Then he would tell himself that, no matter
what his name was, some day he would cross to that great, far country,
whose snow-crowned mountain peaks he could just see merging into the
distant clouds.
Then, late in the summer, there came one marvellous night, when his
father and brother returned from the sockeye salmon fishing, with news
that set the entire Indian village talking far into the early morning.
A great Squamish chief on the mainland was going to give a Potlatch. He
had been preparing for it for weeks. He had enjoyed a very fortunate
fishing season, was a generous-hearted man, and was prepared to spend
ten thousand dollars* in gifts and entertainment for his friends and
all the poor of the various neighboring tribes.
[*Fact. This amount has frequently been given away.]
Chief Mowitch and all his family were invited, and great rejoicing and
anticipation were enjoyed over their salmon suppers that night.
"You and the boys go," said his wife. "Perhaps you will be lucky and
bring home chicamin and blankets. The old men say the winter will be
cold.
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