he quiet land, following a
primitive occupation with primitive methods.

One could pick out the Indian section of the village, because not far
from it was the Indian graveyard, with its scaffolding of poles and
brush and its offerings for the dead. There were almost interminable
rows of scaffolding on the river's edge and upon the high bank where
hung the salmon drying in the sun. The river, as it ambled along, here
over shallows, there over rapids and tiny waterfalls, was the pathway
for millions and millions of salmon upon a pilgrimage to the West and
North--to the happy hunting grounds of spawn. They came in droves so
thick at times that, crowding up the little creeks which ran into the
river, they filled them so completely as to dam up the water and make
the courses a solid mass of living and dead fish. In the river itself
they climbed the rapids and leaped the little waterfalls with incredible
certainty; except where man had prepared his traps for them. Sometimes
these traps were weirs or by-washes, made of long lateral tanks of
wicker-work. Down among the boulders near the shore, scaffoldings were
raised, and from these the fishermen with nets and wicker-work baskets
caught the fish as they came up.

We wandered about during the afternoon immensely interested in all
that we saw. During that time the party was much together, and my
conversation with Mrs. Falchion was general. We had supper at a quiet
little tavern, idled away an hour in drinking in the pleasant scene; and
when dusk came went out again to the banks of the river.

From the time we left the tavern to wander by the river I managed to be
a good deal alone with Mrs. Falchion. I do not know whether she saw that
I was anxious to speak with her privately, but I fancy she did. Whatever
we had to say must, in the circumstances, however serious, be kept
superficially unimportant. And, as it happened, our serious conference
was carried on with an air of easy gossip, combined with a not
artificial interest in all we saw. And there was much to see. Far up and
down the river the fragrant dusk was spotted with the smoky red light
of torches, and the atmosphere shook with shadows, through which ran the
song of the river, more amiable than the song of the saw, and the low,
weird cry of the Indians and white men as they toiled for salmon in the
glare of the torches. Here upon a scaffolding a half-dozen swung their
nets and baskets in the swift river, hauling up with