About this time our attention was quite forcibly called to a singular phenomenon while riding on the raft, which was especially noticeable on quiet sunny days. It was a very pronounced crackling sound, not unlike that of a strong fire running through dry cedar brush, or that of the first rain drops of a thunder storm falling on the roof of a tent. Some of the men attributed it to the rattling on the logs of the raft of a shower of pebbles brought up by the swift current from underneath, which would have been a good enough theory as far as the sound was concerned; but soundings in such places invariably failed to touch bottom with a sixteen-foot pole, and, moreover, when we were in shallower and swifter waters, where the bottom was pebbly, the sounds were not observed. As the noise always occurred in deep water of a boiling character, figuratively speaking,—or in that agitated condition so common in deep water immediately after a shoal, a condition with which our experience in prying the raft off shoals had rendered us familiar—I attempted to account for it upon the theory explained by the figure just below. The raft x, drifting with the arrow, passes from a shallow to a deep stretch of water. The Yukon River is a very swift stream for its size (we drifted that day, July 16, forty-seven and a half geographical miles in eleven hours and fifty minutes, and even this rate cannot represent the swiftest current), and the pebbles, carried forward over the shallows and reaching the crest a, are borne along by their own inertia and the superficial current, and literally dropped on a gravel-bank at some point forward, such as b, and, water being so excellent a conductor of sound, an observer on a low floating craft, during quiet days, might distinctly hear this falling, whereas it would not be heard if the pebbles were simply rolling along the bottom in swifter and noisier water. The suddenness with which this crackling commenced and the gradual manner in which it died out, seem to confirm this idea. A series of soundings before and after the occurrence of these singular noises would have settled this theory; but the sound recurred so seldom (say twice, or perhaps three times, a day in this part of the river), that it was impossible to predict it in time to put the theory to the test, unless one kept constantly sounding while upon the river. It was observed on the lower river in a much less degree, and probably might there have passed unnoticed if previous experience had not recalled it to our attention.

That evening we camped at 8 o'clock, after trying to conduct our cumbersome vessel to a pretty little spot for the purpose, but our well-used "snubbing" line parted at the critical moment and we drifted down into a most miserable position among the high, rank willow shoots, laden with water from the recent rains. Towing or "tracking" our craft back against the swift current with our small force was plainly out of the question, and as the river bank seemed of the same character, as far as we could see, some two or three miles, we made the best of it and camped, for we were getting used to such experiences by this time.

Next morning, about 7 o'clock, when we were nearly ready to start, we found four Ayan Indians, each in his birch-bark canoe, visiting our camp. They came from the Kah-tung village above, having left it, as they said, shortly after our departure on the preceding day, and had camped for the night on the river just above us. They expressed great surprise at the distance we had made by simple drifting, having until this morning felt certain that they had passed us the day before around some one of the many islands in the broad river. They were going down the river some two or three hundred miles to a white trader's store of which they spoke, and we kept passing each other for the next three or four days. They had spoken at the Kah-tung village of this trading station (which we took to be Fort Yukon), which they said they could reach in three days; kindly adding that we might make the distance with our craft in a week or so. They now changed their minds and thought we might only be a day or two behind them. I found that the progress of the raft, when care was taken to keep in the swiftest current, for twelve or fourteen or perhaps sixteen hours a day, with no unusual detentions, fully equaled the average day's journey of the Indian canoes, which remained in the water not more than six or seven hours a day; their occupants stopping to hunt every animal that might be seen, as well as to cook a midday lunch at their leisure. In fact my own Indians, who had traded among them, more than hinted that they were hurrying considerably in order to go along with us and to reach the white trader's store as a portion of our party.

These same four fellows, when they met us on the morning of the 17th, had with them the carcass of a black bear, which they offered for sale or barter; and on our buying one hindquarter, which was about all that we thought we could use before spoiling, they offered us the rest as a gift. We accepted the offer to the extent of taking the other hindquarter, for which we gave them a trifle, whereupon the rest of the carcass was left behind or thrown away on the beach, a circumstance which was explained to us by the fact that all four of these Indians were medicine-men, and as such were forbidden by some superstitious custom from eating bears' flesh. They told us that the animal was the same black bear we had seen on the northern hillsides of the river the day before.

The morning of the 17th and certain other periods of the day were characterized by a heavy fog-bank, which did not quite reach the river bottom, but cut the hillsides at an altitude of from three hundred to five hundred feet above the level of the stream. The fog gave a dismal and monotonous aspect to the landscape, but proved much better for our physical comfort than the previous day, with its alternating rain and blistering heat. We found these fogs to be very common on this part of the river, being almost inseparable from the southern winds that prevail at this time of the year. I suppose these fogs proceed from the moisture-laden air over the warm Pacific which is borne on the southern winds across the snow-clad and glacier-crowned mountains of the Alaskan coast range, becoming chilled and condensed in its progress, and reaching this part of the Yukon valley is precipitated as rain or fog. The reason that we had escaped the fogs on the lakes was that the wind came across tracts of land to the south, and the hygrometric conditions were different. A little further down the Yukon, but within the upper ramparts, we suffered from almost constant rains that beat with the southern winds upon our backs.

Shortly after one o'clock in the afternoon we floated by the mouth of the White River flowing from the south west, which has the local name of YÚ-ko-kon Heena, or YÚ-ko-kon River, a much prettier name than the old one of the Hudson Bay traders. The Chilkats call it the Sand River, from the innumerable bars and banks of sand along its course; and many years ago they ascended it by a trail, which when continued leads to their own country, but is now abandoned. Some forty to fifty miles up its valley the Indian trading trail which leads from the headwaters of the Tanana to old Fort Selkirk crosses its course at right angles; and since the destruction of Fort Selkirk in 1851, the Tanana Indians, who then made considerable use of the trail to reach the fort for trading purposes, employ it but little; and only then as far as the White River, whose valley they descend to reach the Yukon.

This stream resembles a river of liquid mud of an almost white hue, from which characteristic it is said to have derived its name from the old Hudson Bay traders—and no better illustration of its extreme muddiness can be given than the following: One of our party mistook a mass of timber that had lodged on the up-stream side of a low, flat mud-bar, for floating wood, and regarded it as evidence of a freshet, a theory which seemed corroborated by the muddy condition of the water, until the actual character of the object was established by closer observation as we drifted nearer. The mud-bar and adjacent waters were so entirely of the same color that the line of demarcation was not readily apparent, and had it not been for the drift rubbish around the former it might have escaped our scrutiny even at our short distance from it. The Indians say that the White River rises in glacier-bearing lands, and that it is very swift, and full of rapids along its whole course. So swift is it at its mouth, that as it pours its muddy waters into the rapid Yukon it carries them nearly across that clear blue stream; the waters of the two rivers mingling almost at once, and not running distinct for miles side by side, as is stated in one book on Alaska. From the mouth of the White or Yu'-ko-kon to Bering Sea, nearly 1,500 miles, the Yukon is so muddy as to be noticeable even when its water is taken up in the palm of the hand; and all fishing with hook and line ceases.

About four in the afternoon the mouth of the Stewart River was passed, and, being covered with islands, might not have been noticed except for its valley, which is very noticeable—a broad valley fenced in by high hills. A visit to the shore in our canoe showed its mouth to be deltoid in character, three mouths being observed, and others probably existing. Islands were very numerous in this portion of the Yukon, much more so than in any part of the river we had yet visited, and as the raft had drifted on while I went ashore in the canoe, I had a very hard task to find it again and came within a scratch of losing it, having passed beyond the camp, and being compelled to return. It was about nine o'clock in the evening and the low north-western sun shone squarely in our faces, as we descended the river, eagerly looking for the ascending smoke of the camp-fire, which had been agreed upon, before separation, as the signal to be kept going until we returned. The setting sun throwing its slanting rays upon each point of woods that ran from the hillsides down to the water's edge, illumined the top of them with a whitish light until each one exactly resembled a camp-fire on the river bank with the feathery smoke floating off along the tree tops. Even my Indian canoeman was deceived at first, until half a dozen appearing together in sight convinced him of his error. All these islands were densely covered with spruce and poplar, and the swift current cutting into their alluvial banks, though the latter were frozen six or eight feet thick, kept their edges bristling with freshly-fallen timber; and it was almost courting destruction to get under this abatis of trees with the raft, in the powerful current, to avoid which some of our hardest work was necessary. The preservative power of this constantly frozen ground must be very great, as in many places we saw protruding from the high banks great accumulations of driftwood and logs over which there was soil two and three feet thick, which had been formerly carried by the river, and from which sprung forests of spruce timber, as high as any in sight, at whose feet were rotting trunks that must have been saplings centuries ago. Yet wherever this ancient driftwood had been undermined and washed of its dirt and thrown upon the beach along with the tree but just fallen, the difference between the two was only that the latter still retained its green bark, and its broken limbs were not so abraded and worn; but there seemed to be no essential difference in the fiber of the timber.

The evening of the 17th, having scored forty geographical miles, we camped on a low gravel bar, and bivouacked in the open air so clear and still was the night, although by morning huge drops of rain were falling on our upturned faces.

On the 18th, shortly after noon, we passed a number of Tahk-ong Indians, stretched upon the green sward of the right bank leisurely enjoying themselves; their birch-bark canoes, sixteen in all, being pulled up on the gravel beach in front of them. It was probably a trading or hunting party, there being one person for each canoe, none of whom were women. Already we observed an increase in the size and a greater cumbrousness in the build of the birch-bark canoes, when compared with the fairy-like craft of the Ayans, a characteristic that slowly increased as we descended the river until the kiak, or sealskin canoe of the Eskimo is encountered along the lower waters of the great river. Of course this change of build reflects no discredit upon the skill of the makers, as a heavier craft is required to navigate the rougher water, as the broad stream is stirred up by the persistent southern winds of the Yukon basin.

About 8.30 P.M. we passed an Indian camp on the left bank, which, from the seeming good quality of their canvas tents as viewed from the river, we judged might prove to be a mining party of whites. From them we learned that there was a deserted white man's store but a few miles beyond, but that the trader himself, had quitted the place several months before, going down to salt-water, as they expressed it. This was evidently the same trader the Ayans expected to meet at a little semi-permanent station of the Alaska Commercial Company dubbed Fort Reliance; and they seemed quite discomfited at his departure, although he had left the preceding autumn, and as we afterward ascertained more from fear of the Indians in his neighborhood than any other reason.

We camped that night at the mouth of a noticeable but small stream coming in from the east, which we afterward learned was called Deer Creek by the traders, from the large number of caribou or woodland reindeer seen in its valley at certain times of their migrations.

At this point of its course the Yukon River is extremely narrow in comparison with the distance from its head—about 700 miles,—and considering its previous mean width, being here only two hundred or two hundred and fifty yards across. It certainly must have great depth to be able to carry the immense volume of water of so swift and wide a river as it is above, for the current does not seem to increase appreciably in this narrow channel.

Directly northward in plain sight is a prominent landmark on this part of the river, viz., a high hill called by the Indians "the moose-skin mountain." Two ravines that converge from its top again diverge when about to meet about half way down the mountain slope, and along these two arms of an hyperbola there has been a great landslide, laying bare the dull red ocherous soil beneath, which contrasts almost vividly with the bright green of the grass and foliage of the mountain flank, and in shape and color resembles a gigantic moose-skin stretched out to dry. That day's drift gave us forty-seven and a half miles, and all our scores were good while passing the ramparts, the delays from sand, mud and gravel bars being very small.

Believing that I was now in close proximity to the British boundary, as shown by our dead reckoning—kept by Mr. Homan,—I reluctantly determined on giving a day (the 19th of July) to astronomical observations,—reluctantly because every day was of vital importance in reaching St. Michael's, near the mouth of the river, in time to reach any outgoing vessels for the United States; for if too late to catch them, we should have to spend a dismal and profitless year at that place. That day, however, proved so tempestuous, and the prospect so uninviting, that after getting a couple of poor "sights" for longitude, I ordered camp broken, and we got away shortly after eleven o'clock.

A few minutes before one o'clock we passed the abandoned trading station on the right bank of the river, which we surmised from certain maps and from subsequent information to be the one named Fort Reliance. It was a most dilapidated-looking frontier pile of shanties, consisting of one main house, probably the store, above ground, and three or four cellar-like houses, the ruined roofs of which were the only vestiges remaining above ground. The Indians said that Mr. McQuestion, the trader, had left on account of severe sickness, but his own story, when we met him afterward on the lower river, was that he was sick of the Indians, the main tribe of which were peaceful enough, but contained several ugly tempered communistic medicine-men who had threatened his life in order to get rid of his competition in the drug business, which resulted greatly to their financial detriment.

Nearly opposite Fort Reliance was the Indian village of Noo-klak-o, or Nuclaco, numbering about one hundred and fifty people. Our approach was welcomed by a protracted salute of from fifty to seventy-five discharges of their old rusty muskets, to which we replied with a far less number. Despite the great value of powder and other ammunition to these poor isolated savages, who are often obliged to make journeys of many hundreds of miles in order to procure them, and must oftentimes be in sore need of them for hunting purposes, they do not hesitate in exciting times—and every visit of a stranger causes excitement—to waste their ammunition in foolish hangings and silly salutes that suggest the vicinity of a powder magazine. I suppose the expenditure on our visit, if judiciously employed in hunting, would have supplied their village with meat for probably a month; and yet we drifted by with hardly a response. This method of saluting is very common along the river from this point on, and is, I believe, an old Russian custom which has found its way thus far up the stream, which is much beyond where they had ever traded. It is a custom often mentioned in descriptions of travel further down the river. The permanent number of inhabitants, according to Mr. McQuestion, was about seventy-five or eighty; and therefore there must have been a great number of visitors among them at the time of our passing. They seemed very much disappointed that we did not visit their village, and the many who crowded around the drifting raft in their little fleet of canoes spoke only of tea and tobacco, for which they seemed ready to barter their very souls. Their principal diet in summer and early fall is furnished by the salmon of the Yukon, while during winter and spring, until the ice disappears, they feed on the flesh of moose and caribou. A trader on the upper river told me that the ice of the stream is removed from the upper ramparts and above principally by melting, while all that covers the Yukon below that part is washed out by the spring rise of the river, there being fully a month's difference in the matter between the two districts. Noo-klak-o' was a semi-permanent village, but a most squalid-looking affair,—somewhat resembling the Ayan town, but with a much greater preponderance of canvas. Most of the native visitors we saw were Tanana' Indians, and I was somewhat surprised to find them put the accent, in a broad way, on the second syllable, Ta-nah'-nee, differing radically from the pronunciation of the same name by the Indians at the mouth of the river, and by most white travelers of the Lower Yukon. From this point a trail leads south-westward over the mountains to a tributary of the Tanana, by means of which these Indians visit Noo-klak-o. The 19th was a most disagreeable day, with alternating rain showers and drifting fog, which had followed us since the day of our failure in securing astronomical observations, and to vary the discomfort, after making less than thirty miles we stuck so fast on the upper point of a long gravel bar that we had to carry our effects ashore on our backs, and there camp with only half a dozen water-logged sticks for a camp-fire. What in the world any mosquito wanted to do out on that desert of a sand-bar in a cold drifting fog I could never imagine, but before our beds were fairly made they put in an appearance in the usual unlimited numbers and made sleep, after a hard day's work, almost impossible.

Starting at 8:10 A.M., next morning, from Camp 33, at 11:30 we passed a good sized river coming in from the west, which I named the Cone-Hill River, from the fact that there is a prominent conical hill in the center of its broad valley, near the mouth.

Just beyond the mouth of the Cone-Hill River we suddenly came in sight of some four or five black and brown bears in an open or untimbered space of about an acre or two on the steep hillsides of the western slope. The raft was left to look after itself and we gave them a running volley of skirmish fire that sent them scampering up the steep hill into the dense brush and timber, their principal loss being loss of breath. By not attending to the navigation of our craft in the excitement of the short bear hunt we ran on a submerged rock in a current so swift that we swung around so rapidly as almost to throw a number of us overboard, stuck for a couple of minutes with the water boiling over the stern, and in general lost our faith in the ability of our vessel to navigate itself. In a previous chapter I have mentioned having been told by a person in southern Alaska, undoubtedly conscientious in his statement, and having considerable experience as a hunter, that the black and brown bear of his district never occupied the same localities, and although the sequence of these localities might be as promiscuous as the white and black squares on a checker-board, yet each species remained wholly on his own color, so to speak; and this led him to believe that the weaker of the two, the black bear, had good reason to be afraid of his more powerful neighbor. This day's observation of the two species living together, in one very small area, shows either an error of judgment on the part of the observer mentioned, or a difference of the ursine nature in different regions.

After leaving the Stewart River, which had been identified by a sort of reductio ad absurdum reasoning, I found it absolutely impossible to identify any of the other streams from the descriptions and maps now in existence, even when aided by the imperfect information derived from the local tribes. Indianne, my Chilkat-Tahk-heesh interpreter, got along very well among the latter tribe. Among the Ayans were many who spoke Tahk-heesh, with whom they traded, and here we had but little trouble. Even lower down we managed to get along after a fashion, for one or two of the Ayan medicine-men who came as far as Fort Reliance with us, could occasionally be found, and they understood the lower languages pretty fairly, and although we struggled through four or five tongues we could still make out that tea and tobacco were the leading topics of conversation everywhere. Beyond Fort Reliance, and after bidding adieu to our four Ayans, we were almost at sea, but occasionally in the most roundabout way we managed to elicit information of a limited character.

About the middle of the afternoon of that day, the 20th, we floated past a remarkable-looking rock, standing conspicuously in a flat level bottom of the river on the eastern side, and very prominent in its isolation. I could not but notice the strong resemblance between it and Castle Rock on the Columbia River, although I judge it to be only about one-half or two-thirds the size of the latter, but much more prominent, not being overshadowed by near and higher mountains. I called it the Roquette Rock, in honor of M. Alex. de la Roquette, of the Paris Geographical Society. The Indians have a legend connected with it, so it is said, that the Yukon River once flowed along the distant hills back of it, and that the rock formed part of the bluff seen in the illustration just below, overhanging the western shore of the river, both being about the same height and singularly alike in other respects. Here the bluff and rock lived many geological periods in wedded bliss as man and wife, but finally family dissensions invaded the rocky household and culminated in the stony-hearted husband kicking his wrangling wife into the center of the distant plain, and changing the course of the great river so that it flowed between them to emphasize the perpetual divorce. The bluff and the rock, so my informant told me, are still known among the Indians as "the old man" and "the old wife." Despite a most disagreeable day, on the 20th we showed a record of forty-five geographical miles, by way of compensation for the dark lowering clouds that hung over us like a pall. The scenery passed that day would have been picturesque enough when viewed through any other medium than that of a wretched drizzle of rain. Just before camping we saw high perpendicular bluffs of what appeared to be limestone, frowning over us from the eastern shore, which were perforated with huge caverns that would have made good dens for bears, but their situation was such that no bears not possessing wings could have reached them. On the map this bluff figures as Cave Rock.

We got a late start on the 21st, the wretched weather being good for late sleeping if for nothing else, the middle of the forenoon finding us just pulling out. At noon we passed a good-sized river coming in from the east, but if it had been mapped we were unable to identify it. A few minutes afterward we swung around a sharp bend in the river and saw a confused mass of brush or logs that denoted an Indian village in the distance, a supposition confirmed by the number of canoes afloat in its front and by a motley crowd of natives on the bank, well mingled with the inevitable troop of dogs that to the eye of the experienced traveler is as sure a sign of an Indian village as both Indians and houses together. This was the first Indian village we had encountered on the river deserving the name of permanent, and even here the logs of which the cabins, six in number, were built, seemed to be mere poles, and by no means as substantially built as it might have been with the material at hand. It was perched up on a high flat bank on the western side of the river, the gable ends of the house fronting the stream, and all of them very close together, there being only one or two places wide enough for a path to allow the inmates to pass. The fronts of the houses are nearly on the same line, and this row is so close to the scarp of the bank that the "street" in front is a very narrow path, where two persons can hardly pass unless one of them steps indoors or down the hill; and when I visited the village the road was so monopolized by scratching dogs that I could hardly force my way through them. This street may have been much wider in times of yore—for it seemed to be quite an old village—and the encroachments of the eroding river during freshets may have reduced it to its present narrowness. If so, it will not be long before the present village must be abandoned or set back some distance. Further up the river we saw a single pole house projecting over the bank about a fourth or a third of its length, and deserted by its occupants. The body of the houses is of a very inferior construction, in which ventilation seems to be the predominating idea (although even this is not developed to a sufficient degree, as judged by one's nose upon entering), and the large door in front is roughly closed by a well-riddled moose or caribou skin, or occasionally by a piece of canvas so dirty that at the distance of a few feet it might be taken for an animal's skin. The roofs are of skins battened down by spruce poles, which, projecting beyond the comb in irregular lengths, often six and eight feet, gave the whole village a most bristling appearance. A fire is built on the dirt-floor, in the center of the habitation, and the smoke left to get out the best way it can. As the occupants are generally sitting flat on the floor, or stretched out at full length on their backs or stomachs in the dirt, they are in a stratum of air comparatively clear; or, at least, endurable to Indian lungs. The ascending smoke finds ample air-holes among the upper cracks of the walls, while that dense mass of it which is retained under the skins of the roof, making it almost impossible to stand upright, is utilized for smoking the salmon which are hung up in this space. The Indian name of the village is Klat-ol-klin', but it is generally known on the Middle River as Johnny's Village, after the chief's Americanized name. That dignitary was absent on a journey of several days down the river, at the time of our arrival.

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A number of long leaning poles, braced on their downhill ends by cross uprights, were noticed on the gravel beach in front of the village; these serve as scaffoldings upon which to dry salmon in the sun, and to keep them from the many dogs while undergoing this process. While taking a photograph of the town, two or three salmon fell from the poles; and in a twinkling fully sixty or seventy dogs were huddled together about them in a writhing mass, each one trying to get his share,—and that of several others. The camera was sighted toward them, a hurried guess made as to the proper focus, and an instantaneous view attempted, but the negative looked more like a representation of an approaching thunder shower, and I never afterward printed from it. Occasionally in these rushes a row of scaffolding will be knocked down, and if it happens to be loaded with salmon the consequent feast will be of a more extensive nature. These dogs were of a smaller breed, and noticeably of a darker color, than the Eskimo dogs of the lower river. They are employed by these Indians for the same purposes, but to a more limited extent.

It was at this village that what to me was the most wonderful and striking performance given by any natives we encountered on the whole trip was displayed. I refer to their method of fishing for salmon. I have already spoken of the extreme muddiness of the Yukon below the mouth of the White River; and this spot, of course, is no exception. I believe I do not exaggerate in the least when I say, that, if an ordinary pint tin-cup were filled with it, nothing could be seen at the bottom until the sediment had settled. The water is about nine or ten feet deep on the fishing banks in front of the houses, where they fish with their nets; or at least that is about the length of the poles to which the nets are attached. The salmon I saw them take were caught about two hundred or two hundred and fifty yards directly out from the shore in front of the houses. Standing in front of this row of cabins, some person, generally an old man, squaw or child, possibly on duty for that purpose, would announce, in a loud voice, that a salmon was coming up the river, perhaps from a quarter to a third of a mile away. This news would stir up some young man from the cabins, who from his elevated position in front of them would identify the salmon's position, and then run down to the beach, pick up his canoe, paddle and net, launch the former and start rapidly out into the river; the net lying on the canoe's birch deck in front of him, his movements being guided by his own sight and that of a half dozen others on the high bank, all shouting advice to him at the same time. Evidently, in the canoe he could not judge well of the fish's position, especially at a distance; for he seemed to rely on the advice from the shore to direct his movements until the fish was near him, when with two or three dexterous and powerful strokes with both hands, he shot the little canoe to a point near the position he wished to take up, regulating its finer movements by the paddle used as a sculling oar in his left hand, while with his right he grasped the net at the end of its handle and plunged it into the water the whole length of its pole to the bottom of the river (some nine or ten feet); often leaning far over and thrusting the arm deep into the water, so as to adjust the mouth of the net, covering about two square feet, directly over the course of the salmon so as to entrap him. Of seven attempts, at intervals covering three hours, two were successful (and in two others salmon were caught but escaped while the nets were being raised), salmon being taken that weighed from fifteen to twenty pounds. How these Indians can see at this distance the coming of a single salmon along the bottom of a river eight or ten feet deep, and determine their course or position near enough to catch them in the narrow mouth of a small net, when immediately under the eye a vessel holding that number of inches of water from the muddy river completely obscures an object at its bottom, is a problem that I will not attempt to solve. Their success depends of course in some way on the motion of the fish. In vain they attempted to show members of my party the coming fish. I feel perfectly satisfied that none of the white men could see the slightest trace of the movements to which their attention was called. Under the skin roofs of their log-cabins and on the scaffoldings upon the gravel beach were many hundred salmon that had been caught in this curious way. The only plausible theory which I could evolve within the limits of the non-marvelous, was, that the salmon came along near the top of the water, so as to show or indicate the dorsal fin, and that as it approached the canoe, the sight of it, or more likely some slight noise, made with that intention, drove the fish to the bottom without any considerable lateral deviation, whereupon they were inclosed by the net. But my interpreters told me (and I think their interpretation was correct in this case, roundabout as it was), that this superficial swimming did not take place, but that the motion of the fish was communicated from the deep water to the surface, often when the fish was quite at the bottom.

KLAT-OL-KLIN FISHING NETS.

Scale, 1-30.