Before the advent of the whites, mats served as sails.
I told him of having seen the public part of Black Tamanuse and they both laughed at the heathenism of long ago and said, “We don’t have that now.”
Yutestid denied that his people ate dog when making black tamanuse, but said the Sklallams did so.
“If I could speak better English or you better Chinook I could tell you lots of stories,” he averred. Chinook is so very meager, however, that an interpreter of the native tongue will be necessary to get these stories.
They politely shook hands and bade me “Good-bye” to jog off through the rain to their camping place, Indian file, he following in the rear contentedly smoking a pipe. Yutestid is industrious, cultivating a patch of ground and yearly visiting the city of Seattle with fruit to sell.
THE CHIEF’S REPLY.
Yonder sky through ages weeping Tender tears o’er sire and son, O’er the dead in grave-banks sleeping, Dead and living loved as one, May turn cruel, harsh and brazen, Burn as with a tropic sun, But my words are true and changeless, Changeless as the season’s run.
Waving grass-blades of wide prairie Shuttled by lithe foxes wary, As the eagle sees afar, So the pale-face people are; Like the lonely scattering pine-trees On a bleak and stormy shore, Few my brother warriors linger Faint and failing evermore.
Well I know you could command us To give o’er the land we love, With your warriors well withstand us And ne’er weep our graves above. See on Whulch the South wind blowing And the waves are running free! Once my people they were many Like the waves of Whulch’s sea.
When our young men rise in anger, Gather in a war-bent band, Face black-painted and the musket In the fierce, relentless hand, Old men pleading, plead in vain, Their dark spirits none restrain.