I took the hint, and
said no more of family matters, but talked of the fishing and the
prospects of a good sockeye run this season.
Afterwards, however, while I stood alone on deck watching the sun
set over the rim of the Pacific, I felt a feathery touch on my arm.
I turned to see Maarda, once more enveloped in her shawl, and
holding two deck stools. She beckoned with a quick uplift of her
chin, and said, "We'll sit together here, with no one about us, and
I'll tell you of the child." And this was her story:
She was the most beautiful little Tenas Klootchman a mother could
wish for, bright, laughing, pretty as a spring flower, but--just as
frail. Such tiny hands, such buds of feet! One felt that they must
never take her out of her cradle basket for fear that, like a
flower stem, she would snap asunder and her little head droop like
a blossom.
But Maarda's skilful fingers had woven and plaited and colored the
daintiest cradle basket in the entire river district for his little
woodland daughter. She had fished long and late with her husband,
so that the canner's money would purchase silk "blankets" to enwrap
her treasure; she had beaded cradle bands to strap the wee body
securely in its cosy resting-nest.
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