The Legend of Lillooet Falls
No one could possibly mistake the quiet little tap at the door. It
could be given by no other hand west of the Rockies save that of my
old friend The Klootchman. I dropped a lap full of work and sprang
to open the door; for the slanting rains were chill outside, albeit
the December grass was green and the great masses of English ivy
clung wet and fresh as in summer about the low stone wall that ran
between my verandah and the street.
"Kla-how-ya, Tillicum," I greeted, dragging her into the warmth and
comfort of my "den," and relieving her of her inseparable basket,
and removing her rain-soaked shawl. Before she spoke she gave that
peculiar gesture common to the Indian woman from the Atlantic
to the Pacific. She lifted both hands and with each forefinger
smoothed gently along her forehead from the parting of her hair to
the temples. It is the universal habit of the red woman, and simply
means a desire for neatness in her front locks.
I busied myself immediately with the teakettle, for, like all her
kind, The Klootchman dearly loves her tea.
The old woman's eyes sparkled as she watched the welcome brewing,
while she chatted away in half English, half Chinook, telling me
of her doings in all these weeks that I had not seen her.
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