went, he wore his blanket coat, his feather in his hat, his leggings
and moccasins, and the skunk skin on his arm. Very seldom was any
attempt made to treat him rudely, though occasionally it was necessary
to hurry him through the streets to avoid a crowd collecting. Wide
guesses were made at his nationality; one would take him for a New
Zealander, another for a native of Japan.

One of our best meetings was a garden-party at Mitcham Vicarage. There
was a large gathering of ladies and gentlemen beneath the dark
spreading cedars on the soft lawn. The Chief put on his feathers and
ornaments, and at once became the centre of attraction. I think it was
on this occasion that he narrated the Indian tradition of the Flood:

"Nanaboozhoo," said the Chief, "had a son. He loved his son. He told
his son never to go near the water lest evil should come to him. The
son disobeyed his father: he went out in a canoe and was never seen or
heard of more. Nanaboozhoo then vowed vengeance against the gods of the
water, who had destroyed his son. There were two of these gods, and one
day they lay sleeping on the shore. Nanaboozhoo was looking everywhere
for them, determined to kill them. A loon offered to show him where
they were sleeping. He followed the loon till he found them, and then
he made short work of them with his tomahawk and his war-club. But lo,
and behold, no sooner were the gods dead than the waters of the great
lake rose up in vengeance; they pursued Nanaboozhoo up on to the dry
land, and he had to run for his life. He sought the highest mountain
and climbed to the top of the highest pine-tree. Still the waters
pursued him. They rose higher and higher. What could he do? He broke
off a few of the topmost branches, and made a raft upon which he got
and saved himself. He saved also a number of the animals that were
kicking and struggling in the water all around him. At length he