The thought of the song was something as follows: "Aha! it is ever to-morrow, to-morrow-- Tamala, tamala, sing as we row; Lift thine eye to the mount; to the wave give thy sorrow; The river is bright, and the rivulets flow; Tamala, tamala, Ever and ever; The morrows will come and the morrows will go-- Tamala! tamala! "Happy boat, it is ever to-morrow, to-morrow-- Tamala, whisper the waves as they flow; The crags of the sunset the smiles of light borrow, And soft from the ocean the Chinook winds blow: Tamala, tamala, Ever and ever; The morrows will come and the morrows will go-- Tamala! tamala! "Aha! the night comes, but the light is to-morrow-- Tamala, tamala, sing as we go; The waves ripple past, like the heart-beats of sorrow, And the oar beats the wave to our song as we row: Tamala, tamala, Ever and ever; The morrows will come and the morrows will go-- Tamala! tamala! "For ever and ever horizons are lifting-- Tamala, tamala, sing as we row; And life toward the stars of the ocean is drifting, Through death will the morrow all endlessly glow-- Tamala, tamala, Ever and ever; The morrows will come and the morrows will go, Tamala! tamala!" The paddle dipped in the wave at the word _tamala_, and lifted high to mark the measure of the song, and strew in the warm, soft air the watery jewels colored by the far fires of the Sound.

So the boat swept on, like a spirit bark, and the beautiful word of immortality was echoed from the darkening bluffs and the primitive pine cathedrals.
The place where the grave had been made was on the borders of the Oregon desert, a wild, open region, walled with tremendous forests, and spreading out in the red sunset like a sea.

It had a scanty vegetation, but a slight rain would sometimes change it into a billowy plain of flowers.
The tribe had begun to assemble about the grave early in the long afternoon.

They came one by one, solitary and silent, wrapped in blankets and ornamented with gray plumes.

The warriors came in the same solitary way and met in silence, and stood in a long row like an army of shadows.
Squaws came, leading children by the hand, and seated themselves on the soft earth in the same stoical silence that had marked the bearing of the braves.
A circle of lofty firs, some three hundred feet high, threw a slanting shadow over the open grave, the tops gleaming with sunset fire.
Afar, Mount Hood, the dead volcano, lifted its roof of glaciers twelve thousand feet high.