One Sunday morning, when spring was all a-dance to the wondrous wild

music of the woods, I sat in the warmth of the sun and thought of my

Creator. Later, I learned that Oo-koo-hoo and Amik were also thinking

of Him; for in the wilderness one often thinks of The Master of Life.

That morning I thought, too, of the tolling of village church bells and

of cathedral chimes, and I contrasted those metallic sounds with the

beautiful singing of the birds of the forest; also I contrasted the

difference of a Sunday in the city with a Sunday in the wilderness; and

my soul rested in supreme contentment. Yet the ignorant city dwellers

think of the wilderness as "God-forsaken." Hunt the world over, and

could one find any more holy places than some of Nature's sanctuaries?

I have found many, but I shall recall but one, a certain grove on the

Alaskan border.

It was in one of the wildest of all wild regions of the northern world.

"God-forsaken" . . . indeed? In truth, it seemed to be the very home

of God. There, between the bases of two towering perpendicular ranges

of mountains, mantled by endless snows and capped by eternal ice, lay

the wildest of all box-cañons: one end of which was blocked by a

barrier of snow hundreds of feet high and thousands of feet thick--the

work of countless avalanches; while the other end was blocked by a

barrier of eternal ice thousands of feet in width and millions of tons

in weight--a living and growing glacier. And there, away down at the

very bottom of that wild gorge, beside a roaring, leaping little river

of seething foam, grew a beautiful grove of trees; and never a time did

I enter there but what I thought of it as holy ground--far more holy

than any cathedral I have ever known . . . for there, in that grove,

one seemed to stand in the presence of God.

There, in that grove, the great reddish-brown boles of Sitka

spruces--four and five feet in diameter--towered up like many huge

architectural columns as they supported the ruggedly beamed and

evergreen ceiling that domed far overhead. High above an altar-like

mass of rock, completely mantled with gorgeously coloured mosses, an

opening shone in the gray-green wall, and through it filtered long

slanting beams of sunlight, as though coming through a leaded,

sky-blue, stained-glass window of some wonderful cathedral. While upon

the grove's mossy floor stood, row upon row, a mass of luxuriant ferns

that almost covered the velvet carpet, and seemed to form endless seats

in readiness for the coming of some congregation. But on only one

occasion did I ever see a worshipper there.

Weary from the weight of a heavy pack--seventy-five pounds of

dynamite--I had paused to rest a moment in that wonderful place which

so few human beings had ever discovered; where, too, on passing

through, it was always my custom to remove my hat--just as any one

would do on entering a church. There that day, as I stood gazing at

the glorious sunbeams as they filtered through the great chancel

window, I listened to the enchanting music of the feathered choir high

overhead, that seemed to be singing to the accompaniment of one of

Nature's most powerful organs--the roaring river--that thundered aloud,

as, with all its force, it wildly rolled huge boulders down its rocky

bed. Then, lowering my eyes, I discovered the one and only worshipper

I ever saw there. He was standing near a side aisle in the shadow of

an alcove, and he, too, was gazing up at those radiant sunbeams and

listening to the choir; moreover, notwithstanding that he was a big

brown bear, he appeared too devout even to notice me--perhaps because

he, too, felt the holy presence of "The Great Mystery" . . . our God.

Yes, my friend, it is my belief that if there is any place on earth

that is "God-forsaken," it is not to be found in even the wildest part

of the wildest wilderness, but in that cesspool called a city.

GOING TO THE POST

After half of May had passed away, and when the spring hunt was over,

Oo-koo-hoo and Amik, poling up the turbulent little streams, and

following as closely as possible the routes of their fur trails, went

the round of their trapping paths, removed their snares, sprung their

deadfalls, and gathering their steel traps loaded them aboard their

canoes. That work completed, packing began in readiness for the

postward journey; there, as usual, they would spend their well-earned

holidays with pleasure upon their tribal summer camping grounds.

[Illustration: After half of May had passed away, and when the spring

hunt was over, Oo-koo-hoo and Amik, poling up the turbulent little

streams, and following as closely as possible the routes of their fur

trails, went the round of their trapping paths, removed their snares,

sprung their deadfalls, and gathering their steel traps loaded them

aboard their canoes. That work completed, packing began in readiness

for the . . . See Chapter VII.]

So, when all was in readiness, the deerskin lodge coverings were taken

down, rolled up, and stored out of harm's way upon a stage. Then, with

hearts light with happiness and canoes heavy with the wealth of the

forest, we paddled away with pleasant memories of our forest home, and

looked forward to our arrival at Fort Consolation.

Soon after entering Bear River the canoes were turned toward the

western bank and halted at a point near one of their old camping

grounds. Then Naudin--Amik's wife--left the others, and took her way

among the trees to an opening in the wood. There stood two little

wooden crosses that marked the graves of two of her children--one a

still-born girl and the other a boy who had died at the age of three.

Upon the boy's grave she placed some food and a little bow and some

arrows, and bowed low over it and wept aloud. But at the grave of her

still-born child she forgot her grief and smiled with joy as she placed

upon the mound a handful of fresh flowers, a few pretty feathers, and

some handsome furs. Sitting there in the warm sunshine, she closed her

eyes--as she told me afterward--and fancied she heard the little maid

dancing among the rustling leaves and singing to her.

Like all Indian women of the Strong Woods, she believed that her

still-born child would never grow larger or older; that it would never

leave her; that it would always love her, though she lived to be a

great-grandmother; that when sorrow and pain bowed her low this little

maid would laugh and dance and talk and sing to her, and thus change

her grief into joy. That is why an Indian mother puts pretty things

upon the grave of her still-born child, and that is why she never

mourns over it.

As our journey progressed those enemies of comfort and pleasure, the

black flies, appeared, and at sunrise and sunset caused much annoyance,

especially among the children. Then, too, at night if the breeze

subsided, mosquitoes swarmed from the leeward side of bushes and drove

slumber away.

One afternoon, while resting, we observed signs of beaver and

Oo-koo-hoo, being reminded of an incident he once witnessed, related it

to me:

"Once, my son, while paddling alone, I rounded the bend of a river, and

hearing a splash just beyond the turn, silently propelled my canoe

beneath a screen of overhanging branches. After waiting and watching

awhile, I saw an otter fishing in the stream. A moment later I beheld

a beaver--evidently a female--swimming just beyond the otter, and

pursued by two other beavers--evidently males. The males, perceiving

the otter swimming in the direction of the female, probably came to the

conclusion that he was about to pay his court to her, for they suddenly

swerved from their course and attacked the innocent otter. He dived to

escape his assailants, and they dived after him. When he rose for

breath, they came up, too, and made after him; so he dived again.

Evidently, they were trying to wind their quarry, for whenever he came

up for breath they endeavoured to reach him before he got it. In a

short time they had so exhausted him that he refused to dive again

before he gained his breath. He made for the shore. The beavers

rushed after him, overtook him, and just as he gained the bank, ripped

his throat open. Then I shot one of the beavers and tossed it into my

canoe along with the otter."

The journey to the Post was a delight all the way--save when the flies

were busy. One night those almost invisible little torments, the sand

flies, caused us--or rather me--much misery until Granny built such a

large fire that it attracted the attention of the little brutes, and

into it they all dived, or apparently did--just as she said they

would--for in less than half an hour not a single sand fly remained.

On our way to God's Lake we had considerable sport in the way of

shooting white-water. One morning we landed at the head of a portage,

and, as the rapid was not a dangerous one, Oo-koo-hoo and Amik

determined to run it, but first went ashore to examine the channel. On

their return Oo-koo-hoo instructed the others to follow his lead about

four canoe-lengths apart, so that in case of mishap they could help

each other. Down the canoes plunged one after the other. The children

wielded their little paddles, screaming with delight as they swiftly

glided through the foaming spray past shores still lined here and there

with walls of ice.

As the canoes rounded a sharp bend in the rapid Oo-koo-hoo descried a

black bear walking on the ice that overhung the eastern bank. The

animal seemed as much surprised as any of us, and, instead of making

off, rose upon its haunches and gazed in amazement at the passing

canoes. But as we swept by there was no thought of firing guns. The

sight of the bear reminded Oo-koo-hoo of an experience some friends of

his once had with a black bear; and when we reached slack water he told

it to me.

The friends in question were a mother and her daughter, and late one

afternoon they were returning from berry picking. As they rounded a

bend in the river the daughter in the bow suddenly stopped paddling,

and--without turning her face toward her mother in the stern--excitedly

whispered: "_Muskwa_! _Muskwa_!"

Then as the older woman caught sight of a dark object fifty paces away,

she uttered a few hurried commands. Both fell to paddling with all

their might. With straining backs, stiffened arms, and bending blades,

they fairly lifted the canoe at every stroke; and the waters gave a

tearing sound as the slashing blades sent little whirlpools far behind.

Their hearts were fired with the spirit of the chase, and--though their

only weapons were their skinning knives--they felt no fear. On they

raced to head the bear, who was swimming desperately to gain the shore.

They overhauled him. He turned at bay. The daughter soused a blanket

in the water and threw it over his head. The mother in the stern

reached over as the canoe glided by, seized him by an ear as he

struggled blindly beneath the smothering mantle, and drove her knife

into his throat. A broad circle of crimson coloured the water round

the blanket. The canoe was quickly brought about; the mother slipped a

noose over his head, and in triumph they towed the carcass to their

camp.

On the last morning of our trip there was a flutter of pleasant

excitement among our little party; and by the time the sun appeared and

breakfast was over, everybody was laughing and talking, for we had made

such progress that we expected to reach Fort Consolation by ten o'clock

that forenoon. Quickly we loaded the canoes again, and away we

paddled. In a few hours the beautiful expanse of God's Lake appeared

before us. When we sighted the old fort, a joyous shout rang out;

paddles were waved overhead, and tears of joy rose to the eyes of the

women--and of some of the men.

Going ashore, we quickly made our toilets, donning our very finest in

order to make a good appearance on our arrival at the Fort--as is the

custom of the Northland. Bear's grease was employed with lavish

profusion, even Oo-koo-hoo and Amik and the boys using it on their

hair; while the women and girls greased and wove their tresses into a

single elongated braid which hung down behind. The men put on their

fancy silk-worked moccasins; tied silk handkerchiefs about their

necks--the reverse of cow-boy fashion--and beaded garters around their

legs; while the women placed many brass rings upon their fingers,

bright plaid shawls about their shoulders, gay silk handkerchiefs over

their heads, and beaded leggings upon their legs. How I regretted I

had not brought along my top-hat--that idiotic symbol of

civilization--for if I could have worn it on that occasion, the Indians

at Fort Consolation would have been so filled with merriment that they

would have in all probability remembered me for many a year as the one

white man with a sense of humour.

For in truth, it is just as Ohiyesa (Charles A. Eastman) the

full-blooded Sioux, says in his book on Indian Boyhood: "There is

scarcely anything so exasperating to me as the idea that the natives of

this country have no sense of humour and no faculty for mirth. This

phase of their character is well understood by those whose fortune or

misfortune it has been to live among them day in and day out at their

homes. I don't believe I ever heard a real hearty laugh away from the

Indians' fireside. I have often spent an entire evening in laughing

with them until I could laugh no more."

CONTEST OF WITS

When we arrived at Fort Consolation, Oo-koo-hoo and his party were

greeted by a swarm of their copper-coloured friends, among whom were

The Little Pine and his father, mother, and sister. Making his way

through the press, The Owl strode toward the trading room to shake

hands with Factor Mackenzie; but the trader, hearing of Oo-koo-hoo's

arrival, hastened from his house to welcome the famous hunter; and The

Owl greeted him with:

"_Quay, quay, Hu-ge-mow_" (good day, Master).

On their way to the Indian shop they passed the canoe shed, where

skilled hands were finishing two handsome six-fathom canoes for the use

of the Fur Brigade; and they stopped to examine them.

The building of a six-fathom or "North" canoe generally takes place

under a shed erected for the purpose, where there is a clear, level

space and plenty of working room. Two principal stakes are driven at a

distance apart of thirty-six feet, the length of the craft to be.

These are connected by two rows of smaller stakes diverging and

converging so as to form the shape of the canoe. The smaller stakes

are five feet apart at the centre. Pieces of birch bark are soaked in

water for a day and no more, sewn together with wat-tap--the roots of

cedar or spruce gathered in spring--placed between the stakes with the

outer side down, and then made fast. The well-soaked ribs are then put

in place and as soon as they are loaded with stones the bark assumes

its proper form. The gunwales, into which the ends of the ribs are

mortised, are bound into position with _wat-tap_. The thwarts are next

adjusted. The stones and stakes are then removed; the seams are

covered with a mixture of one part grease to nine parts spruce gum; the

craft is tested, and is then held in readiness for its maiden voyage.

On entering the Indian shop or trading room, Oo-koo-hoo was ready to

talk about anything under the sun save business, as he wanted to force

the Trader to solicit his patronage; but as the Factor was trying to

make the hunter do the same thing, they parted company a little later

without having mentioned the word "trade."

No wonder the Indians are glad to return to their tribal summer camping

grounds; for it is there that they rest and play and spend their summer

holidays. It is there, too, that the young people enjoy the most

favourable opportunity for doing their courting; as every event--such

as the departure or the return of the Fur Brigade--calls for a festival

of dancing which not infrequently lasts for several days. Also, in

many other ways, the boys and girls have chances of becoming

acquainted. Since young hunters often claim their sweethearts during

the winter, many "marriages" take place after the Indian fashion. On

their return to the Post, however, the young couples are generally

married over again, and this time after the white man's custom--"in the

face of the Church." The way the young people "keep company" at the

summer camping grounds presents no feature of special interest. It is

during the winter season in the forest many miles beyond the Post that

the old customs have full sway. The re-marrying the young couples "in

the face of the Church" frequently demands extreme vigilance, for in

the confusion of the matrimonial busy season when the Indians first

come in the little papoose is apt to be christened--unless the

clergyman is very careful--before the parents have had time to arrange

for their church wedding.

Meanwhile, the women having erected the canvas lodge and put in order

one of their last-year's birch-bark wigwams, called upon the Factor's

wife and presented her with a handsome work-bag made of beautifully

marked skins from the necks of the loons Oo-koo-hoo had shot with his

bow and arrow for that purpose.

After leaving the Indian shop, the hunter returned to his camp to talk

matters over with Amik and the women. He told them that he intended

selling most of his furs to the Company, but that he thought it wise to

stay away from the Factor until next day. But as Granny, being a Roman

Catholic, wanted to have Father Jois marry Neykia and The Little Pine,

she suggested that Oo-koo-hoo go and call upon the priest at once.

Notwithstanding that her mother was a Presbyterian, Neykia had joined

the Roman Catholic Church and when asked why she had done so, she said

it was because she thought the candles looked so pretty burning on the

altar.

Though The Owl was not in the least interested in any one of the white

man's many religions, nor in the priest, the clergyman, or the minister

of the three different denominations represented at the Post, he now

called upon the priest as his wife wished him to. During the course of

their conversation the priest said:

"My son, that was a beautiful silver fox you sold the Company three

years ago. I, myself, would have paid you well for it."

"Would you look as well upon a black fox?" asked Oo-koo-hoo in

surprise, as it is an unwritten law of the country that missionaries

are not to carry on trade with the Indians.

"Yes. Have you one?" questioned the priest.

"I have never seen a finer," replied the hunter.

"But do either of the traders know you have it?" asked the priest.

"No," answered Oo-koo-hoo, with a shake of his head.

Later, when the priest saw the skin, he was delighted with it, and a

bargain was soon made. Oo-koo-hoo was to get one hundred "skins" for

the black fox, and he was told to call next day. But after returning

to camp, he grew impatient and went back to the priest to demand his

pay. The priest said he would give him a tent and a rifle worth more

than fifty skins and that he would say ten masses for him and his

family, which would be a very generous equivalent for the other fifty

skins. But Oo-koo-hoo, suddenly flaring up, began to storm at the

priest, and demanded the black fox back. But the priest sternly

motioned for silence with upraised hand, and whispered: "This is God's

House. There must be no noise or anger here." And without another

word he withdrew to get the rifle and the tent. When he returned with

an old tent and a second-hand rifle, Oo-koo-hoo would not deign to

touch them. Without more ado, he turned on his heel and walked away.

On reaching camp, the old hunter learned from the children that the

women had gone to pay a visit to the nuns; so he followed them, and,

without even speaking to the Sisters, ordered the women to come home.

On the way he eased his wrath by telling them that never again would he

buy prayers or masses from the priest with black fox skins, and that if

they ever wanted masses, he would pay for them with nothing but the

skins of skunks. He did not see why he had to pay for masses, anyway,

when Free Trader Spear had made them a standing offer of all the

prayers they wanted free of charge, provided that he, Oo-koo-hoo, would

trade with him. He added that he had half a mind to accept Spear's

offer, just to spite the priest.

So after meditating for a while upon his steadfast belief that any fool

of an Indian is better than a white man, and that the only good white

men are the dead ones, he got into his canoe and paddled across the

lake to interview the opposition trader.

When he told Spear what a splendid black fox he had, and how the priest

had already offered him a hundred skins for it, the Free Trader said:

"I'll give you a hundred and ten for it," and the old reprobate added,

"and I'll throw into the bargain half-a-dozen prayers for the women."

The offer was at once accepted. On handing over the goods to

Oo-koo-hoo, the trader asked where the black fox was, and was told that

it was in keeping of the priest. So without delay Mr. Spear paddled

back with The Owl to get the skin. When the priest learned how the

hunter had stolen a march on him, he was righteously indignant; but he

dared not complain, since he was not supposed to deal in furs. There

was nothing to do but hand over the magnificent skin to the Free Trader

although he knew right well that in London or Paris it would bring

twenty times the price paid for it.

Next day old Granny came crying to Oo-koo-hoo and complaining that the

priest had refused to officiate at the wedding on the day agreed upon.

The nuns had told her that his refusal was due to his determination to

discipline The Owl for his rudeness and irreverence. That seemed to

worry the hunter considerably, for, though he cared nothing for the

priest's benediction, he did want the wedding to come off upon the day

appointed. It touched his pride to be balked in his plans. He had

already invited all the Indians at the Post to the ceremony. Great

preparations were being made. If the wedding were put off even a

single day, everybody would be curious to know why; and sooner or later

it would be known that he had had to bow to the will of the priest.

The thought rankled. So he went to the Factor and told him the whole

affair.

"Ma brither," said the Factor, "we are auld freens; it is weel that we

shud staun' thegither. If ye will trade a' yir furs wi' me this day,

I'll get the meenister o' the Presybyterian Kirk tae mairry yir

gran'dochter. He'll be gled eneuch tae gi'e Father Jois a dour by

mairryin' twa o' his fowk. Sell me yir furs, an' I'll warrant ye ye'll

hae the laff on Father Jois."

MISSIONARIES AND INDIANS

That settled it. Factor Mackenzie got all the furs Oo-koo-hoo and his

family possessed. The Factor and the hunter were now the best of

friends, and they even went so far as to exchange presents--and that's

going some . . . for a Scotsman.

Should the foregoing amuse the Protestant reader, the following may be

of interest to the Roman Catholic. One winter, while halting at a

certain Hudson's Bay post, I met a Protestant clergyman, who having

spent a number of years as a missionary among the natives on the coast

of Hudson Bay excited my interest as to his work among the Indians.

That night, after supper, I questioned him as to his spiritual work

among the "barbarians" of the forest, and in the presence of the

Hudson's Bay trader, he turned to me and, with the air of being

intensely bored by the subject, he replied: "Mr. Heming . . . the only

interest I ever take in the Indian . . . is when I bury him."

But while I have cited two types of clergymen I have known--the name of

the priest being, of course, fictitious--merely to point out the kind

of missionaries that should never be sent among the Indians, I not only

wish to state that they are very much the exception to the rule, but I

also want to make known my unbounded respect and admiration for that

host of splendid men--and women--of all denominations, who have devoted

their lives to the spiritual welfare of the people of the wilderness,

and some of whom have already left behind them hallowed names of

imperishable memory.

But the lot of the missionary among the Indians is not altogether a

joyous one. In his distant and isolated outpost there are privations

to endure and hardships to suffer. Frequently, too, it happens that he

is placed in a position exceedingly embarrassing to a man of gentle

breeding and kindly spirit.

A well-known Canadian priest was being entertained by an Indian family.

The hospitable old grandmother undertook to prepare a meal for him.

Determined to set before the "black-robe" a really dainty

dish--something after the fashion of a Hamburg steak--and possessing no

machine for mincing the meat, she simply chewed it up nice and fine in

her own mouth. After cooking it to a turn, she set it before her

honoured guest, and was at a loss to understand why the good man had so

suddenly lost his appetite.

But there is often a brighter and also a graver side to the

missionary's life among the red men. Incidents occur which appeal

irresistibly to his sense of humour.

One Sunday afternoon a certain noted bishop of the English Church in

Canada, who had spent most of his life as a missionary in the far

Northwest, was discoursing at considerable length to a band of Dog-rib

Indians camped at the mouth of Hay River on Great Slave Lake. His

Lordship dwelt earnestly upon the virtue of brotherly love, and

enlarged upon the beauty of the Divine saying--"It is more blessed to

give than to receive." After the service an old Indian walked up to

the preacher, piously repeated the sacred text, and intimated that he

was prepared to become the humble instrument for bringing upon his

reverence the promised blessing. To that end he was willing to receive

his lordship's hat.

The good bishop was taken aback. Realizing, however, that there was

nothing else for him to do, he took off his hat and bestowed it with

commendable cheerfulness upon his new disciple.

Another red man, jealous of his brother who was now parading in all the

splendour of the bishop's hat, claimed upon the same ground the

prelate's gaiters, and received them.

The two Indians, envious each of the other's acquisition, began to

discuss with growing anger the comparative value of the articles.

Unable to arrive at an agreement, they resolved to put up the hat and

gaiters as a stake and gamble for them.

The impressive head-gear and antique gaiters of an Anglican bishop

never appeared to greater advantage than they did upon the old Indian,

the winner of the game, when he proudly strutted before his dusky,

admiring brethren, displaying on head and bare legs the Episcopal

insignia, and having for his only other garment an old shirt whose

dingy tail fluttered coyly in the summer breeze.

NEYKIA'S WEDDING

At ten o'clock, on the morning of Neykia's wedding, a motley mass of

natives clothed in many colours crowded about the little church, which,

for lack of space, they could not enter. Presently the crowd surged

back from the door and formed on either side of the path, leaving an

opening down the centre. A tall half-breed with a shock of wavy black

hair stepped from the doorway, raised his violin, and adjusting it into

position, struck up a lively tune to the accompaniment of the wailing

of a broken concertina played by another half-breed who preceded the

newly married couple. Neykia wore a silk handkerchief over her head, a

light-coloured cotton waist open at the throat, a silk sash over one

shoulder, and a short skirt revealing beaded leggings and moccasins.

Behind the bride and groom walked Oo-koo-hoo and the fathers of the

bridal couple, then the mothers and the rest of the relations, while

the clergy and the other guests brought up the rear. As the little

procession moved along, the men, lined up on either side of the path,

crossed their guns over the heads of the wedding party, and discharged

a _feu de joie_.

On reaching a certain log-house the procession broke up. The older

people went in to partake of the wedding breakfast, while the bride and

groom went over to one of the warehouses and amused themselves dancing

with their young friends until they were summoned to the second table

of the marriage feast. Everybody at the Post had contributed something

toward either the feast or the dance. Out of respect for Oo-koo-hoo

the Factor had furnished a liberal stock of groceries and had, in

addition, granted the free use of the buildings. The clerk had sent in

a quantity of candies and tobacco. The priest had given potatoes; the

clergyman had supplied a copy of the Bible in syllabic characters; and

the minister had given the silver-plated wedding ring. The nuns had

presented a supply of skim-milk and butter. Mr. Spear provided jam,

pickles, and coal-oil for the lamps. The Mounted Police contributed

two dollars to pay for the "band"--the fiddle and the concertina--and

ammunition enough for the _feu de joie_. The friends and relations had

given a plentiful store of fresh, dried, and pounded fish; and had also

furnished a lavish supply of moose, caribou, and bear meat; as well as

dainty bits of beaver, lynx, muskrat, and skunk.

The bridal party having dined, they and their elders opened the ball

officially. The first dance was--as it always is--the Double Jig, then

followed in regular order the same dances as those of the New Year's

feast. After a frolic of several hours' duration some of the dancers

grew weary and returned to the banquet room for refreshments. And thus

for three days and three nights the festivities continued.

THE WEDDING SPEECHES

During a lull in the dancing on the afternoon of the wedding day Little

Pine's sister went up to him and said: "Brother, may I kiss you? Are

you ashamed?" He answered: "No." She kissed him, took his wife's

hand, placed it in his with her own over both, and addressed the young

wife:

"As you have taken my place, do to him as I have done; listen to him,

work for him, and, if need be, die for him."

Then she lowered her head and began to cry.

Ne-Geek, The Otter, Neykia's oldest brother, then went up to Little

Pine and asked:

"Are you man enough to work for her, to feed her, and to protect her?"

"Yes," replied the new-made husband.

The Otter put the husband's hand on his sister's hand, and--looking him

straight in the eyes . . . shook his clenched fist at him and said in a

threatening tone . . . "Beware!"

In the midst of one of the dances Oo-koo-hoo walked up to the "band"

and knocked up the fiddle to command silence. Pulling his _capote_

tightly about him, he assumed a dignified attitude, slowly looked round

the room to see that he had the attention of all present, and began to

address the assemblage:

"The step which Shing-wauk has taken is a very serious one. Now he

will have to think for two. Now he must supply the wants of two. Now

he will realize what trouble is. But the One who made us . . . The

Great Mystery . . . The Master of Life . . . made us right. The man

has his work to do, and the woman has hers. The man must hunt and kill

animals, and the woman must skin and dress them. The man must always

stand by her and she by him. The two together are strong . . . and

there is no need of outside assistance. Remember . . . my

grandchildren . . . you are starting out together that way . . ."

To illustrate his meaning, he held up two fingers parallel, and added:

"If your tracks fork . . . they will soon be as far apart as sunrise is

from sunset . . . and you will find many ready to come in between.

Carry on in the way you have begun . . . for that is the way you should

end. And remember . . . if your tracks once fork . . . they will never

come together again . . . my grandchildren . . . I have spoken."

After Little Pine's father, as well as several of the guests, had made

their remarks, Naudin, Neykia's mother, rose to address her daughter.

Overcome with nervousness, she pulled her shawl so far over her face as

to leave only a tiny peep-hole through which to look. Hesitatingly she

began:

"My daughter, you never knew what trouble is, now you will know. You

never knew what hard work is, now you will soon learn. Never let your

husband want for anything. Never allow another woman to do anything

for him; if you do . . . you are lost. When you have children, my

daughter, and they grow up, your sons will always be sons to you, even

though they be gray-headed. But with your daughters it will not be so;

when they marry, they will be lost to you. Once married, they are gone

for ever."

She stepped up to her daughter, kissed her, and sank to the floor,

weeping copiously.

Then Amik rose to speak. He beckoned to his daughter. She advanced

and knelt down, holding the fringe of his legging while he addressed

her:

"Neykia, my daughter, you have taken this man. Be good to him, work

for him, live for him, and if need be, die for him. Kiss me, Neykia,

my daughter; kiss me for the last time."

She kissed him, and he added:

"You have kissed me for the last time: henceforth never kiss any man

but your husband."

Raising his hand with untutored dignity, he pronounced the words:

"Remember . . . I have spoken."

VIII

BUSINESS AND ROMANCE

FAREWELL ATHABASCA

Though Wawe Pesim (The Egg Moon), or June, had already brought summer

to the Great Northern Forest, the beautiful Athabasca still waited in

vain. Son-in-law had not yet appeared. After all--was he but a fond

parents' dream? I wondered.

Soon the picturesque and romantic Fur Brigade would be sweeping

southward on its voyage from the last entrenchments of the Red Gods to

the newest outposts of civilization--a civilization that has debauched,

infected, plundered, and murdered the red man ever since its first

onset upon the eastern shores of North America. If you don't believe

this, read history, especially the history of the American fur trade.

Meanwhile, canoes laden with furs and in charge of Hudson's Bay traders

or clerks from outlying "Flying Posts" had arrived; and among the

voyageurs was that amusing character, Old Billy Brass. A little later,

too, Chief Factor Thompson arrived from the North. Now in the fur loft

many hands were busily engaged in sorting, folding, and packing in

collapsible moulds--that determined the size and shape of the fur

packs--a great variety of skins. Also they were energetically

weighing, cording, and covering the fur packs with burlap--leaving two

ears of that material at each end to facilitate handling them, as each

pack weighed eighty pounds.

A fur pack of one hundred pounds--for the weight varies according to

the difficulty of transportation in certain regions--contains on an

average fourteen bear, sixty otter, seventy beaver, one hundred and ten

fox skins, or six hundred muskrat skins. A pack of assorted furs

contains about eighty skins and the most valuable ones are placed in

the centre.

During the next few days the great "North" or six-fathom canoes--made

of birch bark and capable of carrying from three to four tons of

freight in addition to their crews of from eight to twelve men--were

brought out of the canoe house, and together with the two new ones, had

their bows and sterns painted white in readiness for their finishing

touch of decoration in the way of some symbol of the fur trade.

As the principal Indian canoemen, who were to join the Fur Brigade,

were already familiar with my ability as an artist, they waited upon

the Factor and requested him to solicit my help in the final decorating

of those beautiful canoes. So it came to pass that on the bow of one a

leaping otter appeared and on the bows of others, a rearing bear, a

flying goose, a rampant caribou, a galloping fox, a leaping lynx, a

rampant moose, and on still another the coat-of-arms of the Hudson's

Bay Company. Each in turn had its admirers, but Oo-koo-hoo, who was to

have charge of all the voyageurs, sidled up to Factor Mackenzie and

whispered that if Hu-ge-mow--Master--would let him take his choice of

the canoes, he would not only give the Factor a dollar in return for

the privilege, but he would promise to keep that particular canoe at

the very head of the whole brigade, and never once allow another canoe

to pass it during the voyage.

The Factor was not only interested in the Indian's appreciation of art,

as well as amused over the idea that he would accept a bribe of a

dollar, but he was curious to know which canoe the Indian most

favoured. It was the one that displayed the Great Company's

coat-of-arms; so Oo-koo-hoo, the famous white-water-man, not only won

his choice and retained his dollar, but furthermore, he and his crew

actually did keep the bow of that canoe ahead of all others--no matter

where or when the other crews contested for the honour of leading the

Fur Brigade.

The next morning, at sunrise, the Fur Brigade was to take its

departure. Now it was time I visited Spearhead, to thank my friends,

the Free Trader and his family, for all their kindness to me, and to

bid them farewell; so I borrowed a small canoe and paddled across the

lake. When I arrived they invited me to dine with them. At the table

that day there was less talking--everyone seemed to be in a thoughtful

mood.

The windows and doors were open and the baggy mosquito netting sagged

away from the hot sun as the cool breeze whispered through its

close-knit mesh. Outside, I could see the heifer and her mother lying

in the shade of a tree on the far side of the stump-lot, and near the

doorway the ducks and geese were sauntering about the grass and every

now and then making sudden little rushes--as though they were trying to

catch something. There, too, in the pathway, the chickens were

scratching about and ruffling their feathers in little dust holes--as

though they were trying to get rid of something. An unexpected grunt

at the doorway attracted my attention and I saw a pig leering at me

from the corners of its half-closed eyes--the very same pig the Free

Trader and his wife had chosen to add to their daughter's wedding

dowry--then it gave a familiar little nod, as though it recognized me;

and I fancied, too, that its ugly chops broke into an insolent smile.

What was it thinking about? . . . Was it Son-in-law? I wondered.

I glanced at Athabasca. How beautiful she looked! The reflected

sunlight in the room cast a delightful sheen over her lustrous brown

hair, and seemed to enhance the beauty of her charmingly sun-browned

skin, that added so much to the whiteness of her even teeth, and to the

brilliancy of her soft brown eyes. In a dreamy way she was looking far

out through the window and away off toward the distant hills. She,

too, set me wondering; was she thinking of Son-in-law?

At that moment, however, the pig gave another impatient grunt which

startled Athabasca and caused her to look directly at me. I blushed

scarlet, then; so did she--but, of course, only out of sympathy.

"Yes, we'll send her to that finishing school in Toronto," her mother

mused, while Free Trader Spear scratched his head once more, and three

house flies lazily sat on the sugar bowl and hummed a vulgar tune.

After dinner Mr. Spear invited me into the trading room to see some of

the furs he had secured. Among them were four silver fox skins as well

as the black one he had bought from Oo-koo-hoo. They were indeed fine

skins.

It was now time for me to take my departure, so I returned to the

living room, but found no one there. Presently, however, Mrs. Spear

entered, and though she sat down opposite me, she never once looked my

way. She seemed agitated about something. Clasping her fingers

together, she twirled her thumbs about one another, then she twirled

them back the other way; later she took to tapping her moccasined toe

upon the bare floor, I wondered what was coming. I couldn't make it

out. For all the while she was looking at a certain crack in the

floor. Once more she renewed the twirling action of her thumbs, and

even increased the action of her toe upon the floor.

What did it all mean? Had I done anything to displease her? No; I

could think of nothing of the sort, so I felt a little easier.

Suddenly, however, she glanced up and, looking straight at me, began:

"Mr. Heming . . . we have only one child . . . and we love her

dearly . . ."

But the pause that followed was so long drawn out that I began to lose

interest, especially as the flies were once more humming the same old

tune. A little later, however, I was almost startled when Mrs. Spear

exclaimed:

"But I'll lend you a photograph of Athabasca for six weeks!"

Thereupon Mrs. Spear left her chair and going upstairs presently

returned with a photograph wrapped in a silk handkerchief; and as at

that very moment the Free Trader and his daughter entered the room, I,

without comment, slipped the photograph into my inside pocket, and

wished them all good-bye; though they insisted upon walking down to the

landing to wave me farewell on my way to Fort Consolation.

MUSTERING THE FUR BRIGADE

Next morning, soon after dawn, the church bells were ringing and

everyone was up and astir; and presently all were on their way to one

or another of the little log chapels on the hill; where, a little

later, they saw the stalwart men of the Fur Brigade kneeling before the

altar as they partook of the holy sacrament before starting upon their

voyage to the frontier of civilization.

Strange, isn't it, that the writers of northern novels never depict a

scene like that? Probably because they have never been inside a

northern church.

Next, breakfasts were hurriedly eaten, then the voyageurs assembled

upon the beach placed those big, beautifully formed, six-fathom canoes

upon the water, and paddled them to the landing. Then Chief Factor

Thompson and Factor Mackenzie joined the throng; and that veteran

voyageur, Oo-koo-hoo, who was to command the Fur Brigade, touched his

hat and conversed with the officers. A few moments later the old guide

waved his swarthy men into line. From them he chose the bowmen,

calling each by name, and motioning them to rank beside him; then, in

turn, each bowman selected a man for his crew; until, for each of the

eight canoes, eight men were chosen. Then work began.

Some went off with tump-line in hand to the warehouse, ascended the

massive stairs, and entered the fur loft. Tiers of empty shelves

circled the room, where the furs were stored during the winter; but

upon the floor were stacked packs of valuable pelts--the harvest of the

fur trade. The old-fashioned scales, the collapsible mould, and the

giant fur press told of the work that had been done. Every pack

weighed eighty pounds. Loading up, they rapidly carried the fur to the

landing. In the storeroom the voyageurs gathered up the "tripping" kit

of paddles, tents, axes, tarpaulins, sponges; and a box for each crew

containing frying-pans, tea pails, tin plates, and tea-dishes. In the

trading room the crews were supplied with provisions of flour, pork,

and tea, at the rate of three pounds a day for each man. They were

also given tobacco. Most of the voyageurs received "advances" from the

clerk in the way of clothing, knives, pipes, and things deemed

essential for the voyage. Birch bark, spruce roots, and gum were

supplied for repairing the canoes.

All was now in readiness. The loading of freight began, and when each

canoe had received its allotted cargo the voyageurs indulged in much

handshaking with their friends, a little quiet talking and affectionate

kissing with their families and sweethearts. Then, paddle in hand,

they boarded their canoes and took their places.

In manning a six-fathom canoe the bowman is always the most important;

the steersman comes next in rank, while the others are called "midmen."

DEPARTURE OF THE FUR BRIGADE

Factor Mackenzie and his senior officer, sitting in the guide's or

chief voyageur's canoe, which, of course, was Oo-koo-hoo's, gave the

word; and all together the paddle blades dipped, the water swirled, and

on the gunwales the paddle handles thudded as the canoes heaved away.

The going and coming of the Fur Brigade was the one great event of the

year to those nomadic people who stood watching and waving to the

fast-vanishing flotilla. Were they not bidding farewell to fathers,

husbands, brothers, sons, or lovers, chosen as the best men from their

village? Had they not lent a hand in the winning of the treasure that

was floating away? If only the pelts in those packs could speak, what

tales they would unfold!

As I looked back the animated picture of the little settlement wherein

we figured but a moment before gradually faded into distance. The

wild-looking assembly was blotted from the shore. But still above the

rapidly dwindling buildings waved the flag of the oldest chartered

trading association in the world--the Hudson's Bay Company.

Between eleven and twelve o'clock the brigade went ashore for a

"snack." The canoes were snubbed to overhanging trees, and upon a

rocky flat the fires burned. Hurriedly drinking the hot tea, the men

seized pieces of frying pork and, placing them upon their broken

bannock, ravenously devoured both as they returned to the canoes. No

time was lost. Away we went again. Then the brigade would paddle

incessantly for about two hours; then they would "spell", and paddles

were laid aside "one smoke." As the way slackened the steersmen

bunched the canoes. The soft, rich voices of the crews blended as they

quietly chatted and joked and laughed together.

[Illustration: The departure of the Fur Brigade was the one great event

of the year. In manning six-fathom canoes the bowman are always the

most important; the steersman coming next in rank, while the others are

called "midmen." The brigade would paddle incessantly for about two

hours; then they would "spell", and paddles were laid aside "one

smoke." The soft, rich voices of the crews blended as they quietly

chatted and joked and . . . See Chapter VIII.]

Later, a stern wind came along. Nearing an island, some of the men

went ashore and cut a mast and sprit-sail boom for each canoe. They

lashed the masts to the thwarts with tump-lines, and rigged the

tarpaulins, used to cover the packs, into sails. Again the paddles

were shipped, save those of the steersmen; and the crews lounged about,

either smoking or drowsing. The men were weary. Last night they had

danced both hard and long, with dusky maids--as all true voyageurs do

on the eve of their departure. To voyageurs stern winds are blessings.

Mile after mile the wild flotilla swept along. Sunshine danced upon

the rippling waves that gurgled and lapped as the bows overreached

them. Rugged islands of moss-covered rock and evergreen trees rose on

every side. The wind favoured us for about five miles, then shifted.

Reluctantly the sails were let down, and masts and booms tossed

overboard. At four o'clock the brigade landed on a pretty island, and

a hurried afternoon tea was taken; after which we again paddled on, and

at sundown halted to pitch camp for the night.

CAMP OF THE FUR BRIGADE

The canoes--held off shore so as not to damage them by touching the

beach--were unloaded by men wading in the water. The fur packs were

neatly piled and covered with tarpaulins. Then the canoes were lifted

off the water, and carried ashore, and turned upside-down for the

night. Tents were erected and campfires lit. Upon a thick carpet of

evergreen brush the blankets were spread in the tents. The tired men

sat in the smoke at the fires and ate their suppers round which black

flies and mosquitoes hovered.

Canadian voyageurs, being well used to both fasting and feasting,

display great appetites when savoury food is plentiful, and though I

have seen much feasting and heard astonishing tales of great eating, I

feel I cannot do better than quote the following, as told by Charles

Mair, one of the co-authors of that reliable book "Through the

Mackenzie Basin":

"I have already hinted at those masterpieces of voracity for which the

region is renowned; yet the undoubted facts related around our

campfires, and otherwise, a few of which follow, almost beggar belief.

Mr. Young, of our party, an old Hudson's Bay officer, knew of sixteen

trackers who, in a few days, consumed eight bears, two moose, two bags

of pemmican, two sacks of flour, and three sacks of potatoes. Bishop

Grouard vouched for four men eating a reindeer at a sitting. Our

friend, Mr. d'Eschambault, once gave Oskinnegu,--'The Young Man'--six

pounds of pemmican. He ate it all at a meal, washing it down with a

gallon of tea, and then complained that he had not had enough. Sir

George Simpson states that at Athabasca Lake, in 1820, he was one of a

party of twelve who ate twenty-two geese and three ducks at a single

meal. But, as he says, they had been three whole days without food.

The Saskatchewan folk, however, known of old as the Gens de

Blaireaux--'The People of the Badger Holes'--were not behind their

congeners. That man of weight and might, our old friend Chief Factor

Belanger, once served out to thirteen men a sack of pemmican weighing

ninety pounds. It was enough for three days; but there and then they

sat down and consumed it all at a single meal, not, it must be added,

without some subsequent and just pangs of indigestion. Mr. B., having

occasion to pass the place of eating, and finding the sack of pemmican,

as he supposed, in his path, gave it a kick; but, to his amazement, it

bounded aloft several feet, and then lit. It was empty! When it is

remembered that in the old buffalo days the daily ration per head at

the Company's prairie posts was eight pounds of fresh meat, which was

all eaten, its equivalent being two pounds of pemmican, the enormity of

this Gargantuan feast may be imagined. But we ourselves were not bad

hands at the trencher. In fact, we were always hungry. So I do not

reproduce the foregoing facts as a reproach, but rather as a meagre

tribute to the prowess of the great of old--the men of unbounded

stomach!"

And yet, strange as it may seem, fat men are seldom seen in the

northern wilderness. That is something movie directors should remember.

Pemmican, though little used nowadays, was formerly the mainstay of the

voyageurs. It was made of the flesh of buffalo, musk-ox, moose,

caribou, wapiti, beaver, rabbit, or ptarmigan; and for ordinary use was

composed of 66 per cent. of dried meat pounded fine to 34 per cent. of

hard fat boiled and strained. A finer quality of pemmican for officers

or travellers was composed of 60 per cent. of dried meat pounded extra

fine and sifted; 33 per cent. of grease taken from marrow bones boiled

and strained; 5 per cent. of dried Saskatoon berries; 2 per cent. of

dried choke cherries, and sugar according to taste. The pounded meat

was placed in a large wooden trough and, being spread out, hot grease

was poured over it and then stirred until thoroughly mixed with the

meat. Then, after first letting it cool somewhat, the whole was packed

into leather bags, and, with the aid of wooden mallets, driven down

into a solid mass, when the bags were sewn up and flattened out and

left to cool; during the cooling precaution was taken to turn the bags

every five minutes to prevent the grease settling too much to one side.

Pemmican was packed 50, 80, or 100 lb. in a bag--according to the

difficulty of transporting it through the country in which it was to be

used. The best pemmican was made from buffalo meat, and 2 lb. of

buffalo pemmican was considered equal to 2 1/2 lb. of moose or 3 lb. of

caribou pemmican.

Later, a cool sunset breeze from over the water blew the little

tormentors away, and then it was that those swarthy men enjoyed their

rest. After supper some made bannock batter in the mouths of

flour-sacks, adding water, salt, and baking powder. This they worked

into balls and spread out in sizzling pans arranged obliquely before

the fire with a bed of coals at the back of each. It was an enlivening

scene. Great roaring fires sent glowing sparks high into the still

night air, lighting up the trees with their intense glare, and casting

weird shadows upon the surrounding tents and bushes. Picturesque,

wild-looking men laughed, talked, and gesticulated at one another. A

few with _capotes_ off were sitting close to the fires, and flipping

into the air the browning flap-jacks that were to be eaten the

following day. Others, with hoods over their heads, lolled back from

the fire smoking their pipes--and by the way, novelists and movie

directors and actors should know that the natives of the northern

wilderness, both white and red, do not smoke cigarettes; they smoke

pipes and nothing else. Some held their moccasins before the fire to

dry, or arranged their blankets for turning in. Others slipped away

under cover of darkness to rub pork rinds on the bottom of their

canoes, for there was much rivalry as to the speed of the crews. Still

more beautiful grows the scene, when the June moon rises above the

trees and tips with flickering light the running waves.

Sauntering from one crew's fire to another, I listened for a while to

the talking and laughing of the voyageurs, but hearing no thrilling

tales or even a humorous story by that noted romancer Old Billy Brass,

I went over and sat down at the officers' fire, where Chief Factor

Thompson was discussing old days and ways with his brother trader.

THE LONGEST BRIGADE ROUTES

After a little while I asked:

"What was the longest route of the old-time canoe and boat brigades?"

"There were several very long ones," replied Mr. Thompson, "for

instance, the one from Montreal to Vancouver, a distance of about three

thousand miles; also the one from York Factory on Hudson Bay to the

Queen Charlotte Islands, and another from York Factory to the Mackenzie

River posts. Some of the portages on the main highway of canoe travel

were rather long, for instance, the one at Portage La Loche was twelve

miles in length and over it everything had to be carried on man back.

"In winter time, travel was by way of snowshoes, dog-sled, or jumper.

A jumper is a low, short, strong sleigh set upon heavy wooden runners

and hauled by ox, horse, men, or dogs. The freight load per dog--as

you know--is a hundred pounds; per man, one to two hundred pounds; per

horse, four to six hundred pounds; and per ox, five to seven hundred

pounds. In summer there were the canoe, York boat, sturgeon-head scow,

and Red River cart brigades. A six-fathom canoe carries from twenty to

thirty packages; a York boat, seventy-five packages; a Sturgeon-head

scow, one hundred packages; and a Red River cart, six hundred pounds.

The carts were made entirely of wood and leather and were hauled by

horse or ox. With every brigade went the wife of one of the voyageurs

to attend to the mending of the voyageurs' clothing and to look after

the comfort of the officer in charge. But the voyageurs always had to

do their own cooking and washing.

"In the old days, too, much of their food had to be procured from the

country through which they travelled and therefore they relied upon

buffalo, moose, wapiti, deer, bear, beaver, rabbit, fish, and

water-fowl to keep them in plenty."

Then for a while the Factors sat smoking in silence. The moon had

mounted higher and was now out of sight behind the tops of the

neighbouring trees, but its reflection was brilliantly rippled upon the

water. At one of the fires a French half-breed was singing in a rich

barytone one of the old _chansons_ that were so much in vogue among the

voyageurs of by-gone days--_À la Claire Fontaine_. After an encore,

silence again held sway, until around another fire hearty laughter

began to play.

"The boys over there must be yarning again," remarked, the Chief

Factor, as he pointed with his pipe, "let's go over, and listen awhile."

BILLY BRASS TELLS ANOTHER STORY

It was Oo-koo-hoo's fire and among his men was seated that ever-welcome

member of another crew--Old Billy Brass. Evidently he had just

finished telling one of his mirth-provoking stories, as the men were

good-naturedly questioning him about it; for, as we sat down, he

continued:

"Yes, sir, it's true; fire attraks 'em. Why, I've knowed 'em come from

miles round when they catched a glimpse of it, an' as long as there's

danger o' white bears bein' round you'll never again find Old Billy

Brass tryin' to sleep beside a big fire. No, sir, not even if His

Royal Highness the Commissioner or His Lordship the Bishop gives the

word."

Then he sat there slowly drawing upon his pipe with apparently no

intention of adding a single word to what he had already said. Lest

something interesting should be lost, I ventured:

"Was it the Bishop or the Commissioner that made the trouble?"

"No, sir, neither; 'twas the Archdeacon," replied the old man as he

withdrew his pipe and rubbed his smarting eyes clear of the smoke from

the blazing logs. Taking a few short draws at the tobacco, he

continued:

"There was three of us, me an' Archdeacon Lofty an' Captain Hawser, who

was commandin' one of the Company's boats that was a-goin' to winter in

Hudson Bay. It happened in September. The three of us was hoofin' it

along the great barren shore o' the bay. In some places the shore was

that flat that every time the tide came in she flooded 'bout all the

country we could see, an' we had a devil of a time tryin' to keep clear

o' the mud. We had a few dogs along to help pack our beddin', but,

nevertheless, it was hard work; for we was carryin' most of our outfit

on our backs.

"One evenin' just before sundown we stumbled upon a lot o' driftwood

scattered all about the flats. As so much wood was lyin' around handy,

we decided to spend the night on a little knoll that rose above

high-water mark. For the last few days we had seen so little wood that

any of our fires could 'a' been built in a hat. But that night the

sight o' so much wood fairly set the Archdeacon crazy with delight, an'

nothin' would do but we must have a great roarin' fire to sleep by. I

would have enjoyed a good warmin' as well as any one, but I was mighty

leary about havin' a big fire. So I cautioned the Archdeacon not to

use much wood as there was likely to be bears about, an' that no matter

how far off they was, if they saw that fire they would make for

it--even if they was five or six miles out on the ice floes. He

wouldn't listen to me. The Captain backed him up, an' they both set to

an' built a fire as big as a tepee.

"We was pretty well tuckered out from the day's walkin'. So after

supper we dried our moccasins an' was about to turn in early when--lo

an' behold!--the Archdeacon got up an' piled more wood upon the fire.

That made me mad; for unless he was huntin' for trouble he couldn't 'a'

done a thing more foolish, an' I says somethin' to that effect. He

comes back at me as though I was afraid o' me own shadder, an' says:

'Billy Brass, I'm s'prised that a man like you doesn't put more faith

in prayin' an' trustin' hisself in the hands o' the Almighty.'

"I was so hot over the foolishness of havin' such a big fire that I ups

an' says:

"'That may be all right for you, sir, but I prefer to use my wits

first, an' trust in Providence afterwards.'

"Nothin' more was said, an' we all turns in. I didn't like the idea of

every one goin' to sleep with a fire so big that it was showin' itself

for miles aroun', so I kep' myself awake. I wasn't exactly thinkin'

that somethin' really serious was goin' to happen, but I was just

wishin' it would, just to teach the Archdeacon a lesson. As time went

on I must 'a' done a little dozin'; for when I looks up at the Dipper

again, I learns from its angle with the North Star that it was already

after midnight. An'--would you believe it?--that fire was still

blazin' away nearly as big as ever. The heat seemed to make me drowsy,

for I began to doze once more. All at once I heard the dogs blowin' so

hard----"

"Blowing?"

"Yes, that's right; they were blowin'; for geddies don't bark like

other dogs when they're frightened. Well, as I was sayin', they were

blowin' so hard that my hair nearly stood on end. Like a shot I throws

off me blanket an' jumps to me feet, for I knowed what was comin'. The

Captain an' the Archdeacon heard them, too, an' we all grabbed at once

for the only gun, a single-barrelled muzzle-loader.

"As ill luck would have it, the Archdeacon was nearest to that gun an'

grabbed it, an' by the time we was straightened up we sees a great big

white bear rushin' at us. Quick as thought the Archdeacon points the

gun at the bear an' pulls the trigger, but the hammer only snaps upon

the bare nipple; for the cap had tumbled off in the scramble. There

was no time for re-cappin'; so, bein' the nearest to the chargin' bear,

the Archdeacon just drops the old gun an' runs for dear life around

that fire with me an' the Captin followin' close behind him.

"When I seen the way the Archdeacon an' the Captin went a sailin' round

that fire, it fairly took me breath away; for somehow I never had any

idea that them two old cripples had so much speed left in 'em. An' you

can bet it kep' me unusually busy bringin' up the rear; an', anyway,

the feelin' that the bear was for ever snappin' at me coat-tails kep'

me from takin' things too easy.

"Well, we tore round an' round an' round that fire so dang many times

that we was not only rapidly losin' our wind but we was beginnin' to

get dizzy into the bargain. All the time we could hear the great beast

thunderin' after us, yet we daren't slacken our pace; no, sir, not even

enough to take a single glance behind just to see which was gainin'.

It was a sure case of life or death, but principally death; an' you can

depend on it we wasn't takin' any chances.

"Me an' the Captin was crowdin' so close upon the Archdeacon's heels

that in his terror lest we should pass him by he ups an' sets the pace

at such a tremendous speed that the whole three of us actually catches

up to the bear . . . without the brute's knowin' it. If it hadn't been

for the Archdeacon steppin' on the sole of the bear's upturned left

hind foot as the hungry beast was gallopin' round the fire . . . we'd

have been runnin' a good deal longer.

"Well, sir, if you had just seen how foolish that bear looked when he

discovered that we was chasin' him instead of him chasin' us, you'd

have died laughin'. Why, he was the most bewildered an' crest-fallen

animal I ever did see. But he soon regained his wits an'--evidently

calculatin' that his only salvation layed in his overhaulin' us--lit

out at a saprisin' gait in a grand effort to leave us far enough behind

for him to catch up to us. But it didn't work; for by that time we had

all got our second wind an' he soon realized that we was determined not

to be overhauled from the rear. So he set to ponderin' what was really

the best thing for him to do; an' then he did it.

"You must understand that we was so close upon his heels that there

wasn't room for him to stop an' turn around without us all fallin' on

top of him. So what do you think the cunnin' brute did? Why, he just

hauled off an' kicked out behind with his right hind foot, an' hit the

Archdeacon a smashin' blow square on his stomach, an' knocked him bang

against the Captin an' the Captin against me, an' me against the dogs;

an' we all went down in a heap beside the fire.

"Well, sir, that old brute had put so much glad an' earnest energy into

its kick that it knocked the wind plum out of every one of us, an' for

the next few seconds there was a mess of arms an' legs an' tails

frantically tryin' to disentangle themselves. But, as good luck would

have it, I went down upon the gun. As I rose to my feet, I slipped a

cap on the nipple just as the bear comes chargin' around the fire

facing us. I ups an' lets him have it full in the mouth. The shot

nearly stunned him. While he was clawin' the pain in his face I had

time to re-load, an' lets him have it behind the ear, an' he drops dead

without a whimper.

"Then--would you believe it?--the Archdeacon goes up to the shaggy

carcass, puts his foot on the bear's head, an' stands there lookin' for

all the world like British Columbia discoverin' America, an' says:

"'There, now, Billy Brass, I hope you have learned a lesson. Next time

you will know where to place your trust.'

"Well, sir, the way he was lettin' on that he had saved the whole

outfit made me mad. So I ups an' says:

"'Yes, sir, an' if I hadn't put me trust in me gun, there would have

been another Archdeacon in heaven.'"

THE TRUTH ABOUT WOODSMEN

It was now growing late. For a while the smiling Indians, half-breeds,

and white men smoked in silence; then one after another, each knocked

the ashes from his pipe, arose, stretched himself, and sauntered off to

his bed, whether in a tent, under a canoe, or in the open. Walking

down to the water's edge I watched the moonlight for a while, then

passed quietly from one smouldering fire to another. Some of the men

were still talking together in low tones so as not to disturb those who

were already seeking slumber, while others were arranging their

bedding; and still others were devoutly kneeling in prayer to The

Master of Life.

Thus during the four seasons of the year I had lived with and observed

the men of the northern wilderness; and not only had I learned to like

and respect them, but to admire their generosity and honesty, their

simplicity and skill, their gentleness and prowess; and, above all, to

honour their spiritual attitude toward this world and the next. How

different they were from the city dwellers' conception of them! But

still you may want further proof. You may want first-hand knowledge of

those northern men. You may want to study their minds and to look into

their hearts. Then may I ask you to read the following letter, written

a few years ago by an old Canadian woodsman--Mr. A. B. Carleton--who

was born and bred in the northern wilderness. Then you may become

better acquainted with at least one of the men I have been trying to

picture to you.

"I was born in the heart of the northern forest, and in my wanderings

my steps have ever gone most willingly back toward the pine-covered

hills and the grassy glades that slope down to cool, deep waters. The

wanderlust has carried me far, but the lakes and waterfalls, the bluffs

and the bays of the great northern No-Man's Land are my home, and with

_Mukwa_ the bear, _Mah-en-gin_ the wolf, _Wash-gish_ the red deer, and

_Ah-Meek_ the beaver, I have much consorted and have found their

company quite to my liking.

"But the fates have so dealt with me that for two years I have not been

able to see the smile of Springtime breaking forth upon the rugged face

of my northern No-Man's Land. I have had glimpses of it, merely, among

crowded houses, out of hospital windows. Still, my mind is native to

the forest, and my thoughts and fancies, breaking captivity, go back,

like the free wild things they are, on bright days of springtime to the

wild land where the change of season means what it never can mean in

the town.

"What does Spring mean to you town folk, anyway? I will tell you. It

means lighter clothing, dust instead of sleet, the transfer of your

patronage from fuel man to ice man, a few days of slushy streets and

baseball instead of hockey.

"What does it mean to the man of the woods? That I will try to tell

you. It means that the deep snow which has mantled hill and valley for

five months has melted into brooks and rivulets which are plunging and

splashing away to find the ocean from whence they came. It means that

the thick ice which throughout the long winter has imprisoned the

waters of the lakes, is now broken, and the waves, incited by the south

wind, are wreaking vengeance by beating it upon the rocks of the

northern shore, until, subdued and melted, it returns to be a mere part

of the waves again. Instead of the hungry winter howl of the wolf or

the whining snarl of the sneaking lynx the air is now filled with

happier sounds: ducks are quacking; geese are honking; waveys are

cackling as they fly northward; squirrels among the spruce trees

chatter noisily; on sandy ridges woodchucks whistle excitedly; back

deep in the birch thicket partridges are drumming, and all the woodland

is musical with the song of birds.

"The trees, through whose bare branches the wind all winter has

whistled and shrieked, are now sending forth leaves of tender green and

the voice of the wind caressing them is softened to a tone as musical

as the song of birds. Flowers are springing up, not in the rigid rows

or precise squares of a mechanically inclined horticulturist, but

surprising one by elbowing themselves out of the narrowest crevices, or

peeping bashfully out from behind fallen trees, or clinging almost

upside down to the side of an overhanging cliff.

"My camp on Rainy Lake faces the south and in front is a little stunted

black ash tree, so dwarfed, gnarled, twisted, and homely that it is

almost pretty. I refrained from cutting it down because of its

attractive deformity. In the springtime, a few years ago, a pair of

robins chose it as their nesting place. One bright Sunday morning, as

the nest was in course of construction, I was sitting in my doorway

watching the pair. The brisk little husband was hurrying toward the

nest with a bit of moss; but the mild sun, the crisp air, the sweet

breathing earth, the gently whispering trees seemed to make him so very

happy he could not but tell of it. Alighting on a twig he dropped the

moss, opened his beak, and poured forth in song the joy his little body

could no longer contain. That is the joy of a northern No-Man's Land

in the month of May.

"We are so happy in our woodland home that we wish everyone might share

it with us. But perhaps some would not enjoy what we enjoy, or see

what we see, and some are prevented from coming by the duties of other

callings, and each must follow the pathway his feet are most fitted to

tread. For myself, I only want my little log cabin with the wild vines

climbing over its walls and clinging to the mud-chinked crevices, where

I can hear the song of wild birds mingled with the sleepy hum of bees

moving from blossom to blossom about the doorway; where I can see the

timid red deer, as, peeping out of the brush, it hesitates between the

fear of man and the temptation of the white clover growing in front of

my home, and where I can watch the endless procession of waves

following each other up the bay. Give me the necessity of working for

my daily bread so that I will not feel as though I were a useless

cumbrance upon the earth; allow me an opportunity now and then of doing

a kindly act, even if it be no more than restoring to the shelter of

its mother's breast a fledgling that has fallen from its nest in a tree

top. If I may have these I will be happy, and happier still if I could

know that when the time comes for me to travel the trail, the sands of

which show no imprint of returning footsteps, that I might be put to

rest on the southern slope of the ridge beside my camp, where the

sunshine chases the shadows around the birch tree, where the murmur of

the waves comes in rhythm to the robin's song, and where the red deer

play on moonlight nights. Neither will I fear the snows of winter that

come drifting over the bay, driven by the wind that whines through the

naked tree tops, nor the howl of the hungry wolf, for what had no

terror for me in life need not have afterward. And if the lessons that

I learned at my mother's knee be true; if there be that within me that

lives on, I am sure that it will be happier in its eternal home if it

may look back and know that the body which it had tried to guide

through its earthly career was having its long rest in the spot it

loved best."

Did you ever meet a character like that in northern fiction?

No, of course not; how could you? . . . When the books were written by

city-dwelling men. Then, too, is not any production of the creative

arts--a poem, a story, a play, a painting, or a statue--but a

reflection of the composer's soul? So . . . when you read a book

filled with inhuman characters, you have taken the measure of the man

who wrote it, you have seen a reflection of the author's soul.

Furthermore, when people exclaim: "What's the matter with the movies?"

The answer is: Nothing . . . save that the screens too often reflect

the degenerate souls of the movie directors.

But the Indian--how he has been slandered for centuries! When in

reality it is just as Warren, the Historian of the Ojibways,

proclaimed: "There was consequently less theft and lying, more devotion

to the Great Spirit, more obedience to their parents, and more chastity

in man and woman, than exists at the present day, since their baneful

intercourse with the white race." And Hearne, the northern traveller,

ended a similar contention--more than a hundred years ago--by saying:

"It being well known that those who have the least intercourse with

white men are by far the happiest."

That night, as I turned in, I had occasion to look through my kit bag,

and there I found, wrapped in a silk handkerchief, the photograph--lent

to me for six weeks--of the charming Athabasca. Being alone in my

tent, I carefully unfolded its wrapper, and drawing the candle a little

nearer, I gazed at her beautiful face. Again I wondered about

Son-in-law. . . .

A RACE FOR THE PORTAGE

At three o'clock next morning the camp was astir. In the half light of

early day, and while breakfast was being prepared, the men "gummed"

afresh the big canoes. Whittling handles to dry pinesticks, they split

the butts half way down, and placed that end in the fire. After a

little burning, the stick opened like a fork; and, placing it over the

broken seam, the voyageur blew upon the crotch, thus melting the

hardened "gum"; then, spitting upon his palm, he rounded it off and

smoothed it down. By the time breakfast was ready the tents were again

stowed away in the canoes along with the valuable cargoes of furs.

Paddling up the mist-enshrouded river the canoes rounded a bend. There

the eddying of muddy water told that a moose had just left a water-lily

bed. The leaves of the forest hid his fleeing form; but on the soft

bank the water slowly trickled into his deep hoof-prints, so late was

his departure. The tracks of bear and deer continuously marked the

shores, for the woods were full of game. From the rushes startled

ducks rose up and whirred away. How varied was the scenery.

Island-dotted lakes, timber-covered mountains, winding streams and

marshy places; bold rocky gorges and mighty cataracts; dense forests of

spruce, tamarack, poplar, birch, and pine--a region well worthy to be

the home of either Nimrod or Diana.

Later in the day, when all the canoes were ranged side by side, their

gracefully curved bows came in line; dip, swirl, thud; dip, swirl,

thud, sounded all the paddles together. The time was faultless. Then

it was that the picturesque brigade appeared in wild perfection.

Nearing a portage, spontaneously a race began for the best landing

place. Like contending chargers, forward they bounded at every stroke.

Vigorously the voyageurs plied their paddles. Stiffening their arms

and curving their backs, they bent the blades. Every muscle was

strained. The sharp bows cleaved the lumpy water, sending it gurgling

to the paddles that slashed it, and whirled it aside. On they went.

Now Oo-koo-hoo's canoe was gaining. As that brightly painted craft

gradually forged ahead, its swiftly running wake crept steadily along

the sides of the other canoes. Presently the wavelets were sounding

"whiff, whiff, whiff," as the white bows crushed them down. Then at

last his canoe broke free and lunged away, leaving all the brigade to

follow in its broadening trail. The pace was too exhausting; the

canoes strung out; but still the narrow blades slashed away, for the

portage was at hand. With dangerous speed the first canoe rushed

abreast of the landing, and just as one expected disaster the bowman

gave the word. Instantly the crew, with their utmost strength, backed

water. As the canoe came to a standstill the voyageurs rolled their

paddle-handles along the gunwales, twirling the dripping blades and

enveloping the canoe in a veil of whirling spray. Then, jumping into

the shallow water, they lined up and quickly passed the packs ashore.

The moment the cargo was transferred to the bank, the crew lifted the

great canoe off the water and turned it bottom up, while four of them

placed their heads beneath and rested the gunwales upon their

_capote_-bepadded shoulders. As they carried it off, one was reminded

of some immense antediluvian reptile crawling slowly over the portage

trail.

There was now much excitement. Other crews had arrived, and were

rapidly unloading. As the landing was over-crowded the portaging

began. Each man tied the thin, tapering ends of his tump-line--a

fifteen-foot leather strap with a broad centre--about a pack, swung it

upon his back, and, bending forward, rested its broad loop over his

head. Upon the first his companion placed two more packs; then,

stooping beneath the weight of 240 pounds, the packers at a jog-trot

set off uphill and down, over rugged rocks and fallen timber, through

fern-covered marsh and dense underbrush. Coming to an opening in the

wood at the far end of the portage, they quickly tossed their burdens

aside, and back again they ran. Nowhere could one see more willing

workers. You heard no swearing or grumbling about the exceedingly hard

task before them. On the contrary, every man vied with the rest as to

which could carry the greatest load and most swiftly cross the portage.

Rivalry sped the work along. Shirts and trousers reeked with

perspiration. The voyageurs puffed and panted as they went by, and no

wonder--the portage was three quarters of a mile in length.

Then away we went again, and up, up, up, we mounted day by day, toward

the height-of-land, where a long portage over low-lying marshy ground

brought us to the place where our descent began; then for days we ran

with the current until it entered a larger river, and soon we found

that endless rapids interrupted our work, and down many of them the

canoes were run. The Hudson's Bay Company, however, never allows its

men to shoot rapids with fur-laden canoes; so it was on that wild

stretch of our trip that the skill of the voyageur was tested most.

FIGHTING WITH DEATH

At the head of one of the great rapids Oo-koo-hoo, seeing that I mated

well with one of his crew, invited me to take a paddle and help them

through. Tossing in an extra paddle for each canoeman we stepped

aboard, and with a gentle shove the current caught the light canoe and

carried us out to mid-stream. Long before we sighted white water the

roar of the cataract was humming in our ears. We midmen sat upon

dunnage sacks and braced our moccasined feet against the ribbing.

Presently the bowman stood up and scanned the river. Dark, ominous

water raced ahead for a hundred yards then disappeared, leaving nothing

but a great surging mass of white that leaped high and dropped out of

sight in the apparently forsaken river-bed. Then the steersman stood

up, too, and Indian words passed between them. Every moment we were

gaining impetus, and always heading for the highest crest of foam.

Waiting for the word to paddle was even worse than waiting for the

starter's gun in a sculling race. At last it came, just as we were

twenty-five yards from the end of dark water. With a wild shout from

the bowman we drove our paddles home. The great canoe trembled a

little at first, as our work was somewhat ragged, but a moment later we

settled into an even stroke and swept buoyantly among the tossing

billows. Now before us ran a strange wild river of seething white,

lashing among great, gray-capped, dark greenish boulders that blocked

the way. High rocky banks standing close together squeezed the mighty

river into a tumult of fury. Swiftly we glide down the racing torrent

and plunge through the boiling waters. Sharp rocks rear above the

flying spray while others are barely covered by the foaming flood. It

is dangerous work. We midmen paddle hard to force the canoe ahead of

the current. The steersman in bow and stern ply and bend their great

seven-foot paddles. The bowman with eyes alert keenly watches the

whirling waters and signs of hidden rocks below. The roar of seething

waters drowns the bowman's orders. The steersman closely watches and

follows every move his companion makes. Down we go, riding upon the

very back of the river; for here the water forms a great ridge, rising

four or five feet above the waterline on either shore. To swerve to

either side means sure destruction. With terrific speed we reach the

brink of a violent descent. For a moment the canoe pauses, steadies

herself, then dips her head as the stern upheaves, and down we plunge

among more rocks than ever. Right in our path the angry stream is

waging battle with a hoary bowlder that disputes the way. With all its

might and fury the frantic river hisses and roars and lashes it. Yet

it never moves--it only frowns destruction upon all that dares approach

it.

How the bowman is working! See his paddle bend! With lightning

movements he jabs his great paddle deep into the water and close under

the left side of the bow; then with a mighty heave he lifts her head

around. The great canoe swings as though upon a pivot; for is not the

steersman doing exactly the very opposite at this precise moment? We

sheer off. But the next instant the paddles are working on the

opposite sides, for the bowman sees signs of a water-covered rock not

three yards from the very bow. With a wild lunge he strives to lift

the bow around; but the paddle snaps like a rotten twig. Instantly he

grabs for another, and a grating sound runs the length of the heaving

bottom. The next moment he is working the new paddle. A little water

is coming in but she is running true. The rocks now grow fewer, but

still there is another pitch ahead. Again the bow dips as we rush down

the incline. Spray rises in clouds that drench us to the skin as we

plunge through the "great swell" and then shoot out among a multitude

of tumbling billows that threaten to engulf us. The canoe rides upon

the backs of the "white horses" and we rise and fall, rise and fall, as

they fight beneath us. At last we leave their wild arena, and,

entering calmer water, paddle away to the end of the portage trail.

One morning, soon after sunrise, the brigade came to the end of its

journey as it rounded a point and headed for a smoking steamboat that

rested upon a shimmering lake; and so entirely did the rising mist

envelop the craft that it suggested the silhouette of a distant

mountain in volcanic eruption. Then the canoes, each in turn, lay

alongside the steamer; the fur packs were loaded aboard, and thence by

steamboat and railroad they continued their journey to Montreal; where

together with the "returns" from many another of the Hudson's Bay

Company's thirty-four districts, they were reshipped in ocean-going

craft for England where eventually they were sold by auction in London.

A hundred years ago as many as ten brigades, each numbering twenty

six-fathom canoes, sometimes swept along those northern highways and

awoke those wild solitudes with the rollicking songs and laughter of

fifteen or sixteen hundred voyageurs; but alas for those wonderfully

picturesque days of bygone times! The steamboats and the railroads

have driven them away.

In my youth, however, I was fortunate enough to have travelled with the

last of those once-famous fur brigades; and also to have learned from

personal experience the daily life of the northern woods--the drama of

the forests--of which in my still earlier youth I had had so many

day-dreams; and now if in describing and depicting it to you I have

succeeded in imparting at least a fraction of the pleasure it gave me

to witness it, I am well repaid. But perhaps you are wondering about

the beautiful Athabasca?

ATHABASCA AND SON-IN-LAW

Some years later, while on my second visit to Fort Consolation, I not

only found a flourishing town of some four or five thousand inhabitants

built on Free Trader Spear's original freehold, but in the handsome

brick City Hall--standing in the original stump-lot--I met the old Free

Trader himself, now holding office as the Mayor of Spearhead City. Not

only had he become wealthy--rumour said he was already a

millionaire--but he had taken another man into partnership, for now

over his big brick storehouse read a huge sign in golden letters "SPEAR

AND . . ." For like all day-dreams--if only dreamed often enough--the

ever-present dream of the Free Trader and his wife had really come true.

It was then that I learned that soon after my departure Prince Charming

had come up out of the East, fallen in love with the beautiful

Athabasca, become the actual Son-in-law, had been taken into

partnership by her father, and together the lucky groom and his

blushing bride had moved into their newly built log cabin, furnished

with the long-promised bed, table, and chairs, the cooking stove,

blankets, crockery, cutlery, and cooking utensils. Round about their

simple little home a heifer, a pig, and some ducks and geese stood

guard while their beautiful mistress lived happy ever after--at least

she did until prosperity inveigled her into a grand new brick mansion;

and then, of course, her troubles began, because happiness always

prefers a cabin to a castle.

THE END