Iroquois tradition tells us that once this earth was entirely submerged in water, and during this period for many days a busy little muskrat swam about vainly looking for a foothold of earth wherein to build his house.  In his search he encountered a turtle also leisurely swimming; so they had speech together, and the muskrat complained of weariness; he could find no foothold; he was tired of incessant swimming, and longed for land such as his ancestors enjoyed.  The turtle suggested that the muskrat should dive and endeavor to find earth at the bottom of the sea.  Acting on this advice, the muskrat plunged down, then arose with his two little forepaws grasping some earth he had found beneath the waters.

“Place it on my shell and dive again for more,” directed the turtle.  The muskrat did so; but when he returned with his paws filled with earth he discovered the small quantity he had first deposited on the turtle’s shell had doubled in size.  The return from the third trip found the turtle’s load again doubled.  So the building went on at double compound increase, and the world grew its continents and its islands with great rapidity, and now rests on the shell of a turtle.

If you ask an Iroquois, “And did no men survive this flood?” he will reply, “Why should men survive?  The animals are wiser than men; let the wisest live.”

How, then, was the earth repeopled?

The Iroquois will tell you that the otter was a medicine-man; that, in swimming and diving about, he found corpses of men and women; he sang his medicine-songs and they came to life, and the otter brought them fish for food until they were strong enough to provide for themselves.  Then the Iroquois will conclude his tale with, “You know well that the otter has greater wisdom than a man.”

So much for “mine own people” and our profound respect for the superior intelligence of our little brothers of the animal world.

But the Squamish tribe hold other ideas.  It was on a February day that I first listened to this beautiful, humane story of the Deluge.  My royal old tillicum had come to see me through the rains and mists of late winter days.  The gateways of my wigwam always stood open—­very widely open—­for his feet to enter, and this especial day he came with the worst downpour of the season.

Woman-like, I protested with a thousand contradictions in my voice, that he should venture out to see me on such a day.  It was “Oh!  Chief, I am so glad to see you!” and it was “Oh!  Chief, why didn’t you stay at home on such a wet day—­your poor throat will suffer.”  But I soon had quantities of hot tea for him, and the huge cup my own father always used was his—­as long as the Sagalie Tyee allowed his dear feet to wander my way.  The immense cup stands idle and empty now for the second time.

Helping him off with his great-coat, I chatted on about the deluge of rain, and he remarked it was not so very bad, as one could yet walk.