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LEGENDS OF VANCOUVER

lounged amongst the boulders and watched the lazy clouds drift from peak to peak far above us. It was one of his inspired days; legends crowded to his lips as a whistle teases the mouth of a happy boy, his heart was brimming with tales of the bygones, his eyes were dark with dreams and that strange rnournfulness that always haunted them when he spoke of long-ago romances. There was not a tree, a boulder, a dash of rapid upon which his glance fell which he could not link with some ancient poetic superstition. Then abruptly, in the very midst of his verbal re- veries, he turned and asked me if I were sup- erstitious. Of course I replied that I was.

“Do you think some happenings will bring trouble later on—will foretell evil?" he asked.

I made some evasive answer, which, how- ever, seemed to satisfy him, for he plunged into the strange tale of the recluse of the canyon with more vigor than dreaminess; but first he asked me the question:

“What do your own tribes, those east of the great mountains, think of twin children?”

I shook my head.

“That is enough,” he said before I could reply. “I see, your people do not like them.”

“Twin children are almost unknown with us,” I hastened. “They are rare, very rare; but it is true we do not welcome them.”

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