Part 2 (2/2)

A horizontal incision was made about three-tenths of an inch below the upper part of the lower lip, extending from one corner of the mouth to the other, entirely through the flesh; this orifice was then by degrees stretched sufficiently to admit an ornament made of wood, which was confined close to the gums of the lower jaws, and whose external surface projected horizontally.

These wooden ornaments were oval, and resembled a small platter, or dish, made concave on both sides; they were of various lengths, the smallest about two inches and a half; the largest more than three inches long, and an inch and a half broad.

They were about one-fifth of an inch thick, and had a groove along the middle of the outside edge to receive the lip.

These hideous things were made of fir, and were highly polished. Ladies of the greatest distinction wore the largest labrets. The size also increased with age. They have been described by Vancouver, Cook, Lisiansky, La Perouse, Dall, Schwatka, Emmans, and too many others to name here; but no description can quite picture them to the liveliest imagination. When the ”wooden trough” was removed, the incision gave the appearance of two mouths.

All chroniclers unite as to the hideousness and repulsiveness of the practice.

Of the Indians in the vicinity of Fisher Channel, Vancouver remarks, without a glimmer of humor himself, that the vivacity of their countenance indicated a lively genius; and that, from their frequent bursts of laughter, it would appear that they were great humorists, for their mirth was not confined to their own people, but was frequently at the expense of his party. They seemed a happy, cheerful people. This is an inimitable English touch; a thing that no American would have written, save with a laugh at himself.

Poison Cove in Mussel Ca.n.a.l, or Portlock Ca.n.a.l, was so named by Vancouver, whose men ate roasted mussels there. Several were soon seized with numbness of the faces and extremities. In spite of all that was done to relieve their sufferings, one--John Carter--died and was buried in a quiet bay which was named for him.

Millbank Sound, named by Mr. Duncan before Vancouver's arrival, is open to the ocean, but there is only an hour's run before the shelter of the islands is regained; so that, even when the weather is rough, but slight discomfort is experienced by the most susceptible pa.s.sengers. The finest scenery on the regular steamer route, until the great snow fields and glaciers are reached, is considered by many well acquainted with the route, to lie from Millbank on to Dixon Entrance. The days are not long enough now for all the beauty that weighs upon the senses like caresses.

At evening, the sunset, blooming like a rose upon these splendid reaches, seems to drop perfumed petals of color, until the still air is pink with them, and the steamer pushes them aside as it glides through with faint throbbings that one feels rather than hears.

Through Finlayson Channel, Heikish Narrows, Graham, Fraser, and McKay reaches, Grenville Channel,--through all these enchanting water avenues one drifts for two hundred miles, pa.s.sing from one reach to another without suspecting the change, unless familiar with the route, and so close to the wooded sh.o.r.es that one is tormented with the desire to reach out one's hand and strip the cool green spruce and cedar needles from the drooping branches.

Each water-way has its own distinctive features. In Finlayson Channel the forestation is a solid mountain of green on each side, growing down to the water and extending over it in feathery, flat sprays. Here the reflections are so brilliant and so true on clear days, that the dividing line is not perceptible to the vision. The mountains rise sheer from the water to a great height, with snow upon their crests and occasional cataracts foaming musically down their fissures. Helmet Mountain stands on the port side of the channel, at the entrance.

There's something about ”Sarah” Island! I don't know what it is, and none of the mariners with whom I discussed this famous island seems to know; but the fact remains that they are all attached to ”Sarah.”

Down in Lama Pa.s.s, or possibly in Fitzhugh Sound, one hears casual mention of ”Sarah” in the pilot-house or chart-room. Questioned, they do not seem to be able to name any particular feature that sets her apart from the other islands of this run.

”Well, there she is!” exclaimed the captain, at last. ”Now, you'll see for yourself what there is about Sarah.”

It is a long, narrow island, lying in the northern end of Finlayson Channel. Tolmie Channel lies between it and Princess Royal Island; Heikish Narrows--a quarter of a mile wide--between it and Roderick Island. Through Heikish the steamer pa.s.ses into the increasing beauty of Graham Reach.

”Now, there!” said the captain. ”If you can tell me what there is about that island, you can do more than any skipper _I_ know can do; but just the same, there isn't one of us that doesn't look forward to pa.s.sing Sarah, that doesn't give her particular attention while we are pa.s.sing, and look back at her after we're in Graham Reach. She isn't so little ... nor so big.... The Lord knows she isn't so pretty!” He was silent for a moment. Then he burst out suddenly: ”I'm blamed if _I_ know what it is! But it's just so with some women. There's something about a woman, now and then, and a man can't tell, to save his soul, what it is; only, he doesn't forget her. You see, a captain meets hundreds of women; and he has to be nice to every one. If he is smart, he can make every woman think she is just running the s.h.i.+p--but Lord! he wouldn't know one of them if he met her next week on the street ... only now and then ...

in years and years ... _one!_ And that one he can't forget. He doesn't know what there is about her, any more than he knows what there is about 'Sarah.' Maybe he doesn't know the color of her eyes nor the color of her hair. Maybe she's married, and maybe she's single--for that isn't it. He isn't in love with her--at least I guess he isn't. It's just that she has a way of coming back to him. Say he sees the Northern Lights along about midnight--and that woman comes like a flash and stands there with him. After a while it gets to be a habit with him when he gets into a port, to kind of look over the crowds for some one. For a minute or two he feels almost as if he _expected_ some one to meet him; then he knows he's disappointed about somebody not being there. He asks himself right out who it is. And all at once he remembers. Then he calls himself an a.s.s. If she was the kind of woman that runs to docks to see boats come in, he'd laugh and gas with her--but he wouldn't be thinking of her till she pushed herself on him again.”

The captain sighed unconsciously, and taking down a chart from the ceiling, spread it out upon a shelf and bent over it. I looked at Sarah, with her two lacy cascades falling like veils from her crown of snow.

Already she was fading in the distance--yet how distinguished was she!

How set apart from all others!

Then I fell to thinking of the women. What kind are they--_the ones that stay!_ The one that comes at midnight and stands silent beside a man when he sees the Northern Lights, even though he is not in love with her--what kind of woman is she?

”Captain,” I said, a little later, ”I want to add something to Sarah's name.”

”What is it?” said he, scowling over the chart.

”I want to name her '_Sarah, the Remembered_.'”

He smiled.

”All right,” said he, promptly. ”I'll write that on the chart.”

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