ut 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."

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 of some
half-dozen forest giants that arch overhead with such superb
loftiness. But in all the world there is no cathedral whose marble
or onyx columns can vie with those straight, clean, brown tree-boles
that teem with the sap and blood of life. There is no fresco that
can rival the delicacy of lace-work they have festooned between
you and the far skies. No tiles, no mosaic or inlaid marbles, are
as fascinating as the bare, russet, fragrant floor outspreading
about their feet. They are the acme of Nature's architecture, and
in building them she has outrivalled all her erstwhile conceptions.
She will never originate a mor