M

AKING blankets of dogs' hair, birds' down and mountain goats' wool is a lost art to Pilchuck Julia, but she knows how to sell fish and sit for a photograph. Moreover, she takes money for both with equal grace and gratitude. She does not wear a crown of jewels, as has many a queen of less noble blood and less creditable lineage, nor is she a queen without a realm. "I have lived by the Pilchuck River always," she says. Near its bank is her palace-cot and Pilchuck Jack was her king.

Digging for relics in the mounds which mark the villages of prehistoric tribes of Indians is more than interesting. It is fascinating. The occasional unearthing

of a stone axe, a catlinite pipe, a spear point, an arrow head or a pouch of beads, keeps one digging, digging, like the "pocket-hunter" in the gold fields, for the deposit which he knows must be in the next crevice -and which sometimes is. But while each of these discovered instruments silently tells its tale of prowess and courage, and conquest and of death, it cannot tell

the story of the maiden whose moccasins the beads adorned, or of the gallant brave who fell in her defense by the stroke of the flint tomahawk.

No less fascinating is the "digging" for stories among the real live Indians who once drew the bow against their enemies or took their scalps for trophies. One must prove himself both friendly and sincere if he would unlock the secrets of this most interesting people. Each locality where remnants of the Western tribes dwell has its characters noted for their activity

subject of this story. I was delighted to meet Julia while visiting a friend at Snohomish, Washington, just before Christmas of 1911, and told her so with Rooseveltian emphasis. She responded by offering her hand which, leathery as it was from toil and age, gave unmistakable evidence of sincerity.

"Clear from Kanza to see me!" she exclaimed with surprise. "I'm glad. Thank you, thank you." Then, glancing reflectively back toward her cabin on the Pilchuck River from whence she had just come, she continued: "Pilchuck Jack talk 'bout Kanza. He would be glad, too."

"Is Pilchuck Jack your husband?" I asked.

"Yes, my husban'. He eight year dead. Chief Snohomish Indians. Eight year dead," she said, holding up four fingers of each hand.

"Then you are the queen of the Snohomish Indians?" I ventured, with kindly regard.

Quickly, and like a modest maiden who would hide her blushes, she placed both hands before her face and said, as if by way of correction, "Pilchuck Jack's wife."

"Was Pilchuck Jack a good warrior ?"

In reply to this question, Julia placed the tips of her fingers on her closed lips as if to say: "The records of the old days are sealed." Then, with a countenance expressive of mingled pain and suspicion of the questioner's motive, she replied: "Me not like to talk 'bout it. Pilchuck Jack not hate white man or Indian. He not like to fight, but fight hard when he must. O! much fighting, much death, much trouble. No much happy home, no much peace. Beautiful birds sing death song; beautiful flowers stained with blood; beautiful water hide many secrets. Me not like to remember. Pilchuck Jack gone with Great Spirit. Pilchuck Julia's lips are silent."

As the tears filled her dark eyes, she wiped them with the corner of her plaid shawl, explaining what she feared might be regarded as evidence

503

of weakness by saying: "Julia's eyes all time sick. All time flow like mountain spring."

"Are the people kind to the widowed queen ?"

Her countenance changed at once as her thoughts returned to the ever-interesting present.

"Oh, yes, very kind. Kind at Christmas time. Some people kind always. Me very tired sometimes. Me old. Much hard work." And she sighed as she thought of it all.

From her own statements, supplemented by those of her friends, the following incident of last Christmas is related:

Peter Jack, son of Pilchuck Jack and Julia, had been killed by falling from the railroad bridge across the Snohomish River two years before. Mrs. Peter Jack, with five children, was left to share Julia's cabin on the banks of the Pilchuck River. "Big Boy," Oscar Jack, catches salmon, gathers wood and cares for the garden while Grandmother Julia sells the surplus. Mrs. Peter Jack cares for the cabin and for the younger children, two of whom are in school.

"Little boy, little girl, go to school," Julia said. "Learn to read and write, write letter, write story, farm, keep store, make much money, live in nice house. Young Indian not like old Indian. Old Indian make bows of yew and serpent skin, spears with points of flint and bone, arrows that go straight like white man's bullet. Shoot elk and deer, catch fish and eat all time when hungry; scalp enemy when he find him. Young Indian make corn and wheat and alfalfa and cattle. He take 'em to town in big wagon and let white man scalp him."

With all her crude philosophy, with all her fragmentary knowledge of modern business learned on the street and over the counter, this queen of the forest did not make these comparisons regretfully, only as do all the discerning members of her race who wish for themselves a fair chance in the game of life, considering both their racial inheritance and their present

environment. God knows that few of them have it now.

Five young natives of the woods who have listened by the firelight to the mysterious legends and myths have also had a taste of the joys of the white man's Christmas and are dreaming with delight of the coming of that day. The family income is meagre, indeed, but a few pennies have been carefully hoarded by the thoughtful old grandmother. As she is walking to market a few days before Christmas with a few pounds of fish in her sack, planning how to make her money buy both food and presents, she is heard to repeat fervently what she can recall of the "Lord's Prayer" once translated for her by a missionery.

"Takamote nemeemult skatzazact whohakn nil kakhtomew, takomose nuk stakum a tseetlekut nahkteea nemeemult stakums as skhlayans," which, translated, would read: "Our Father who art in heaven, all and every day give us all our food."

Her fish sold, she stands before a counter piled high with holiday temptations, the empty fish sack flung, as she enters, into an obscure corner. Article after article is replaced as too high-priced for her purse. All the fingers of both hands are used in the frequent computations which are followed by the soliloquy, "Five quails, one worm; five squirrels, one nut. Hiaqua very short." The hiaqua was a long white shell formerly used for money, the value varying with the length.

While Pilchuck Julia was busy with her selections the proprietor had deftly selected numerous choice articles and placed them in the sack, hinting to his customers to contribute also to the surprise. When the trinkets were chosen and the money all spent Julia turned with a sigh of disappointment to her sack, now heavy with toys, picture-books, toothsome dainties, ar

ticles of food and much needed clothing. The gratitude of a responsive soul overcomes in its expression even the emotion-concealing habit of the Indian. So those who lingered to enjoy the surprise were more than repaid by the evidences of Julia's deep and lasting gratitude.

A strong boy volunteered to carry the load to the cabin and when, on Christmas eve, the comely little fir tree was laden with the tokens which make children of all nations happy, this uncrowned Snohomish queen who, the day before, had felt revengefully bitter because of her poverty, bowed her head and breathed this prayer: "Ahlamose top hashaman as masteel nemeemult." ("Never let the evil one lead us.")

After much questioning and in broken sentences, half English, half Indian, this fragment of a life story, only a glimpse at one of Nature's most complex products, is obtained. Here is the character, here is the physical form of one of Nature's queens:

Cautiously responsive, frank, sincere, gracefully independent with a dignified firmness; low-browed, lowstatured, yet straight withal; on the head, a coarse gray head kerchief; in the ears, a pair of red glass pendants; for a necklace, a bluestone charm on a twisted string; for the queenly robes, a blouse waist, plaid shawl and short, brown skirt; for the jeweled slippers, a pair of plain buckskin moccasins; for a palace, a plain board cabin nestled among the evergreens and ferns.

The story finished, the camera closed, Julia arose from her seat on the cistern curb and said: "Winasmamankin" (I am wishing to go). Then, remembering her English, she extended her hand with the parting words: "Me go now, good bye, good bye," and passed out of sight around the hill.

T

AKING Nevada City as a center of observation and scanning the country for fifty miles around, first look at the people of Southwestern Nevada County, the farmers of five to ten years ago, trying in vain to vanquish a raging forest of flames which every year regularly swept over their lands, burning their feed, scorching the young forest, charring the winter supply of wood and oftentimes destroying their homes, cabins, barns and stables.

Look to the Northeast, and in the middle of August see the fires in the Tahoe National Forest sweeping up the mountain sides on the middle fork of the Yuba. See the young forest here quiver and droop while the giant pines and firs wilt away and die with the little trees.

Madly did men try to save the country's timber, but in these dense woods little could be done after the fire had gotten a good start. To be sure, backfiring was done, but not without a great sacrifice of timber.

These conditions existed all over our State; in fact, throughout the United States, and why?

First, I need not say the fault lies with the people themselves. Most of our forest fires have been caused by some individual's disregard for other people's rights, through his confusion of liberty with license. This perplexity is illustrated in the case of the foreigner, who, upon landing on our American soil, promptly seized an insignificant human being near by and proceeded to thrash him. When thrown into jail, he pathetically declared that he had been told that America was a free country, but it semed rather restricted to him.

what we can do to save our buildings, live stock, and if possible our own lands, but let the country's forest blaze until the winter rains come and put them out."

indifference

Selfishness and utter played its part in the destructive fire season, and no better illustration of this attitude can be cited than in the case of a property owner of Western Nevada County when asked a few years ago to aid in back-firing to save his neighbor's farm:

"Vat do I care about your fires?" spoke the German. "Dry Creek vill stop her on one side of me, and the mining company dey vill not let the odder side of me burn. Go on wid your fighting-I must put in mine hay. I hope your property she do not burn. down."

It was true, this man was surrounded by conscientious, careful people who were compelled to protect the German's land in order to save their own property.

It was not long after this summons for assistance that the German's house caught on fire while he was away from home. His wife and little children ran out and cried for help. The superintendent of the mine called his men from underground, and rushed into the burning building. They were able to save most of the furniture, but the house was completely destroyed.

The following night at the dinner table in the home of the mining superintendent where the unfortunate family was being sheltered, the German related his first knowledge of the fire.

"I was in mine upper field, plowing just over the hill, and mine oldest girl was running by mine side. First she saw smoke and said: "Oh, papa, there is a fire. Maybe our house is burning up!' I look, and see, and den I say' 'Oh, no; it is not quite the direction. of our house. I guess maybe it be the school house.' So I paid no attention, and went on plowing. Pretty soon the smoke grew blacker, and mine little girl got scared and cried: 'Oh, what if it is our own house!' Still I was not afraid, so I said: 'It may be the super

intendent's house,' and I hurried on wid mine plowing, for I wanted to finish by sundown.

"Den next we look around and see a blaze, and I rushed to the hill-top, and dere I see my house all on fire. I just turned Fannie loose and ran home, and my! I find my wife outside and my house burned to the ground. Dos men dey don't do nothing. If I had been home all would have been saved, dat's all."

Another reason for the great devastation of land by fires was the people's general ignorance of modes of fighting. First of all news of fire was sent broadcast. Fighters came as a rule when summoned. All congregated in one place ready to work, but there was no leader, no organization, no system whatsoever, nothing to guide them in their work. Men would fight the scorching flames with wet sacks, night and day; in fact, until they fell completely exhausted, and at the same time at the other end of the fire line the flames were creeping on undisturbed.

Back fires were set and allowed to get away, thus burning over more country than the original fire. In the dry months the rivers and streams are low, and sparks, unless very carefully guarded, can jump from a river backfire line to the opposite bank and start a new fire all unobserved. A burning tree often falls across a road back-fire line and new fires can often start in this way at almost any moment.

In Southern Nevada County I have seen men start back-firing three or four miles from a fire, and by the time this fire had reached the original one, hundreds of acres of trees and feed were destroyed unnecessarily.

A few years ago a back fire was allowed to get the best of its makers, and before they could control it it had reached the home of a recluse of eighty-five years. Men hurried to his rescue, but arrived just in time to see his old white head disappear from the upstairs window. Powerless were all while the flames devoured the home and its occupant.