As all students of the Indian are well aware these aboriginal and out-of-door dwellers in the forests, canyons, mountains, valleys, and on lake and seashores are great observers of Nature, and her many and varied phenomena. He who deems the Indian dull, stolid and unimpressionable, simply because in the presence of the White Race he is reserved and taciturn, little knows the observing and reflecting power hidden behind so self-restrained a demeanor. Wherever natural objects, therefore, are of a peculiar, striking, unusual, unique, or superior character, it is reasonable to assume that the Indians, living within sight of them, should possess myths, legends, folk-lore, creation-stories or the like in connection with their creation, preservation, or present-day existence. This is found exemplified in the legends of Havasupais, Hopis, Navajos and Wallapais as to the origin of the Grand Canyon of Arizona, of the Yohamities, Monos, Chuc-Chances, and others, of the distinctive features of the Yosemite Valley, the Hetch-Hetchy, etc.

While the present-day, half-educated, half-civilized Washoes are by no means representatives of the highest elements of natural enlightenment among the Indian race, they do possess legends about Tahoe, the following being the most interesting.

All these stories, except the last, were gathered by Mrs. W.W. Price of Fallen Leaf Lodge, from Indians with whom she has been very familiar for several years, named Jackson and his wife Susan. There has been no attempt to dress them up in literary fashion. They are given as near to the Indians' mode of telling as possible. They are wonderfully different from certain stories recently published in current magazines, professing to be Legends of Lake Tahoe. These latter are pure fiction, and to those familiar with Indian thought, reveal their origin in the imaginative brain of white writers who have but faint conceptions of Indian mentality. Mrs. Price is a graduate of Stanford University, and took great pains to preserve the Indians' exact mode of expression. As she herself writes:

    Long before the white man saw and wondered over the beauty of Tahoe, theorizing over its origin and concocting curious tales about its "unfathomable" depths, the Indians knew and loved it. And as among all other peoples, legends have grown up to account for every phenomenon of Nature, so among the Washoe Indians stories about Tahoe have been handed down from generation to generation.

    I do not vouch for these legends. The modern Indian too often tells what he thinks you want to know, - if only you will cross his hand with silver. But there are touches here and there that make me feel that for the most part they are remnants of very old legends.


    Long, long ago, before the white man came to Nevada, there lived in the meadow over beyond Glenbrook a good Indian. But though he was good, he was much annoyed by the Evil Spirit, who constantly interfered with all that he tried to do. Finally, he determined that he must move away and get over into the valleys of California. But when he tried to escape, the Evil One was always there ready to trip him in some way or other.

    In his trouble the Good Spirit came to his aid, giving him a leafy branch which had certain magic qualities. He was to start on his journey. If he saw the Evil One coming he was to drop a bit of the branch and water would immediately spring up. The Evil One could not cross water, and thus, being delayed by going around, would give the Indian time to escape.

    The Indian made his way well along to where Tallac Hotel now is, when, looking back, he saw the Evil One off in the distance approaching with such strides that his heart was filled with great fear. In his terror he tried to pluck a leaf but it snapped off and he dropped almost his whole branch. To his delight and relief the waters began to rise and soon "Tahoe" - Big Water - lay between him and his enemy.

    Free-heartedly he hurried on his way up the canyon, but when he reached the spot where the head of Fallen Leaf Lake lies, he turned to reassure himself. Away off the Evil One was advancing. A new terror filled his soul. In his hand there remained of his magic branch only one little twig with a single leaf on it.

    Plucking the leaf, he threw it down and watched it fall waveringly through the air. As it touched earth the waters again began to rise and "Doolagoga" - Fallen Leaf - sprang into being and on its surface floated the little leaf, as many leaves now float in the fall of the year.

    Turning, he sped up the ravine, dropping bits of his twig as fear directed him, and in his path, Lily, Grass, and Heather lakes came up to guard his way.

    At last he was over the crest of the mountain and found himself safe in the long-wished-for Valley of California.


    Once long ago in Paiuti-land, Nevada, there lived two brothers. The older was a hunter and brought home much game. His wife, whose name was Duck, used to cook this for him, but she was very stingy to the younger brother, and often times he was hungry. When he begged her for food, she scolded him and drove him out of the campoodie, saying, "Got none for you."

    One day when the older brother was off hunting Duck was cleaning some fish. She had been very cross to Little Brother, refusing to give him any food, and he was terribly hungry. Presently he came creeping up behind her and when he saw all the fish he became very angry. He took up a big club and before Duck could turn around he hit her on the head and killed her. Paying no attention to her dead body he cooked and ate all the fish he wanted and then lay down in the sunshine on a big rock and went fast asleep.

    By and by his Hunter Brother came home. Of course when he found his wife dead, he was filled with great anger at his young brother, though his anger was lessened when he thought of his wife's cruelty. He shook him very roughly and said, "I no like you any more! I go away. Leave you alone!" But Little Brother begged, "Don't be angry! Don't be angry! Let's go far away! I help you all the time! Don't be angry!"

    Gradually he persuaded the Hunter Brother to forgive him and they started off together toward the "Big Water" - Lake Tahoe. On the way the Hunter Brother taught the Little Brother how to shoot with a bow and arrow. By the time they reached the spot now known as Lakeside both their belts were filled with squirrels that they had shot.

    At dusk they built a good fire and when there were plenty of glowing coals, Hunter Brother dug a long hole, and filling it with embers, laid the squirrels in a row on the coals covering them all up with earth.

    He was tired and lay down by the fire to rest till the squirrels should be cooked. With his head resting on his arms, the warmth of the fire soothing him, he soon fell fast, fast asleep.

    Little Brother sat by the fire and as the night grew darker, he grew hungrier and hungrier. He tried to waken his brother, but the latter seemed almost like one dead and he could not rouse him. At last he made up his mind he would eat by himself. Going to the improvised oven, he began to dig up the squirrels, counting them as they came to light. One was missing. Little Brother was troubled.

    "How that? My brother had so many, I had so many!" - counting on his fingers - "One gone!" And he forgot how hungry he was as he dug for the missing squirrel.

    All at once he came upon a bigger hole adjoining the cooking hole. While he stood wondering what to do, out popped a great big spider.

    "I'll catch you!" cried the spider.

    "No, you won't!" said the boy, and up he jumped and away he ran, followed by the spider. They raced over stock and stone, dodging about trees and stumbling over fallen logs for a long time. At last Little Brother could run no more. The spider grabbed him and carried him back to his hole, where he killed him.

    It was almost daybreak when Hunter Brother awoke. He called his brother to bring more wood, for the fire was almost out. Getting no answer he went to look at the cooking squirrels.

    Greatly surprised to see them lying there all uncovered, he, too, counted them. Discovering one gone, he thought his brother must have eaten it and was about to eat one himself when he saw the old spider stick his head out of the hole. Each made a spring, but the Hunter Brother was the quicker and killed the wicked spider with his knife.

    Carefully he now went into the spider's hole. There, stretched out on the ground, lay Little Brother dead! Taking him up in his arms, he carried him outside. Now this Hunter Brother was a medicine-man of great power, so he lay down with Little Brother and breathed into his mouth and in a few minutes he came back to life and was all right.[1]

    The Hunter Brother was very happy to have his Little Brother alive again. He built up the fire and while they sat eating their long-delayed meal Little Brother told all that had happened to him.

[Footnote 1: Susan who was telling this story offered no reason why he had not restored Duck, his own wife, to life.]

    The sun was quite above the horizon before the meal was finished, and soon Hunter Brother was anxious to be moving on, so they took their way along the lake shore. On their way they talked and laughed one with another and seemed to agree very well, until they had gone around the lake and reached where Tahoe City now is. Here they quarreled and the Hunter Brother left Little Brother to return and go up the Big Mountain - Tallac - where he had heard there were many squirrels. After his departure, Little Brother decided to follow him and get him to make friends again. So he trudged along the lake shore until he came to Emerald Bay.

    There lying on the log at the edge of the lake, lay a water-baby. It was asleep with its head resting on its arms and its beautiful, sunshine-golden-hair was spread over it.

    "Oh," said Little Brother, "I'll get that beautiful sun-shine-hair as a present for my brother!" So he crept very softly down on the log, thinking to kill the water-baby before it awoke. But he was not successful in this, for the creature opened its eyes as he laid his hand on its hair, and a furious fight ensued. Sometimes it seemed as though Little Brother would be killed, but finally he was able to scalp the poor water-baby and get possession of the beautiful sunshine-golden-hair. Every one can see where this fight occurred. The red hill near Emerald Bay stands as a memorial of the struggle, for its color is caused by the blood of the slain water-baby.

    Tucking his prize in his hunting shirt and hugging it close, Little Brother now went on, murmuring to himself, "Oh, my brother like this, my brother like this beautiful golden-sunshine-hair!"

    But suddenly, as he was climbing upward, he noticed the water lapping at his heels, and when he turned to see whence it came, he found that the big lake behind him was rapidly rising, and even as he stood wondering, it arose above his ankles.

    Then he remembered what he had heard of revengeful water-babies, but frightened though he was, he could not bear to throw away his prize. However, he knew he must do something, so he plucked out a few hairs from the scalp and threw them into the ascending waves. For a minute the water ceased to rise and he sped onward, but before long he felt the water at his heels again, and knew that once more he must gain a short respite by throwing out a few of the golden-sunshine-hairs. And ever and again he had to do this until at last he spied his brother ahead of him. "Ah, brother," he cried, drawing the scalp from his blouse, "see what a beautiful present I have for you!"

    But when his brother turned toward him he saw only the angry, rising waters, and rushing forward he snatched the beautiful sunshine-golden-hair and cast it back into the waters, crying, "How you dare meddle with water-babies? Don't you know water surely come up and get you?"

    And poor Little Brother felt very sad; but the danger he had been in seemed to have endeared him once more to Hunter Brother and they stood arm-in-arm and watched the waters recede.

    But there were hollows in the land and when the waters went back they held the water and so were formed that chain of lakes on the other side of Tallac and Emerald Bay, the Velmas, Kalmia, Cascade, and others.

    The rest of the story is confused and full of repetitions. The gist of it is that Little Brother was ever getting into trouble from which Hunter Brother had to rescue him, for which Little Brother was most grateful and would go off seeking for a present to give to the Big Brother who was so kind to him.

    Once he got a young bear cub. He thought it was a dog. He petted it and brought it to his brother as a hunting-dog.

    Finally, after Hunter Brother had made a first-class hunter of Little Brother so that he could use his bow and arrows with great success, they went down toward the Sacramento Valley hunting deer. They followed a fine buck over hill and dale but could not get a good shot at him. At last worn out by running and suffering greatly, the Little Brother lay down and died. When his brother found him, he did not attempt to bring him to life again but buried him under a pile of rocks and leaves.


    Once upon a time there was an old Indian who lived over in Hope Valley with his two grand-daughters. He was a mean old man. He made the girls work very hard all day long. They had to gather wild grass seeds and acorns and grind them into flour all the time. The old man caught plenty of fish and frogs which he took off for his own eating, but he gave the girls none.

    One day he came in with a woodchuck skin and told the girls to fill it with wild wheat flour. He did not tell them what he wanted it for. When the skin was full he left the campoodie without a word as to where he was going. But the bag leaked and a little stream of flour trickled out and marked his path. He went away off to a lake where he caught plenty of fish and frogs on which he feasted until he could eat no more. Then he lay down by his fire and was soon fast asleep.

    Meanwhile in the campoodie the two girls were talking about the old man's meanness. "He makes us work so hard and we never have any fish to eat. He keeps it all himself," said the older girl.

    "I wonder where he's gone now?" said the younger one, going to the door-way and looking out. Suddenly she noticed the little line of flour trailing off through the woods. "Ah, now I'll find him!" And just calling to her sister that she would be back soon, she darted off.

    It was dark when she came back weeping. She threw herself on the ground outside the campoodie and poured out her story. She had found the old man lying there fast asleep, gorged with fish. The remnants of his feast lay all about him. She had not dared to waken him or speak to him, but coming home, had made up her mind to run away and not work for the mean old man any more.

    To this the sister agreed, and at daybreak they were scurrying off through the forest.

    All day they traveled and when night came they were still in the wilds far from any Indian camp.

    Worn out, they lay down under a great pine and looked up at the stars.

    "Oh," said the older girl, "see that fine Star-man up there! I'd like to marry him!"

    "Oh, no!" said the younger, "he belongs to me. I'd like to marry him!"

    They lay there telling what each would do could she only marry the Star-man, until they fell asleep. When they awoke in the morning, lo, they found themselves up in the sky, and the elder girl had a baby already - a star-baby! At first the girls were very good to the star-baby but it cried a great deal. One day the younger girl was very cross and put it outside of the campoodie. The poor baby cried all the more until the elder sister took pity on it, but when she had fed it and it still cried, the younger sister became very angry and told her sister to put that "brat" outside. The sister was tired too, so she put the poor baby outside.

    When the baby could not make them come to him, he got up and went to find his grandfather, the Moon. He told him how mean his mother and aunt were to him. The old Moon was very angry. He took the star-baby by the hand and went tramping back through the sky to find the cruel mother and her sister.

    Now, the girls had been getting rather tired of their sky-campoodie and they longed for their home on the earth. They used to go to a hole in the sky and look down on the earth, wishing they were there again. Indeed, at the time the star-baby went off to find his grandfather, the Moon, they were at the hole in the sky, amusing themselves by looking through and indulging in vain regrets that they were no longer there.

    "Oh, sister," suddenly said the elder, "there goes our old grandfather! Poor old man! I wish we were with him! See, he's carrying big bags of wild wheat-flour and acorns!"

    Just then the old Moon came tramping up, and the whole sky trembled. The people on earth said it was thundering. He grabbed the two girls by their hair and shaking them till they were almost dead, he hurled them down through the hole.

    Down, down, they went, straight down to where their old grandfather was walking along, little suspecting what was coming. They both hit him and, coming as they did with such force, they made a deep hole in the earth in which they were almost buried.

    That hole is over by Gardnerville. In that hole Indians can always find plenty of wild-grub - wild-wheat, wild potato, wild acorn - plenty there. Snow very deep. No difference. Always plenty wild grub there. I see that hole. I believe that story!


    Long, long ago, away over in Paiuti-land there were some young boys and girls playing. They played all sorts of games, but they liked hand-ball best. And as they played, they sang songs of gladness.

    There was one old woman, their grandmother, who would not play with them. She had a little baby, her youngest grandchild, whom she was trying to quiet, but the little one cried and cried continuously.

    By-and-by the old woman heard a noise outside. She was frightened and called to the young folks. "Some one's coming! You better stop! Better hide! Maybe Evil One, devil, coming!"

    But the young folks paid no attention to her warning. They kept on playing harder than ever. The old woman covered the baby with a big basket and hid her own face in her shawl.

    Then the Evil One came in. All the young folks turned to see who was coming in and as soon as they looked upon his face they fell dead. Only the old woman and the baby were left; for the Evil One did not see them.

    When he was gone, the old woman snatched up the baby and hurried off down to the river. As she was hurrying along she met an old man.

    "Where are you going?" said he. Then the old woman saw that it was the Evil One himself. She was afraid but she did not want him to know it. She kept the baby covered in the basket and answered, "I'm going to the river to get wild potatoes!"

    "Where are all the girls?" asked the Evil One.

    "Oh, they are all over behind the big mountain, playing ball!"

    The Evil One went off to find them, because he thought there were still some left, and the old woman quickly dug a big hole and hid herself and the baby away in it.

    When the Evil One found that the old woman had told him a lie, he was very angry. He came back and hunted all day long till sundown for her that he might kill her. But he could not find any trace of her. He finally went home and then the old woman took the baby and hid on the top of a big rock, over near where Sheridan now is.

    In the morning the Evil One came back to hunt further, but without success.

    "I guess that the old woman is dead," said he, "or maybe she's gone across the river." But the Evil One loses his power if he touches water, so he dare not cross the river to follow her.

    The old woman watched him from the top of the rock. Many times she feared lest he should find her, and she covered the baby more closely.

    At last when he had given up the hunt, she saw him take a great basket and set it down in the road. Into this basket he put great bunches of elderberry roots, and as he put each bunch in, he gave it a name - Washoe, Digger, Paiuti, and so on. Then he put the lid on tightly and went off through the forest.

    The old woman watched till the Evil One had gone. Creeping quietly down, she came with the child - she was a little girl now, not a wee baby any more - and sat down near the basket.

    Presently there was a murmuring in the basket. "Oh, grandmother, what's that noise?" said the little girl.

    "Never mind," said the grandmother, "don't you touch the basket!"

    But the little girl kept teasing, "Oh, grandmother, what's in there?"

    And the old woman would say, "Don't you touch it!"

    The old woman turned her back just one minute and the little girl slipped up and raised the lid ever so little. There was a great whirring noise; the lid flew off and out came all the Indians. Off through the air they flew - Washoes to Washoe land; Diggers to Digger land; Paiutis to Nevada - each Indian to his own home.

The story given above is the one told by Jackson, but his wife, Susan, tells the same story with these essential differences. In her narrative there is no Evil One. The old woman scolded the young people for playing, but they are not all killed. It is the old woman herself who took a Paiuti water-bottle and after filling it with water, took wild seeds and placed them in the bottle, naming them the different Indian tribes. The seeds swelled in the water until they were as big as eggs and out of these the Indians hatched like chickens, and began to fight. It is the noise of the fighting that the baby hears.

As in Jackson's story the baby lets them out, but it is the wind that carries them off to their various homes.


    The Indians were having a "big time" in a great log cabin. All the birds were there too, for in those days the Indians, birds, and animals could talk to each other.

    They were dancing all around the room and all were merry as could be. They had a huge wooden drum and, as they passed this, the dancers kicked it to make music.

    Now, among the birds who were there was a big blue-jay. He was a very saucy fellow, just full of mean tricks. When he came to the drum, he kicked it so hard that he broke it all to pieces. Of course this caused a great commotion. Every one was so provoked by his rudeness that they threw him out of the door.

    It was raining hard and the impudence was soon washed out of Mr. Blue-Jay. He begged at the door in vain, and at last he huddled up on the branch of a tree, thinking himself greatly abused.

    As he sat there, suddenly, far off, he saw a strange light. Now the Blue-Jay has an infinite amount of curiosity, so away he flew to investigate, quite forgetting his troubles.

    It was fire which the Indian god had brought down to earth. The Jay got a piece and soon came flying back to the great cabin where the dance was still going on.

    When he called now at the door, saying that he had something wonderful to show them, they knew that he was telling the truth. They let him come in, crowding about him to see this wonderful thing. They did not know what to make of this strange new thing. Lest anything should happen to it, they dug a hole and buried the fire most carefully.

    Tired out with the night's dancing the Indians all went off to rest, leaving the birds to watch the precious fire. But the birds were tired too, and it was not long before they were fast asleep. All except the owl. He was wide awake and he, being very wise, knew that the fire must be put in a safer place. He went out and calling the yellow snake, the rat, and the little "hummer" bird, he explained what he wanted them to do. The snake was to worm his way in under the logs and wait there till the hummer-bird brought him the fire. The rat was to go in and chew all the birds' wings so that they should not be able to catch the little hummer. They were all so fast asleep that the rat was able to do this very easily.

    All went just as they planned. The snake took the fire and hid a little spark of it in every buckeye tree. And there the Indians found it when they needed it. For rubbing a piece of cedar and buckeye together, they very quickly make the spark, and produce fire.


The following legend was published some years ago in Sunset Magazine. It was written by Miss Nonette V. McGlashan, who heard it from a Washoe squaw. The story was told with strange gestures and weird pathos:

    The ong was a big bird, bigger than the houses of the white man. Its body was like the eagle's, and its wings were longer than the tallest pines. Its face was that of an Indian, but covered with hard scales, and its feet were webbed. Its nest was deep down in the bottom of the Lake, out in the center, and out of the nest rushed all the waters which fill the Lake. There are no rivers to feed the Lake, only the waters from the ong's nest. All the waters flow back near the bottom, in great under-currents, and after passing through the meshes of the nest are sent forth again. Every plant and bird and animal that gets into these under-currents, and sometimes the great trout that are swept into the net-like nest are there held fast to furnish food for the ong.

    He ate everything, he liked everything, but best of all he liked the taste of human flesh. No one ever heard or saw anything of such poor mortals as were drowned in these waters, for their bodies were carried to the ong's nest and no morsel ever escaped him. Sometimes he would fly about the shores in quest of some child or woman or hunter, yet he was a great coward and was never known to attack any one in camp, or when two or more were together. No arrow could pierce his feathers, nor could the strongest spear do more than glance from the scales on his face and legs, yet his coward's heart made him afraid for his toes had no claws, and his mouth no beak.

    Late one fall, the Washoes were making their final hunt before going to the valleys and leaving the Lake locked in its winter snows. The chief's daughter was sixteen years old, and before leaving the Lake he must select the greatest hero in the tribe for her husband, for such had been the custom of the Washoe chiefs ever since the tribe came out of the Northland. Fairer than ever maiden had been was this daughter, and every unmarried brave and warrior in the tribe wished that he had performed deeds of greater prowess, that he might be certain of winning the prize. That last night at the Lake, around the big council fire, each was to recount to the chief the noblest achievement of his life, and when all were heard the chief would choose, and the women join the circle and the wedding take place. For many years the warriors had looked forward to this event, and the tribe had become famed because of acts of reckless daring performed by those who hoped to wed the chief's daughter.

    It was the morning of the final day and much game and great stores of dried trout were packed ready for the journey. All were preparing for the wedding festivities, and the fact that no one knew who would be the bridegroom, among all that band of warriors, lent intensest excitement to the event. All were joyous and happy except the maiden and the handsome young brave to whom she had given her heart. In spite of custom or tradition her love had long since gone out to one whose feet had been too young to press the war-path when last the tribe gave battle to their hereditary foes, the Paiutis. He never had done deed of valor, nor could he even claim the right to sit with the warriors around the council fire. All day long he had been sitting alone on the jutting cliffs which overhang the water, far away from the laughter and shouts of the camp, eagerly, prayerfully watching the great Lake. Surely the Great Spirit would hear his prayer, yet he had been here for days and weeks in unavailing prayer and waiting.

    The afternoon was well-nigh spent and the heart of the young brave had grown cold as stone. In his bitter despair he sprang to his feet to defy the Great Spirit in whom he had trusted, but ere he could utter the words his very soul stood still for joy. Slowly rising from the center of the Lake, he saw the ong. Circling high in the heavens, the monster swept now here, now there, in search of prey. The young brave stood erect and waited. When the ong was nearest he moved about slightly to attract its notice. He had not long to wait. With a mighty swoop, the bird dashed to earth, and as it arose, the young brave was seen to be clasped fast in its talons. A great cry of horror arose from the camp, but it was the sweetest note the young brave had ever heard. The bird flew straight up into the sky until Lake and forest and mountains seemed small and dim. When it reached a great height it would drop its prey into the Lake and let the current draw it to its nest. Such was its custom, and for this the brave had prepared by unwinding from his waist a long buckskin cord and tying himself firmly to the ong's leg. The clumsy feet could not grasp him so tightly as to prevent his movements. At last the great feet opened wide, but the Indian did not fall. In a mighty rage, the ong tried in vain to grasp him in his teeth, but the strong web between the bird's toes sheltered him. Again and again the bird tried to use his horrid teeth, and each time his huge body would fall through the air in such twistings and contortions that those who watched below stared in bewilderment. But what the watchers could not see was that every time the huge mouth opened to snap him, the young brave hurled a handful of poisoned arrowheads into the mouth and down the big throat, their sharp points cutting deep into the unprotected flesh. The bird tried to dislodge him by rubbing his feet together, but the thong held firm. Now it plunged headlong into the Lake, but its feet were so tied that it could not swim, and though it lashed the waters into foam with its great wings, and though the man was nearly drowned and wholly exhausted, the poison caused the frightened bird such agony that it suddenly arose and tried to escape by flying toward the center of the Lake. The contest had lasted long and the darkness crept over the Lake, and into the darkness the bird vanished.

    The women had been long in their huts ere the council fire was kindled and the warriors gravely seated themselves in its circle. No such trifling event as the loss of a young brave could be allowed to interfere with so important an event, and from most of their minds he had vanished. It was not so very unusual for the ong to claim a victim, and, besides, the youth had been warned by his elders that he should not go hunting alone as had been his habit of late.

    But while the warriors were working themselves up into a fine frenzy of eloquence in trying to remind the old chief of their bygone deeds of daring, an Indian maiden was paddling a canoe swiftly and silently toward the middle of the Lake. Nona, the chief's daughter understood no more than the rest why her lover had not been dropped into the Lake, nor why the ong had acted so queerly, but she knew that she could die with her lover. She took her own frail canoe because it was so light and easy to row, though it was made for her when a girl, and would scarcely support her weight now. It mattered nothing to her if the water splashed over the sides; it mattered nothing how she reached her lover. She kept saying his name over softly to herself, "Tahoe! My darling Tahoe!"

    When the council was finished, the women went to her hut to bid her come and hear the decision her father was about to render. The consternation caused by her disappearance lasted until the rosy dawn tinged the Washoe peaks and disclosed to the astounded tribe the body of the ong floating on the waters above its nest, and beside it an empty canoe. In the foreground, and gently approaching the shore was the strangest craft that ever floated on water! It was one of the great ong's wings, and the sail was the tip of the other wing! Standing upon it, clasped in each other's arms, were the young brave, Tahoe, and the daughter of the chief. In the shouts of the tribe, shouts in which warriors and women and children mingled their voices with that of the chief, Tahoe was proclaimed the hero of heroes! The decision was rendered, but the ong's nest remains, and the drowned never rise in Lake Tahoe.