there will be many blankets given away,
canoes broken and put on your grave, and
muskets fired, and you will be buried
like a great chief. Better let me kill you
now!" The old fellow, however, much to
his son's disgust, thought he would like to
take his chance. Yet with all Tsohailum's
power he was rather unfortunate in affairs
matrimonial, as indeed might be expected
from the very summary method of wooing
he adopted. When a wife offended, instead
of killing her, as is usual among these
tribes, he would draw his knife across the
soles of her feet and send her back limping
and disgraced to her father's house. He
always declared that he would never stoop
to kill a woman.

When any one hinted to Tsohailum that
he would get killed in some of his
adventures, he merely replied, "The bullet
that is to kill me has not yet been cast.
The man who is to fire it is not yet born.
When I am killed it will be by a woman, a
boy, or an idiot." They still talk of this
as "Tsohailum's prophecy," and point out
how it came true. His end was approaching.
His power and pride grew so great
that he closed the Conichan River, from
time immemorial the common canoe way
of different tribes all friendly with him.
No man but those of his own tribe, he said,
should pass in front of his door. Now this
was infringing the right of way, and
nobody looks upon this as a more heinous
offence than the Indian. So treachery
began brewing for him. "He is too proud,
Tsohaiium—now," the old people and the
young people all alike said.

On an island not far from the mouth of
the Conichan River lived a small tribe
called Lamalchas, mostly runaway slaves of
Tsosieten, whose existence was merely
tolerated. If a Lamalcha had a pretty
daughter or wife, she was taken from him,
and he himself treated as a slave. Now a
rumour came to the ears of Tsohailum that
the Lamalchas had been speaking evil of
him, and saying that he wasn't such a big
man as he pretended to be, and such-like
calumny. Tsohailum swore that he would
exterminate the dogs. Many volunteered
to assist him, but he declared that he would
not take good men to dogs like they, but
would do it himself, only taking enough to
paddle him. So he loaded his two muskets,
and lay down to sleep, telling his men to
rouse him when he was insight of the
Lamalcha village. They exchanged glances, and
gently raising his arms, after he had got
to sleep, they withdrew the charge and
dropped the balls overboard. Suspecting
nothing Tsohailum was roused when in
sight of the village, and the canoe drawn
into a cove where the paddlers remained.
The Lamalcha "village" was only one very
large lodge, and nobody was about in the
heat of the day. Entering the doorway he
shouted his war cry, "I am Tsohailum,
chief of Quamichan!"

At this dreaded cry the terrified inmates
ran into a corner. Levelling his musket at
the chief, he fired, but to his own and every
one else's astonishment, without effect.
Seizing the other, he again fired with a like
failure. Meanwhile, a woman, who was
sitting unperceived behind the high passage
boards, at the entrance, seeing this, threw
the stick they dig up shell-fish with over
his head, and held him back, crying, "Now
you have got Tsohailum; now he is
bewitched!" The men then took courage,
and, rushing upon him, hewed down with
axes the chief who was looked upon as
more than mortal. So Tsohailum's
prophecy became true, and he was killed by a
woman at last.

His old rival, Tsosieten, then gratified
his contempt for him in perfect safety, by
purchasing his head for five blankets, to
kick about his village.*

* The Lamalchas' village was destroyed, and the
tribe scattered, in 1863, by one of her Majesty's
gun-boats, on account of their killing a white man.

Now that these two men are dead, there
only remains on the Vancouver coast some
very inferior potentates, with little power
and less glory. These two men were
savages of the purest water, but I
considered that their history might not be
without interest. They were the last of
the great chiefs.

LAMENT OF THE RIVER.

MOURNS the river, I came down from the mountain,
Jubilant with pride and glee,
Leaping through the winds, and shouting
That I had an errand to the sea!

The rocks stood against me, and we wrestled,
But I leaped from the holding of their hands,
Leaped from their holding, and went slipping
And sliding into lower lands.

I carolled as I went, and the woodlands
Smiled as my song murmured by,
And the birds on the wing heard me singing,
And dropped me a blessing from the sky.

The flowers on the bank heard me singing,
And the buds that had been red and sweet
Grew redder and sweeter as they listened,
And their golden hearts began to beat.

The cities through their din heard me passing,
They came out and crowned me with their towers;
The trees hung their garlands up above me,
And coaxed me to rest among their bowers.