But it
was when I handed her a huge old-fashioned breakfast cup fairly
brimming with tea as strong as lye that she really described her
journeyings.
She had been north to the Skeena River, south to the great "Fair"
at Seattle, but, best of all seemingly to her, was her trip into
the interior. She had been up the trail to Lillooet in the great
"Cariboo" country. It was my turn then to have sparkling eyes, for
I traversed that inexpressibly beautiful trail five years ago, and
the delight of that journey will remain with me for all time.
"And, oh! Tillicum," I cried, "have your good brown ears actually
listened to the call of the falls across the canyon--the Falls of
Lillooet?"
"My ears have heard them whisper, laugh, weep," she replied in
Chinook.
"Yes," I answered, "they do all those things. They have magic
voices--those dear, far-off falls!"
At the word "magic" her keen eyes snapped, she set her empty cup
aside and looked at me solemnly.
"Then you know the story--the strange tale?" she asked almost
whisperingly.
I shook my head. This was always the crucial moment with my
Klootchman, when her voice lowers, and she asks if you know things.
You must be diplomatic, and never question her in turn.
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