do with this highly commendable showing. The law, aided and abetted by
the vigilant missionaries, shuts out everything stronger than
lime-juice, and the path of the Eskimo is free from the most seductive
and destructive of all temptations, except when some unprincipled whaler
offers him a pull out of his flask. This, however, is a rare
occurrence, and there is no record of any such disturbance ever having
been raised as would in more highly civilized communities call for the
interference of the police. Although the simplicity of their life and
their freedom from many modern vices conduce to longevity, these
advantages are more than counterbalanced by the strain put upon their
constitutions by the severity of the climate and the incessant struggle
for food. Consequently they soon age, and seldom live beyond sixty
years.
The doctrine that cleanliness is next to godliness finds few adherents
in Eskimo land. The rule seems to be to eschew washing throughout the
year, and many a mighty hunter goes through life innocent of a bath,
unless, indeed, he should happen to be tumbled out of his kayak by some
irate walrus with other than sanitary designs in mind. Mr. Tuttle, the
historian of the first Hudson Bay expedition, is authority for the
statement that the children, when very young, are sometimes cleaned by
being licked with their mother's tongue before being put into the bag of
feathers that serves them as bed, cradle, and blanket; but one cannot
help thinking that this particular version of "a lick and a promise" is
rather too laborious to have extensive vogue.
So familiar has the world been made through the medium of Arctic
exploration literature with the igloos (huts), kayaks and umiaks
(boats), sledges, dogs, harpoons, and other possessions of these people,
which are precisely the same wherever they may be found, that reference
to them seems unnecessary, especially as the Canadian Eskimos offer
nothing peculiar. But, before concluding, a few words must be added as
to the intellectual and moral characteristics of the race. Their
intelligence is considerable. In some instances they display not only a
taste but a talent for music, chart-making, and drawing. One case is
mentioned where a mere lad drew an excellent outline of the coast for
over a hundred miles, indicating its many irregularities with
astonishing accuracy. They are capital mimics, and are apt at learning
the songs and dances of their white visitors. But they are poor men of
business. They generally leave to the purchaser the fixing of the price
of anything they have to sell.
It is said that in their private lives their state of morality is low,
although they avoid indecency calculated to give public offence.
Stealing and lying were unknown among them until these "black arts" were
introduced by the whites as products of civilization, and, unhappily,
the natives are proving apt pupils. They are also somewhat given to
gambling. Although by no means without courage, they seldom quarrel,
and never go to war with one another.
As to religion, the Eskimos, before they accepted Christianity, had
little or none that was worthy of the name. They believe in the
immortality of the soul, but liberally extend this doctrine to the lower
animals also, which they endow with souls. They hold, also, that human
souls can pass into the bodies of these very animals.
With respect to the higher powers, their creed is that the world is
ruled by supernatural beings whom they call "owners;" and as almost
every object has its owner, this would seem to be a kind of Pantheism.
After death human souls go either up or down; but in curious contrast to
the belief of all other races, the good, in their opinion, go to the
nether world, where they bask in a land, not of milk and honey, but of
inexhaustible seal meat and blubber. The bad, on the other hand, go to
the upper world, where they suffer what a fashionable preacher
euphemized as "eternal uneasiness," not from excess of heat but from
frost and famine. There they are permitted to lighten their misery by
playing ball with a walrus head, which diversion, by the way, in some
inexplicable fashion, gives rise to the aurora borealis.
Like all aborigines they have their own legend of the deluge, and to
this day they proudly point out a large island lying between Okkak and
Hebron, rising to the height of nearly seven thousand feet, which they
claim was the only spot left uncovered by the flood, and upon which a
select party of their antediluvian ancestors survived the otherwise
all-embracing catastrophe.
The future destiny of this interesting race may be readily forecast. In
common with the Red Indian of the plains, the swarthy Eskimo may adopt
with reference to the white man those words of fathomless pathos uttered
by John the Baptist in reference to the Messiah, "He must increase, but
I must decrease." It is merely a question of time. All over the vast
region he inhabits are signs showing that his numbers were far greater
once than they are at present. The insatiable greed of his white
brothers is rendering his existence increasingly difficult. The seal
and the walrus are ever being driven farther north, and that means a
sterner and shorter struggle for life. As the Indian will not long
survive the buffalo, so the Eskimo will not long survive the seal.
There are, perhaps, fifteen thousand of them now scattered far and wide
over the tremendous spaces between Labrador and Alaska. Each year their
numbers are growing less, and ere long the last remnant of the race will
have vanished, and the great lone North will return to the state of
appalling solitude and silence that only the Canadian Children of the
Cold had the fortitude to alleviate by their presence.
*FACE TO FACE WITH AN "INDIAN DEVIL."*
There were three of us, and we were all untiring explorers of the
forests and streams within reach of our homes in quest of such
possessors of fur, fin, or feather as our guns and rods could overcome.
Plenty of luck did we have too, for we lived in a sparsely-settled part
of Nova Scotia, and the trout and partridges and rabbits had not had
their ranks thinned by too much hunting. It was no uncommon thing for
us to bring back, as the result of an afternoon's whipping of the
brooks, two or three dozen speckled trout weighing from half-a-pound to
three pounds each, while less than a dozen brace of plump partridges or
bob-tailed rabbits was looked on as a very poor bag for a day's
shooting.
Adventurous and enterprising as we were, however, one stream of which we
had knowledge remained undisturbed by our lines. It was known among the
Mic-Macs, a band of whom roamed about the neighbourhood, as Indian Devil
Run, being so called because of their belief that the dense dark forest
in which it took its rise was the fastness of a family of panthers, of
which they stood in great dread.
Nor was the name without good foundation, for one autumn a hunter with
gun and trap ventured into this place, and returned with the body of a
panther, stating that he believed others still remained.
Indian Devil Run began somewhere in the North Forest, ran through its
heavy shadows for several miles, and then appeared to add its
contribution to the Digdequash River, at which point we made its
acquaintance.
We often talked about following it up into the depths of the forest, but
the Indian stories made us pause, until at last one evening in
September, Jack Johnston, craving some fresh excitement, dared us to
make the attempt, and we rashly accepted the challenge.
The following morning we set off, letting no one know the object of our
expedition. We were armed in this fashion: Charlie Peters bore an
ancient Dutch musket, warranted when properly loaded to kill at both
ends; Johnston had a keen tomahawk, which the Indians had taught him to
use like one of themselves; and I carried an old-fashioned smooth-bore
shot-gun, dangerous only to small game.
"Now, if we come across an Indian devil, Charlie," said Johnston, "you
give him a broadside from 'Dutchie,' and I'll finish him with my
tomahawk."
"And where do I come in?" I asked, with a smile.
"You? Oh, you blaze away at him with your pepperpot; you might perhaps
put his eyes out, you know," Jack laughingly responded, and so our order
of battle was settled upon.
We crossed the Digdequash in a canoe, hid our craft in the underbrush,
and in high feather entered upon the exploration of Indian Devil Run.
It proved to be a succession of falls and rapids, overshadowed by huge
trees for several miles, and we had hard work making our way up its
course. But we toiled steadily on, and just before mid-day were
rewarded for our pains by reaching a lovely spot, where the banks of the
stream widened to form an enchanting pond encircled by a meadow, and
offering every inducement to stay and rest.
Glad were we to do so. The pond evidently swarmed with trout. Quickly
adjusting our fishing-tackle, we got to work. Shade of Izaak Walton!
what a paradise for anglers! The water fairly boiled as the hungry
trout fought for the privilege of being hooked. In one hour we landed
as many as we could carry home, and they were fine fellows every one of
them.
"The greatest place for trout I ever struck!" exclaimed Charlie Peters,
throwing down his rod. "I positively haven't the heart to catch any
more. It seems like taking a mean advantage of them."
So we stopped the slaughter--apparently much to the disappointment of
our prey, who hung about asking to be made victims--and proceeded to
dispose of the ample lunch with which our thoughtful mothers had
provided us. Then we had a refreshing plunge in the clear water,
scaring the trout nearly out of their skins, and by this time it was
necessary that we should retrace our steps.
On our way up I had brought down a fine brace of birds, and to save
carrying them to and fro had hung them to a high branch, intending to
pick them up on the return journey.
"Don't forget your partridges, Hal," said Jack to me, as we shouldered
our bags heavy with trout.
"No fear of that," I replied. "I know exactly where I left them."
Hitherto we had seen and heard nothing to justify the Indians'
superstitious dread of the locality. No signs of wild animals were
visible, and in high spirits at having discovered so rich a
fishing-ground we hastened homeward.
"I guess the Indian devils have got tired of this place and left,"
remarked Charlie Peters. "But don't let us give it away all the same.
We must keep this run all to ourselves as long as we can."
Hardly had he spoken when an appalling shriek pierced the silence of the
woods, and brought us to a sudden stop, while we looked into one
another's faces with an apprehension we made no attempt to conceal. We
were close to the tree where the partridges had been hung.
"It's the Indian devil!" exclaimed Jack Johnston, under his breath.
"He's eaten the partridges, and now he wants to eat us."
We fully realized our danger, and after the first shock of fright braced
ourselves to meet it with a determined front. Johnston, as the eldest
and coolest of the three, took command.
"Charlie," said he, "you must let him have Dutchie full in the face the
moment we sight him.--Hal, you blaze away with your shot-gun, and I'll
stand by to finish him with my tomahawk."
nodding assent to these directions, we stood side by side, gazing
eagerly into the forest gloom.
"There he is!" said Johnston. "See! on that big limb."
We followed the direction of his finger, and saw the brute clearly
enough, stretched upon a limb not twelve yards away, his great green
eyes glaring horribly at us.
"Quick, Charlie!" cried Jack. "He's going to spring. Rest your gun on
my shoulder, and aim for his chest."
Charlie did as he was bid, and pulled the trigger. Bang went the old
musket with a tremendous report. Over went Charlie on his back, his
shoulder well-nigh dislocated by the kick of his weapon; and down came
the panther to the ground, badly wounded in his neck and breast. The
instant he touched ground I let him have the contents of my shot-gun.
But they only served to bother him for a moment, and looking terrible in
his fury, he was just gathering himself for a spring into our midst,
when Johnston, stepping forward, sent his tomahawk whizzing through the
air with all the force of his strong right arm.
[Illustration: "JOHNSTON SENT HIS TOMAHAWK WHIZZING THROUGH THE AIR."]
It was a perfect throw. No Mic-Mac could have done it better. Like a
flash of lightning the bright steel blade went straight to its mark, and
buried itself in the panther's forehead right between those awful eyes,
whose malignant gleam it extinguished for ever.
Lifting Charlie to his feet we rushed forward, and stood in triumph over
our fallen foe, shaking hands across his mighty body. How our hearts
swelled with pride at the thought of the sensation our exploit would
make!
With a twisted withe for a rope we laboriously dragged our prize to the
canoe, and so got it across the river. Here we met the Indian who had
been Johnston's teacher in the art of tomahawk-throwing. He seemed
immensely relieved at seeing us.
"Me see you boys go over this morning, then hear devil scream this
afternoon, and hear you go bang. Me 'fraid you all deaded this time."
Then as he discovered the fatal gash in the brute's head, his face lit
up with pride.
"Johnston, you do that!" he cried. "Ah! smart boy. Me learn you how
throw tomahawk like that."
Jack blushingly acknowledged the fact, and gave his Indian instructor
due meed of praise for having taught him so well.
It was too big a job to get the heavy carcass of the panther any
further, so the Indian took off the head and skin for us, and we
presented him with the body, which he said was good to eat, and would
"make Indian strong."
Our arrival at home with the trophies of our triumph over the terror of
the forest caused great rejoicing. We were the heroes of the hour, and
Charlie quite forgot his bruised shoulder in the pleasant excitement of
the occasion.
We often revisited Indian Devil Run after that, and took many a fine
fare of fish from its well-stocked waters, but we never saw another
panther. We had apparently killed the last of the brood.
*IN THE NICK OF TIME.*
"Will you be out to practice this evening, Charlie?" asked Rob M'Kenzie
of his friend Kent, as the two, who had been walking home from the high
school together, parted at a corner.
"Indeed, that I will," was the reply; "and every evening, too, until the
match comes off. It'll take all the practice we can put in to beat
those Riverside chaps, I can tell you."
"Pshaw! What makes you think they'll be so hard to beat this time?"
returned Rob. "We've always had our fair share of the games so far."
"So we have; but they didn't have Sam Massie playing with them."
"Sam Massie! who's Sam Massie?" exclaimed Rob, in surprise.
"Don't you know who Sam Massie is? Why, he's one of the first twelve of
the Torontos," replied Charlie, looking somewhat astonished at his
friend's ignorance.
"Then how on earth can he play with the Riversides?" asked Rob. "Can't
we protest?"
"Oh, that's all right enough. His uncle lives in Riverside, and he is
staying with him for a while, so we can't object to his playing."
"Humph!" growled Rob. "It's a pity we can't. We've got nobody to match
him."
"I don't think it's a pity at all," returned Charlie cheerfully. "I'd a
good deal rather see a crack player like Sam Massie, and get some points
from him, than object to his playing, even if he gains the match for the
other fellows. We'll do our best to give him a good day's work, any way.
So let's practise hard." And Charlie went off whistling.
There was an intense rivalry between the villages of Riverside and
Heatherton in the matter of lacrosse. Each village had a good club, in
which not only the players but the people also took a hearty interest,
and the matches that were played once a month alternately in each
village during the season never failed to draw out to see them everybody
in the population that could possibly manage to be present. They were
always played on Saturday, because then the farmers from round about
came in to the village to do their week's business early in the morning,
and by rushing things a little could easily get through by three
o'clock, and then they and the shopkeepers and the rest of the village
folk would adjourn to the lacrosse-field and have a lively time of it,
shouting, and cheering, and laughing as the game went on before them.
Charlie Kent and Rob M'Kenzie were the two youngest members of the
Heatherton lacrosse twelve, and they naturally felt very proud of their
position, which they had won by proving themselves the best players in
the high school, and thereby attracting the attention of the Heatherton
captain quite early in the season. The day when big Tom Brown called
them both aside and invited them to play with the first twelve was one
of the proudest in their lives; and Tom had had no reason to regret his
invitation on any game that summer, for the two "young cubs," as he
called them, proved themselves very useful additions, being quick,
careful, plucky, and, best of all, thoroughly obedient, always doing
exactly what he told them.
The next match with Riverside was of special importance, because it
would be the final and decisive one of five which the two clubs were
playing for a fine set of silk flags, which had been offered as a trophy
by some generous friends of lacrosse in both villages. Each club had
won two matches, and now on the approaching Saturday the fifth and final
match would take place, rain or shine.
The rumour of Sam Massie being with the Riversides had reached
Heatherton early in the week, and caused no little concern, some of the
players being disposed to make a protest if he appeared on the field,
and even a refusal to play. But Tom Brown would not listen to them.
Sam Massie was, for the time being at least, a resident in Riverside,
and to object to his playing would be acting in a way he did not approve
of, so the dissatisfied ones were fain to hold their tongues.
The eventful Saturday came, and was as fine as heart could wish. It was
Heatherton's turn to have the match, and the home team rejoiced at this,
because it would in some measure compensate them for the advantage their
opponents undoubtedly possessed in having Sam Massie with them.
Never before had so large a crowd assembled to watch the match. It
really seemed as if half the population of Riverside and three-fourths
of the population of Heatherton had turned out. The whole field was
surrounded with a fringe of spectators, ready to applaud every good
point in the game.
In due time the Riverside team made their appearance, looking very
jaunty in their blue jerseys, caps, and stockings, and white
knickerbockers, and all eyes were turned upon them to discover the
redoubtable Sam Massie. It was easy to distinguish him from the others,
and he certainly was a dangerous-looking player.
He was not of more than medium size, but the perfection of his
condition, the graceful ease and quickness of his movements, and the
unfailing accuracy of his catching and throwing, as the team indulged in
the usual preliminary exercise, impressed everybody with the idea that
he fully merited his reputation.
Charlie Kent's place was centre-field, his quickness and steadiness
entitling him to that important position, while Rob M'Kenzie was the
next man between him and the opponent's goal. Charlie was very anxious
to see where the Riversides would put Massie, and was not at all sorry
when that player took his place at cover-point, for now he would be
certain to cross sticks with him more than once during the match, and
find out just how strong a man he was.
Amid the breathless suspense of the spectators the two teams lined up,
were briefly adjured by the referee to indulge in no rough play or
fouls, and then in pairs departed to their places, the white and blue of
the Riversides contrasting picturesquely with the white and crimson of
the Heathertons as the players strung out from goal to goal.
"Are you all ready?" cried the referee.
The captains nodded their heads, the two centre-fields kneeled opposite
one another for the face, the ball was placed between the lacrosse
sticks, and with a shout of "Play" the referee sprang aside, and the
struggle began.
There was a second's scuffle between the two centres, and then the
Heathertons raised a shout; for Charlie had got the ball away from his
opponent, tipped it cleverly to Rob, who, after a short run, had thrown
it to "outside home," and the Riverside goal was in danger.
But before outside home could do anything, Massie was down upon him with
the swoop of an eagle. With a sharp check he knocked the ball off his
stick, then picked it up at once, and dashed away down the field,
dodging in and out between his two opponents like a veritable eel. Not
until he reached the Heatherton cover-point was he obliged to stop, and
then he took a shot at goal, which, but for the plucky goalkeeper
putting his broad chest squarely in the way, would certainly have
scored.
Back the ball went, however, to the other goal, and continued thus to
travel up and down for fully fifteen minutes before some skilful passing
and sharp dodging on the part of the Heathertons brought it in front of
the Riverside goal, when, after a hard tussle, it was swiped through by
a lucky stroke from Charlie Kent.
Great was the elation of the Heathertons at scoring the first game.
"Guess they're not invincible, after all, if they have Sam Massie," said
Charlie to Captain Brown.
"Mustn't crow too soon, Charlie," replied Brown cautiously. "We've got
the afternoon before us yet."
When the Riversides, thanks to a brilliant run of Massie's, won the next
game in five minutes, Charlie felt somewhat less confident; and when,
after a severe struggle, they by a pure piece of luck took the third
game in twenty minutes, he began to feel a little down in the mouth.
But the winning of the fourth game by the Heathertons braced him up
again, and he went into the fifth and final struggle with a brave and
determined heart.
The excitement had now become intense. It had been agreed before play
commenced that the game should be called at six o'clock, and if not then
finished, played over again at Riverside the following Saturday.
The Heathertons fully appreciated the advantage of playing oh their own
ground, and were determined to settle the fate of the flags before six
o'clock if at all possible.
The Riversides were equally determined to play out the time if they
could do nothing better. Accordingly they concentrated all their
strength upon the defence, and surrounded the redoubtable Sam Massie
with the best men in the team.
Once more Charlie Kent won the face, and again tipped to Rob, who did
not fail to send it well down towards the goal, but the stone-wall
defence quickly sent it back. Again and again the rubber sphere went
flying through the air or bounding along the ground towards the
Riverside goal, and again and again it returned, not even being
permitted to stay there a moment.
The minutes passed quickly, and six o'clock drew near.
"Charlie, can't you and Rob manage to get that ball down between you?
Never mind your places; just play for the goal," said Captain Brown
earnestly to Charlie.
"All right, captain, we'll do our best," replied Charlie, as he passed
the word to Rob.
As luck would have it, the Riversides, grown bold by their success,
opened out their defence just then, and moved nearer the Heatherton
goal. Charlie's quick eye noted the change of tactics instantly.
"Look sharp now, Rob," he called, and Rob nodded meaningly.
A moment later the ball came flying his way, and springing high he
caught it cleverly, amid a howl of applause from the spectators. Then,
signalling Rob to keep parallel with him, he dashed off at full speed
towards the Riverside goal.
Charlie was lightly built and long-winded, and constant practice had
made him the fastest "sprinter" in Heatherton. But he had never run
before as he had then.
The onlookers held their breath to watch him as he sped on. One, two,
three opponents were safely passed! by brilliant dodging, and now only
Sam Massie stood between him and the goal.
He knew it would be useless to try to dodge Sam. But there was a better
play. Before Sam could reach him he tipped the rubber over to Rob.
Instantly Sam turned upon Rob, and brought his stick down upon Rob's
with a resounding whack. But the ball was not there. Already it was
rolling towards Charlie, who had continued straight on, and scooping it
up from the ground, with a straight, swift overhand throw he sent it
flying through the goal-posts just in time to allow the cry of "Goal!
goal!" to be triumphantly raised ere the six-o'clock whistle sounded the
hour for calling the game.