Potlach Dance 
are extremely dirty and still more ugly, but they 
are quite adepts with the needle, making mocas- 
sins, buckskin shirts, etc., splendidly. The wife 
of my old Indian hunter tanned two or three of 
my deer hides, and afterwards made them into 
shirts for me. 
Whilst at Victoria I witnessed a “‘ potlach,” 
or dance, which for primitive savagery was hard 
to beat. I found myself one evening accom- 
panying a friend to a big rancheree in the 
neighbourhood. In a large barn of a room were 
squatted all the natives of the district. The 
room was illuminated only by the light of a big 
wood fire burning in a huge iron brazier in the 
centre, which threw fitful lights and shadows 
over those present. I had been to a big duck 
shoot a day or so previously, when we had killed 
over two hundred birds of sorts. These we had 
given to the chief, who in turn had divided them 
amongst his people; and the potlach was got 
up for me as a sort of return favour. 
In the corner of this room, screened off from 
the rest by an old blanket, hung over a string, 
came groans and shouts of the weirdest descrip- 
tion. I was told that they emanated from a man 
who was the champion dancer of the neighbour- 
hood. Whilst this man was working himself up 
into a state of sufficient keenness to take the 
floor, the proceedings were enlivened by the 
performances of a young woman of perhaps 
oO 193 
