"Yes," she said, with some decision, "the
Indian men of magic say that the falls are cobwebs twisted and
braided together."
I nodded, but made no comment; then her voice droned into the
broken English, that, much as I love it, I must leave to the
reader's imagination. "Indian mothers are strange," she began.
I nodded again.
"Yes, they are strange, and there is a strange tie between them
and their children. The men of magic say they can _see_ that tie,
though you and I cannot. It is thin, fine silvery as a cobweb, but
strong as the ropes of wild vine that swing down the great canyons.
No storm ever breaks those vines; the tempests that drag the giant
firs and cedars up by their roots, snap their branches and break
their boles, never break the creeping vines. They may be torn from
their strongholds, but in the young months of the summer the vine
will climb up, and cling again. _Nothing_ breaks it. So is the
cobweb tie the Men of Magic see between the Indian mother and her
child.
"There was a time when no falls leapt and sang down the heights at
Lillooet, and in those days our men were very wild and warlike; but
the women were gentle and very beautiful, and they loved and lived
and bore children as women have done before, and since.
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