The Potlatch*

[*"Potlatch" is a Chinook word meaning "a gift." Among the Indian

tribes of British Columbia it is used as the accepted name of a

great feast, which some Indian, who is exceedingly well off, gives

to scores of guests. He entertains them for days, sometimes for

weeks, together, presenting them with innumerable blankets and much

money, for it is part of the Indian code of honor that, which one

has great possessions, he must divide them with his less fortunate

tribesmen. The gifts of money usually take the form of ten-dollar

bank notes, and are bestowed broadcast upon any man, woman or child

who pleases the host by either dancing the tribal dances very

beautifully, or else originates an attractive dance of their own.]

Young Ta-la-pus sat on the highest point of rock that lifted itself on

the coast at the edge of his father's Reserve. At his feet stretched the

Straits of Georgia, and far across the mists of the salt Pacific waters

he watched the sun rise seemingly out of the mainland that someone had

told him stretched eastward thousands of miles, where another ocean,

called the Atlantic, washed its far-off shore, for Ta-la-pus lived on

Vancouver Island, and all his little life had been spent in wishing and

longing to set his small, moccasined feet on that vast mainland that the

old men talked of, and the young men visited year in and year out. But

never yet had he been taken across the wide, blue Straits, for he was

only eleven years old, and he had two very big brothers who always

accompanied their father, old chief Mowitch, on his journeyings, for

they were good fishermen, and could help in the salmon catch, and bring

good chicamin (money) home to buy supplies for the winter. Sometimes

these big brothers would tease him and say, "What can you expect? Your

name is Ta-la-pus, which means a prairie wolf. What has a prairie wolf

to do with crossing great waters? He cannot swim, as some other animals

can. Our parents gave us better names, 'Chet-woot,' the bear, who swims

well, and 'Lapool,' the water fowl, whose home is on the waters, whose

feet are webbed, and who floats even while he sleeps. No, our young

brother, Ta-la-pus, the prairie wolf, was never meant to cross the

great salt Straits."

Then little Ta-la-pus would creep away to his lonely rock, trying to

still the ache in his heart and forcing back the tears from his eyes.

Prairie wolves must not cry like little girl babies--and sometimes when

his heart was sorest, a clear, dazzlingly bright day would dawn, and

far, far off he could see the blur of the mainland coast, resting on the

sea like an enormous island. Then he would tell himself that, no matter

what his name was, some day he would cross to that great, far country,

whose snow-crowned mountain peaks he could just see merging into the

distant clouds.

Then, late in the summer, there came one marvellous night, when his

father and brother returned from the sockeye salmon fishing, with news

that set the entire Indian village talking far into the early morning.

A great Squamish chief on the mainland was going to give a Potlatch. He

had been preparing for it for weeks. He had enjoyed a very fortunate

fishing season, was a generous-hearted man, and was prepared to spend

ten thousand dollars* in gifts and entertainment for his friends and

all the poor of the various neighboring tribes.

[*Fact. This amount has frequently been given away.]

Chief Mowitch and all his family were invited, and great rejoicing and

anticipation were enjoyed over their salmon suppers that night.

"You and the boys go," said his wife. "Perhaps you will be lucky and

bring home chicamin and blankets. The old men say the winter will be

cold. Grey geese were going south yesterday, three weeks earlier than

last year. Yes, we will need blankets when the ollalies (berries) are

ripe in October. I shall stay at home, until the babies are older.

Yes, you and the boys go."

"Yes," responded the chief. "It would never do for us to miss a great

Squamish Potlatch. We must go."

Then the elder son, Chet-woot, spoke joyously:

"And, mama,* we may bring back great riches, and even if the cold does

come while we are away, our little brother, Ta-la-pus, will care for you

and the babies. He'll carry water and bring all the wood for your

warmth."

[*The Chinook for father and mother is "papa" and "mama", adopted

from the English language.]

The father looked smilingly at Ta-la-pus, but the boy's eyes, great and

dark, and hungry for the far mainland, for the great feasts he had heard

so much of, were fastened in begging, pleading seriousness on his

father's face. Suddenly a whim seized the old chief's fancy.

"Ta-la-pus," he said, "you look as if you would like to go, too. Do you

want to take part in the Potlatch?"

Instantly Chet-woot objected. "Papa, he could never go, he's too young.

They may ask him to dance for them. He can't dance. Then perhaps they

would never ask us."

The chief scowled. He was ruler in his own lodge, and allowed no

interference from anyone.

"Besides," continued Chet-woot, "there would be no one to fetch wood for

mama and the babies."

"Yes, there would be someone," said the chief, his eyes snapping

fiercely. "_You_ would be here to help your mama."

"I?" exclaimed the young man. "But how can I, when I shall be at the

Potlatch? I go to _all_ the Potlatches."

"So much more reason that you stay home this once and care for your mama

and baby sisters, and you _shall_ stay. Lapool and little Ta-la-pus will

go with me. It is time the boy saw something of the other tribes. Yes,

I'll take Lapool and Ta-la-pus, and there is no change to my word when

it is once spoken."

Chet-woot sat like one stunned, but an Indian son knows better than to

argue with his father. But the great, dark eyes of little Ta-la-pus

glowed like embers of fire, his young heart leaped joyously. At last,

at last, he was to set foot in the country of his dreams--the far,

blue, mountain-circled mainland.

All that week his mother worked day and night on a fine new native

costume for him to wear on the great occasion. There were trousers of

buckskin fringed down each side, a shirt of buckskin, beaded and

beautified by shell ornaments, a necklace of the bones of a rare fish,

strung together like little beads on deer sinew, earrings of pink and

green pearl from the inner part of the shells of a bivalve, neat

moccasins, and solid silver, carven bracelets.

She was working on a headdress consisting of a single red fox-tail and

eagle feathers, when he came and stood beside her.

"Mama," he said, "there is a prairie wolf skin you cover the babies with

while they sleep. Would you let me have it this once, if they would not

be cold without it?"

"They will never be cold," she smiled, "for I can use an extra blanket

over them. I only use it because I started to when you were the only

baby I had, and it was your name, so I covered you with it at night."

"And I want to cover myself with it now," he explained, "its head as my

headdress, its front paws about my neck, its thick fur and tail trailing

behind me as I dance."

"So you are going to dance, my little Ta-la-pus?" she answered proudly.

"But how is that, when you do not yet know our great tribal dances?"

"I have made one of my own, and a song, too," he said, shyly.

She caught him to her, smoothing the hair back from his dark forehead.

"That is right," she half whispered, for she felt he did not want anyone

but herself to know his boyish secret. "Always make things for yourself,

don't depend on others, try what you can do alone. Yes, you may take the

skin of the prairie wolf. I will give it to you for all time--it is

yours."

That night his father also laid in his hands a gift. It was a soft,

pliable belt, woven of the white, peeled roots of the cedar, dyed

brilliantly, and worked into a magnificent design.

"Your great-grandmother made it," said the chief. "Wear it on your first

journey into the larger world than this island, and do nothing in all

your life that would make her regret, were she alive, to see it round

your waist."

So little Ta-la-pus set forth with his father and brother, well equipped

for the great Potlatch, and the meeting of many from half a score of

tribes.

They crossed the Straits on a white man's steamer, a wonderful sight to

Ta-la-pus, who had never been aboard any larger boat than his father's

fishing smack and their own high-bowed, gracefully-curved canoe. In and

out among the islands of the great gulf the steamer wound, bringing them

nearer, ever nearer to the mainland. Misty and shadowy, Vancouver Island

dropped astern, until at last they steamed into harbor, where a crowd of

happy-faced Squamish Indians greeted them, stowed them away in canoes,

paddled a bit up coast, then sighted the great, glancing fires that were

lighting up the grey of oncoming night--fires of celebration and welcome

to all the scores of guests who were to partake of the lavish

hospitality of the great Squamish chief.

As he stepped from the great canoe, Ta-la-pus thought he felt a strange

thrill pass through the soles of his feet. They had touched the mainland

of the vast continent of North America for the first time; his feet

seemed to become sensitive, soft, furry, cushioned like those of a wild

animal. Then, all at once, a strange inspiration seized him. Why not try

to make his footsteps "pad" like the noiseless paws of a prairie wolf?

"pad" in the little dance he had invented, instead of "shuffling" in

his moccasins, as all the grown men did? He made up his mind that when

he was alone in his tent he would practise it, but just now the great

Squamish chief was coming towards them with outstretched greeting hands,

and presently he was patting little Ta-la-pus on the shoulder, and

saying, "Oh, ho, my good Tillicum Mowitch, I am glad you have brought

this boy. I have a son of the same size. They will play together, and

perhaps this Tenas Tyee (Little Chief) will dance for me some night."

"My brother does not dance our tribal dances," began Lapool, but

Ta-la-pus spoke up bravely.

"Thank you, O Great Tyee (Chief), I shall dance when you ask me."

His father and brother both stared at him in amazement. Then Chief

Mowitch laughed, and said, "If he says he will dance, he will do it. He

never promises what he cannot do, but I did not know he could do the

steps. Ah! he is a little hoolool (mouse) this boy of mine; he keeps

very quiet, and does not boast what he can do."

Little Ta-la-pus was wonderfully encouraged by his father's notice of

him and his words of praise. Never before had he seemed so close to

manhood, for, being the youngest boy of the family, he had but little

companionship with any at home except his mother and the little sisters

that now seemed so far behind him in their island home. All that evening

the old chiefs and the stalwart young braves were gravely shaking hands

with his father, his brother Lapool, and himself, welcoming them to the

great festival and saying pleasant things about peace and brotherhood

prevailing between the various tribes instead of war and bloodshed, as

in the olden times. It was late when the great supper of boiled salmon

was over, and the immense bonfires began to blaze on the shore where the

falling tides of the Pacific left the beaches dry and pebbly. The young

men stretched themselves on the cool sands, and the old men lighted

their peace pipes, and talked of the days when they hunted the mountain

sheep and black bear on these very heights overlooking the sea.

Ta-la-pus listened to everything. He could learn so much from the older

men, and hour by hour he gained confidence. No more he thought of his

dance with fear and shyness, for all these people were kindly and

hospitable even to a boy of eleven. At midnight there was another feast,

this time of clams, and luscious crabs, with much steaming black tea.

Then came the great Squamish chief, saying more welcoming words, and

inviting his guests to begin their tribal dances. Ta-la-pus never forgot

the brilliant sight that he looked on for the next few hours. Scores of

young men and women went through the most graceful figures of beautiful

dances, their shell ornaments jingling merrily in perfect time to each

twist and turn of their bodies. The wild music from the beat of Indian

drums and shell "rattles" arose weirdly, half sadly, drifting up the

mountain heights, until it lost itself in the timber line of giant firs

that crested the summits. The red blaze from the camp fires flitted

and flickered across the supple figures that circled around, in and

out between the three hundred canoes beached on the sands, and the

smoke-tipped tents and log lodges beyond the reach of tide water. Above

it all a million stars shone down from the cloudless heavens of a

perfect British Columbian night. After a while little Ta-la-pus fell

asleep, and when he awoke, dawn was just breaking. Someone had covered

him with a beautiful, white, new blanket, and as his young eyes opened

they looked straight into the kindly face of the great Squamish chief.

"We are all aweary, 'Tenas Tyee' (Little Chief)," he said. "The dancers

are tired, and we shall all sleep until the sun reaches midday, but my

guests cry for one more dance before sunrise. Will you dance for us, oh,

little Ta-la-pus?"

The boy sprang up, every muscle and sinew and nerve on the alert. The

moment of his triumph or failure had come.

"You have made me, even a boy like me, very welcome, O Great Tyee," he

said, standing erect as an arrow, with his slender, dark chin raised

manfully. "I have eaten of your kloshe muck-a-muck (very good food),

and it has made my heart and my feet very skookum (strong). I shall do

my best to dance and please you." The boy was already dressed in the

brilliant buckskin costume his mother had spent so many hours in making,

and his precious wolfskin was flung over his arm. The great Squamish

chief now took him by the hand and led him towards the blazing fires

round which the tired dancers, the old men and women, sat in huge

circles where the chill of dawn could not penetrate.

"One more dance, then we sleep," said the chief to the great circle of

spectators. "This Tenas Tyee will do his best to amuse us."

Then Ta-la-pus felt the chief's hand unclasp, and he realized that he

was standing absolutely alone before a great crowd of strangers, and

that every eye was upon him.

"Oh, my brother," he whispered, smoothing the prairie wolf skin, "help

me to be like you, help me to be worthy of your name." Then he pulled

the wolf's head over his own, twisted the fore legs about his throat,

and stepped into the great circle of sand between the crouching

multitude and the fires.

Stealthily he began to pick his way in the full red flare from the

flames. He heard many voices whispering, "Tenas," "Tenas," meaning "He

is little, he is young," but his step only grew more stealthy, until he

"padded" into a strange, silent trot in exact imitation of a prairie

wolf. As he swung the second time round the fires, his young voice

arose, in a thin, wild, wonderful barking tone, so weird and wolf-like

that half the spectators leaped up to their knees, or feet, the better

to watch and listen. Another moment, and he was putting his chant into

words.

"They call me Ta-la-pus, the prairie-wolf,

And wild and free am I.

I cannot swim like Eh-ko-lie, the whale,

Nor like the eagle, Chack-chack, can I fly.

"I cannot talk as does the great Ty-ee,

Nor like the o-tel-agh* shine in the sky.

I am but Ta-la-pus, the prairie-wolf,

And wild and free am I."

[*Sun.]

With every word, every step, he became more like the wolf he was

describing. Across his chanting and his "padding" in the sand came

murmurs from the crowd. He could hear "Tenas, tenas," "To-ke-tie Tenas"

(pretty boy), "Skookum-tanse," (good strong dance). Then at last, "Ow,"

"Ow," meaning "Our young brother." On and on went Ta-la-pus. The wolf

feeling crept into his legs, his soft young feet, his clutching fingers,

his wonderful dark eyes that now gleamed red and lustrous in the

firelight. He was as one inspired, giving a beautiful and marvellous

portrait of the wild vagabonds of the plains. For fully ten minutes he

circled and sang, then suddenly crouched on his haunches, then, lifting

his head, he turned to the east, his young throat voiced one long,

strange note, wolf-like he howled to the rising sun, which at that

moment looked over the crest of the mountains, its first golden shaft

falling full upon his face.

His chant and his strange wolf-dance were ended. Then one loud clamor

arose from the crowd. "Tenas Tyee," "Tenas Tyee," they shouted, and

Ta-la-pus knew that he had not failed. But the great Squamish chief was

beside him.

"Tillicums,"* he said, facing the crowd, "this boy has danced no

tribal dance learned from his people or his parents. This is his own

dance, which he has made to deserve his name. He shall get the first

gifts of our great Potlatch. Go," he added, to one of the young men,

"bring ten dollars of the white man's chicamin (money), and ten new

blankets as white as that snow on the mountain top."

[*Friends, my people.]

The crowd was delighted. They approved the boy and rejoiced to see the

real Potlatch was begun. When the blankets were piled up beside him they

reached to the top of Ta-la-pus' head. Then the chief put ten dollars in

the boy's hand with the simple words, "I am glad to give it. You won it

well, my Tenas Tyee."

That was the beginning of a great week of games, feasting and tribal

dances, but not a night passed but the participants called for the wild

"wolf-dance" of the little boy from the island. When the Potlatch was

over, old Chief Mowitch and Lapool and Ta-la-pus returned to Vancouver

Island, but no more the boy sat alone on the isolated rock, watching the

mainland through a mist of yearning. He had set foot in the wider world,

he had won his name, and now honored it, instead of hating it, as in the

old days when his brothers taunted him, for the great Squamish chief, in

bidding good-bye to him, had said:

"Little Ta-la-pus, remember a name means much to a man. You despised

your name, but you have made it great and honorable by your own act,

your own courage. Keep that name honorable, little Ta-la-pus; it will

be worth far more to you than many blankets or much of the white man's

chicamin."