LEGENDS OF VANCOUVER

named the sheltered little cove the Lost La-
goon. This was just to please my own fancy,
for as that perfect summer month drifted on,
the ever-restless tides left the harbor devoid
of water at my favorite canoeing hour, and
my pet idling place was lost for many days-
hence my fancy to call it the Lost Lagoon.
But the chief, Indian-like, immediately adopt-
ed the name, at least when he spoke of the
place to me, and as we watched the un slip
behind the rim of firs, he expressed the wish
that his dugout were here instead of lying
beached at the farther side of the park.

“If canoe was here, you and I we paddle
close to shores all ’round your Lost Lagoon:
we make track just like half moon. Then we
paddle under this bridge, and go channel be-
tween Deadrnan’s Island and park. Then
’round where cannon speak time at nine
o'clock. Then ’cross Inlet to Indian side of
Narrows.”

I turned to look eastward, following in
fancy the course he had sketched; the waters
were still as the footstep of the oncoming twi-
light, and, floating in a pool of soft purple,
Deadrnan’s Island rested like a large circle of
candle moss.

“Have you ever been on it?” he asked as
he caught my gaze centering on the irregular
outline of the island pines.

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