Silver ice and black carbon it was now, although in the long ages gone it had had a history written in flame and smoke and thunder.

Tradition says that it sometimes, even now, rumbles and flashes forth in the darkness of night, then sinks into rest again, under its lonely ice palaces so splendid in the sunset, so weird under the moon.
Just as the red disk of the sun sunk down behind this stupendous scenery, a low, guttural sound was uttered by Potlatch Hero, an old Indian brave, and it passed along the line of the shadowy braves.

No one moved, but all eyes were turned toward the lodge of the old Umatilla chief.
He was coming--slowly, with measured step; naked, except the decent covering of a blanket and a heroic ornament of eagle-plumes, and all alone.
The whole tribe had now gathered, and a thousand dusky forms awaited him in the sunset.
There was another guttural sound.

Another remarkable life-picture came into view.

It was the school in a silent procession, following the tall masks, out of the forest trail on to the glimmering plain, the advent of that new civilization before which the forest lords, once the poetic bands of the old Umatillas, were to disappear.