whether it was born there of the blood and bodies in
the snow, and came to life only when a little, naked,
skeleton savage sprung up in the inidst of men with
a club, I do not pretend to say, but I should guess
the latter. I can picture him a little boy with bow
and arrows, not over gentle it is true, but still a
patient little savage, like the rest, talking and taking
part in the sports, like those around him. Now he
was prematurely old. He never laughed ; never so
much as smiled ; took no delight in anything and
yet refused to complain. He took hold of things,
did his part, but kept his secrets and his sorrows
to himself, whatever they may have been.
Klamat never alluded to the massacre in any way whatever. Once, when it was mentioned, he turned his head and pretended not to hear. Yet, somehow it seemed to me that that scene was before him every moment. He saw it in the fire at night, in the forest by day. There are natures that cannot forget if they would. A scene like that settles down in the mind ; it takes up its abode there and refuses to go away. His was such a nature.
In fact, Indians in the aggregate forget less than any other people. They remember the least kind ness perfectly well all through life, and a deep wrong is as difficult to forget. The reason is, I should say, because the Indian does not meet with a great deal of kindness as he goes through life. His mind and memory are hardly overtaxed, I think, in remem bering good deeds from the white man.
