with pine- knots, the most inflammable materials an Oregon forest could furnish. Upon them was heaped all that was left of the chiefs riches, all the silks and velvets that remained of the cargo of the shipwrecked vessel lost upon the coast long before. And finally, upon the splendid heap of textures, upon the laces and the damasks of the East, was laid the dead body of Mult nomah, dressed in buckskin; his moccasins on his feet, his tomahawk and his pipe by his side, as be came a chief starting on his last journey.
Then as night came on, and the smoky air dark ened into deepest gloom, the canoe was taken out into the main current of the Columbia, and fire was set to the dry knots that made up the funeral pyre. In an instant the contents of the canoe were in a blaze, and it was set adrift in the current. Down the river it floated, lighting the night with leaping flames. On the shore, the assembled tribe watched it in si lence, mute, dejected, as they saw their great chief borne from them forever. Promontory and dusky fir. gleaming water and level beach, were brought into startling relief against the background of night, as the burning vessel neared them; then sank into shadow as it passed onward. Overhead, the playing tongues of
