Tamalpais wrapped her mantle
     Of the clouds about her shoulders.
     Gray the day, and melancholy,
     For December rains were falling,
     Falling in a steady downpour.
     Mournful branches of the redwoods,
     Drooping, dripping, swayed above us;
     Moaned above the lonely cabin
     On the slope of Tamalpais.
     Raindrops pattered on the shingles,
     Beat against the eastern windows,
     Flooding down the glass in torrents.

     Through the veil of slanting rainfall.
     Could be seen the distant harbor,
     With its flecks of fleecy vapors
     Floating, merging, disappearing.

     In the fireplace of the cabin,
     Logs and knots of pine were blazing,
     Snapping with the pitch imprisoned;
     Flocks of sparks were flying upward;
     Flags of flame were waving welcome,
     Warming, cheering, exorcising
     Ghosts of Gloom and eerie phantoms;
     Bringing brightness and the odor
     Of the burning pitch that lingers
     As the incense of the forests.

     By the fireplace sat the Tamal,
     Lone survivor of her people—
     Sat and listened to the patter
     Of the raindrops on the shingles,
     To the soughing of the west-wind
     In the branches of the redwoods.
     Long she gazed upon the harbor,
     Lying leaden-gray below us.
     Then, she told this ancient legend—
     Legend of her tribe, the Tamals,
     Legend of an ancient deluge.

     "Do you see," she said, "the Islands
     Of the Albatross and Beaver?
     By another name you call them.
     One is crested by a prison,
     Grim and somber, melancholy;
     One is gay with flags and bunting,
     Ringing with the martial music
     Of your sailor boys in training;
     Yet, if you observe them closely,
     You will see in one the profile
     Of an Albatross, a giant
     Sea bird, sleeping on the water;
     While the other is a Beaver
     Facing always to the eastward.
     When the noon sun casts its shadows
     You may see his stony features
     From the deck of ferry steamers
     Near the pier that wades the shallows
     On the harbor's eastern border,
     Tamals call them Sacred Islands
     Of the Albatross and Beaver,
     For upon their backs were carried
     All the Tamals through the deluge.

     Down the ages came the legend,
     Told by Fathers to the children,
     Told on rainy winter evenings
     Round the campfires of the Tamals.

     From the ocean rolled the rain-clouds,
     Came unceasingly the rain-clouds.
     Black and heavy were the rain-clouds,
     Lighted only by the flashes
     Of the lightning playing in them.
     Fell the rain as falls the torrents
     In the waterfalls of rivers,
     Fell through days of murky darkness,
     Fell through nights of inky blackness,
     Fell for days and nights unnumbered.
     Waters covered plains and valleys.
     On the coast the sea was rising,
     Flooding all the lower country,
     Creeping up the mountain foothills;
     Still the rains in floods descended.

     Up the slopes of Tamalpais
     Climbed the people of the Tamals,
     While behind them crept the waters,
     Covering the hills and mountains.
     One by one the peaks were swallowed
     In the flood of rising waters.
     On the gray and sullen waters
     Floated logs and trees uprooted;
     On the trunks and in the branches
     Cowered creatures of the forests,
     Then the people prayed the Spirit—
     Prayed the Father in the Heavens—
     That he save his tribe, the Tamals,
     Ere the waters rise above them;
     And the Spirit heard their pleading,
     Sent the Albatross and Beaver,
     Giant messengers from Heaven,
     As the Saviors of the Tamals.

     Albatross came from the westward,
     Through the lightning of the storm-clouds,
     Growing larger, coming nearer,
     Till the thunder of his pinions
     Echoed from the cliffs above them,
     Then he rested on the waters.

     From the eastward came the Beaver,
     Swimming through the turbid waters,
     Growing, growing, ever growing,
     Till he had become a Giant,
     On whose back the tribe of Tamals
     Could find refuge from the waters.

     Then a voice spoke from the storm-clouds,
     Spoke in mighty tones of thunder:
     'I have heard your prayer, Oh Tamals;
     You shall live, and shall re-people
     All the world with men and women.
     I will give to them the spirit
     Of the Albatross who searches
     Distant seas on tireless pinions.
     I will give to them the wisdom
     Of the Beaver who with patience
     Labors, building and constructing.
     On the Albatross and Beaver
     You shall ride, until the waters
     Shall return to their own borders.'

     On the Albatross and Beaver
     All the Tamals rode in safety,
     While the swirling deluge covered
     All the foothills and the mountains.
     Then the northwind, dry and scorching,
     Drove the rain-clouds to the ocean,
     And the sun-rays, piercing through them,
     Glinted on the troubled waters.
     Came the peak of Tamalpais
     As an island to the surface;
     Down the slopes the flood receded
     Baring forests to the sunlight,
     Then the grass-lands of the valleys
     And the old familiar coastline.

     With rejoicing all the Tamals
     Sought their homes along the bayshore,
     Singing thanks to the Great Spirit,
     Singing praises to their saviors,
     Giant Albatross and Beaver,
     Resting then, within the harbor.
     Then again, in voice of thunder,
     Spoke the Spirit from the Heavens;
     'Let the Totem of the Tamals
     Be the Albatross and Beaver;
     Search and Labor, be their motto;
     And, lest children of their children
     May forget their mighty saviors,
     Giant Albatross and Beaver
     Shall be changed to rocky Islands—
     Monuments to stand forever,
     In the Harbor of the Tamals.'

     Thus the ancient Tamal woman
     Told the Legend of the Islands,
     While December rains were falling,
     And the fragrant pine was burning
     In the fireplace of the cabin
     On the slope of Tamalpais.

     The lengthening shadows of evening
     Were creeping on Mount Tamalpais,
     Painting with purple the valleys,
     Gilding the ridges and summit.
     Green were the groves of the redwoods,
     Lacing their branches together;
     Through them the last rays of sunlight
     Pierced to the carpet of needles.
     Only the tinkling of water,
     Only the breeze in the branches,
     Only the call of the blue jays
     Broke the mysterious silence.

     Far through the canyon I wandered,
     Far to her camp in the redwoods—
     The home of the Indian woman,
     Wrinkled and old and decrepit,
     Learned in the lore of the Tamals.
     Nearing her camp-fire, I saw her,
     And halted in fear, lest I trespass.

     She sat like a Priestess of Forests,
     Chanting with weird intonations,
     Slowly, with strange repetitions,
     Swaying in rhythmical measure.
     Round her the wild forest creatures
     Gathered and sat at attention.
     Birds ceased their anthems of evening,
     Fluttered to branches above her,
     Listened as if fascinated.

     The singing was hushed when she saw me;
     Away fled the wild things to cover.
     "Welcome, my friend," said the Tamal.
     "A seat at my camp-fire is waiting."
     Her welcome was hearty and friendly,
     But out of the shade of the forests
     Came chattering, chirping and barking,
     Resenting, reproaching, complaining.

     I sat by the camp-fire and listened
     In wonder. The scene was uncanny.
     At last, when the plaints had subsided,
     Or faded away in the distance,
     I said , "Tell me, friend, by what magic
     Are wild creatures called to your camp-fire.
     Is it a secret you cherish?
     May you reveal it to others?"

     She gazed in the flickering embers,
     Dreamily gazed in the embers,
     Then she replied, "You have heard me
     Singing the song of Merita,
     The magical song of Merita,
     Merita, the friend of wild creatures,
     Wearers of fur or of feathers,
     Creatures of forest and mountain,
     Birds of the sea and the marshes.

     I will tell you the tale of Merita,
     Merita, the daughter of Yado,
     Chief of the fishermen people
     Who lived by the Lake of the Oak Trees,
     Far to the east of the harbor.

     Slender and tall was Merita,
     Dark were her eyes, and her tresses
     Glossy and black as the feathers
     That gleam on the wings of the raven.
     Gentle and kind was Merita,
     Serving the young and the aged,
     Nursing the sick and the wounded,
     Cheering when sorrow was breaking
     The heart of some one of her people.
     The Gods taught Merita the language
     Of birds that made nests in the oak trees,
     Of water fowl thronging the tules,
     Of all furry creatures that peopled
     The hills and the valleys around them.
     They came from afar when she called them,
     Called with her song, and they hastened
     To tell her their troubles and sorrows.
     She bound up their wounds and caressed them,
     And told them the wiles of the hunters.

     Wandering one day to the northward,
     She came to a creek where strawberries,
     Ripe and delicious were growing
     Beside a small stream that cascaded
     Down from the Peak of the Grizzlies.
     Refreshing herself with the berries
     She sat in the shade of the live oaks,
     The ancient and widespreading live oaks,
     And called to the wild forest creatures,
     Singing the Song of Merita.

     'Come, come, come, birds of the air,
        For I love you.
     Come, come, come, tell how you fare,
        For I love you.
     Come, come, come, wild creatures, know
        That I love you.
     Come, come, come, tell me your woe,
        For I love you.
     Come, come, come, you will I serve,
        For I love you.
     Come, come, come, you well deserve,
        And I love you.
     Come, come, come, I bring you aid,
        For I love you.
     Come, come, come, be not afraid,
        For I love you.
     Come, come, come—come—come—come.'

     Before the monotonous chanting
     Was finished, the Blue Jays and Robins,
     Pigeons, and Bluebirds, and Blackbirds
     Flew to the branches above her,
     And tipping their heads to observe her
     Opened their bills in complaining.
     Down from the canyon a white fawn
     Came with a shaft in her shoulder,
     Fell at the feet of Merita,
     Bleating her plea for protection.
     Quickly the arrow was taken
     Out of her quivering shoulder.
     Then came the hunter, pursuing—
     Halted, and gazed in amazement.
     'I am Zarando, the Tamal,
     Chief of the Thousand Oaks People.
     Pardon me, if I have wounded
     A pet of the beautiful stranger.'

     Under the arm of Merita
     The frightened fawn crept for protection.

     'I am Merita, the daughter
     Of Yado, the Chief of the Fishers
     Who live by the Lake of the Oak Trees.
     The Fawn is my friend, and she answers
     My call to all wild forest creatures.'

     'I have a call,' said Zarando,
     'A call to decoy the wild creatures
     Into the range of my arrows,
     Yet few are deceived by the pretense.
     Teach me your call, oh, Merita.

     'Nay, nay, Zarando; love only
     Will draw the wild creatures around you.
     Love does not change cannot injure—
     The shaft is not aimed at a loved one.
     If you would draw the wild creatures,
     Love them, and guard them from danger.'

     'I am a hunter, Merita,
     And yet would I gladly abandon
     The bow and the trap to secure
     The charm that the Great Spirit gives you.
     Tell me the secret, Merita,
     Teach me to speak in the language
     Of all the wild creatures around you;
     Teach me to know and to love them.'

     Then were the first lessons given,
     Where now gather thousands of students,
     Beneath the old widespreading live oaks
     That stand by the stream in the Campus.
     There the first Teacher and Pupil,
     Merita and young Chief Zarando,
     Met on the mornings that followed,
     Met for the love of the study,
     And then for the love of each other.

     No more were the Tamals and Fishers
     Rivals, at war with each other;
     United they lived as one people—
     One people around the great harbor.
     Zarando, their chief ruled with justice;
     Merita, their Queen ruled with mercy.
     Their village grew up where the oak trees
     Stand on a point in the Lakelet.
     The water birds came at her calling,
     And thronged on the Lake of Merita,
     Holding conventions, and heeding
     The judgments she gave in their quarrels.
     No one disturbed them nor harmed them;
     There was a refuge from danger.

     It is said that souls of the lovers
     Still live in the oak trees that border
     The shore of the Lake of Merita;
     And that water-birds come at their calling,
     And throng, unafraid, on the waters,
     Hearing the song of Merita:

     'Come, come, come, birds of the air,
        For I love you.
     Come, come, come, tell how you fare,
        For I love you.
     Come, come, come, I bring you aid,
        For I love you.
     Come, come, come, be not afraid,
        For I love you.'
     Come, come, come,
        Come,
           Come,
                  Come."

     The End