Mother and Babe
Playing in the Sand
The old village, up the shore about a mile, was reached by a narrow walk along the coast line. The walk through the sparsely-growing spruce and cottonwood was delightful. Ravens flew about here and there, hoarsely calling as we passed by. The undergrowth consisted principally of berry bushes—salmon-berries, blueberries, and red raspberries—and as we walked along we gathered handfuls of the luscious fruit from each in turn as our taste inclined. When we reached the village with its wide beach—for the tide was out—our attention was attracted toward a couple of the native belles, who were sitting tracing on the sand with their fingers images of fish, birds, and animals. We approached suddenly, cutting off their retreat. Being naturally shy and timid they ceased writing, and when they saw us point the camera toward them, turned their backs. I suggested to my friend that he walk around to the opposite side, take out his kodak as though to photograph them, and when they turned around I would take a snap, which ruse worked admirably.
Native Boys out Gunning
Abandoning the party at this point, I took a stroll through the woods. There I happened upon half a dozen native boys shooting at a mark with guns. They were not aware of my presence until one of the boys standing apart from the others noticed what I was doing. Before he got away, however, I had his image on the film. I walked away a few steps and sat down on a log to put in a new film. When I lifted my head, to my surprise every last one of the little rascals had me covered with his gun. One emphatic sentence from me wilted their timid spirits and they skulked away.