Before many hours had passed, she and the child had scoured the nearby edges of the forest for woods that were dried, seasoned, and yet solid.  They had carried armfuls back to the fir shack, and the work of carving had begun.  The woman sat by the fire hour after hour—­the fire that burned in primitive fashion in the centre of the shack, stoveless and hearthless, its ascending smoke curling up through an aperture in the roof, its red flames flickering and fading, leaping and lighting the work that even her unaccustomed fingers developed with wonderful accuracy in miniature of the Totem Pole at the north-west corner outside.  By nightfall it was completed, and by the fitful firelight Tenas painted and stained its huddled figures in the black, orange, crimson and green that tribal custom made law.  The warmth of the burning cedar knots dried the paints and pigments, until their acrid fragrance filled the little room, and the child’s eyelids drooped sleepily, and in a delightful happiness he once more snuggled into his blanket bed, the baby Totem Pole hugged to his little heart.  But his mother sat far into the night, her busy fingers at work on the realization of her child’s dream.  She was determined to fashion his dream-flock of “young” totems which would bring to them both more of fat eating than many bands of grey geese flying southward.  The night wore on, and she left her task only to rebuild the fire and to cover with an extra blanket the little form of her sleeping boy.  Finally she, too, slept, but briefly, for daybreak found her again at her quaint occupation, and the following nightfall brought no change.  A week drifted by, and one morning, far down the Sound, the whistle of a coming steamer startled both boy and woman into brisk action.  The little flock of Totem Poles now numbered nine, and hastily gathering them together in one of her cherished cedar-root baskets she clasped the child’s hand, and they made their way to the landing-stage.

When she returned an hour later, her basket was empty, and her kerchief filled with silver coins.

On the deck of the steamer one of the ship’s officers was talking to a little group of delighted tourists who were comparing their miniature purchases with the giant Totem Pole in the distance.

“You are lucky,” said the officer.  “I know people who have tried for years to buy the big Pole from her, but it was always ‘No’ with her—­just a shake of her head, and you might as well try to buy the moon.  It’s for that little boy of hers she’s keeping it, though she could have sold it for hundreds of good dollars twenty times over.”

That all happened eleven years ago, and last summer when I journeyed far north of Queen Charlotte Sound, as the steamer reached a certain landing I saw a giant Totem Pole with a well-built frame house at its base.  It was standing considerably away from the shore, but its newness was apparent, for on its roof, busily engaged at shingling, was an agile Indian youth of some seventeen years.