They were set to old airs--lullabies, chansons, barcarolles,
serenades, taken out of the folk-lore of many lands. Time and again had
these simple arcadian airs been sung as a prelude to some tribal act that
would not bear the search-light of civilisation--little by the Indians
east of the Rockies, for they have hard hearts and fierce tongues, but
much by the Shuswaps, Siwashes, and other tribes of the Pacific slope,
whose natures are for peace more than for war; who, one antique day,
drifted across from Japan or the Corea, and never, even in their wild,
nomadic state, forgot their skill and craft in wood and gold and silver.
We sat on the shore and watched the scene for a time, saying nothing. Now
and again, as from scaffolding to scaffolding, from boat to boat, and
from house to house, the Chinook song rang and was caught up in a slow
monotone, so not interfering with the toil, there came the sound of an
Indian drum beaten indolently, or the rattle of dry hard sticks--a
fantastic accompaniment.
"Does it remind you of the South Seas?" I asked Mrs. Falchion, as, with
her chin on her hand, she watched the scene.
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