heart of a child has
invisible ears, perhaps the child-ears hear him call. Let them go.'
So the little children went forth into the forest; their young feet
flew as though shod with wings, their young hearts pointed to the north
as does the white man's compass. Day after day they journeyed
up-stream, until rounding a sudden bend they beheld a bark lodge with a
thin blue curl of smoke drifting from its roof.

"'It is our father's lodge,' they told each other, for their childish
hearts were unerring in response to the call of kinship. Hand-in-hand
they approached, and entering the lodge, said the one word, 'Come.'

"The great Squamish chief outstretched his arms towards them, then
towards the laughing river, then towards the mountains.

"'Welcome, my sons!' he said. 'And good-bye, my mountains, my
brothers, my crags and my canyons!' And with a child clinging to each
hand he faced once more the country of the tidewater."

* * * * *

The legend was ended.

For a long time he sat in silence. He had removed his gaze from the
bend in the river, around which the two children had come and where the
eyes of the recluse had first rested on them after ten years of
solitude.

The chief spoke again, "It was here, on this spot we are sitting, that
he built his lodge: here he dwelt those ten years alone, alone."

I nodded silently. The legend was too beautiful to mar with comments,
and as the twilight fell, we threaded our way through the underbrush,
past the disused logger's camp and into the trail that leads citywards.

[Illustration: Decoration]

[Illustration: Capilano Canyon.
Bishop & Christie, Photo.]

The Lost Salmon Run

Great had been the "run," and the sockeye season was almost over. For
that reason I wondered many times why my old friend, the klootchman,
had failed to make one of the fishing fleet. She was an indefatigable
workwoman, rivalling her husband as an expert catcher, and all the year
through she talked of little else but the coming run. But this
especial season she had not appeared amongst her fellow-kind. The
fleet and the canneries knew nothing of her, and when I enquired of her
tribes-people they would reply without explanation, "She not here this
year."

But one russet September afternoon I found her. I had idled down the
trail from the swans' basin in Stanley Park to the rim that skirts the
Narrows, and I saw her graceful, high-bowed canoe hea