The New York herald., 1922-10-22

bright
peers into the bucket, and gently, oh! 90
gently, he lets a soft flow of water seep
down over the brim and across the fer
tiiizing eggs. "Look!"
I see the miracle take place in the
bucket! A gossamer mist floats over the
eggs, almost imperceptible, 10 fine is its
fabric. It is the changing of color. Now
each egg is distinct wrapped in its own
little robe of Creation. A white spot on
each shows that Life is now there
Magic!
Some have quickly turned light coral
in color. These Mcpherson deftly extracts
and casts from him. They are already
dead. He goes over his babies"
By now 1 am feeling his fatherly in
terest. go after the last fish in the trap.
A queer pair. the two of us. the Scot and
l. in that mountain stream in British Co.
lumbia- And a queer fish. that in the trap.
A humping big buck. already far gone
toward spawning: the hook nose and dog
teeth showing plainly. Some males are so
distorted this way, with the growth Of
reproductive organs inside them, that the
jaws shut on each side of each other-like
shearsi This fellow looks vicious. Also.
the fish trap is but rickety contraption.
We face each other, the pale yellow eyes
of the salmon cycling me malevolently.
'Hoot!" the landing net is snatched from
my hands; with one deft, well practiced
dab Mcpherson has ended the battle. In
trice the big fish is locked in the grip
Mcpherson leans over a pail.
1 like to picture him there, mist wreaths
curling about him-smokelike-h red
beard a flame He might be some high
priest, conducting a rite-a Siwash shannon
perhaps; for the myths of the Haida are
peopled with salmon. High proved canoes.
Siwash Mcpherson, the salmon: they all
belong in this picture. The old Northwest
that is passing! And. McPherson-with
his pals of red eggs-fighting a rear guard
action. Against :? Well,
against Time, perhaps: Time and the can
ners!
"a Goddess lot" Mcpherson describes
them. with thought for naught but them
selves"
Their money has made them a power
in politics, strong enough to defeat any
laws being made that would place q ban
upon unlimited fishing. Money!" curses
Mcpherson. its all they are after. Catch
all the fish that they can and to
hell with the future!"
And the future is the particular concern
1f Mol T,alya 90 %
he regards me. appraisingly. before letting
go of the buckets.
I stand there in the stream, the water
pouring into my boots. Take care of the
eggs" I exclaim. ''If you're not jolly
quick about passing them over I'll pitch
the whole lot in the drink"
For an instant a maniacal light flares In
the blue eyes above me-panther hunters
have seen it when In chase of the cubs
and I wade hurrtedly off into the stream
the sacred buckets held high overhead
Mcpherson. with magnificent assurance,
runs along the sx3 wall OF the fish trap
and so gets to shore. We make our way
through dank underground, dripping al
ders, DEVILS club thorns and around the
pillarlike trunks of gigantic spruce and at
last deposit the black painted buckets
safely on the floor boards of the boat
But the danger is not yet behind us:
there is the river! Great snags hurtle past
us: gaunt, twisted branches clawing arm
IKE at the air. A merganser comes. liks
bullet, up stream, making time. HIS red
wicked head stretched out like spear
point. Mcpherson blasphemes.