O Sagalie Tyee,
make them sing.' As she spoke, she kissed the child. At that moment
the Falls of Lillooet came like a million strands, dashing and
gleaming down the canyon, sobbing, laughing, weeping, calling,
singing. You have listened to them."
The Klootchman's voice was still. Outside, the rains still slanted
gently, like a whispering echo of the far-away falls. "Thank you,
Tillicum of mine; it is a beautiful legend," I said. She did not
reply until, wrapped about in her shawl, she had clasped my hand
in good-bye. At the door she paused. "Yes," she said--"and it is
true." I smiled to myself. I love my Klootchman. She is so _very_
Indian.
Her Majesty's Guest
[Author's Note.--The "Onondaga Jam" occurred late in the seventies,
and this tale is founded upon actual incidents in the life of the
author's father, who was Forest Warden on the Indian Reserve.]
I have never been a good man, but then I have never pretended to be
one, and perhaps that at least will count in my favor in the day
when the great dividends are declared.
I have been what is called "well brought up" and I would give some
years of my life to possess now the money spent on my education;
how I came to drop from what I should have been to what I am would
scarcely interest anyone--if indeed I were capable of detailing the
process, which I am not.
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