Journeying toward the upper course of the Capilano River, about
a mile citywards from the dam, you will pass a disused logger's
shack. Leave the trail at this point and strike through the
undergrowth for a few hundred yards to the left and you will be
on the rocky borders of that purest, most restless river in all
Canada. The stream is haunted with tradition, teeming with a score
of romances that vie with its grandeur and loveliness, and of which
its waters are perpetually whispering. But I learned this legend
from one whose voice was as dulcet as the swirling rapids; but,
unlike them, that voice is hushed to-day, while the river, the
river still sings on--sings on.
It was singing in very melodious tones through the long August
afternoon two summers ago, while we, the chief, his happy-hearted
wife, and bright young daughter, all lounged amongst the boulders
and watched the lazy clouds drift from peak to peak far above us.
It was one of his inspired days; legends crowded to his lips as a
whistle teases the mouth of a happy boy; his heart was brimming
with tales of the bygones, his eyes were dark with dreams and that
strange mournfulness that always haunted them when he spoke of
long-ago romances. There was not a tree, a boulder, a dash of rapid
upon which his glance fell which he could not link with some ancient
poetic superstition. Then abruptly, in the very midst of his verbal
reveries, he turned and asked me if I were superstitious. Of course
I replied that I was.
"Do you think some happenings will bring trouble later on--will
foretell evil?" he asked.
I made some evasive answer, which, however, seemed to satisfy him,
for he plunged into the strange tale of the recluse of the canyon
with more vigor than dreaminess; but first he asked me the question:
"What do your own tribes, those east of the great mountains, think
of twin children?"