just before one great fight with
the English people."

I looked at him curiously; he had been telling me the oddest mixture of
history and superstition, of intelligence and ignorance, the most
whimsically absurd, yet impressive, tale I ever heard from Indian lips.

"What was the name of the great fight--did you ever hear it?" I asked,
wondering how much he knew of events which took place at the other side
of the world a century agone.

"Yes," he said, carefully, thoughtfully; "I hear the name sometime in
London when I there. Railroad station there--same name."

"Was it Waterloo?" I asked.

He nodded quickly, without a shadow of hesitation. "That the one," he
replied; "that's it, Waterloo."

[Illustration: Native bowl]

The Lure in Stanley Park

There is a well-known trail in Stanley Park that leads to what I always
love to call the "Cathedral Trees"--that group o