silent in the bush. At frequent intervals one starts a 
long hoot, and after an interval some other replies, 
and thus the party keeps in touch. One may now be 
quite too good a Christian to confess it, but it is not 
so very long ago that these woods were filled with 
heathen devils ready to make things busy for the in- 
truder on their domain, and if one hoots now and then 
in the bush, it certainly does no harm and might scare 
away any devil that hadn't heard of the arrival of the 
missionaries. So on we go with hoot answering hoot, 
and Tonga carefully explaining that she hooted because 
she wanted to make sure just where Fa'afili was, but 
Tanoa, who has never had circus advantages and civi- 
lization and things, is frankly scared out of a year's 
growth, which makes it all the more commendable that 
he sticks so close to me in all the expeditions into 
which my wish to investigate things is constantly lead- 
ing him. 
At last we reach the thicket of tutunga without hav- 
OLD JESUIT CHURCH. 
Photo by Fred S. Wheeler. 
ing actually seen any devilish aitu, though there were 
some funny sounds that would be hard to explain ex- 
cept on the devil theory. Now in this art of dress- 
making with an ax, there is only one stage of the pro- 
ceedings that calls for the deepest jungle as its scene. 
This account will keep within better bounds by being 
restricted to the woodsy operations, leaving the ac- 
count of the final stages for some later occasion. 
The problem of the Vaiala housewives is this: given a 
thicket of second growth timber, to convert those sap- 
lings into the new clothes and the cloth pathways where- 
with Vaiala, man, woman and child, shall rise and shine 
on the day when the Manu'a chief comes with pigs and 
mats and dancers and song to marry Samalaulu. To 
the Vaiala woman the problem is easy, her first task 
is to peel those saplings. At it they go. They have 
actually made Tanoa work. The hatchet is to chop 
down the trees, and if he thinks his old hatchet is too 
almighty fine for any one to use, why then, it's about 
his day to chop the saplings down himself, for down 
they must come until Fa'afili says that enough have 
been laid low. As fast as the saplings fall (they run 
just about the thigkness that will fall to one clean, 
sharp cut), Talolo hauls them out of the way and 
lops off the upper end just below the first appear- 
ance of branches and tosses back to the waiting row of 
womankind long, slim poles of a length of anywhere 
from six to ten feet. Whoever gets the pole next gives 
it a thorough good beating with a short billet of wood, 
being careful, however, not to break the bark. Down 
along the line it goes to those who slit the bark from 
one end of the pole to the other. From these experts — 
and to cut a straight line on three yards of small 
sapling is no easy thing to do — it goes to the last line 
of the women. Theirs is the task to strip the bark 
from the wood and roll it up in a close coil as they 
strip it off the wood, leaving the inner side of the rib- 
bon of bark on the outside of the coil. As soon as the 
coil is made up it is firmly lashed with threads of the 
waste bark and passed back to Salatemu and myself, 
who are in the rear rank of all in the highly important 
act of keeping tabs on the work done. Salatemu, who 
has the imagination of a sheep, always drifts into some 
such sort of a job. For myself I soon found that I 
was in a fair way to pull off my finger nails before I 
learned how to roll up the bark coils. Still we were 
as busy as bees at our respective posts, and long be- 
fore Tanoa had awakened to the fact that he was in- 
deed working like a horse, Salatemu announced that 
the rolls of bark had reached the number settled upon 
and that we should go home with our raw material. 
And all the way home Talolo kept enlivening us with 
questions as to whether we had seen the keenness of 
his strokes in lopping off the ends of the saplings. 
And Tanoa began a plaintive song about the girl who 
went out to chop tutunga, and when she was putting 
the bark rolls to soak in the river her brother's corpse 
came floating down stream; Tonga explains that the 
song is so very ancient that only about six people in 
Samoa loiow what it means, and they won't tell com- 
mon people, but it's a song that every one knows, and 
it's the proper thing to sing it when coming back 
from chopping tutunga. Just as if Tanoa would ever 
omit one of the proprieties or be found singing the 
wrong song under any circumstances! But Talolo re- 
turns to the charge with his skill in chopping the ends 
off the sticks and happily assured us that it took a man 
to do that sort of thing, only a man could handle a 
knife so as to chop things off, heads, for instance, in 
war. But he got a smart to his feelings because of his 
brag, for Fa'afili — and she had been a mother to him 
once, too — asked the cutting question: "Man, indeed! 
And when wert thou tattooed, Thy Afionga Baby.'" 
LUEWSLU Pl£SCB CbURCBIU* 
FOREST ANt) STREAM. 
Relics of Old Days. 
The vicinity of the great Kettle Falls of the Columbia 
is rich in mementoes of former days and times. 
Two considerations quickly decided the Hudson Bay 
Company to locate one oi their principal fortified posts 
near this place. 
First, the salmon fisheiy of the Indians at the cataract, 
where occurred the annual gathering of most of the tribes 
of the Pacific Northwest east of the Cascades and south 
of the British line; and, secondly, the wide level plat of 
bottom or lower valley land on the left bank of the Co- 
lumbia, where, about a mile above the falls and on the 
same side of the great river as where the best of the 
fishing ground was located, was found the most perfect 
site for a fortified trading post. 
A level valley some four miles long up and down the 
river and about two miles wide lay spread out apparently 
for their convenience; and here on a gentle rise of ground 
about a mile above the falls a palisaded fort, about loo 
feet square with bastions or block houses of heavy logs 
at each of the corners, which were built two stories in 
height, pierced for cannon and loopholed for musketry, 
and covered with a hip roof, made a fortification proof 
against all Indian attack. 
A small brass cannon of some 80 pounds weight was 
brought across the continent, and the formidable weapon 
added greatly to the armament of the big stockade. 
When I first saw the old fort in 1885 two sides of the 
old palisaded wall — or the most of them — rotten and 
crumbling with age, leaned over in waiting for their 
fall ; and now nothing but one of the old block houses 
at the northwest corner of the old fortification remains. 
As nearly as I can ascertain, the fort was built in 
1814 or 1815. 
In the inclosed photograph the view is toward the 
southwest. 
To the right of the block house, just over the top of the 
old rail fence, is a glimpse of the Columbia a short dis- 
tance above the Kettle Falls, which is hidden from view 
by the cattle shed on the left of the old relic. 
A small quantity of seed wheat was brought to the fort, 
and in 1S16 a windmill was built, and two blocks of 
granite were shaped into millstones, but the wind power 
proving unsatisf actor j', the mill was moved some five 
miles south of the fort to the falls of the Colville River, 
now known as Meyers Falls, where, after being thor- 
oughly worn out, they were replaced by another pair 
formed of two big boulders of conglomerate taken from 
the bed of the Columbia River at the Grand — or Rickey — 
Rapids, some five miles below Kettle Falls. 
These were well shaped by a master hand, and after 
having been used for many years still remain in position 
in the old unused mill. 
The old granite millstones, worn "to a frazzle," and 
with the lines of the old furrows scarcely distinguishable, 
lie on the hillside above the old mill and already half 
buried in the soil. 
A vandal "Professor" from Pullman College — without 
so much as a "by your leave" from Mr. Jacob Meyers, 
1^3 
THE OLD BLOCKHOUSE. 
Photo by Fred S. Wheeler. 
the owner — broke off a piece of the old relic and bore it 
away in barbarous triumph. 
Between the fort and the cataract on a bluff of land one 
hundred feet or more higher than the site of the fort, a 
church was built by the Jesuits in 1839 or in 1844 — the 
exact date cannot be determined. 
The old ruin is well shown in the photograph, the view 
being toward the northeast. 
When it is borne in mind that the lumber for doors, 
casings, gables and cross pieces for the rafters was 
worked out with whipsaws, that the building itself is 
50x80 feet in size, and tliat the lower log or "sill" shown 
in the picture is a solid log hewn on four sides, 12x18 
inches in size and 80 feet in length, it is easily understood 
that the crumbling ruin is a monument of patient industry. 
Near the north end stands an old adobe fireplace of 
huge dimensions, the top of its chimney having crumbled 
below the roof; and here, on the wide face of the chim- 
ney, in the main room of the building — for a partition 
across the building formed a small living room in the 
north end — hung the most singular painting I ever saw. 
It was about 3x4 feet in size, representing a vision of 
the abode of the saved in heaven. 
Frame, canvas and pigments were evidently gathered 
hy the sealoui artiit from «moog such materials a« were 
possible to the place and time; and the brush used 
might well have been the end of a cat's tail. 
The crudest, rawest daub ever hung up to charm— or 
paralyze--a crowd of savages; every characteristic of the 
old pamtmg united to make it priceless 
As before stated my first view of the old ruin was in 
ifcK5, and as I stood admiring the old painting, still haiig- 
mg m the long-abandoned building, I deliberated loiTg 
regarding the propriety of stealing the crude affair fo? 
the purpose of preserving it for some yet-to-be-formed 
antiquarian society; but my somewhat shadowy recollec- 
tion of the eighth commandment tugging at my conscience 
nnally drew me away. 
Proceeding homeward I pondered more and more over 
the matter and finally made up my mind that when next 
i passed the old ruin I would steal the painting, "wher 
no," as Uncle Remus says. 
But, alas ! when I hurried back to the old church at the 
first opportunity, some other "antiquarian" had been 
ahead of me, and the adobe wall of the old chimney stood 
stripped and bare. 
Scythe in hand, Time, the iconoclast, moved on The 
net and salmon wheel of the avaricious paleface sweeping 
KETTLE FALLS. 
the mouth of the great river bare of its finny wealth have 
left the rocks of the great cataract unfretted by the plung- 
ing spear of the hungry Indian; and the puffing locomo- 
tive, tugging Its load of mineral, or the palace car of the 
thoughtless tourist, up the steep grade a mile eastward of 
the old fortification, has changed the old brass cannon into 
a curious memento of the turbulent days gone by, leavino- 
the decaying logs of the old building only a crumbling 
marvel to curious eyes, and a time-worn hunter, seated 
pen in hand, gossiping to the readers of Forest and 
Stream of days gone by forever. Orin Belknap. 
The Joys of Living. 
The morning is fine, with clear air and bright skies, 
and as I arise and step out on to the piazza a few 
breaths of ozone are almost intoxicating. What a joy 
to fill one's lungs, flaccid and inelastic from breathing 
the furnace-heated, germ-laden stuff which passes for 
air in our city houses, with the life-giving oxygen of 
"out doors." 
The prime requisite for enjoyment of living is, of 
course, perfect physical health, and then, if we add a 
full measure of appreciation of the marvels enacted 
every day by Dame Nature, we find joy without stint. 
We look with delight and amaze upon the paintings 
of the artists who have faithfully depicted a beautiful 
sunset, a doe deer, a speckled trout, and pay fabulous 
prices for them, all of which is right and to be recom- 
mended, for the paintings are the art preservative of 
what in nature is eternally changing. 
The sunset is fleeting, the deer is out of sight in a 
moment's time, the trout are as the lightning's flash, 
so we hang their counterfeit presentments on our walls 
and are happy in their company. But who of us that 
are sportsmen lovers of nature would swap for their 
pictures material, their pictures mental, covei-ing years 
of enjoyment on the deer's trail, the stream's bank, tlie 
mountain's top? 
On a day in October I sat on a runway in the glori- 
ous Green Mountains of Vermont watching for deer. 
The woods were a blaze of glory, and the crisp dead 
leaves on the forest floor made anything like a quiet 
stalk out of the question. Therefore I sat down on a 
log. Soon I heard a slight footfall and saw the back 
of some creature bobbing down the mountain in my 
direction. I dropped down on one knee, and a fawn 
appeared, soon followed by its mother, a large doe. 
The law allows killing of bucks only, but at first I was 
unable to see whether the creature carried horns or 
not, so my rifle was at a ready. As she came into 
clear view I saw she was a doe, and my eye ran through 
the sights to her shoulders, but my finger did not pull. 
Instead, I kept still, and watched the handsome crea- 
ture play with her fawn, which strayed within two 
rods of me. It finally ran away, she foUowing slowly, 
unconscious of my presence. I qrept upon the log 
again, but the movement, slight as it was, caught her 
attention, and her head swung in my direction, her 
great ears came forward, and then with that so often 
fatal curiosity ascribed to the feminine gender she 
turned and came toward me, her delicate nostrils quiv- 
ering for my scent. There she stood and stamped her 
little hoofs, the most beautiful thing in the whole for- 
est, until, her curiosity satisfied, she turned, and whist- 
ling for her fawn, in a few jumps was gone. That is 
a mental picture I shall long carry, and I rate it as one 
of the joys of life. 
Only perfect health will enable, and a desire to get 
into the woods will impel one to leave the warm couch 
before daylight and trudge out into a swirling snow- 
storm to see if some of nature's children are abroad. 
With my double barrel in my warmly gloved hands, and 
a sweater pulled up around my neck, I was perfectly 
