By the shore the rocks are ringing That to you seem wholly dumb, Ever with the waves are singing, Winds with songs forever come; Songs of sorrow for the partings Death and time make as of yore, Songs of war and peace and valor, Red men sang on Whulch's shore. See! the ashes of our fathers, Mingling dust beneath our feet, Common earth to you, the strangers, Thrills us with a longing sweet. Fills our pulses rhythmic beat. At the midnight in your cities Empty seeming, silent streets Shall be peopled with the hosts Of returning warriors' ghosts. Tho' I shall sink into the dust, My warning heed; be kind, be just, Or ghosts shall menace and avenge. PART III. INDIAN LIFE AND SETTLERS' BEGINNINGS. CHAPTER I. SAVAGE DEEDS OF SAVAGE MEN. At Bean's Point, opposite Alki on Puget Sound, an Indian murdered, at night, a family of Indians who were camping there. The Puyallups and Duwampsh came together in council at Bean's Point, held a trial and condemned and executed the murderer. Old Duwampsh Curley was among the members of this native court and likely Sealth and his counsellors. One of the family escaped by wading out into the water where he might have become very cool, if not entirely cold, if it had not been that Captain Fay and George Martin, a Swedish sailor, were passing by in their boat and the Indian begged to be taken in, a request they readily granted and landed him in a place of safety. Again at Bean's Point an Indian was shot by a white man, a Scandinavian; the charge was a liberal one of buckshot. Some white men who went to inquire into the matter followed the Indian's trail, finding ample evidence that he had climbed the hill back of the house, where he may have been employed to work, and weak from his wounds had sat down on a log and then went back to the water; but his body was never found. It was supposed that the murderer enticed him back again and when he was dead, weighted and sunk him in the deep, cold waters of the Sound. At one time there was quite a large camp of Indians where now runs Seneca Street, Seattle, near which was my home. It was my father's custom to hire the Indians to perform various kinds of hard labor, such as grubbing stumps, digging ditches, cutting wood, etc. For a while we employed a tall, strong, fine-looking Indian called Lachuse to cut wood; through a long summer day he industriously plied the ax and late in the twilight went down to a pool of water, near an old bridge, to bathe. As he passed by a clump of bushes, suddenly the flash and report of a gun shattered the still air and Lachuse fell heavily to the ground with his broad chest riddled with buckshot.