horizon. In the foreground a lovely lake lay. On the
shore of this lake stood a single Indian shack occupied by a
half-dozen children and an old woman. They were all wretchedly
clothed in graceless rags, and formed a bitter and depressing
contrast to the magnificence of nature.

One of the lads could talk a little Chinook mixed with English.

"How far is it to the ford?" I asked of him.

"White man say, mebbe-so six, mebbe-so nine mile."

Knowing the Indian's vague idea of miles, I said:--

"How _long_ before we reach the ford? Sit-kum sun?" which is to say
noon.

He shook his head.

"Klip sun come. Me go-hyak make canoe. Me felly."

By which he meant: "You will arrive at the ford by sunset. I will
hurry on and build a raft and ferry you over the stream."

With an axe and a sack of dried fish on his back and a poor old
shot-gun in his arm, he led the way down the trail at a slapping
pace. He kept with us till dinner-time, however, in order to get some
bread and coffee.

Like the _Jicarilla_ Apaches, these people have discovered the
virtues of the inner bark of the black pine. All along the trail were
trees from which wayfarers had lunched, leaving a great strip of the
white inner wood exposed.

"Man heap dry--this muck-a-muck heap good," said the young fellow, as
he handed me a long strip to taste. It was cool and sweet to the
tongue, and on a hot day would undoubtedly quench thirst. The boy
took it from the tree by means of a chisel-shaped iron after the
heavy outer bark has been hewed away by the axe.

All along the trail were tree trunks whereon some loitering young
Siwash had delineated a human face by a few deft and powerful strokes
of the axe, the sculptural planes of cheeks, brow, and chin being
indicated broadly but with truth and decision. Often by some old camp
a tree would bear on a planed surface the rude pictographs, so that
those coming after could read the number, size, sex, and success at
hunting of those who had gone before. There is something Japanese, it
seems to me, in this natural taste for carving among all the
Northwest people.

All about us was now riotous June. The season was incredibly warm and
forward, considering the latitude. Strawberries were in bloom, birds
were singing, wild roses appeared in miles and in millions, plum and
cherry trees were white with blossoms--in fact, the splendor and
radiance of Iowa in June. A beautiful lake occupied our left nearly
all day.

As w