“The Alliance of the Quinault and Chinook Tribes” presented below is taken from an autographed, privately printed copy of the poem found in the Pacific County Historical Society’s Museum history files. The copy contains definitions for the Chinook words author Myrtle Woodcock uses: Shilthlo (lightning), Wecoma (the sea), Whul lah Kokumel (Indian Summer or warm harvest time), Twah Alchee (moonlight), and Kawock (guardian spirit).

On these shores where now White Man

Roams at will unarmed and free

Going each his way indifferent

To our wealth of legendry,

Here the Red Men held their council,

Had their feasts upon the ground,

Beat upon their doleful tom-toms

And the peace-pipe went its round.

Each tribe different from another,

And the pale-face found it so,

When he sought to trade among them

Whence he came or what he sought,

Gave his life up for the vengeance

That another’s deed had wrought.

But the Chinook Tribe was peaceful

‘Tho powerful as well.

On both shores of the Columbia

Near its mouth these braves did dwell.

The Clatsops and Multhnomahs

Were of this good old stock,

On their old beloved surroundings,

Only mournful spirits mock.

To the North the mighty Quinaults

Were a cruel and haughty band,

Massacres of deadly terror

Were imputed to their hand.

But wild rumors rose among them

When the cunning White Men came,

When disease and fire-water

Spread like Shilthlo’s mighty flame.

They were called to sit in council

With the wary Chinook Chiefs,

Venturing to calm and settle

All their vague disturbing griefs.

Soon our old homes shall be taken,

Our old haunts shall be denied,”

Spoke the Chinook with great fervor,

“Let our two tribes be allied.”

“’Tis a simple boon you ask!”

Came the Quinault’s cold reply.

We shall form a tribal union,

But the Chinook name must die:

White and red men know the Quinaults,

Know them with a deadly fear,

Let the Chinook merge within us

As the treaty day draws near.”

Once your tribe was great,

Once your tribe was great, Oh Quinault,

Rightfully your records claim,

White and red men each have fallen

‘Neath your cool steady aim.

But the white-man sits in council,

His last battle has been won,

He will keep the name of Chinook,

For the good that they have done.”

Quinault braves and Chinook maidens

Roaming on the river shore,

Saw no cloud to mar their vision

Nor dark shadows to deplore.

Heard the dull roar of Wecoma,

But no fear to them it gave,

Felt no sadness in the sighing

Of fate’s cruel impelling wave.

For the time was Indian summer

Aye, the Whul lah Kokumel,

When the whispering winds of Autumn

Lend enchantment to the spell

And the moon-light-the Twa Allchee

Slyly beamed upon them too,

Mingled in their loving glances,

Ah, how well those young braves knew.

They defy me, cried the Quinault,

But the Chinook Chief benign

Silenced him with solemn gesture

This is Kawoks own design”

For he knew the words of mystery

Would the red man’s awe incite.

“’Tis Kawok, the guardian spirit

Bids our Tribes to thus unite.”

Oh how well this thoughtful Chinook

Knew the simple savage mind

Could be moved by superstition,

More than all his pleas more kind.

Thus the Quinaults signed the treaty

Which gave the Chinooks part

Of his wealth of land and timber;

Yet this old tale stirs each heart.

On these shores where roams the white-man

Never more these braves are found,

For their weary faltering footsteps

Sought the Happy Hunting Ground.

On that land where no resentment

And no battle-fires burn,

They at last shall find contentment

For which earthly spirits yearn.