One day our father and his three girls were going over James Bay Bridge in Victoria. We met a jolly-faced old Indian woman with a little fair-haired white boy about as old as I was. Father said, “Hello, Joey!”, and to the woman he said:  “How are you getting on, Martha?” Father had given each of us a big flat chocolate in silver paper done up like a dollar piece. We were saving them…

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Three red bulls–sluggish bestial creatures with white faces and morose bloodshot eyes–made me long to get away from the village. But I could not: there was no boat. I knew the roof and the ricketiness of every Indian woodshed. This was the steepest roof of them all, and I was panting a bit. It is not easy to climb with a little dog in one hand and the hot breath of three bulls close…

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When the Indians told me about the Kitwancool totem poles, I said: “How can I get to Kitwancool?” “Dunno,” the Indians replied. White men told me about the Kitwancool poles too, but when I told them I wanted to go there, they advised me–“Keep out.” But the thought of those old Kitwancool poles pulled at me. I was at Kitwangak, twenty or so miles from Kitwancool. Then a halfbreed at Kitwangak said to me,…

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