“It was more than one hundred years ago.  This great city of Vancouver was but the dream of the Sagalie Tyee [God] at that time.  The dream had not yet come to the white man; only one great Indian medicine-man knew that some day a great camp for Palefaces would lie between False Creek and the Inlet.  This dream haunted him; it came to him night and day—­when he was amid his people laughing and feasting, or when he was alone in the forest chanting his strange songs, beating his hollow drum, or shaking his wooden witch-rattle to gain more power to cure the sick and the dying of his tribe.  For years this dream followed him.  He grew to be an old, old man, yet always he could hear voices, strong and loud, as when they first spoke to him in his youth, and they would say:  ’Between the two narrow strips of salt water the white men will camp, many hundreds of them, many thousands of them.  The Indians will learn their ways, will live as they do, will become as they are.  There will be no more great war-dances, no more fights with other powerful tribes; it will be as if the Indians had lost all bravery, all courage, all confidence.’  He hated the voices, he hated the dream; but all his power, all his big medicine, could not drive them away.  He was the strongest man on all the North Pacific Coast.  He was mighty and very tall, and his muscles were as those of Leloo, the timber-wolf, when he is strongest to kill his prey.  He could go for many days without food; he could fight the largest mountain-lion; he could overthrow the fiercest grizzly bear; he could paddle against the wildest winds and ride the highest waves.  He could meet his enemies and kill whole tribes single-handed.  His strength, his courage, his power, his bravery, were those of a giant.  He knew no fear; nothing in the sea, or in the forest, nothing in the earth or the sky, could conquer him.  He was fearless, fearless.  Only this haunting dream of the coming white man’s camp he could not drive away; it was the only thing in life he had tried to kill and failed.  It drove him from the feasting, drove him from the pleasant lodges, the fires, the dancing, the story-telling of his people in their camp by the water’s edge, where the salmon thronged and the deer came down to drink of the mountain-streams.  He left the Indian village, chanting his wild songs as he went.  Up through the mighty forests he climbed, through the trailless deep mosses and matted vines, up to the summit of what the white men call Grouse Mountain.  For many days he camped there.  He ate no food, he drank no water, but sat and sang his medicine-songs through the dark hours and through the day.  Before him—­far beneath his feet—­lay the narrow strip of land between the two salt waters.  Then the Sagalie Tyee gave him the power to see far into the future.  He looked across a hundred years, just as he looked across what you call the Inlet, and he saw mighty lodges built close together, hundreds and thousands of them—­lodges of stone and wood, and long straight trails to divide them.  He saw these trails thronging with Palefaces; he heard the sound of the white man’s paddle-dip on the waters, for it is not silent like the Indian’s; he saw the white man’s trading posts, saw the fishing-nets, heard his speech.  Then the vision faded as gradually as it came.  The narrow strip of land was his own forest once more.