He will reply, "Indians, and just the trees, and animals, and
fishes, and a few birds."
So you are prepared to accept the animal world as intelligent
co-habitants of the Pacific slope; but he will not lead you to think
he regards them as equals, much less superiors. But to revert to
"mine own people": they hold the intelligence of wild animals far
above that of man, for perhaps the one reason that when an animal
is sick it effects its own cure; it knows what grasses and herbs to
eat, what to avoid, while the sick human calls the medicine-man,
whose wisdom is not only the result of years of study, but also
heredity; consequently any great natural event, such as the Deluge,
has much to do with the wisdom of the creatures of the forests and
the rivers.
Iroquois tradition tells us that once this earth was entirely
submerged in water, and during this period for many days a busy
little muskrat swam about vainly looking for a foothold of earth
wherein to build his house. In his search he encountered a turtle
also leisurely swimming; so they had speech together, and the
muskrat complained of weariness; he could find no foothold; he
was tired of incessant swimming, and longed for land such as his
ancestors enjoyed. The turtle suggested that the muskrat should
dive and endeavor to find earth at the bottom of the sea. Acting on
this advice, the muskrat plunged down, then arose with his two little
forepaws grasping some earth he had found beneath the waters.
"Place it on my shell and dive again for more," directed the
turtle. The muskrat did so; but when he returned with his paws
filled with earth he discovered the small quantity he had first
deposited on the turtle's shell had doubled in size. The return
from the third trip found the turtle's load again doubled. So the
building went on at double compound increase, and the world grew
its continents and its islands with great rapidity, and now rests
on the shell of a turtle.
If you ask an Iroquois, "And did no men survive this flood?" he
will reply, "Why should men survive? The animals are wiser than
men; let the wisest live."
How, then, was the earth repeopled?
The Iroquois will tell you that the otter was a medicine-man; that,
in swimming and diving about, he found corpses of men and women;
he sang his medicine-songs and they came to life, and the otter
brought them fish for food until they were strong enough to provide
for themselves. Then the Iroquois will conclude his tale with,
"You know well that the otter has greater wisdom than a man."
So much for "mine own people" and our profound respect for the
superior intelligence of our little brothers of the animal world.
But the Squamish tribe hold other ideas. It was on a February
day that I first listened to this beautiful, humane story of the
Deluge. My royal old tillicum had come to see me through the rains
and mists of late winter days. The gateways of my wigwam always
stood open--very widely open--for his feet to enter, and this
especial day he came with the worst downpour of the season.
Woman-like, I protested with a thousand contradictions in my voice,
that he should venture out to see me on such a day. It was "Oh!
Chief, I am so glad to see you!" and it was "Oh! Chief, why didn't
you stay at home on such a wet day--your poor throat will suffer."
But I soon had quantities of hot tea for him, and the huge cup my
own father always used was his--as long as the Sagalie Tyee allowed
his dear feet to wander my way. The immense cup stands idle and
empty now for the second time.
Helping him off with his great-coat, I chatted on about the deluge
of rain, and he remarked it was not so very bad, as one could yet
walk.
"Fortunately, yes, for I cannot swim," I told him.
He laughed, replying, "Well, it is not so bad as when the Great Deep
Waters covered the world."
Immediately I foresaw the coming legend, so crept into the shell of
monosyllables.
"No?" I questioned.
"No," he replied. "For, one time, there was no land here at all;
everywhere there was just water."
"I can quite believe it," I remarked caustically.
He laughed--that irresistible, though silent, David Warfield laugh
of his that always brought a responsive smile from his listeners.
Then he plunged directly into the tradition, with no preface save a
comprehensive sweep of his wonderful hands towards my wide window,
against which the rains were beating.
"It was after a long, long time of this--this rain. The mountain
streams were swollen, the rivers choked, the sea began to rise--and
yet it rained; for weeks and weeks it rained." He ceased speaking,
while the shadows of centuries gone crept into his eyes. Tales of
the misty past always inspired him.
"Yes," he continued. "It rained for weeks and weeks, while the
mountain torrents roared thunderingly down, and the sea crept
silently up. The level lands were first to float in sea-water, then
to disappear. The slopes were next to slip into the sea. The world
was slowly being flooded. Hurriedly the Indian tribes gathered in
one spot, a place of safety far above the reach of the on-creeping
sea. The spot was the circling shore of Lake Beautiful, up the
North Arm. They held a Great Council and decided at once upon a
plan of action. A giant canoe should be built, and some means
contrived to anchor it in case the waters mounted to the heights.
The men undertook the canoe, the women the anchorage.
"A giant tree was felled, and day and night the men toiled over
its construction into the most stupendous canoe the world has ever
known. Not an hour, not a moment, but many worked, while the
toil-wearied ones slept, only to awake to renewed toil. Meanwhile,
the women also worked at a cable--the largest, the longest, the
strongest that Indian hands and teeth had ever made. Scores of
them gathered and prepared the cedar-fibre; scores of them plaited,
rolled, and seasoned it; scores of them chewed upon it inch by inch
to make it pliable; scores of them oiled and worked, oiled and
worked, oiled and worked it into a sea-resisting fabric. And still
the sea crept up, and up, and up. It was the last day; hope of life
for the tribes, of land for the world, was doomed. Strong hands,
self-sacrificing hands, fastened the cable the women had made--one
end to the giant canoe, the other about an enormous boulder, a vast
immovable rock as firm as the foundations of the world--for might
not the canoe, with its priceless freight drift out, far out, to sea,
and when the water subsided might not this ship of safety be leagues
and leagues beyond the sight of land on the storm-driven Pacific?
"Then, with the bravest hearts that ever beat, noble hands lifted
every child of the tribe into this vast canoe; not one single baby
was overlooked. The canoe was stocked with food and fresh water,
and lastly, the ancient men and women of the race selected as
guardians to these children the bravest, most stalwart, handsomest
young man of the tribes, and the mother of the youngest baby in the
camp--she was but a girl of sixteen, her child but two weeks old;
but she, too, was brave and very beautiful. These two were placed,
she at the bow of the canoe to watch, he at the stern to guide,
and all the little children crowded between.
"And still the sea crept up, and up, and up. At the crest of the
bluffs about Lake Beautiful the doomed tribes crowded. Not a single
person attempted to enter the canoe. There was no wailing, no
crying out for safety. 'Let the little children, the young mother,
and the bravest and best of our young men live,' was all the
farewell those in the canoe heard as the waters reached the summit,
and--the canoe floated. Last of all to be seen was the top of the
tallest tree, then--all was a world of water.
"For days and days there was no land--just the rush of swirling,
snarling sea; but the canoe rode safely at anchor, the cable those
scores of dead, faithful women had made held true as the hearts
that beat behind the toil and labor of it all.
"But one morning at sunrise, far to the south, a speck floated on the
breast of the waters; at midday it was larger; at evening it was yet
larger. The moon arose, and in its magic light the man at the stern
saw it was a patch of land. All night he watched it grow, and at
daybreak looked with glad eyes upon the summit of Mount Baker. He
cut the cable, grasped his paddle in his strong, young hands, and
steered for the south. When they landed, the waters were sunken
half down the mountain-side. The children were lifted out; the
beautiful young mother, the stalwart young brave, turned to each
other, clasped hands, looked into each other's eyes--and smiled.
"And down in the vast country that lies between Mount Baker and
the Fraser River they made a new camp, built new lodges, where the
little children grew and thrived, and lived and loved, and the
earth was repeopled by them.
"The Squamish say that in a gigantic crevice half-way to the crest
of Mount Baker may yet be seen the outlines of an enormous canoe,
but I have never seen it myself."
He ceased speaking with that far-off cadence in his voice with which
he always ended a legend, and for a long time we both sat in silence
listening to the rains that were still beating against the window.