As I write, I glance up to see, in a corner of my room, a draping scarlet blanket, made of British army broadcloth, for the chief who rode the jet-black pony so long ago was the writer's father. He was not here to wear it when Arthur of Connaught again set foot on Canadian shores. Many of these facts I have culled from a paper that lies on my desk; it is yellowing with age, and bears the date, "Toronto, October 2, 1869," and on the margin is written in a clear, half-boyish hand, "Onwanonsyshon, with kind regards from your brother-chief, Arthur." [Illustration: Native tools] End of Project Gutenberg's Legends of Vancouver, by E. Pauline Johnson