[Illustration: A GROUP OF SPOKAN INDIANS
(Drawn from a Photograph).]




                            THE NATURALIST
                                  IN
                         VANCOUVER ISLAND AND
                           BRITISH COLUMBIA.

                                  BY
                        JOHN KEAST LORD, F.Z.S.
     NATURALIST TO THE BRITISH NORTH AMERICAN BOUNDARY COMMISSION.

[Illustration: THE ‘KETTLE’ FALLS: A SALMON LEAP ON THE UPPER COLUMBIA.]

                        IN TWO VOLUMES—VOL. I.

                                LONDON:
                RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET,
                 PUBLISHER IN ORDINARY TO HER MAJESTY.
                                 1866.




                               PREFACE.


Many interesting and useful works have been already published relating
to the Colonies of Vancouver Island and British Columbia, which,
however, contain little if any information on the subject of their
Natural History.

This missing link I venture in some measure to supply. But ‘The
Naturalist in Vancouver Island and British Columbia’ is not intended
to be a book on Natural History merely; neither does the Author desire
to weary his reader with tedious descriptions of genera and species.
Comparative anatomy and physiology can be acquired at home, but
_habits_ are only discoverable by those who devote themselves to the
rough though pleasant life of a wanderer, or by the actual observation
of a careful investigator.

In the following pages, the Author has purposely avoided any definite
system of arrangement, preferring a pleasant gossip, chatting, as it
were, by the fireside about North-Western Wilds.

A detailed list of the Zoological collection made whilst Naturalist to
the Government Commission will be found in the Appendix.

                                                     JOHN KEAST LORD.

LONDON: _May 28, 1866_.




                             INTRODUCTION.


Before setting sail from Southampton, it may perhaps be as well to
devote a few pages explanatory of the early history and discovery
of Vancouver Island; why we are going there; and the object of the
Commission to which I belong.

In the year 1587, we learn, that a Captain Cavendish, in order to
repair his shattered fortunes, fitted out three ships for the purpose
of plundering on the high seas. After many unsuccessful raids, we next
hear of him lurking in his ship behind a spit of land, Cape St. Lucas,
on the Californian coast (a prominent rocky bluff, not unlike ‘the
Needles,’), waiting for the ‘St. Anna,’ a galleon freighted with rich
merchandise and a hundred and twenty-two thousand Spanish dollars.
She heaves in sight, little dreaming of her danger; is pounced upon,
boarded, and taken, her treasure transferred to the hold of the
buccaneer; the crew rowed ashore, and their ship set on fire. Death
seemed inevitable, when a breeze, which soon increased to a gale,
drifting the burning hull on the rocks providentially proved a means of
escape, for a raft was made, and launched. Upon this the men stood out
to sea.

After enduring frightful privations, a friendly ship picked them up,
and they eventually reached Europe in safety. Amongst the sailors
rescued from the raft was a Greek, Apostolos Valerianos, who for some
reason was nick-named by his shipmates Juan de Fuca. Nine years after
his escape from the raft we hear of him in Venice.

In 1596 Mr. Locke, a merchant, and his friend John Douglas, a
sea-captain, were residing in Venice, and nightly smoked their pipes
at a snug wine-shop, the resort of sea-faring men. A constant visitor
at this house of entertainment was a pilot on the Greek seas, who had
attracted Douglas’s attention by the wonderful stories he related; so
much so that he induced his friend, Mr. Locke, to listen to the old
man’s adventures.[1]

The story of the raft we already know. The remainder was to the effect
that he entered into the service of the Viceroy of Mexico, by whom he
was sent, in a small _caraval_, to explore the Californian coast. He
managed to reach lat. 47° N., and finding the coast inclined towards
the N. & NE., and that a wide expanse of sea opened out between 47°
lat., his position, and 48°, he entered the Strait, and sailed through
it for twenty days. Finding the land still tended to NE. & NW. and also
E. & SE., he proceeded, passing through groups of beautiful islands,
and so sailed on until he came into the North Sea; but being quite
unarmed, and finding the natives very hostile, he made his way back,
and reported his discovery of the entrance to what he believed the
North-West Passage.

But the Viceroy was not impressed with the value of the old man’s
report, and paid him nothing for it. Disgusted with the government and
all belonging to it, he worked his way back to the Mediterranean, and
we next meet with him as a pilot on the Adriatic.

Master Locke at once wrote to Sir Walter Raleigh, Master Hakluyt,
and to Lord Cecil, asking for 100_l._ to bring over the mariner who
possessed such a knowledge of the north-west coast. All thought the
information invaluable, but no one felt disposed to pay the money.
Time wore on; the old storm-worn pilot, growing feeble, left for his
native island. Locke again and again urged his request. At last the
long-coveted means came, but too late, the old sailor was no more.

This strange story was current in England long after he who told it
was dead and forgotten. A few believed it, but the many thought it an
entire fabrication.

In 1776, Captain Cook missed the entrance to the Straits, and,
mistaking the west side of Vancouver Island for the mainland, reported
the story to be a fiction as told by the old sailor. It will suffice
for explanation to skip a crowd of events, and take up the narrative
of the discovery of the island in 1792, when Captain Vancouver was
sent to Nootka Sound, for what purpose does not matter now. Coasting
southwards, he entered the Straits, and eventually came out at Queen
Charlotte Sound: which settled the question. The Island bears the name
of its discoverer (Vancouver Island), the Straits that of the old
sailor (Juan de Fuca).

By the treaty of Washington, the 49th pl. of lat. N. was to be the
recognised _Boundary Line_, the course through the sea to be the centre
of the Gulf of Georgia, and thence southward through the _Channel_
which separates the continent from Vancouver Island, to the Straits of
Juan de Fuca.

The duties of our Commission were to mark the Boundary line from the
coast to the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains.

  _May 1866._




                               CONTENTS
                                  OF
                           THE FIRST VOLUME.


                              CHAPTER I.
                                                                    PAGE
  The Voyage                                                           1

                              CHAPTER II.

  Victoria—The Salmon: its haunts and habits                          36

                             CHAPTER III.

  Fish Harvesting                                                     62

                              CHAPTER IV.

  The Round-fish, Herrings, and Viviparous Fish                       97

                              CHAPTER V.

  Sticklebacks and their Nests—The Bullhead—The Rock-cod—The
    Chirus—Flatfish                                                  121

                              CHAPTER VI.

  Halibut Fishing—Dogfish—A Trip to Fort Rupert—Ransoming
    a Slave—A Promenade with a Redskin—Bagging a
    Chief’s Head—Queen Charlotte’s Islanders at Nanaimo              142

                             CHAPTER VII.

  Sturgeon-spearing—Mansucker—Clams                                  175

                             CHAPTER VIII.

  Mule-hunting Expedition from Vancouver Island to San
    Francisco—The Almaden Quicksilver Mines—Poison-oak
    and its Antidote                                                 199

                              CHAPTER IX.

  Sacramento—Stockton—Californian Ground-squirrels—
    Grass-valley—Stage Travelling—Hydraulic Washings—
    Nevada—Marysville—Up the Sacramento River to Red
    Bluffs—A dangerous Bath                                          221

                              CHAPTER X.

  The Start from Red Bluffs—Mishaps by the Way—Devil’s
    Pocket—Adventure at Yreka—Field-crickets—The Californian
    Quail—Singular Nesting of Bullock’s Oriole                       245

                              CHAPTER XI.

  Crossing the Klamath River—How to Swim Mules—Sis-kyoue
    Indians—Emigrant Ford—Trout Baling—A Beaver
    Town—Breeding-grounds of the Pelicans and various
    Water-birds—Pursued by Klamath Indians—Interview
    with Chief—The Desert—Prong-horned Antelopes—Acorns
    and Woodpeckers—Yellow-headed Blackbirds—Snake
    Scout—Arrival at Camp of Commission—End of Journal               268

                             CHAPTER XII.

  Sharp-tailed Grouse—Bald-headed Eagle—Mosquitos—Lagomys
    Minimus (Nov. Sp.)—Hummingbirds—Urotrichus                       300

                             CHAPTER XIII.

  The Aplodontia Leporina. (Rich.)                                   346




                             ILLUSTRATIONS
                                  FOR
                           THE FIRST VOLUME.


  The Kettle Falls: a Salmon Leap on the Upper
      Columbia                                                _vignette_

  A group of Spokan Indians                               _frontispiece_

  Viviparous Fish                                     _to face page_ 106

  Sturgeon-spearing                                       〃    〃    185

  Sharp-tailed Grouse                                     〃    〃    300

  North-Western Hummingbirds                              〃    〃    328

  Urotrichus                                              〃    〃    338

  Aplodontia, or Ou-ka-la                                 〃    〃    346




                           ERRATA IN VOL. I.


  Page 88, line 19, _for_ blubbering _read_ blubbery
   〃  105,  〃  20, _for_ within _read_ in
   〃  157,  〃   2, _for_ scenery on my left. The _read_ scenery. On my
                        left the
   〃  158,  〃  23, _for_ Nimkis _read_ Nimkish
   〃  164,  〃   9, _for_ this cannon _read_ these cannons
   〃  177,  〃  13, _for_ cauiare _read_ caviare
   〃  179,  〃   9, _for_ are _read_ is; and line 16, _for_ fourteen
                         _read_ seven
   〃  195,  〃   9, _for_ three _read_ one
   〃  232,  〃   8, _for_ pack and equipment _read_ pack equipment
   〃  268,  〃   5, heading to chapter, _for_ The Desert Prong-horned
                        _read_ The Desert—Prong-horned
   〃  296,  〃   8, _for_ Reiney _read_ Reiner
   〃  349,  〃  12, _for_ Actomys _read_ Arctomys




                           VANCOUVER ISLAND
                                  AND
                           BRITISH COLUMBIA.


                              CHAPTER I.

                              THE VOYAGE.


Whether Good Friday was more unlucky than Fridays usually are, in
the estimation of sea-going men, I know not, but from England to St.
Thomas we encountered a succession of headwinds and terrific seas.
Of course it was the regular typical storm: ‘waves running mountains
high, threatening instantaneously to engulph the struggling ship in a
watery abyss; rent sails, creaking timbers, men lashed to the wheel
(real tarry Ixions); screaming mothers, and remarkably sick papas
and passengers,’—that ended in our case, as it usually does in all
sensation sea-voyages. St. Thomas was arrived at in perfect safety,
some few days after time.

Amongst the passengers was a lady, fat beyond anything I have ever seen
(of the human kind) outside a show. From the time of her appearance
in the morning until her bedtime, she invariably sat in one place—her
throne a small sofa, behind the cabin-door. Flying-fish were constantly
driven on the deck of the steamer, or flung up into the sponsons by
the paddlewheels; and being most anxious to preserve some of these
curious tenants of the ocean, I tried every means to procure them;
but the ‘stout party,’ by resorting to most unjustifiable bribing, so
enslaved the sordid mind of the steward, that he got hold of the fish
in spite of me, and actually had the delicate beauties cooked, and
ignominiously fried at the galley-fire, for that terrible old lady to
eat. With regret and indignation I have watched her munching them up,
and wickedly longed to see her prostrated by that terrible leveller
seasickness, or the victim of dyspepsia—evil wishes of no avail: she
ate on, in healthful hungry defiance of wind and waves, and the wrath
of an injured naturalist.

The first peep one gets of the little Danish town of St. Thomas, too
well known to need more than a casual notice, is picturesque and
pretty. Built on the scarp of a steep hill, its houses arranged in
terraces, and all painted with bright and gaudy colours; its feathery
groves of tamarind-trees; gay gardens decked with flowers, possessing
a brilliancy and magnitude seen only in a hot climate; together with
the showy dresses of the natives, it becomes the more impressive as
contrasted with the sombre island so recently left behind.

Scarcely had the ‘Parana’ steamed into the harbour—much more, by the
way, like a stagnant cesspool than a rocky inlet, filled with pure
sea-water—when boats of all sizes, and far too numerous to count,
crowded round us. Everyone, seeming at once to forget seasickness and
rough weather, scrambled into this medley fleet, and with all speed
were rowed ashore—there to remain, during the transference of the
mails and baggage from the English steamer to the other vessels waiting
to take their departure.

It has often puzzled me to imagine, why travellers in steamboats and
sailing-ships invariably do the same thing. Take this very case as an
instance of what I mean. Though yellow-fever was raging like a plague,
still the greater number of the passengers made straight for the hotel,
and there and then devoured a heavy breakfast composed of bad fish,
raw vegetables (libellously called salad), unripe fruits, followed by
a brown substance, in size, shape, and texture, vastly like to the
heel of a boot floating in hot oil, which we are informed by the polite
waiter is ‘bef steek à la Anglais’—the whole washed down with copious
libations of intensely sour claret iced to the freezing-point.

The next thing in the programme is the exploration of the town, during
which all sorts of things are purchased at fabulous prices, that can
never, by any possibility, be required. Such unusual exercise in a
hilly place, exposed to the scorching heat of the sun, soon begets
a feverish thirst, necessitating copious draughts of iced-water
dashed with cognac, unlimited cobblers, or more cold sour poison.
Raw vegetables, acid wine, cobblers, cognac, cocoanut, and other
‘comestibles’ soon produce disagreeable admonitory twinges: dread of
yellow-fever immediately suggests itself—bang goes the signal-gun!
A hasty scamper for the boats dispelling further alarm, all rush on
board, there to compare notes, groan over their pains and stupidity,
and go through precisely the same performance at the next place of
landing.

At St. Thomas we exchanged the commodious steamer ‘Parana’ for the
‘Trent,’ much more famous for getting into trouble than for getting
out of it. The run from the island across the Caribbean Sea to Santa
Marta, after the tumblings and buffetings that would have been good
training for an acrobat, endured betwixt England and St. Thomas, seemed
to me the very perfection of sea-travelling. Although a most enjoyable
passage, still it became monotonous: one tires of old threadbare jokes
and yarns, and wearies even of gazing day after day into the clear blue
sea, each day appearing the very counterpart of the other.

Sluggish lump-fish, with their uncouth heads and misshapen bodies,
continually wriggle slowly and idly along with us; sun-fish, in their
parti-coloured armour, float by, ever performing eccentric undulations.
Now a stiff black fin cleaves the water suspiciously, leaving a wake
behind, as would a miniature ship—the danger-signal of a greedy shark;
huge leaves of kelp, wrack, and sea-tangle drift by, rafts to myriads
of crustaceans and minute zoophytes; the rudder creaks and groans to
the music of its iron chains, clanking over the friction-rollers, as
the helmsman turns the wheel; sea-birds peep at us, then wheel away
to be seen no more; whilst ever following are the ‘Chickens of Mother
Carey,’ dipping, but never resting, on the ripple at the stern.

I had both heard and read of a formidable fortress that once guarded
the entrance to the snug harbour, on one side of which stands the neat
little town of Santa Marta, embowered amidst the trees. We sighted the
land before it was dark, but the captain deemed it expedient to lay-off
and await the daylight, ere venturing through the narrow entrance
between the rock on which stands the remains of the fortress and the
mainland. Issuing strict orders, coupled with a silver refresher, to
my cabin-boy to call me before daylight, I turned in, and was soon in
dreamland; my dreams were dispelled by a sudden shake, and the voice of
the faithful darkie boy screaming into my ear, ‘Hi, massa, him no see
fort if him no tumble out and tumble up pretty quick.’ Lightly clad and
hardly awake, I rush, glass in hand, on deck, and quietly seat myself
in the bow of the steamer. It was just in the grey of the morning; not
a sound disturbed the deathlike silence, save the ‘splash-splash’ of
the slowly-revolving paddlewheels. I could discern on my right a dim
line of trees, that looked as if they grew from out the water; on my
left the dark rock, crowned with its ruined fort, that, as the light
increased and the rays of the rising sun slanted down upon it, looked
like a mass of frosted silver—so brilliant was the contrast to the
dark water and darker woods, still in shadow, behind and around it.

Delighted with the singular beauty of the scene, and wandering, in
imagination, far away into the vistas of the past, recalling scenes
of frightful atrocity once enacted within the dreaded gates of the
buccaneers’ stronghold—wondering too if gems and gold, plunder
wrenched from many a rich argosy, still lay hidden amidst the dust of
its crumbling walls—a sudden flash, and a jerk that sent me sprawling
on the deck, at once recalled my thoughts from the past to the present.
Utterly oblivious of what had happened, as I scrambled on my legs, a
stifled laugh induced me to look round. ‘Wish I may never taste rum
again, Cap’en, if I ever see you a-sittin on the signal-gun,’ said
a sly-looking rascal in sailor’s dress. There was a roguish leer
in his eye that revealed the whole secret. Seeing me seated on the
signal-carronade, loaded to announce our arrival, was too tempting a
chance to indulge in a practical joke for Jack to resist; so he quietly
touched off the gun, without giving me any notice. No doubt he has had
many a hearty laugh at my expense since then, when telling the ‘yarn’
in far-away latitudes. Our stay in the harbour was very brief; the
mails and a passenger or two landed, away we steamed again.

At Carthagena we only lay-off a short time, to land the mails, and take
on board the strangest assemblage of natives I ever saw. They were
bound for Colon, to sell the various products of their farms, gardens,
and native forests. We were about half a mile from the beach; a good
rolling swell broke, in small waves, against the ship’s sides, and
spread its foam far up the shingle inshore. Up to their waists might
be seen the dusky forms of the natives, launching long, ugly, shallow
canoes, dug from out the solid wood. Soon a perfect fleet of them
neared us, each striving to be first alongside; as they converged, and
steadily packed together, into a confused mass, the yelling, screaming,
and swearing in bad Spanish, mixed with some unknown tongue, baffled
all description. Bad as the hubbub was when some distance from the
steamer, it was ten times worse as they literally fought and struggled
to get on board. Those who were to be passengers, in dread of being
left behind, dashed from canoe to canoe, reckless of the rage of those
intent only on selling their wares. Here one held up a poor little
drenched and shivering monkey, another a screaming parroquet, a third
a squirrel; others fruits, strings of beads, vegetables, bunches of
bananas, and cocoanuts—all shrieking at the very top of their voices,
but what they said no living soul could tell. Soon the deck forward
was filled with its live and dead freight. The first turn of the
paddlewheel sent the queer-looking assemblage scudding out of the way,
to ply back again, with their unsold wares, to dingy old Carthagena.

As we steamed quietly along, I had time to examine the new arrivals.
Squatted in little groups or families, each group had all its property,
piled or stowed in some fashion, amidst them, consisting of bundles of
all shapes and sizes, crockery, parrots and parroquets, quantities of
eggs and live poultry, fruits such as are usually consumed in tropical
countries; bananas, mangoes, cocoanuts, water-melons, bad oranges,
and vegetables; but what was most valued and cared for, clearly the
grand object of the visit, were numbers of gamecocks, all _trimmed_,
according to the most approved fashion, and tied by the leg, either
to the bedding or, failing anything else, to the person of the owner.
These Carthagenian blacks are evidently of mixed descent; most likely
a sprinkling of Spanish blood flows through their veins. The men, of
small stature, are lithe, sinewy, and extremely active; the women have
a decided tendency to become fat; one or two of them had attained to
such a state of obesity, that walking was next to an impossibility. The
children are the most singular little frights imaginable; guiltless of
garments, they seemed all eyes and stomach, arms and legs being merely
trifling unessential appendages; a singularity of form that may, I
presume, be traced to the habit of consuming such vast quantities of
innutritious vegetable food.

We reached Colon (or Aspinwall, as the Americans have named it) in
due course, and landed about midday. The outfit being enormously
heavy, some time had necessarily to be occupied in landing; and as the
afternoon train was about to start, it was deemed the wiser course to
send the men and officers at once to Panama, where Her Majesty’s ship
‘Havannah’ was waiting to take us to Vancouver Island—the Commissioner
and myself remaining at Colon, with a sergeant and small working-party,
to bring on the baggage. All the attendant miseries of unshipping such
a heterogeneous medley of packages as we had on board was finished at
last, and our equipment safely stowed away in the goods-vans of the
Panama Railway Company.

An invitation from the manager of the railway to the Commissioner to
sleep at their messhouse was by him gladly accepted; a favour not
extended to myself, so I had to take up my quarters at the ‘Howard
House.’ Now the ‘Howard House’ was managed precisely on the same
plan as a travelling wild-beast show; the entire attraction was on
the outside. The bar-room, brilliantly lighted, and glittering with
gilt, glass, and gaudy ornaments, was open to the street; an array of
rocking-chairs, before the pillars supporting the verandah, enabled
the luxurious lounger to sit with his heels higher than his head,
and in smoky abstraction contemplate his toes. The barman, all studs
and shirt-front, hardly deigned to answer my request for a bed, but,
pointing to the entry-book, said, ‘Waal, you’d better sign.’ My name
duly inscribed on the page of a huge and particularly soiled book, a
key was handed me, adorned with a brass label, attached to a chain
of like material, with No. 10 on it. ‘Guess, stranger, I want a
dollar—and you jist look here: there are two beds, so if anyone comes
along, he’ll jist have to room with you.’ This I decidedly objected to.
‘Waal, can’t help it nohow; thar ain’t no other room.’ ‘If I pay for
both beds,’ I replied, ‘surely I can have it all to myself?’ This was
at length agreed to, the money paid, and at an early hour I turned in,
to enjoy a good sound sleep ashore.

Excepting two miserable, hard, curtainless beds, an old rickety
chest of drawers, and a couple of chairs, the room was destitute of
furniture; but spite of all discomfort, mosquitos, and other pests,
_felt_ if not seen or heard, I fell fast asleep, soon to be roused
again by a loud knocking at my door, the sound of numerous feet
scuffling hurriedly up and down the passage, and a very Babel of
voices. Hardly awake, my ideas were in a jumbled sort of chaos as to
the cause. Fire, burglars, riots, a house-fight, were all mixed in
strange confusion, until an angry voice, that appeared to come through
the speaker’s nose, yelled, rather than spoke, ‘Say, ar you agwine to
open this door? Our women want them beds for a lay-out, and jist mean
to havin em, anyhow.’ ‘Ah!’ thought I, ‘they want the spare bed I have
paid for.’ Of course I refused—who would not?—and, dragging the old
chest of drawers against the door, defied them to do their worst.

In the angry parley that ensued, I discovered that a steamer had just
arrived from New York, en route to the new gold-diggings in British
Columbia, with 1,500 passengers, who, rowdy-like, demanded everything.
Threats of administering the summary law of Judge Lynch—of firing
their six-shooters through the door, and riddling me like a rat in a
hole—together with sundry hard names (it is better to imagine than
mention), were heaped profusely on my devoted head. As it appeared
to me quite as unsafe to surrender as to remain in my fortress, I
determined on holding out to the last.

Fortunately, daylight soon came, and with it the shrill whistle and
clanging bell, announcing the departure of a railway-train. Peeping
cautiously through the window, I saw, to my intense delight, a long
train specially put on, and the rowdies just ready to start. I watched
them scrambling in, and as the engine with its freight dashed into the
tropical jungle, I emerged from my room and the ‘Howard House’ with all
possible speed, completed my toilet at the barber’s shop, breakfasted
with the Commissioner at the Company’s messroom, and thus ended my
night in Colon.

The agency and mess establishment of the Panama Railway Company
are really delightful residences, overshadowed by cocoanut trees,
and surrounded by perfect bijous of gardens entirely reclaimed from
the swamps: the papaw, the banana, blossoming creeping plants,
fruit-bearing vines, and curious orchids, all growing together,
a wild tangle of loveliness, yielding beauty, fruits, and shade.
The cool verandah, and cane-chairs from China, together with the
comfortably-furnished interior, gave ample proof that the products of
a tropical country may be used to good account, as additions to our
northern ideas of a substantial home.

One of the most singular flowers growing in this pretty garden was an
orchid, called by the natives ‘Flor del Espiritu Santo,’ or the ‘Flower
of the Holy Ghost.’ The blossom, white as Parian-marble, somewhat
resembles the tulip in form; its perfume is not unlike that of the
magnolia, but more intense; neither its beauty nor fragrance begat for
it the high reverence in which it is held, but the image of a dove
placed in its centre. Gathering the freshly-opened flower, and pulling
apart its alabaster petals, there sits the dove; its slender pinions
droop listlessly by its side, the head inclining gently forward, as if
bowed in humble submission, brings the delicate beak, just blushed
with carmine, in contact with the snowy breast. Meekness and innocence
seem embodied in this singular freak of nature; and who can marvel that
crafty priests, ever watchful for any phenomenon convertible into the
miraculous, should have knelt before this wondrous flower, and trained
the minds of the superstitious natives to accept the title the ‘Flower
of the Holy Ghost,’ to gaze upon with awe and reverence, sanctifying
even the rotten wood from which it springs, and the air laden with its
exquisite perfume? But it is the flower alone I fear they worship;
their minds ascend not from ‘nature up to nature’s God;’ the image
only is bowed down to, not He who made it. The stalks of the plant are
jointed, and attain a height of from six to seven feet, and from each
joint spring two lanceolate leaves; the time of flowering is in June
and July.

We were to have a special train (the cost of crossing the isthmus was
something enormous—the actual amount I do not now remember); and as we
were most desirous to see as much of the country as possible, an open
goods-truck was appropriated to our use, in which we could stand, and
have a full peep at everything as we steamed along. Whilst the train
was getting ready, I took a turn over the Company’s wharf and round
the town.

The Wharf, built on piles driven into the coral reef, extends about
a thousand feet in length, and forty in width, with a depth of
water at its landing-end sufficient to float the largest ship. The
piles are from the forests of Maine, and have to be coppered above
high-water-mark, to resist the destroying power of a boring worm
(_Teredo fimbriata_), that would otherwise destroy them in a very few
months. The Freight Department is a handsome stone structure, three
hundred feet long by eighty wide, through the arched entrance to which
is a triple line of rails.

Man, it is said, differs from all other animals, in being ‘a tool and
a road-making animal,’ the truth of which was well exemplified in the
curious assemblage of products collected from all parts of the world,
and stowed in this huge house, brought by man’s ocean highways, and
awaiting removal by his iron roads and horses.

Ceroons of cochineal and indigo from Guatemala and San Salvador, cocoa
from Eçuador, sarsaparilla from Nicaragua, coffee from Costa Rica,
hides from the North and South Pacific coasts, copper-ore from Bolivia,
linen goods from the French and English markets, beef, pork, hard
bread, cheese from the States, and silks from China.

The town of Colon, as everybody perhaps does not know, stands on
a small island called Manzanilla, cut off from the mainland by a
narrow frith; the entire island being about one square mile in
extent, composed of coral reefs, and only raised a few feet above
highwater-level. It has no supply of fresh water but what is obtained
during the heavy rains; this, collected in immense iron tanks, that
hold over four thousand gallons, supplies the inhabitants during the
dry seasons.

The most conspicuous objects one meets with in this dismal place are
flocks of turkey-buzzards (useful inspectors or nuisances, as they
do their own work of removal), pigs, naked dirty little children in
legions, blear-eyed mangy curs that do nothing but growl and sleep;
together with peddling darkies, bummers, and loafers (I know no other
names so expressive of this species of idler as these Transatlantic
ones), that employ their time much in the same fashion as the curs.
A line of shops faces the sea, and at a little distance is the
‘mingillo,’ or native marketplace, a spot no one would be disposed to
linger in or visit a second time, unless the nose could be dispensed
with. ‘Noses have they but they smell not,’ must surely apply to the
dwellers in the marketplace; the air is _literally_ (and not in figure
of speech only) _laden_ with the mingled fragrance of past and present
victims, an odour far more potent than pleasant. Surely ladies never go
to market in Colon!

The train was by this time ready to take us to Panama, and, with a
parting scream, the iron horse rushed into the tropical wilderness. On
leaving Colon, the line winds its way through a deep cutting across
a morass, and along the right bank of the Rio Chagres; glimpses are
caught of the river from amidst the tangled and twisted foliage that
shuts it in on either side like dense walls. From out this leafy chaos
rise the gaunt trunks of the mango, cocoanut, plane, cieba, and stately
palm. Plantains, too, spread their green succulent leaves—sunshades
of nature’s own contriving—to protect the tender growths that love
to live beneath them. Every tree seemed strangling in the coils of
trailing vines and climbers; real ropes, pendents, and streamers of
brilliant blossoms, fit resting-places for the birds and butterflies,
themselves like living flowers. Wondrous orchids, grotesque in form
and colouring, grew everywhere, springing alike from the living and the
dead; for amidst this flood of vegetable life, decay and beauty, like
twin sisters, walk hand-in-hand.

We stopped at Gatun for a short time, the station being close to the
little village of bamboo huts thatched with palmetto-leaves, and only
remarkable as being the place where the ‘bongoes’ (or native boats)
used to stop for the travellers to refresh themselves ere the railroad
was. From here the line skirts the bases of an irregular series of
hills to cross the Rio Gatun, tributary to the Rio Chagres, on a
well-made truss girder-bridge of seventy feet span; passed Frijoli,
where the fields of golden maize were decked with what looked, at a
distance, like immense bouquets of scarlet flowers; and along the banks
of the Rio Chagres, which are here very deep, to cross it at Barbacous
on a wrought-iron bridge, six hundred and twenty-five feet in length,
eighteen in breadth, and forty feet above the surface of the water.
There are six spans, each over a hundred feet; iron floor girders,
three feet apart, support the rails—the entire structure resting on
five piers and two abutments.

After crossing the river, the country becomes open, and large patches
of rich land are seen under a rude kind of cultivation, until the
native town of Gorgona is reached, where, in old days, boats were
exchanged for horses and mules, on the overland route.

Leaving the course of the river, the line passes through deep clay
banks and rocky cuttings, suddenly emerging on the green meadowlands
surrounding Matuchin. I never gazed on a more exquisite panorama.
Dotting the foreground was a pretty native village; to the left the
Chagres, and its tributary the Rio Obispo; on the right a group of
conical hills, so clothed with vegetation that it was impossible to
imagine what the land would look like if the trees were cut away.
During our stay at this station we were regularly beset; numerous
vendors of native merchandise crowded into and round about the open
van; grey-haired old men, and women, pushed trays under our very noses,
covered with filthy pastry, gingerbread, sweetstuff, and other like
abominations; whilst little black urchins sat like imps on the rails
of the truck, each with some live captive for sale—monkey, squirrel,
parrot, or other bright-plumaged bird.

Following the valley of the Obispo, which river is crossed twice
within a mile on iron bridges, we ascend gradually (the gradient being
about sixty feet in the mile) to reach the watershed, over which the
descent commences to the Pacific. About a mile from the summit the
line winds through a huge pile of basaltic columns, that look as if
some Titan force had hurled them into the air, and let them fall again
one over the other, like a mass of driftwood piles itself in a North
American river. Below, the Rio Grande may be seen, a mere brawling
burn; a short distance through thick woods, and we are at Paraiso; as
unlike one’s ideal of paradise as Cremorne Gardens or Ratcliff Highway.
Again we reach the swampy lowlands with their dense growths; ahead,
and looming high in the glowing atmosphere, stands Mount Ancon, whose
southern base is bathed by the blue waters of the Pacific; on the left,
Cerro-de-los-Buccaneros, or the Hill of the Buccaneers, from whose
summit the terrible Morgan first looked on old Panama in the year 1670.
We rattle past San Pedro Miguel and Caimitillo, small tidal tributaries
to the Rio Grande, scream through the Rio Grande Station, sweep round
the base of Mount Ancon; and before us are the tall spires of the
cathedral, the long metal roofing of the terminus, and the quiet
waters of the Pacific.

Captain Harvey, R.N., then in command of Her Majesty’s ship ‘Havannah,’
met us at the terminus; the ship’s boats were in waiting to take both
men and baggage on board, so that I saw but little of Panama. My old
foes (that waged war against me at Colon), the gold-seekers, were
assembled on the wharf, awaiting the small tugboat to take them off to
the larger steamer anchored in the offing. To judge from appearances,
there were amongst them a goodly sprinkling that would have deemed
lynching or riddling a Britisher, a capital joke.

A tropical sun soon makes one thirsty. I wanted ‘a drink,’ and for
the first time tasted iced cocoanut-milk; never in my life have I
ever drunk anything half as delicious. Don’t imagine that, in the
least degree, it resembles the small teacupful of sweet insipid stuff
dribbled out from the cocoanut as we buy it here in England. What we
eat as kernel is liquid in the young nut, and the outer husk soft
enough to push your thumb through. Surely the cocoanut palm must have
been specially designed for the dwellers in the tropical world! It
supplies everything uncivilised man can possibly need, to build his
ships, rig, paddle, and sail them; from its products, too, he can make
his houses, and obtain food, drink, clothing, and culinary utensils.
Strictly littoral in its habits, the cocoa-palm loves to loll over the
sea, and let the frothy ripple wash its rootlets. This also looks like
another link in the chain of Divine intentions. The nuts necessarily
fall into the sea—winds and currents carry them to coral reefs, or
strand them on desert shores, there to grow, and, by a sequence of
wondrously-ordered events, in time make it habitable for man. The
‘Havannah’ dropped down to the beautiful island of Tobago, to take in
water ere she sailed for Vancouver Island.

As we crossed the Bay of Panama (which is, I believe, about 135 miles
wide, running inland 120), pelicans, far too numerous to count, were
floating high in the air, some of them mere specks. The species
_Pelecanus fuscus_ (the brown pelican) is a permanent resident on the
southern coasts of America, frequenting in great numbers the shores of
the Gulf of Mexico, California, the Bay of Panama, and other sheltered
inlets. They frequently build in the trees, although the nest is quite
as often placed on the ground, even when the former are close at hand.
My acquaintance with the pelicans in the Zoological Gardens in the
Regent’s Park had given me an idea of clumsiness, and to see them
_spooning_ the fish from out their pond is certainly no indication of
being adepts at fishing. I know no prettier sight than to watch the
brown pelican fishing in the Bay of Panama; no awkwardness there, every
movement easy and graceful. Soaring high in the lurid atmosphere, to
the eye little more than a tiny dark spot, suddenly down comes the bird
as if hurled from the clouds; plunging in head-first, its sharp beak
cleaves the water like a wedge; a fish seized is at once pouched; and,
rising without any apparent effort from the sea, it soars off again, to
look out for another chance. Should the fish be missed, an event that
does not often happen, the bird sits quietly on the water, and stares
round in stupid astonishment.

We remained several days at Tobago; and as we rode at anchor in the
deep roadstead, I could have easily pitched a penny into the groves
of tamarind and orange-trees, that grew on the very beach. From the
sea-line to the summit of the island, which is quite a thousand feet
in altitude, the hills rise in terraces, but so densely clothed with
cocoanut, banana, tamarind, orange, and other tropical trees, that one
hardly credits the existence of terraces, or that hill and valley are
hid beneath the unbroken surface of green. A little village lies hid
in a palm-grove at the base of the hill, and in the ravine behind it
bubbles up the spring of pure fresh water, that never fails, and from
which all vessels touching at Panama obtain their supply.

Mr. Baurman, a geologist, accompanied me on a ramble through its woods
and along the seacoast. We did nothing to distinguish ourselves save
getting frightfully hot, being well-nigh famished with thirst (for we
were far away from the water), and although I fired at the cocoanuts in
the hope of bringing one down, only succeeded in making holes in them
and letting out the much-coveted milk, that fell on us like a shower of
rain; shooting a few doves amongst the pineapples, and a turkey-buzzard
on the summit—a frightful crime in Tobago, of which, at the time, I
was in happy ignorance; but, fortunately for me, Baurman carried the
bird, and was deemed, for his good nature, the greater culprit. The
most singular sight we stumbled on was a bull, saddled and bridled in
equine fashion, with a black man riding on his back. Tauro might have
been a good hack, but he certainly did not look so as he waddled lazily
along with his sable rider.

The inhabitants, with few exceptions, are blacks. There was one girl
(the property of as repulsive an old demon as one could well see)
perfectly blonde, fair even to paleness, with soft blue eyes and long
golden hair, that hung in wavy ripples down to her waist—her feet and
hands delicately small, and a figure Venus might have envied. Where
she came from no one knew: one might have supposed her the descendant
of some Viking, if Vikings had ever cruised in the Pacific. Perhaps
her owner was a ‘Black Pirate,’ who stole the damsel, and knifed her
friends; not bad material for a _sensation_ story—‘The Fair Captive of
Tobago.’

The view from the summit was exceedingly lovely. Behind, and to the
right and left, the dark-green slope looked as if one could have slid
into the vessels at their anchorage; before, a vertical wall of rock a
thousand feet from the sea. It looked to me as if the island had been
broken in two in the centre, and that one-half had sunk into the water
and disappeared; the air quivered even at this height, as it does over
a limekiln; not a leaf stirred— the intensely blue sea was unrippled
far as eye could reach; the very birds and insects, too hot to fly, sat
panting under the shadow of the leaves. We gathered a pineapple, but it
tasted hot, as if half-roasted.

I am not favourably impressed with the honesty of the islanders that
do the washing, or rather that do not do it. Following the example of
the officers of the ‘Havannah,’ I delivered my bag of clothes, the
accumulation since leaving England, to the washer, who promised, as
only a black washerman will promise, to have it on board before we
sailed: he kept his word, for he came when the ship was under weigh,
had his money, and with bows, and prayers for my welfare in this world,
vanished over the side. We were well out to sea when I looked at my
bag; imagine my wrath at finding everything just as I had given it. It
was lucky for the rascal he was out of reach, and perhaps quite as well
for me; a dollar (4_s._) a dozen to carry one’s clothes ashore, most
likely to wear, and bring back again dirtier than it went, would enrage
the meekest saint!

The voyage in the ‘Havannah’ from Panama to Vancouver Island was a long
and wearisome one. We left Tobago on June 4, and entered the Straits
of Juan de Fuca on July 12. Reference to the track-chart shows how
we idled and idled along on the sea, sauntering, rather than sailing;
with a blazing sun right over the masthead, the heat was intolerable,
and attended with a depressing languor, that forbade all energy, and
fairly melted one in body and mind. The only land sighted was a very
distant view of the Gallopagos Islands, a mere black looking spot on
an interminable surface of blue. This group of volcanic islands, so
strangely isolated, might have been a monster fish, a phantom ship, or
even the great sea-serpent, for anything that could be definitely made
out, even aided by a ship’s telescope.

We caught great numbers of dolphins (_Coryphæna hippuris_), which
are far more lovely to the eye than agreeable to the palate, in my
estimation. This fish, usually from four to five feet in length, is
built for rapid passage through the water: the tail, forked like horns,
together with the long dorsal fin, reaching from head to tail, enables
it to turn with an ease and celerity during even its swiftest transit
through the sea. All who have written (in prose or poetry) about the
dolphin have attempted a description of its marvellous colouring:
to convey, by word-painting, the slightest idea of the changing,
flashing, glowing radiance that plays around and upon this fish, when
fresh from the ocean, is as impossible as to describe the colours of
the Aurora, or the phosphorescence of the tropical seas; it must be
witnessed to be realised in all its magnificence. Flying-fish are its
favourite food, and these the dolphins course as greyhounds course
hares; what is called ‘flying’ being merely an extended leap, aided by
the immensely-elongated pectoral fins, made in sheer desperation to
escape the voracious sea-hounds so hotly pursuing them.

In reference to these same flying-fish, the species washed on board the
‘Parana’ by the waves of the turbulent Atlantic, and that found their
way into the stomach of a dolphin of terrestrial habits, was _Exocetus
exiliens_. I could see nothing of its movements, as the sea simply
washed it into the sponsons, or left it floundering on the deck. Its
general appearance was exactly like a newly-caught herring: the scales,
thin and rounded, easily detached, and adhered to the hand; the back
a light steel-blue, with greenish reflections, shading into silvery
whiteness on the sides; the pectoral fins reached quite to the tail,
and were shaped like the wings of a swift; the dorsal and anal fins
are opposite each other, and placed near the tail, which is deeply but
unevenly forked—the lower limb being much the longer; the ventral
fins, which are posterior to the middle of the body, are unusually long
and strongly rayed.

But in the uncomfortably calm Pacific, where I watched the flying-fish
every day, and often all day long, I had ample opportunity to observe
its so-called ‘flying.’ The species that tenant the two oceans are
very nearly allied, _Exocetus volitans_ being the one common to the
Pacific; but it is of habits I wish to treat, not of minute specific
distinctions—that can be settled in the studio. It seems to me that
the distance traversed when the fish leaps from the sea, and the length
of time it remains out of the water, are much overestimated in books
on Natural History. Ten or twelve seconds may be taken as the average
time of its flight, and eighty yards the maximum distance traversed
when the water is perfectly tranquil; if aided by a breeze of wind, or
propelled from the crest of a breaker, the distance accomplished would
necessarily be greater; but the fins have no power to raise the fish a
single inch above the level of its leap, and simply aid in its support,
as the extended skin of the flying-squirrel bears it up in its spring
from bough to bough. I have never seen the fins vibrated or flapped, as
all wings invariably are, but, stiff and rigid, are extended and still,
until the fish plunges into the sea. Numbers, beyond all computation,
were constantly seen by us in the air together, when chased by
predatory fish. The flying-fish, as a rule, is about twelve inches in
length.

We caught several sharks, and an immense hammerhead (_Zygaena
vulgaris_), that we could not catch, followed us for a very long time.
As I looked at him sailing along under the stern of the ship, I was at
a loss to imagine for what purpose such a head was given to it; exactly
like an immense caulking-hammer, with an eye in each end; in every
other detail of shape, and in habits of voracity too, as far as I know,
it resembles the ordinary sharks. That it is so constructed to serve
some special purpose in its economy there can be no doubt, but what
that may be, remains to be discovered. We fished for albatross with
marked success, to be devoured by both men and officers, stuffed as a
goose; the rag from off the bung of a cask of whale-oil, rubbed with an
onion and chewed, would be mildly flavoured as compared to the flesh
of this sea-bird. Petrels were ever with us, like flights of martins
round the habitations of man; always on the wing, never resting, or
roosting either, as far as I could see; watch them in their easy
graceful flight, till the last lingering ray of light sank away beneath
the watery horizon; and, as night wrapped them in her sable mantle,
they were still on the wing. Be on deck as the first blush of early
dawn crept drowsily over the sleeping sea, and with the rosy light
came the petrels, still flying, as they had vanished in the darkness.
We tried to catch them by loosing long threads over the stern, and
tangling them, like human spiders; we did trap one, but the sailors
were mutinous at such unheard-of barbarity; injuring the chickens of
‘Mother Carey’ was an offence not to be tolerated, even in a zealous
naturalist; so, at the captain’s request, the cotton webs were
abandoned. The one taken was the black stormy petrel, _Thalassidroma
melania_ (C. Buonaparte): upper plumage entirely black (as are the
wing-coverts), below ferruginous; tail deeply forked, and very short.

It is a well-marked species, and readily distinguished from all its
kindred by the absence of white on the rump and wing-coverts. We caught
a huge turtle with a hook and line: a number of lines were hanging
from the bow, the ship almost still, when there was a tremendous
hue-and-cry that a turtle was hooked. To hold him with the line would
have been an utter impossibility—he could have smashed it like
pack-thread. The barbed trident called ‘a grains’ was brought into
immediate requisition, and from the ‘dolphin-striker’ an experienced
hand sent it crashing through the turtle’s armour-plates; a boat was
lowered, tackle rigged, and the ponderous reptile safely deposited on
the deck. The species I was unable to determine, for I had barely time
to seize the sucking-fish (_Remora_) that were clinging to its shell in
clusters, and observe the curious beings, parasitic and others, that
evidently used the turtle as a living raft, on which to cruise about,
ere the remorseless cook, armed with knife, axe, and saw, hewed and
hacked the monster, I could have devoted days to examine, into junks
for the pot. The harvest gleaned from his shell I shall speak of in the
chapter on Fishes.

All our fresh provisions had long been expended, and water reduced to
a very small supply per diem, when on the 11th of July, the seventieth
day at sea, ‘land on the starboard bow’ was an announcement welcome
to all. Being near dark, it was deemed advisable to stand off until
morning, and enter the Straits of Juan de Fuca with a good light. It
appeared a longer night than I ever remember, so impatient was I once
more to see and tread on _terra firma_; what in the mist and distance
seemed but a dark undefined shadow, was in reality the lighthouse,
standing grey and lonely on the wild wave-lashed rocks of Cape
Flattery. The wind was dead aft, and blowing freshly, as we dashed up
the straits, faster far than we had ever gone during the long tedious
voyage.

Nowhere is this curious inlet more than twelve miles in width: on the
right, seen over an ocean of dark-green forest, sloping to the shore,
were the snowy summits of the Olympian range of mountains; on the
left the more rounded and lower metamorphic hills, quite as densely
timbered, but broken along the coast-line into open glades and grassy
slopes, like well-kept lawns, reaching to the water-line. About sixty
miles from the entrance we round the dreaded ‘race rocks,’ and with
scarce time for even a hasty look at the new land, glide round a
rocky point, on which is a house, and people anxiously watching our
movements. The sails are clewed up; orders are rapidly given, and as
quickly executed. A heavy plunging splash and the rattle of the massive
cable, as it crashes through the hawse-holes, proclaim our anchorage in
Esquimalt Harbour, and safe arrival at Vancouver Island.




                              CHAPTER II.

             VICTORIA—THE SALMON: ITS HAUNTS AND HABITS.


We were landed, soon after our arrival, on a rocky point of land with a
snug sheltered bay on each side; an easy slope led up to the frame of a
house, destined to be our headquarters; a pretty spot, very Englishlike
in its general features, but in the rough clothing of uncultivated
nature. Tents were pitched, the baggage carried safely up and stowed
away, and the first camp of the Boundary Commission established in this
new land of promise.

Our first walk to Victoria, now the thriving capital of Vancouver
Island, was made on the evening of our landing. The gold-fever was
just beginning to rage fast and furiously, and all classes, from every
country, were pouring in—a very torrent of gold-hunters. Not that
_gold-hunter_ means only he that digs and washes the yellow ore from
out Nature’s treasury, but includes a herd of parasites, that sap the
gains of the honest digger; tempting him to gamble, drink poison
(miscalled whisky), and purchase trashy trumpery, made, like Pindar’s
razors, only to sell; and thus fool away his wealth; ‘earned like a
horse, squandered like an ass!’ Both species were well represented, in
what could not, in any sense of the word, as yet be called a town.

The old trading-post of the Hudson’s Bay Company, the governor’s
house, and a few scattered residences of the chief traders and other
employés of the Company, alone represented the permanent dwellings. But
in all directions were canvas tents, from the white strip stretched
over a ridge-pole, and pegged to the ground (affording just room
enough for two to crawl in and sleep), to the great canvas store, a
blaze of light, redolent of cigars, smashes, cobblers, and cocktails.
The rattle of the dice-box, the droning invitation of the keepers of
the monte-tables, the discordant sounds of badly-played instruments,
angry words, oaths too terrible to name, roystering songs with noisy
refrains, were all signs significant of the golden talisman that met
me on every side, as I elbowed my way amidst the unkempt throng, that
were awaiting means of conveyance to take them to the auriferous bars
of the far-famed Fraser river. Along the side of the harbour, wherever
advantageous water-sites were obtainable, the noise of busy industry
sounded pleasantly in contrast to the mingled hubbub I had just left.
Higher up the slope, substantial stores were being rapidly built. Out
of these germs grew the present town the capital of the island, that we
shall often have to visit in the course of this narrative.

With the island, and its history as a colony, I have but little to do.
Other and more able writers have said all that need or can be told
about its commerce, agriculture, politics, and progress. The prairie,
forest, lake, river, sea, estuary, and rocky inlet are my domains; to
their tenants I have to introduce you, guide you to their homes and
haunts, and bring you face to face, in imagination, with the zoological
colony of the Far North-west.

First, of the island. Vancouver Island is situated between the
parallels of 48° 20″ and 51° N. lat., and in from 123° to 128° W.
long.—its shape, oblong; length, 300 miles; its breadth, varying at
different points, may be taken at an average of from 35 to 50 miles.
The island may be characterised as an isolated ridge of mountains,
which attain, at their greatest elevation, an altitude of about 6,000
feet. There are no navigable rivers, but numerous mountain-streams,
that, as a rule, have a rapid descent, and empty into inlets or arms
of the sea, everywhere intersecting the coast-line, east and west of
the watershed. Lakes, large and small, are common, from the summit of
the hills to the flat gravel lands near the coast; dense pine-forests
clothe these hills to their very tops. On the open lands, misnamed
prairies, the scrub-oak (_Quercus garryana_) grows so gnarled and
contorted that stock, branch, twig, and even the very leaves look as
if they suffered from perpetual cramp. Alder, willow, black birch, and
cottonwood fill the hollows.

The climate of the island is milder and more equable than it is on the
adjoining continent, and closely approximates to that of Great Britain.

The shortest road to an Englishman’s heart, says the adage, is down his
throat; and being a road a good deal travelled, is it to be wondered at
if fish (especially such as are welcome travellers down this same ‘red
lane’) should have been the first objects of practical Natural History
to which the naturalist, fresh from the ‘old country’ and seventy-two
days’ imprisonment on board-ship, turned his attention? The first fish
I saw and tasted was salmon; and to the Salmon and its haunts I at once
introduce you.


                            SALMO QUINNAT.

Richardson, F. B. A., ‘Fishes,’ p. 219; Common Salmon, Lewis and Clark.
INDIAN NAMES: at Chinook Point, mouth of the Columbia, _Quinnat_; at
the Kettle Falls, _See-met-leek_; by the Nesquallys, _Satsup_.

SPECIFIC CHARACTERS.—Head, just one-fourth of the entire length,
measured from the tip of the nose to where the scales terminate at the
tail; the operculum very much rounded, and usually with several spiny
projections on the outer margin; preoperculum rounded much the same,
but wanting the serrated margin; branchial rays, fourteen. Cleft of
the mouth posterior to the eye, which is a dark copper-colour in the
freshly-caught fish. The teeth are large and strong in both jaws, but
they vary in number according to the age, sex, and condition of the
salmon; about ten in each limb of the jaws may be taken as the usual
average in an adult fish. Those on the tongue are smaller, and placed
in two rows, six in each row. The vomerine and palatine teeth are again
much smaller and weaker than any of the others, corresponding to such
as stud the gullet.

Fresh from the water, the colours in a healthy fish are particularly
marked and bright, but change rapidly after death. The back, through
its entire length, is a light steel-blue; shading off on the sides to
a lighter tint, that merges by imperceptible gradations through grey
to silvery-white on the belly; blushed over with pink, that disappears
soon after death. Back, above the well-defined lateral line, thickly
spotted with black, the spots being like stars with rays of irregular
length; but I have very often seen the spots extending beyond the
lateral line, and even on the white of the belly. Opercula, all the
fins and the tail more or less spotted, and of a pinkish hue, the anal
and pectoral fins tipped with black. The general appearance of this
salmon is that of being very thick for its length, the dorsal outline
slightly arched, forming almost a notch with the tail.

                   •       •       •       •       •

Soon after our commencing work, I was encamped for many months on the
banks of the Chilukweyuk river, a tributary to the Fraser, having a
short but rapid course through a rocky valley.

In June and July salmon ascend this stream in incredible numbers,
filing off as they work upcurrent into every rivulet, filling even
pools left on the prairies and flats by the receding floods.

About a mile from my camp was a large patch of pebbly ground, dry even
at the highest floods, through which a shallow stream found its way
into the larger river. Though barely of sufficient depth to cover an
ordinary-sized salmon, yet I have seen that stream so filled, that fish
pushed one another out of the water high-and-dry upon the pebbles.
Each, with its head up-stream, struggled, fought, and scuffled for
precedence. With one’s hands only, or, more easily, by employing a gaff
or a crook-stick, tons of salmon could have been procured by the simple
process of hooking them out.

It seems to me that thousands of the salmon ascending these small
mountain-streams never can spawn from sheer want of room, or, if they
do, it must be under most unfavourable circumstances. At the end of
the pebble-stream was a waterfall, beyond which no fish could by
any possibility pass. Having arrived at this barrier to all farther
progress, there they obstinately remained. Weeks were spent in
watching them, but I never, in a single instance, saw one turn back
and endeavour to seek a more congenial watercourse; but, crowded from
behind by fresh arrivals, they died by the score, and, drifting slowly
along, in time reached the larger stream. It was a strange and novel
sight to see three moving lines of fish—the dead and dying in the
eddies and slack-water along the banks, the living, breasting the
current in the centre, blindly pressing on to perish like their kindred.

Even in streams where a successful deposition of the ova has been
accomplished, there never appears, as far as my observations have gone,
any disposition in the parent-fish to return to the sea. Their instinct
still prompts them to keep swimming up-stream, until you often find
them with their noses worn quite off, their heads bruised and battered,
fins and tail ragged and torn, bodies emaciated, thin, and flabby;
the bright silvery tints dull and leaden in hue, a livid red streak
extending along each side from head to tail, in which large ulcerous
sores have eaten into the very vitals.

The Indians say all the salmon that come up to spawn die; but if all
do not die, I have no hesitation in saying that very few spring-salmon
ever reach the saltwater after ascending the rivers to spawn. Why
there should be this marvellous waste of salmon in the rivers of the
North-west I am somewhat puzzled to imagine. The distance the fish
have to travel from the sea up-stream, or the obstacles they may
have to overcome, have clearly nothing to do with their dying. In the
Chilukweyuk river the distance from the sea is not over 200 miles, and
that clear from any kind of hindrance; and yet they die in thousands.
In the Columbia they ascend a thousand miles to the Kettle Falls, and
they have been caught many hundred miles above that; still they die
just the same as in the shorter streams. Up the Snake river they push
their way to the great Shoshonee Falls, over a thousand miles against
a rocky stream, but perish there just as they do in the Sumass and
Chilukweyuk rivers, which are close to the sea.

Unlike the salmon in our own streams, the spring-salmon in
North-western waters spawn in midsummer, when the water is at its
lowest temperature and greatest flood-height, from the melting snow.
As there is no impediment or hindrance to prevent them returning
to the sea, why do they die in N.W. waters? In my opinion, from
sheer starvation. Careful observations, made at various Indian
fishing-stations and extending over a long space of time, have
quite convinced me that salmon (I more particularly allude to the
spring-fish) never feed after leaving saltwater. My reasons for
thus thinking are, first, no salmon (as far as I know) has ever
been tempted to take a bait of any kind in the fresh water above
the tideway. The Indians all say that salmon never _eat_ when in
the _rivers_; and I could never discover that they had any recorded
instance, or even tradition, of a salmon being taken with bait.

I tried every lure I could think of, to tempt these lordly salmon. The
most killing salmon-flies of Scotch, Irish, and English ties, thrown
in the most approved fashion, were trailed close to their noses; such
flies as would have coaxed any old experienced salmon in the civilised
world of waters to forget his caution. Hooks, cunningly baited with
live fish, aquatic larvæ, and winged insects, were scorned, and not
even honoured with a sniff. Others of the Commission also tried their
powers of fascination, but with equally unsuccessful results.

I have opened a very large number of salmon at various Indian
fishing-stations, on their first arrival, and during every stage of
their wasting vitality, and after death had ended their sufferings;
and not in a solitary instance did I ever discover the trace of food
in the stomach or intestinal canal. But in every case where a salmon
was taken in the tideway or saltwater, I invariably found the remains
of small fish and marine animals in its stomach; and in the estuaries
and long inland canals that so strangely intersect the coast-line of
British Columbia, salmon are readily and easily caught with hook and
line; clearly showing to my mind, that whilst in salt and brackish
water the North-western spring-salmon feed and fatten, but, after
quitting their ocean-haunts for the cold fresh-water, they starve,
waste, and die, as a lamp goes out from sheer want of oil. Surely,
where hundreds of salmon are split in a day, as at the Kettle Falls, it
is fair to assume that if they took any food, by chance a fish would be
caught immediately after its meal, with enough evidence in the stomach
to prove the fact of having broken its fast; but such proof is never
discoverable. Digestion would scarcely be more rapid in the rivers than
it is in the ocean and estuary, where we know they eat. Open a salmon
and examine its stomach at any time, caught either in nets or with hook
and line, and food in various stages of digestion will be invariably
found.

Another proof that they undergo a rigid and persistent lent is found in
the rapid wasting of all the tissues that goes on during their sojourn
in fresh-water. Allowing for the consumption of material requisite
for the purposes of reproduction, and the wear-and-tear consequent on
making their way up stiff currents, leaping falls, and laboriously
toiling up rocky _canions_—still I contend, if only a partial
equivalent was resupplied in the shape of food, waste would not go on
to the actual death of the muscles, that slough away in large pieces,
as the exhausted fish makes feeble efforts to struggle on; dying at
last a loathsome mass of rotting animal matter.

Sores, in both male and female fish, often arise from injuries
inflicted by the teeth of a jealous adversary; but these wounds are
utterly different from the sloughing ulcer, arising, as I believe, from
sheer lack of vital force. These salmon veritably consume themselves,
and perish, when life’s stove burns out, for want of fuel to keep it
alight.

In August the Chilukweyuk river became perfectly unendurable from
the quantities of dead fish floating down. I had with me a splendid
retriever, that, to my disgust and annoyance, used to amuse himself,
during my absence from the tent, by swimming in after the floating
salmon, bringing them ashore, and safely storing them in my canvas
dwelling; and on my return I used to discover a heap of fish, the
stench from which was beyond human endurance. If fastened out from the
tent, he piled them up at the door: all the lessons bestowed on him
failed to convince him of his folly; he stuck to his disagreeable habit
with a perseverance worthy of a better cause.

Arriving a little later than the preceding, is a smaller fish, which
I believe to be the _Salmo paucidens_ (Weak-Toothed Salmon) of Sir J.
Richardson, F. B. A., p. 223; the _red charr_ of Lewis and Clark, but
the red they allude to is a colour every one of the different species
acquire after being a short time in the rivers.

This fish seldom attains a weight over from three to five pounds,
and is called by the Indians, at the salmon-leap at Colville on the
Columbia, _stzoin_; it is a very handsome fish, back nearly straight,
a light sea-greenish colour; sides and belly silvery-white, tail very
forked, fins and tail devoid of any spots; the teeth are wide apart,
and not strongly implanted. I was disposed at first to think they were
the _young_ of some other species; but the Indians are positive they
are not, and they spawn much as the others do. In a small stream or
tributary to the Chilukweyuk river, a mountain-torrent on the west
side of the Cascades flowing into the Fraser, on the banks of which I
was for a long time encamped, and up which the salmon come in great
numbers, I amused myself watching this species of salmon (_Salmo
paucidens_) deposit their spawn. It was in August, the water clear as
crystal, the bottom a fine brown gravel. A trench, that looked about
three or four inches deep and three feet long, was muzzled out by the
noses of the females. A female fish poised herself over the trench,
head up-stream, and by a rapid vibration of her fins kept herself
nearly still; this lasted about a minute and a half or two minutes,
during which time a quantity of ova were deposited. She then darted off
like an arrow; four males at once took her place over the spawn-bed,
and remained, just as the female had done, about two minutes. On their
leaving two females came, and were followed by the males, as before.
The water was about four feet deep. I am quite sure, from often
watching these streams, that one spawning-bed is used by a great many
males and females: it was both curious and interesting to watch the
extreme regularity with which the sexes succeeded each other.

The question as to what becomes of the young salmon after leaving the
egg, is a query more easily asked than answered. There are no snug
breeding-ponds, no cosy little aquariums or water-nurseries, where the
baby-salmon may be watched and carefully tended until, honoured with
a badge, it is sent away to travel through pelagic meadows, deep-sea
forests, and ocean gardens, where, growing rapidly, bigger if not
wiser, it returns to tell how long it has been away, and how rapidly
it has grown. Assistance such as this falls not to the lot of the
hunter-naturalist, who with prying eye peers, searches, and grubs about
on the banks and into the depths of the lakes and mountain-torrents, in
this far-western wilderness. Had he the eyes of Argus, he could only
register a few hasty observations, and generalise on their value: he
has no opportunities for investigations, such as they have, who at home
can watch the egg in their very parlours, gradually shaping itself into
the quaint little salmon; see it come from out the egg-case with its
haversack of provender, wonderfully provided to supply its wants, until
able to live by its own teeth and industry; track its growth and habits
through its youthful days; then, marking it with a leaden medal, send
it off to sea, to welcome it back after its wanderings a full-grown
salmon.

It may be that Creative wisdom has implanted the same instinct in the
North-western salmon, prompting it to obey similar laws, and follow the
same routine as to the exodus seaward, and return to fresh-water, as
directs it in our native streams: my own impression is, that the fish
spawned in midsummer or autumn remain up in the lakes and deep still
river-pools until the following summer freshets, when they take their
departure for the sea as the fresh-run salmon come. I think so, because
in the Sumass and Chilukweyuk lakes, already spoken of; along the banks
of the Fraser river, and in the Osoyoos lakes and tributaries to the
Columbia river, I have in September and October observed large shoals
of what I believed to be young salmon, that disappear when the snow
begins to melt during June and July in the following summer. I suspect
the first flood carries them down and out to sea; but, after all, this
is but surmise, and of little practical value.

I never caught salmon-fry whilst fishing for trout, as we could so
easily do in our streams; and it is just possible that the rapid rise
(unlike anything we know of in our streams) that takes place in every
river, brook, and rivulet during midsummer, when the snow melts on the
hills, reducing the temperature of the water down to freezing-point,
may send the young salmon-fry into the saltwater at a very early period
of its life. “At three days old he is nearly two grains in weight; at
16 months old he has increased to two ounces, or 480 times its first
weight; at 20 months old, after the smolt has been a few months in
the sea, it becomes a grilse of 8½ lbs., having increased 68 times in
three or four months; at 2⅔ years old it becomes a salmon of from 12
to 15 lbs. weight, after which its increased rate of growth has not
been ascertained; but by the time it becomes 30 lbs. in weight, it has
increased 115,200 times the weight it was at first.”[2] These smolts
that I have seen in shoals were about half an ounce in weight, the
produce of the summer’s spawning. As I have stated, they disappear when
the floods set in; and nothing more is seen of them until they return
salmon of various sizes, from 2 lbs. to 75 lbs., or, as I believe, the
Quinnat and Stzoin.

The next salmon in importance, as affording food to the Indians, is
called by them at the Kettle Falls _cha-cha-lool_, and arrives with the
quinnat. This is unquestionably a fully-matured fish, and a distinct
species, answering in many particulars to the _Salmo Gairdneri_ of Sir
J. Richardson, F. B. A., ‘Fishes,’ p. 221; it will be as well to retain
that name. It may be readily distinguished from the quinnat by its
rounded blunt-looking nose, shorter and much thicker head, straighter
back, and more slender figure—the tail not nearly as much forked. The
entire colour of the back is much lighter, and thickly freckled, as
are the fins and tail, with oval black spots. The average weight of
the _cha-cha-lool_ is from 8 to 11 lbs. This salmon is common in the
Fraser, Chilukweyuk, and Sumass rivers, and in every stream along the
mainland and island coasts up which salmon ascend. When they first
arrive the flesh is most delicious—fat, pink, and firm withal, and
to my palate finer than that of the mammoth quinnat. The Indians also
prize these salmon, and pack them when dried in bales apart from the
others.

_Salmo Gairdneri_ and _S. quinnat_ are the spring salmon, but the
autumn has also its supply of ‘swimming silver,’ quite equal to that of
spring in point of numbers, but inferior in quality. Up the Columbia
in October to the Kettle Falls, and somewhat earlier in the Fraser
and rivers north of it, comes an ugly, unprepossessing, hook-nosed,
dingy-looking salmon, called by the Colville Indians _Keasoo_, by the
Chinooks _Ekewan_, by the Clallams _Kutch-kutch_—the _Hooked Snout_ of
the fur-traders, _Salmo lycaodon_ of Pallas, _Zoog. Russ. Asiat._

When fresh-run, this fish in colour is of a silvery-grey lustre;
back, overshot with a greenish hue; belly, silvery-white; no spots on
either the back or sides. The hooked nose, said to be peculiar to the
male fish after spawning, is a well-marked, constant, and specific
character in every fresh-run fish, the females having at all times
symmetrical jaws. I found, from carefully observing great numbers of
these fresh-run males, that the hooked state of the snout differs
very materially in fish arriving at the same period; and I am quite
convinced that large numbers of these salmon do get back again to
the saltwater after spawning, and that the strange change that takes
place in the hooking over of the snout and growth of the teeth, during
their sojourn in the rivers, remains a permanent mark; and the vast
difference observable in the males, at the time of arrival, is simply
attributable to the fact, that those having the large fanglike teeth
and tremendously crooked snout are such as have been up the rivers
perhaps the year before, or, it may be, long prior to that period.

In every stream and rill, where they can by any possibility work a
passage, you find these salmon; they remain until January and February
in the succeeding year, becoming fearfully emaciated and worn, from a
long and tedious abstinence; for I believe these salmon feed sparely,
if at all, after leaving the sea. The fish in January is of a pale
dirty-yellow colour; the sides, showing a bright purplish stripe (sure
sign of waning vitality), are flattened and compressed; the back is
straight until near its posterior third, when it dips down suddenly,
and rises again at the tail just as if you had cut a notch out. The
belly, instead of being silvery-white, is rusty yellow, and hangs
pendulous and flabby; the eye is dull and sunken.

But the most curious change is in the head of the male fish: the nose
becomes enormously elongated, and hooks down like a gaff-hook over the
under-jaw, and the under-jaw bends up at the point into a kind of spike
that fits into a regular sheath or hole in the upper jaw, just where
it begins bending into the hook-like point; the teeth become regular
fangs, sticking out round the jaws at irregular distances, and having a
yellow bonelike appearance. I have often seen the teeth more than half
an inch in length. It is quite clear that these teeth grow during the
time the fish remain in fresh-water; no shrinking of the gums could
account for such a length of tooth; and their use, I believe, is for
fighting.

My own observations lead me to assume that at least there are eight
or ten males to every female; and as one spawning-bed is used by many
females, terrible battles ensue between the males as to which shall
impregnate the ova; and it would appear, reasoning from analogy, that
the same law holds good with fish as with gregarious mammals and
birds—the stronger and more able male always begets the offspring. I
hardly think the ova of a female fresh-run salmon, impregnated by the
milt of an old and spent male fish, would produce as strong and healthy
an offspring as the male fat, fresh, vigorous, and healthy. I cannot
help thinking there must have been some purpose—as antlers are given
to the deer tribes, spurs to the males of gregarious birds, and like
examples—in giving such formidable weapons to these salmon during
their breeding-time; and why not the reason above stated?

Quoting from Dr. Scouler: ‘Observatory Inlet (which I should imagine
to be just such an inlet as Puget’s Sound) was frequented at the time
by such myriads of the salmon, that a stone could not have reached the
bottom without touching several individuals—their abundance surpassing
imagination to conceive.’ He goes on to say, that in a little brook
they killed sixty with their boarding-pikes. Then, he says, the hump
before the dorsal fin consists of fat, and appears to be peculiar to
the males, who acquire it after spawning-time, when their snouts become
elongated and arched.

The Fall-salmon (_Salmo lycaodon_) differ most extraordinarily at
different periods of their growth—so much so, that I quite believed
the adult, middle-aged, and young were three distinct and well-marked
species; but Dr. A. Günther has very kindly investigated the matter,
and knocked my three species into one.

Indians take the young of this salmon in large numbers in the bays,
harbours, and fiord-like inlets surrounding the island, and along the
British Columbian and Oregon coasts; also in the Sumass, Chilukweyuk,
and Sweltza rivers, and indeed in all inland lakes that are accessible
to fish from the sea. These handsome, troutlike young salmon are easily
caught with bait of any kind; they rise readily to a gaudy fly, and
seize even a piece of their brethren if carefully tied round a hook;
from six ounces to a pound is about the average size. When they go to
sea again from the lakes I had no opportunity of proving, but I imagine
they go down with the floods, as the spring salmon come up.

The second form in which I mistook it for a distinct species is that
of the Humpbacked Salmon (_Salmo proteus_, Pallas; _Salmo gibber_,
Suckley; ‘_gerbuscha_,’ Kamtschatka; ‘_hud-do_’ of the Nesqually
Indians; ‘_hun-num_’ of the Fraser river Indians). In its general
outline it differs altogether from the Hook-nosed Salmon. The back
is much more arched; nose curved, but not nearly as much as in the
mature _Salmo lycaodon_, and the under-jaw turns up and terminates in a
protuberance or knob; teeth much more numerous, sharper, and smaller;
tail deeply notched, and thickly spotted with dark oval-shaped marks.
The most conspicuous feature is a large hump of adipose material
situated on the shoulders, a little anterior to the dorsal fin, and
only found in the male fish. It has generally been stated that this
hump grows upon the male fish after entering the fresh-water: this is a
mistake, for I have seen them again and again taken in the sea, before
going up into the rivers, with this hump well developed. On cutting
it open, it appears to be a sort of cellular membrane, filled with an
oily, semifluid kind of material. The use of this deposit, there can be
no doubt, is to supply the male with this material in some mysterious
way during the spawning-time, for, after that period has passed, the
hump entirely disappears. They arrive about the same time as the older
fish, but only in very large runs every second year—have the same
range, and die in thousands.

At Fort Hope, on the Fraser river, in the month of September, I was
going trout-fishing in a beautiful stream, the Qua-que-alla, that
comes thundering and dancing down the Cascade Mountains, cold and
clear as crystal; these salmon were then toiling up in thousands, and
were so thick in the ford that I had great trouble to ride my horse
through; the salmon were in such numbers about his legs as to impede
his progress, and frightened him so, that he plunged viciously and very
nearly had me off. They are never at any time good eating; the flesh,
in fresh-run fish, is white, soft, and tasteless. The Indians only eat
them when they are unable to obtain anything else. These salmon work up
to the very heads of the tributaries, and I have often seen them where
the water was so shallow as to leave their backs uncovered.

The _Salmo canis_ of Suckley (Dog-Salmon, Spotted Salmon, ‘Natural
History of Washington Territory,’ p. 341), which he says arrives at
Puget’s Sound in September and October, I believe to be only the old
males of the _Salmo lycaodon_ (Hook-nosed Salmon), that have had a
turn in the rivers perhaps a year or two before, and have got safely
back again to the sea, recruited their wasted energies, and returned
again for another perilous cruise up the streams. The large fanglike
teeth, from which they derive the name of dog-salmon, are the large
teeth grown and developed, as I have previously described them, whilst
spawning in the fresh water.

Salmon is of the most vital importance to the Indians; deprived or
by any means cut off from obtaining it, starve to death they must;
and were we at war with the Redskins, we need only cut them off from
their salmon-fisheries to have them completely at our mercy. If
salmon-fisheries—well managed, and conducted by persons who thoroughly
understood salting, barreling, and curing salmon—were established
on some of the tributaries to the Fraser and Columbia rivers, I am
quite convinced they would pay handsomely. Some few attempts have
been made by speculators, but always failed for want of capital and
proper management. The Hudson’s Bay Company, in some of their inland
and northern posts, feed their _employés_ on dried salmon during the
winter. At Fort Langley, on the Fraser river, the Company generally
_salt in_ several hundred casks of salmon, and these principally go to
the Sandwich Islands or to China. There was one large salmon-curing
establishment at the mouth of the Puyallup river, but I have been told
it did not pay; the fish, being badly put up and carelessly packed,
often spoiled before reaching the markets for which they were destined.
In Victoria, salmon is now a very important article both of food and
commerce.




                             CHAPTER III.

                           FISH HARVESTING.


The systems adopted by the Indians for capturing salmon vary in
accordance with the localities chosen for fishing. Besides the stages
or baskets in use on the Columbia river, they construct weirs reaching
from one side of a stream to the other, with skilfully-contrived
openings, allowing fish to pass easily through them into large lateral
stores made of closely-woven wicker, where they are kept prisoners
until required.

They have rather a clever contrivance for catching salmon in the bays
and harbours, using a sort of gill-net (a net about forty feet long
and eight feet wide), with large meshes; the upper edge is buoyed by
bits of dry cedar-wood, that act as floats, and the net kept tight by
small pebbles slung at four-foot distances along the lower margin. This
kind of net the Indians stretch across the mouth of a small bay or
inlet, and sit in their canoes a short distance off, quietly watching
it. These small bays, or saltwater aquariums, are the lurking-places
and strongholds for shoals of anchovies and herrings. Often tempted
to wander and make excursions beyond the gateway of their rocky home,
they are at once spied by predatory piratical salmon; seeking safety
in flight, they dash headlong for their hiding-place, hotly pursued by
their dreaded foe, and shooting easily through the cordy snare, laugh
to see Master Salmon ‘run his head into the net;’ bob-bob go the floats
beneath the surface, up paddles redskin, hauls up his net, clutches the
silvery pirate, and with a short heavy club gives him a blow on the
head, drops him into the canoe, lets go his net, and waits for the next.

With this kind of net immense numbers of spring and fall salmon are
taken. All their nets are made of cord, spun from native hemp, that
grows abundantly along the banks of the Fraser and other streams.
Squaws gather the plant about a week before the flowering-time; first
soak, then beat it into fibre; this, arranged in regular lengths, is
handed to the Indian, who, seated on the ground, twists the bundles
of tiffled hemp into cord—a cord as regular and symmetrical as
the handiwork of a practised ropemaker—-using neither tools nor
machinery, but simply the hand and naked thigh.

The first salmon entering the Columbia are taken at Chinook Point, a
short distance above Cape Disappointment, near the mouth of the river.
These are known as ‘Chinook salmon,’ and are celebrated, not only in
the immediate neighbourhood but in the markets of San Francisco, as the
fattest and finest-flavoured salmon taken on the coast; they are large,
ranging from 35lbs. to 70lbs. in weight.

In June the grand army arrives. We need not linger at the old fishery
of the Chinook Indians, so prosperous fifty years ago. The Indians have
disappeared; but the salmon army marches on, with little interruption,
until they have arrived at the Cascades.

Here we must remain awhile, and see for ourselves how the red man
harvests his salmon. Salmon is quite as essential to the Indians
residing inland as grain to us, or bananas and plantains to the
residents in the tropics: gleaning the regular supply of fish, the
Indian literally harvests and garners it as we reap our grain-crops.
It cannot be by mere chance that fish are prompted, by an unalterable
instinct, to thread their way into the farthest recesses of the
mountains—fish too that are fat and oily, and best adapted to supply
heat and the elements of nutrition.

The winters are long and intensely cold, often 30° Fahr. below zero,
the snow lying deep for at least six months. Birds migrate, most of
the rodents and the bears hibernate, and such animals as remain to
brave the biting cold, retire where it is very difficult and often
impossible to hunt or trap them. In a small lodge, made of hides or
rushes, as far from windproof as a sieve would be; wrapped in miserable
mantles (simply skins sewn together, or ragged blankets, bought of the
Hudson’s Bay Company), cowering and shivering over the smouldering
logs, are a family of savages. The nipping blasts and icy cold forbid
their venturing in pursuit of food; flesh they could not cure during
the summer, for they have not salt, and sun-drying is insufficient to
preserve it. A miserable death, starved alike by cold and hunger, must
be the fate of this, and of all Indian families away from the seaboard,
but for salmon: sun-dried, it preserves its heat and flesh-yielding
qualities unimpaired; uncooked, they chew it all day long, and
frequently grow fat during their quasi-hybernation. The waterways
are thus made available for the transport of coals and provisions
necessary to keep the life-stove burning, floated free of freight up to
the very doors of the Indian’s wigwam. The way he harvests this store,
and preserves it for winter use, we shall see as we follow the course
of the salmon in their ascent of the Columbia river.

The Cascades, where the salmon first meet with a hindrance to their
upward course, is a lovely spot. The vast river here breaks its way
through the Cascade Mountains, a mountain-gap unequalled, I should
say, in depth and extent, by any in the world. Some parts are massive
walls of rock, and others wooded slopes like to a narrow valley. One
can hardly imagine the possibility of so great a change in climate,
and consequently vegetation, as there is betwixt this place and the
Dalles, only a few miles farther up the river. I have left the Dalles
when the ground was covered with snow, and within a distance of forty
miles entered this gap, and found the climate to be that of summer. The
sloping forests brightly green, shrubs of various sorts, tropical in
appearance, immense ferns, the emerald moss clothing the rocks, over
which dozens of waterfalls, unbroken for a thousand feet, tumble from
the hills into the river —all together make up a scene of beauty and
rich luxuriance, unlike any other part of the river.

From the Dalles to the Cascades the river has scarcely a perceptible
current, either side being bounded by perpendicular walls of mountains.
Tradition says, that once the river had a uniformly swift course the
entire way, and that where the Cascades now are, the water passed at
that time under a huge arch that reached from side to side. Afterwards
an earthquake tumbled it down, the ruins of the arch still existing as
a chain of islands across the head of the rapids; the river, having
gradually carried away the fragments, forming now the long rapid. The
river, thus suddenly thrown back, flooded the forests up to the Dalles,
and to this day stumps of trees are to be seen sticking out of the
water many hundred yards from the shore.

Below the Cascades, before reaching the flat district about Fort
Vancouver, the scenery is bold and massive; immense hills densely
wooded, bold promontories, and grassy glades are passed successively as
the steamer dashes on her downward trip. At the Cascades there is now a
railway, over which goods and passengers are conveyed to the steamers
above the rapids, which are so swift that canoes plied by experienced
Indians dare not venture to run them.

Wandering along by this foaming rush of water, one sees numberless
scaffoldings erected amongst the boulders—rude clumsy contrivances,
constructed of poles jammed between large stones, and lashed with ropes
of bark to other poles, that cross each other to form stages. Indian
lodges, pitched in the most picturesque and lovely spots imaginable,
are dotted along from one end of the rapids to the other. Indians
from long distances and of several tribes have come here to await the
arrival of the salmon.

Leaning against the trees, or supported by the lodges, are numbers of
small round nets (like we catch shrimps with in rocky pools), fastened
to handles forty and fifty feet in length. Hollow places are cunningly
enclosed, with low walls of boulders, on the riverside of each stage.

It is early in June; the salmon have arrived, and a busy scene it is.
On every stage plying their nets are Indian fishers, guiltless of
garments save a piece of cloth tied round the waist. Ascending the
rapids, salmon seek the slack-waters at the edges of the current,
and are fond of lingering in the wake of a rock or any convenient
hollow; the rock-basins constructed by the sides of the stages are
just the places for idling and resting. This the crafty fisher turns
to good account, and skilfully catches the loiterer by plunging his
net into the pool at its head, and letting the current sweep it down,
thus _hooping_ salmon after salmon, with a certainty astounding to a
looker-on. Thirty salmon an hour is not an unusual take for two skilled
Indians to land on a stage. As soon as one gets tired, another takes
his place, so that the nets are never idle during the ‘run.’

The instant a fish reaches the stage, a heavy blow on the head stops
its flapping; boys and girls are waiting to seize and carry it ashore,
to be split and cured—a process I can better describe when at the
salmon-falls. As there is at the Cascades simply hindrance to the
salmon’s ascent, of course vast numbers escape the redskins’ nets.

Forty miles above this fishery is another obstruction, the Dalles;
where the river forces its way through a mass of basaltic rocks in
numerous channels, some of them appearing as if hewn by human hands.
Another portage has to be made here, a neat little town having grown up
in consequence of the transhipment. The journey from steamer to steamer
is accomplished in stages, the heavy goods being hauled by mule and
ox-teams. The road lies over a steep ridge of hills to the junction
of the Des Chutes, or ‘Fall river,’ with the Columbia. Fishing at the
Dalles is much the same as at the Cascades.

Great numbers of salmon turn off and ascend the Snake river, to be
captured at the Great Shoshonee Falls by the Snake and Bannock Indians.
We follow on the vanguard of the swimming army, passing numberless
tributaries, up which detachments make their way, right and left, into
the heart of the country—supplies for tribes living near the different
streams—to the great falls of the Columbia, the ‘Kettle Falls,’[3] why
so named is not very clear. These falls, except when the river is at
its highest flood, form an impassable barrier to the salmon’s progress;
the distance from the sea is about 700 miles, and the first arrivals
are usually about the middle of June.

The winter-quarters of the Boundary Commission were about two miles
above the falls, and close to the falls is a trading-post of the
Hudson’s Bay Company, Fort Colville. The gravelly plateau on which the
trading-post stands, together with one or two houses belonging to old
employés, was clearly once a lake-bottom. The water at some remote
period filling the lake appears to have broken its way out through the
rocks at the falls, and left this flat dry land. Patches of wheat and
barley are grown, but the soil is far too poor to repay the labour of
cultivation.

About three weeks preceding the arrival of the salmon, Indians begin to
assemble from all directions. Cavalcades may be seen, day after day,
winding their way down the plain; and as the savage when he travels
takes with him all his worldly wealth—wives, children, dogs, horses,
lodges, weapons, and skins—the turn-out is rather novel. The smaller
children are packed with the baggage on the backs of horses, which are
driven by the squaws, who always ride astride like the men. The elder
girls and boys, three or four on a horse, ride with their mothers,
whilst the men and stouter youths drive the bands of horses that run
loose ahead of the procession. A pack of prick-eared curs, simply tamed
prairie-wolves, are always in attendance.

A level piece of ground overlooking the falls (the descent from which
to the rocks is by a zigzag path, down a nearly vertical cliff) is
rapidly covered with lodges of all shapes and sizes. The squaws do the
work appertaining to camping, and are literally ‘hewers of wood and
drawers of water.’ The men, who are all, when at the fishery, under
one chief, whom they designate the ‘Salmon Chief,’ at once commence
work—some in repairing the drying-sheds, which are placed on the rocks
(as are also numbers of lodges) at the foot of the zigzag; others are
busy making or mending immense wicker hampers, about thirty feet in
circumference, and twelve feet in depth. Little groups are dragging
down huge trees lopped clear of their branches—rolling, twisting,
and tumbling them over the rocks, to be fixed at last by massive
boulders, the ends hanging over the foaming water not unlike so many
gibbets. These trees being secure and in their right places, the next
work is to hang the wicker baskets to them, which is a risky and most
difficult job: but many willing hands and long experience work wonders;
with strong ropes of twisted bark, the baskets are at last securely
suspended. By this time the river begins to flood rapidly, and soon
washes over the rocks where the trees are fastened, and into the
basket, which is soon in the midst of the waterfall, being so contrived
as to be easily accessible from the rocks not overwashed by the flood.

Whilst awaiting the coming salmon, the scene is one great revel:
horse-racing, gambling, love-making, dancing, and diversions of all
sorts, occupy the singular assembly; for at these annual gatherings,
when all jointly labour in catching and curing the winter supply of
salmon, feuds and dislikes are for the time laid by, or, as they
figuratively express it, ‘The hatchet is buried.’

The medicine-men (doctors and conjurors) of the different tribes busily
work their charms and incantations to insure an abundant run of fish.
One of the illustrations is drawn from a photograph of the falls. The
Indians at first steadily refused to allow the photographer and his
machine to come near the falls, declaring it a box of bad ‘medicine’
that would surely drive every salmon away; and not until an old Romish
priest who was at the trading-post explained it to them, did they
permit a photograph to be taken.

The watchers announce the welcome tidings of the salmon arrival,
and the business begins. The baskets are hung in places where past
experience has taught the Indians salmon generally leap, in their
attempts to clear the falls. The first few that arrive are frequently
speared from the rocks. They are in such vast numbers during the height
of the ‘run,’ that one could not well throw a stone into the water at
the base of the falls without hitting a fish: fifty and more may be
seen in the air at a time, leaping over the wicker traps, but, failing
to clear the ‘salmon-leap,’ fall back, and are caged. In each basket
two naked Indians are stationed all day long; and as they are under
a heavy fall of water, frequent relays are necessary. Salmon three
or four at a time, in rapid succession, tumble into the basket. The
Indians thrust their fingers under the gills, strike the fish on the
head with a heavy club, and then fling them on the rocks. I have known
three hundred salmon landed from one basket betwixt sunrise and sunset,
varying in weight from twenty to seventy-five pounds.

From the heaps of fish piled on the rocks, boys and girls carry and
drag them back to the squaws seated round the curing-houses; with sharp
knives they rip the salmon open, twist off the head, and cleverly
remove the backbone; then hanging them on poles, close under the roofs
of sheds the sides of which are open, they dry them slowly, small fires
being kept constantly smouldering on the floors. The smoke serves to
keep away the flies, and perhaps also aids in the preservation of the
fish. The only portions eaten by the Indians during the catching are
the heads, backbones, roes, and livers, which are roasted, skewered on
sticks.

When thoroughly dried the fish are packed in _bales_ made of rush-mats,
each bale weighing about fifty pounds, the bales being tightly lashed
with bark-ropes. Packing in bales of equal weight facilitates an
equitable division of the take. Horses are purposely brought to carry
the fish back to winter-quarters, and two bales are easily packed on
each horse. The fishing-season lasts for about two months: then the
spoils are divided, and the place abandoned to its wonted quietude,
until the following summer brings with it another harvest.

During the drying, silicious sand is blown over the fish, and of course
adheres to it. Constantly chewing this ‘sanded salmon’ wears the teeth
as if filed down, which I at first imagined them to be, until the true
cause was discovered. I have an under-jaw in my possession whereon the
teeth are quite level with the bony sockets of the jaw, worn away by
the flinty sand.

I question if in the world there is another spot where salmon are in
greater abundance, or taken with so little labour, as at the Kettle
Falls, on the Columbia river. In all streams emptying into Puget’s
Sound, in the Fraser river, and rivers north of it to the Arctic
Ocean, salmon ascend in prodigious abundance. In the Fraser there are
no obstructions as far as Fort Hope to the salmon ascent; hence fishing
is carried on by each village or family for themselves, and not by
the combined labour of many, as on the Columbia. Near the mouth of
the river large iron gaff-hooks are generally used; with these ugly
weapons salmon are hooked into the canoes. Higher up, at the mouths
of the Sumass, Chilukweyuk, and other tributary streams, they use a
very ingenious kind of net worked between two canoes, with which large
numbers of salmon are taken. Stages, too, are hung over the eddies from
the rocks, and round nets used as at the Cascades.

On the Nanaimo river the Indians have a very ingenious contrivance
for taking salmon, by constructing a weir; but, instead of putting
baskets, they _pave_ a square place, about six feet wide and fourteen
feet long, with white or light-coloured stones. This pavement is
always on the lower side of the weir, leading to an opening. A stage
is erected between two of these paved ways, where Indians, lying on
their stomachs, can in an instant see if a salmon is traversing the
white paved way. A long spear, barbed at the end, is held in readiness,
and woe betide the adventurous fish that runs the gauntlet of this
perilous passage!

But the most curious contrivance I saw was at Johnson’s Narrows. I
have said salmon readily take a bait when in saltwater. The Indians
when fishing use two spears, one about seventy feet in length; the
other shorter, having a barbed end, is about twenty feet long. In a
canoe thus equipped, favourable fishing-grounds are sought, the Indian
having the long spear being also provided with a small hollow cone of
wood, trimmed round its greater circumference with small feathers, much
like a shuttlecock; this he places on the end of the longer spear, and
presses it under water, until down the full length of the handle; a
skilful jerk detaches this conelike affair from the spear-haft, when it
wriggles up through the water like a struggling fish. The savage with
the short spear intently watches this deceiver; a salmon runs at it,
and it is speared like magic.

Next in importance amongst the Salmonidæ is the Oregon Brook Trout,
_Fario stellatus_ (Grd. Proc. Acad., Phil. Nat. Soc., viii. 219).

_Specific Characters._—Head rather large, contained four-and-a-half
times in the total length; maxillary reaching a vertical line drawn
behind the orbit. Colour of the back bright olivegreen, sides
pinkish-yellow, belly white, profusely speckled over with minute black
spots.

This trout lives everywhere, and is to be met with in the lakes and
rivers in Vancouver Island, in all streams flowing into Puget’s Sound,
and away up the western sides of the Cascades. Crossing to the eastern
side, and descending into the valley of the Columbia, again he puts in
an appearance. Climb the western slope of the Rocky Mountains up to
the summit, 7,000 feet above the sea-level, there too he lives—always
hungry and voracious. These trout are very delicious, varying from
eight ounces up to three pounds in weight.

My first exploit in fishing for trout may be worth relating:—I was
sitting on the bank of a stream that rippled gaily on its rocky course,
down the western slope of the Rocky Mountains; and which, here and
there lengthening out into a long stickle, and curling round a jutting
rock, lazily idled by the grassy bank; anon leaping a sudden fall,
and widening into a glassy pool. Butterflies gambolled and flitted
recklessly; dragonflies clad in brilliant armour waged cruel war on
the lesser forms of winged life, chasing them everywhere. The busy
hum of insects, the air fragrant with the forest perfumes, the murmur
of the water, and the songs of feathered choristers made one feel
happy, though far away from civilisation. My reverie was broken by a
sudden splash; a speckled tyrant, lurking under the bank on which I
sat, had pounced upon a large grey fly that, unconscious of danger, had
touched the water with its gauzy wings. Very well, Master Trout, you
may perhaps be as easily duped as your more cautious _confrères_; so
setting to work, I overhauled my ‘possible sack,’ found a few coarse
hooks, a bit of gut, and some thread.

Among other materials wherewith to make a fly, feathers were
indispensable. Shouldering my gun, I strode off to look for a ‘white
flesher,’ alias ruffed grouse; soon stirred one up, bagged him, hauled
out his glossy bottle-green frill; selected some feathers which I
thought would turn a decent hackle, picked out a couple of brighter
ones for wings, some red wool from my blanket for dubbing, and with
these materials I tied a fly. Not the slightest resemblance, fancied
or real, did it bear to anything ever created, but still it was a fly,
and, as I flattered myself, a great achievement. A line was made from
some ends of cord; then cutting a young larch, I made my tackle fast to
the end, and thus equipped sallied to the stream.

My first attempt in the swift scour was a lamentable failure. Warily I
threw my newly-created monster well across the stream, and, according
to the most approved method, let it slowly wash towards me, conveying
to the rod and line a delicate and tempting tremble; not a rise, not
a nibble; my hopes wavered, and I began to think these trout wiser
than I had given them credit for. I tried the pool as a last chance;
so, leaning over the rock, I let my tempter drop into the water; it
made a splash like throwing in a stone; but imagine my delight, ye
lovers of the gentle art, when a tremendous jerk told me I had one
hooked and struggling to get free! Depending on the strength of my
tackle, I flung him out on the bank; and admitting all that may be said
against me as being barbarous and cruel, I confess to standing over the
dying fish, and admiring his brilliant colour, handsome shape, fair
proportion—and, last though not least, contemplated eating him! I
pitied him not as, flapping and struggling on the grass, his life ebbed
away, but thought only of the skill I had displayed in duping him, and
the feast in store for me on returning to camp.

Having discovered a secret, I pressed eagerly on to turn it to the best
advantage, and that day played havoc amongst the trouts. Some long
willow-branches, cut with a crook at the end, served me in lieu of a
basket. Passing the sticks under the gill-covers, and out at the mouth,
I strung trout after trout until the sticks were filled; then tying the
ends together, flung them across my shoulder and trudged along; a good
plan when you have not a basket. I now turned my attention, and devoted
all my ingenuity, to the manufacture of a more angler-like fly; and
in this case the adage proved true, ‘that a poor original was better
than a good imitation.’ My well-dressed fly was not one-half as much
appreciated as the old one; there was a sham gentility about him that
evidently led at once to suspicion, and it was only here and there I
met with a fish weak enough to fall a victim to his polished exterior;
I therefore abandoned the dandy, and returned again to the rough old
red-shirted ‘trapper’ with which I first commenced.

There was a stream in which I had better sport than in any of the
others, the Mooyee, on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains—a
small stream, very rocky, clear as crystal, icy cold, and so densely
wooded on each side that fishing in it, unless by wading, was
impossible. I remember one pool as being particularly productive—a
rock-basin, with a little rivulet dancing into it through a pebbly
reach; the water so beautifully clear, that everything in the pool
was visible, as though one looked into an aquarium. I could not help
standing and feasting my eyes on the trout playing about in it. To say
the pool was full of fish is no exaggeration; all, with their heads
toward the little stream, were gently sculling their tails to steady
themselves. I gazed upon a mass of fish, big and little, from four
ounces to three pounds in weight.

Having sufficiently indulged in admiring this host of trout (the
like of which I had never seen before), I began the war. Dropping my
‘sensation-fly’ into the little stream, I let it sink and drift into
the pool. Twenty open mouths rushed at it ravenously, and trout after
trout was rapidly landed on the shingle. I continued this scheme until
a heap of magnificent fish were piled at my side, and the pool was
rapidly thinning. One crafty old fellow, however, that looked about
three pounds in weight, defied all my efforts to tempt him. I let the
fly drift over him, under his nose, above his nose; but he scorned it,
and, if he could, I felt he would have winked his eye derisively at me.

To have him I was determined: so sitting down, I scooped out the eye
of a fish, and put it on the point of the flyhook, then let it drift
down the stream and into the pool; steadily it neared his nose, and in
breathless expectation I awaited the result. He was evidently uneasy,
and knew not what to do. It floated past him, and I thought my bait
had failed; when round he turned, and dashing viciously at it, seized
(pardon the joke) the hook and eye, and I had him fast. Being far too
heavy to risk jerking, I let him get over his furious fit, then towed
him ashore hand over hand gathering up my line, I got close to him,
and seizing him behind the gills, brought him upon the shingle; and a
beauty he was!

I have tried various expedients—more as experiments than anything
else—to find out what bait these trout really preferred. Grasshoppers
they took readily, and I have often caught a trout when only one leg of
the insect remained on the hook; the white meat from the tail of the
river crayfish is also a very favourite diet. Earth-worms I could not
try, because they do not exist in British Columbia. But all my trials
and experiments failed signally in discovering anything that could at
all compare with my ‘first fly.’

The trout spawn about October, or perhaps a little later, depositing
their ova in gravel in the lesser streams.

SALMON TROUT.—_Salmo spectabilis_ (Red-spotted Salmon Trout),
Grd. Proc. Acad., Nat. Soc. Phild., viii. 218.—_Sp. Ch._: Head a
trifle more than a fourth of the total length; maxillary extending
to a vertical line drawn posterior to the orbit. Colour of the back
dark-greenish, inclining to grey, a lighter shade of the same colour on
the sides—beneath silvery-white; thickly marked above the lateral line
with yellowish spots, interspersed with others that are bright red.

In habits and distribution the salmon-trout differs in every respect
from the preceding. There can be no doubt that this fish is anadromous,
and comes up into the rivers to spawn at particular periods of the
year, like the salmon, and then returns to sea. In October the great
run begins. Into all the rivers emptying into Puget’s Sound—the
Dwamish, Nesqually, Puyallup, and several others, up the Fraser and its
tributaries, into all the creeks and inlets about Vancouver Island,
crowd in shoal after shoal. They vary in size; I have seldom seen them
exceed three pounds in weight.

The advent of these trout is the signal for a general Indian
fish-harvest. The banks of all the little streams are soon dotted with
temporary lodges, and every one, from the naked little urchin to the
stalwart chief, wages war upon these fish. All sorts of expedients are
used to snare them. Boys, girls, and old squaws catch them with a hook
and line, about eight or ten feet long, tied to the end of a short
stick. The hook (made of bone or hard wood) is baited with salmon-roe.
The Indians never use the roe fresh; dried in the sun it becomes
extremely tough, and acquires a very rank oily smell. The fish take it
greedily, and in this manner large numbers are captured.

Another bait equally fatal is made by cutting a small strip from the
belly of a trout, and keeping the shiny part outermost—winding it
tightly round the hook, from the barb, to about an inch up the line,
securing it by twisting white horsehair closely round it. A small
pebble is slung about a foot from the baited hook, and the line tied to
the canoe-paddle close to the hand; paddling slowly along, this bait
is trolled after the canoe. The intention is manifestly to imitate a
small fish, as we troll with minnow or spoon-bait in our waters. All
the larger fish are generally taken in this way. They rise readily to a
gaudy fly, and afford admirable sport.

But the great haul of hauls is effected by a most ingeniously-contrived
basket, in principle the same as our eel-baskets. It is made of
split vine-maple, lashed together with strips of cedar-bark. These
baskets vary in size; some of them are fifteen feet long, and six in
circumference. The crafty savages place their wicker traps in the
centre of the stream; a dam of latticework on each side reaches to
the bank, so that no fish can get up-stream unless through the trap.
Another plan, and a very good one where the water is shallow, is to
build a little wall of boulders, rising about a foot above water,
slanting the wall obliquely until the ends meet in the centre of the
stream at an acute angle; at this point they place the basket. By this
plan all the water is forced through the basket, increasing the depth
and strength of the current. In happy ignorance of their danger, the
fish ply steadily upcurrent, until they suddenly find themselves caged.

When a sufficient number of fish are in the basket, an empty one is
carried out and set, the other brought ashore; its contents are turned
out upon the grass. Squaws, old and young, knife in hand, squat round,
looking eagerly on; and as the captives lie flapping on the sward,
in the harpies rush, seize a trout, rip him up, remove the inside,
and then skewer him open with two sticks. Poles, having a fork at the
end, are placed firmly in the ground, about fifteen feet apart. Other
sticks, barked and rubbed very smooth, are placed in these forked ends,
on which the split trout are strung. Small fires are kept smouldering
below the strung-up fish. When thoroughly dry, they are packed in small
bales, and lashed with the bark of the cedar-tree.

CANDLE-FISH.—The Candle-fish or Eulachon, _Salmo (mallotus)
Pacificus_, Rich. F. B. A., p. 227; _Thaleichthys Pacificus_,
Grd.—_Sp. Ch._: Head somewhat pointed and conical; mouth large, its
fissure extending back to the anterior margin of the orbit; opercule
terminated by a rounded angle, lower jaw projecting a little beyond
the upper one; tongue rough, teeth on the pharyngeals; lower jaw,
palatines, and vomer devoid of teeth; eye rather small; adipose fin,
placed opposite the hind portion of the anal; scales subelliptical.
Dorsal region greenish-olive colour, generally silvery-white, sparsely
spotted with dirty yellow; a dark spot, nearly black, over each orbit.

A human body is a kind of locomotive furnace, that has to be kept up
to a given temperature by fuel, its food. Under a tropical sun, not
much fuel is needed, and that of a sort that will not keep up a large
fire. Man, therefore, wears clothes made from a vegetable fibre, and
eats fruit and rice, the lowest in the scale of heat-making materials.
Far north among the polar ice, where you cannot touch metal without its
taking the skin off your fingers, the human locomotive is protected
by thick coverings of fur: the native takes the jackets from his
furry-footed companions, and covers his own skin with them. But the
grand oil-springs—the locomotive’s necessary coal-mines in another
form—are in the bodies of the great seals and whales. Oil and blubber
burn rapidly, and give out a large amount of heat. With a fur-suit
outside, and inside a feed of seal’s flesh washed down with seal’s oil,
the steam of life is kept up very easily.

But all the fat of the sea is not in the bodies of those great
blubbering whales and seals. There is a fish, small in size, not larger
than a smelt, that is fat beyond all description, clad in glittering
silver armour, and found on the coasts of British Columbia, Russian
America, Queen Charlotte and Vancouver Islands, which is called by
the natives _Eulachon_ or Candle-fish. I have had both leisure and
opportunity to make this fish’s intimate acquaintance; played the spy
upon its habits, its coming and going, and have noted how it is caught
and cured.

Picture my home—an Indian village, on the north shore of British
Columbia. The village is prettily situated on a rocky point of land,
chosen, as all Indian villages are, with an eye to prevention of
surprise from concealed foes. Rearward it is guarded by a steep hill,
and it commands from the front the entrance to one of those long
canals, which, as I have previously stated, resemble the fiords of
Norway, often running thirty or forty miles inland.

The dwellings consist of ten or fifteen rude sheds, about twenty yards
long and twelve wide, built of rough cedar-planks; the roof a single
slant covered with poles and rushes. Six or eight families live in
each shed. Every family has its own fire on the ground, and the smoke,
that must find its way out as best it can through cracks and holes
(chimneys being objected to), hangs in a dense upper cloud, so that a
man can only keep his head out of it by squatting on the ground: to
stand up is to run a risk of suffocation. The children of all ages,
in droves, naked and filthy, live under the smoke; as well as squaws,
who squat round the smouldering logs; innumerable dogs, like starving
wolves, prick-eared, sore-eyed, snappish brutes, unceasingly engaged
in faction-fights and sudden duels, in which the whole pack immediately
takes sides. Felt, but not heard, are legions of bloodthirsty fleas,
that would try their best to suck blood from a boot, and by combined
exertions would soon flay alive any man with a clean and tender skin.

The moon, near its full, creeps upward from behind the hills; stars
one by one are lighted in the sky—not a cloud flecks the clear blue.
The Indians are busy launching their canoes, preparing war against the
candle-fish, which they catch when they come to the surface to sport in
the moonlight. As the rising moon now clears the shadow of the hills,
her rays slant down on the green sea, just rippled by the land-breeze.
And now, like a vast sheet of pearly nacre, we may see the glittering
shoals of the fish—the water seems alive with them. Out glides the
dusky Indian fleet, the paddles stealthily plied by hands far too
experienced to let a splash be heard. There is not a whisper, not a
sound, but the measured rhythm of many paddlers, as the canoes are sent
flying towards the fish.

To catch them, the Indians use a monster comb or rake, a piece of
pinewood from six to eight feet long, made round for about two feet
of its length, at the place of the hand-grip; the rest is flat, thick
at the back, but thinning to a sharp edge, into which are driven teeth
about four inches long, and an inch apart. These teeth are usually
made of bone, but, when the Indian fishers can get sharp-pointed iron
nails, they prefer them. One Indian sits in the stern of each canoe to
paddle it along, keeping close to the shoal of fish another, having the
rounded part of the rake firmly fixed in both hands, stands with his
face to the bow of the canoe, the teeth pointing sternwards. He then
sweeps it through the glittering mass of fish, using all his force, and
brings it to the surface teeth upwards, usually with a fish impaled,
sometimes with three or four upon one tooth. The rake being brought
into the canoe, a sharp rap on the back of it knocks the fish off, and
then another sweep yields a similar catch.

It is wonderful to see how rapidly an Indian will fill his canoe by
this rude method of fishing. The dusky forms of the savages bend over
the canoes, their brawny arms sweep their toothed sickles through the
shoals, stroke follows stroke in swift succession, and steadily the
canoes fill with their harvest of ‘living silver.’ When they have
heaped as much as this frail craft will safely carry, they paddle
ashore, drag the boats up on the shelving beach, overturn them as the
quickest way of discharging cargo, relaunch, and go back to rake up
another load. This labour goes on until the moon has set behind the
mountain-peaks and the fish disappear, for it is their habit rarely to
come to the surface except in the night. The sport over, we glide under
the dark rocks, haul up the canoe, and lie before the log-fire to sleep
long and soundly.

The next labour is that of the squaws, who have to do the curing,
drying, and oil-making. Seated in a circle, they are busy stringing the
fish. They do not gut or in any way clean them, but simply pass long
smooth sticks through their eyes, skewering on each stick as many as
it will hold, and then lashing a smaller piece transversely across the
ends, to prevent the fish from slipping off the skewer. This done, next
follows the drying, which is generally achieved in the thick smoke at
the top of the sheds, the sticks of fish being there hung up side by
side. They soon dry, and acquire a flavour of wood-smoke, which helps
also to preserve them. No salt is used by Indians in any of their
systems of curing fish.

When dry, the candle-fish are carefully packed in large frails made
from cedar-bark or rushes, much like those one buys for a penny at
Billingsgate; then they are stowed away on high stages made of poles,
like a rough scaffolding. This precaution is essential, for the
Indian children and dogs have an amiable weakness for eatables; and
as lock-and-key are unknown to the redskins, they take this way of
baffling the appetites of the incorrigible pilferers. The bales are
kept until required for winter. However hungry or however short of food
an Indian family may be during summer-time, it seldom will break in
upon the winter ‘cache.’

I have never seen any fish half as fat and as good for Arctic
winter-food as these little candle-fish. It is next to impossible
to broil or fry them, for they melt completely into oil. Some idea
of their marvellous fatness may be gleaned from the fact, that the
natives use them as lamps for lighting their lodges. The fish, when
dried, has a piece of rush-pith, or a strip from the inner bark of the
cypress-tree (_Thuja gigantea_), drawn through it, a long round needle
made of hard wood being used for the purpose; it is then lighted, and
burns steadily until consumed. I have read comfortably by its light;
the candlestick, literally a stick for the candle, consists of a bit of
wood split at one end, with the fish inserted in the cleft.

These ready-made sea-candles—little dips wanting only a wick that can
be added in a minute—are easily transformed by heat and pressure into
liquid. When the Indian drinks instead of burning them, he gets a fuel
in the shape of oil, that keeps up the combustion within him, and which
is burnt and consumed in the lungs just as it was by the wick, but
only gives heat. It is by no mere chance that myriads of small fish,
in obedience to a wondrous instinct, annually visit the northern seas,
containing within themselves all the elements necessary for supplying
light, heat, and life to the poor savage, who, but for this, must
perish in the bitter cold of the long dreary winter.

As soon as the Indians have stored away the full supply of food for the
winter, all the fish subsequently taken are converted into oil. If we
stroll down to the lodges near the beach, we shall see for ourselves
how they manage it. The fish reserved for oil-making have been piled in
heaps until partially decomposed; five or six fires are blazing away,
and in each fire are a number of large round pebbles, to be made very
hot. By each fire are four large square boxes, made from the trunk
of the pine-tree. A squaw carefully piles in each box a layer of fish
about three-deep, and covers them with cold water. She then puts five
or six of the hot stones upon the layers of fish, and when the steam
has cleared away, carefully lays small pieces of wood over the stones;
then more fish, more water, more stones, more layers of wood, and so
on, until the box is filled. The oil-maker now takes all the liquid
from this box, and uses it over again instead of water in filling
another box, and skims the oil off as it floats on the surface.

A vast quantity of oil is thus obtained; often as much as seven
hundredweight will be made by one small tribe. The refuse fish are not
yet done with, more oil being extractible from them. Built against
the pine-tree is a small stage, made of poles, very like a monster
gridiron. The refuse of the boxes, having been sewn up in porous mats,
is placed on the stage, to be rolled and pressed by the arms and chests
of Indian women; and the oil thus squeezed out is collected in a box
placed underneath.

Not only has Nature, ever bountiful, sent an abundance of oil to
the redskin, but she actually provides ready-made bottles to store
it away in. The great seawrack, that grows to an immense size in
these northern seas, and forms submarine forests, has a hollow stalk,
expanded into a complete flask at the root-end. Cut into lengths of
about three feet, these hollow stalks, with the bulb at the end, are
collected and kept wet until required for use. As the oil is obtained,
it is stored away in these natural quart-bottles, or rather larger
bottles, for some of them hold three pints.

Some fifty years ago, vast shoals of eulachon used regularly to enter
the Columbia; but the silent stroke of the Indian paddle has now given
place to the splashing wheels of great steamers, and the Indian and the
candle-fish have vanished together. From the same causes the eulachon
has also disappeared from Puget’s Sound, and is now seldom caught south
of latitude 50° N.




                              CHAPTER IV.

            THE ROUND-FISH, HERRINGS, AND VIVIPAROUS FISH.


THE ROUND-FISH (_Coregonus quadrilateralis_).—_Sp. Ch._: Colour,
yellowish-brown, paler on the sides and belly than on the back; scales
bright and glittering, each edged with a narrow border of dark-grey;
cheeks, fins, and tail, a deeper tint of the same colour as that on the
back; head one-sixth of the length (without the caudal); mouth very
small, under-jaw shorter than the upper—no teeth perceptible.

This fish has a very wide geographical range, being found as far north
(according to Sir J. Richardson) as the Mackenzie and Coppermine
rivers, east of the Rocky Mountains, and latitude 49° N. the western
side; how much farther they range north of 49° I had no opportunity of
judging.

This handsome and delicious fish, one of the _Salmonidæ_, is most
valuable as an article of food to the Indians, west of the Rocky
Mountains, the White-fish (_Coregonus albus_), or ‘Attihawmeg’ (which
means ‘reindeer of the sea’), being of like importance to those
residing east of the mountains. There the Indians frequently have
to subsist entirely on white-fish, and, at many of the fur-trading
stations, the traders get very little else to eat during nine months of
the twelve.

‘In one small lake (Lake St. Ann’s), near Fort Edmonton, forty thousand
white-fish were taken, of an average weight of three to four pounds, in
the course of three weeks.’ (_Palliser’s Exp._)

Two modes are adopted for preserving them—one that of sun-drying, the
other by freezing, in which state they may be kept perfectly sweet and
free from taint for the whole winter.

The Round-fish is seldom taken over two pounds in weight, and prior
to spawning they are loaded with fat, which on the shoulders almost
amounts to a hump, but becomes thin, watery, and insipid, after the
all-important duty of providing for their offspring is accomplished. I
am not quite sure when they return to the sea, as nothing is seen of
them after the ice sets in, towards the end of November, until their
arrival on the following year. The ova are deposited in much the same
way as that of other _Salmonidæ_: a hollow made in the gravel contains
the eggs and milt, which are covered over and abandoned—the young
fish, on its emergence from the egg, taking care of itself as best it
can.

One may journey a long way to witness a prettier or more picturesque
sight than Round-fish harvesting on the Sumass prairie: the prairie
bright and lovely; the grass fresh, green, and waving lazily; various
wild flowers, peeping coyly out from their cosy hiding-places, seem
making the most of the summer; a fresh, joyous hilarity everywhere,
pervading even the Indians, whose lodges in great numbers lie scattered
about. From the edges of the pine-forest, where the little streams came
out from the dark shadow into the sunshine, up to the lake, the prairie
was like a fair. Indians, old and young; chiefs, braves, squaws,
children, and slaves; were alike busy in capturing the round-fish, that
were swarming up the streams in thousands: so thick were they that
baits and traps were thrown aside, and hands, baskets, little nets, and
wooden bowls did the work; it was only requisite to stand in the stream
and bale out the fish. Thousands were drying, thousands had been eaten,
and as many more were wasting and decomposing on the bank. Supposing
every fish escaping the Indians, otters, and the various enemies that
it meets with in ascending the rivers, succeeded in depositing its ova,
where or how they find room to spawn, or what becomes of the offspring,
is more than I know.

Round-fish are cured by splitting and sun-drying, precisely in the same
manner as salmon. I have had very good sport angling for round-fish, by
using a rough gaudy fly. They rise readily, and struggle obstinately,
when hooked, but soon give up; turning on their side, they permit
themselves to be dragged upon the bank without attempting a flap of
resistance.

Some of these fish remain permanently, or at any rate for some time,
in fresh-water. I have often taken them in the Na-hoil-a-pit-ka river,
to get into which they must have leaped the Kettle Falls during a high
flood, being quite 800 miles from the sea; and as they are caught in
the spring, I think it fair to conclude they do not invariably return
to the sea after spawning.

HERRINGS.—The Vancouver Island Herring (_Malletta cœrulia_,
Grd.).—_Sp. Ch._: Head, about one-fifth of the total length of
the body, slender, its shape in profile somewhat fusiform; back,
bright steel-blue colour, shading away on the sides to brilliant
silvery-white; fins, yellow-white, but uniform in colour; posterior
extremity of maxillary bone extending to a vertical line drawn through
the middle of the orbit; eye, subcircular, large; colour, copper-red in
the freshly-caught fish; anterior margin of the dorsal fin, nearer the
extremity of the snout than the insertion of the caudal. The average
length is somewhat about ten inches. Indian name along the coast,
_Stole_; Skadget Indian, _Lo-see_.

There are three distinct herring arrivals, one beginning in February
and March; these fish are small, and somewhat lean. About the beginning
of April the run commences; these are finer, full of spawn, and in high
condition: in June and July, and extending through the summer, small
shoals occasionally make their appearance, but never as fine as the
April fish.

Toward the middle of April herring legions commence arriving from
seaward in real earnest; brigade follows brigade in rapid succession,
until every bay, harbour, inlet, estuary, and lagoon is literally alive
with them. Close in their rear, as camp-followers hang on the skirts of
an army, come shoals of dogfish, salmon, and fish-eating sea-birds.

I have often seen a shoal of herrings, when hotly pursued by the
dogfish, dash into a little rock-bound nook, the water lashed into
white spray by a thousand tails and fins, plied with all the power and
energy the poor struggling fish could exert to escape the dreaded foe.
A wall of rocks, right and left, ahead the shelving shingle—on they
go, and hundreds lie high-and-dry, panting on the pebbles. It is just
as well perhaps to die there, as to be torn, bitten, and eaten by the
piratical cannibals that are waging fearful havoc on the imprisoned
shoal. The dogfish wound ten times as many as they eat, and, having
satiated and gorged their greedy stomachs, swim lazily away, leaving
the dead, dying, and disabled to the tender mercies of the sea-birds
watching the battle, ever ready to pounce upon the unprotected, and end
its miseries.

Garnering the herring-crop is the Coast Indian’s best ‘sea-harvest;’
lodges spring up like mushrooms along the edges of the bays and
harbours; large fleets of canoes dot the water in every direction,
their swarthy crews continually loading them with glittering fish;
paddling ashore, they hand the cargo to the female part of the
community, and then start again for a similar freight.

Indians have various plans for catching herrings. Immense numbers are
taken with small hand-nets, literally dipping them out of the water
into the canoes; they also employ the ‘rake,’ already described as
used for taking candle-fish. One savage, sitting in the stern of his
canoe, paddles along, keeping in the herring shoal; another, having the
rounded part of the rake firmly fixed in both hands, sweeps it through
the crowded fish, from before aft, using all his force: generally
speaking, every tooth has a herring impaled on it, sometimes three or
four. It is astonishing how rapidly an Indian will fill his canoe with
herrings, using this rude and primitive contrivance.

A wholesale system of capture is practised in Puget’s Sound, Point
Discovery, and Port Townsend, where large mud-flats run out for long
distances into the sea, which are left quite dry at low-tide. Across
these flats Indians make long dams of latticework, having here and
there openings like our salmon-traps, allowing herrings to pass easily
in, but preventing their return. Shoal after shoal pass through these
‘gates,’ but are destined never to get back to their briny home. It is
not at all uncommon to take from two to three tons of fish at one tide,
by this simple but ingenious method.

When the tide is well out, and the flats clear of water, the Indians
bring down immense quantities of fir-branches, and stick them in the
mud, lay them on the ground, and, in all sorts of ways, distribute
them over the flats, within the weir-dam. On these branches the
herring-spawn gets entangled; when covered with spawn the branches are
carried to the lodges, and the fish-eggs dried in the sun. Thus dried,
and brushed into baskets, it is in appearance very much like coarse
brown sand; it is then stored away, and when eaten mixed with fish-oil
is esteemed by the Indians as the very perfection of feeding. This
spawn is to Indians what _caviare_ is to Russians; but as I do not like
either, it may be I am not an authority on its merits as a table dainty.

All herrings taken in the weirs are not eaten; the Indians dry or
otherwise preserve them, but the great use to which they appropriate
them is to extract the oil. This is a grand process, and carried
on entirely by squaws. It would be a great blessing, and save much
annoyance, if you could only leave your nose at home, or at some
distance away, during your visit to an Indian village in herring-time,
or whilst oil-making. The entire atmosphere appears saturated with the
odour of decomposing fish, rancid oil, Indians, and dogs—a perfume the
potency of which you only realise by having a thorough good sniff.
Then, if you ever forget it, or wish to indulge your olfactory organ
again, your tastes and mine, gentle reader, must widely differ. The oil
is extracted and stored away (as described in a previous chapter) in
native bottles.

I have no hesitation in stating my conviction that herring-fisheries
established east and west of Vancouver Island, or at different points
along the mainland coast, in the Straits of Juan de Fuca, or amidst
the islands in the Gulf of Georgia, would turn out most remunerative
speculations. It is true that herring-fishing has been tried, but only
on the most limited scale. To make it pay; for that, after all, is the
primary consideration; capital must be employed, and skilled hands to
manage the drying, curing, and packing. Salt can be obtained in any
quantities; wood in abundance, to make casks, build houses, boats, or
ships; herrings within _millions_, requiring neither risk nor skill to
catch. The rapidly-growing colonies of Vancouver Island and British
Columbia offer ready markets for home consumption; China, Japan, the
Sandwich Islands, and the entire coast southward from San Francisco
to Mexico, afford facilities for disposing of almost any quantity of
preserved fish. Those who undertake herring-fishing in North-western
waters on a large scale, judiciously applying capital, skilled labour,
and good management, will reap an ample harvest, and become the real
‘Herring Kings’ of the far North-west.

VIVIPAROUS FISH.—We are so accustomed to associate the production of
young fishes with eggs and milt, familiar to all as hard and soft roe
in the cured herring, that it is difficult to believe in the existence
of a fish bringing forth live young, just as do dogs, cats, rats, and
mice—only with this difference, that, in the case of the fish, the
young are perfect in every detail, when launched into the water, as the
parent, and swim away self-dependent, to feed or be fed on, as good or
ill-luck befals the little wanderer. The woodcut represents the female
fish with the young _in situ_, together with others scattered round
her, having fallen out when the walls of the abdomen were dissected
open: the drawing was made from a female fish I brought from Vancouver
Island, and now exhibiting in the Fish Room of the British Museum.

At San Francisco, as early as April, I saw large numbers of viviparous
fish in the market for sale; but then, it is an open question whether
these fish really arrive at an earlier period of the year in the Bay
of San Francisco than at Vancouver Island. I think not. That they are
taken earlier in the year is simply due to the fact, that the fishermen
at San Francisco have better nets and fish in deeper water, than the
Indians, and consequently take the fish earlier. The habit of the fish
is clearly to come into shallow water when the period arrives for
producing its live young; and from the fact that some of these fish are
occasionally taken at all periods of the year, I am induced to believe
that they do not in reality migrate, but only retire into deeper water
along the coast, there to remain during the winter months, reappearing
in the shallow bays and estuaries in June and July, or perhaps earlier,
for reproductive purposes; here they remain until September, and then
entirely disappear.

[Illustration: THE VIVIPAROUS-FISH AND ITS YOUNG.]

They swim close to the surface in immense shoals, and numbers are
very craftily taken by the Indians, who literally frighten the fish
into their canoes. At low-tide, when a shoal of fish is in the bay,
or up one of those large inlets that intersect the coast-line, the
savages get the fish between the bank (or the rocks, as it may be) and
the canoe, and then paddle with all their might and main among the
terror-stricken fish, lashing the sea with their paddles, and uttering
the most fiendish yells. Out leap the fish from the water, in their
panic to escape this (to their affrighted senses) terrible monster; and
if not ‘out of the fryingpan into the fire,’ it is out of the sea into
the canoes—which in the long run I take to be pretty much the same
thing.

It appears to be a singular trait in the character of viviparous fish,
that of leaping high out of the water on the slightest alarm. I have
often seen them jump into my boat when rowing through a shoal, which
is certainly most accommodating. The Indians also spear them: they use
a long slender haft with four barbed points, arranged in a circle, but
bent so as to make them stand at a considerable distance from each
other. With this spear they strike into a shoal of fish, and generally
impale three or four; many are caught with hooks, but they bite shily,
the only baits I have seen taken being salmon-roe nearly putrid, or
bits of crab.

Just prior to my leaving Vancouver Island, numbers were netted by some
Italian fishermen who had a seine. They found a ready sale for them
in the market, but as a table-dainty they are scarcely worth eating;
the flesh is insipid, watery, and flabby, and I am convinced that
no system of cooking or culinary skill would ever convert it into a
palatable fish.

The geographical range of viviparous fish, as far as I have any
opportunity of judging, is from the Bay of San Francisco to Sitka. It
may perhaps (and I have but little doubt that it does) extend much
farther south along the Mexican coast; but this I can only surmise,
never having seen them beyond the limits above stated. It frequents all
the bays and harbours on the east and west sides of Vancouver Island,
and is equally abundant in the Gulf of Georgia and the Straits of
Juan de Fuca; making its appearance about the same period, or perhaps
somewhat earlier, in the various inlets on the Oregon coast, from Cape
Flattery to the Bay of San Francisco. It will be just as well perhaps,
before I go into the subject of its specific characters and singular
reproductive organs, I should mention how I first stumbled upon the
fact of its being viviparous.

Soon after I arrived at Vancouver Island, I at once set to work to
investigate, as far as it lay in my power, the habits and periods of
migration of the different species of fish periodically visiting the
North-west coast. The sole means then at my disposal to obtain fish
for examination, or as specimens to send home, was to employ Indians
or catch them myself; so it happened, some of these fish were first
brought me by Indians. Cutting one down the side (the plan I usually
adopt to skin a fish, keeping the opposite side untouched), to my
intense surprise, out tumbled a lot of little fish! My wildest dreams
had never led me to suppose a fish I then thought was a bream, or
one of the perch family, could be viviparous. I at once most hastily
arrived at the conclusion that the greedy gourmand had eaten them.
Dropping my knife, I sat in a most bewildered state looking at the fish.

The first ray of light that shone in to illumine my mystification
seemed to spring from the fact, that each little fish was the model,
counterpart, and facsimile of the larger, and in shape, size, and
colour were exactly alike: from the position too they occupied in the
abdomen of the larger fish, I was led at once to see the error of my
first assumption, that they had been swallowed. Carefully dissecting
back the walls of the abdomen, I discovered a delicate membranous
bag or sac having an attachment to the upper or dorsal region, and
doubled upon itself into numerous folds or plaits, and between each
of these folds was neatly packed away a little fish; the bag was of a
bluish-white colour, and contained fourteen fish. I had no longer any
doubt that the fish was viviparous, and that it was a true and normal
case of ovarian gestation. So much for my first discovery; the details
of my subsequent examinations I shall again have occasion to refer to.

It happened most curiously that a Mr. Jackson (I believe a government
officer of the United States) was, about this same period, amusing
himself by fishing at Salsalita, and caught two viviparous fish, a male
and a female. On cutting open the female, to obtain a piece of the
belly for bait, he, like myself, was astonished at seeing a whole bevy
of tiny fish come scrambling out, and at first imagined, as I did, that
they had been swallowed. He immediately wrote a letter to Professor
Agassiz, sending the mutilated fish, having previously satisfied
himself that they had not been devoured, and stating at length his
singular discovery. The professor was astonished, and disbelieved the
possibility of the fish being viviparous, imagining some error had
crept into the statement sent him by Mr. Jackson; but other fish in a
similar state were subsequently obtained by Mr. Carey, and forwarded to
the learned professor. The fact was then most undeniably established,
that this and many other species were strictly viviparous.

I have spoken of this at some length, because it is a curious
coincidence that the same fact should have been discovered by two men
a long distance apart, about the same date, and by both in the same
way,—by sheer accident.

Now we come to a ticklish question: how are the young fish vitalised in
the abdomen of the mother? In this case I shall adopt what I conceive
to be the most straightforward course, which is candidly to give my own
thoughts, and solicit from abler, older, and better physiologists their
opinions or theories—for I sincerely think this is a question well
worth careful investigation. I believe the ova, after impregnation, at
first goes through the same transformations in the ovarium as it would
do, supposing it to have been spawned and fecundated in the ordinary
spawning-bed, but only up to a certain point; then, I think, the
membrane enfolding the ova, that have by this time assumed a fishlike
type, takes on the character and functions of a placental membrane,
and the young fish are supplied by an umbilical cord, just as in the
case of a fœtal mammal. But a third change takes place. There can be no
doubt that the young fish I cut out, and that swam away, had breathed
before they were freed from the mother; hence I am led to think that,
a short time prior to the birth of the young, sea-water has access
to this marsupial sac, washes over the infant fish, the gills assume
their normal action, and the regular systemic circle is established.
Maturity attained, the umbilical attachment snaps, and the little
fish, perfect in every detail of its organisation, is launched into
the deep, to brave its many perils, and shift for itself. The strong
transverse muscles attached to the powerful sphincter (constituting
the genital opening acting from the abdominal walls), I imagine, are
in some way concerned in admitting the sea-water, and it appears to
me a contrivance admirably adapted to effect such a purpose; but how
impregnation takes place, I may at once honestly confess—I do not know.

The male is much like the female, but more slim, and the milt just
like that of other fish. I can only conjecture that fecundation
is accomplished through the medium of the sea-water, admitted by
the curiously-contrived floodgate of the female, carrying in the
milt-germs, and washing them over the ova.

The actual period of utero-gestation I am by no means sure about, but
I am inclined to think they breed twice in the year. It is worthy of
remark that the young mature fish are very large, when compared with
the size of the mother. In a female fish eleven inches in length, the
young were three inches long—the adult fish four-and-a-half inches
high, the young an inch.

The only instance I can find recorded of a viviparous fish bearing
any analogy to the _Embiotocidæ_ is the viviparous blenny (_Zoarces
viviparus_, Cuv.). Of course I exclude the sharks and rays. Of the
viviparous blenny little or nothing appears to me to be known. On
reference to Pennant’s ‘British Zoology,’ all he says is, that it was
discovered by Schonevelde, and that Sir Robert Sibbald afterwards found
it on the Scotch coast, and it was mentioned by Linnæus in his account
of the Swedish Museum.

I quote the following paragraph verbatim from Pennant’s ‘British
Zoology.’ Speaking of the blenny, he goes on to say: ‘It is viviparous,
_bringing forth two or three hundred young at a time_. Its season of
parturition is a little after the depth of winter; before midsummer
it quits the bays and shores, and retires into the deep, where it is
commonly taken. It comes into the mouth of the River Esk at Whitby,
Yorkshire, where it is frequently taken from off the bridge.’

In Cuvier’s ‘Animal Kingdom’ (vol. i. ‘Fish’), all I can glean is that
the blenny is viviparous. Yarrel, in his ‘British Fishes,’ speaks of
a Mr. Low, who put a number of the small fishes (the young of the
blenny) in a tumbler of sea-water, in which they increased in size,
but eventually died from the want of fresh-water. Again, he quotes a
Mr. Neil, who saw in the Edinburgh market, in 1807, several dozens
of young fish escape alive from the female. ‘The arrangement of the
perfectly-formed young in the fœtal sac of the gravid female is very
remarkable.’

It is quite clear from the above quotations that there is an analogy,
if not a close one, between the reproductive organs of the blenny and
those of the viviparous fish from the North-west seas; for ‘the fœtal
sac of the gravid female’ evidently means that there is a kind of
placental sac, in which the young are contained; but it leaves us quite
as much in the dark as ever as to how fœtal life is supported. As the
ova deposited in the usual way (when fecundated) contains all that is
requisite for the development of the embryo, it is just possible that
the same process goes on in the womb of the female viviparous fish, and
that the fœtal sac is only a wrapper, formed by the widened end of the
ovary. But still I maintain that it fulfils a far more important duty.

I fear I have been rather prolix in the foregoing descriptions, but I
must plead the novelty and importance of the subject as my excuse. The
most beautiful of all the species of these fish is the sapphire perch
(so called by the traders), very plentiful in Puget’s Sound. Eighteen
exquisitely beautiful mazarine-blue lines or stripes mark its entire
length from head to tail; and above and below this line are a number
of spots of most dazzling blue, arranged in a crescent shape, about
the eyes and gill-covers. Between these spots the colour changes, as
it does in the dolphin, throwing off a kind of phosphorescent light
of varying shades of gold, purple, and green—the back bright-blue
but darker than the stripes; the belly white, marked by golden-yellow
streaks.

But now for the most important feature in the history of these
fish—that of bringing into the world their young alive,
self-dependent, and self-supporting, as perfect in their minutest
organisation as the parent-fish that gives them birth. The generative
apparatus of the female fish when in a gravid state may be defined as
a large bag or sac. Ramifying over its surface may be seen a most
complicated and strangely beautiful vascular arrangement—a network of
vessels, the use of which is clearly to convey the lifegiving fluid
to the infant fish, and carry it back again, after having served
its destined purpose, to be revivified for future use. The way this
sac is, as it were, folded, and the different compartments made for
the accommodation of the embryonic fish, is most singular, and very
difficult to describe clearly.

The best illustration I can think of is an orange. You must imagine the
orange divided into its regular number of little wedge-shaped pieces,
and each piece to represent a fish; that the rind of the orange is
a delicate membrane, having a globular shape, and easily compressed
or folded. You now desire to fit the pieces together again in the
original orange-shape, but you must begin on the _outside_ of the
globular membrane, pressing in with each section a fold of membrane
(remember that each represents a fish); when each piece is in its
place, you will still have the sac in its rounded form, but the rind or
membrane has been folded in with the different pieces. If I have made
myself understood, it will be seen that there must be a double fold of
membrane between each portion of orange. This is exactly the way the
fish are packed in this novel placental sac. If it were practicable
to remove each fish from its space, and the sac retain its normal
shape, there would be twelve or fourteen openings (depending upon the
number of young fish), the wall of each division being a double fold
of membrane—the double edges wrapping or, as it were, folding over
the fish. Now make a hole in the end of this folded bag, and _blow_ it
full of air, and you get at once the globe-shaped membranous sac I have
likened to an orange.

The fish are always arranged to economise space: when the head of
a young fish points to the head of its mother, the next to it is
reversed, and looks towards the tail. I am quite convinced that the
young fish are packed away by doubling or folding the sac in the way
I have endeavoured to describe. I have again and again dissected out
this ovarian bag, filled with fish in various stages of development,
and floating it in saltwater, have, with a fine-pointed needle, opened
the edges of the double membranous divisions that enwrap the fish—(the
amount of overlapping is of course greater when the fish is in its
earlier stages of development). On separating the edges of the sac,
out the little fishes pop. I have obtained them in all stages of their
growth,—but sometimes (and this not once or twice, but often) have
set free the young fish from its dead mother. Thus prematurely cut
loose from its membranous prison, the infant captive, revelling in its
newly-acquired liberty, swam about in the saltwater, active, brisk, and
jolly, in every particular, as well able to take care and provide for
itself as its parent. The female external genital opening is situated
a little posterior to the anal opening; the orifice is at the apex,
and in the centre of a fleshy conical protuberance, which is in fact,
a powerful sphincter muscle, _moored_, as it were, in its place by two
strong muscular ropes, acting from and attached to the walls of the
abdomen.

Dr. Günther, in the British Museum Catalogue of Fishes, uses the
generic title of _Ditrema_, which I have adopted. The first glance
at the fish, as it lies on the table or on the beach, would lead you
to pronounce it a _Pomotis_ (belonging to the family _Percidæ_): the
northern _Pomotis_ (_P. vulgaris_) is a good example, and very common
along the shores of Lake Huron, where I have often caught them. Or, on
the other hand, you would be perhaps tempted to call it a _Sparus_;
the gilthead (_S. auratus_) may be taken as a type suggesting the
resemblance. This fish is taken in large numbers in the Mediterranean,
and occasionally on the French and Spanish coasts. But a close
investigation into the more marked generic and specific characters,
apart from their reproducing organs, at once clearly shows they belong
neither to the one family nor the other; they differ much more from the
percoids than from the sparoids, but the cycloid scales remove them
at once from the sparoids, in which the scales present a very uniform
etenoid type.

The illustration represents a female _Ditrema argenteum_, Brit. Mus.
Cat., ‘Fishes.’

_Amphistichus argenteus_, Agass., Am. Journ., 1854; Soc. Nat. Hist.,
1861, p. 131; Pacif. R. R. Exp., ‘Fishes,’ p. 201.

_Mytilophagus fasciatus_ (Gibbons).

_Amphistichus similes_ (Grd.).

The middle dorsal spines are either nearly as long as, or somewhat
longer, than the posterior; scales on the cheek, in five series,
somewhat irregularly disposed. The height of the body is rather
more than a fourth of the total length (without caudal); jaws equal
anteriorly; the maxillary extends to below the centre of the orbit;
lips thin, the fold of the lower interrupted in the middle. For
description of species, _vide_ Appendix, vol. ii.




                              CHAPTER V.

     STICKLEBACKS AND THEIR NESTS—THE BULLHEAD—THE ROCK-COD—THE
                           CHIRUS—FLATFISH.


The genus _Cottoidæ_, (fish having mailed cheeks) has a great many
representatives, common on Vancouver Island and the British Columbian
coasts. The least of the family, the stickleback, is so singularly
different from most other fishes in its habits, as to merit the first
consideration.

In the months of July and August it would be difficult to find a
stream, large or small, swift or slow, lake, pool, or muddy estuary,
east and west of the Cascade Mountains, that has not in it immense
shoals of that most irritable and pugnacious little fish the
stickleback, ever ready on the slightest provocation to engage in a
battle. Let friend or foe but rub against his royal person, or come
nearer his private subaqueous garden than he deems consistent with
safety or good behaviour, in a moment the spines are erected like
spear-points, the tiny eyes glow with fury, the colours decking
his scaly armour intensify, and flash with a kind of phosphorescent
brightness, until the diminutive gladiator looks the impersonation of
rage and fury; but as we cultivate his acquaintance, and gain a better
knowledge of his real character, we shall discover that his quarrelsome
disposition is not so much attributable to a morose temper, and a love
of fighting for fighting’s sake, as to a higher and more praiseworthy
principle.

No amount of thinking would lead one to imagine that his pugnacity
arises from intense parental affection: a love of offspring, scarcely
having a parallel in the living world, prompting him to risk his life,
and spend a great deal of his time in constantly-recurring paroxysms of
fury and sanguinary conflicts, in which it often happens that one or
more of the combatants gets ripped open or mortally stabbed with the
formidable spines arming the back. Skill in stickleback battles appears
to consist in rapidly diving under an adversary, then as suddenly
rising, and driving the spines into his sides and stomach. The little
furies swim round and round, their noses tightly jammed together; but
the moment one gets his nose the least bit under that of his foe, then
he plies his fins with all his might, and forcing himself beneath,
does his best to drive in his spear, if the other be not quick enough
to dart upwards and escape the thrust; thus squaring they fight round
after round until the death or flight of one ends the combat.

I have often, when tired, lain down on the bank of a stream, beneath
the friendly shade of some leafy tree, and gazing into its depths
watched the sticklebacks either guarding their nests already built, or
busy in their construction. The site is generally amongst the stems of
aquatic plants, where the water always flows, but not too swiftly. He
first begins by carrying small bits of green material, which he nips
off the stalks, and tugs from out the bottom and sides of the banks;
these he attaches by some glutinous material, that he clearly has the
power of secreting, to the different stems destined as pillars for
his building. During this operation he swims against the work already
done, splashes about, and seems to test its durability and strength;
rubs himself against the tiny kind of platform, scrapes the slimy mucus
from his sides, to mix with and act as mortar for his vegetable bricks.
Then he thrusts his nose into the sand at the bottom, and bringing
a mouthful scatters it over the foundation; this is repeated until
enough has been thrown on to weight the slender fabric down, and give
it substance and stability. Then more twists, turns, and splashings,
to test the firm adherence of all the materials that are intended to
constitute the foundation of the house, that has yet to be erected on
it. The nest or nursery, when completed, is a hollow, somewhat rounded,
barrel-shaped structure, worked together much in the same way as the
platform fastened to the water-plants; the whole firmly glued together
by the viscous secretion scraped from off the body. The inside is made
as smooth as possible, by a kind of plastering system; the little
architect continually goes in, then turning round and round, works the
mucus from his body on to the inner sides of the nest, where it hardens
like a tough varnish. There are two apertures, smooth and symmetrical
as the hole leading into a wren’s nest, and not unlike it.

All this laborious work is done entirely by the male fish, and when
completed he goes a-wooing. Watch him as he swims towards a group of
the fair sex, enjoying themselves amidst the water-plants, arrayed in
his best and brightest livery, all smiles and amiability: steadily, and
in the most approved style of stickleback love-making, this young and
wealthy bachelor approaches the object of his affections, most likely
tells her all about his house and its comforts, hints delicately at
his readiness and ability to defend her children against every enemy,
vows unfailing fidelity, and, in lover-fashion, promises as much in a
few minutes as would take a lifetime to fulfil. Of course she listens
to his suit: personal beauty, indomitable courage, backed by the
substantial recommendations of a house ready-built, and fitted for
immediate occupation, are gifts not to be lightly regarded.

Throwing herself on her side, the captive lady shows her appreciation,
and by sundry queer contortions declares herself his true and devoted
spouse. Then the twain return to the nest, into which the female at
once betakes herself, and therein deposits her eggs, emerging when
the operation is completed by the opposite hole. During the time she
is in the nest (about six minutes) the male swims round and round,
butts and rubs his nose against it, and altogether appears to be in
a state of defiant excitement. On the female leaving he immediately
enters, deposits the milt on the eggs, taking his departure through the
backdoor. So far, his conduct is strictly proper, but, I am afraid,
morality in stickleback society is of rather a lax order. No sooner
has this lady, his first love, taken her departure, than he at once
seeks another, introduces her as he did the first, and so on wife after
wife, until the nest is filled with eggs, layer upon layer—milt being
carefully deposited betwixt each stratum of ova. As it is necessary
there should be two holes, by which ingress and egress can be readily
accomplished, so it is equally essential in another point of view. To
fertilise fish-eggs, running water is the first necessity; and as the
holes are invariably placed in the direction of the current, a steady
stream of water is thus directed over them.

For six weeks (and sometimes a few days more) the papa keeps untiring
sentry over his treasure, and a hard time he has of it too: enemies of
all sorts, even the females of his own species, having a weakness for
new-laid eggs, hover round his brimming nest, and battles are of hourly
occurrence; for he defies them all, even to predatory water-beetles,
that, despite their horny armour, often get a fatal lance-wound from
the furious fish. Then he has to turn the eggs, and expose the under
ones to the running water: and even when the progeny make their
appearance, his domestic duties are far from ended, for it is said
(although I have never seen him do it), ‘When one of the young fish
shows any disposition to wander from the nest, he darts after it,
seizes it in his mouth, and brings it back again.’

There are three species that come into the fresh-waters of British
Columbia, to nest and to hatch their young:—

_Gasterosteus serratus_, the Saw-finned Stickleback (Ayres, Proc. Cal.
Acad. Nat. Sc. 1855 p. 47).—_Sp. Ch._: Body entirely plated; peduncle
of tail keeled; the three dorsal spines conspicuously serrated on their
edges; anterior fin a little in advance of the base of the pectoral;
insertion of ventrals in advance of the second dorsal spine—their own
spines serrated on both edges; posterior margin of caudal somewhat
hollowed. The colour of the freshly-caught fish is greyish-olive along
the dorsal line; but on the sides, particularly in the male, it shades
away into an iridescence, like that seen on mother-o’pearl, again
changing to pure silvery-white on the abdomen.

_Gasterosteus Pugettii_, the Puget Sound Stickleback (Grd., Proc.
Acad., Nat. Sc. Phil., viii. 1856).—_Sp. Ch._: Body only in part
plated, peduncle of tail not keeled; the three dorsal spines without
serrations; the anterior one inserted immediately behind the base of
the pectorals; ventrals inserted anterior to the second dorsal spine.
The colour is very much like that of _G. serratus_, but more decidedly
purplish on the sides the eyes bright red in both species, when fresh
from the water.

_Gasterosteus concinnus_, the Tiny Stickleback (Rich., F. B. A., p.
57, vol. iii.).—_Sp. Ch._: Head one-fourth of the total length, mouth
small, and teeth but feebly developed; dorsal spines nine, seventh
and eighth smaller than the preceding ones, the ninth longer than any
of the others. The abdomen is protected by a bony cuirass, and the
ventrals represented by two spines. All the spines are moveable, and
destitute of serrations. Colour of the back a bright sea-green, sides
purplish-pink, shading away to a silvery-white on the belly the entire
body speckled with minute black spots.

This handsome little stickleback, though smaller in size than his
brethren, is vastly more abundant. Sir J. Richardson speaks of it
‘as being common in the Saskatchawan, ranging as far north as the
65th parallel.’ So abundant are they in the lakes and pools about
Cumberland House, east of the Rocky Mountains, that sledge-loads
are dipped out with wooden bowls, and used for feeding the dogs. I
have seen cartloads of these tiny fish in a single pool, left by the
receding waters after the summer floods, on the Sumass prairie and
banks of the Chilukweyuk river. As the water rapidly evaporated, the
miserable captives huddled closer and closer together, starving with
hunger and panting for air, but without the remotest chance of escape.
The sticklebacks die and decompose, or yield banquets to the bears,
weasels, birds, and beetles; the pool dries, and in a few weeks not
a trace or record remains of the dead host of fishes. In the smaller
streams, a bowl dipped into the water where the sticklebacks were
thickest, could be readily filled with fish.

Sticklebacks are the most voracious little gourmands imaginable,
devourers of everything, and cannibals into the bargain; tearing
their wounded comrades into fragments, they greedily swallow them. I
have often taken this species (_G. concinnus_) in Esquimalt Harbour,
where they are very plentiful during the winter months. The natives
of Kamtschatka make use of a stickleback (_G. obolarius_), which they
obtain in great quantities, not only as food for the sledge-dogs, but
for themselves also, by making them into a kind of soup. West of the
Rocky Mountains I have never seen the Indians use them as an article
of diet, not from any dislike to the fish, but simply because there are
larger and better fishes quite as abundant, and as easily procurable.
Whether there are any species in the North-west, strictly marine,
building their nests in the sea and never entering fresh-water, I am
unable to say.

The Fifteen-spine Stickleback (_Gasterosteus spinachia_) is along our
own coasts strictly a tenant of the ocean, and makes a nest of seaweeds
glued together with an adhesive mucus, in the same way as the nests of
our little friends are cemented, that seek as their nursery the clear
cold streams of British Columbia, Oregon, and Vancouver Island.

THE BULLHEAD.—The stickleback has a near relative, with a name nearly
as ugly as the owner, ‘_Bullhead_’ being certainly not suggestive of
beauty! With such a name, we are the less disappointed to find the
entire family of our friends ill-favoured, prickly, hard-skinned, and
as uncomfortable to handle as to look at. Plates of scaly armour cover
the head, from which sprout sharp spines, like a crop of horns; between
these are tubercles that have the appearance of being rivets. The body
looks like an appendage, tapering away to a mere nothing at the tail.
There are many species frequenting the lakes and rivers of British
Columbia, during the summer months, for the purpose of spawning. On
their return to the sea, swarms of young bullheads, of various species,
regularly follow the ebb and flow of the tide; and in rough weather
every breaker, as it rushes up the shelving shingle, carries a freight
of tiny fish, that are left struggling amid the pebbles in thousands,
to be dragged back and floated out again by the succeeding wave, or to
find a last home in the stomachs of the sea-birds.

The bullhead does not actually build a nest, like the stickleback, but
makes an egg-house, on the bottom of some slowly-running stream. The
male usually selects a hollow under a boulder, or a space betwixt two
stones, and shoves out the lesser pebbles and gravel, to form a pit.
This accomplished, several females are in turn induced to deposit their
roe, having done which they are driven off by the male, who supplies
the milt, then shovels the sand and pebbles, with his huge horny head,
over the treasure, until it is completely covered: more females, more
eggs and milt, more shovelling, until the affair is completed to the
bullhead papa’s satisfaction. Now stand clear all thievish prowlers!
Let anything of reasonable size venture near—then head down, and
plying all his propellers to their utmost power, he charges at them,
driving his horns in to the very hilt; free again, seizes hold with
his mouth—thus biting and stabbing, until he kills or routs his foe.
I am not able to say exactly how long the eggs are incubating, but, as
nearly as I could observe them (in the Sumass and Chilukweyuk streams),
in about eight weeks the young escape from the egg-house. The females
were invariably driven away, with the same ferocity as other unwelcome
guests, from the depositing the spawn to the exit of the infant fish:
then old and young disappear into deeper water, and are seldom seen
again.

During the winter, I constantly obtained the bullheads from out the
seine-nets used in Esquimalt Harbour to procure fish for the supply
of Victoria market. Rejected by the fishermen, the Indians greedily
gathered up the despised fishes, broiled them over the lodge-fire
empaled on a slender twig, then feasted right-royally on the grilled
remains of the spiny martyrs.

The genus _Centridermichthys_ is characterised as follows:—Head more
or less depressed, rounded anteriorly; head and body covered with soft
and scaleless skin, more or less studded with prickles or granulations;
teeth in the jaws, on the vomer and palatine bones.

_Centridermichthys asper_ (_Coltus asper_, Rich. F. B. A. ‘Fishes,’ p.
295), the Prickly-skinned Bullhead.—_Sp. Ch._: Gill-openings separated
beneath, by an isthmus; three opercular spines; crown with very small
warts, back of the body with very minute spines; colour light yellowish
brown, thickly dotted with spots nearly black. The length of the adult
fish is seldom over three-and-a-half inches.

These tiny bullheads are common in all the streams east and west of the
Cascades. They are not fond of going very far from the sea, but leave
the larger rivers soon after entering them, seeking the clear rivulets
and shallow lakes. In the streams flowing through the Sumass and
Chilukweyuk prairies, in those flowing into Puget’s Sound, and north
of it on the mainland to Fort Simpson, and in all the streams draining
Vancouver Island, the prickly-skinned bullhead can be easily found in
July and August. Similar in habits, and frequenting the same localities
as the preceding, are several species described in the Appendix.

THE ROCK COD.—Belonging to the same family is the rock cod, as it
is usually styled by the fishermen who provide the Victoria and San
Francisco markets; one of the best and daintiest table-fish caught
in the seas round Vancouver Island. It often attains a considerable
size, and being in tolerable abundance, constitutes an article of some
commercial value.

As numbers are taken all through the year, and as I never saw them
in fresh-water, it is fair to assume they are strictly marine. Their
appearance is not prepossessing, giving one the idea of being all head,
fins, and bones, as they lie gasping on the shingle; an error of the
eye only, as you discover when testing the substance and quality of a
large one, smoking hot from the fish-kettle. Three species are commonly
offered for sale in the markets, one of which is also taken in Japanese
seas. They vary in size; I have often seen a rock cod thirty inches in
length. Biting greedily at any bait, they are constantly caught by the
Indians when trolling for salmon.

The one usually seen in the Victoria markets is _Sebastes inermis_
(Cuv. and Val., p. 346; Faun. Japon., ‘Poiss.,’ p. 47, pl. 21, figs. 3,
4), the Weak-spined Rock Cod.—_Sp. Ch._: The height of the body equals
the length of the head; the upper surface of the head flat, with some
depressed spines behind the orbit. The fourth and fifth dorsal spines
are the largest, longer than those of the anal, and nearly half the
length of the head. Colour, uniform brownish.

THE CHIRUS.—On the fish-stalls in Victoria and San Francisco markets
the visitor may generally see, lying by the side of the dingy, spiny
rock cod, a handsome, shapely fish, about eighteen inches in length.
Its sides, though somewhat rough, rival in beauty many a tropical
flower: clad in scales, adorned with colours not only conspicuous for
their brilliancy, but grouped and blended in a manner one sees only
represented in the plumage of a bird, the wing of a butterfly, or the
petals of an orchid, this ‘ocean swell’ is known to the ichthyologist
as the Chirus—the _Terpugh_ (a file) of the Russians—the _Idyajuk_ of
the Aleutian Islanders—the _Tath-le-gest_ of the Vancouver Islanders.

Quite as delicious to the palate as pleasant to the eye, the chirus
is altogether a most estimable fish. Its habit is to frequent rocky
places, particularly where long ledges of rocks are left bare at
low-water, and sheltered at the same time from the surge of the sea
in rough weather. Here the chirus loves to disport his gaily-dressed
person, amidst the gardens of sea plants: for in these gardens dwell
jellyfish, tender little crustaceans, soft-bodied chitons, crisp
shrimps, and juicy annalides—all dainty viands, on which this gay
lounger delights to regale himself.

At low-tide, when strolling over the slippery rocks that everywhere
gird the eastern side of Vancouver Island, in the larger rock-pools
I was certain to see lots of these fish imprisoned, having lingered
imprudently at their feasts. This indulgence constantly costs the idler
his life: gulls, herons, shags also prowl over the rocks, well knowing
what admirable preserves these aquariums are. Once spied out, it is
of no avail to hide amidst the seaweeds, or cower under the shelving
ledges draped with coralines. The large pincer-like beak follows, nips
him across the back; a skilful jerk gets the head first—then down a
lane he goes from which no chirus ever returns.

We might as reasonably attempt to describe, the flushing changing
colours of the Aurora Borealis as seen in high latitudes, or the
phosphorescence of a tropical sea, or the wing of the diamond-beetle,
as to hope by word-painting to give the faintest conception of the
colourings that adorn the chirus: red, blue, orange, and green are
so mingled, that the only thing I can think of as a comparison is a
floating flower-bed, and even then the gardener’s art, in grouping, is
but a bungle contrasted with Nature’s painting!

There are three species of chirus common along the island and mainland
coasts. The one usually sold is _Chirus hexagrammus_ (Cuv., Regne An.,
‘Poiss.,’ pl. 83), the Six-lined Chirus.—_Sp. Ch._: A skinny tentacle
over each orbit; palatine teeth none; two muciferous channels, between
the lateral line and dorsal fin; scales ciliated.

FLATFISH.—In all the muddy estuaries and on the sandy flats about
Puget’s Sound, at the mouths of the Columbia and Fraser rivers, several
species of flatfish are found in great abundance. These fish have
always formed an important article of food to all the sea-fishing
Indians, and, since the influx of white settlers, are caught for the
supply of the Victoria and San Francisco markets.

Only the larger species are taken with hook and line, the smaller
flounders being usually speared by the Indians. And a pleasant sight
it is, too, to watch a little fleet of canoes, each one slowly paddled
by a dusky squaw gliding along the sandy shallows, the spearman in the
bow ‘prodding’ for the fish hidden in the mud and sand. The flounder,
thus disturbed, scuds along the bottom, and stirs up the sand like a
trail, marking its line of progress. The sharp-eyed savage notes the
spot where the dirt-line ends, paddles up to it, dashes in the spear,
and, quick as thought, transfers the ‘_flat_’ fish from its fancied
hiding-place to the bottom of the canoe. Immense numbers are taken in
this manner at every tide. The following are the species usually sold
in the markets:—

_Pleuronectes bilineates_ (_Platessa bilineata_, Ayres, in Proc. Calif.
Acad., 1855, p. 40), the Two-lined Flatfish.—_Sp. Ch._: The height
of the body is a little less than one-half of the entire length, the
length of the head nearly one-fourth; snout somewhat projecting, not
continuous in direction with the descending profile of the nape; eyes
on the right side large, their diameter being two-sevenths of the
length of the head, separated by a strong prominent ridge, which is
partly covered with scales; lower jaw prominent; a single even row of
strong blunt teeth in each jaw, less developed on the coloured side
than on the blind; scales very conspicuous, those on the head and on
the tail ciliated; lateral line with a strong curve above the pectoral:
a second series of pores commences above the eye, and follows the
dorsal profile to the vertical, from the opercular angle, where it
terminates—it communicates with the true lateral line by a branch;
the dorsal fin rises over about the anterior third of the orbit, and
terminates at a distance from the caudal equal to the breadth of the
eye; anal spine prominent; pectoral fin half as long as the head.
Colour, light greyish-brown, with lighter blotches. More abundant at
San Francisco than at Vancouver Island and north of the Fraser.

_Pleuronectes digrammus_ (Günther, Brit. Mus. Catalogue, ‘Fishes,’),
the Two-lined Flounder (Nov. Spec.).—_Sp. Ch._: The height of the body
rather less than one-third of the entire length, the length of the
head two-ninths, and that of the caudal two-thirteenths; snout with
the lower jaw prominent, equal in length to the diameter of the eye,
which is nearly one-fifth of that of the head; maxillary as long as
the eye; the upper jaw with a series of twenty-eight small truncated
teeth on the blind side, those of the other side being few in number
and very small; eyes separated by a very narrow, naked, bony ridge;
scales small but conspicuous; lateral line, with a very slight curve
above the pectoral; a second series of pores commences above the eye,
and follows the dorsal profile to the twenty-sixth dorsal ray, where
it terminates; dorsal and anal rays quite smooth—the dorsal commences
above the anterior third of the orbit, and terminates at a distance
from the caudal nearly equal to the depth of the free portion of the
tail; anal spine prominent—the longest dorsal rays are somewhat
behind the middle of the fin, rather shorter than the pectoral, and
half as long as the head; uniform brownish; length, eight inches. I
obtained this new species of flounder in Mackenzie’s Arm, a tidal inlet
continuous with Victoria Harbour.

_Pleuronichthys guttulatus_ (Gerard, in Proc. Acad., Nat. Sc.
Philadel., 1856, p. 137, and U. S. Pacif. R. R. Expd., ‘Fishes,’
p. 152).—_Sp. Ch._: The height of the body is somewhat more than
one-half of the total length (with the caudal), the length of the head
one-fourth, and that of the caudal one-fifth. The interorbital space
is exceedingly narrow, and raised ridgelike; snout very blunt and
short; mouth small, with the jaws even. The dorsal commences above the
anterior part of the orbit, and terminates at a short distance from
the caudal; its longest rays are on and behind the middle of the fin.
Scales, very small, cycloid. The lateral line is slightly arched above
the pectoral; a similar series of pores runs from the upper eye, along
the base of the dorsal fin, to about the middle of the length. There is
a connecting branch between both lines, across the occipital region.
Colour greyish, densely dotted with black and white spots. Common at
Vancouver Island and San Francisco. For further description of species,
_vide_ Appendix, vol. ii.




                              CHAPTER VI.

  HALIBUT FISHING—DOGFISH—A TRIP TO FORT RUPERT—RANSOMING A
    SLAVE—A PROMENADE WITH A REDSKIN—BAGGING A CHIEF’S HEAD—QUEEN
    CHARLOTTE’S ISLANDERS AT NANAIMO.


HALIBUT.—The Halibut, a giant amongst flat-fishes, is taken by
the Indians on the western side of Vancouver Island; a veritable
ground-feeder, frequenting deep-sea sandbanks, and devouring anything
and everything that comes within reach of his terrible mouth. The
halibut, at Vancouver Island, attains to an immense size, 300 lbs.
being no unfrequent weight.

The Indians are most skilful in securing this leviathan of the deep,
as I had an opportunity of seeing, when visiting the northern end of
the island. Picture to yourselves an Indian village, built on a plateau
overlooking an open roadstead; a crowd of Indians on the shingly beach,
watching the departure of a large canoe, manned by four savages,
awaiting my arrival. This being a special occasion, they were more
elaborately painted than usual. A brief description of one will serve
to portray the other three. Tailors are entirely unknown in the land
of the redskin; a small piece of blanket or fur, tied round the waist,
constitutes the court, evening, and morning costume of both chief and
subject.

My crew were _kilted_ with pieces of scarlet blanket. Imagine, if you
can, a dark swarthy copper-coloured figure leaning on a canoe-paddle,
his jet-black hair hanging down nearly to the middle of his back, the
front hair being clipped close in a straight line across the forehead.
Neither beard, whisker, nor moustache ever adorns the face of the
redskin, the hair being tweezered out by squaws in early life, and
thus destroyed. A line of vermilion extends from the centre of the
forehead to the tip of the nose, and from this ‘trunk line’ others
radiate over and under the eyes and across the cheeks. Between these
red lines white and blue streaks alternately fill the interstices. A
similar pattern ornaments chest, arms, and back, the frescoing being
artistically arranged to give apparent width to the chest; the legs and
feet are naked. A ‘fire-bag,’ made from the skin of the medicine-otter,
elaborately decorated with beads, scarlet cloth, bells, and brass
buttons, slung round the neck by a broad belt of wampum, completed the
costume of my coxswain.

The canoe was what is commonly called a ‘dug-out,’ that is, made from
a solid log of wood. Coiled round the sharp bow of the canoe, like a
huge snake, was a strong line about sixty fathoms in length, made from
the inner bark of the cypress, neatly twisted. Lying along each side,
extending far beyond both bow and stern, were two light spear-hafts,
about sixty feet long; whilst stowed away in the bow were a dozen
shorter spears, one end being barbed, the other constructed to fit on
the longer spear, but so contrived that the spearman can readily detach
it by a skilful jerk. Tied lightly to the centre of each of the smaller
spears was a bladder made from sealskin, blown full of air, the line
attaching it being about three fathoms in length.

I had hardly completed my investigation of the canoe, its crew, and
contents, when, to my intense astonishment, the four Indians lifted me,
as they would a bale of fur, or a barrel of pork, and without a word
deposited me in the bottom of the canoe, where I was enjoined to sit,
much in the same position enforced on a culprit in the parish stocks.
I may mention, incidentally, that a canoe is not half as enjoyable
as poets and novelists, who are prone to draw imaginary sketches,
would lead the uninitiated to believe. It would be impossible to trust
oneself in a more uncomfortable, dangerous, damp, disagreeable kind
of boat—generally designated a ‘fairy barque,’ that ‘rides, dances,
glides, threads its silvery course over seas and lakes, or, arrow-like,
shoots foaming rapids.’ All a miserable delusion and a myth! Getting
in (unless lifted, as I was, bodily, like baggage) is to any but an
Indian a dangerous and difficult process; the least preponderance
of weight to either side, and out you tumble into the water to a
certainty. Again, lowering oneself into the bottom is quite as bad,
if not worse, requiring extreme care to keep an even balance, and a
flexibility of back and limb seldom possessed by any save tumblers and
tightrope-dancers. Down safely, then, as I have said, you are compelled
to sit in a most painful position, and the least attempt to alter it
generally results in a sudden heeling-over of the canoe, when you find
yourself sitting in a foot of cold water.

We are off, and, swiftly crossing the harbour, the beach grows
indistinct in the distance; but we still see the dusky forms of
the Indians, the rough gaudily painted huts, the gleam of many
lodge-fires, and wreaths of white smoke slowly ascending through the
still air; the square substantial pickets shutting in the trade-fort,
its roof and chimneys just peeping above, backed by the sombre green of
the pine-trees, altogether presented a picture novel and pretty in all
its details.

A few minutes and we rounded the jutting headland, keeping close
along the rocky shore of the island, gliding past snug bays and
cozy little land-locked harbours, the homes and haunts of countless
wildfowl; soon we leave the shore, and stand away to sea. The breeze
is fresher here, and a ripple, that would be nothing in a boat, makes
the flat-bottomed canoe unpleasantly lively. Save a wetting from
the spray, and occasional surge of water over the gunwale, all goes
pleasantly. The far-away land is barely distinguishable in the grey
haze. No canoes are to be seen in the dark-blue water; the only sign of
living things—a flock of sea-gulls waging war on a shoal of fish, the
distant spouting of a whale, and the glossy backs of the black fish as
they roll lazily through the ripple. The line at the bow is uncoiled, a
heavy stone enclosed in a net attached as a sinker, a large hook made
of bone and hardwood, baited with a piece of the octopus, (a species of
cuttlefish), is made fast to the long line by a piece of hemp-cord;
then comes a heavy plunge of the sinker, the rattle of the line as
it runs over the side of the canoe, and—we wait in silence for the
expected bite.

A tug, that came unpleasantly near to upsetting all hands, lets us
know that a halibut was bolting the tempting morsel, hook and all. A
few minutes gave him time fairly to swallow it, and now a sudden twick
buries the hook deeply in the fleshy throat; the huge flatfish finds,
to his cost, that his dinner is likely seriously to disagree with him,
whilst in the canoe all hands are in full employ. The bowman, kneeling,
holds on tightly with both hands to the line; the savage next him takes
one of the long spears, and quickly places on the end of it a shorter
one, baited and bladdered; the other two paddle warily.

At first the hooked fish was sulky, and remained obstinately at the
bottom, until continued jerks at the line ruffled his temper, and
excited his curiosity sufficiently to induce a sudden ascent to the
surface; perhaps to have a peep at his persecutors. Awaiting his
appearance stood the spearman, and when the canoe was sufficiently
near, in he sent the spear, plucking the long haft or handle from the
shorter barbed spear, which remained in the fish, the bladder, floating
like a life-buoy, marking the fish’s whereabouts. The halibut, finding
his reception anything but agreeable, tries to descend again into
the lower regions, a performance now difficult to accomplish, as the
bladder is a serious obstacle. Soon reappearing on the surface, another
spear was sent into him, and so on, until he was compelled to remain
floating. During all this time the paddlers, aided by the line-man,
followed all the twistings and windings of the fish, as a greyhound
courses a doubling hare.

For some time the contest was a very equal one, after the huge fish
was buoyed and prevented from diving. On the one side the halibut
made desperate efforts to escape by swimming, and on the other the
Indians, keeping a tight line, made him tow the canoe. Evident signs
of weariness at last began to exhibit themselves, his swimming became
slower, and the attempts to escape more feeble and less frequent.
Several times the canoe came close up to him, but a desperate struggle
enabled him once more to get away. Again and again we were all but
over; the fish, literally flying through the water, sometimes towed
the canoe nearly under, and at others spun it suddenly round, like
a whipped top; nothing but the wonderful dexterity of the paddlers
saved us from instant shipwreck and the certainty of drowning. I
would have given much to have stood up; but no; if I only moved on one
side to peep over, a sudden yell from the steersman, accompanied by a
flourish of the braining-club—mildly admonitory, no doubt, but vastly
significant—ensured instant obedience. I forgot cold, wet, and fright,
and indeed everything but the all-absorbing excitement attendant on
this ocean-chase. The skill and tact of uneducated men, pitted against
a huge sea-monster of tenfold strength, was a sight a lover of sport
would travel any distance to witness.

Slowly and steadily the sturdy paddlers worked towards the shore,
towing the fish, but keeping the canoe stern-first, so as to be enabled
to pay out line and follow him, should he suddenly grow restive: in
this way the Indians gradually coaxed the flat monster towards the
beach; a weak, powerless, exhausted giant, outwitted, captured, and
subdued, prevented from diving into his deep-sea realms by, what were
to him, anything but life-buoys. We beached him at last and he yielded
his life to the knife and club of the redskin.

I believe the species to be the _Pleuronectes hippoglossus_ of
Linnæus, but of this I am by no means perfectly clear, as I had only
an opportunity of examining this single specimen, that I estimated as
weighing over 300 lbs.; and it was quite impossible to investigate its
specific character, inasmuch as the Indians immediately set to work to
cut the body in pieces, some to be there and then devoured, after a
very brief roasting on a temporary fire; the remainder, packed into the
canoe, was taken to the village.

Halibut are said to spawn in the middle of February; the roe, which is
bright red, being esteemed a great dainty by all the Coast Indians.

COD.—The true Cod, although I never saw it offered for sale in the
Victoria market, is taken both at the northern extremity of Vancouver
Island, and near Cape Flattery, at its southern end. The Indians fish
for them with hooks and lines, and adopt very much the same system for
landing heavy obstinate fish as I have already described as used to
subdue the halibut. No regular system of deep sea fishing had, when I
left the island, been tried by white men; neither had the trawl ever
dragged up the treasures hidden at the bottom; so that deep-sea fish
are still comparatively unknown. But of this I am quite sure—whenever
fisheries are established along the island coasts, the trawl and
deep-sea line, used by experienced hands, will bring up treasures from
mines of wealth as yet unworked, to which gold and fur are nothing.

DOGFISH.—The Western Dogfish (_Acanthius Suckleyi_), Grd., Proc.
Acad., Nat. Sc. Phil., vii. 1854.—_Sp. Ch._: Head contained in a sixth
of the entire length; snout blunt, nostrils near to its apex. Eye large
and bright, sea-green in the newly-taken fish. Anterior margin of the
first dorsal, midway betwixt the pupil and anterior margin of the
second dorsal. Colour reddish brown, above thickly spotted with white,
over-spread with bronze reflections.

This most predaceous race of sharks, although they never grow to
a size dangerous to man, are nevertheless most bloodthirsty and
implacable enemies to all the finny tribes inhabiting the waters of
the North-west. They appear to live everywhere, in every harbour, up
the long inland canals, in the lagoons, and nearly as far as the tide
flows; the dogfish is ever to be found up the tidal rivers. Hunting in
packs like wolves, they often chase a shoal of fish upon the shingle,
then bite and maim six times as many as they can possibly eat. I have
often seen them seize dead and even wounded birds, drag them below the
surface, and tear them into shreds.

Angling where there are dogfish, and it is hard to discover a spot
where they are not plentiful, is simply to waste time, and lose one’s
temper; your bait hardly touches the water ere it is gorged, and an
ugly dogfish dangles at the end of the line. To unhook the thief is a
service of danger, unless knocked senseless, and his fearfully-armed
jaws are propped open with a piece of stick. But, with all his faults,
the dogfish is most useful and valuable to the Indians, who spear
incredible numbers, split them, and take out their livers. From
these fatty livers a quantity of clear oil is extracted, by heat and
pressure, applied in such a clumsy manner, that at least one-third is
wasted. I was credibly informed that one small tribe of Indians, living
on the west coast of Vancouver Island, by their bungling process of
oil-making, managed to obtain seven cwt. of oil in one season: surely
oil making alone would pay a company a handsome return for a judicious
outlay of skill and capital. Several naval surgeons have assured me
they had fairly tested its curative powers—in diseases where oil is
said to be efficacious—and found it in every respect quite equal to
the finest cod-liver oil.

                   •       •       •       •       •

Whilst occupied in collecting the fishes previously described, the
Honourable Hudson’s Bay Company’s steamer ‘Otter’ was about to make her
usual trip to Fort Rupert, in order to carry up the necessary supplies
to the chief trader in charge of the fort, and bring back to Victoria
the furs traded during the year. Being a good opportunity to visit so
remote a part of Vancouver Island (not accessible, at that time, in any
other way), leave was obtained from His Excellency the Governor, and a
passage provided for me.

On a bright but cold morning in October the ‘Otter’ twisted, puffed,
and worked her way through the somewhat intricate passage leading out
of Victoria Harbour. Leaving the harbour, the scenery opens out like
a magnificent panorama, indescribably wild and beautiful. In front,
the sharp jagged mountains of the coast range, wooded to the sea-line,
tower in the far distance to the regions of eternal snow; to the left,
the rounder hills of the island slope easily to the water’s edge, in
grassy glades and lawnlike openings, belted with scrub-oaks; higher up,
the hillsides are overshadowed by the Douglas pines and cedars; whilst
just visible in our course, like a green speck, is the famed island of
St. Juan; and bending away to the right, as far as eye could reach,
dense forests look like one vast unbroken sea of green.

We had a delightful run along the coast and amidst islands, and
anchored in the evening near the narrows. These same narrows are only
used by the initiated as a short cut, being too risky for large vessels
navigated by unskilled hands. There is a channel, a quarter of a mile
long and seventy yards wide, between a small island and the Island
of Vancouver. Through this rocky canal the tide rushes with fearful
velocity. We ran it safely in the morning, although it struck me as
being the most ticklish bit of navigation I ever experienced. Through
these narrows, we were soon in Nanaimo, where we called for a supply
of coals; the town, at this early stage of its history, consisting of
about a dozen log-shanties, inhabited by the coal-miners and employés
of the fur-trading establishment.

Whilst ‘coaling,’ a deputation of Indian braves, headed by a young
chief, waited on the captain of the steamer. Squatted in a circle on
the deck, and the all-essential pipe smoked, the object of their visit
was disclosed. The Fort Rupert Indians, residing at the Indian village
and trading-post we were _en route_ to visit, had very recently made
a raid on the Nanaimo savages. In the foray, the old chief had been
killed, several braves seriously injured, and, what was worse than
all, the favourite wife of the deceased dignitary had been seized, and
carried off a slave. The young chief, it seems, had loved the wife
of his predecessor, and was willing to pay any ransom for his lost
darling. After a long ‘wa-wa’ (talk), the captain consented to effect a
purchase, if possible, and bring back, on our return, the lost one to
the arms of her sable lover.

We had a pleasant run across the Gulf of Georgia, and anchored at 10
P.M. in Billings’ Harbour (much like a small duck-pond), in Faveda
Island. The next morning, again under weigh at 6 A.M., raining, as the
captain said, ‘marlinespikes,’ we steamed past a group of islands,
behind which is Malospina Strait. From this strait, Jarvis’s Inlet runs
like an immense canal for a distance (I believe) of fifty miles inland.

Here the gulf widens out like the open sea, and little can be seen
of the land until the extreme south-east point of Valdes Island is
reached, known as Point Mudge, betwixt which and Vancouver Island is a
narrow channel, not more than a mile in width, called Discovery Passage.

About a mile from its entrance, we passed a large Indian village, the
home of the Tah-cul-tas, a powerful band, of most predatory habits, and
generally at war with the different tribes north and south of them;
they own a large fleet of canoes, a great many slaves, and scalp and
plunder all they can lay hands on.

For a distance of fourteen miles Discovery Passage is much the same
width, until reaching Menzies Bay, where the rapids commence. At the
base of these rapids, the channel, barely a quarter of a mile wide,
suddenly opens out into a large pond-like space. The tide rushes down
the narrow passage at the rate of ten knots an hour, and to get up
through it was as much as our little steamer could accomplish. Panting
and struggling, and sometimes hardly moving, at others she was carried
violently against the shore, until by slow degrees she breasted the
current and got safely through. I could not help wondering how Captain
Vancouver ever managed to get his ship up this terrible place, so
difficult even when aided by the power of steam.

Above the rapids the passage again widens to Point Chatham, the
north-west termination of Discovery Passage. We puff by Thurlow Island,
divided from Valdes Island by the Nodales Canal, and anchor in a snug
harbour named Blenkinsop’s Anchorage. We start again at sun-up, the
fifth morning since leaving Victoria. As we steamed steadily along
through Johnston’s Straits, I could recall to my remembrance no
scenery that was comparable, in wild grandeur and picturesque grouping,
to the scenery on my left. The coast-line of Vancouver Island presented
a series of small projecting headlands; the bays and creeks between,
seldom rippled by the breeze, are very Edens for wildfowl. In the
background, the hills rise sharp and conical, at this time crowned
with snow, but all alike densely timbered. In the distance, Hardwicke
Island, like a floating emerald, hid the water beyond it. To the right,
islands of all sizes and shapes, so thick that one might suppose it
had rained islands at some time or other: on the least of them grew
pine-trees, any of which would have made a mainmast for the largest
ship ever built. I have again and again threaded the intricate passages
through the ‘Lake of a Thousand Islands,’ in the Great St. Lawrence;
but I say, without fear of contradiction, that the scenery from Chatham
Point to the mouth of the Nimkish river is wilder, bolder, and in every
respect more beautiful, lovely as I admit the Canadian scenery to be.

The ship-channel hugs the shore of Vancouver Island, passing close
to Cormorant, Haddington, and Malcolm Islands, and the mouth of the
Nimkish river, navigable for canoes some considerable distance. This
stream is used by the Hudson’s Bay traders to reach the western side of
Vancouver Island. Ascending it in canoes as far as practicable, about
two days’ walking brings them to Nootka Sound.

At the mouth of the river, I saw the village of the Nimkish Indians,
situated on a table-land overhanging the sea, and inaccessible save
by ascending a vertical cliff of smooth rock—a feat nothing but a
fly could manage, unaided; but the redskins have a ladder, made of
cedar-bark rope, which they can haul up and lower at will. The ladder
up, the place is impregnable. Safe themselves, they can quietly bowl
over their enemies, and sink their canoes.

These Nimkish Indians speak of another tribe that they call
Sau-kau-lutuck, who have never seen or traded with white people. Their
story, as interpreted for me by Mr. Moffat, the chief trader at Fort
Rupert—who told me he quite believed it to be true—was as follows:—

‘In crossing over to the west side of the island, on a war-path, the
Nimkis discovered these Indians by accident, took several of them
prisoners, whom they subsequently used as slaves, taking also skins,
and what other property they had worth plundering. They are said to
live on the edge of a lake, and subsist principally on deer and bear,
and such fish as they can take in the lake. They own no canoes, neither
do they know the use of firearms, their only weapons being the bow,
arrow, and spear.’

The wind came on to blow as we left this interesting spot, and soon
increased to a gale from the south-east, making the Otter rock most
unpleasantly in the cradle of the deep. About 10 A.M. we ran into
Beaver Harbour, our destination. This so-called harbour, being nothing
more than an open roadstead, is disagreeably rough; a heavy sea rolls
angrily in, dashing in foamy breakers on the rocky coast.

We anchor about a mile from shore, the captain deeming it unsafe to
venture nearer. To announce our arrival, a gun is to be fired: this, I
observed, was rather a service of danger to the sailor who had to touch
it off, as it was just an equal chance whether the bulk of the charge
came through the barrel or the touch-hole; the latter having become so
capacious from rust and long usage, as to necessitate the employment
of an enormously long wand, with a piece of lighted slow-match tied to
the end of it. All hands having cleared away, and carefully concealed
themselves, the wand slowly appears from a secure hiding-place, and
the wheezy bang proclaims ‘all’s safe.’

The report was still echoing through the distant hills, when countless
tiny specks were discernible, dancing over the waves like birds. On
they came, a perfect shoal of them, nearer and nearer, all evidently
bound for the ship. I could make out clearly now, that these specks
were canoes filled with Indians. By this time our boat was lowered; how
I got into it, I never clearly remember: I have a dim recollection of
descending a rope with great rapidity, and finding myself sprawling in
the bottom, and being dragged up by the captain, much after the fashion
adopted by clowns in a pantomime to reinstate the prostrate pantaloon
upon his legs. At any rate I was safe, and the boat, propelled by four
sturdy rowers, neared the shore.

On looking round, I observed the canoes had all turned towards us, and
we were soon surrounded by the most extraordinary fleet I had ever
beheld. The canoes were of all sizes, varying from those used for war
purposes, holding thirty men, to the cockleshell paddled by a squaw.
With the exception of a bit of skin, or an old blanket tied round the
waist, the savages were all perfectly nude; their long black hair hung
in tangled elf-locks down their backs, their faces and bodies painted
in most fantastic patterns, with red and white. Keeping steadily along
with us, they continually relieved their feelings by giving utterance
to the most wild and fiendish yells that ever came from human throats.

As we neared the landing, I could see the chief trader of the Hudson’s
Bay Company, conspicuously white amidst a group of redskins, waiting
to receive us. The boat grated on the shingle some distance from the
beach, white with spray. ‘Surely you don’t expect me to go ashore like
a seal?’ I appealingly enquired of the captain. Before he had time to
reply, four powerful savages, up to their waists in water, fisted me
out of the boat; and two taking my heels, and two my shoulders, they
bore me safely to the shore.

Having handed my letters of introduction from his Excellency the
Governor to the chief trader, I was presented to the chiefs as a _Hyas
tyee_ (great chief), one of ‘King George’s’ men. So we shook hands, and
I attempted to move towards the fort; it was not to be done. To use the
mildest term, I was ‘mobbed;’ old savages and young savages, old squaws
and young squaws, even to boy and girl savage, rushed and scrambled to
shake hands with me. Had I been a ‘pump’ on a desert, surrounded by
thirst-famished Indians, and each arm a handle, they could not have
been more vigorously plied. Being rescued at last by the combined
efforts of trader and captain, I was marched into the fort, the gates
shut with a heavy clang, and most thankful was I to be safe from any
further demonstrations of friendship. The evening passed rapidly and
pleasantly; mine host was a thorough sportsman, full of anecdote, and
hospitable to a fault.

Awaking early, I wandered out, and up into the bastion of the fort.
The sun was creeping from behind the ragged peaks of the Cascade
Mountains, tinting with rosy light their snow-clad summits; the wind
had lulled, or gone off to sea on some boisterous errand; the harbour,
quite smooth, looked like burnished silver. There was a wild grandeur
about the scene, that awoke feelings of awe rather than admiration;
everywhere vast piles of craggy mountains, clad from the snow-line to
the sea with dense pine-forests; not an open grassy spot, or even a
naked mass of rock, peeped out to break the fearful monotony of these
interminable hills.

The trading-post is a square, enclosed by immense trees, one end sunk
in the ground; the trees are lashed together. A platform, about the
height of an ordinary man from the top of these pickets, is carried
along the sides of this square, so as to enable anyone to peep over
without being in danger from an arrow or bullet. The entrance is closed
by two massive gates, an inner and outer; all the houses—the chief
trader’s, employés’, trading-house, fur-room, and stores—are within
the square. The trade-room is cleverly contrived so as to prevent a
sudden rush of Indians; the approach, from outside the pickets, is by
a long narrow passage, bent at an acute angle near the window of the
trade-room, and only of a sufficient width to admit one savage at a
time. (This precaution is necessary, inasmuch as, were the passage
straight, they would inevitably shoot the trader.)

At the angles nearest the Indian village are two bastions, octagonal in
shape, and of a very doubtful style of architecture. Four embrasures
in each bastion would lead the uninitiated to believe in the existence
of as many formidable cannon, with rammers, sponges, neat piles of
round-shot and grape, magazines of powder, and ready hands to load and
fire—and, at the slightest symptom of hostility, to work havoc and
destruction, on any red-skinned rebels daring to dispute the supremacy
of the Hudson’s Bay Company. Imagine my surprise, on entering this
fortress, to discover all this a pleasant fiction, two small rusty
carronades, buried in the accumulated dust and rubbish of years, that
no human power could load, were the sole occupants of the mouldy old
turrets.

The bell for breakfast recalling me, I jokingly inquired of the trader
if he had ever been obliged to use this cannon for defensive purposes.
He laughed as he replied, ‘There is a tradition that, at some remote
period, the guns were actually fired, not at the rebellious natives,
but over their heads; instead of being terror-stricken at the white
man’s thunder, away they all scampered in pursuit of the ball, found
it, and, marching in triumph back to the fort-gate offered to trade it,
that it might be fired again!’

Breakfast finished, the trader, captain, and myself started for the
village. Clear of the gates, we scrambled down a rocky path, crossed
a mountain-burn, dividing the Indians from the fort, and entered ‘the
city of the redskins;’ which consists of a long row of huts, each but
nearly square, the exterior fantastically frescoed in hieroglyphic
patterns, in white, red, and blue; having however a symbolical meaning
or heraldic value, like the _totum_ of the Indians east of the Rocky
Mountains; four immense trees, barked and worked smooth, support each
corner; the tops are carved to resemble some horrible monster: the hut
is constructed of cedar-plank, chipped from the solid tree with chisels
and hatchets made of stone: many hands combine to accomplish this;
hence a hut becomes the joint property of several families. Five tribes
live in this village:—

  Qua-kars, numbering about 800 warriors.
  Qual-quilths    〃    〃   100   〃
  Kum-cutes       〃    〃    70   〃
  Wan-lish        〃    〃    50   〃
  Lock-qua-lillas 〃    〃    80   〃

The entire population, even to the dogs, turned out on our advent; it
was puzzling to imagine where they all came from. We soon formed the
centre of the vilest assemblage man ever beheld. The object of our
visit made known, a ring was immediately formed by chiefs and braves,
the squaws and children being outside. Had any charming princess,
captive in an enchanted castle, been guarded by such a collection of
painted ragamuffins as now surrounded us, he would have been a valorous
knight that dared venture to release her.

The first question discussed being the price, a much larger sum was
asked than we felt disposed to pay. Although the slave belonged solely
to one Indian, the power to sell resting with him only, still every
one had their say. Men gurgled and spluttered strange unintelligible
noises, women chattered and screamed like furies, whilst children
engaged in small battles outside the ring.

Thirty blankets and two trade-guns—equal to about 50_£._
sterling—were the terms at last agreed on. We then adjourned to
the shed where the slave was a prisoner. I was in a great state of
expectation, picturing to myself an Indian Hebe, limbs exquisitely
moulded, native grace and elegance in every movement, gorgeous in
‘wampum,’ paint, and waving feathers, such as I had read of as
‘Laughing Water,’ or ‘Prairie Flower.’

Being carried, so to speak, into the shed—a waif in the stream of
savages rushing like a human torrent to get in—with all the breath
squeezed out of me, I was deposited somewhere but as my head was
enveloped in a dense cloud of pungent smoke, it was some time ere I
discovered I was close to the captain. ‘Sit down,’ he roared; ‘you
will die of suffocation if you keep your head in the smoke.’ At once
I seated myself on the floor, and now quite understand what being
suffocated in a chimney is like.

Once more enabled to see, it was easy to discover the secret: there
being no place for the smoke to escape, it accumulates at the top of
the shed, and one literally, not figuratively, ‘lives under a cloud.’
There was a hum and a burr, as in a nest of angry hornets; a din
increased by the dogs, that fought and rolled in where I sat; and being
by no means particular whether they bit my legs or any other man’s, it
required unwonted agility to keep clear.

During an interval of peace, it was easy to make out that the slave
was coming. Alas! how fleeting are imaginary pictures—poetic
dreams—castles in the air! Half crouching, and waddling rather than
walking, came my ideal; her only covering, a ragged, filthy old
blanket, her face begrimed with the dirt and paint of a lifetime;
short, fat, repulsive, the incarnation of ugliness, a very Hecate!
All my romance vanished like a dissolving-view. For this had I been
squeezed nearly to death, suffocated, poisoned with a noxious stench,
my legs imperilled by infuriated curs, my ears deafened, half devoured
by insatiable blood-suckers?—to aid in paying 50_£._ for the ugliest
old savage eyes ever beheld!

All the chiefs assembled at the fort in the evening to receive payment,
and hand over the slave. Squatting on their heels, nose and knees
together, their backs against the wall, they formed a circle. The pipe
produced (nothing can be done without it); I say pipe, for _one_ only
is used; filled and lighted, it passes from mouth to mouth; each,
taking a good pull, puffs the smoke slowly from his nostrils. The
thirty blankets and two guns being piled in the centre of this strange
assemblage, the slave was led in. Each blanket underwent a most careful
inspection; the guns, snapped and pointed, were finally approved of.
A husky grunt, from each of the council, denoting general approval,
the guns and blankets were carried off in triumph, and we became the
fortunate possessors of this strange purchase.

Whilst in the fort I was tolerably exempt from the insatiable and most
annoying curiosity, that induces Indians to watch everything a stranger
does. One oily old chief, however, always contrived to get into my room
in time to see me dress. He used to stalk in, squat down rolled in a
dirty blanket, and testify his pleasure by a series of grunts slightly
varied in tone. He was certainly the most blubbery-looking man I ever
beheld. Everything about him was suggestive of oil, from his head to
his heels, blanket included; like a compound of salmon and seal’s
flesh, he smelt quite as oily as he looked. Outside, however, there was
no help for it: go where I would, a bodyguard of savages (real untamed
savages too, not semi-civilised articles) was always in attendance.

Once I managed to escape through the pickets at the back of the
fort, and stealthily reaching the beach, under cover of the trees,
imagined myself safe. A light misty rain fell thickly, and a flock
of sanderlings, running along in the ripple, completely absorbed my
attention. I was suddenly startled by hearing the ‘crunch, crunch’
of a foot in the shingle behind me. I had looked right and left on
reaching the beach, but not a trace of Indian was visible. Turning
suddenly round, you can picture my surprise at finding myself face to
face with a savage, unclad from head to heel, carrying—what should
you imagine?—not a scalping-knife, or a war-club, or bow or spear or
gory scalp: it was an immense green gingham umbrella, a thoroughbred
‘Gamp,’ with horn crook, battered brass ferule, furled with a ring such
as curtains are hung on. He politely offered me a part, and scarcely
deeming it safe to refuse, I paraded the beach, linked arm-in-arm with
the ugliest specimen of humanity eyes ever beheld. I wonder if, before
or since, a naked savage and civilised man ever walked together on the
sea-beach, listening to ‘what the wild waves were saying,’ sheltered
from the rain by a green gingham umbrella! I trow not. I should have
been no more astonished at seeing a seal, or old Neptune himself, with
an umbrella, than I was at a naked Indian so protected on the beach at
Fort Rupert.

This was not my only adventure whilst staying at the fort. The beach
runs out very flat for a long distance seaward; the rocks appear
a slaty kind of shingle, with seams of coal cropping out in every
direction. The pines (_Abies Douglassii_) grow down to highwater-mark,
attaining a height of 250 feet and over, straight as a flagstaff. On
the branches are placed quaint-looking affairs, that you discover, on
inquiry, to be coffins; but how the friends of the departed get the
boxes up into the trees, or how they keep them there when they are up,
is more than I can tell. The coffin is usually an old canoe, lashed
round and round, like an Egyptian mummy-case, with the inner bark of
the cedar-tree; but of this, and other singular customs, I shall have
to speak more at length in a future chapter.

Near one of these arboreal cemeteries, I observed a high pole, and
dangling from it a head, fresh, bloody, and ghastly; the scalp had
been removed, and a rope, passing through the under-jaw, served to
suspend it. Horribly revolting as the face appeared, still I could
not help going close to it. Never had I seen so singular a head; it
looked in shape like a sugarloaf, the apex of the skull terminating in
a sharp point. On returning to the fort, I inquired if they could tell
me anything about this mysterious head. It appeared that, a day or so
before our arrival, a war-party of the Qua-kars had returned from a
raid on the mainland coast, and brought with them a number of slaves.
(Prisoners taken in war, or in any other manner, are invariably used as
slaves, bought and sold, whipped or killed, as best befits the whim or
caprice of their owner.) Amongst the wretched captives, was a chief.
Soon after landing, he was made fast to a temporary cross erected on
the beach, shot, scalped, and beheaded, and it was his head I had seen
in my rambles. On hearing further that the tribe to which he belonged
was one that elongate instead of flatten the head, I determined at any
risk to have the skull.[4] Extreme caution was needed, or a like fate
would probably be mine; a white chief’s hairless head might possibly
adorn the same pole as that of the painted savage. I made several
attempts, but each time signally failed to accomplish my purpose.

The night preceding our departure, all hopes of obtaining the coveted
head were nearly abandoned. Fortune at last smiled upon me; unobserved,
I upset the pole, and _bagged_ the head; and pushing it into my
game-bag, got safely into the fort. Still in terror of being seen, I
hid it in the bastion, and eventually headed it into a pork barrel,
with stones and sand; then had it rolled boldly out, and put on board
the steamer.

On our departure the following morning, I was rejoiced to find the
head had not been missed, but somewhat frightened, on learning I was
to be paddled to the steamer, in the state-canoe of the chief to whom
the trophy belonged. In grand procession, we marched from the fort to
the canoe, marshalled by the dingy dignitary, who, in happy ignorance
of the wrong I had done him, was all smiles and grins; the final
hand-shaking being accomplished, I was lifted into the canoe in the
same fashion as I had been previously lifted out, and rapidly reached
the steamer.

The chief came on board the steamer whilst the anchor was being
weighed. Imagine what I felt when he seated himself deliberately upon
the cask wherein I had hid his property. The wished-for moment came,
the wheels splashed slowly round, my plundered friend was bowed over
the side, and not until the smoke of the lodge-fires, and the fading
outline of the village, grew dim in the distance, did I feel my scalp
safe. The head is now in the Osteological Room of the British Museum,
and well worth investigation by any who may be curious to compare the
effect of circular pressure with that of the flat-head.[5] Skulls
similarly flattened were also brought by me from Vancouver Island.

We again called at Nanaimo on our return, and, whilst ‘coaling,’
delivered the ransomed lady safely into the hands of her owner. At
the same time three hundred Indians from Queen Charlotte’s Island
landed, _en route_ to Victoria, arriving in large canoes, each holding
about twenty Indians and their baggage. These canoes were not at all
similar to any I had seen at Fort Rupert, or to those used by the
Coast and Fraser river Indians. The shape was similar to the boats one
sees in very old pictures, filled with sailors in armour, the bow and
stern carved to represent a neck, bearing on it some hideous grinning
monster’s head.

Their chief, named Edin-saw, once saved the crew of a small schooner,
the ‘Susan Sturges,’ from being killed by the islanders under his
control. The vessel was wrecked on Queen Charlotte’s Island, and
the crew subsequently ransomed. This little army of savages reached
Victoria safely, having taken four months to make the voyage threading
all the difficult and dangerous straits, with the risk of capture from
other tribes, exposed to all the vicissitudes of weather, in open
canoes as easily upset as a child’s cradle.

Reaching Victoria in safety, I proceeded up the Fraser, and for the
first time witnessed sturgeon-spearing.




                             CHAPTER VII.

                 STURGEON-SPEARING—MANSUCKER—CLAMS.


The Sturgeon found in North-western waters differs only in some
unimportant specific distinctions from the one living in the pond of
the Zoological Society’s Gardens, in the Regent’s Park. _Accipenser
transmontanus_ is the name given by Sir J. Richardson to sturgeon that
frequent rivers that flow into the St. Lawrence, on the east side of
the Rocky Mountains, but unknown in streams that fall into the Arctic
Ocean. On the western side sturgeon abound in the Columbia, Fraser, and
most other rivers as far north as lat. 53° N. It is certainly not a
handsome fish to look at, reminding one of a shark in armour; yet, clad
as he is from head to tail in bony mail, every movement is easy and
graceful.

_Sp. Ch._—Five rows of plates encase the body: the row along the
back is most prominent, and contains fifteen shields. The cheeks are
flat, the snout terminating in an acute point, remarkably flexible
and trunklike in its movements. Four barbels dangle from beneath the
snout, situated about mid-distance between its point and the orbit.
The mouth is underneath, resembling a huge flabby sucker in the
freshly-caught fish. Nevertheless, as his habit is to prowl about the
mud and gravel at the bottom, it is in reality the very best kind of
mouth that could have been given. The barbels that hang before are
clearly delicate feelers, intended to give warning, that game suitable
for food—disturbed probably by the flexible nose—is near; the nose
is employed to stir up the mud, turn over stones, or in exploring
the hiding-places of prey amidst the rocks and heavy boulders. The
eyes are small and golden-yellow in the newly-caught fish, but change
immediately after death.

The great extent and strength of the pectorals, which are nearly
horizontal, show us that, in addition to their acting as oars and
rudder, they are also powerful assistants in bringing the great fleshy
mouth to bear upon anything discovered by the barbels. Female fish are
taken full of roe in the Fraser during the month of June, and sometimes
later; but where they deposit the ova or what becomes of the young
after leaving the eggs, are mysteries. I never saw a small sturgeon,
but have no doubt most of the young fish descend to the sea, although
it is equally certain numbers remain entirely in the fresh-water.
Madame Sturgeon’s family is by no means a small one: a bushel of eggs
is not an unusual quantity for a female fish to yield; a great many
thousands, although I do not know how many eggs a bushel contains.
The Indians dry these eggs in the sun and devour them with oil, as we
eat currants and cream. It would surely pay to prepare cauiare on the
Russian plan, even to send it to the English market. A rough kind of
isinglass was at one time prepared by the Fraser river Indians and
traded by the Hudson’s Bay Company, but even that branch of industry
has ceased to flourish since the ‘Golden Age.’ Indians are exceedingly
fond of sturgeon-flesh, and usually demand a high price for it.

Few fish have a wider geographical range than sturgeon. On our own
coasts, we find them frequenting the mouths of rivers and muddy
estuaries. When caught in the Thames, within the jurisdiction of the
lord mayor of London, it is considered a royal fish; implying, that
the fish ought to be sent to the king, though how far the sovereign’s
rights in the matter are actually considered, seems to be somewhat
doubtful. It is said, however, that the sturgeon was exclusively
reserved for the table of the king in the time of Henry I.

In the Fraser and Columbia rivers, and in all the streams of any
magnitude from latitude 46°19´ N. to Sitka, latitude 53° N., the
sturgeon is found abundantly; as also in Northern Asia, where it
forms an article of vast commercial value, the well-known and
much-prized caviare being made from its roe, and that almost
indispensable household necessary, isinglass, from its air-bladder.
The long ligamentous cord, traversing the entire length of the spine,
constitutes another delicacy, called _vesiga_, much relished by the
Russians. The flesh also is eaten, cooked in various ways, and held in
no mean estimation. Turkey, Italy, Germany, and Greece (especially the
two latter) are great markets for caviare.

Pliny speaks of the sturgeon as being in great repute among the Greeks
and Romans: ‘the cooked fish was decked with garlands, as were the
slaves who carried it to table;’ and altogether it was an affair of
great pomp and ceremony, when a sturgeon was to be demolished.

Sturgeon arrive in the Columbia early in February, and a little later
in the Fraser, although a great number above the Kettle Falls, at Fort
Colville, must remain permanently in the fresh-water. They ascend the
rivers to incredible distances, in the Fraser as high as Fraser Lake,
quite up in the Rocky Mountains. In the Columbia sturgeon have been
taken eight hundred miles above the Kettle Falls, which are, speaking
roughly, eighteen hundred miles from the sea, and, in accomplishing
this, several very serious obstacles have to be overcome. Up the Snake
river, at the great Shoshonee Falls (a salmon-station of the Snake
Indians), sturgeon are often taken. The Snake river, tributary to the
Columbia, is about fourteen hundred miles from the sea.

One would never imagine a fish clad in stiff unyielding armour could
ascend rapid torrents and leap falls that puzzle even the lissom salmon
but the strength of the sturgeon is immense, and the power it can exert
with the tail would be almost incredible to those, who have never
seen the rapid twists, plunges, and other performances this fish goes
through, when it has a barbed hook in the jaws, or a spear between the
joints of its mail.

The first glance at a sturgeon would lead any one accustomed to fish,
to decide at once that it must be a ground-feeder: the form and
position of the mouth, the lengthened snout, the barbels, the ventral
fins so far back, the large size of the pectorals—as I have already
stated—all clearly evidence a habit of grubbing-up food of various
kinds near the bottom, and browsing off shelled molluscs adhering to
sticks or stones. They also indulge in small fish: eulachon are oily
dainties they seem particularly to appreciate; and the Indians say
sturgeon are never so fat and good as in ‘eulachon time.’ Small blame
to the sturgeon for appreciating such delicious fish.

During the time the Fraser and Columbia rivers are rising,—and the
rise is very rapid, about thirty feet above the winter level, owing
to the melting snow,—sturgeon are continually leaping. As you are
paddling quietly along in a canoe, suddenly one of these monsters
flings itself into the air many feet above the surface of the water,
falling back again with a splash, as though a lit rock had been pitched
into the river by some Titan hand. It appears to be only play, as they
never leap for insect-food; neither have I ever observed them do it
during low-water; perhaps the intense cold of the snow-water begets a
desire for exercise.

The systems of catching sturgeon in use amongst the Indians of the
Fraser and Columbia rivers are widely different, as indeed are all
their modes of taking fish. This mainly arises from the fact of the
Columbia river having numerous deep falls, that impede the ascent of
all fish going up to spawn. These falls, as I have said, are quite
impassable for even the salmon until the snow-water floods the river.
The Fraser, on the other hand, offers no hindrance at all until after
Fort Hope is passed, and the principal Indian fishing-stations are all
below this point: hence it is that on the Columbia, the fish, both
salmon and sturgeon, are speared, trapped in baskets or weirs, and the
sturgeon also taken with hook and line whereas, on the Fraser, salmon
are principally taken in nets, and sturgeon speared.

I shall first describe the mode adopted by the Indians of the Columbia
to catch sturgeon with hook and line. The best months for fishing are
February and March, and the time of day either early in the morning, or
late in the evening. The Dalles is a favourite fishing-station.

The first thing is to prepare the bait. The old wooden fish-hook is
now amongst the things that _were_, its place having been supplied by
its civilised Birmingham brother, bartered by the Indians from the
Hudson’s Bay Company. The fishing line is either made of native hemp,
or the inside bark of the cypress-tree spun into cord. The bait is a
long strip cut from the underside of a trout, at one end of which the
point of the hook is inserted; the strip being then wound tightly and
evenly round the hook, and up the line about three inches, the silvery
side outermost. It is then firmly whipped over with white horsehair,
a pebble slung on as a sinker, and the deception is complete. Five or
six long barbed spears are stowed away in the canoe, the line coiled
carefully in the bow, and the baited hook laid on it. Two wily redskins
man this frail bark, the paddler squatting on his heels in the stern,
the line-man standing in the bow.

A few skilful turns of the paddle sends the canoe to the mudbank on
which King Sturgeon is dozing, and awaiting his matin or vesper meal.
The dainty-looking morsel, bearing all the external semblance to a fish
(but, like the Trojan horse, pregnant with mischief), sinks noiselessly
and slowly to the bottom; the canoe drifts with the current, and in
this manner the bait is towed along; it nears the sturgeon’s nose,
and, being far too tempting to be refused, the great pendulous lips
close upon it; but ere it reaches the gullet, a sharp twitch of the
line buries the hook in the tenacious gristle. At once discovering he
has been miserably done, anger and obstinate resistance are in the
ascendant; so he comes to the surface with a rush and a splash.

The paddler now exerts all his skill to keep a slack line, for the
hooked fish would otherwise inevitably upset the canoe; the bowman,
with the line in one hand and a spear poised in the other, quietly
bides his time; then he hurls the spear into the sturgeon’s armour-clad
back; down darts the fish, but soon returns to the surface, when in
goes another spear, and so on again and again, until, towed ashore, it
is dragged out of the water with a powerful gaff-hook. Large numbers
besides such as are thus speared are netted in passing through the
narrow rock-channels.

On the Fraser river sturgeon-spearing is the most exciting sport
imaginable. Hooking, playing, and landing a noble salmon is an
achievement every fisherman is truly proud of; but I unhesitatingly
assert that to spear and land a sturgeon five or six hundred pounds
in weight, with only a frail canoe, which the slightest inequality of
balance will upset in an instant, requires a degree of skill, courage,
and dexterity that only a lifetime’s practice can bestow.

I have already said the Fraser has no falls below Fort Hope, but a
great many stiff rapids; below these rapids it widens out into long
slowly-running shallows, generally speaking having large sand and
gravel-banks—_bars_, as the miners call them, and on these bars the
Indians live during the fishing-season. The time for fishing being
generally soon after sunrise, four canoes, each manned by two Indians,
usually start for sturgeon-capture; the paddler, who squats in the
stern, looks in the direction in which the canoe is to go, not, as we
sit in rowing, with our backs to the bow, but facing it; he is always
chosen for his greater strength, tact, and dexterity with the paddle,
for on his skill depends in a great degree the safety and success of
the spearman.

The spearman stands in the bow, armed with a most formidable spear—the
handle,[6] from seventy to eighty feet long, is made of white pine
wood; fitted on the spear-haft is a barbed point, in shape very
much like a shuttlecock, supposing each feather represented by a
piece of bone, thickly barbed, and very sharp at the end. This is so
contrived that it can be easily detached from the long handle by a
sharp dexterous jerk. To this barbed contrivance a long line is made
fast, which is carefully coiled away close to the spearman, like a
harpoon-line in a whale-boat.

[Illustration: STURGEON-SPEARING ON THE FRASER.]

The four canoes, alike equipped, are paddled into the centre of the
stream, and side by side drift slowly down with the current, each
spearman carefully feeling along the bottom with his spear, constant
practice having taught the crafty savages to know a sturgeon’s back
when the spear comes in contact with it. The spear-head touches the
drowsy fish—a sharp plunge, and the redskin sends the notched points,
through armour and cartilage, deep into the leather-like muscles. A
skilful jerk frees the long handle from the barbed end, which remains
inextricably fixed in the fish; the handle is thrown aside, the line
seized, and the struggle begins.

The first impulse is to resist this objectionable intrusion, so the
angry sturgeon comes up to see what it all means: this curiosity is
generally repaid by having a second spear sent crashing into him. He
then takes a header, seeking safety in flight, and the real excitement
commences. With might and main the bowman plies the paddles, and
the spearman pays out line, the canoe flying through the water. The
slightest tangle, the least hitch, and over it goes; it becomes, in
fact, a sheer trial of paddle _versus_ fin. Twist and turn as the
sturgeon may, all the canoes are with him: he flings himself out of the
water, dashes through it, under it, and skims along the surface; but
all is vain—the canoes and their dusky oarsmen follow all his efforts
to escape as a cat follows a mouse.

Gradually the sturgeon grows sulky and tired, obstinately floating on
the surface. The savage knows he is not vanquished, but only biding a
chance for revenge; so he shortens up the line, and gathers quietly
on upon him, to get another spear in. It is done—and down viciously
dives the sturgeon; but pain and weariness begin to tell, the struggles
grow weaker and weaker, as life ebbs slowly away, until the mighty
armour-plated monarch of the river yields himself a captive to the
dusky native in his frail canoe.

THE CLAM.—Amongst the edible shellfish found on the coasts of
Vancouver Island and British Columbia, the Great Clam, as it is there
styled (_Lutraria maxima_), or the Otter-shell of conchologists, is
by far the most valuable. Clams are one of the staple articles of
winter food on which all Indian tribes in a great measure depend who
inhabit the north-west coast of America. The clam to the Indians is
a sort of molluscous cereal, that they gather and garner during the
summer months; and an outline sketch of this giant bivalve’s habits and
style of living, how captured, and what becomes of it after being made
a prisoner, may be interesting; its habits, and the uses to which, if
not designed, it is at least appropriated, being generally less known
than its minute anatomy. Clams attain an immense size; I have measured
shells eight inches from the hinge to the edge of the valve. We used
them as soap-dishes at our headquarters on Vancouver Island.

The clam has a very wide range, and is thickly distributed along the
mainland and Vancouver Island coasts; his favourite haunts are the
great sandbanks, that run out sometimes over a mile from the shore.
The rise and fall of the tide is from thirty to forty feet, so that at
low-water immense flats or beaches, consisting of mud and sand, are
laid bare.

There is nothing poetical about the clam, and its habits are anything
but clean; grovelling in the mud, and feeding on the veriest filth it
can find, appears to constitute the great pleasure of its life; the
stomach is a kind of dusthole, into which anything and everything finds
ready admission. Its powers of digestion must be something wonderful; I
believe clams could sup on copper tacks, and not suffer from nightmare.
Spending the greater part of its time buried about two feet deep, the
long syphon, reaching to the surface, discovers its whereabouts, as the
ebbing tide leaves the mud, by continually squirting up small jets of
water, about six or eight inches high. The sand flats dry, out marches
an army of squaws (Indian women), as it is derogatory to the dignity
of a man to dig clams. With only a small bit of skin or cedar-mat tied
round the waist, the women tramp through the mud, a basket made from
cedar-root in one hand, and in the other a bent stick about four feet
long.

Thus armed, they begin to dig up the mud-homes of the unsuspecting
clam: guided by the jets of water, they push down the bent stick, and
experience has taught them to make sure of getting it well under the
shell: placing a stone behind the stick, against which the squaw fixes
her foot firmly, she lifts away: the clam comes from darkness into
daylight ere he knows it, and thence into the Indian’s basket. The
basket filled, the clam-pickers trudge back again to the lodge—and
next to open him. He is not a _native_ to be astonished with an
oyster-knife; once having shut his mouth, no force, saving that of
dashing his shell into atoms, will induce him to open it. But the wily
redskin, if she does not know the old fable of the wind and the sun
trying their respective powers on the traveller, at least adopts the
same principle on the luckless clam; what knife and lever fail to do a
genial warmth accomplishes. The same plan the sun adopted to make the
traveller take off his coat (more persuasive, perhaps, than pleasant)
the Indian squaw has recourse to in order to make the clam open his
shell.

Hollowing out a ring in the ground, about eight inches deep, they
fill the circle with large pebbles, made red-hot in the camp-fire
near by, and on these heated stones put the bivalve martyr. The heat
soon finds its way through the shelly armour, the powerful ropes that
hold the doors together slacken, and, as his mansion gradually grows
‘too hot to hold him,’ the door opens a little for a taste of fresh
air. Biding her chance, armed with a long, smooth, sharp-pointed
stick, sits the squaw—dusky, grim, and dirty—anxiously watching the
clam’s movements. The stronghold opens, and the clam drinks draught
after draught of the cool lifegiving air; then down upon him the
savage pounces, and astonishes his heated and fevered imagination by
thrusting, with all her force, the long sharp stick into the unguarded
house: crash it goes through the quivering tissues; his chance is over!
Jerked off the heated stones, pitilessly his house is forced open;
ropes, hinges, fastenings crack like pack-thread, and the mollusc is
ruthlessly dragged from his shelly home, naked and lifeless.

Having got the clam out, the next thing is to preserve it for winter:
this is effectually accomplished by stringing-up and smoking. A long
wooden needle, with an eye at the end, is threaded with cord made
from native hemp; and on this the clams are strung like dried apples,
and thoroughly smoked, in the interior of the lodge. A more effectual
smoking-house could hardly be found. I can imagine nothing in the
‘wide, wide world’ half as filthy, loathsome, and disgusting as the
interior of an Indian house. Every group has some eatable—fish,
mollusc, bird, or animal—and what the men and squaws do not consume,
is pitched to the dusky little savages, that, naked and dirty, are
thick as ants in a hill; from these the residue descends to the dogs,
and what they leave some lower form of animal life manages to consume.
Nothing eatable that is once brought in is ever by any chance swept,
or carried, out again, and either becomes some other form of life, or,
decomposing, assumes its elemental condition.

An old settler once told me a story, as we were hunting together, and
I think I can vouch for the truth of what he related, of having seen a
duck trapped by a clam:—‘You see, sir, as I was a-cruising down these
flats about sun-up, the tide jist at the nip, as it is now, I see a
whole pile of shoveller ducks snabbling in the mud, and busy as dogfish
in herring-time; so I creeps down, and slap I lets ’em have it: six on
’em turned over, and off went the pack gallows-scared, and quacking
like mad. Down I runs to pick up the dead uns, when I see an old
mallard a-playing up all kinds o’ antics, jumping, backing, flapping,
but fast by the head, as if he had his nose in a steel trap; and when
I comes up to him, blest if a large clam hadn’t hold of him, hard and
fast, by the beak. The old mallard might a’ tried his darndest, but may
I never bait a martin-trap again if that clam wouldn’t a’ held him agin
any odds ’til the tide run in, and then he’d a’ been a gone shoveller
sure as shooting; so I cracked up the clam with the butt of my old gun,
and bagged the mallard.’

Any one who has travelled in America must have eaten clam-chowder, or,
more probably perhaps, tried to eat it. It is a sort of intermediate
affair between stew-proper and soup. How it is made I do not know, but
I do know that to my palate it is the vilest concoction I ever tasted;
and I always look upon a man who can eat clam-chowder with a kind of
admiration almost akin to envy; for I feel and know that if he can eat
chowder, short of cannibalism he can eat anything. I have tried smoked
clam, but that I cannot say I enjoy; it is remarkably like chewing good
old tarry ropeyarn, and, save the slight difference in nutritive power,
about an equally agreeable repast.

If any of my readers should be curious to see the shells of these
monster clams, they will find many I have recently brought home in the
Shell Room of the British Museum.

MANSUCKERS.—The three kinds of cuttlefish best known in British seas
are, first, the sepia, the creature whose backbone is the ‘cuttlefish’
of the apothecaries’ shops; second, the ‘loligo,’ or ‘calamary,’
that has a beautiful penlike bone, and, from the presence of a bag
containing a black fluid, is sometimes called the ‘pen-and-ink’ fish;
and third, the ‘octopus.’

The octopus as seen on our coasts, although even here called a
‘mansucker’ by the fishermen, is a mere Tom Thumb, a tiny dwarf, as
compared to the Brobdignagian proportions he attains in the snug bays
and long inland canals along the east side of Vancouver Island, as well
as on the mainland. These places afford lurking-dens, strongholds, and
natural sea-nurseries, where the octopus grows to an enormous size,
fattens, and wages war, with insatiable voracity, on all and everything
it can catch. Safe from heavy breakers, it lives as in an aquarium of
smooth lake-like water, that, save in the ebbing and flowing of the
tide, knows no change or disturbance.

The ordinary resting-place of this hideous ‘sea-beast’ is under a large
stone, or in the wide cleft of a rock, where an octopus can creep and
squeeze itself with the flatness of a sand-dab, or the slipperiness
of an eel. Its modes of locomotion are curious and varied: using the
eight arms as paddles, and working them alternately, the central disc
representing a boat, octopi row themselves along with an ease and
celerity comparable to the many-oared caïque that glides over the
tranquil waters of the Bosporus; they can ramble at will over the
sandy roadways intersecting their submarine parks, and, converting
arms into legs, march on like a huge spider. _Gymnasts_ of the highest
order, they climb the slippery ledges, as flies walk up a window-pane;
attaching the countless suckers that arm the terrible limbs to the
face of the rocks, or to the wrack and seaweed, they go about, back
downward, like marine sloths, or, clinging with one arm to the waving
algæ, perform series of _trapèze_ movements that Leôtard might view
with envy.

The size, of course, varies. I have seen and _measured_ the arm five
feet long, and as large at the base where it joins the central disc as
my wrist; and were an octopus by any chance to wind its sucker-dotted
cable-arms round a luckless bather, fatal would be the embrace, and
horrible to imagine, being dragged down and drowned by this eight-armed
monster; a worse death than being crushed by coiling serpents like
ill-fated Laocoon.

I have often when on the rocks, in Esquimalt Harbour, watched my
friend’s proceedings; the water being clear and still, it is just like
peering into an aquarium of huge proportions, crowded with endless
varieties of curious sea-monsters; although grotesque and ugly to look
at, yet all alike displaying the wondrous works of Creative wisdom. In
all the cosy little nooks and corners of the harbour the great seawrack
(_Macrocystis_) grows wildly, having a straight round stem that comes
up from the bottom, often with a stalk three hundred feet long;
reaching the surface, it spreads out two long tapering leaves that
float upon the water: this sea-forest is the favourite hunting-ground
of octopi.

I do not think, in its native element, an octopus often catches prey on
the ground or on the rocks, but waits for them just as the spider does,
only the octopus converts itself into a web, and a fearful web too.
Fastening one arm to a stout stalk, stiffening out the other seven,
one would hardly know it from the wrack amongst which it is concealed.
Patiently he bides his time, until presently a shoal of fish come gaily
on, threading their way through the sea-trees, joyously happy, and
little dreaming that this lurking monster, so artfully concealed, is
close at hand. Two or three of them rub against the arms: fatal touch!
As though a powerful electric shock had passed through the fish, and
suddenly knocked it senseless, so does the arm of the octopus paralyse
its victim; then, winding a great sucker-clad cable round the palsied
fish—as an elephant winds its trunk round anything to be conveyed to
the mouth—draws the dainty morsel to the centre of the disc, where the
beaked mouth seizes, and soon sucks it in.

I am perfectly sure, from frequent observation, the octopus has the
power of numbing its prey; and the sucking-discs along each ray are
more for the purposes of climbing and holding-on whilst fishing, than
for capturing and detaining slippery prisoners. The suckers are very
large, and arranged in triple rows along the under-surface of the ray,
decreasing in size towards the point, and possessing wonderful powers
of adhesion.

As illustrating the size of these suckers, I may as well confess to a
blunder I once made. It was an extremely low tide, and I was far out on
the rocks at Esquimalt Harbour, hunting the pools, when I saw what I
fancied a huge actinia, as big as an eggcup, its tentacles hauled in,
and, having detached its disc from the rocks, was waiting for the tide:
placing the fancied prize safely in my collecting-box, to my disgust,
on examining my new species, it turned out to be only the sucking-disc
of an octopus.

Tyrants though they be, an enemy hunts them with untiring pertinacity.
The Indian looks upon the octopus as an alderman does on turtle, and
devours it with equal gusto and relish, only the savage roasts the
glutinous carcase instead of boiling it. His mode of catching octopi is
crafty in the extreme, for redskin well knows, from past experience,
that were the octopus once to get some of its huge arms over the side
of the canoe, and at the same time a holdfast on the wrack, it could as
easily haul it over as a child could upset a basket; but he takes care
not to give a chance, and thus the Indian secures his prize.

Paddling the canoe close to the rocks, and quietly pushing aside the
wrack, the savage peers through the crystal water, until his practised
eye detects an octopus, with its great ropelike arms stiffened out,
waiting patiently for food. His spear is twelve feet long, armed at
the end with four pieces of hard wood, made harder by being baked and
charred in the fire: these project about fourteen inches beyond the
spear-haft, each piece having a barb on one side, and are arranged in
a circle round the spear-end, and lashed firmly on with cedar-bark.
Having spied out the octopus, the hunter passes the spear carefully
through the water until within an inch or so of the centre disc, and
then sends it in as deep as he can plunge it. Writhing with pain and
passion, the octopus coils its terrible arms round the haft; redskin,
making the side of the canoe a fulcrum for his spear, keeps the
struggling monster well off, and raises it to the surface of the water.
He is dangerous now; if he could get a holdfast on either savage or
canoe, nothing short of chopping off the arms piecemeal would be of any
avail.

But the wily redskin knows all this, and has taken care to have ready
another spear unbarbed, long, straight, smooth, and very sharp, and
with this he stabs the octopus where the arms join the central disc.
I suppose the spear must break down the nervous ganglions supplying
motive power, as the stabbed arms lose at once strength and tenacity;
the suckers, that a moment before held on with a force ten men could
not have overcome, relax, and the entire ray hangs like a dead snake,
a limp, lifeless mass. And thus the Indian stabs and stabs, until the
octopus, deprived of all power to do harm, is dragged into the canoe, a
great, inert, quivering lump of brown-looking jelly.




                             CHAPTER VIII.

  MULE-HUNTING EXPEDITION FROM VANCOUVER ISLAND TO SAN FRANCISCO—THE
    ALMADEN QUICKSILVER MINES—POISON-OAK AND ITS ANTIDOTE.


The Commission, in 1860, were to commence the work of marking the
boundary-line on the eastern side of the Cascades. A large addition to
our staff of pack-mules being indispensable, I was despatched to San
Francisco to purchase them; and instructed to rejoin the Commission, as
soon as practicable, at the Dalles, already mentioned as a small town
on the upper part of the Columbia river.

I introduce the journal of my mule-hunting adventures at this part of
the volume, as it enables me to explain the systems of transport and
travelling resorted to in wild countries, where roads and railways are
unknown. I transcribe my journal, the events of each day as hastily
recorded:—

_Feb. 29th, 1860._—Left Esquimalt Harbour in the steamer
‘Panama,’—my destination San Francisco,—my mission to purchase mules.
The island is still in its winter garb; not a bud has burst into leaf,
and very few migratory birds have made their appearance. At 10.30 a.m.
we are steaming out of the harbour; no wind, water smooth as a lake;
run pleasantly down the Straits of Juan de Fuca, and pass Cape Flattery
about 4 p.m. Wind blowing unpleasantly fresh, and a heavy tumbling
swell makes the ‘Panama’ disagreeably lively. Passengers rapidly
disappear; various gulping sounds, heavy sighs, and impatient calls for
the steward, tell clearly enough that the most terrible leveller next
to death, seasickness, has begun its work below.

_March 1st._—A bleak misty morning, a heavy sea, wind dead ahead, and
cold driving hail-showers. The ship, rolling from side to side, renders
it difficult for even practised hands to guide anything spillable
to the mouth; and walking, save to a sailor or a housefly, is an
impossible performance.

_March 2nd._—Managed to scramble on deck about 7 a.m., by going
through a series of acrobatic performances, that came near to
dislocating all my joints; wind moderated, but a heavy sea still rocked
us very rudely. We are close inshore, passing Cape Blanco, 350 miles
below Cape Flattery. Port Orford, a place celebrated for its cedar, is
just visible through the haze; the rounded hills behind it are quite
white with snow. Kept close inshore all day, but the weather is too
cold, and sea too rough, for one to enjoy the scenery.

_March 3rd._—Scrambled on deck again about 7 a.m.; wind still ahead,
but altogether a better morning than yesterday. Had a good look at Cape
Mendozena, a bold rocky headland, to the south of which is Mendozena
city, consisting of a few houses and a groggery. The coast-line is
exceedingly picturesque and pretty: between this headland and Point
Arena a series of undulating hills, capped with massive pine-trees;
their sides and grassy slopes, reaching down to the sea-line, remind me
of English hayfields; it seems almost like enchantment, the change in
the vegetation three days only from Vancouver Island.

_March 4th._—At sunrise I am on deck, called by the captain, to get
a peep at the ‘Golden Gate.’ There is just enough light to reveal a
stupendous mass of bold mountain scenery, rising apparently from the
sea, and towering up 3,000 feet and over, until lost in the haze of the
morning. Under the shadow of these hills we are puffing towards an
opening, as if cut purposely through a solid wall of rock. On the right
stands an immense fortress, built of red brick. Alcatraz Island, right
ahead, is dimly visible, like a grey spot in the line of water. The
ripple, touched by the sunbeams that are slanting into the bay, seems
converted into revolving cylinders of brilliants. As we steam through
this magnificent portal, the finest harbour in the world opens out to
the southward and westward. On the curving shore of the bay, I can see
the city of San Francisco, built on the slopes of three hills; to the
left the island of Yerba Buena; farther to the right a forest of masts,
from which flags representing every nation flutter in the breeze;
ahead a long stretch of water, as far as eye could follow it—the
continuation of the harbour.

We ran alongside an immense pier at 6 a.m. I am mobbed by touters from
every hotel in San Francisco, and have hard work to keep my luggage
from being equally divided amongst them. Passengers appear, for the
first time since leaving Vancouver Island, blanched like celery or
seakale. By dint of strong arms and stronger language, I get my luggage
fastened to a grating that lets down by machinery, at the end of an
omnibus marked ‘Oriental Hotel.’ I am hustled into the ‘bus with three
pale passengers, and we are rapidly whirled off to the ‘Oriental.’ The
mail-packet from Panama has also just arrived; all the beds are taken
at the hotel, so I bide my chance of some one leaving before night.

Called on the Consul, and through his kindness am located in the Union
Club House, a grand improvement on the ‘Oriental.’

_March 5th._—Occupied in giving my letters of introduction, and
arranging money-matters. The club-house in which I am staying is a
massive granite building. The granite, beautifully faced and fitted,
was all hewn in China; the house was put together there, to see
everything was properly finished, then taken to pieces, packed, and
shipped for San Francisco. Chinese builders came with it, brought their
own scaffolding (made entirely from bamboo), put it together, built up
the granite edifice in which I transcribe this, as handsome a structure
as any San Francisco can boast of.

_March 6th._—Having nothing particular to do, determine to visit the
New Almaden quicksilver mines. There are two routes to these mines—one
per stage the whole distance (56 miles), the other per steamer to the
head of the Bay of San Francisco, and thence by stage to San José.
Past experience had taught me, whenever possible, scrupulously to avoid
stage travelling. Being tossed in a blanket, or rolled down a steep
hill in a cask, produce much the same bruised and general state of
sprain and dislocation as a day’s ride in a stage. Choosing the steamer
lessened the chance of jolting by quite one-half, at the same time
affording a good opportunity of seeing the famed Bay of San Francisco.

I embark at seven from a wooden pier—early as it is, alive with the
hum, buzz, and bustle of the awakening city—and steam away over the
unrippled waters of the bay. The temperature is delicious; a few fleecy
clouds are swept rapidly over the clear blue sky by a light breeze
blowing softly from the land, laden with the perfume of wild flowers
and forest trees. A run of a few hours brought us to the embarcadero,
or landing, at the head of the bay, from whence a stage bumped me over
the road about four miles, to the old town of San José.

Pueblo San José stands at the entrance of a lovely valley. The town
consists of a collection of adobe houses; a few in the main street are
built of wood, painted white, with brilliant green jalousies outside
the windows. The older houses are scattered round an open space,
the plaza: trees of greenest foliage, in double rows, shade one from
the burning sun, and everywhere spacious orchards and flower-gardens
testify to the fertility of the soil.

Having a note from a friend in San Francisco to the host of ‘——
House,’ more than ordinary civility was accorded me, and by some
superhuman means a buggy would be ready in about two hours to take
me to the mines. Crossing the Alameda, a grove of willows and oaks,
planted by the padres, leads to the old crumbling walls of what was
once a very spacious mission, now rapidly falling to decay. The
interior of the old church is decorated with rude carvings, paintings
of the Crucifixion, and frescoed figures of saints and martyrs,
clad in garments of dazzling colours. One old shaven priest, with a
particularly dirty cassock, and a face so begrimed with layers of filth
as to be mosquito-proof, was the only ecclesiastic visible. Thousands
of cliff swallows (_Hirundo lunifrons_) were busy building their
bottle-shaped mud nests under the dilapidated roof.

Discovered little worth looking at in the town. Found the buggy
waiting: my coachman, a regular Yankee, puffing vigorously at an
immense cigar, was seated in readiness, his legs resting on the
splash-board. Without removing the cigar from his mouth, he drawled
out, ‘Say, Cap’en, guess you’d better hurry up if you mean making the
ranch before sundown. Bet your pants this child ain’t agwine that road
in the dark nohow.’ ‘What’s to happen?’ I mildly enquired. ‘Happen!
Wal, maybe upset; maybe chawed up by a grizzly; maybe cleaned slick out
by the greasers. You’d better believe a man has to keep his eye skinned
in the daytime; so hurry up, Cap.’ Without further parley I scrambled
in, and away we went.

Our road lay over broad plains and through occasional belts of timber;
deep, gravelly arroyos, in and out of which we dashed with a plunging
scramble, marked the course of the floods. Everything was steaming
hot; the baked ground reflected back the scorching sun-rays, until the
atmosphere quivered as one sees it over a limekiln; the mustangs in a
fog of perspiration; the Jehu, denuded of coat and vest, continually
yelled ‘A git along,’ with a rein in each hand, steering rather than
driving, was red-hot in body and temper. But this was nothing to my
state of broil. Exposed to a temperature that would have made one
perspire sitting in the shade; to be kept in a state of bodily fear of
instant upset; to undergo a continuous exercise that would have been
good training for an athlete, to avoid being shot out of the buggy
like a shell from a mortar, would have set an Icelander in a glow. The
rapidity with which we whirled along, and the eccentric performances of
the vehicle, destroyed, in a measure, the enjoyment of a scene quite
new to me.

We rattled through the splendid valley of Santa Clara, passing here and
there a fertile ranch; on either side, the wooded slopes looked like
lawns of Nature’s own contriving; far on my left, the bay glimmered
like a line of silver light, the ground carpeted with flowers,
brilliant escholtzia and blue nemophila were most conspicuous amidst a
natural harvest of wild oats and grass; and on all sides, from amongst
the clumps of buck-eye and oak, the cheery whistle and chirp of birds
rang pleasantly on the ear.

Reaching the ‘Halfway House’ (as a small wooden building is named,
midway betwixt San José and the mine), we stopped to water the mustangs
and refresh the inward man—a respite most acceptable. A ‘tall drink’
worked wonders on my hitherto taciturn coachman, who, as we jogged
along the remaining half the journey, related such wonderful stories,
that it seemed to me we had hardly left the ‘Halfway House’ ere we
rattled under a grove of trees completely shutting out the fading
light, and pulled up with a sudden jerk, that well-nigh pitched me over
the mustangs. ‘Guess we’ve made it, Cap’en; this here’s the manager’s.’

Giving my letters of introduction to Mr. Young, a hospitable invitation
to be his guest was readily accepted. I cannot help devoting a line to
the praise of a house most enjoyable in its minutest details, with a
host and hostess it refreshes one’s heart to recall to memory.

The lower village of Almaden consists of a long row of very pretty
cottages, the residences of the workmen employed in smelting the ore;
each cottage was completely buried with honeysuckle and creeping
roses the gardens in front filled with flowers, and at the back with
vegetables and fruit. A small stream of water, clear and cold, ripples
past the frontage, brought from a mountain-burn that runs swiftly at
the back, a barrier dividing the gardens from the surrounding hills. An
avenue of trees leads from the cottages to the spacious brick buildings
used for smelting.

The discovery of these fabulously rich mines of quicksilver is briefly
told. Long ere gold was discovered in California, the padres and early
settlers knew of a cavern in the hillside, about a mile and a half from
the present village. Deeming it merely a natural fissure or cleft in
the rock, explorations only were made by the more adventurous as to its
extent, which proved to be in length one hundred feet, running into
the mountain horizontally. No one ever thought it was an artificial
excavation of great antiquity. When the vaqueros and old dons of the
neighbourhood were questioned by a new-comer about the cave, a shrug
of the shoulders, and the usual reply, ‘Quien sabe? son cosas muy
antiguas,’ was the sole information obtained.

A gold-seeker, assaying some of the rock, salivated himself, and
thus discovered it was rich in quicksilver. A grant, with the land
adjoining, was procured, and the original opening widened; in clearing
away the rubble and dirt at the end of the cave, several skeletons
were discovered, together with rude mining-tools and other curious
relics, clearly proving it an old excavation made by the natives for
the purpose of procuring vermilion, so much used by all savages to
paint themselves. The position of the skeletons in the rubbish covering
them left no doubt that, having followed the vein of cinnabar without
exercising due precaution to prop the loose ground overhead, they had
been literally buried alive in a grave of their own digging. Further
research soon revealed the immense value of the deposit. Many years
rolled away, and very little was done until it passed from the hands of
an English company into that of an American firm.

The mine is about a mile and a half from the smelting-works, on the
side of a mountain; an admirable road leads to it by a gentle ascent,
down which waggons drawn by mules bring the ore to be smelted. On
reaching the summit I rested on a level plateau, on which the upper
works are built; I am to descend presently into the depths of the mine
to see how the ore is deposited, and trace, step by step, the various
processes it has to go through before it is marketable.

The main entrance is a tunnel ten feet high, and about an equal width
throughout, in which runs a tramway leading to the shaft. At the end of
this tunnel a small steam-engine does the work of the poor ‘tanateros,’
or carriers, who, until very recently, brought the ore and rubbish from
the bottom of the mine on their backs, a system still adopted in Spain
and Peru, each man having to bring up a load of two hundred pounds, in
a bag made of hide, fastened by two straps passing round the shoulders,
and a broader one across the forehead, which mainly sustains the load.
It was fatal work to the poor Mexicans who had to do it, the terrible
muscular strain soon producing disease and death!

On reaching the engine I am undressed and rigged as a miner, a costume
far more loose and easy than becoming. Three dip-candles dangled from a
button on my jacket by the wicks, and one enveloped in a knob of clay
for my hand, completed my toilet. The next process is to be lowered
down into the mine. Squeezing myself into a huge kind of bucket, and
assuming as near as practicable the shape and position of a frog, my
candle lighted, ‘All right!’ says somebody, and I find myself rapidly
descending a damp dismal hole, dripping with water like a shower. Of
course I shudder, and have horrible ideas of an abyss, ending no one
knows where; the candle hissed, sputtered, and went out; the bucket
swang as the chain lengthened, and bumped unpleasantly against the
rocks; now a sudden stop, and a lively consciousness of being dragged
bodily out like a bundle of clothes, discloses the fact of my safe
arrival at the bottom.

The swarthy Mexican miner deputed as guide leads the way along a narrow
gulley, and down an incline to the mouth of another hole, the descent
to which has to be effected on a slanting pole, with notches cut in it,
very like a bear-pole, called by the miner an _escalera_, requiring a
saltatory performance that would not have been so bad if I had only
known where I should have landed in case of falling. After this we
scramble down a flight of steps cut in the rock, and reach the lowest
excavation, about one thousand feet from the surface.

The cinnabar is found in large pockets, or in veins, permeating a kind
of trap-rock; and as the miners dig it out, large columns or pillars
are left to support the roof, and prevent the chance of its falling in.
A small charcoal-fire burned slowly at the base of one of these massive
columns, and as its flickering light fell dimly, illuminating with a
ruddy glow the bronzed faces and nearly nude figures of the miners,
the vermilion hue of the rugged walls and arched roof, sparkling with
glittering crystals, forcibly reminded me of a brigand’s cave, such as
Salvator Rosa loved to paint.

All the work is done by contract: each gang taking a piece of ground
on speculation, is paid according to the amount of ore produced; the
ore averaging about thirty-six per cent. for quicksilver, although some
pieces that I dug myself produced seventy-five per cent. Many mines in
Europe have been profitably worked when the cinnabar has yielded only
one per cent.

A shrill whistle rings through the mine; the miners from all directions
rush towards the pillars. Thinking, at least, the entire concern was
tumbling in, I was about to scamper off, when the guide, seizing my
arm, drags me behind a projecting mass of rock, simply saying, ‘A
blast!’ For a while there was a deathlike silence—not a sound save
the hiss of the fusee, and the heavy breathing of the men; then the
cave lighted up with a lurid flash, shedding a blinding glare over
every object like tropical lightning. The dark galleries appeared
and disappeared in the twinkling of an eye, whilst the report, like
countless cannon, was echoed and reechoed through the cavernous
chamber. Showers of fragments came rattling down in every direction,
hurled up by the force of the powder. On the smoke clearing, the
miners set to work to collect the scattered fragments of cinnabar. If
a blast has been successful, often many tons of rock are loosened and
torn out, to be broken into small pieces and conveyed to the bucket,
and hauled by the engine to the surface. The mining operations are
continued night and day, seventy-four pounds of candles being consumed
every twenty-four hours.

I finish the survey of this singular mine perfectly free from foul air
or fire-damp; ascend as I came down; and, by vigorous rubbing with
soap-and-water, am slowly restored from bright vermilion to my normal
colour.

The ore, on reaching the surface, is conveyed by the tram-cart to the
sorting-shed, where it is broken and carefully picked over by skilful
hands, great caution being needed in selection, as much valuable ore
might be thrown away, or a large quantity of useless rock taken to
the smelting-furnaces. The picked ore is placed in large bags made of
sheepskin, weighed, and then hauled by the mules to the lower works.

Near the mine is a primitive kind of village, the abode of the miners,
sorters, and ore-carriers, who are principally Mexicans; dirty señoras
in ragged finery, dirtier children devoid of garments, together with
dogs, pigs, poultry, and idle miners playing monte on the doorsteps,
contrast sadly with the exquisite little village at the works.

Descending from the mine to the level ground by a short track down
the hillside, through scenery indescribably picturesque, I reach the
smelting furnaces; these, occupying about four acres of land, are
built of brick, admirably neat, and well contrived. As quicksilver is
found in several forms—namely, native quicksilver, occurring in small
drops, in the pores or on the ledges of other rocks, argental mercury,
a native silver amalgam, and sulphide of mercury or cinnabar, different
processes are requisite for its reduction. Here it is found solely in
form of cinnabar, and to reduce it a kind of reverberatory furnace is
used, three feet by five, placed at the end of a series of chambers,
each chamber seven feet long, four wide, and five high. About ten
of these chambers are arranged in a line, built of brick, plastered
inside, and secured by transverse rods of iron, fitted at the ends with
screws and nuts, to allow for expansion. The top is of boiler iron,
securely luted.

The first chamber is the furnace for fire, the second for ore,
separated from the first by a grated partition, allowing the flame to
pass through and play over the cinnabar. This ore-chamber, when filled,
contains ten thousand pounds of cinnabar. The remaining chambers are
for condensing the metal, communicating by square holes at the opposite
corners; for instance, the right upper corner and lower left, and
_vice versâ_, so that the vapour has to perform a spiral course in its
transit through the condensers. Leaving the chambers, the vapour is
conducted through a large wooden cistern, into which a shower of water
continually falls, and thence through a long flue and tall chimney
carried far away up the hillside.

The mercury is collected, as condensed, in gutters running into a long
conduit outside the building, from which it drops into an iron pot sunk
in the earth. As the pot fills, the mercury is conveyed to a store-tank
that holds twenty tons. So great is its density, that a man sitting on
a flat board floats about in the tank on a lake of mercury without its
flowing over the edges of his raft. From this tank the metal is ladled
out, and poured into iron flasks containing each seventy pounds (these
flasks are made in England, and sent to New Almaden): in this state it
is shipped for the various markets.

Although every possible care has been taken to prevent the mercurial
fumes from injuring the smelters, still a great deal of it is
necessarily inhaled, most injurious to health. Clearing out the
furnace is the most hurtful process, the men employed working short
spells, and resting a day or two between. A furnace charged with ore, I
am told, takes about eight days to sublime and cool.

It is difficult to obtain a correct statement of the absolute yield of
this mine; proprietors, for many reasons, deeming it inexpedient to let
the world know the extent of their riches. The export of quicksilver
from San Francisco, a few years back, may, I think, be averaged at
1,350,000 pounds of mercury per annum, valued at 683,189 dollars; and
this, together with the large amount consumed in California, was the
sole produce of the New Almaden mines.

There are fourteen furnaces, arranged with passages ten feet wide
between them, the whole covered with a roof sufficiently high to allow
a current of air to circulate freely. Between the furnaces and on
all the open spaces are innumerable bricks, just as we see them in a
brickyard to harden before baking. On inquiring what these were made
for, I discover that all the fragments and dust-cinnabar are pounded
together, mixed with water, and made into bricks: in this form the ore
can be conveniently built into the furnace, securing intervening spaces
for the flame and heat to act on; thus more perfect sublimation is
secured, and a great saving of metal effected. There are blacksmiths’
and carpenters’ shops and a sawmill adjoining the furnaces.

Until recently all the ore was brought down from the mine packed on
the backs of mules, a most costly system of transport as compared to
the one now in use. The vegetation only suffers immediately round
the chimney, and even there not to any alarming degree. The flue,
being of great length, carried at a moderate slope up the hill, and
terminating in a very tall chimney, completely condenses all mercurial
and arsenical fumes. Before this flue and stack were constructed, even
the mules and cattle grazing in the pastures died from the poisonous
effects of the mercurial vapour; and its deadly action on vegetation
was like that of the fabled upas-tree. The workmen now, as a rule,
enjoy very good health, and are admirably cared for; the village boasts
a capital hotel, and stages run daily to San José and San Francisco.

A spring of native soda-water, bubbling up in the centre of the
village, protected and fitted like a drinking-fountain, is said to work
wonders as a curative agent in all maladies arising from the effects
of mercury. This spring is supposed to be under the especial care of
a ‘Saint Somebody,’ a lady whose image, attired in very dirty finery,
figures in niches cut in the rocks at the mine. No miner ever leaves or
enters the mine without prostrating himself before this dirty effigy.

_March 9th._—Return to San Francisco by road; dine at San Mateo,
as lovely a spot as I ever gazed on. The grass is kneedeep, and the
chimps of buck-eye (_Esculus flava_) and handsome oaks besprinkling
the rounded hills and banks of the clear stream winding its way past
the village to the Bay of San Francisco, like a lake glistening in
the distance, reminded me of a park in fertile Devonshire. Completely
shut in, and sheltered from the wind that blows nearly all the summer,
withering up the vegetation exposed to its influence, everything round
about this favoured spot grows in wild luxuriance. In the garden
belonging to the roadside house, the summer flowers are in full bloom,
and vegetables of all kinds in rare abundance, such as for size and
quality equal anything Covent Garden Market can show.

The bay runs inland about forty miles, and the land on its shores is
particularly fertile, and employed in great measure for dairy-farms and
stock-ranches.

For the first time I gather the poison-oak (_Rhus toxicodendron_),
a pretty plant, that climbs by rootlets, like the ivy, and trails
gracefully over both rocks and trees. Some persons are most seriously
affected by it, especially such as are of fair complexion, if they
only venture near where it grows. It produces swelling about the
eyes, dizziness, and fever; the poisonous effects are most virulent
when the plant is bursting into leaf. I picked, examined, and walked
amidst the trees over which it twined thickly, but experienced not the
slightest symptoms of inconvenience. Still, I know others that suffer
whenever they come near it. Where the poison-oak thrives, there too
grows a tuber known to the settlers as Bouncing Bet, to the botanist
as _Saponaria officinalis_, the common soapwort. The tuber is filled
with a mucilaginous juice which, having the property of entangling air
when whisked up, makes a lather like soap. This lather is said to be an
unfailing specific against the effects of the poison-oak—the poison
and its antidote growing side by side!




                              CHAPTER IX.

  SACRAMENTO—STOCKTON—CALIFORNIAN GROUND-SQUIRRELS—GRASS
    VALLEY—STAGE TRAVELLING—HYDRAULIC
    WASHINGS—NEVADA—MARYSVILLE—UP THE SACRAMENTO RIVER TO RED
    BLUFFS—A DANGEROUS BATH.


_March 10th._—At San Francisco this morning a friend took me to see
the ‘What Cheer House,’ a very large hotel, supported by gold-miners,
where they make up six hundred beds, every lodger having a small room
to himself, with marble wash-stand, looking-glass, and dressing-table.
Each story shuts off from the next by fireproof doors, and the water is
forced to the top of the house, where there are hoses, fire-buckets,
and axes enough to fit out a fire-brigade. A large steam-engine is the
cook’s assistant, doing everything that hands usually do; it kneads the
bread, rolls the dough, drives the roasting gear, grinds coffee, peels
apples and potatoes, beats the eggs (twelve hundred dozen a week),
washes, irons, dries, and mangles the clothes; heats the water for
the bathing-houses, which are perfect in every detail; does all the
pumping, and cleans the knives.

Adjoining the dining-room is a well-selected library, general
reading-room, and museum, containing a capital collection of stuffed
birds, and other useful objects of Natural History. The rate each miner
pays is five dollars, equal to 1_£._ per week: this includes eating and
drinking. The house is strictly a temperance one, no fermented liquor
being allowed within it.

Wandering about San Francisco would be much more enjoyable, if the
hills were less steep, and the wind, which is everlastingly blowing,
freighted with fine sand, that finds its way into your very watchcase,
could be stilled.

_March 11th._—Steaming across the bay in a white steamer called the
‘Eclipse,’ propelled by the largest paddlewheels I ever saw. We are en
route to Sacramento, which we reach late at night.

_March 12th._—Strolled about. Hardly believe so vast a place can have
grown up in ten years. I think I like it better than San Francisco.
The streets running east and west are marked by numbers—_1st_ street,
_2nd_ street, and so on; those having a north and south bearing by
letter, as—_A_ street, _B_ street, &c. Received a telegram from the
Commissioner, who had just reached San Francisco on his return from
England, to join him.

Nothing material occurs in my journal until

_March 23rd._—I am at the Webber House in Stockton, a very pretty
city, built on what the Americans call a _slew_, or, in other words,
a muddy arm of the San Joaquin river. The country round is perfectly
flat, but fertile beyond description. To obtain water the inhabitants
have only to bore an auger-hole about nine feet in depth, when it
bubbles up like a fountain. In nearly every garden is a tiny windmill,
employed to irrigate the peach-orchards and general crops. Hear of 700
mules that have just arrived from Salt Lake city.

_March 24th._—Drive out in a buggy to the mule ranch. The country
very bare of timber, but thickly covered with grass. Every hillock,
I observe, is burrowed like a rabbit-warren by the Californian
ground-squirrel (_Spermophilus Beechyii_). I am told that it is next to
impossible to drive out or exterminate these most destructive pests;
entire fields of young wheat are cleared off by them, as if mowed down;
gardens are invaded, and a year’s labour and gain destroyed in a single
day. Trapping, shooting, and strychnine have failed to accomplish the
work of extinction. Farmers often flood entire districts, ‘to drown
out the darned cusses!’ Their habits are strictly diurnal; and pretty
lively little fellows they are, scampering off to their holes on the
approach of danger, where they sit up on their hind-legs, peering
curiously at the intruder. You may come very near now: there is a safe
retreat behind, and he knows it. When too close, however, for safety’s
sake, the squirrel gives a shrill defiant whistle, like the laugh of a
sprite, and dashes into its burrow.

Purchased twenty-one mules, at 150 dollars per head; the others were
team-mules, and too large for pack animals. My mules are to remain on
the ranch until I have completed my other purchases.

_March 25th._—Cross in the stage from Stockton to Sacramento, a
distance of about forty miles, through a country fertile in the
extreme. Wild flowers, in endless variety of colour, decked the
grass-land. The hawthorn, white with blossom, perfumes the air; and the
waving green cornfields contrast pleasantly with the foliage of the
oaks and chestnuts scattered about in graceful clumps. We change horses
at Woodbridge, Fugit Ranch, and Elk Grove, and at four o’clock pull up
at the St. George’s Hotel, Sacramento.

_March 26th._—I am again on the road, this time bound to Grass Valley.
A clumsy railway with cars, or carriages, like the yellow caravans
giants, dwarfs, and wise pigs travel in, bumps me out to Fulsome, about
thirty miles off. Here I am hustled into a stage, without a chance of
seeing anything but mud, in which the horses are standing kneedeep.

This stage is different from any I have seen; loops, straps, and other
contrivances, clearly meant to hold on by, evidence an inequality
of motion and tendency to upset that give rise to disagreeable
forebodings. Constructed to hold nine inside, the centre seat swings
like a _bale_ dividing horses in a stable, and being somewhat rounded
and padded, looks very like it. Five passengers seat themselves. I have
hardly time to look at them, when a loud cracking of whips, several
voices yelling ‘Hi! git up!’ ‘Hi! git along!’ and a sudden jerk sends
me upon the _bale_—a general splash and scramble—and we are off!

We do the first ten miles with a bearable amount of jolting, and stop
to change horses. The five insiders get out, and we take a nip at
the roadside house, or what would be such if there were any roads.
I observe four most perverse, obstinate, wild-looking horses being
cautiously fastened to the stage; they are clearly uneducated—‘wild
mustangs’ one of the insiders called them. They are held tightly.
‘All aboard, boys?’ says the driver (they call him _Mose_)—in we
scramble—bang slams the door—and with an awful lurch away we go!
Now I can understand the suspicious-looking machinery, designed, on
the principle of life-buoys, for stage-tossed travellers to cling to.
Holding on to these we swing along as hard as the beasts can gallop.

I am told by a fellow-passenger that unless the ‘mustangs start at a
gallop, they either upset the stage, or kick themselves clear of the
harness.’ On this journey they were agreeable enough to gallop off, so
we escaped the two contingencies. Several times _Mose_ shouted, ‘Get
out, boys, and hang on awhile.’ I discover that this means that we are
to cling to the side of the stage, that our united weight may prevent
its capsizing, when going along the side of a slope like the slant of a
housetop.

Near dark we are requested by ‘Mose’ to walk up the last hill. A tall
sallow man, with a face hollow and sunken, closely shaven, except
a tuft at the chin, steps along with me, and we reach the top of
the hill a good time before the stage. We are standing amidst some
scrubby timber. The long shadows of the trees are swallowed up in
the gathering gloom, the music of the forest has died away, and, save
the wind sighing through the leafy foliage, everything is still. My
companion draws nearer. ‘Stranger,’ he began, in a voice that appeared
to come from his boots, and get out at his nose, ‘jist war we are
standin’, three weeks agone, a tarnation big grizzly come slick upon
two men, jist waitin’ for the stage, as we are; chawed up one, and
would a gone in for t’other, but he made tall travellin’ for the stage.
When they came up Ephraim had skedaddled, and they never see him or old
Buck-eye arter.’

This is refreshing! I hope if ‘old Ephraim’ does come, he may eat my
tough companion. The stage came, but the bear did not. We reach our
destination at 8 p.m.: how sore I am!

_March 27th._—A good sleep has worked wonders. I find Grass Valley a
romantic little mountain town, about 2,200 feet above the sea-level, on
the western slope of the Sierra Nevada, owing its existence entirely
to gold-mining. Visited Mr. A.’s mill—a magnificent quartz-crusher.
Nine stamp-heads, each 900 lbs. in weight, are worked by one of Watts’
engines. The fine-dust gold is collected on blankets, or bullocks’
hides with the hair on, over which the water washes it, as it comes
from the stamp-heads. Some of the most productive gold deposits in
California were discovered in and about this quaint little place. I
descend a shaft 240 feet deep. The gold is distributed through the mud
and silt of what was clearly an ancient riverbed.

_March 28th._—Ride on horseback to Nevada and Hunt’s Hill. Nevada is
a clean pretty _city_, with gay shops, brightly-painted houses, and
planked streets. Near it are the famed hydraulic washings. The gold is
disseminated through terraces of shingle conglomerates, often three
hundred feet in thickness. These terraces are actually washed entirely
off the face of the country, by propelling jets of water against them,
forced under great pressure through a nozzle. To accomplish this, the
water is brought in canals, tunnels, and wooden aqueducts, often forty
miles away from the drift. This supply of water the miners rent.

As we near the washing-spot, in every direction immense hose, made
of galvanized iron, and canvas tubes six feet round, coil in all
directions over the ground, like gigantic serpents, converging towards
a gap, where they disappear. On reaching this gap, I look down into
a basin, or dry lake, 300 feet below me. The hose hangs down this
cliff of shingle, and following its course by a zigzag path, I reach a
plateau of rock, from which the shingle has already been washed. A man
stands at the end of each hose, that has for its head a brass nozzle.
With the force of cannon-shot water issues, in a large jet, from this
tube; and propelled against the shingle, guided by the men, washes it
away, as easily as we could broom a molehill from off the grass.

The stream of water, bearing with it the materials washed from out
the cliff, runs through wooden troughs called ‘flumes,’ floored with
granite; these flumes extend six miles. Men are stationed at regular
distances to fork out the heavy stones. Throughout its entire length
transverse strips of wood dam back a tiny pond of mercury; these
are called _riffles_—gold-traps, in other words—that seize on the
fine-dust gold distributed throughout the shingle. The ‘flumes’ are
cleaned about once a month, and the gold extracted from the mercury.
Masses of wood occur, in every stage of change, from that of pure
silica to soft asbestiform material, and pure carbon.

I am strongly disposed to think this immense hollow must have been the
rocky shore of an inlet or a lagoon; the rocks underlying the shingle
have all the appearance, when denuded by the washing, of sea-wear. I
try with a powerful lens to detect gold amidst the material they are
washing, but not a trace is discoverable, and yet it pays an immense
profit to the gold-washers.

Hunt’s Hill is a timbered mountain, about 3,500 feet in altitude.
Washing its base is the Greenhorn river, on the banks of which some
very rich gold-washings are carried on, as well as at Bear Creek, on
the opposite slope of the ridge. Clothing the hill, towering high
above the shanties of the miners, the sugar and nut-pines wave lazily;
the immense cones of the latter, plentifully besprinkling the ground,
afford a feast to the Indians and lesser rodent mammals.

_March 29th._—Return to Marysville. Visited another hydraulic washing
at Timbuctoo, on the Yuba river, much the same as that seen at Nevada.
Marysville is about the third best city in California, situated on
the bank of the Feather river, which is rapidly filling up, from the
immense quantity of material brought down from the hydraulic washings.
A single peach-orchard I visited was 200 acres, all fenced, and the
trees in beautiful health; from it, I am told, 80,000 dollars were
returned in a single year by the sale of the peaches.

                   •       •       •       •       •

I commence my journal again on

_April 24th._—I am in the ‘Victor’ steamboat, a small crank
flat-bottomed affair, pushed against the current by a huge
stern-wheel—an ugly appendage, but very effective in navigating swift
shallow streams. I am bound for Red Bluffs, 275 miles above Sacramento.
Pass the exits of the Yuba and Feather rivers, and change the yellow
muddy water for the pure sparkling stream fresh from the mountain.

_April 25th._—Starting again—the ‘Victor’ having been fastened up all
night, tethered to a tree, as one would tie up his horse—the scenery,
as we wend along the sinuous course of the stream, rapidly changes
its character. The banks get steep, and sharp hills take the place of
the flat lands behind us. Wild grape-vines hang in clustering tangles
of green luxuriance from the branches of the ilex, oak, and arbutus,
forming a continuous arcade over the water.

The Bluffs are reached. A straggling town, built on a high bank
beetling over the Sacramento river, peeps out, from amidst some tall
trees. Men, women, children, and dogs are crowding down, marching like
ants from a hill towards a recent discovery of eatables. The banks
are red, the soil is red, and the houses are built of red brick—Red
Bluffs, a proper and appropriate name.

Land, and put up at —— House, not remarkable for anything but dirt
and discomfort.

_April 26th._—Purchase 59 mules, with a complete pack and equipment.
My mules and men, that I had sent by land from Stockton, arrive. Hire
two additional hands, and order the provisioning for my intended trip.

_April 27th._—Mules and men need rest; breakfast over.

‘Now, Cap’en,’ says mine host, as I was debating whether it would be
wiser to remain quietly at home, and enjoy a thoroughly idle day, or
join the hunters, I calkilate we’ve got to worry out this day somehow.
S’pose we take a ride over to the Tuscan Springs. It’s a mighty strange
place, you bet your life; they say it’s right over the devil’s kitchen,
and when he’s tarnation hot, he comes up and pops out his head to get
a taste of fresh air. The very water comes risin’ up a-bilin’, and the
pools flash into flame like powder, if you put fire near ‘um.’

‘Why, Major,’ I replied, ‘it is the place of all others I should enjoy
seeing. How far is it?’

‘Waal, it ain’t over ten mile, but a mighty bad road at that.—Here,
Joe, saddle up, and bring round two mustangs.’

The mustangs are small compact horses, seldom exceeding
fourteen-and-a-half hands in height, descended from Spanish stock,
originally brought into Mexico on its conquest by the Spaniards. They
run wild in large herds on the grassy prairies in California and
Texas, and are just lassoed when needed. I may perhaps mention, _en
passant_, that a lasso is from thirty to forty feet long, and made of
strips of raw hide plaited together. When a mustang is to be caught, an
experienced hand always keeps the herd to windward of him; sufficiently
near he circles the lasso round his head, and with unerring certainty
flings it over the neck of the horse he has selected.

The end of a lasso being made fast to a ring in the saddle, as soon
as the horse is captured, the rider turns his steed sharp round, and
gallops off, dragging the terrified and choking animal after him. The
terrible noose becomes tighter and tighter, pressing on the windpipe,
until, unable to offer further resistance, the panic-stricken beast
rolls in agony, half suffocated, on the prairie. Never after this does
the horse forget the lasso—the sight of it makes him tremble in every
limb. I have seen the most wild and vicious horses rendered gentle and
docile in a minute, by simply laying the lasso on the neck behind the
ears.

The breaking-in is a very simple affair: while the animal is down the
eyes are bandaged, and a powerful Spanish bit placed in the mouth.
This accomplished, he is allowed to get up, and the saddle is firmly
‘synched.’ The saddles commonly used in California differ very little
from those used in Mexico. The stirrups are cut out from a block of
wood, allowing only the point of the toe to be inserted; they are set
far back, and oblige the rider to stand rather than sit in the saddle.
One girth only is used, styled a ‘synch,’ made of horsehair, and
extremly wide; no buckles or stitching is used, but all is fastened
with strips of raw hide. Everything being complete, the rider fixes
himself firmly in the saddle, and leaning forward jerks off the blind;
it is now an open question who is to have the best of it. If the man
succeeds in sitting on the mustang until he can spur him into a gallop,
his wildness is soon taken out of him, and one or two more lessons
complete the breaking.

Joe by this time had made his appearance with the mustangs. Mounting,
away we went at a raking gallop! I know no exercise half as
exhilarating and exciting as the ‘lope,’ a kind of long canter, the
travelling pace of a mustang; there is no jarring or jolting. All
one has to do is to sit firmly in the saddle; the horse, obeying the
slightest turn of the wrist or check of the rein, swings along for
hours at a stretch, without any show of weariness.

Having crossed the Sacramento in a ‘scow,’ a kind of rough ferry-boat,
our road lay over broad plains and through scattered belts of timber.
The grass was completely burnt up, and the series of gravelly arroyos,
in and out of which we continually plunged and scrambled, marked
clearly the course of the winter streams.

The air felt hot and sultry, but fragrant with the perfume of the
mountain cudweed. Not a cloud was visible in the lurid sky, and the
distant mountains, thinly dotted with timber, seemed softened and
subdued as seen through the blue haze. We entered a valley leading
through a pile of volcanic hills that one could easily have imagined
had been once the habitat of civilised man. The wooded glades had
all the appearance of lawns and parks planted with exquisite taste;
the trees, in nothing resembling the wild growth of the forest, were
grouped in every variety of graceful outline.

On either side the hills were covered with wild oat as thick as
it could grow; its golden-yellow tints, contrasting with the dark
glossy-green of the cypress, the oak, and the manzanita, had an
indescribably charming effect. As we advanced the valley gradually
narrowed, until it became a mere _cañon_ (the Spanish for funnel),
shut in by vast masses of rock that looked like heaps of slag and
cinder—bare, black, and treeless. A small stream of bitter, dark,
intensely salt water trickled slowly through the gorge.

Following a rough kind of road, that led up the base of the hills
for about two miles, we entered what I imagine was the crater of
an extinct volcano nearly circular, about a mile in diameter, and
shut in on every side by columnar walls of basalt. There was a weird
desolation about the place that forcibly reminded me of the Wolf’s
Glen in Der Freischütz—a fit haunt for Zamiel! Scarce a trace of
forest-life was to be seen, not a tree or flower; everything looked
scorched and cinderous, like the _débris_ of a terrible fire, and smelt
like a limekiln on a summer-night. A long narrow house, resembling a
cattle-shed, stood in the centre of this circle.

‘Waal, Cap’en, I guess we’ve made the ranch anyhow,’ said the Major, as
we drew up at the door of this most uninviting-looking establishment.
‘A mighty tall smell of brimstone,’ he further added, ‘seems coming up
from “Old Hoof’s” stove-pipe. Calkilate he’s doing a tallish kind of
dinner below.’

I had no time to reply, ere the host, owner, and general manager of
the Tuscan Springs made his appearance. ‘How’s your health, Doctor?’
inquired the Major. ‘I’ve brought up Cap’en —— to have a peep at your
location; he’s mighty curious about these kind of diggins.’

‘Waal, Cap’en,’ said the Doctor, in a long drawling voice, ‘I am glad
to see you. I raither guess you don’t see such nat’ral ready-made
places, for curin’ jist every sickness, in the old country as we have
in California.—Here, boy, put up the mustangs: and now step in, and
I’ll tell old aunty to scramble up some eggs and bacon, and then we can
take a look round the springs.’

Aunty was a quaint specimen of the feminine gender, not at all
suggestive of the gentler sex. Her features were small, but sharply
cut. She was bent naturally, but not from age, and reminded me of a
witch. One would not have felt at all astonished at seeing her mount a
broomstick, and start on an aërial trip over the burnt-up rocks. But
all honour to her skill as a cook,—she did her fixings admirably!

During dinner I had ample time to take stock of Doctor Ephraim Meadows.
His face would have been a fortune as a study to a painter; his
forehead high but narrow, his eyebrows thick, bushy, and overhanging;
his hair would have joined his eyebrows, had not a narrow line of
yellow skin formed a kind of boundary between them. Peering out from
beneath his shaggy hair were two little twinkling, restless grey eyes,
more roguish than good-natured. His nose, crooked and sharp, was like
the beak of a buzzard; with thin dry lips that shut in a straight line,
which told in pretty plain language he could be resolute and rusty if
need be. The tip of his chin, bent up in an easy curve, was covered
with a yellowish beard, that had been guiltless of comb or shears for
many a day. His nether limbs were clad in leather never-mention-ums,
kept up by a wide belt, from which dangled a six-shooter. A red shirt,
with an immense collar that reached the point of the shoulders, and a
dirty jean jacket completed his costume.

Our meal over, we started out to see the wonders of the doctor’s
establishment. The house or hospital, as he designated it, was a long
frame-building, divided into numerous small rooms, all opening on a
kind of platform that extended the entire length of the building;
and sheltered overhead by a rough kind of verandah. A camp-bed,
wash-basin, and stool constituted the furniture of each apartment. Four
sickly-looking men were walking feebly up and down the platform. These,
the Doctor assured me, were giants now as compared to what they had
been ere they stumbled on the Tuscan Springs and his water-cure.

The springs are about ten in number, but not all alike. In some of
them, the water rises at a temperature near to boiling, and densely
impregnated with sulphuretted hydrogen-gas, perfectly poisoning the air
with a most insufferable stench. In others, again, the waters bubble
up tepid, but bitter and saline. From two of them, that widen into
pools, gas (I imagine some compound of hydrogen) rises constantly to
the surface; and when I applied a match to the water, a sudden flash
lighted up the pool for a second or two, and this could be repeated at
intervals of three or four minutes. This gas, by a simple contrivance,
is collected and conveyed into a small shanty, dignified with the name
of ‘Steam Bath,’ the gas being used to heat the water from one of the
springs so as to fill a small room with steam.

It is one of the most singular and interesting places I have ever
visited. There can be no doubt that the springs rise from the crater
of an extinct volcano, and that there is some active volcanic action
still going on in the depths below. Incrustations of various salts and
sulphur covered the edges of the pools and rocks over which the water
runs. The water they drink has to be brought from a spring the other
side of the encircling hills.

Although at this place I observed more direct evidence of some great
internal fire or subterranean laboratory, in which Nature is ever
transforming the elemental forms of crude matter into available
materials for the supply of organic life; still throughout Oregon and
California I have constantly come across similar sulphurous and saline
eruptions, particularly soda-water springs, where the water rises
through the earth, thoroughly impregnated with carbonic-acid gas. At
Napa, not far from San Francisco, native soda-water is collected and
bottled at the springs for the supply of the San Francisco market.
Olympian nectar was never more grateful to the thirsty gods, than is
this soda-water to the hot, parched, and thirsty hunter!

The Doctor had many strange and wild theories about these springs, and
evidently entertained a lively belief in their close proximity to his
Satanic Majesty’s kitchen.

‘Cap’en,’ said the doctor, ‘I calkilate you ain’t a-goin’ home without
just tryin’ a bath?’

I at first declined. I did not feel at all ill, and as I bathed every
day grudged the trouble of undressing. It was of no use—the Major
joined the Doctor; persuasion failing, mild force was hinted at if I
did not comply. I was led, or rather hustled, into the bathing-house.
In one corner of this dismal-looking shed was an immense square tray,
and over it was a most suspicious-looking contrivance, like the rose
of a giant’s watering-pot. I shuddered, for I knew I should be held in
that tray, and deluged from the terrible nozzle.

My miseries commenced by my being seized on by two brawny attendants
(the bathers), and literally peeled like an onion, rather than
undressed. This completed, a small door that I had not noticed before
was opened, and disclosed a kind of cupboard, about six feet square. A
flap of board was raised by an attendant, and supported by a bracket;
a contrivance one frequently sees in small kitchens to economise room.
On this I was laid; my janitors withdrew, the door slammed, and I was
alone in the dark.

A sudden noise, between a hiss and a whistle, enlightened me as to
the fact, that sundry jets of steam were turned on. The room rapidly
filled, and the perspiration soon streamed from my skin. At first I
fancied it rather pleasant; a sort of lazy sleepy feeling came over
me, but as this passed away I felt faint and thirsty, and yelled to be
let out. No reply. I began to think it anything but a joke, and again
shouted: not a sound but the hissing steam.

My thirst grew insupportable; it seemed as if a live crab was
gnawing and rending my stomach with his claws and nippers. I made
several attempts to get off the table, but wherever I put my leg the
burning-hot steam came like a flame against it, and there was not
sufficient room to stand betwixt the table and the partition of my
steam-prison. I called louder and louder; my reasoning powers were
growing feeble, my presence of mind was rapidly abandoning me, and
a thousand wild fancies passed through my brain; I had given up all
hope, when I saw a gleam of light. I have a vague remembrance of being
dragged out, plunged into cold water, and savagely rubbed with a kind
of hempen rasp.

As I became quite conscious of what was going on, I was partly dressed,
and lying on the grass, the Doctor and the Major standing close by, the
bathers rubbing my hands and feet; whilst Aunty, squatted on a log, was
holding a cup containing some steaming mixture.

‘O Doctor!’ I said, as well as I could articulate, ‘a little more, and
you would have had to bury me; I was nearly gone!’

‘Waal, Cap’en, I kind of guess you must have had a near shave for life,
but it warn’t meant nohow. You see the Major and me just strolled
up to take a peep at the mustangs, and the darned brutes stampeded,
breaking clean out of the “corral,” and went past the bath-house like
mad. The boys see ’em, and hearin’ us a-hollerin’, made tracks right
after ’em, and never thought about your bein’ a-steamin’. Old Aunty, by
sheer luck, heard you a-screamin’ and a-snortin’, and it mighty nigh
skeert the old woman to death, for she thought “Old Hoof” was a-bilin’
himself. Up she came a-tearin’ and a-shriekin’ that somethin’ unearthly
was in the steamroom. “Thunder and grizzlys,” says the Major, “the
boys have forgot the Cap’en, and gone right after the mustangs!” You’d
better believe we soon had you out, and you ain’t none the worse for
it, thank Providence!’

The combined powers of Aunty’s mixture and the Major’s whisky-flask
rapidly restored me. The villainous mustangs—the cause of my
mishap—were caught and saddled. Danger past is lightly thought of and
we enjoyed a hearty laugh as the Major quaintly told the story at the
Bluffs of the Cap’en’s bath at the Tuscan Springs.




                              CHAPTER X.

  THE START FROM RED BLUFFS—MISHAPS BY THE WAY—DEVIL’S
    POCKET—ADVENTURE AT YREKA—FIELD-CRICKETS—THE CALIFORNIAN
    QUAIL—SINGULAR NESTING OF BULLOCK’S ORIOLE.


_April 28th._—My pack-train is completed, my provisions arranged
for packing on the mules. I have eighty-one mules and a bell-horse.
To manage mules without a horse carrying a bell round its neck is
perfectly impossible. The bell-horse is always ridden ahead, and
wherever it goes the mules follow in single file. (But of this and
packing I shall have more to say further on.)

_April 29th._—Sunday.

_April 30th._—I have determined to find my way through Oregon by an
unknown route; doing this, I shall reach the Commission at least two
months earlier than by taking the ordinary mail-route to Portland.

Again and again I am warned of the risk not only of losing my mules and
men, but my own scalp into the bargain. The country swarms with hostile
Indians, many large streams have to be crossed, the trail is bad, if
any; and altogether the prospect is anything but cheering. I have,
however, made up my mind to go.

The annoyances of a start got over—wild mules reduced to a state of
discipline, packs adjusted, and men as sober as could reasonably be
expected—all went pleasant as a marriage-bell until the second day,
when my first misfortune happened.

_May 1st._—I camp on a beautiful bit of ground, with grass in
abundance, and a stream, clear as crystal and cold as ice, rippling
past close to my fire. I place a guard over my mules, fearing
accidents; and choosing as level a spot as I can see, roll myself in my
blanket, and with my head in my saddle soon slept.

I awoke at sun-up, lit my pipe, and wandered off to see what had become
of my mules. I found the trusty guard sound asleep, coiled up under
a tree, but not a mule. A sharp admonition, administered through the
medium of my foot, soon dispelled his dreams, and awoke him to a lively
sense of reality. He rapidly uncoiled, started up, stared vacantly
around, and thus relieved his feelings:—

‘I guess they’re gone, Cap’en, every tarnation coon of ’em, right slick
back to the Bluffs.’

I could have pistolled the rascal there and then, but the mules had to
be recovered; so I bottled up my wrath, roused all my sleeping camp,
and we started in pursuit of the missing culprits.

_May 4th._—Three days have elapsed. I have got the mules together, but
three are still absent. Again we started. I made a long march, crossing
Cottonwood Creek, through Major Raddon’s ranch—one Of the finest in
California for grazing—struck the Upper Sacramento, and camped about
sundown on a creek called Stillwater.

_May 5th._—In the night it came on a deluge of rain, that regularly
soaked through everything; but it cleared towards morning, and we dried
ourselves in the sun as we rode along.

The next three days we travelled through a beautiful parklike country,
very lightly timbered, covered with grass, and thickly dotted with
magnificent ranches (farms); we struck Pitt river on the fourth day,
crossed it safely, swam the mules, and ferried over the packs.

_May 9th._—Our journey for the first twelve miles lay through a narrow
rocky gorge—the trail; simply a ledge of rock, barely wide enough for
a mule to stand upon. Three hundred feet below rolled the river. The
least mistake—a single false step, and over goes mule or man, as it
may be, and you see the last of him.

Here I passed a most curious place called the Devil’s Pocket; the trail
winds along the very edge, and you peer down into an immense hollow
kind of basin, that looks as if it had once been a lake, and suddenly
dried up. The hills are lofty, sharply pointed, and capped with snow.

At the head of this gorge I, for the first time, saw an encampment
of Digger Indians, and a more famished picture of squalid misery can
hardly be imagined. Their wretched comfortless huts are like large
molehills; there is a pit sunk in the ground, and a framework of
sticks, shaped like a large umbrella arched, over it; old skins and
pieces of bark are thrown over this frame, and the whole is covered
with earth. The entrance is a hole, into which they creep like animals.

Their food consists principally of esculent roots of various kinds,
which they dig during the summer months, and dry in the sun. The
field-cricket (_Acheta nigra_) they also dry in large quantities, and
eat them just as we do shrimps. Bread made from acorn-flour is also
another important article of their diet. They seldom fish or hunt.
Their arms are bows and arrows; their clothing, both male and female,
simply a bit of skin worn like an apron; they are small in stature;
thin, squalid, dirty, and degraded in appearance. In their habits
little better than an ourang-outang, they are certainly the lowest type
of savage I have ever seen.

We camped in the evening on a large plain called Big Flat.

_May 10th._—It was bitterly cold all night, and froze sharply. We got
off soon after sun-up, and literally crept along the side of a high
range of mountains, densely wooded, and forming one side of the valley
of the Sacramento, which has dwindled down into a mere mountain-burn.
Here I came suddenly on a little colony of miners, engaged in
gold-washing. I discovered the place was named Dogtown—the entire town
consisting of a store, a grogshop, and a smithy. I paid twenty-five
cents (a shilling) for a mere sip of the vilest poison I ever tasted,
libellously called ‘Fine Old Monongahela Whisky.’ About six miles
farther, still on the same trail, I came to another gold-claim, where
there were no houses at all, called Portuguese Flat. Passed through
some thin timber; camped on a lovely mountain-stream.

_May 11th._—Shotgun Creek; my camp is on the side of a steep mountain,
and, about a mile farther on, is another stream, Mary’s Creek. Camped
on this stream was a small pack-train, that had been with stores to
some mining-station. I heard wolves barking and howling all night, and
twice I drove them out of my camp with a fire-log. The next morning, as
I passed the camp of the packers, they were in sad grief. The rascally
wolves had pulled down one of their mules, and torn it almost to
pieces. I rode up in the wood to see its mangled remains. The ravenous
beasts must have fixed on its haunches, and ripped it up whilst it
lived. I was sadly grieved for the poor beast that had come to so
untimely an end, and for the man who had lost him—at least 30_l._
worth.

For two more days I followed up the course of the Sacramento, and
crossed it for the last time. Standing at the ford, and looking
straight up the valley, the scenery is wild and beautiful in the
extreme; on either side sharp pinnacle-like rocks shoot up into all
sorts of fantastic shapes, dotted with the sugar-pine, scrub-oak, and
manzanita in front; and blocking up, as it were, the end of the valley,
stood Mount Shasta, at this time covered to its base with snow.

This vast mountain is a constant landmark to the trappers, for it can
be seen from an incredible distance, and stands completely isolated in
the midst of the Shasta plains. I camped close to the very snow at its
base, in a little dell called ‘Strawberry Valley.’ The next day reached
the Shasta plains, and camped early in the day.

_May 15th._—As I was to bid goodby to civilisation, and abandon all
hopes of seeing aught but savages, after leaving this camp, and being
by no means sure of the road, I made up my mind to ride into Yreka and
obtain information about the Indians, and the state of the trails, and
also (what was of equal importance) obtain a relay of provisions; the
distance from my camp to the city was about thirty miles.

Yreka city is a small mining-station, situated on one side of the
great Shasta plains; it stands quite away from law, society, and
civilisation, gold being the magnet that attracts first the miner, and
then the various satellites (jackals would be the more appropriate
name) that follow his steps. I left the mules in charge of my
packmaster, and started at sun-up. The ride was a most desolate affair,
over an interminable sandy plain, without even a shrub or flower, much
more a tree, to break the monotony. I reached Yreka about ten, and put
up at the ‘What Cheer House,’ bespoke my bed, and ordered breakfast.
The keen morning-air and a thirty-mile ride had made me perfectly
ravenous, and I waged alarming havoc on the ham and eggs, fixings,
and corn-dodgers, that, I must say, were admirable. The tea was not a
success, being a remarkably mild infusion, very hot, and sweetened with
brown sugar; but it washed down the solids, and the finest congou could
not have done more.

Thus recuperated, I started off to call on Judge ——, to whom I had a
letter of introduction from my agents in San Francisco. It did not take
long to find the Judge’s quarters, the lanes, streets, and alleys being
distinctions without any material differences. The mansion in which his
judgeship ‘roomed’ was a small shanty, with a porch or verandah round
it, to keep off the sun when it happened to be hot, and the wet when
it rained. I knocked with my knuckles—no reply; tried again—still
silence; resorted to the handle of my hunting-knife, anything but
mildly—that did it.

‘I raither calkilate, stranger, you’d better jist open that door; _I_
ain’t agwine to, you bet your boots.’

I opened it, and walked in. There sat Judge —— in a large armchair,
cleverly balanced on the two hind-legs. No, it was not sitting, or
lying, or standing, or lounging; it was a posture compounded of all
these positions. His (I mean Judge ——’s) legs were extended on a
level with his nose, and rested on the square deal table before him.
He was smoking an immense cigar, one half of which was stowed away in
his cheek, rolled about, and chewed; whilst the other half protruded
from the corner of his mouth, and reached nearly to his eye. A
little distance from the Judge was an immense spittoon, like a young
sponging-bath. He was ‘whittling’ a piece of stick with a pocket-knife,
and looked the embodiment of supreme indifference. The chair he
occupied and the table—whose only use, as far as I could see, was to
rest his legs on—constituted the entire furniture.

The Judge himself was a long spare man, and gave me the idea of an
individual whose great attribute consisted in possessing length without
breadth or thickness; everything about him was suggestive of length.
Beginning at his head, his hair was long, and his face was long, and
his nose was long, and a long goatee-beard terminated the end of his
chin; his arms were long, and his legs were long, and his feet were
long; he had a long drawling utterance, and was inordinately long at
arriving at a moderate pitch of civility. He eyed me over and drawled
out, ‘W-a-e-l!’ I handed my letter, and quietly awaited its effect; as
he was long in everything else, he was long in opening it. Having made
a minute inspection of the exterior, he slowly took it from its yellow
envelope, and gradually seemed to understand from its contents that he
was to be civil.

‘So you ain’t bin long in these parts, Cap’en?’ said the Judge, without
in the smallest degree shifting his position.

I said I was quite a stranger, and should be glad if he would give me
some information about the trails and the Indians, along the route I
intended taking.

‘Bars and steel traps!’ roared the Judge. ‘You’ll have your har ris,
sure as beaver medicine! Why, thar ain’t worse redskins in all Oregon
than the Klamaths. Jist three months agone come Friday, the darn’d
skunks came right slick upon Dick Livingstone and his gang. You’ve
heerd of Dick, I guess?’ (I said I had not.) ‘Wael, most people has,
leastways. They was jist a-washing up a tall day’s work, up Rogue
River, when the Klamaths swarmed ’em just as thick as mosquitos in a
swamp. Several went under, bet your life, for Dick and his boys warn’t
the ones to cave in. But ‘twarn’t no use; the reds jist crowded them
clean down, and took the har off everyone of ’em. The trails, too, is
awful soft. Mose Hart says—and he’s now from Bogus Holler, whar you
have to go—that a mule is jist sure to mire down a’most any place.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘your news is not by any means refreshing, Judge;
nevertheless, I mean going.’

‘Wael, Cap’en, maybe you’re right; makin’ back-tracks ain’t good,
anyway; we are a go-ahead people, we are, and it won’t pay to be
skeerish, anyway. S’pose we go and take a drink, and I’ll jist put you
through the city; I guess I’m well posted about most things in these
diggins.’

So we did the city, which did not take very much time to do; we did
the stores, where every person, from the master to the errand-boy,
did nothing but sit on the counter to chew, whittle, and spit. The
amount of whittling done in this city is perfectly astounding; every
post supporting the verandahs outside the stores and bar-rooms was
whittled nearly through; some of them in two or three places. We did
the bar-rooms, and did sundry drinks with divers people. I purchased
provisions, hired a guide, took leave of the Judge (who was not half
a bad fellow when you understood him), and retiring to my inn,
determined to enjoy the luxury of a bed and a long night-in, having
slept on the ground since leaving Red Bluffs; and if the Judge was
right about the redskins, the chances were considerably against my ever
stretching my limbs on another. So, to make the most of it—for a start
at sun-up and a long ride, added to a tedious day, had pretty well
fagged me—I retired very early, and turned in.

It really was a lovely bed, just like bathing in feathers. I stretched
out my limbs until they fairly cracked again, and rolled in enjoyment.
My thoughts were soon wandering; and visions of home, mixed up with
mules falling over precipices, battles with Indians, an ugly feeling
round the top of my head, judges, drinks, rowdies, all jumbled together
in a ghostly medley—floated off in misty indistinctness, and I
subsided into the land of dreams.

I awoke, with an indistinct idea that I was at a ball, with a jiggy
kind of tune whirling through my brain. Pish! I must have been
dreaming; so I turned over, and tugged the blankets more tightly round
my shoulders, vexed that such a stupid dream should have awoke me.
Hark! what on earth is that? ‘Ladies and gents, take your places,
salute your partners,’—then crash went two fiddles, crowding out a
break-down. Again the voice—‘Half right and left’—and off they went.
The sounds of countless feet, scuffling rapidly over a floor, told me,
in language not to be mistaken, that a ball was going briskly on very
near my head.

I sat up, rubbed my eyes, took a long mournful yawn, and began to
consider what had best be done. I discovered that a thin wooden
partition only intervened betwixt my head and the ball-room; everything
rattled to the jigging tune of the music and the dancers; the windows,
the doors, the wash-crockery, the bed, all jigged; and I began to feel
myself involuntarily nodding to the same measure, and jigging mentally
like the rest. Shades of the departed! I could not stand this. Goodby
bed, and feathers, and sleep! I may as well dance in reality as in
imagination; and abandoning all my anticipated delights, dressed, and
entered the ball-room.

It was a long room, lighted with candles hung against the wall in
tin sconces; the company—if variety is charming—was perfect. The
costumes, as a rule, were more suggestive of ease than elegance;
scarlet shirts and buckskin ‘pants’ were in the ascendant. The boots as
a rule, being of the species known as Wellingtons, were worn outside
the trousers, inducing the latter indispensables to assume a bunchiness
about the knees, not calculated to display the symmetry of the leg to
advantage. Very few had any jackets on, but all, without exception,
carried a bowie-knife and six-shooter in their waistbelts. The ladies’
costumes were equally varied: most of them wore bright-coloured
muslins, of very large patterns, and showy waist-ribbons, tied behind
in a large bow, with streamers down to their heels.

The dance was just ‘down’ when I came into the room. I saw a few
citizens I had met in the day, but each one seemed to have his ‘fancy
gal,’ and any chance of getting an introduction was a vain hope. The
fashion, I discovered afterwards, is either to bring or meet your
partner at the ball-room, and dance with her, and her only, all the
evening.

A waltz was called, and I wanted a partner. Looking round, I espied a
lady sitting near the end of the room, who evidently had not got one.
She was in the same place when I entered the room, and it was clear
to me, by her unrumpled appearance, that she had not danced for the
evening. ‘Faint heart never won fair lady’ might, I imagined, apply as
forcibly to dancing as to wooing or fighting; if I am snubbed it won’t
be all the world, and I suppose I shall live it down—so here goes!
Walking boldly up to her, I asked coolly, but rather apologetically, if
she would try a waltz.

‘Guess, stranger, I ain’t a-fix’d up for waltzin.’

‘Perhaps, madam,’ I said, ‘you will excuse me, although unknown to you,
if I ask you to dance the next cotillon with me?’

Looking into my face with an expression half doubt, half delight, she
said: ‘Stranger, I’ll have the tallest kind of pleasure in puttin’ you
right slick through a cotillon, for I’ve sot here, like a blue chicken
on a pine-log, till I was like to a-grow’d to the seat.’

This satisfactorily arranged, I sat down by her side until the waltz
finished, to have a good look at and trot out my new inamorata. She
was a blonde beauty, with fair hair and light-grey eyes, that flashed
and twinkled roguishly; and robed in some white material, with blue
ribbons in her hair and round her waist—a mountain-sylph, that any
wanderer in search of a partner would have deemed himself lucky to have
stumbled on. Our conversation was rather discursive, until I discovered
that home-politics, or rather the duties and requirements of a _gal
t’hum_, was a never-failing spring from which to draw fresh draughts
of household knowledge. At last the cotillon was called by the master
of the ceremonies, and again I heard—‘Take your places, salute your
partners;’ the fiddles started the same kind of jigging tune, and away
we went.

A cotillon is a compound, complicated kind of dance, evidently
constructed from the elements and fragments of many other dances: a
good deal of quadrille, a strong taste of lancers, a flavour of polka
and waltz—the whole highly seasoned with Indian war-dance. You never
stand still, neither can you lounge and talk soft nothings to your
partner—it is real, _bonâ fide_, downright, honest dancing. I soon
discovered why the men left off their jackets: a trained runner could
not have stood it in clothing. My jacket and waist-coat soon hung on a
peg, and, red-shirted like the rest, I footed it out gallantly.

My partner was a gem, with the endurance of a ballet-girl in pantomime
time. How many cotillons we got through I never clearly remembered;
but we danced on, till the grey morning light, stealing in through the
windows, warned the revellers that Old Sol was creeping from behind the
eastern hills, and that the day, with all its cares and toils, was near
at hand once more. My fair partner positively refused to allow me to
see her home. Being a casual acquaintance and not a lover, I suppose,
of course, that it was highly proper on her part. I thanked her
sincerely, for I really felt grateful to her for enabling me to dance
away a night that I had destined for a long luxurious repose. With a
hearty ‘good-night’ we parted, never to meet again.

It was a glorious morning—the air cool and fresh, the sky unflecked by
a single cloud. The sun was just tipping the hilltops with rosy light,
and peeping slily into the valleys, as I wandered out to think over my
strange adventure. My way led by chance up the back of the street, and
out by a little stream to the gold-washings. Early as it was, all was
bustle and activity. Many of my friends of the ball were now wresting
the yellow ore from its hiding-places, the anticipation of gold
dispelling all sense of fatigue. The want of water is a great drawback
to these diggings. So valuable is it, that it has been brought by a
small canal a distance of thirty miles, and is rented by the miners at
so much a cubic foot.

I lingered here some time, for there is much to see, then turned my
steps towards my inn through the city.

‘Say—Cap’en—here—hold on!’

I turned, and saw a man in a one-horse dray, whipping up his horse, and
violently gesticulating for me to stop. He soon came up, and jumping
out of the dray, seized my hand, and shook it with a grip that made my
very eyes water.

‘Guess you ain’t acquainted with this child?’

I said no; I had not the pleasure of knowing him.

‘I spotted you, Cap’en, just as soon as ever I seed you making tracks
down the street. My gal Car’line told me how she put you through all
the dance last night.’

It suddenly flashed upon me that the drayman was my partner’s papa.
Here’s a lively affair! If he does not ask me my intentions, and riddle
me with a six-shooter if I refuse to marry his ‘gal’ at once, I shall
deem myself the most fortunate of men. I civilly said, in reply, that I
found his daughter a most admirable partner.

‘I rather guess you did, Cap’en; she’s all watch-spring and whalebone,
she is; can’t skeer up a smarter gal than “Car” in these parts, if you
was to do your darndest. She! why, she’s worth her weight in nuggets to
the man as gets her.’

I felt cold all over—I thought it was coming. ‘You must excuse me,’ I
said; ‘my breakfast is waiting, and I daresay we shall meet again.’ (I
knew this was an awful twister.)

‘I’m sure we shall, Cap’en. Let’s licker:’ so we adjourned to the
nearest bar-room and took an ‘eye-opener,’ and so I escaped from the
drayman. I drew a deep breath, and felt as if I had got clear from the
claws of a grizzly bear—made for the inn as fast as I could, gobbled up
a hasty breakfast, packed up my goods, and with my guide started for my
camp.

Often I turned and gazed anxiously over the plain, expecting I should
see the drayman, his daughter Caroline, and a priest in hot pursuit;
and there and then, on the Shasta plains, I should be, _nolens volens_,
linked to my fair-haired partner, for a life’s cotillon!

Such was my first, and such was my last, my only night in Yreka! ‘All’s
well that ends well,’ and I trust the fair Caroline has as pleasant a
remembrance of the Cap’en as he has of her!

I found my camp all right, saddled up, and am off on my perilous
journey through the wilds of Oregon. The Shasta plains are vast sandy
flats, half prairie, half desert, sparsely covered with withered grass,
and not a bush or tree or shrub, as far as the eye could wander,
had struggled into life. ’Tis true a stunted artemisia, or wild-sage
bush, had fought its way inch by inch in its struggle for existence,
and looked so old, dry, and parched, that your idea was, if you laid
a finger on it, it would powder up like dried herbs; but whatever had
been in shape of grass, or herb, or shrub, was gone, cleared bodily and
entirely away by the field-crickets.

Never shall I forget this insect array. On getting well upon the
plains, I found every inch of ground covered with field-crickets; they
were as thick on the ground as ants on a hill; the mules could not
tread without stepping on them; not an atom or vestige of vegetation
remained, the ground as clear as a planed floor. It was about twenty
good long miles to the next water, and straight across the sand-plains,
and, for that entire distance, the crickets were as thick as ever. It
is impossible to estimate the quantity; but when you suppose a space of
ground twenty-seven miles long, and how wide I know not, but at least
twice that, covered with crickets as thick as they could be packed, you
can roughly imagine what they would have looked like if swept into a
heap.

It was long after sundown when we reached the water, tired, thirsty,
and utterly worn-out; but the stream being wide and swift, the
crickets had not crossed it, so our tired animals had a good supper,
and we a comfortable camp. I rode off to some farm-enclosures I saw,
in search of milk and eggs; and, to my great surprise, I noticed every
field had a little tin-fence inside the _snake_ or _rail_ fence, about
six or eight inches wide, nailed along on a piece of lumber, placed
edgeways in the ground, so that a good wide ledge of tin projected
towards the prairie.

‘What,’ I said to the first farmer I met, ‘induces you to put this tin
affair round your field?’

‘Why, stranger, I guess you ain’t a-travelled this way much, or you’d
be pretty tall sure that them darned blackshirts out on the prairie
would eat a hoss and chase the rider. But for that bit of a tin-fixin’
thar, they’d mighty soon make tracks for my field, and just leave her
clean as an axe-blade. These critters come about once in four years,
and a mighty tall time they have when they do come!’

It was a most effectual and capital contrivance to keep them out, for
if they came underneath the tin they jumped up against it, and it
was too wide to leap over. These field-crickets (_Acheta nigra_) are
black, and very much larger than the ordinary house-cricket. They eat
seeds, grass, fruit, and, when they can get nothing else, they devour
each other. I frequently got off my horse to see what a large mob of
crickets were about. They had dragged down, perhaps, two or three
others, and were one and all deliberately tearing them to pieces. If
they meet head to head, they rush at each other and butt like rams,
but, backing against each other, they lash out their hind-legs and kick
like horses. What becomes of them when they die I cannot imagine; the
entire atmosphere for miles must become pestilential. I suppose, from
their coming in such vast numbers every fourth year, that the larvæ
must take that time ere they assume the perfect shape.

_May 16th._—The Californian quail, which I found most plentiful
along the course of the Sacramento, ceases at the edge of this great
sandy desert; it appears to be the limit to its northern range. I
note a singular instance, how curiously and readily birds alter
their usual habits under difficulties, in the nesting of Bullock’s
Oriole. A solitary oak stood by the little patch of water, a spring
that oozed, rather than bubbled, through the sandy soil where my camp
stood; it was the only water within many miles, and the only tree
too; every available branch and spray had one of the woven nests of
this brilliant bird hanging from it. I have never seen them colonise
elsewhere. The nests are usually some distance from each other, and
concealed amidst thick foliage.




                              CHAPTER XI.

  CROSSING THE KLAMATH RIVER—HOW TO SWIM MULES—SIS-KY-OUE
    INDIANS—EMIGRANT FORD—TROUT BALING—A BEAVER
    TOWN—BREEDING-GROUNDS OF THE PELICANS AND VARIOUS
    WATER-BIRDS—PURSUED BY KLAMATH INDIANS—INTERVIEW WITH
    CHIEF—THE DESERT PRONG HORNED ANTELOPES—ACORNS AND
    WOODPECKERS—YELLOW-HEADED BLACKBIRDS—SNAKE SCOUT—ARRIVAL AT CAMP
    OF COMMISSION—END OF JOURNAL.


_May 17th._—Leave this sandy waste, cross over a low divide, and
descend into a narrow gulley, named Bogus Hollow. Creep along between
high craggy peaks for ten miles to reach the Klamath river, a wide,
rapid stream that I have to cross, but how, just now is a puzzler. The
banks are high; not a tree grows along its sides, or near by, wherewith
to make either canoe or raft. I follow on its course for eight miles;
the river makes a sudden bend, and in the angle on the opposite side I
can see the charred remains of a log-shanty, amidst a clump of trees,
one of which has been felled so as to fall across the river, and forms
a rude footbridge. We unpack the mules, carry all the packing-gear and
provisions on our own backs to the other side, an operation requiring
steady heads and sure feet, the footway a single tree, and not even a
handrail to steady the crosser. All safely over, and no mishap.

The next operation is to swim the mules, a very simple process if
properly managed; a risky and dangerous one if due precautions are
neglected. The strength of the current must be estimated, so that the
mules may be driven up-stream far enough, to ensure their not being
washed farther down the opposite side, than where you are desirous they
should land, and the place selected for them to land should always
have a shelving shore. Supposing you have a canoe, the bell-horse,
deprived of his bell, is towed by the canoe across the stream; a
packer, standing in the canoe, keeps ringing the bell violently; the
mules, that have followed their leader to the edge of the stream, are
prevented galloping along the river-bank by the packers; at last, in
sheer despair, they dash into the water and swim towards the clanging
bell; nothing can be seen but long ears and noses, or heard save the
tinkling bell, the splashing water, and a medley of snorts, ranging
from a shrill whistle to a sound compounded of creak and groan, gasped
from the older, asthmatical, short-winded mules. If we have no canoe,
the bell-horse is ridden into the water; when the rider feels the horse
begins to swim, he grasps the mane with his left hand, floats from off
the horse’s back, swims with his legs as in ordinary swimming, whilst
with the right he splashes the water against the horse’s face, thus
keeping the animal’s head always up-stream. On reaching the opposite
side, when the horse’s feet touch the ground, the man again drops
astride, and rides it out, ringing the all-potent bell with all his
might.

I learn from my guide that a settler ‘squatted’ where we cross about
a year before, built the shanty, made the footbridge, and put in some
grain-crops; but the Indians discovered, killed, and scalped him, burnt
his shanty, and carried his wife away prisoner—not a cheering story,
considering I am going through their very strongholds.

_May 18th._—A sharp frosty morning; very cold, sleeping in the open
air. Get away soon after sun-up. Leave the flat grassy valley, and
ascend the timbered slopes of the Sis-ky-oue mountains. Follow a bad
Indian trail, through barren gorges, and along rocky ledges, for twenty
miles; observe lots of deer-tracks, but no deer. Descend the northern
slope, arrive at the Emigrant’s Ford, and come plump upon a large
encampment of Sis-ky-oue Indians. Fifteen miles to the next water; the
sun rapidly sinking; men and mules tired. At all risks, I camp near the
redskins.

The Emigrant Ford is a wide lake-like expanse of the Klamath river,
that spreads out over a level plateau on emerging from a basaltic
gorge, through which the river finds its way for some distance. The
walls of rock shutting it in being deep and almost vertical, reaching
the water in the cañon is an impossibility. As the river widens out it
shallows sufficiently for ox-teams and waggons to get through it; and,
being almost the only fordable place, was always chosen by emigrant
trains coming to Oregon and California.

The remains of half-burnt waggons and human bones still bleaching in
the sun, makes one shudder to think of the terrible fate of the weary
wanderer, cut off at this fatal spot by the Indians. Their plan was
to remain concealed until the trains were all safely through, then to
swoop down upon them, while scattered and disordered by crossing, cut
loose the oxen, kill the men, carry off the women and children, if
girls, burn the waggons, and secure all that suited them in the shape
of plunder.

The Indians near my camp were fishing in a small mountain-stream, if
baling out fish by the bucketful could be called fishing. Round-fish
(_Coregomis quadrilateralis_) and brook-trout (_Fario stellatus_) were
in such masses (I cannot find a better word) that we dipped out, with
baskets and our hands, in ten minutes, enough fish to fill two large
iron pails that we carried with us. How such hosts of fish obtain
food, or where they find room to deposit their ova, are mysteries. The
Indians were splitting and drying them in the sun strung on long peeled
rods.

_May 19th._—Had no trouble with these Indians. Hire two of them to
aid me in again crossing the Klamath river, where it runs from the
upper into the lower Klamath lake. For the first four miles we ascend
a steep mountain, rather thickly timbered. Killed a grey deer, and
saw a splendid herd of wapiti; but the bell frightened them, so I did
not get a shot. Cross the ridge, and descend on an open grassy flat,
surrounding the lower Klamath lake, which I should say, at a rough
guess, is thirty miles in circumference. It is in reality more like a
huge swamp than a lake; simply patches of open water, peeping out from
a rank growth of rushes at least twelve feet in height.

I should think this place must be the ‘head centre’ of the entire
beaver population of Oregon; in some of the patches of open water,
there certainly was not room to jam in even a tiny beaver cottage of
the humblest pretensions, although the open space occupied by the town
was many acres in extent. The trees, although a good half-mile from the
water, were felled in all directions, as if busy emigrants had been
making a clearing. The branches, lopped from the fallen trees, had been
dragged by these busy animals along the well-beaten roads, that led in
all directions, from the timber to the rushes, through which roads were
also cut, to gain an easy access to the water.

The branches, many of them large and heavy, are dragged by the
beavers—backing along the roads, two or three often assisting in
tugging a single branch—until the water is reached; then they seize
it with their chisel-like teeth, and using their powerful tails, both
as rudders and screw-propellers, float it out, to be employed in
building their dome-shaped residences. But of this more at length, when
referring to the habits of the beaver.

Wildfowl too are here, in great variety and abundance. For the first
time I see the breeding-ground of the Rough-billed Pelican (_Pelecanus
erythrorynchus_). Their nests were on the ground, amidst the rushes,
but unluckily I did not succeed in finding an egg. The nest is simply a
confused heap of rushes, with a lot of down and feathers in the centre.
On the water these huge birds swim as easily, buoyantly, and gracefully
as swans; and in fishing, do not swoop down from a height, as does the
brown pelican, but thrust their heads under water, and regularly spoon
up small fish with their immense pouched beaks.

Where could one find a more enjoyable sight, whether viewed with the
eye of a naturalist or lover of the picturesque? Before me is the reedy
swamp, with its open patches of water, glittering like mirrors in the
bright sunlight, rippled in all directions by busy beavers: some making
a hasty retreat to their castles, others swimming craftily along, crawl
on to the domes and peep at the intruder. Dozing on the sandbanks round
the margin of the pools, or paddling with ‘oary feet’ on the smooth
water, are numbers of snowy pelicans: the bright orange encircling
the eyes, and colouring the pouch, legs, and feet, looks like flame,
contrasted with the white feathers, so intensified is the color by
the brilliancy of the sun-rays. Pintails, shovellers, stockducks,
the exquisitely coloured cinnamon teal, the noisy bald-pate, and a
host of others, are either floating on the water or circling round
in pairs, quacking angry remonstrances at such an unjustifiable
prying into their nuptial haunts. Overhead, vying with the swallows
in rapidity and grace of flight, countless Terns (_Sterna Fosteri_)
whirl in mazy circles: their black heads, grey and white liveries, and
orange-yellow beaks, show to great advantage against the sombre green
of the swallows, amid which they wing their way. Behind me, and far to
the right, the Sis-ky-oue Mountains, in many a rugged peak, bound the
sky-line, their slopes descending in an unbroken surface of pine-trees
to the grassy flats at their base. To my left, the river that feeds
this rushy lake winds through the green expanse, like a line of twisted
silver, far as the eye can scan its course; along its bank my string of
mules, in dingy file, pace slowly on: the tinkle of the bell-horse, but
faintly audible, bids me hasten after them, and leave a scene the like
of which I shall never perhaps gaze on again. I did not see any nests
of the Tern, although I have but little doubt they breed about these
lakes.

Follow the stream and pass a second kind of rushy lake, not nearly
so large as the one behind, and reach the southern end of the great
Klamath lake, out of which pours a rapid stream, two hundred yards in
width, and very deep; camp on its edge, and set to work to discover
some means of crossing.

The smoke of my camp-fire has barely reached above the trees, when
Indians are seen coming from all directions, some on horseback, others
on foot; and canoes in fleets dot the lake, that stretches away until
lost in the distance, like a fresh-water ocean. I feel very uneasy. The
two Sis-ky-oues have gone, vanished mysteriously. Hastily collect dry
wood and light a circle of fires, within which I enclose my mules. I am
mobbed by ugly half-naked demons, who are evidently doubtful whether
to be friends or foes. By aid of my guide, I manage to bargain for two
canoes.

_May 20th._—Never laid down all night. Kept the packers guarding my
mules, stationing a man between each of the fires. Indians in full
force at sun-up. In two hours cross all my stores in the canoes; swim
the mules, and without any accident we are safely over the river.

This tribe, the Klamath Indians—the chief of whom, Le-lake, is a man
of considerable influence—number about 2,000, and own large herds of
horses and cattle. They are nearly always at war, and are the terror of
emigrants. The men are well-grown and muscular; they wear little more
than the breech-cloth, and most of them still use the bow and arrow.
The squaws are short in comparison with the men, and for Indians have
tolerably regular features. The men use no saddles, and a strange sight
it is to see a number of these demons nearly naked, painted from their
heads to their waists, all colours and patterns, skying and whirling
round upon their half-tamed beasts, yelling and shouting, with no
apparent object that I could discover but that of exhibiting themselves
and trying to frighten me.

The morning is dark and cloudy, with a sharp keen wind. Keep close to
the shore of the lake, which for the first fifteen miles is shut in by
high mountains. The trail winds along the side of this mountain, in
some places over bare rock, at others loose rolling stones render it
very dangerous and difficult to get over. Emerging on an open sandy
plain, about seven miles in width, we cross it, still close to the
lake. Then hill again, but not so steep. Reaching an open prairie
covered with grass, camp on a small stream, with decent wood on its
banks. During the whole day I was beset and worried by Indians riding
in among my mules, galloping forward, then back again, from one end of
the train to the other, in a most excited state.

Immediately on camping I am again thronged, so ride on to see the chief
at his lodge, about four miles from camp; having first enclosed my
mules in a ring of fires, and desired my men, in case I do not return
in two hours, to abandon the mules and escape as best they can. I find
the chief’s lodge, in the centre of a very extensive Indian village,
situated on the bank of a swift stream. All the lodges are dome-shaped;
like beaver-houses, an arched roof covers a deep pit sunk in the
ground, the entrance to which is a round hole; through it I descend
into the sable dignitary’s presence, his lodge differing from the
others only in being rather larger, and having more dogs and children
round it.

Face to face I stand alone with the dreaded chief—more like bearding
a hog in its stye than the Forest Monarch, or the Scottish Douglas,
in his stronghold. On a few filthy skins squats a flabby, red-eyed,
dirt-begrimed savage, his regal robe a ragged blanket tied round his
waist. Sot and sensualist are legibly written on his face, and greed,
cruelty, and cunning visible in every twist of the mouth and twinkle
of the piglike eyes. My heart misgives me when I think my men, the
government property, and my own life, are entirely in the hands of this
degraded beast.

Addressing him in Chinook, which he fortunately understood, I explained
what my mission was, asked him what he meant by sending armed braves in
full war-paint, without any squaws, amongst my mules and men; that I
was a ‘King George’s’ chief, and what was more, that another and a much
greater chief was awaiting my arrival on the banks of the Columbia,
and if I failed to come when so many suns had set over the hills, he
would seek me, and if harm had befallen me, would surely burn up all
the lodges, drive off the horses, kill the braves, and perhaps hang the
chief.

Handing me the all-potent pipe, he replied—‘I am your brother; my
heart is good; my people are assembling for a war-trail; I mean you no
harm. Give me two bags of flour, to pay me for the grass your mules
eat.’ This I consent to, bolt through the hole like a fox, and gallop
with all speed back to my camp. Not one word of all this do I believe;
but take additional precautions to guard my mules, and quietly await
the tide of events. About dusk the chief arrives in full war-paint,
which consists of alternate stripes of vermilion and white, arranged
in all sorts of directions, and extending from his waist to his hair.
We smoked together; the pipe passing round the circle of ‘braves’ (that
might have been more justly styled ‘ragged ruffians,’ if they had worn
clothes), the chief’s bodyguard.

The chief of course wanted everything he saw, as a present; but this,
at all hazards, I sternly refused. Finding nothing more was to be
obtained by fair means, on receiving the promised payment, he left for
the village.

The lake near which I am camped is a magnificent sheet of water, forty
miles in length, with an average breadth of fifteen, shut in by steep
hills not very heavily timbered, between which are fine open grassy
valleys. Wildfowl in swarms dot its surface, and it abounds with
fish—so the Indians tell me.

_May 21st._—Another sleepless night, morning dark; a cold icy wind
nearly freezes one’s blood; start as soon as we can see. The chief
tells me I can ford the stream near his lodge, but, doubtful of its
truth, canter on ahead of the mules, and try it. Just as I thought,
deep water; a ruse to get my mules swimming, and when scattered, to
pounce upon and steal them. Ride back towards my train, puzzled what
course to pursue. An Indian gallops from amidst the trees, chasing two
horses with a lasso, catches one, and proceeds rapidly down-stream. I
follow quietly, about a half-mile; then he rides into the river, and,
without wetting his horse’s sides, gets on the other side.

This is a grand discovery. Gallop to my train. Ride in triumph through
the ford, followed by the bell-horse and mules, and bow impudently to
the flabby old deceiver, staring at me wonderingly as I pass up the
opposite side of the stream.

Without stopping to rest, I push on over a swampy country, with little
clumps of alder and cottonwood-trees, like islands, here and there,
for twenty-four miles; keep as close as possible to the edge of the
river, until we reach a large morass, from which it heads. Here I camp.
Although I have not seen the trace of an Indian since leaving the
village, still I feel sure they will follow up my trail.

Light fires as usual, and keep strict watch over the wearied and
hungry mules. The men are tired and sleepy; but, jaded as I am in mind
and body, contrive to keep them up to their sentry-duty. They get an
alternate sleep—I get none.

_May 22nd._—Passed a miserably cold night. Blowing nearly a gale
of wind. Found all right in the morning. At daybreak get the mules
together, and begin saddling. Two mules managed to slip off about fifty
yards from us, when a sudden yell told me they were gone. The Indians
had followed, and been concealed close to me in the bush all night,
afraid to make an attack, but waiting a chance to stampede the band;
this, from my having lighted fires, and kept watch, they were prevented
from doing; however, they made good the two that strayed. I started
after them, but deemed it prudent not to go too far. They also managed
to steal a coat from my packmaster, with $100 in the pocket.

From the high water the trail through the swamp is impassable, so I
have to go round it, keeping along on the small ridges, where birch
and alder grow; continuing this for about eighteen miles, and crossing
several deep creeks and swamps, through which the poor mules are
literally dragged, get on to higher and comparatively dry land, two
miles of which brings me to the entrance of what my guide calls the
desert. The distance across it, he says, is forty miles, with but one
chance of water. Into this barren waste I did not think the Indians
would follow, so make up my mind to push on, although my men and mules
are fearfully fagged. I thought the Indians intended to pursue us to
the edge of this wilderness, and when off our guard, worn-out for want
of sleep, killing us, and driving off the band of mules.

I am in the very paradise of the prong-buck (_Antilocapra Americana_).
In bands of twenty or thirty they gallop close up to the mules,
halt, have a good look, and suddenly scent danger; the leading bucks
give a loud whistling snort, then away they all scamper, and rapidly
disappear. We shot as many as we needed, but at this time the does we
killed were heavy in fawn.

The size of the prong-buck, when fully grown, is somewhat larger than
the domestic sheep; but its legs, being proportionably much longer,
give it a greater altitude. The neck is also of greater length, and the
head carried more erect. The hind-legs are longer than the fore ones;
a wise provision, not only tending to give additional fleetness, but
materially assisting it in climbing steep precipices and rocky crags,
up and down which it bounds with astonishing speed and security.

The back is a pale dun colour; a transverse stripe between the eyes;
the lip, and each side the muzzle, and a spot beneath the ear, dark
reddish-brown; the entire underparts, the edges of the lips, a large
and most conspicuous patch on either side the tail, pure white. The
white meeting the brown of the back about midway on the sides, forms a
well-defined waving line. Horns, hoofs, and nose black. The horns (so
marked a feature in the prong-buck) are placed very far back, and much
compressed in a lateral direction to about a third of their height,
where they give out a thin triangular bracket-shaped prong, projecting
upwards and forwards. Above this snag, the horns have a shiny surface,
are rounded, and taper gradually to a sharp tip, bent into a hook. The
horns vary greatly in the males. I have sometimes shot them with the
prong hardly developed, sometimes springing from the horn near the tip,
and in others growing close to the head, where it is always uneven and
warty. The female is devoid of horns, or only has them in a rudimentary
condition.

The eyes of the prong-buck are black, large, and expressive, but not a
trace exists of a larmier or crumen, a glandular opening beneath the
eyes, so conspicuous in the generality of deer. The hoofs are narrow
and acute, but no trace exists of the supplementary hoofs usually found
in all ruminants, situated just above the pasterns, at the back of the
legs. The ears are very long, and well adapted to catch the faintest
sound. The hair is coarse, crimped or wavy; growing in a tuft on the
forehead, and during summer in a mane on the neck and back of the male.

About the posterior third of the back is an opening like the tear-gland
in the face of a deer, from which a musky-smelling secretion
continually oozes. The animal has also the power of erecting the hair
of the white patches on its rump, as a peacock spreads its tail, or
a wolf bristles its back. This power of elevating, or apparently
_puffing-out_, these snowy markings, adds immensely to the general
beauty of the prong-buck. When wooing, or striving to make the most
favourable impression on his harem of does, or when in defence of his
wives he rushes at some intrusive rival, the snowy round patches are
‘ruffed’ to treble their natural size.

The geographical distribution of the prong-buck is rather extensive.
North it is found as far as the northern branches of the Saskatchewan,
53° N. lat. It ranges over all the plains from the Missouri to the
eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains; southerly into Mexico, as far as
the mouth of the Rio Grande; through Oregon and California, and into
Washington Territory, along the banks of the Columbia, to the Spokan
river.

Their favourite haunts appear to be the grassy prairies, that extend
hundreds of miles without a break through Texas and Oregon, dotted
everywhere with small patches of timber. As the eye wanders over the
limitless tract of prairie, these small isolated belts and clumps of
trees exactly resemble beautifully-wooded islands, studding a sea of
waving grass. Here the prong-buck wanders in herds of from sixty to
seventy; naturally shy, approaching them is not by any means an easy
matter; on the least alarm the males give the shrill whistling snort,
toss their graceful heads, sniff the air, stamp with their forefeet,
then bound away like the wind; the herd circle round at first,
then wheel up again in tolerable line, have another look, and, if
apprehensive of danger, dash off, and seldom stop until safe from all
risk of harm.

There are two methods of hunting them practised by the Indians, on
horseback and on foot. If the former, three or four mounted savages,
armed with bows, arrows, and lassos, approach from different points, so
as to get a herd of antelopes between them on the open prairie. They
then ride slowly round and round the herd, each time diminishing the
circle: the terror-stricken beasts huddle closer and closer together,
and appear perfectly bewildered. When, by this manœuvre, the Indians
have approached sufficiently near, each throws his unerring lasso, then
shoots arrows at the flying herd. As many as six are often killed and
caught at one circling.

On foot the crafty savage, getting the wind of the herd, crawls along
the grass, and every now and then lies on his back, and elevates his
two legs into the air. Attached to the heel of each mocassin is a strip
of ermine-skin, which floats like a pennant. The antelopes soon notice
it, stand, and look; down go the heels, and on the Indian crawls;
and if the herd does not come towards him, he gets a little nearer.
In a short time their curiosity tempts them to approach slowly and
cautiously towards the two feet, which are performing every variety of
strange evolution. Near enough, they too soon discover their error;
the twang of the string and whistling arrow, that goes up to the
feather-end in the chest of the foremost male, warns the others to fly,
and leave their leader and king a prey to the wily redskin.

We are on the sandy waste, and right well does it merit its name
desert, for a more dismal barren wilderness cannot be imagined; its
surface is all pumice and cinders, with nothing growing on it but a
few sage-bushes and dwarfed junipers. Every step the animals make is
fetlock-deep; and dust, that nearly chokes and blinds us, comes from
every direction. On, and on, and on we go, but no change, no hope of
water.

Just before dark—when I begin to think I have been guilty of an awful
mistake, and brought needless misery on both men and animals—I push
ahead of the train, in hope of finding water, for the guide is utterly
lost. Suddenly I descry the tracks of the prong-buck in the sand;
hope revives, water must be near at hand! Carefully I follow on their
tracks, that lead down a sloping bank of scoria, and slags of lava,
through a narrow gorge, with rocks on either side that look as if they
had been burnt in a limekiln—to come out into a narrow valley, where
the sight of trees, grass, and water makes my heart leap with delight.

Back I spur to meet the lagging train, toiling on, parched with
thirst, blinded with dust; hungry, weary, and exhausted. I guide them
to the valley, and at the sight of water, men and mules seem to gain
new life, rush wildly towards it, plunge in, and drink as only the
thirst-famished can. Unsaddle and let the mules feed for two hours,
then light five fires, and keep them closely herded, although I have
but very little dread of farther pursuit. Supped on grilled antelope,
and got a few hours’ sleep.

_May 23rd._—All safe; no sign of being followed. Off at dawn; fifteen
miles more of this horrid waste, and we begin ascending a ridge of
mountains, which I find is the watershed of the streams flowing into
the Columbia on one side and into the Klamath river on the other;
strike the headwaters of the Des Chutes or Fall river, and camp in a
fine grassy prairie belted with pine—the _Pinus ponderosa_. Here I
determine to remain two days, to allow resting-time for men and animals.

_May 25th._—All wonderfully recruited; rest and good feeding soon
repair a healthy body, be it man’s or quadruped’s. I stroll off with my
gun, and observe that numbers of the pine-trees are completely studded
with acorns, just as nails with large heads were driven into doors in
olden days. I had seen a piece of the bark filled with acorns in San
Francisco, and was there informed it was the work of a woodpecker,
but, to tell the truth, thought I was being hoaxed; but here I am in
the midst of dozens of trees, with acorns sticking out all over their
trunks; it is no hoax, for I saw the birds that did it, and shot two
of them. This singular acorn-storer is the Californian woodpecker
(_Melanerpes formicivorus_), evidently of very social habits. They
assemble in small flocks, climbing rapidly along the rough bark of the
pitch-pine, rapping here and there, with their wedgelike beaks, to
scare some drowsy insect; inducing it to rush out, to be nipped, or
speared, with the barbed tongue, ere half-awake; others, sitting on the
topmost branches of the oaks and pines, continually darted off after
some fugitive moth or other winged insect, capturing it much in the
fashion of the flycatchers. The harsh and discordant voice is made up
for in beauty of plumage. A tuft of scarlet feathers crowns the head,
and contrasts brilliantly with the glossy bottle-green of the back
and neck; a white patch on the forehead joins, by a narrow isthmus of
white, with a necklet of golden-yellow; the throat is dark-green, and
the underparts of a pure white.

As I look over these stores of acorns, I am at a loss to think for
what purpose the birds place them in the holes. In Cassin’s ‘Birds of
America’ he quotes from Dr. Heerman and Mr. Kelly’s ‘Excursions in
California.’ Both writers positively state that these birds stow away
acorns for winter provisions, and the latter that he has seen them
doing it: ‘I have frequently paused from my chopping to watch them with
the acorns in their bills, and have admired the adroitness with which
they tried it at different holes, until they found one of its exact
calibre.’

I have seen the acorns in the holes, and the birds that are said to
put them there, and have no right to doubt the statements of other
observers; but it seems strange to me, that I cannot find a single
acorn exhibiting any evidence of being eaten during the winter. These
were stored on the previous fall; winter has passed away, and yet not a
seed has been eaten, as far as I can see. I opened the stomachs of the
two birds I shot, but not a trace of vegetable matter was in either of
them. Subsequently I killed and examined the stomachs of a great many
specimens, but never detected anything save insect remains.

Does this woodpecker _ever_ eat acorns? I think _not_. More than
this, when the insects die, or go to sleep during the cold, snowy,
biting winter months, the woodpeckers, like all other sensible birds,
go southwards, and have no need to store up a winter supply, as do
quasi-hibernating mammals. Then it occurred to me, that if they really
do take the trouble to bore holes, a work of great time and labour,
and into every hole carefully drive a _sound_ acorn that they never
make any use of, it is simply idle industry. As a rule, birds are not
such thriftless creatures. I had no opportunity of watching the birds
in acorn-time—hence this storing is still to me a mystery that needs
further explanation.

I came suddenly on a flock of yellow-headed blackbirds (_Xanthocephalus
icterocephalus_), sitting on a clump of bushes skirting a small
pool. As they sit amidst the bright-green foliage, they remind me
of blossoms; the intense black of the body-plumage shows out so
conspicuously against the orangelike yellow of the head, that the
colours seem too defined for a bird’s livery, and more like the freaks
of colouring Nature indulges in when tinting orchideous flowers. I
imagine this to be their utmost range northwards, for I never saw them
after, although they are frequent visitors to Texas, Illinois, and
Mexico. Strike the trail of a grizzly, follow it for some distance, but
fail in coming up with my large-clawed friend.

_May 26th._—I find I shall have to ferry the Des Chutes river. Send on
four of my men ahead, to collect timber for a raft. Find, on arriving
at the river-bank, that a heap of dry timber has been collected.
With axes and an auger—and here let me advise all who travel with
packhorses or mules never to go without a three-inch auger—we soon
build a raft 12 feet long by 6½ feet wide; the timber is fastened
together with wooden trenails.

The stream makes a bend at this spot, and does not run quite so
swiftly, about eighty yards wide, with a dry bank on the side we are,
but swampy on the opposite. We launch our raft; she floats like a
boat, make ropes fast to her, and stow a coil on board; with one man I
commence crossing, paddling with rough oars hewn from a pine-branch.
They pay-out rope as we near the opposite bank; twice we whirl round,
and come very near being a wreck, but right again. We are over. Now we
make fast our rope, and the men on the other side haul her back; and
thus we tug her from side to side, heavily freighted; we have made a
very successful crossing, neither losing nor damaging anything. The
mules swam the river, and also got safely over.

_May 27th._—Fine morning: made an early start; kept close along on
the course of the river for about twenty miles, following a ridge
lightly timbered. The opposite or east bank is an enormous mass of
black basaltic rock, extending several miles in length. The top is
like a table, reaching as far as one could see, quite black, and not
the vestige of a plant visible. The black expanse had exactly the
appearance of a bed of rocks, over which the tide ebbed and flowed.
Crossed a creek fifteen miles from camp, deep and swift, and about
fifteen yards wide; five miles beyond this cross another creek, about
half the size. Leave the timber and come out on a wide sandy kind of
desert, covered with wild-sage and stunted juniper-trees, frightfully
dusty, and most tiresome for the mules; no chance of camping until
quite over it, which is twenty miles. After a weary march reach a
creek, where I stop; a capital camping-ground, with fine grass and
water. Passed close along the bases of the Three Sisters, lofty
mountains, at this time covered with snow. Saw a great many abandoned
lodges, but no Indians. The sandy places were quite alive with the
Oregon horned toad (_Tapaya Douglassii_), which is a lizard really very
harmless, and particularly ugly. Every stream too was thronged with
beaver.

_May 28th._—Mules all in at 4 A.M. Got off in good time: weather
not nearly so cold. Looked over the creek, but saw no gold, but any
quantity of beaver-workings; trees four feet round had been cut down by
them. Passed through a tract of lightly-timbered land and open grassy
valleys; crossed a small creek about eight miles from camp, descending
rapidly all the way for about eighteen miles.

Came on to the top of a high basaltic mountain, that seemed to offer an
almost perpendicular descent into a deep gorge or _cañon_. I rode right
and left, but discovering no better place, down we went; how the mules
managed to scramble to the bottom without falling head over heels I
know not, but we got safely down. I believe it would have been utterly
impossible to have got up over it a second time. Through the gorge ran
a large swift stream, called by the Indians Wychus creek, in which we
found a good fording-place and got over it; safely camped about a mile
below the place we forded. The camp was completely shut in by almost
vertical cliffs of basalt and tuffa, covered thickly with what I take
to be ancient river-drift; the cliffs were, I should say, quite 100
feet high.

The great black _butte_ down which we scrambled was a volcano, and
an active one too, not a very long time ago; streams of lava, just
like slag, that had run in a molten state as if from out a huge glass
furnace, reached from its summit to its base; and the red cindery
earth, on either side this congealed stream, told plainly enough
how fearfully hot it must have been. One would imagine this district
was entirely volcanic, the great desert-waste we crossed being
composed of pumice, scoria, and ashes. Perhaps these lesser hills were
safety-valves to the more conspicuous mountains in the coast-range of
British Columbia and Washington Territory—Mounts Baker, Rainier, St.
Helens, and others.

Several pillars, composed of a kind of conglomerate, quite away from
all the surrounding rocks, stand as if man had hewn or rather built
them—ghostly obelisks, that have a strange and unusual look. I suppose
the portions that once joined them to the mass, from which they were
detached, must have been crumbled off by Time’s fingers, and these
solitary pedestals left as records. Round them, too, were scores of
tiny heaps of boulders, built, as I am informed, by the Snake Indians,
who suppose these pillars are the remains of spirits that have been
turned into stone; but for what object they really pile up these
little altars I could never discover, though the Indians tell you as a
powerful ‘_medicine_’; but who can say what that means?

_May 29th._—All night it rained in torrents, and I do not think I
ever saw so dark a night; the rain put out all our fires, and I could
neither see men or mules, although close to them. Got the mules
together at 7 A.M., but did not make an early start, in consequence
of the men being tired from want of sleep: we managed to start at
eight o’clock. Our first task was to get out of the gorge. It was a
most tedious and even dangerous job, for the ground was loose, and
constantly broke away from under the mules’ feet, but at last we
managed to scramble to the top.

For twenty miles farther it was a continued series of uphill and
downhill, all loose basaltic ground, and very hard to travel over.
Descending a long sandy hill we came to an Indian reserve (the Warm
Spring reservation) and we encamp. The house is a large quadrangular
building of squared blocks, loopholed for shooting through. Six white
men live here, and the Indians on the reservation are the Des Chutes
tribe; they cultivate a small quantity of ground very badly. All hands
are in a great state of ferment. A band of Snake Indians have just made
a raid on the reservation, driven off seventeen head of stock, and are
hourly expected to return. This is cheering, considering I must pass
the night here. But, luckily, no Indians came.

_May 30th._—I should be seventy miles from the camp I am to join;
start with one man as a companion at three o’clock in the morning. The
silver stream of light from the unclouded moon illumines the trail we
follow as brightly as sunshine. The mules are to follow. As day dawns
an open plain is seen, spreading far away right and left, and along it
a horseman gallops towards us.

As he nears I make him out to be an Indian on a skewbald horse. We
stop and parley, and I find he is a Snake scout; both horse and rider
are splendid specimens of their kind. A circle of eagle’s feathers
fastened to the skin of the ermine surrounds his head, and long raven
black hair covers his neck: a scarlet blanket, elaborately beaded,
hangs from his shoulders; a broad wampum-belt contains his knife and
powder-horn, and in his right hand he bears a rifle. But very little
paint daubs his shining-red skin, through which every muscle stands out
as if cast in bronze; he is a handsome savage, if there ever was one.
As we ride in opposite directions, I cannot help thinking that men and
mules will stand but little chance if all the Snakes are like to this
sable warrior. Reached a cabin at the Tye creek after doing forty-five
miles, where we remained for the night.

_May 31st._—Ride in amidst the tents of the Commission, anxiously
awaiting my arrival. The following day men and mules arrive safely. So
ended my journey through the wilder part of Oregon, having accomplished
a hazardous, wearisome journey, making my way a distance of several
hundred miles without any trails, or, if any, simply trails used by
Indians to reach their hunting or fishing-grounds; sleeping during
the whole time in the open air, a saddle my only pillow. Apart from
the anxiety, harass, and want of rest, and the necessity of guarding
against the hostile Klamaths, to save the mules and our scalps, we all
enjoyed the journey thoroughly, not even a cold resulting from the
exposure.




                             CHAPTER XII.

  SHARP-TAILED GROUSE—BALD-HEADED EAGLE—MOSQUITOS—LAGOMYS MINIMUS
    (NOV. SP.)—HUMMINGBIRDS—UROTRICHUS.


The Sharp-tailed Grouse (_Pediocætes Phasianellus_, Baird; _Tetrao
Phasianellus_, Linn.; _Centrocercus Phasianellus_, Jardine; _Phasianus
Columbianus_, Ord.)—_Specific characters_: The tail consists of
eighteen feathers—prevailing colours black, white, and umber-yellow;
the back marked with transverse bars, the wings with round conspicuous
white spots—under pure white; the breast and sides thickly marked with
V-shaped blotches of dark-brown; length about 18·00; wing, 8·50; tail,
5·23 inches.

This beautiful bird is alike estimable, whether we consider him in
reference to his field qualities (therein being all a grouse ought to
be, rising with a loud rattling whirr, and going off straight as an
arrow, lying well to dogs, and frequenting open grassy prairies), or
viewed as a table dainty, when bowled over and grilled. Though his
flesh is brown, yet for delicacy of flavour—game in every sense of
the word—I’ll back him against any other bird in the Western wilds.
This grouse appears to replace the Prairie-hen (_Cupidonia cupido_) on
all the prairies west of the Rocky Mountains. By the fur-traders it
is called the ‘spotted chicken’; for all grouse, by the traders and
half-breeds, are called chickens! and designated specifically by either
habit or colour—such as blue chickens, wood chickens, white chickens
(ptarmigan), &c. &c.; the _skis-kin_ of the Kootanie Indians.

[Illustration: THE SHARP-TAILED GROUSE
(Pediocætes phasianellus).]

The tail is cuneate and graduated, and about two-thirds the length
of the wing; the central pair, considerably longer than the rest,
terminate in a point—hence the name _sharp-tailed_.

The singular mixture of colours (white, black, and brownish-yellow),
the dark blotches, transverse bars, and V-shaped marks of dark-brown,
exactly resemble the ground on which the bird is destined to pass
its life. The ochreish-yellow angular twigs and dead leaves of the
Artemisia, or wild-sage; the sandy soil, dried and bleached to a
dingy-white; the brown of the withered bunch-grass; the weather-beaten
fragments of rock, clad in liveries of sombre-coloured lichens,
admirably harmonise with the colours in which Nature has wisely robed
this feathered tenant of the wilderness.

Often, when the sharp crack of the gun, and the _ping_ of the
fatal leaden messengers, has rung the death-peal of one of these
prairie-chiefs, I have watched the whirring wing drop powerless, and
the arrowy flight stop in mid-career, and, with a heavy thud, the bird
come crashing down. Rushing to pick him up, and keeping my eye steadily
on the spot where he fell, I have felt a little mystified at not seeing
my friend: here he fell, I am quite sure; so I trudge up and down,
circle round and round, until a slight movement—an effort to run, or
a dying struggle—attracts my attention, and then I find I have been
the whole time close to the fallen bird. But so closely do the back
and outspread wings resemble the dead foliage and sandy soil, that it
is almost impossible for the most practised eye to detect these birds
when crouching on the ground; and there can be no doubt that it as
effectually conceals them from birds of prey.

This bird is abundantly distributed on the western slope of the
Rocky Mountains, ranging right and left of the Boundary-line, the
49th parallel of north latitude. It is particularly abundant on the
tobacco-plains near the Kootanie river, round the Osoyoos lakes, and in
the valley of the Columbia.

I have never seen this grouse on the western side of the Cascade range.
This bird is also found in the Red River settlements, in the north
of Minnesota, as well as on the shores of Hudson’s Bay, and on the
Mackenzie river. Mr. Ross notes it as far north as the Arctic Circle.

Of the different species of grouse I met with in my rambles (described
in vol. ii.) not one has come so often under my observation as this,
the sharp-tailed grouse. Its favourite haunt is on open grassy
plains,—in the morning keeping itself concealed in the thick long
grass, but coming in about midday to the streams to drink, and dust
itself in the sandy banks; it seldom goes into the timber, and, if it
does, always remains close to the prairie, never retiring into the
depths of the forest.

They lay their eggs on the open prairie, in a tuft of grass, or by the
foot of a small hillock; nesting early in the spring, and laying from
twelve to fourteen eggs. The nest is a hole scratched out in the earth,
a few grass-stalks and root-fibres laid carelessly and loosely over the
bottom; the eggs are of a dark rusty-brown, with small splashes or
speckles of darker brown thickly spattered over them.

After nesting-time, they first appear in coveys or broods about the
middle of August; the young birds are then about three parts grown,
strong on the wing, and afford admirable sport. At this time they
live by the margins of small streams, where there is thin timber and
underbrush, with plenty of sandy banks to dust in. About the middle of
September and on into October they begin to pack; first two or three
coveys get together, then flock joins flock, until they gradually
accumulate into hundreds. On the first appearance of snow they begin
to perch, settling on high dead pine-trees, the _dead_ branches being
a favourite locality; or, should there be any farms, they pitch round
on the top of the snake-fences. At the Hudson’s Bay trading-post at
Fort Colville there were large wheat-stubbles; in these, after the
snow fell, they assembled in vast numbers. Wary and shy they are now,
and most difficult to get at; the cause being, I apprehend, the snow
rendering every moving thing so conspicuous, it is next to impossible
for dogs to hunt them.

Their food in the summer consists principally of berries—the snowberry
(_Symphoricarpos racemosus_), and the bearberry (_Arctostaphylos
uva-ursi_). The leaves of this latter plant are used to a great extent,
both by Indians and traders, to mix with or use instead of tobacco, and
called _kini-kinick_; the leaves being dried over the fire, and rubbed
up in the hand to powder, and smoked in a pipe. The wild roseberries
(_Rosa blanda_ and _Rosa mirantha_), and many others, usually
designated huckleberries, constitute the food generally consumed by
these birds during summer and autumn; although I have often found
quantities of wheat-grains and larvæ of insects, grass-seeds, and small
wild flowers in their crops. Their thickly-feathered feet enable them
to run upon the snow with ease and celerity, and they dig holes and
burrow underneath it much after the fashion of the ptarmigan.

During the two winters we spent at Colville, flocks of these birds
congregated about the corn-stacks and hayricks at our mule-camp, and at
the Hudson’s Bay trading-post, Fort Colville. The temperature at that
time was often down to 29° and 30° below zero, and the snow three feet
deep; yet these birds did not at all appear to suffer from such intense
cold, and were strong, wild, and fat during the entire winter, which
lasted from October until near April before the snow entirely cleared.

In this valley (the Colville valley) the Commissioner and myself had,
I think, as brisk and nice a bit of shooting as I ever enjoyed. If I
remember aright, it was towards the end of September, and the birds
had packed. We rode down one clear bright morning, about six miles, to
the Horse-Guards. Do not at once hastily imagine any analogy between
Colville valley and Whitehall. The heavy man, with his heavy boots,
heavy sword, heavy dress, heavy walk, and heaviest of all heavy
horses—so conspicuous a feature in our London sights—is represented
here by the genuine savage, thin and lissom as an eel; his equipment
a whip, a lasso, a scalping-knife, and sometimes a trade-gun; a pad
his saddle, and the bands of horses, some two hundred in number, his
charge. A stream of cold clear water rambles quietly down the hillside;
and as the hills are thickly dotted with bunch-grass, affording most
glorious pasturage, the Hudson’s Bay fort horses are always pastured
here, and guarded by Indians; hence comes the name—‘the Horse-Guards.’

The Colville valley is, roughly speaking, about thirty miles long, the
hills on one side being densely studded with pine-trees, and on the
other quite clear of timber, but thickly clothed up to their rounded
summits with the bunch-grass. This is a peculiar kind of grass, that
grows in tufts, and its fattening qualities are truly wonderful.

The little stream at the Horse-Guards has on either side of it a belt
of thin brush, and in this, and in the long grass close to the stream,
we found the sharp-tailed grouse. There were hundreds of them—up they
went, and, right and left, down they came again! It might have been
the novelty of the scene, causing an undue anxiety and excitement,
or perhaps it was the liver, or powder, or something else—who knows
what?—but this I do know, that neither of us shot our best, but we
made a glorious bag nevertheless. They rise with a loud rattling
noise, and utter a peculiar cry, like ‘chuck, chuck, chuck,’ rapidly
and shrilly repeated. On first rising the wings are moved with great
rapidity, but after getting some distance off they sail along, the
wings being almost quiescent.

They pair very early in the spring, long before the snow has gone
off the ground, and their love-meetings are celebrated in a somewhat
curious fashion. By the half-breeds and fur-traders these festivities
are called chicken or pheasant dances. I was lucky enough to be
present at several of these balls whilst at Fort Colville. Their usual
time of assembling is about sunrise, and late in the afternoon; they
select a high round-topped mound; and often, ere the fair are wooed and
won, and the happy couple start on their domestic cares, the mound is
trampled and beaten bare as a road.

I had often longed to be present at one of these chicken-dances; and it
so happened that, riding up into the hills early one spring morning, my
most ardent wishes were fully realised. The peculiar ‘chuck-chuck’ came
clear and shrill upon the crisp frosty air, and told me a dance was
afoot. I tied up my horse and my dog, and crept quietly along towards
the knoll from whence the sound appeared to come. Taking advantage of
some rocks, I weazled myself along, and, without exciting observation,
gained the shelter of an old pine-stump close to the summit of a
hillock; and there, sure enough, the ball was at its height.

Reader, can you go back to the days of your first pantomime, your first
Punch-and-Judy, or bring to your remembrance the fresh, bounding,
joyous delight that you felt in the days of your youth, when you had
before your eyes some long and deeply-wished-for novelty? If you
can, you will be able to imagine my childish pleasure when looking
for the first time on a chicken-dance. There were about eighteen or
twenty birds present on this occasion, and it was almost impossible to
distinguish the males from the females, the plumage being so nearly
alike; but I imagined the females were the passive ones. The four
birds nearest to me were head to head, like gamecocks in fighting
attitude—the neck-feathers ruffed up, the little sharp tail elevated
straight on end, the wings dropped close to the ground, but keeping up
by a rapid vibration a continued throbbing or drumming sound.

They circled round and round each other in slow waltzing-time, always
maintaining the same attitude, but never striking at or grappling with
each other; then the pace increased, and one hotly pursued the other
until he faced about, and _tête-à-tête_ went waltzing round again;
then they did a sort of ‘Cure’ performance, jumping about two feet
into the air until they were winded; and then they strutted about and
‘struck an attitude,’ like an acrobat after a successful tumble. There
were others marching about, with their tails and heads as high as
they could stick them up, evidently doing the ‘heavy swell;’ others,
again, did not appear to have any well-defined ideas what they ought
to do, and kept flying up and pitching down again, and were manifestly
restless and excited—perhaps rejected suitors contemplating something
desperate. The music to this eccentric dance was the loud ‘chuck-chuck’
continuously repeated, and the strange throbbing sound produced by the
vibrating wings. I saw several balls after this, but in every one the
same series of strange evolutions were carried out.

In reference to this bird’s adaptability to acclimatisation in our own
country, it appears to me to be most admirably fitted for our hill and
moorland districts. It is very hardy, capable of bearing a temperature
of 30° to 33° below zero; feeds on seeds, berries, and vegetable
matter—in every particular analogous to what it could find in our own
hill-country; a good breeder, having usually from twelve to fourteen
young at a brood; nests early, and would come to shoot about the same
time as our own grouse. Snow does not hurt them in the slightest
degree; they burrow into it, and feed on what they can find underneath
it. The two specimens in the British Museum I shot in the Colville
valley; they are male and female, in winter plumage; and anyone, who
may feel an interest in getting these birds brought home, may there
see for himself what fine handsome creatures they are.

But then comes the question—how are they to be obtained, and how
brought to England? I do not imagine it would be a very difficult or
expensive matter; the young birds in May could be easily obtained, at
any point up the Columbia river, by employing the Indians to bring them
to the riverside; and once on board steamer, they could be as easily
fed as fowls. The great difficulty _I_ have always had is in bringing
the young birds from the interior to a vessel; they always die when
transported on the backs of animals, however carefully packed. The
continued jerking motion given to birds packed on the back of a mule or
horse as he walks along has, according to my experience, been the sole
cause of their dying ere you could reach water-carriage; but the fact
of their being so close to water as they are along the Columbia river,
would render their being brought home a very easy task.

THE BALD-HEADED EAGLE (_Haliactus leucocephalus_) is seen but seldom,
as during its breeding-time it retires into the hills, and usually
chooses a lofty pine as its nesting-place. Two of them had a nest near
the Chilukweyuk lake, which was quite inaccessible, of immense size,
and built entirely of sticks—the same nest being invariably used
year after year by the same pair of birds. Their food consists mainly
of fish, and it is a curious sight to watch an eagle plunge into the
water, seize a heavy salmon, and rise with it without any apparent
difficulty. Both the osprey and bald-headed eagle fish with their
claws, never, as far as I have observed them, striking at a fish with
the beak; during winter they collect, young and old together, round the
Sumass lake; and as the cold becomes intense, they sit three and four
on the limb of a pine-tree, or in a semi-stupid state, all their craft
and courage gone, blinking and drowsy as an owl in daytime.

I have often, when walking under the trees where these half-torpid
monarchs of the air sit side by side, fired and knocked one out from
betwixt its neighbours, without causing them the slightest apparent
alarm; three I picked up one morning frozen stiff as marble, having
fallen dead from off their perch.

Why birds so powerfully winged should prefer to remain where the
winters are sufficiently intense to freeze them to death, rather
than go southward, where food is equally abundant, is a mystery I am
unable to explain. Towards the fall of the year, when the hunting and
fishing-grounds of the Old-man (_Sea-la-ca_, as the Indians designate
the eagle, on account of its _white head_) grow scant of game, hunger
prompts them to be disagreeably bold. Constantly a fat mallard, that
I had taken a vast amount of trouble to stalk, was pounced upon by a
watchful eagle, and borne off, ere the report of my gun was lost in
the hills, or the smoke had cleared away; indeed, I have sometimes
given the robber the benefit of a second barrel, as punishment for
his thievery. Numberless ducks have been lost to me in this way. This
eagle is by far the most abundant of the falcon tribe in British
Columbia, and always a conspicuous object in ascending a river; he is
seated on the loftiest tree or rocky pinnacle, and soars off circling
round, screaming like a tortured demon, as if in remonstrance at such
an impudent intrusion into its solitudes. The adult plumage is not
attained until the fourth year from the nest.

MOSQUITOS (_Culex pinguis_, nov. sp.)—Reader, if you have never been
in British Columbia, then, I say, you do not know anything about insect
persecution; neither can you form the faintest idea of the terrible
suffering foes so seemingly insignificant as the bloodthirsty horsefly
(_Tabanus_), the tiny burning fly (beulot or sand-fly of the trappers),
and the well-known and deservedly-hated _mosquito_, are capable of
inflicting.

A wanderer from my boyhood, I have met with these pests in various
parts of our globe—in the country of Czernomorzi, among the Black Sea
Cossacks, on the plains of Troy, up on Mount Olympus, amid the gorgeous
growths of a tropical forest, where beauty and malaria, twin brothers,
walk hand-in-hand—away in the deep dismal solitudes of the swamps on
the banks of the Mississippi, on the wide grassy tracts of the Western
prairies, and on the snow-clad summits of the Rocky Mountains.

Widely remote and singularly opposite as to climate as are these varied
localities, yet, as these pests are there in legions, I imagined that I
had endured the maximum of misery they were capable of producing. I was
mistaken; all my experience, all my vaunted knowledge of their numbers,
all I had seen and suffered, was as nothing to what I subsequently
endured. On the Sumass prairie, and along the banks of the Fraser
river, the mosquitos are, as a Yankee would say, ‘a caution.’

In the summer our work, that of cutting the Boundary-line, was along
the low and comparatively flat land intervening between the seaboard
and the foot of the Cascade Mountains. Our camp was on the Sumass
prairie, and was in reality only an open patch of grassy land, through
which wind numerous streams from the mountains, emptying themselves
into a large shallow lake, the exit of which is into the Fraser by a
short stream, the Sumass river.

In May and June this prairie is completely covered with water. The
Sumass river, from the rapid rise of the Fraser, reverses its course,
and flows back into the lake instead of out of it. The lake fills,
overflows, and completely floods the lower lands. On the subsidence
of the waters, we pitched our tents on the edge of a lovely stream.
Wildfowl were in abundance; the streams were alive with fish; the mules
and horses revelling in grass kneedeep—we were in a second Eden!

We had enjoyed about a week at this delightful camp, when the mosquitos
began to get rather troublesome. We knew these most unwelcome visitors
were to be expected, from Indian information. I must confess I had a
vague suspicion that the pests were to be more dreaded than we were
willing to believe; for the crafty redskins had stages erected, or
rather fastened to stout poles driven like piles into the mud at the
bottom of the lake. To these large platforms over the water they all
retire, on the first appearance of the mosquitos.

In about four or five days the increase was something beyond all
belief, and really terrible. I can convey no idea of the numbers,
except by saying they were in dense clouds truly, and not figuratively,
a thick fog of mosquitos. Night or day it was just the same; the hum
of these bloodthirsty tyrants was incessant. We ate them, drank them,
breathed them; nothing but the very thickest leathern clothing was of
the slightest use as a protection against their lancets. The trousers
had to be tied tightly round the ankle, and the coat-sleeve round the
wrist, to prevent their getting in; but if one more crafty than the
others found out a needle-hole, or a thin spot, it would have your
blood in a second. We lighted huge fires, fumigated the tents, tried
every expedient we could think of, but all in vain. They seemed to be
quite happy in a smoke that would stifle anything mortal, and, what was
worse, they grew thicker every day.

Human endurance has its limits. A man cannot stand being eaten alive.
It was utterly impossible to work; one’s whole time was occupied in
slapping viciously at face, head, and body, stamping, grumbling, and
savagely slaughtering hecatombs of mosquitos. Faces rapidly assumed an
irregularity of outline anything but consonant with the strict lines
of beauty; each one looked as if he had gone in for a heavy fight, and
lost. Hands increased in size with _painful_ rapidity, and—without
intending a slang joke—one was in a _k-nobby_ state from head to heel.

The wretched mules and horses were driven wild, racing about like mad
animals, dashing into the water and out again, in among the trees; but,
go where they would, their persecutors stuck to them in swarms. The
poor dogs sat and howled piteously, and, prompted by a wise instinct to
avoid their enemies, dug deep holes in the earth; and backing in lay
with their heads at the entrance, whining, snapping, and shaking their
ears, to prevent the mosquitos from getting in at them.

There was no help for it—our camp had to be abandoned; we were
completely vanquished and driven away—the work of about a hundred men
stopped by tiny flies. Our only chance of escape was to retire into the
hills, and return to complete our work late in the autumn, when they
disappear. Hard wind is the only thing that quells them; but it simply
drives them into the grass, to return on its lulling, if possible, more
savagely hungry. Quaint old Spenser knew this; he says, speaking of
gnats:—

  No man nor beast may rest or take repast
    For their sharp sounds and noyous injuries,
  Till the fierce northern wind with blustering blast
  Doth blow them quite away, and in the ocean cast.

My notebook, as I open it now, is a mausoleum of scores of my enemies;
there they lay, dry and flat; round some of them a stain of blood tells
how richly they merited their untimely end.

One thing has always puzzled me in the history of these ravenous
cannibals—what on earth can they get to feed on, when there are no men
or animals? I brought home specimens, of course; and I am by no means
sure I feel any great pleasure in finding my foe to be a new species,
but it is, and named _Culex pinguis_, because it was fatter and rounder
than any of its known brethren.

The habits of this new mosquito are, in every detail, the same as all
the known species. The female lays her eggs, which are long and oval
in shape, in the water; then aided by her hind-legs, she twists about
the eggs, and tightly glues them together, into a very beautiful little
boat-shaped bundle, that floats and drifts about in the water. In sunny
weather the eggs are speedily hatched, and the larvæ lead an aquatic
life. They are very active, diving to the bottom with great rapidity,
and as quickly ascending to the surface to breathe; the respiratory
organs being situated near the tail, on the eighth segment of the
abdomen, they hang, as it were, in the water, head downwards. After
shifting the skin three or four times, they change into the pupa form,
in which state they move about, even more actively than before, aided
by the tail, and two organs like paddles, attached to it. In this stage
of their existence they never feed (I only wish they would always
remain in this harmless condition); and although they still suspend
themselves in the water, the position is reversed, the breathing organs
being now placed on the chest.

The final change to the perfect or winged state is most curious, and
well worth careful attention. The pupa-case splits from end to end;
and, looking moist and miserable, with crumpled wings, the little
fly floats on its previous home, an exquisite canoe of Nature’s own
contriving. A breeze of wind sufficient to ripple the water is fatal
to it now, as shipwreck is inevitable; but if all is calm and conducive
to safety, the little fly dries, the wings expand, it inhales the air,
and along with it strength and power to fly; then bidding goodbye
to the frail barque, wings its way to the land, and begins a war of
persecution.

Mosquitos never venture far over the water after once quitting their
skin-canoe: this fact the wily savage has taken advantage of. During
‘the reign of terror’ the Indians never come on shore if they can help
it; and if they do, they take good care to flog every intruder out of
the canoes before reaching the stage.

These stages, each with a family of Indians living on them, have a
most picturesque appearance. The little fleet of canoes are moored
to the poles, and the platform reached by a ladder made of twisted
cedar-bark. Often have I slept on these stages among the savages, to
avoid being devoured. But I am not quite sure if one gains very much
by the change: in the first place, if you are restless, and roll about
in your sleep, you stand a very good chance of finding yourself soused
in the lake. The perfumes—varied but abundant—that regale your nose
are not such as are wafted from ‘tropic isles’ or ‘Araby the blest.’ I
shall not shock my fair readers with any comparison—you must imagine
it is not agreeable. Dogs also live on these platforms; for the Indian
dog is always with his master, sharing bed as well as board. These
canine favourites are not exempt from persecutors; like the giant of
old, they at once ‘smell the blood of an Englishman,’ and will have
some; but, after all, the night steals away, you know not how, until
the dawn, blushing over the eastern hilltops, rouses all the dreaming
world—except mosquitos, that never sleep.

On the eastern side of the Cascades the scenery and general physical
condition of the country materially changes, and the _Tabanus_ and
burning-fly become the ruling persecutors.

_Lagomys minimus_ (Lord, sp. nov.)—The Commissioner, myself, a few
men, and a small train of pack-mules, set out to visit some of the
stations on the Boundary-line, east of the Cascades. Our route lay
along the valley of the Shimilkameen river, to strike Ashtnolow, a
tributary that led up into the mountains, the course of which we were
to follow as far as practicable. We had a delightful trip, through a
district indescribably lovely.

There is a wild and massive grandeur about the eastern side of the
Cascades, unlike the scenery of the west or coast slope, which is
densely wooded. Here it was like riding through a succession of parks,
covered with grass and flowers of varied species.

We reached the junction of the two streams, and camped, just as the
sun, disappearing behind the western hills, tinted with purple twilight
the ragged peaks of the rocks that shut us in on every side. Scarce a
sound of bird or beast disturbed the silence of the forest, and save
the babble of the stream, as it rippled over the shingle, all nature
was soon hushed in deathlike sleep. I could dimly make out in the
fading light the grim hills we had to climb, towering up like mighty
giants; the clear white snow, covering their summits, contrasted
strangely with the sombre pine-trees, thickly covering the lower
portion of the mountains.

We had a stiff climb before us, and my hopes were high in expectation
of bowling over big-horn (_Ovis montana_) and ptarmigan. For some
distance we scrambled up the sides of the brawling torrent, whose
course, like true love, was none of the smoothest, being over and among
vast fragments of rock, that everywhere covered the hillside. From
amidst these relics of destruction grew the Douglas pine and ponderous
cedar (_Thuja gigantea_). Here the ascent was easy enough, but on
reaching a greater altitude, the climbing became anything but a joke.

We at last reached a level plateau near the summit, and lay down on
the soft mossy grass, near a stream that came trickling down from the
melting snow.

Close to my couch was a talus of broken granite, that Old Time and the
Frost King between them had crumbled away from a mass of rocks above.
As I contemplated this heap of rocks, a cry like a plaintive whistle
suddenly attracted my attention; it evidently came from amongst the
stones. I listened and kept quiet. Again and again came the whistle,
but nowhere could I see the whistler. A slight movement at length
betrayed him, and I could clearly make out a little animal sitting bolt
upright, like a begging-dog, his seat a flat stone in the middle of the
heap.

I had a load of small-shot in one barrel, intended for ptarmigan;
raising my gun slowly and cautiously to my shoulder, I fired as I lay
on the ground. The sharp ringing crack as I touched the trigger—the
first, perhaps, that had ever awoke the echoes of the mountain—was the
death-knell of the poor little musician.

I picked him up, and imagine my delight when for the first time I held
a new _Lagomys_ in my hand. Having made out what he was, the next thing
to be done was to watch for others—to find out what they did, and how
they passed the time in their stony citadel. I had not long to wait;
they soon came peeping slily out of their hiding-places, and, inferring
safety from silence, sat upon the stones and cheerily chorused to each
other. The least noise, and the whistle was sounded sharper and more
shrill—the danger-signal, when one and all took headers among the
stones.

I soon observed they were busy at work, carrying in dry grass,
fir-fronds, roots, and moss, and constructing a nest in the clefts
between the stones, clearly for winter-quarters. The nests were of
large size, some of them consisting of as much material as would fill a
good-sized basket. One nest was evidently the combined work of several
little labourers, and destined for their joint habitation.

There were no provisions stored away, neither do I think they garner
any for winter use, but simply hibernate in the warm nest; which, of
course, is thickly covered with snow during the intense cold of these
northern latitudes, thus more effectually preventing radiation and
waste of animal heat. Their food consists entirely of grass, which
they nibble much after the fashion of our common rabbit. They never
burrow or dig holes in the ground, but pass their lives among the loose
stones. Who can fail to trace the evidence of Divine care in colouring
the fur of this defenceless creature in a garb exactly resembling the
grey lichen-covered fragments amongst which he is destined to pass
his life? So closely does the animal approximate in appearance to an
angular piece of rock when sitting up, that unless he moves it takes
sharp eyes to see him; and the cry or whistle is so deceptive that I
imagined it far distant, when the animal was close to me.

The species described and figured by Sir John Richardson—F.B.A., plate
19, _Lepus (Lagomys) princeps_, the little Chief Hare—I first saw at
Chilukweyuk lake, and next on the trail leading from Fort Hope, on the
Fraser river, to Fort Colville. The little fellows were in a narrow
gorge, as well as among loose stones. It was about the same date as
in the preceding year that I had seen _Lagomys minimus_ making its
nest; but here not a trace of nest could I see, nor any evidence of
an attempt to make one. I soon after returned again by the same trail.
The snow having now fallen to the depth of about six inches, completely
covering up the rocks and stones, all the animals had disappeared; and
although I searched most carefully, there was not a hole or track in
the snow, to show they had ever left their quarters to feed or wander
about.

As it was quite impossible a nest could have been made in the interim,
it is perfectly certain they hibernate in holes without a nest; whereas
_Lagomys minimus_, living at a much greater altitude, makes a nest to
sleep through the winter.

_Lagomys minimus_ (Lord, sp. nov.).—SP. CHAR.: Differs from _Lepus
(Lagomys) princeps_ of Sir J. Richardson (F.B.A., vol. i. p. 227,
pl. 19) in being much smaller. Predominant colour of back dark-grey,
tinged faintly with umber-yellow,—more vivid about the shoulders,
but gradually shading off on the sides and belly to dirty-white; feet
white, washed over with yellowish-brown; ears large, black inside, the
outer rounded margin edged with white; eye very small, and intensely
black; whiskers long, and composed of about an equal number of white
and black hairs.

Measurement: Head and body, 6½ inches; head, 2 inches; nose to
auditory opening, 1¼ inch; height of ear from behind, 1 inch.

The skull differs in being generally smaller; the cranial portion of
the skull in its superior outline is much narrower and smoother. The
nasal bones are shorter and broader, and rounded at their posterior
articulation, instead of being deeply notched, as in _L. princeps_.
Distance from anterior molar to incisors much less; auditory bullæ much
smaller. Incisors shorter and straighter, and very deeply grooved on
the anterior surface. Molars smaller, but otherwise similar in form.
Length of skull, 1¼ inch.

General differences from _Lagomys princeps_:—First, in being smaller,
1½ inch shorter in total length; the ear, measured from behind, ¼
inch shorter; the colour generally darker, especially the lower third
of the back. Secondly, in the _structural_ differences of the skull;
for although these differences are not prominent or well-defined, yet
they are unquestionable specific variations. Thirdly, in the habit of
constructing a nest of hay for the winter sleep, and in living at a
much greater altitude.

There is a strange indescribable delight in discovery, and in finding
animals for the first time in their native haunts, animals that before
one had vaguely heard or only read of; thus digging, as it were, from
Nature’s exhaustless mine, fresh wonders of Divine handiwork on which
eye had not before gazed.

_Hummingbirds._—Hummingbirds, and the wild tangled loveliness of
tropical vegetation, appear to be so closely linked together, that we
are apt to think the one essential to the existence of the other.

We naturally (at least I did in my earlier days) associate these
tiniest gems of the feathered creation with glowing sunshine, gorgeous
flowers, grotesque orchids—palms, plaintains, bananas, and blacks.
This is all true enough, and if we take that large slice of the
American continent betwixt the Amazon, the Rio Grande, and the Gila
(embracing Guiana, New Granada, Central America, Mexico, and the
West Indian islands), as the home of hummingbirds, we shall pretty
truthfully define, what is usually assumed to be, the geographical
range of this group—a group entirely confined to America. Within the
above limits, the great variety of species, the most singular in form
and brilliant in plumage, are met with.

Gazing on these gems of the air, one would suppose that Nature had
exhausted all her skill in lavishly distributing the richest profusion
of colours, and in exquisitely mingling every imaginable tint and
shade, to adorn these diminutive creatures, in a livery more lustrously
brilliant than was ever fabricated by the loom, or metal-worker’s
handicraft.

[Illustration: NORTH-WESTERN HUMMINGBIRDS.]

But away from the tropics and its feathered wonders, to the wild
solitudes of the Rocky Mountains,—it is there I want you in
imagination to wander with me, and to picture to yourself, which you
can easily do if you possess a naturalist’s love of discovery, the
delight I experienced when, for the first time, I saw hummingbirds up
in the very regions of the ‘Ice King.’

Early in the month of May, when the sun melts down the doors of snow
and ice, and sets free imprisoned nature, I was sent ahead of the
astronomical party employed in making the Boundary-line to cut out a
trail, and bridge any streams too deep to ford. The first impediment
met with was at the Little Spokan river,—little only as compared with
the Great Spokan, into which it flows. The larger stream leads from the
western slope of the Rocky Mountains, and flows on to join the Columbia.

It was far too deep to be crossed by any expedient short of bridging;
so a bridge had to be built, an operation involving quite a week’s
delay. The place chosen, and the men set to work, my leisure time was
devoted to collecting.

The snow still lingered in large patches about the hollows and
sheltered spots. Save a modest violet or humble rock-blossom, no flower
had ventured to open its petals, except the brilliant pink _Ribes_, or
flowering currant, common in every English cottage-garden.

Approaching a large cluster of these gay-looking bushes, my ears were
greeted with a sharp thrum—a sound I knew well—from the wings of
a hummingbird, as it darted past me. The name by which these birds
are commonly known has arisen from the noise produced by the wings
(very like the sound of a driving-belt used in machinery, although of
course not nearly so loud), whilst the little creature, poised over
a flower, darts its slender beak deep amidst the corolla—not to sip
nectar, in my humble opinion, but to capture drowsy insect revellers,
that assemble in these attractive drinking-shops, and grow tipsy on
the sweets gratuitously provided for them. Soon a second whizzed by
me, and others followed in rapid succession; and, when near enough to
see distinctly, the bushes seemed literally to gleam with the flashing
colours of swarms (I know no better word) of hummingbirds surrounding
the entire clump of _Ribes_.

  ‘From flower to flower, where wild bees flew and sung,
   As countless, small, and musical as they
   Showers of bright hummingbirds came down, and plied
   The same ambrosial task with slender bill,
   Extracting honey hidden in those bells
   Whose richest blossoms grew pale beneath their blaze,
   Of twinkling winglets hov’ring o’er their petals,
   Brilliant as rain-drops when the western sun
   Sees his own miniature beams in each.’

Seating myself on a log, I watched this busy assemblage for some time.
They were all male birds, and two species were plainly discernible.
Chasing each other in sheer sport, with a rapidity of flight and
intricacy of evolution impossible for the eye to follow—through
the bushes, and over the water, everywhere—they darted about like
meteors. Often meeting in mid-air, a furious battle would ensue; their
tiny crests and throat-plumes erect and blazing, they were altogether
pictures of the most violent passions. Then one would perch himself
on a dead spray, and leisurely smooth his ruffled feathers, to be
suddenly rushed at and assaulted by some quarrelsome comrade. Feeding,
fighting, and frolicking seemed to occupy their entire time. I daresay
hard epithets will be heaped upon me,—cruel man, hard-hearted savage,
miserable destroyer, and similar epithets,—when I confess to shooting
numbers of these burnished beauties. Some of them are before me at
this moment as I write; but what miserable things are these stuffed
remains, as compared to the living bird! The brilliant crests are rigid
and immoveable; the throat-feathers, that open and shut with a flash
like coloured light, lose in the stillness of death all those charms so
beautiful in life; the tail, clumsily spread, or bent similar to the
abdomen of a wasp about to sting, no more resembles the same organ in
the live bird, than a fan of peacock’s feathers is like to the expanded
tail of that bird when strutting proudly in the sun.

It is useless pleading excuses; two long days were occupied in shooting
and skinning. The two species obtained on this occasion were the
Red-backed Hummingbird (_Selasphorus rufus_), often described as the
Nootka Hummingbird, because it was first discovered in Nootka Sound,
on the west side of Vancouver Island; the other, one of the smallest
known species, called Calliope. This exquisite little bird is mainly
conspicuous for its frill of minute pinnated feathers encircling
the throat, of most delicate magenta tint, which can be raised or
depressed at will. Prior to my finding it in this remote region, it was
described as being entirely confined to Mexico.

About a week had passed away; the bridge was completed, during which
time the female birds had arrived; and, save a stray one now and then,
not a single individual of that numerous host that had gathered round
the _Ribes_ was to be seen. They cared nothing for the gun, and would
even dash at a dead companion as it lay on the grass; so I did not
drive them away, but left them to scatter of their own free will.

My next camping-place was on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains,
near a lake, by the margin of which grew some cottonwood trees (_Salix
scouleriana_), together with the alder (_Alnus oregona_), and the sweet
or black birch (_Betula leuta_). My attention was called to the latter
tree by observing numbers of wasps, bees, and hornets swarming round
its trunk. The secret was soon disclosed: a sweet gummy sap was exuding
plentifully from splits in the bark, on which hosts of insects, large
and small, were regaling themselves. As the sap ran down over the bark,
it became very sticky, and numbers of small winged insects, pitching on
it, were trapped in a natural ‘catch-’em-alive-O.’

Busily occupied in picking off these captives were several very
sombre-looking hummingbirds. They poised themselves just as the others
did over the flowers, and deftly nipped, as with delicate forceps, the
helpless insects. I soon bagged one, and found I had a third species,
the Black-throated Hummingbird (_Trochilus Alexandri_). Were any proof
needed to establish the fact of Hummingbirds being insect-feeders, this
should be sufficient. I saw the bird, not only on this occasion but
dozens of times afterwards, pick the insect from off the tree, often
killing it in the act; and found the stomach, on being opened, filled
with various species of winged insects.

The habits of the three species differ widely. The Red-backed
Hummingbird loves to flit over the open prairies, stopping at every
tempting flower, to catch some idler lurking in its nectar-cells.
Building its nest generally in a low shrub, and close to the
rippling stream, it finds pleasant music in its ceaseless splash.
Minute Calliope, on the other hand, prefers rocky hillsides at great
altitudes, where only pine-trees, rock-plants, and an alpine flora
‘struggle for existence.’ I have frequently killed this bird above the
line of perpetual snow. Its favourite resting-place is on the extreme
point of a dead pine-tree, where, if undisturbed, it will sit for
hours. The site chosen for the nest is usually the branch of a young
pine; artfully concealed amidst the fronds at the very end, it is
rocked like a cradle by every passing breeze.

The Black-throated Hummingbird lingers around lakes, pools, and swamps
where its favourite trapping-tree grows. I have occasionally, though
very rarely, seen it hovering over flowers; this, I apprehend, is
only when the storehouse is empty, and the sap too dry to capture the
insects. They generally build in the birch or alder, selecting the fork
of a branch high up.

All hummingbirds, as far as I know, lay only two eggs; the young are so
tightly packed into the nest, and fit so exactly, that if once taken
out it is impossible to replace them. Several springs succeeding my
first discovery that these hummingbirds were regular migrants to boreal
regions, I watched their arrival. We were quartered for the winter
close to the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains. The winters here
vary in length, as well as in depth of snow and intensity of cold, 33°
below zero being no unfrequent register. But it did not matter whether
we had a late or early spring, the hummingbirds did not come until the
_Ribes_ opened; and in no single instance did two whole days elapse
after the blossoms expanded, but Selasphorus and Calliope arrived to
bid them welcome. The males usually preceded the females by four or
five days.

The Black-throated Hummingbird arrives about a week or ten days after
the other two. Marvellous is the instinct that guides and the power
that sustains these birds (not larger than a good sized bumblebee) over
such an immense tract of country; and even more wonderful still is
their arrival, timed so accurately, that the only flower adapted to
its wants thus early in the year opens its hoards, ready to supply the
wanderer’s necessities after so tedious a migration!

It seems to me vastly like design, and Foreseeing Wisdom, that a shrub
indigenous and widely distributed should be so fashioned as to produce
its blossoms long before its leaves; and that this very plant alone
blooms ere the snow has melted off the land, and that too at the exact
period when hummingbirds arrive. It cannot be chance, but the work
of the Almighty Architect—who shaped them both, whose handiwork we
discover at every step, and of whose sublime conceptions we everywhere
observe the manifestations in the admirably-balanced system of
creation!

The specific characters of these three species, whose northern range I
believe was first defined by myself, are briefly as follows:—

_Selasphorus rufus_ (the Nootka or Red-backed Hummingbird).—Male:
tail strong and wedge-shaped; upper parts, lower tail-coverts, and
back, cinnamon; throat coppery red, with a well-developed ruff of the
same, bordered with a white collar; tail-feathers cinnamon, striped
with purplish-brown. Female: plain, cinnamon on the back, replaced
with green; traces only of metallic feathers on the throat. Length
of male, 3·50; wing, 1·56; tail, 1·31 inches. Habitat: West coast of
North America to lat. 53° N., extending its range southward through
California, to the Rio Grande.

_Stellata Calliope._—Male: back bright-green; wings brownish; neck
with a ruff of pinnated magenta-coloured feathers, the lower ones much
elongated; abdomen whitish; length, about 2·75 inches. Female, much
plainer than the male, with only a trace of the magenta-coloured ruff.

_Trochilus Alexandri_ (Black-throated Hummingbird).—Male: tails
lightly forked, the chin and upper part of the throat velvety black
without metallic reflections, which are confined to the posterior
border of the black, and are violet, changing to steel-blue. Length,
3·30 inches. Female, without the metallic markings; tail-feathers
tipped with white. Both have the same northern and southern range as
_Selasphorus rufus_.

_Urotrichus Gibsii_, Baird (Western slope of Cascade Mountains);
_Urotrichus Talpoides_, Temminck.—This singular little animal, that
appears to be an intermediate link between the shrew and the mole,
at present is only known as an inhabitant of two parts of the world,
widely removed from each other—the one spot being the western slope
of the Cascade Mountains, in North-west America, the other Japan.
There are, as far as I know, but two specimens extant from the Cascade
Mountains—one in the Smithsonian Museum at Washington, the other a
very fine specimen that I have recently brought home, and now in the
British Museum.[7] I have carefully compared the Japanese gentleman
with his brother from the Western wilds, and can find no difference
whatever, either generically or specifically. In size, colour, shape,
and anatomical structure they are precisely alike.

The habits of the little fellow from Japan I know nothing about,
but with my friend from the North-west I am much more familiar; and
I shall endeavour to introduce him to you as lifelike as I can, from
what I have jotted down in my notebook. First, then, the Urotrichus
is an insectivorous mammal, its size that of a large shrew, about
two-and-a-quarter inches in length, exclusive of tail, which is about
an inch and a half. This tail is covered thickly with long hairs, which
at the tip end in a tuft like a fine camel’s-hair pencil, and from this
hairy tail it gets the name, _Urotrichus_.

[Illustration: THE UROTRICHUS
(Urotrichus Gibsii).]

Its colour is bluish-black when alive, but in the dried specimens
changes to sooty-brown. The hair is lustrous, and, where it reflects
the light, has a hoary appearance, and, as with the mole, it can be
smoothed in either direction; this is a wise and admirable arrangement,
as it enables the animal to back through its underground roads, as well
as to go through them head-first. Its nose or snout is very curious,
and much like that of a pig—only that it is lengthened out into a
cylindrical tube, covered with short thick hairs, and terminated in a
naked fleshy kind of bulb or gland; and this gland is pierced by two
minute holes, which are the nostrils. Each nostril has a little fold of
membrane hanging down over it like a shutter, effectually preventing
sand and minute particles of dust from getting into the nose whilst
digging.

Now this curious nasal appendage is to this miner not only an organ of
smell, but also serves the purpose of hands and eyes. His forefeet, as
I shall by-and-by show you, are wholly digging implements, and, from
their peculiar horny character, not in any way adapted to convey the
sense of touch. Eyes he has none, and but a very rudimentary form of
ear; his highly sensitive moveable nose serves him admirably in the
dark tunnels, in which his time is passed, to feel his way and scent
out the lower forms of insect life, on which he principally feeds. Had
he eyes he could not see, for the sunlight never peeps in to cheer his
subterranean home, and sound reaches not down to him. The busy hum of
insect life, and the song of feathered choristers, he hears not, so
that highly-developed hearing appendages would have been useless and
superfluous.

But his nose in every way compensates for all these apparent
deficiencies, and shows us how to be admired is Creative Goodness
in shaping and adapting the meanest and humblest of His creatures
to its habits and modes of life. His forefeet are, like the mole’s,
converted into diggers; the strong scoop-shaped nail, like a small
garden-trowel at the end of each toe, enables him to dig with wonderful
ease and celerity. The hind-feet are shaped into a kind of scraper by
the toe being curiously bent, and the length of the hind-foot is about
two-thirds more than the fore or digging hand. When I come to his
habits, as differing from the mole, I shall be able to point out the
use of this strange scraper-like form of hind-foot.

So far I have endeavoured to give you an outline of his general
personal appearance, differing from the shrew in the peculiar
arrangement of his feet, and from the mole in having a long hairy
tail. His nearest relative (if at all related) is the _Condylura_, or
Star-nosed Mole, whose nose has a fringe of star-shaped processes round
its outer edge, about twenty-two in number. The first and only place
in which I ever met this strange little fellow was on the Chilukweyuk
prairies. These large grassy openings, or prairies, are situated near
the Fraser river, on the western side of the Cascade Mountains. Small
streams wind and twist through these prairies like huge water-snakes,
widening out here and there into large glassy pools.

The scenery is romantic and beautiful beyond description. Towering up
into the very clouds, as a background, are the mighty hills of the
Cascade range, their misty summits capped with perpetual snow—their
craggy sides rent into chasms and ravines, whose depths and solitudes
no man’s foot has ever trodden, and clad up to the very snow-line with
mighty pine and cedar-trees. The Chilukweyuk river already referred
to washes one side of the prairie. Silvery-green and ever-trembling
cottonwood trees, ruddy black-birch, and hawthorn, like a girdle,
encircle the prairie, and form a border, of Nature’s own weaving, to
the brilliant carpet of emerald grass, patterned with wild flowers of
every hue and tint,—all shading pleasantly away, and losing their
brilliancy in the dark green pine-trees.

In the sandy banks on the edge of the Chilukweyuk river, and the
various little streams winding through the prairie-grass, lives the
Urotrichus. His mansion is a large hole, lined with bits of grass, and
this hole is his sleeping-room and drawing-room. A genuine bachelor,
he never dines at home. He has lots of roads tunnelled away from his
central mansion, radiating from it like the spokes of a wheel. His
tunnels are not at all like those of the mole; he never throws up
mounds or heaps of earth, in order to get rid of the surplus material
he digs out, as the mole does, but makes open cuttings at short
intervals, about four or five inches long; and now we shall see the use
of those curiously-formed scraper-like hind-feet.

As he digs out the tunnel with his trowel-hands, he throws back
the earth towards his hind-feet; these, from their peculiar shape,
enable him to back this dirt out of the hole, using them like two
scrapers—only that he pushes the dirt away, instead of pulling it
towards himself. Having backed the dirt clear of the mouth of the hole,
he throws it out over the edge of the open cutting; after having dug in
some distance—and finding, I daresay, the labour of backing-out rather
irksome—he digs up through the ground to the surface, makes another
open cutting, and then begins a new hole or tunnel, and disappears into
the earth again. When he has gone as far from his dormitory as he deems
wise, he again digs through, and clears away the rubbish. This road is
now complete, so he goes back again to his central mansion, to begin
others at his leisure.

It is very difficult to watch the movements and discover the
feeding-time, or what he feeds on, of an animal which lives almost
wholly underground in the daytime; but I am pretty sure these tunnels
are made for and used as roadways, or underground trails for the
purpose of hunting. He is a night-feeder, and exposed to terrible
perils from the various small carnivora that prowl about like bandits
in the dark—stoats, weasels, martens, and skunks. So, to avoid and
escape these enemies, he comes quietly along the subterranean roadways,
and cautiously emerging at the open cutting, feels about with his
wonderful nose; and I doubt not, guided by an acute sense of smell,
pounces upon larvæ, slugs, beetles, or any nocturnal creeping-thing he
can catch; and so traversing his different hunting-trails during the
night, manages in that way to fare sumptuously, and safe from danger.
Turning in, to sleep away his breakfast, dinner, and supper, at the
first peep of the grey morning, he dozes on, until hunger again prompts
him to make another excursion on the ‘hunting-path.’

It is scarcely possible to imagine a more skilfully-contrived
hunting-system, to avoid danger and facilitate escape, than are these
tunnel-trails with open cuttings; for the sly little hunter has, on the
slightest alarm, two means of flight at his disposal—one before and
another behind him; and the fur, as I have already mentioned, laying as
evenly when smoothed from tail to head as it does when turned in the
natural direction, enables him to turn astern, and retreat tail-first
into his hole as easily as he could go head-first.

When we contemplate this grotesque and strangely-formed little
creature, and see how wisely and wonderfully it is fashioned and
adapted to its destined place, supplying another missing link in the
great chain of Nature, we cannot but feel God’s power and omnipresence.
Feeding in the dark and living in the dark, eyes would have been
superfluous; sound, save from vibration in the earth, or when hunting
at the open cuttings, would seldom reach this tiny _hermit_; hence
the hearing organs have no external appendage for catching sounds,
and are but in a rudimentary form. Hands fashioned into marvellous
digging-tools, and hind-feet turned into scrapers, for getting rid of
the rubble dug out with the hands, and nose possessing smell and touch
in their most exquisite forms, these serve him for guides of unerring
certainty and undeviating precision through his darksome wanderings.




                             CHAPTER XIII.

                   THE APLODONTIA LEPORINA. (RICH.)

           (_Sewellel or Show’tl of the Nesqually Indians._)

  SYNONYMS.—_Aplodontia leporina_, Rich., F.B.A. i. 211, plate
    xviii.; Aud. Bach. N.A. Qua. iii., 1853, 99, pl. cxxiii.; _Hoplodon
    leporinus_, Wagler System, Amh., 1830; _Anisonyx rufa_, Rafinesque,
    Am. Month. Mag. ii. 1817; _Arctomys rufa_, Harlan, F. Am, 1825,
    308; _Sewellel_, Lewis and Clark’s Travels, ii. 1815, 176.

  _General Dimensions._—Nose to ear, 2 in. 7 lines; nose to eyes, 1
    in. 5 lines; tail to end of vertebræ, 9 lines; tail to end of hair,
    1 in. 2 lines; ear, height, 5 lines; nose to root of tail, 14 in. 6
    lines.


I first met with this rare and curious little rodent on the bank of
the Chilukweyuk river. My canvas house is pitched in a snug spot,
overshadowed by a clump of cottonwood trees, growing close to a stream,
that like liquid crystal ripples past in countless channels, finding
its way betwixt massive boulders of trap and green-stone, rounded and
polished until they look like giant marbles.

Towering up behind me are the Cascade Mountains, with snow-clad
summits dim in the haze of distance, their craggy slopes split into
chasms and ravines, so deep, dark, and lonesome, that no man’s footfall
has ever disturbed their solitudes, so densely wooded up to the very
snow-line with pine, that a bare rock has hardly a chance to peep out,
and break the sombre monotony of the dark-green foliage.

[Illustration: OU-KA-LA
(Aplodontia leporina).]

Before me, stretching away for about three miles, is an open grassy
prairie, one side of which is bounded by the Chilukweyuk river, the
other by the Fraser. At the junction of the two streams, at an angle
of the prairie, stands an Indian village: the rude-plank sheds and
rush-lodges; the white smoke, curling gracefully up through the still
atmosphere from many lodge-fires; the dusky forms of the savages, as
they loll or stroll in the fitful night, give life and character to a
scene indescribably lovely.

The Indian summer is drawing to a close; the maple, the cottonwood,
and the hawthorn, fringing the winding waterways, like silver cords
intersecting the prairie, have assumed their autumn tints, and, clad
in browns and yellows, stand out in brilliant contrast to the green of
the pine-forest. The prairie looks bright and lovely; the grass, as yet
untouched by the frost-fairy’s fingers, waves lazily; wild flowers, of
varied tints, peep out from their hiding-places, enjoying to the last
the lingering summer.

I had been for some time sitting on a log, admiring the sublime beauty
of the scene, spread out before me like a gorgeous picture; the sun was
fast receding behind the hilltops, the lengthening shadows were fading
and growing dimly indistinct, the birds had settled down to sleep, and
the busy hum of insect life was hushed. A deathlike quiet steals over
everything in the wilderness as night comes on—a stillness that is
painful from its intensity. The sound of your own breathing, the crack
of a branch, a stone suddenly rattling down the hillside, the howl of
the coyote, or the whoop of the night-owl, seem all intensified to an
unnatural loudness. I know of nothing more appalling to the lonely
wanderer camping by himself than this ‘jungle silence,’ that reigns
through the weary hours of night.

This silence was suddenly broken, as was my reverie, by a sharp ringing
whistle; it was so piercing and clear, that I could not believe it was
produced by an animal. Hardly had it died away, when another whistler
took it up, then a third, and so on, until at least a dozen had joined
in the chorus. I stole carefully in the direction from which the sound
came, but as I neared the spot the whistle ceased, and it was now
far too dark to descry any object on the ground. So, in doubt, and
sorely puzzled to account for such an unusual sound, and with a firm
determination to unravel the mystery in the morning, I returned to my
camp. Could it be Indians? No, impossible; there were far too many
whistlers, and the tone of each whistle was precisely alike. I was
equally sure it was not the cry of the rock-whistler (_Actomys_); that
sound I knew too well. What could it be?

As the grey light of morning came peering into my tent, I started
off to investigate the secret of the mysterious whistler; but all I
could discover, after a long and diligent search, was, that there were
numerous runs and burrows excavated in the sandy banks of the river,
but by what sort of animal I could not for the life of me guess.
Setting a steel-trap at the entrance to one of the holes, I strolled
down to the Indian village, thinking I should possibly be able to
find out from the redskins what it was that made such shrill sounds.
Partly by signs, and by using as much of their language as I knew, I
endeavoured to make the old chief comprehend my queries.

After attentively watching my absurd attempts to produce a ringing
whistle by placing my fingers in my mouth, and blowing through
them until my face was like an apoplectic coachman’s, a smile of
intelligence lit up his swarthy visage: then I violently dug imaginary
holes, and explained that the sounds came about twilight; he nodded his
head, dived into the tent, and disappeared in the smoke, to shortly
emerge again with a rug or robe, made from the skins of an animal that
was quite new to me.

It was beautifully soft, glossy, and brown. The skins were about the
size of a large rat’s, and about twenty in number. Here, then, was
the dawn of a discovery. He called the animal _Ou-ka-la_, and made me
understand that it lived on roots and vegetable matter, and burrowed
holes in the ground.

As the daylight faded out, I again took my seat; and, just as before,
when everything was silent, the woods echoed with the Ou-ka-la’s cry.
I longed for morning, and hardly waited for light, but hastened off to
my trap and, joy of joys, I had one sure enough, caught by the neck.
Poor Ou-ka-la! your friends had heard, and you had given, your ‘last
whistle.’ He was dead and cold—trapped, perhaps, whilst I listened
wonderingly, keeping my lonely vigil. A very brief examination
revealed the fact that I had caught a magnificent specimen of the
Aplodontia leporina, of which I had only read.

Captains Lewis and Clark obtained some vague information about this
animal, which is given in their journal of travel across the Rocky
Mountains, in 1804. All they say of its habits is, ‘that it climbs
trees, and digs like a squirrel.’ They obtained no specimen of the
animal, but saw, probably, robes made of the skins. It was subsequently
described by Rafinesque, and by him named _Anysonyx rufa_, and by
Harlan _Arctomys rufa_. In 1829 Sir John Richardson obtained a
specimen, and, after a careful anatomical examination, this eminent
naturalist determined it to be a new genus, and renamed it, generically
and specifically. The generic name (_Aplodontia_) is founded on its
having rootless molars, or grinding teeth—_aploos_, simple; _odons_, a
tooth. It belongs to the sub-family _Castorinæ_, dental formula
2 00 55
——————— 22.
2 00 44

_Sp. ch._—Size, that of a musk-rat; tail very short, barely visible;
colour, glossy blackish-brown. Male, length about 14 inches; female
resembling the male, but smaller. The fur is dense and woolly, with
long bristly hairs, thickly interspersed; the short fur is bluish-gray
at the base, the ends of the hairs being tipped with reddish-brown; the
bristles are black, and when smooth give a lustrous appearance to the
fur. The eyes are very small, and placed about midway between the nose
and the ear. The whiskers, stiff and bristly, are much longer than the
head, and dark grey. The ears are covered on both sides with fine soft
hair, rounded and very short, and not unlike the human ear.

_Skull._—The skull is much like that of the squirrel’s, with the
marked exception of having rootless molars, and the absence of
post-orbital processes; the occipital crest is well-developed, the
muzzle large, and nearly round. The bony orbits are largely developed;
the auditory bullæ are small, but open at once into wide auditive
tubes; the first molar is unusually small, oval, and situated against
the antero-internal angle of the second. All the molars are rootless:
the lower grinders are much like the upper, but somewhat longer and
narrower. The molars in both jaws are situated much farther back than
is usual, the centre of the skull being about opposite to the meeting
of the second and third. The lower jaw is very singularly shaped,
the inner edges of the molars on opposite sides being parallel; the
descending ramus is bent, so as to be exactly horizontal behind, the
postero-inferior edge being a straight line, nearly perpendicular
to the vertical plane of the skull’s axis. The conformation of the
incisor-teeth is admirably adapted to the purposes they have to
fulfil; no carpenter’s gouging chisels are more effective tools than
are these exquisitely-constructed teeth. It is essential that they
should always have a sharp-cutting edge, in order to nip through the
tough vegetable fibre on which the animal subsists; at the same time,
strength and durability are indispensable. The Aplodontia has no
whetstone or razor-grinder, to sharpen his tools when they grow blunt;
but an Allwise Providence has so fashioned these wondrous chisels in
all rodents, that the more they are used the sharper they keep; the
contrivance is simple as it is beautiful. The substance of the tooth
itself is composed of tough ivory, but plated on the outer surface
with enamel as hard as steel. The ivory, being the softer material, of
course wears away faster than the enamel; hence the latter, plating the
front of the tooth, is always left with a sharp-cutting edge.

The position this genus should occupy, in a systematic arrangement of
the rodents, has always been a stumbling-block and a matter of doubt,
in great measure attributable to the fact that but a single species of
the genus is known, and very few specimens have hitherto been obtained.
A fine male specimen has recently been set up in the British Museum
collection, that I caught near my camp on the prairie.

In many particulars the Aplodontia very nearly resembles the
Spermophiles, particularly the prairie-dog (_Cynomys Ludovicciana_),
but differs, as in the true squirrels, in the rootless molars and
absence of post-orbital processes. In this respect it is allied to the
beaver. It is quite impossible to assign it a well-defined and settled
position, until a greater number of specimens are procured, from which
more minute and careful examination of the bony and internal anatomy
can be made. At present, however, it would appear to connect the
beavers with the squirrels, through the Spermophiles.

The name Lewis and Clark gave this animal, Sewellel, is evidently a
corruption of an Indian word. The Chinook Indians, once a powerful
tribe, live near the mouth of the Columbia; and from them, in all
probability, Lewis and Clark obtained the name, and first heard of the
animal. But the Chinook name for the Aplodontia is _Og__ool-lal_,
Shu-wal-lal being the name of the robe made from the skins; and this
is unquestionably the word corrupted into Sewellel, and misused as the
name of the animal. In Puget’s Sound the Nesqually Indians call it
_Show′tl_; the Yakama Indians, _Squal-lah_; and the Sumass Indians,
_Swok-la_.

A single glance at the conformation of the feet would at once convince
the most careless observer that climbing trees was not a habit of the
Aplodontia. The feet and claws are digging implements, of the most
finished and efficient kind: the long scoop-shaped nails, resembling
garden trowels; wide strong foot, almost hand-like in its form; the
strong muscular arms, supported by powerful clavicles, proclaim him a
miner; his mission is to burrow, and most ably he fulfils his destiny.
His haunt is usually by the side of a stream, where the banks are
sandy, and the underbrush grows thickly; his favourite food being fine
fibrous roots, and the rind of such as are too hard for his teeth. He
spends his time in burrowing, not so much for shelter and concealment,
as to supply himself with roots. He digs with great ease and rapidity,
making a hole large enough for a man’s arm to be inserted.

In making the tunnels, he seldom burrows very far without coming to
the surface, and beginning a new one. Like a skilful workman, he knows
how to economise labour. Having to back the earth out of the mouth of
the hole he is digging, the farther he gets in the harder grows the
toil; and so he digs up through, and starts afresh. They seldom come
out in the daytime, and I have but rarely heard them whistle until
everything was still, and the twilight merged into night.

The female has from four to six young at a birth, and she has about
two litters in a year. The nest for the young is much like that of
the rabbit, made of grass and leaves, and placed at the end of a deep
burrow. In the winter they only partially hibernate, frequently digging
through the snow to eat the bark and lichen from the trees. Their gait
when on the ground is very awkward; their broad short feet are not
fitted for progression, and they shamble rather than run, and can be
easily overtaken. Where a colony of them have resided for any time,
the ground becomes literally riddled with holes, and the trees and
shrubs die for want of roots. I imagine, from having found abandoned
villages, that they wisely emigrate when their resources are exhausted.
The Indians esteem their flesh a great luxury, and trap them in a kind
of figure-offour trap, set at the mouth of the burrow. I daresay they
are as good as a rabbit; still, they have too ratlike an appearance
to possess any gastronomic attractions for me. _De gustibus non est
disputandum._

The Aplodontia has a terrible and untiring enemy in the badger
(_Taxidea Americana_). He is always on the hunt for the poor little
miner, digs him out from his hiding-place, and devours him with as
much gusto as the Indian. Its geographical range is not very extended,
being, as far as I know, confined to a small section of North-western
America. I have seen it on the eastern and western slopes of the
Cascades, but not on the Rocky Mountains, although it very probably
exists there. It is also found at Puget’s Sound, Fort Steilacum, and on
the banks of the Sumass and Chilukweyuk rivers, west of the Cascades;
on the Nachess Pass, at Astoria and the Dalles, on the Columbia, east
of the Cascades.

Feeding entirely on vegetable matter (I never discovered a trace of
insect or larvæ remains in the stomach), passing its life principally
in dark burrows, and limited, as far as we know at present, to a very
narrow section of a barren country, it is hard to imagine what purpose
it serves in the great chain of Nature, save it be that of supplying
food to the badger, and both food and clothing to the savage; and yet
we know that it was fashioned for some specific purpose, if we could
but read and rightly interpret the pages of Nature’s wondrous book. If
we ask ourselves, Why was this or that made? how seldom can we answer
the question! Why did He, who made the world, the sun, and the stars,
deck the butterfly’s wing with tiny scales, that by a simple change in
arrangement produce patterns beside which the most finished painting
is a bungling daub? Why exist those microscopic wonders, (diatoms and
infusoria,) formed with shells of purest flint, and of the quaintest
devices? Why were these atomies, that tenant every roadside pool, which
dance in the sunbeam, and float on the wings of the breeze? Why all
the prodigal variety of strange forms crowding the sea, forms more
wonderful than the poet’s wildest dreams ever pictured? Who can tell?


                       END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

                                LONDON
                    PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO.
                           NEW-STREET SQUARE


                              FOOTNOTES:

  [1] For full narrative of Apostolos Valerianos, see Samuel Purchase
      His Pilgrims.

  [2] Buckland’s Manual, ‘Salmon Hatching,’ page 24.

  [3] _Vide_ Illustration.

  [4] _Vide_ Illustration.

  [5] _Vide_ Illustration.

  [6] _Vide_ Illustration.

  [7] _Vide_ Illustration.


                         Transcriber’s Notes:

 - Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
 - Blank pages have been removed.
 - Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.