heir owners are known no more. But the tall, grey column
of stone will still be there--a monument to one man's fidelity to a
generation yet unborn--and will endure from everlasting to everlasting.
[Illustration: Native cradle]
[Illustration: THE SIWASH ROCK
Bishop & Christie, Photo.]
The Recluse
Journeying toward the upper course of the Capilano River, about a mile
citywards from the dam, you will pass a disused logger's shack. Leave
the trail at this point and strike through the undergrowth for a few
hundred yards to the left, and you will be on the rocky borders of that
purest, most restless river in all Canada. The stream is haunted with
tradition, teeming with a score of romances that vie with its grandeur
and loveliness, and of which its waters are perpetually whispering.
But I learned this legend from one whose voice was as dulcet as the
swirling rapids; but, unlike them, that voice is hushed today, while
the river still sings on--sings on.
It was singing in very melodious tones through the long August
afternoon two summers ago, while we, the chief, his happy-hearted wife
and bright, young daughter, all lounged amongst the boulders and
watched the lazy clouds drift from peak to peak far above us. It was
one of his inspired days; legends crowded to his lips as a whistle
teases the mouth of a happy boy, his heart was brimming with tales of
the bygones, his eyes were dark with dreams and that strange
mournfulness that always haunted them when he spoke of long-ago
romances. There was not a tree, a boulder, a dash of rapid upon which
his glance fell which he could not link with some ancient poetic
superstition. Then abruptly, in the very midst of his verbal reveries,
he turned and asked me if I were superstitious. Of course I replied
that I was.
"Do you think some happenings will bring trouble later on--will
foretell evil?" he asked.
I made some evasive answer, which, however, seemed to satisfy him, for
he plunged into the strange tale of the recluse of the canyon with more
vigor than dreaminess; but first he asked me the question:
"What do your own tribes, those east of the great mountains, think of
twin children?"
I shook my head.
"That is enough," he said before I could reply. "I see, your people do
not like them."
"Twin children are almost unknown with us," I hastened. "They are
rare, very rare; but it is true we do not welcome them."
"Why?" he asked abruptly.
I
|