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“Place it on my shell and dive again for more,” directed the turtle. The muskrat did so, but when he returned with his paws filled with earth he discovered the small quantity he had first deposited on the turtle’s shell had doubled in size. The return from the third trip found the turtle’s load again doubled. So the building went on at double compound increase, and the world grew its continents and its islands with great rapidity, and now rests on the shell of a turtle.

If you ask an Iroquois, “And did no men survive this flood?” he will reply, “Why should men survive? The animals are wiser then men; let the wisest live.”

How, then, was the earth re-peopled?

The Iroquois will tell you that the otter was a medicine man; that in swimming and diving about he found corpses of men and women; he sang his medicine songs and they came to life, and the otter brought them fish for food until they were strong enough to provide for themselves. Then the Iroquois will conclude his tale with, “You know well that the otter has greater wisdom than a man.”

So much for “mine own people” and our profound respect for the superior intelligence of our little brothers of the animal world.

But the Squamish tribe hold other ideas. It was on a February day that I first listened to this beautiful, humane story of the Deluge. My royal old tillicum had come to see me through the rains and mists of late winter days. The gateways of my wigwam always stood open–very widely open–for his feet to enter, and this especial day he came with the worst downpour of the season.

Womanlike, I protested with a thousand contradictions in my voice that he should venture out to see me on such a day. It was “Oh! Chief, I am so glad to see you!” and it was “Oh! Chief, why didn’t you stay at home on such a wet day–your poor throat will suffer.” But I soon had quantities of hot tea for him, and the huge cup my own father always used was his–as long as the Sagalie Tyee allowed his dear feet to wander my way. The immense cup stands idle and empty now for the second time.

Helping him off with his great-coat, I chatted on about the deluge of rain, and he remarked it was not so very bad, as one could yet walk.

“Fortunately, yes, for I cannot swim,” I told him.

He laughed, replying, “Well, it is not so bad as when the Great Deep Waters covered the world.”

Immediately I foresaw the coming legend, so crept into the shell of monosyllables.

“No?” I questioned.

“No,” he replied. “For one time there was no land here at all; everywhere there was just water.”

“I can quite believe it,” I remarked caustically.

He laughed–that irresistible, though silent, David Warfield laugh of his that always brought a responsive smile from his listeners. Then he plunged directly into the tradition, with no preface save a comprehensive sweep of his wonderful hands towards my wide window, against which the rains were beating.

“It was after a long, long time of this–this rain. The mountain streams were swollen, the rivers choked, the sea began to rise–and yet it rained; for weeks and weeks it rained.” He ceased speaking, while the shadows of centuries gone crept into his eyes. Tales of the misty past always inspired him.

“Yes,” he continued. “It rained for weeks and weeks, while the mountain torrents roared thunderingly down, and the sea crept silently up. The level lands were first to float in sea water, then to disappear. The slopes were next to slip into the sea. The world was slowly being flooded. Hurriedly the Indian tribes gathered in one spot, a place of safety far above the reach of the on-creeping sea. The spot was the circling shore of Lake Beautiful, up the North Arm. They held a Great Council and decided at once upon a plan of action. A giant canoe should be built, and some means contrived to anchor it in case the waters mounted to the heights. The men undertook the canoe, the women the anchorage.