A peculiar drumming wafts from the shore-line. "Pa-pas-ku," says one of the Cree lads, pulling his pipe from his mouth and listening. Young Hudson's Bay to my enquiring look returns, "The Canadian ruffed grouse," which Sussex elucidated, "Bonasa umbellus logata," at which we all feel very much relieved.

The Kid was pressing specimens, and, holding up a branch, the Mounted Policeman next her said, "Young jackpine, I think." "It belongs to the Conifer family," corrects the Doctor. "Oh!" says the Mounted Policeman, with a sniff, "then we'll give it back to 'em the next time one of the Conifer boys comes round." The man of the river and the woods hates a Latin name, and any stray classic knowledge you have is best hidden under a napkin. The descriptive terms men use here are crisp and to the point. The vicious habit of giving birds bad names is one that grows, and you never know when the scientific have come to a finality. For instance, little Robin Red-Breast ("the pious bird with scarlet breast" whose nest with four eggs the Kid discovered to-day), has successively lived through three tags, "Turdus migratorius," "Planesticus migratorius," and "Turdus canadensis." If he had not been an especially plucky little beggar he would have died under the libels long ago. For my own part I cannot conceive how a man with good red blood in his veins could look a chirky little robin in the eye and call him to his face a "Planesticus migratorius," when as chubby youngster he had known the bird and loved him as Robin Red-Breast. One is inclined to ask with suspicion, "Is naming a lost art?" Any new flower discovered these days, every clever invention in the realm of machinery, is forthwith saddled with an impossible name. If it had not been easy to clip the term "automobile" down to the working stub "auto," the machine would never have run our streets. Again, the decimal system is conceded to be far ahead of the asinine "five and one-half yards make one rod, pole or perch"; the only reason why the commonsense thing does not supersede the foolish one is that the sensible measurement has the fool tag on it. Who could imagine ever going into a store and asking for seven decimetres and nine centimetres of picture-moulding, or dropping into the corner grocery to buy a hectolitre of green onions? When man dug gold and iron and tin out of the earth he made things with them. Now when we discover a new mineral we dub it "molybdenum" and let it rust in innocuous ease. When man loses the art of nervous speech, his power of action goes with it. And as we ruminate, the Bonasa umbellus togata drums on.

When we pass the parallel of 55 deg.N. we come into a very wealth of new words, a vocabulary that has found its way into no dictionary but which is accepted of all men. The steep bank opposite us is a "cut bank," an island or sandbar in a river is a "batture." A narrow channel is called a "she-ny," evidently a corruption of the French chenal. When it leads nowhere and you have to back down to get out, you have encountered a "blind she-ny." The land we have come from is known as "Outside" or "Le Grand Pays." Anywhere other than where we sit is "that side," evidently originating from the viewpoint of a man to whom all the world lay either on this side or that side of the river that stretched before him. When you obtain credit from a Hudson's Bay store, you "get debt." A Factor's unwillingness to advance you goods on credit would be expressed thus, "The Company will give me no debt this winter." From here northward the terms "dollars" and "cents" are unheard. An article is valued at "three skins" or "eight skins" or "five skins," harking back to the time when a beaver-skin was the unit of money. The rate of exchange to-day is from four skins to two skins for a dollar. Trapping animals is "making fur." "I made no fur last winter and The Company would give me no debt," is a painful picture of hard times. Whenever an Indian has a scanty larder, he is "starving," and you may be "starving" many moons without dying or thinking of dying. "Babiche" in the North is the tie that binds, and "sinew" is the thread, babiche being merely cured rawhide from moose or caribou, the sinew the longitudinal strands taken from either side of the spinal column of the same animals.



There is but one thing on this planet longer than the equator, and that is the arm of British justice, and the Mounted Police, these chaps sprawling at our feet, are the men who enforce it. The history of other lands shows a determined fight for the frontier, inch by inch advancement where an older civilization pushes back the native,—there are wars and feuds and bloody raids. Not so here. When the homesteader comes down the river we are threading and, in a flood, colonization follows him, he will find British law established and his home ready. The most compelling factor making for dignity and decency in this border-country is the little band of red-coated riders, scarcely a thousand in number. Spurring singly across the plains that we have traversed since leaving Winnipeg, they turn up on lone riverway or lakeside in the North just when most wanted.

Varied indeed is this man's duty,—"nursemaid to the Doukhobor" was a thrust literally true. His, too, was the task on the plains of seeing that the Mormon doesn't marry overmuch. He brands stray cattle, interrogates each new arrival in a prairie-waggon, dips every doubtful head of stock, prevents forest-fires, keeps weather records, escorts a lunatic to an asylum eight hundred miles away, herds wood bison on the Slave, makes a cross-continent dash from Great Slave Lake to Hudson Bay, preserves the balance of power between American whaler and Eskimo on the Arctic edge!

At one time the roll-call of one troup of Mounted Police included in its rank and file three men who had held commissions in the British service, an ex-midshipman, a son of a Colonial Governor, a grandson of a Major-General, a medical student from Dublin, two troopers of the Life Guards, an Oxford M.A., and half a dozen ubiquitous Scots. Recently an ex-despatch-bearer from De Wet joined the force at Regina, and although the cold shoulder was turned on him for a day or two, he soon made good. One of the young fellows stretched before us, now going to Fort Smith to round up wood bison, was born in Tasmania, ran away from school at fourteen, sheared sheep and hunted the wallaby, stoked a steamer from Australia to England and from England to Africa, and in the early days of bicycles was a professional racer.

Constable Walker, lying lazily on his back blowing blue spirals into the air, has in the long winter night made more than once, with dogs, that perilous journey from the Yukon to the Mackenzie mouth (one thousand miles over an unknown trail), carrying to the shut-in whalers their winter mail. On one of these overland journeys he cut off the tips of his four toes. His guide fainted, but Walker took babiche and, without a needle, sewed up the wound. On this trip he was fifty-seven days on the trail, during five days of which the thermometer hovered between sixty-two and sixty-eight degrees below.



CHAPTER V

NINETY MILES OF RAPIDS

"On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre, De win' she blow, blow, blow, An' de crew of de wood scow 'Julie Plante' Got scar't an' run below— For de win' she blow lak hurricane Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre Wan arpent from de shore."

—Dr. Drummond.

This morning we are to leave the Island; it is June 12th and Friday. The daylight lengthens from day to day and last night at half past ten underneath the mosquito-bar within the tent, it was light enough to thread a needle. We have mending to do each night, and dragging clothes behind the boat makes a satisfactory kind of progressive laundry. At dusk we had seen an empty scow floating down river, adrift from Athabasca Landing. In the middle of Grand Rapids she broke amidships, but held together until in the darkness she floated beyond our ken.

Trouble of our own awaits us. With no one noting, an adventurous scow, with all her precious cargo, has pulled loose from her moorings. By the time the Cree watchman discovers that the "Go-Quick-Her" has taken the bit in her teeth, the runaway with tail-sweep set has turned the next corner of the Athabasca. Great excitement! Billy Loutit and Emile Fosseneuve borrow the Police canoe and go in chase. It is such a rough bit of water that we hold our breaths, for a false stroke means death to both; but that false stroke does not come. Billy Loutit knows this river as we know the borders and shrubs in our garden-bed.



This accident causes everyone to look grave. The Edmonton value of the cargo is over two thousand dollars, but it is a loss that cannot be measured in dollars and cents. These wrecked goods, gaily sailing down the Athabasca, cannot be duplicated at some convenient grocery around the corner.

We have learned that any untoward happening means a half day's delay. Philip Atkinson calls me to one side to suggest that it would be a "clear waste" to leave behind the eggs of "that duck's nest I showed you the day we came." Atkinson is a half-breed with a Hercules-build who looks forty-five and owns up to sixty. He and I chatted over the mallard eggs and my collection of wild flowers, he respecting the preservative art and I in full awe of that art gastronomic of his which gulps the Mallards-in-embryo, sans fourchette, sans salt, sans ceremony.

They are an interesting study, these half-breeds; it means much to each on which side of the English Channel his father had birth. When a Frenchman marries an Indian woman he reverts to her scale of civilization; when a Scot takes a native to wife he draws her up to his. Our crew live at Lac la Biche and were engaged last winter for their season's work at from twenty to forty dollars a month, with board and moccasins. They walked a hundred miles to Athabasca Landing to connect with their summer's job, and the absolute certainty of regular meals just now appeals. They get three meals a day going with the current, and four while tracking back, with meals thrown in when anything unusual happens or a moose is killed. One cannot help wondering how that elastic term "the law of heredity" works out with these people, cut off from the lives their fathers led and from the free woods-life of the pre-civilization Indian.

Philip, duck-stuffed but untroubled by "that full feeling after eating," lights his pipe and looks back through the years. "My father belonged to The Company, my mother was an Ojibway from the Lake of the Woods country. My father went back to the Old Country when I was seven, leaving me to an uncle to be educated, and I don't know 'B' from a bull's foot. He put me to work on the woodpile from morning till night. When my father came back after twelve years and found me ignorant, he cried like a baby. I have no education, but," with a contemplative puff, "I have friends wherever I go." Philip is good to look at and he is a linguist, speaking Cree, French, and excellent English with a delightful Scotch accent. He is an ardent admirer of the H.B. Company. "They always kept their word with a man, and when they had done with him, returned him without cost to his old home." Philip and his two sons were the first to shoot the Grand Rapids, and he tells us that this stretch of the Athabasca River has been used only twenty years. Before that time people from the North reached Winnipeg by the Clearwater. Philip is a Loyalist. During the half-breed rebellion of 1885 he carried dispatches to Middleton and Otter, going seventy-five miles one day on foot. He had his horse, "a draught-horse as black as a crow," taken from him twice, got through the lines and stole another, and tells proudly how for his deed of valor he was presented with an Assomption belt.

At last we are off, keeping sharp look-out for the lost scow. Buffalo River, where we pull up for the night, is a recognized camping-place. The men know where to put their hands on old-time tent-poles, the boys dig out shin-bones of the moose,—the relics of some former feast,—which they gnaw as a puppy mumbles an old bone.

Another manifestation of gas is here. It bubbles up on the shore and through the water at the boat's bow, and as we strike a match the whole surface flames like the brandy on a Christmas plum-pudding. On the opposite side of the river are "lobsticks," a new word to us and a new thing. To stand as a living totem-pole, the Indians select on a striking promontory a tall spruce and from a section of the trunk lop all the branches except two, which are left as wings. If the lobstick is to stand a monument to a certain man or party, the names of those to be honored are written in Cree on an attached slab. We were to notice lobsticks from point to point along the rest of our journey, some of them indicating good hunting-grounds or fishing-places back from the shore, but most of them memorials of happenings on the river.

The Little Buffalo carries to the Athabasca its noisy current between two high escarpments, and on the shelf leading back from the banks of the main stream is a far-reaching plateau of splendidly-fertile land. In the scow next us the two young Crees who are preparing the food for our evening "meat-su" carry on a religious controversy as they slice the sow-belly. We gather that one has been taken into the Protestant fold and that the other follows the priests. Duncan Tremble comes down and cuffs them both soundly, putting an end to the argument with, "It's all the same as the other, just like the Hudson's Bay Company and the free trader. Each one tells you his goods is the best and the other is nee-moy-yuh mee-wah-sin (no good). It's that way with the God-goods of the white men. Each church tells you that his is the best, but they all come down to us in the same scow, both the priest and the missionary."

Next morning we are all keyed-up for the rapids, and about six miles down we encounter the Brule, the first one, and take it square in mid-channel. We ship a little water, but pass through it all too soon, for the compelling grandeur of the Brule grips one. The river here is held between vertical walls of the reddest of red sandstone against which the lush greenery makes a striking contrast. Twenty miles below is the Boiler Rapid. It got its name not from its churning water but because the boiler of the steamer Wrigley was lost here and still remains at the bottom of the basin. The walls of this rapid are as clear-cut as if wrought into smoothness by mallet and chisel. The tar-soaked sands appear off and on all the way to McMurray. Next comes the Long Rapid (Kawkinwalk Abowstick), which we run close to its right bank.

From the distance sounds the ominous roar of the Big Cascade. At quarter past four we reach the head of the swirling fall. The underlying cause of the Big Cascade is a limestone ledge which cuts the channel diagonally and makes ugly-looking water. We plan to run the rapid one boat at a time. The crews are doubled. Our steersman is alert, expectant, and as agile as a cat, his black hair switching in the wind. Sitting in the centre of the scow, as we do, the sensation is very different to that which one experiences in running rapids in a canoe. Then it is all swiftness and dexterity, for your craft is light, and, in expert hands, easily dirigible with one clever turn of the wrist. With a ten-ton scow the conditions change and you feel correspondingly more helpless.

The great rapid stretches from shore to shore and the drop is sheer. With much excitement, the bowsman points out the channel that seems to him the safe one. No one speaks, and the big awkward craft is brought up for the jump. It is an elephant drawing his feet together to take a water-fence. For all we own in the world we wouldn't be anywhere but just where we sit. If it is going to be our last minute, well, Kismet! let it come. At least it will not be a tame way of going out. For the life of me I cannot forbear a cry of exultation. Then there is the feeling below one's feet which you experienced when you were a kiddie lying flat on your stomach coasting down a side-hill and your little red sled struck a stone. We, too, have struck something, but do not stop to ask what the obstruction is.



At the foot of the rapids, we hurry the boatmen ashore. I want to photograph the next scow as she shoots the fall. We reach a good vantage-point and, getting the coming craft in the finder, I have just time to notice that her passengers are Inspector Pelletier and Dr. Sussex, when a sharp crack rings out like the shot of a pistol. Just as we touch the button, something happens. We wanted a snap-shot, and it was a snap-shot we got. The scow has broken her back and begins to fill.

The blue-and-white jerkin of Isadore Tremble, the pilot, dances in the sun as he gesticulates and directs his two passengers to crawl to the top of the boat's freight. In less time than it takes to write it, the men from our scow have launched the police canoes and make their way through the boiling water to take off Pelletier and the Doctor. The Inspector says, "Step quick, Doctor, there's no time to waste." The native politeness of Sussex doesn't fail him, even in this crisis, "After you, Inspector." Then Pelletier says, sharply, "Jump, I tell you, jump; there's no time for—Gaston-and-Alphonse business here."

As always, it is impossible to tell who directs affairs, but quickly things happen. Lines are run from the wreck to the shore, other scows discharge their cargo on the bank and push out to take the water-logged goods from the wreck. The lightened craft is pulled ashore. There has been no loss of life, but it is a sorry-looking cargo that piles up on the bank,—five thousand dollars' worth of goods destroyed in three minutes!

A sad procession, we make the boats, and drop downstream toward McMurray. The night is beautiful. The sun sank in a crimson splendour an hour ago. A low-hung moon comes out and is visible and is hidden alternately as we pass on the shore-line high hill and intervening swale. With a blanket thrown over me, as the others sleep, I lie along the gunwale, and the beauty of it sinks into my very soul. Just before we enter McMurray the wraith of a tall oil-derrick tells of the enterprise of some pioneer in the wilderness.

The location of Fort McMurray is ideal. At this point the river breaks into two branches which encircle a high-banked and thickly-wooded island. Some hundreds of yards farther on the Clearwater River makes in; so here we have three streams. The fort has a foundation dating back forty years. This fur outpost will be the terminus of the Alberta and Great Waterways Railway, and one could not well imagine a more beautiful site for a great city. On the broad flat as we enter appear a handful of Indian houses and the little stores of the fur-traders.

Letters from the outside are not as eagerly looked for as one would expect. To the people who live within the North, the North is their world, and to them the news of who is to be appointed to the charge of the next post down the river is of more, importance than the partition of Turkey or a possible redistribution of the thrones of Europe. Mr. Brabant says, "Oh, by the way, Bob, there is a package of letters for you somewhere in the scow. Shall I dig them out for you?" "Never mind," says Bob, "I'll get them to-morrow. Have you got any whiskey?"

It is Sunday the fourteenth of June. On the long beach is strewn the water-soaked cargo of the wrecked scow, the abomination of desolation. Mrs. Harding, although all of her personal belongings and her "special orders" are ruined, smiles bravely. It is a point of honour in the North not to whine, whatever happens. All day we work trying to save some of the wrecked cargo. Bales of goods are unwound and stretched out for hundreds of yards in the sun. Bandanna handkerchiefs flutter on bushes. Toilet soap, boots, and bear-traps are at our feet. The Fire-Ranger of the district, Mr. Biggs, has his barley and rice spread out on sheeting, and, turning it over, says bravely, "I think it will dry." Mathematical and astronomical instruments consigned to a scientist on the Arctic edge are shaken off centre and already have begun to rust, and there are miles and miles of cordage and nets, with braids and sewing silks and Hudson's Bay blankets!

In the midst of his wrecked drugs and cherished personal effects the Doctor is a pitiful sight. By stage and by scow, he has been confiding to us that, in order to save bulk, his medicines have been specially put up for him in highly concentrated form by London chemists. One little pill-box of powder is potent enough to make a dozen quart-bottles of effective medicine. And now all these precious powders have melted together, and appear like Dicken's stew at the Inn of the Jolly Sand-boys "all in one delicious gravy." The Doctor is dazed, and offers to white and brown alike a tin box with "Have a pastile, do." He wanders among the half-breeds, offering plasters for weak backs, which they accept with avidity as combining two things that the red man specially appreciates,—something free and something medicinal. Sad-faced, the Doctor brings to me a glass case holding a dozen lozenge-shaped disks on each of which an infinitesimal piece of wood rests. "Here are some authenticated relics, but unfortunately the water has made them run and I don't know them apart. You see they have the seal of the Carthusian Monastery on the back. One of them is a piece of the true Cross, but I shall never be able to tell which it is." One by one the Doctor digs out from the wreck his water-soaked treasures,—a presentation "Life of the Countess of Munster," also a crucifix from her, and a beautifully-carved holy water stoup of French design which he declares to be "as old as the Conqueror." There is a medal of the Worshipful Company of Cutlers which carries with it the freedom of the City of London. Another order shows the Doctor to be a Knight of the Primrose League; and, fished from under a side of bacon, is a print of "my great-grandfather who discovered a cure for scurvy." A missionary's box of toys for some Christmas tree in Far North fastnesses is opened, and here a native stops work to lead along the sand a pink-and-blue alligator.



Although the wrecked scow has its grotesque features, the sight is a sad one, and we are glad to leave it and pull across the river to Fort McMurray. We call upon Miss Christine Gordon, a young Scottish woman and a free-trader, if you please, in her own right, operating in opposition to the great and only Hudson's Bay Company. The only white woman on a five hundred mile stretch of the Athabasca, she has lived here for years with the Indians for companions, her days being marked out by their migrations and tribal feasts. We question, "Are you not lonely, especially in the winter?" But she smiles and refuses to be regarded as heroic. "Often in the winter a trapper passes through, and the Indians are always coming and going, and they are full of interest."

We have not walked with Miss Gordon for half an hour among the tepees when we discover the secret of her cheeriness and content. Our happiness consists not in our havings but in our attitude of mind. The world is divided sharply into two classes. The classes are not the white and the black, the good and the bad, the sheep and the goats, as the orthodox would have us believe. We are all good and bad, not black or white, but varying shades of grey. Neither are we sheep or goats, but moral alpacas, all of us,—something between a sheep and a goat. But no less are we divided into two clear-cut classes. Each of us puts himself of his own volition into the class of the self-centred, or the self-forgetting, and in the act marks himself as happy or unhappy.

As Miss Gordon lifts the tent-flaps, smiles greet her from every home. The baby in the moss-bag is handed up for her inspection, and old blind Paul Cree, the Chief, knows her moccasined step, and rises on his elbow from his couch of spruce-boughs to greet her eagerly and salute any that she may present as friend. The Chief is in his ninety-sixth year and depends upon chance visitors for his companionship and food. Yet an assured air of dignity shows that Paul Cree is aware of the respect due to the Chief of the McMurrays. He addresses us in Cree, which Miss Gordon translates. "I am delighted that ladies have come such a long distance on purpose to see me. The white man is my friend. I think all white women must be good. Their mothers have taught them to be kind to old people. I am sorry I am blind. Be glad that you can see the water, the sky, the birds and flowers and the faces of little children," and the tired old head sinks on the fir-boughs and we are dismissed. "Be glad you are alive, and use that sight while you have it." It is the advice given by that other strong man laid on his back, Carlton in the Winnipeg Hospital.

We are joined by Paul Cree's brother. He has long hair, and wears a pair of pince-nez as an English gallant wears his monocle—merely for effect, for there is nothing the matter with the vision of those sharp eyes. In one tepee a young mother is reading a service book of the Roman Church to her little girl of five. Across the plateau under the shadow of the hill we enter a camp where Miss Gordon has a patient with an injured hand. The cut is ugly and is surrounded by proud flesh, and we find that twice a day Miss Gordon leaves her household work and her little store to go across and dress this wound.

When a schoolboy takes to his bosom a fidus Achates, the first thing he does is to offer to show his birds' nests; so Miss Gordon introduces us to her find,—nests of the Gambel sparrow. We take two views, one of a nest of five eggs and another of the nesting mother.

During the past winter Miss Gordon has fed the Indians in families, as they had "made little fur," entertaining them as courteously as you would your special friends at an afternoon of pink tea and pink thoughts. Visiting the sick, trading fur, cultivating her little garden, bringing wolf pups and bear cubs up by hand, thus this plucky woman passes her days. It takes the adaptability and dour determination of a Scot to fit into this niche. Your Irishwoman would last in McMurray just about three days.

A new duty has been taken on by Miss Gordon,—the reading of the rain-gauge just installed by the Canadian Government. Slyly taking a peep into her records, we feel that they will have to be adjusted to the latitude of Ottawa when they get there, for with a true Northern contempt for fractions she has made all the decimals read as full fractions. The outside world which feasts on blue-books is apt in the future to be startled at the generous precipitation accorded Fort McMurray! Miss Gordon's ambitions run in other lines than the mathematical. Holding us by both hands as we bade good-by, she said, "Oh, that I were young again, I would learn, learn, learn. I would learn medicine so that I could help these poor creatures." Her tone of unselfish sincerity we carry with us as we make our way back to the scows, bearing with us, as token of good-will from the Gordon garden, radishes and lettuce for an evening salad.

Next morning we start bird-hunting on our own account, and get a pair of pictures as striking as those we have Miss Gordon to thank for—a Foxsparrow on the nest, then the baby sparrows but one day old. If any one thinks it easy to find and photograph birds' nests in the heart of the ancient wood on Athabascan banks in mosquito time he has "another guess coming." The mosquito here is not a joke, not a theorem, but a stinging entity. During the five days we are at Fort McMurray the potatoes in Miss Gordon's garden have grown as many inches, literally an inch a day. Wood violets, wild roses, false Solomon-seal, and the wild sarsaparilla are everywhere; the air is full of the scent of growing things.



Fort McMurray is the parting of the ways where the Hudson's Bay Company's steamer Grahame meets us, bringing her tale of outward-going passengers from the North. The journey of these people from Fort McMurray to The Landing is going to be a very different thing from the easy floating with the current that we have enjoyed. All northern rivers are navigated against stream by "tacking," that is, towing the boats, weary mile after mile, "by the power o' man," the half-breed boatmen scrambling now on the bank, now in the water, tugging the heavily-laden craft after them. It is a mode of transportation that neither written word nor camera can do justice to. We shake hands with those going out to civilization and take our dunnage aboard the steamer. The Grahame has its advantages,—clean beds, white men's meals served in real dishes, and best of all, a bath!

On the Grahame we meet Mr. Harris, of Fond du Lac, who has come thus far to greet the incoming transport and who goes back again with it. Scholarly and versatile, we are to find in Mr. Harris a very mint of Indian lore and woodland wisdom and the most wonderful memory I have ever encountered. All the vicissitudes of a Northern life have failed to rub out one line of the Virgil and Horace of his schoolboy days, whole chapters of which, without one false quantity, he repeats for us in a resonant voice. He can recite the whole of "Paradise Lost" as faultlessly as Macaulay was credited with being able to do. If Mr. Harris could be induced to write a story of the North it would put to shame all the weak efforts of one-season visitors who of necessity see only the surface and have to guess the depths.

As we pull out, we mentally run our fingers along the parallel of 56 deg. 40' North to find out by comparison, as they say in Chicago, "where we are at." In Europe we would be on the top of Ben Nevis and not so far north as Aberdeen. Our line of latitude run westward will cut Sitka, and the lone Pribilof, "where the little blue fox is bred for his skin and the seals they breed for themselves." Crossing the junction of the Clearwater with the Athabasca, we strike for the first time the trail of Sir Alexander Mackenzie, who came in by Portage la Loche, and in 1789 traced to the sea the great river which bears his name. At its confluence with the Clearwater the Athabasca is perhaps three-quarters of a mile wide, and it maintains a steady current with a somewhat contracting channel to the point of its discharge into Lake Athabasca in latitude 58 deg. 36' North.



In all Canada there is no more interesting stretch of waterway than that upon which we are entering. An earth-movement here has created a line of fault clearly visible for seventy or eighty miles along the river-bank, out of which oil oozes at frequent intervals. Count von Hammerstein, building derricks from point to point along the stream, has put in much time, toil, and money in oil-development here. Our traverse of those ninety miles of Athabasca Rapids has given us respect for the labor and determination which in this wilderness has erected these giant derricks. Looking at them, we waft a wish that the plucky prospector may reap his reward and abundantly strike oil. The Count tells us of striking one hundred and fifty feet of rock salt while "punching" one of his oil-shafts through the ground. Here are overhanging dykes of limestone; and out of the lime and clay shoot up splendid trees of pine, poplar, and spruce.



At Fort McKay, thirty miles below McMurray, a fine seam of coal is exposed on the river-bank. It is bituminous, and can be used for blacksmithing, but probably not for welding. Ochre is found on these banks, with sand of the very best quality for making glass, while extensive sulphur deposits have been discovered on the east side of the river between Fort McMurray and the lake. On the Clearwater are medicinal springs whose output tastes very much like Hunyadi water.

Tar there is, too, in plenty. Out of the over-hanging banks it oozes at every fissure, and into some of the bituminous tar-wells we can poke a twenty foot pole and find no resistance. These tar-sands lithologically may be described as a soft sandstone, the cementing material of which is a bitumen or petroleum. They are estimated to have a distribution of over five hundred square miles. Where it is possible to expose a section, as on a river-bank, the formation extends from one hundred and twenty-five to two hundred feet in depth, the bitumen being distributed through the sands.

Twelve miles below the last exposure of the tar-sands and about two miles above the mouth of Red Earth Creek a copious saline spring bubbles up, and there is an escape of sulphurretted hydrogen whose unmistakable odour follows the boat for half a mile. Kipling was right when he said, "Smells are surer than sounds or sights."

We speak only of what we observe from the deck of a boat as we pass down this wonderful river. What is hidden is a richer story which only the coming of the railroad can bring to light.



CHAPTER VI

FORT CHIPEWYAN PAST AND PRESENT

"Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their humble joys and destiny obscure."

—Gray's Elegy.

At seven in the morning of Sunday, June 21st, we enter Lake Athabasca, and catch our first glimpse of Fort Chipewyan. An acceptance of the invitation, "Come, shake your leg," has kept the men busy half the night over a hot sequence of Red River jigs among "pieces" on the lower deck, and we have this superb sweep almost to ourselves.

The great lake-scape is blue and green and grey and opaline as the sun strikes it and the surface breaks to a south wind. Ours is the one craft on this inland sea, but overhead a whole navy of clouds manoeuvres, the ships of the ghostly argosy doubling themselves in the lake. As we draw in, the village takes shape. What haunts us as we look at the white houses, that crescent beach of pinkest sand? We have it! It is a print, an old woodcut of "Russian America" that we used to pore over in the days when one wore "pinnies" of flour-sacking, and "hankies" were made from meal-bags.

At one end of the village are the little smithy of the Hudson's Bay Company and the pretentious buildings of their establishment. At the other gibbous horn of this Athens of the Athabasca rise the steeples and convent-school of the Roman Church, with the free-trading-post of Colin Fraser. Midway between is the little Church of England, and higher up and farther back the Barracks of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police. The white-washed homes of the employes of The Company, little match-boxes dazzling in the sun, stretch from one end of the beach to the other. In among the half-breed populace stalk policeman and priest, red jacket keeping the dark-skinned people straight in this world and black robe laying out conditions for the world to come. So is Chipewyan fate chequered with the rouge et noir of compulsion and expediency.



Fort Chipewyan is the oldest post in the North, and every boulder of red gneissic rock, if we could interrogate it, has a story to tell. Peter Pond, of the North-West Company, in 1778 built a post on the Athabasca River thirty miles to the south of the lake. The far-seeing Alexander Mackenzie, in the interests of the same company, sent his cousin Roderick ten years later to build Fort Chipewyan on the lake, and for over a century this was the entrepot and emporium of the whole North. The Hudson's Bay Company meanwhile were maintaining a post, Fort Wedderburne, not far away on Potato Island, and upon the amalgamation of the Companies in 1821 they took possession of the present Fort Chipewyan.

This metropolis is one hundred and twenty years old. Chipewyan was doing business at the same old stand before Toronto was the capital of Upper Canada, while Ottawa was still unheard of, and when of Chicago not even the Fort Dearborn nucleus had been built. 1788! We wonder if the old ox that conveys our "cassette" and "pieces" up to the big gateway of The Company's quadrangle was a drawer of wood and drinker of water at that date. He looks as if he might have been. George III was reigning in England when Fort Chipewyan was built, Arkwright was making his spinning jenny, and Watts experimenting with the steam-engine. Sir Joshua Reynolds painted his pictures, Burns, a young man of twenty-nine, was busy with his ballads. In London a little baby saw the light of day, whom the world afterwards hailed as Lord Byron. Three British boys might have been seen with arms thrown over each other's shoulders, "dreaming greatly"—Coleridge aged sixteen, young Walter Scott, seventeen, and Wordsworth just eighteen. Across the Channel the French Revolution was at its height. Shelley and Keats were not yet born. Down on the Atlantic seaboard of America a new people just twelve years before had gone through the birth-throes of nationhood. It is a far call.

Scraping the yellow lichens off the old sun-dial, we adjust our bearings. We are 111 deg. West of Greenwich and in latitude 58 deg. 45' North. Our parallel carried eastward would strike the Orkneyan skerries and pass through Stromness. All untouched by the development of that busy continent to the south which has grown up within its lifetime, Chipewyan is a little pearl of the periwigged days of the early Georges. From its red sands, tamarack swamps, and mossy muskeg one almost expects to see arise the forms of those great of old who outfitted here, making Chipewyan the base of their northward explorations. The ghostly company is a goodly one—Sir Alexander Mackenzie, Sir George Simpson, and Sir John Franklin (their honorary prefixes coming to them in the after days as reward of their labors), Back and Richardson and Rae, and in later days that young stripling curate who was afterwards to be known throughout the world of letters as Bishop Bompas, the "Apostle of the North." Then there is the great unnamed horde who rested tired limbs at Chipewyan on their northward journeys, each on his own mission—fur-traders and hunters of big game, devoted nuns and silent priests, the infrequent scientist, and the hundreds of Klondikers, their hearts hot with the greed for gold. These all through the century have enjoyed as we now enjoy the spontaneous hospitality of this little bit of Britain which floats the Union Jack from its fort walls, and whose people, brown and white, when the belated news of the passing of Victoria the Great reached this her northern outpost, gathered on the beach and bewailed aloud their personal loss. We seem to hear again the far-flung cry "The Queen is dead! The Queen is dead!" from the half-breed runners coming in that Christmas Day across the winter ice.

Mackenzie made Chipewyan his headquarters for eight years. It was from here he started on his voyage to the Arctic Sea in 1789, and three years later on that other history-making journey to the far Pacific. Sir John Franklin outfitted here for his two land-journeys—in July, 1820, with Dr. Richardson, and again in 1825. Chipewyan is a mine of interest. We almost begrudge time given to the dainty meals of our hostess, Mrs. William Johnson, and the hours spent between her lavender-scented sheets.

In the loft above the office of the H.B. Company, in among old flintlock rifles and discarded ox-yokes, we browse through the daily records of The Company, old journals written by the Factors at the close of their day's work through the years and here preserved for our inquisitive eyes. Sitting on the floor, making extracts from these tomes, one has the half-guilty feeling of being caught poking into a tomb.

On this page the ink is thin and one can see the old writer thawing out his frozen ink-pot of stone at the end of a tired day and sitting down to write his simple tale. Here are finger-marks where the blood of a buffalo gives a marginal note. The journalist had been called away from his writing to weigh and pay for some fresh meat. Drops from a tallow candle show the light of other days. A pressed mosquito of the vintage of 1790 is very suggestive. We picture the trivial round and common task of the man who writes, see him exchanging fathoms of tobacco for beaver-pelts in those long, cold winters, and eagerly hunger with him for the signs presaging the going-out of the ice and the coming-in of Spring. We follow out the short Summer with him and revel in its perpetual daylight. With him we make the fall fishery and shoot our winter's supply of waveys and southward-flying cranes. We wonder, as he wondered, what news the next packet will bring from the old folks in the Orkneys or the Hebrides. We study, as he studied, the problem of governing his servants, placating the Indians, and making enough fur to satisfy that inexorable Board of Directors back in London whose motto is "Skin for skin."

It has been a grim enough life as the author of this journal records it. He is far from those who direct his fate, and recognition and reward are slow in coming. Companionship and the gentle arts of "outside" are denied him. He must make his own world and rear within it his dusky brood, that they in honourable service may follow his round of "work done squarely and unwasted days." What made the charm of this life to these men? It is hard to see. The master of the post was also master of the situation, and an autocrat in his community, a little Fur King, a Captain of Industry. A thing was law because he said it. And isn't it Caesar himself who declares, "Better be first in a little Iberian village than second in Rome?"

We get a delightful picture in an entry under the date of Wednesday, 23rd May, 1827, when Sir John Franklin was on his way back to England at the end of his second journey.

"To-day William McGillivary and Katherine Stewart, daughter of Alexander Stewart, Chief Factor, were joined in holy wedlock by Captain John Franklin, R.N., Commander of the Land Arctic Expedition."

Great is the force of example, for five days later appears the entry

"This evening the ceremonial of marriage took place between Robert McVicar, Esq., and Christy McBeath. Captain Franklin acted on the occasion as clergyman. The ceremony o'er, the evening was agreeably spent in a family assembly."

Looking at these records, we are reminded of a not-very-well-known story of international courtesy which connects itself with the third and ill-fated journey of Franklin. Old Sir John, then in his sixtieth year, had sailed from England in an attempt at the Northwest Passage. Years passed and no word came from the explorer, and in 1852 the ice-desert was still mute.

In this year, Sir Edward Belcher in the Resolute headed one of the many Arctic Relief Expeditions, subsequently abandoning his boat in the ice off Melville Island. Next year the American whaler Henry George met the deserted Resolute in sound condition about forty miles from Cape Mercy; she must have drifted through Barrow Strait, Lancaster Sound, and Baffin Bay. She was recovered, the Government of the United States bought her and with international compliments presented her in perfect condition to Queen Victoria in 1856. The old ship was broken up about thirty years ago, and from the soundest of her timbers a solid desk was made by direction of Queen Victoria, who presented it to the then President of the United States. This is the desk which stands in President Taft's reception room to-day, and on it the papers of eight administrations have been written.

There is living as well as buried history in Chipewyan. A stroll from one end of its lacustrine street to the other is lush with interest. We call upon Colin Fraser, whose father was piper to Sir George Simpson. Colin treats us to a skirl of the very pipes which announced the approach of Simpson whenever that little Northern autocrat, during his triumphal progress through a bailiwick as big as Europe, made his way into a new fort.

With the echo of the "Gay Gordons" in our ears we pass into the largest convent in the North country, managed by the Grey Nuns of Montreal. Sister Brunelle came into the North in 1866. Forty-two years in a convent-school of the Northland! It makes one gasp.

These Indian schools, assisted by the Canadian Government, catch the little Indians in the camps and hold their prey on school-benches from the age of four to fourteen. One boy is dumb, another a hunchback. In a corner we came upon a poor old derelict of the camps, a Cree woman, paralysed and mentally deranged, who within these quiet walls has found harbour. The kiddies are taught one clay in French and the next day in English; but when they hide behind their spellers to talk about the white visitors, the whisper is in Chipewyan. What do they learn? Reading, (vertical) writing, arithmetic, hymns, and hoeing potatoes, grammar, sewing and shoemaking, and one more branch, never taught in Southern schools. When the fall fishery comes, the nuns kilt up their skirts, slates are shoved far back into desks, and shepherdess and sheep (young brown moose!) together clean the whitefish which are to furnish meals for a twelve-month to come. If fish be brain food, then should this convent of Chipewyan gather in medals, degrees, and awards, capturing for its black-eyed boys Rhodes scholarships ad lib.



Back of the convent stretches a farm with an historic record. It was from this enclosure, tilled by the priests and their proteges, that the sample of wheat came which at the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia in competition with the wheats of the world took the bronze medal. This wheat ran sixty-eight pounds to the bushel.

We linger in the convent, looking at the rows of tiny beds neat and immaculate, each covered with its little blue counterpane. Sister Jigot, with the air of divulging a state secret, tells that the pretty bed-covering is flour-sacking, that it is dyed on the premises from a recipe brought out of Chipewyan woods. In the long winter evenings these good step-mothers of savages do all their reading and sewing before six o'clock. The mid-winter sun sinks at four, and two hours of candle-light is all that the frugal exchequer can afford. "What in the world do you do after six?" I venture; for well we know those busy fingers are not content to rest in idle laps. "Oh! we knit, opening the stove-doors to give us light." Many a time are we to throw a glance backward through the years to these devoted souls upon Athabascan shores, trying to graft a new civilisation on an old stock, and in the process economising their candles like Alfred of old.

Both Protestant and Roman missionaries are amateur doctors and we find a stimulating rivalry in bodily and spiritual ministrations. At the Church of England Mission we are shown with triumph a piece of bone salved from the leg of an injured Indian. Afterward we learn that the peripatetic patient accepted the Church of England treatment in the daytime, and in the evening shadows was carried across the rocks to the shrine of Rome. Poor chap, he died in the process! But while he lived he stimulated trade, and his memory lingers to point a moral and adorn a tale. If there had but been a Presbyterian Church within range, he might have comforted himself with the thought that it had all been comfortably fore-ordained.

An interesting family lives next to the English Mission—the Loutits. The father tells of the days when as a young man he served The Company, and "for breakfast on the march they gave you a club and showed you a rabbit-track." There were Loutits in Chipewyan as far back as the old journals reach. The Scottish blood has intermingled with that of Cree and Chipewyan and the resultant in this day's generation is a family of striking young people—the girls good to look at and clever in bead-work and quill-ornamentation, the boys skilled in nemoral arts and holding the strong men's records of the North.

George Loutit without help brought a scow with four thousand pounds from Athabasca Landing to Chipewyan through the ninety miles of rapids. His brother Billy, carrying a special dispatch of the Mounted Police, ran with a hand-sled (and no dogs) from Chipewyan to Fort Smith and back in three days—a distance of two hundred miles at least. Once, when the river rose suddenly in the night, Billy unloaded nine tons from one scow to another, astonishing the owners, who snored while Billy was toiling upward in the night. The rivermen tell of George Loutit's quarreling with a man one afternoon in a saloon at Edmonton and throwing his adversary out of the window. When he heard him slump, George immediately thought of the North as a most desirable place and started hot-foot for Athabasca Landing, a hundred miles away. He arrived there in time for noon luncheon next day.

At the H.B. Co. end of the village we find Pierre Mercredi in charge. A French Bishop once wanted to train him for the priesthood, but it is peltries and not souls that Pierre is after. His forebears were Irish McCarthys, but this name failed to fall trippingly from the tongue of French priests, and became corrupted into the Mercredi as he now signs it.

Throughout the journals of the last forty years we run across such entries as these:—"Wyllie at the forge," "Wyllie making nails," "Wyllie straightening the fowling-pieces," "Wyllie making sled-runners," "This day Wyllie made a coffin for an Indian." We step into the old man's smithy, and he turns to greet us with an outstretched hand and a "Good mornin'," in richest Doric. The date 1863 cut into the wooden foundation of his forge marks the year when Wyllie came to Chipewyan. He was born in the Orkneys, and had never seen a city in the Old World. Coming out to America in a sailing vessel of The Company by way of Hudson Bay, he threaded the inland waterway which brought him to Chipewyan without seeing a city in America. Torontonians think the hub of the universe is their capital on Lake Ontario. A smart young man from Toronto filtered in one day to Chipewyan, and asked the old blacksmith, "Came from the Old Country, didn't you? What did you think of Toronto?" "Naething, I didna see the place."

Mr. Wyllie has never seen an electric light nor a railway train nor a two-story building nor a telegraph wire nor a telephone. In the forty-five years in which he has presided over this forge, the limits of his wanderings have been McMurray on the south, Fort Smith on the north, Fond du Lac on the east, the Chutes of the Peace on the west. To him these are innocuous days of ease, in which we are falling into luxuriousness with all its weakening influence. "It was much better in the old days when we had only dried meat and fish-oil. Nowadays, when we have flour and tinned meats and preserved fruits, all my teeth are coming out!"

No one feels like smiling a smile of superiority in talking with old Mr. Wyllie. He has taught himself the gentle arts of gunsmithing and blacksmithing. The tools that we see all around us are marvels of mechanical skill and would be the joy of a modern Arts and Crafts Exhibition. His sledges and augurs, planes and chisels have been made by the old man out of pig iron which came as ballast in the holds of those old sailing ships which beat their way into Fort Churchill through Hudson Strait. The hand-made tools are set into convenient handles of moose-horn and bone. Clever indeed is the workmanship that Wyllie has done with them. The last triumph from this unique forge was the welding of the broken shaft of the little tug Primrose. The steamer Grahame was built at Chipewyan of whipsawn lumber, and much of her steel and ironwork was wrought on Wyllie's forge.

Wyllie left the Scottish Isles when a mere lad, but they are still "Home" to him and he tells us that this autumn he is going back on a visit. It was a prototype of Wyllie's

"From the lone sheiling and the misty island, Mountains divide us and a waste of seas, But still the heart, the heart is Highland, And we in dreams behold the Hebrides,"

who prayed "O, Lord, we beseech Thee, send down Thy covenanted blessin' on the Muckle Hebrides, the Lesser Hebrides, and the adjacent islands of Great Britain and Ireland." Talking with the old gentleman, you are conscious of the innate moral strength rather than the mechanical skill of the craftsman. Instinctively you feel the splendid power of his presence and come out from his forge murmuring, "Thank God I have seen a man this day." Wyllie belongs to the age of the old journals, to the days that bred Joe Gargerys and old Adams in whom appeared "the constant service of the antique world."

[Illustration: Samples of Woman's Work of the Far North.

EXPLANATION OF PLATE

A and C—Muski-moots, or bags used by the duck-hunter for his game. Made by Dog-Rib women, of babiche, or rawhide of the moose or caribou.

B—Velvet leggings richly embroidered in violet-coloured bead-work, made by Mrs. (Archdeacon) Macdonald, a full-blooded Loucheaux woman.

D—Wall-pocket of white deerskin embroidered in silk. Made by a Rabbit-Skin woman at Fort Good Hope under the Arctic Circle.

E—Wall-pocket ornamented with porcupine-quill work, made by a Yellow-Knife Indian woman at Fort Resolution on Great Slave Lake.

F—Fire-bag, or tobacco-pouch, made of two claws of the black bear. The work of a Beaver Indian woman at Vermilion-on-the-Peace.

G—Fire-bag of velvet ornamented with silk-work, made by Chipewyan woman at Fond du Lac, Lake Athabasca.

H—Velvet watch-bag embroidered in silk, made by Slavi Indian woman at Fort Providence, at the head of Mackenzie River.

I—Watch-pocket of smoked moose-skin, embroidered in silk-work, made by a Cree girl at Fort McMurray on the Athabasca.

J—Armlets ornamented in porcupine quills, made by a half-breed woman on the Liard River (a feeder of the Mackenzie).

K—Three hat bands—the first two ornamented with porcupine quills, and the last in silk embroidery—made by Chipewyan woman at Fond du Lac, Lake Athabasca.

L—Beautiful belt of porcupine work, made by a half-breed woman at Fort Nelson on the Liard (a feeder of the Mackenzie).

M—Armlets of porcupine-quill work, made by half-breed girl at Fort Chipewyan.]

Mr. and Mrs. William Johnson, with generous courtesy, have made us their guests while we stay, and their refined home is a clear delight. Mr. Johnson is as clever a man as Mr. Wyllie, but in other lines. Without ever having seen an electric light, he learned by study and research more about electricity than nine men out of ten know who go through Electrical Training Schools. With the knowledge thus gained he constructed and put into working use an electric-light plant at Fort Simpson on the Mackenzie. Far up here on the map, too, the "Judge," as he is lovingly called, taught himself all about watches, and he is now Father Time for the whole Mackenzie District, regulating and mending every timepiece in the country. The corrected watches are carried to their owners by the next obliging person who passes the post, where the owner is notching off the days on a piece of stick while he waits. A watch, the works of which were extracted from three old ones and assembled within one case by this Burbank of Watchdom, found its way down to Chicago. The jeweller into whose hands it fell declared that among all his workmen there was not one who could have duplicated the job.

Chipewyan is a bird paradise; the whole woods are vocal to-day. In the autumn, wonderful hunts are made of the southward-flying cranes, geese, and waveys, thousands of these great birds being killed and salted and put in ice chambers for winter use. If the mosquitoes were not so bad we would spend hours in the woods here with "God's jocund little fowls." These sweet songsters seem to have left far behind them to the south all suspicion of bigger bipeds. We hear the note of the ruby-crowned kinglet (regulus calendula) which some one says sounds like "Chappie, chappie, jackfish." The American red-start comes to our very feet, the yellow warbler, the Tennessee warbler, the red-eyed vireo, and the magnolia warbler, which last, a young Cree tells us, is "High-Chief-of-all-the-small-birds." Rusty blackbirds are here with slate-coloured junco, and we see a pair of purple finches. We are fortunate in getting a picture of the nest of the Gambel sparrow and two of the nesting white-throated, sparrow. They are ferreted out for us by the sharp eyes of a girl who says her Cree name is "A-wandering-bolt-of-night-lightning!" At our feet blossom cinquefoil, immortelles, the dainty flowers of the bed-straw.

It has been a full day, and by the way the "permits" are opening up in the settlement when we come back, promises to be a full night. These men have waited a whole year for a drink, and now the lids can't come off quick enough. "Come, hurry up, Flynn, we're all as dry as wooden gods, we're so dry that we're brittle—we'd break if you hit us." "Well, I'm hurrying; I'm as much in a rush as any of you; I'm so warped the hoops are falling off."

It doesn't take long to polish off the permits proper (or improper). By morning all this liquor, imported for "medicinal purposes," is gone. Whoever in Chipewyan is thoughtless enough to get ill during the next twelve months must fall back on the medicine-chest of the English Mission or of the Grey Nuns. Anything strong will do for the creation of joyousness during the remaining three hundred and sixty-four days of the year—Jamaica ginger, lavender-water, flavouring extracts.

Next morning the bon vivants of Chipewyan are down to essences of lemon, vanilla, and ginger, which have been specially imported as stimulating beverages. We ask if they are any good. "Good? I should say so, and one bottle just makes a drink. Can I offer" (politely) "to exhilarate you ladies with vanilla?" The most jovial of the celebrants tells of his early imbibition of red ink. "I used to get a gallon of red ink with my outfit every year, and it gives you the good feel, but when this new Commissioner comes in he writes, 'I don't see how you can use a gallon of red ink at your post in one year,' and I writes back, 'What we don't use we abuse,' and next year he writes to me, 'It's the abuse we complain of,' and, with regretful reminiscence, "I got no more red ink." The substitution of red tape for the carmine fluid that inebriates is an innovation not appreciated.

The old records fascinate us. We spend every spare moment before the coming of the treaty party in transcribing choice bits from them. There were drinks and drinkers in these old days.

"1830, Friday 1st. January. All hands came as is customary to wish us the compliments of the season, and they were treated with cakes each, a pipe, and two feet tobacco. In the evening they have the use of the hall to dance, and are regaled with a beverage."

"1830, April 30. Poitras, a Chipewyan half-breed, arrived, and delivered 81 made beavers in prime furs, though he says he has been sickly all winter. I therefore presented him with a complete clothing and a Feather."

"1830, May 16th. One of our Indians having been in company with Indians from Isle a la Crosse got married to one of their young women, consequently has followed the father-in-law and taken his hunt away from us."

"1830, August 13th. One Indian, The Rat, passed us on the Portage, he was treated with a dram for 'Old Acquaintance' sake."

On New Year's Eve the old chronicler drops into verse. In tall thin letters in faded ink we read,

"If New Year's Eve the wind blow south, It betokeneth warmth and growth; If west, much milk, and fish in the sea; If north, much storms and cold will be; If east, the trees will bear much fruit; If northeast, flee it man and beast."

"1831, January 1. The thermometer this morning was 29 below cypher."

1831, May 22. They bring intelligence that Mousi-toosese-capo is at their tent, having lately joined them, without his family of two women and two children, who perished during the winter. From his frequent prevarication when questioned by the other Crees, they suspect he has murdered and eaten them."

"1831, May 30th. The fellow has got too large a family for a Fort Hunter, he cannot feed them with unlimited Indulgence and supply us at the same time." [Would Mr. Roosevelt second this?]

"1831, June 19th. Two Chipewyans came from the Long Point informing us that Big Head's son is dead, that Big Head has thrown away his property in consequence of the loss of his boy, and that he told them to beg a shirt and tobacco. The shirt, of course, I did not send, the scoundrel is not worthy of it. I merely sent him six inches of tobacco with reluctance. That cursed family is a perfect pest to the place, and it is my humble opinion that the hand of Providence sends them the present calamity for their ill deeds."[!]

"1834, November 27th. A party of the Isle a la Crosse Indians with old Nulooh and Gauche cast up. They have not come in this direction for the sake of running about, some of their relations is dead, and in their own words they are travelling on strange lands to kill grief, not an unusual custom among the Northern Indians."

"1865, October 23rd. We were surprised yesterday at the arrival of a Protestant missionary, a Mr. Bompas from England; he came in a canoe from the Portage with Sylvestre and Vadnoit."

"1866, January 1st. The whole Establishment breakfasted in the Hall and in the evening a Ball came off with great eclat. Two marriages also to-day, Francis Villebrun to Marie Cyre, and Baptiste St. Cyre, Jr., to Justine McKay—so that all things considered the New Year was ushered in with a tremendous row! Verily, times are improving in the North."

"1866, January 2nd. The men are rather seedy to-day after their tremendous kick-up of yesterday."

"1840, January 25th. The object of sending Lafleur to the Little Island is that he may procure a kind of willow that the Canadians call 'Courmier,' the bark of which scraped and boiled in water has healing qualities which they think will be of great service for Hassel's complaint. Confidence in anything is half the cure."[!]

"1840, February 1st. Hassel is still without much appearance for the better, and at his earnest request was bled."

"1841, December 31st. The men from the Fishery made their appearance as usual at this time, and as usual, too, the best we had (which by-the-by is not great as will be seen by this journal) was served out to them. The other men had the time to themselves to prepare for the holiday of to-morrow, for the Jour de Tan is the greatest day of the Canadians in these distant Northern posts. To finish things properly there is still wanting the famous aqua vitae, which we are sorry to state is not in our means to furnish. Adieu the year one thousand eight hundred and forty-one!"

"1842, February 13th. The Rev. Mr. Evans proposing to take his departure to-morrow for Isle a la Crosse edified us with a farewell service, several of the women and children were baptized, and Flett and Hassel were married to their wives."

From the records we compile this Chipewyan calendar:—

March 17th, House-flies. April 8th, Grey goose seen. April 11th, Catkins. April 12th, Barking crows. April 19th, Blackbirds and mosquitoes. April 21st, Plover, two hawks, and a butterfly. April 22nd, Gulls, white waveys, robins. April 28th, White cranes. April 30th, Frogs, most of snow gone. May 2nd, Dark butterfly, four purple crocuses. May 4th, Frogs noisy, bumble bees. May 5th, Nearly clear of ice. May 8th, Water from Peace River flowing into lake. An Eagle. May 10th, Sand martins. Ice drifting in channel in front of fort. May 20th, Swans passing north. May 21st, Trees bursting into leaf. July 11th, Strawberries and raspberries. August 18th, Cranes passing south. October 11th, Small birds passing south. October 12th, First ptarmigan seen about the fort. October 24th, Lake in front closed up this morning.



CHAPTER VII

LAKE ATHABASCA AND ITS FOND DU LAC

"Afar from stir of streets, The city's dust and din, What healing silence meets And greets us gliding in!

"The noisy strife And bitter carpings cease. Here is the lap of life, Here are the lips of peace."

—C.G.D. Roberts.

For fresh woods and pastures new this Friday, June 26th! Our little "bunch" breaks up. Mr. Brabant and Mrs. Harding, of the Hudson's Bay Company contingent, go on in the Grahame to Smith's Landing, and with them the two detachments of the R.N.W.M.P. As we shake hands with the police party, we wonder what Fate has in store for each of us. Breaking off at Fort Resolution, Great Slave Lake, and trending eastward by canoe over unchartered ways, will they reach salt water on Hudson Bay as they hope?

For our two selves, great good fortune is ours. The Canadian Government Indian Treaty party, consisting of Mr. Conroy in command, Mr. Laird as secretary, Dr. Donald, and Mr. Mooney in charge of the commissariat, with Constable Gairdner, R.N.W.M.P., as Escort, has just come down the Peace. To-day they pay treaty in Chipewyan, and this afternoon start for far Fond du Lac, at the eastern extremity of Lake Athabasca. The little H.B. tug Primrose will tow them and their outfit in a York-boat and a scow, and the captain has been persuaded to allow us, too, to take our blankets and come along, sleeping on the deck. The Primrose from stem to stern is not big enough to swing a cat in, but who wants to swing a cat? It is blue Lake Athabasca that we long to see; no white woman has yet traversed it to its eastern extremity and we would go if we had to work our passage at the sweeps of the scow.



Athabasca Lake (whose name means "In Muskeg Abounding"), is two hundred miles long, with thirty-five miles at its greatest width. It lies in a general easterly and westerly direction. No survey has been made of the lake; its height above ocean level is seven hundred feet, and it covers perhaps three thousand square miles. Its chief feeder is the Athabasca River, down which we have come from the south. This stream, assisted by the Peace, is fast filling up with detritus the western portion of Lake Athabasca. There is a marked contrast between the upper and lower coasts of the lake. The north shore consists of Laurentian gneiss with a sparse wood growth; the south bank for the most part is low, the formation being a cretaceous sandstone. Ice holds fast this beautiful sheet for six months every year. As we puff along the surface of its incomparable blue it is hard to realise that, although the Peace and Athabasca Rivers open their icy mouths about May-day, parts ot the lake are not free for travel until mid-May. The lake freezes fast at Fort Chipewyan some time in November. Lying on the deck of the tug, we look down and take inventory of our odd tow. Just behind comes the scow. It holds wood for the engine, a long sled, a canoe, a "skift," all this year's trading supplies for Fond du Lac, and half a dozen chained husky dogs. Trailing the scow is a York-boat carrying the treaty party and Mr. Harris.

It is late in the afternoon when we pull out from Chipewyan, but the sun is still heaven-high, with the offshore air a tonic. At seven o'clock Colin Fraser's boat passes us with Bishop Grouard standing upright at the prow. This stately figure, clear-cut against the sky-line, may well stand as the type of the pioneer Church of the Northland. On the little deck we can use the camera with facility at ten in the evening, and the typewriter all night. The light manifestation is a marvel and wooes us from sleep. Have we not all the tame nights of the after-days for slumber? Here we lose the moon and those friendly stars which at Pelican Portage dipped almost to meet our hands. No more are we to see them until the Arctic has been reached and we have turned southward many, many hundreds of miles.



Hours since all the badinage was silenced in the York-boat behind us. On board the Primrose the mate sleeps, and Captain Prothero has the wheel. I creep along the wobbly gunwale to sit out a four hours' watch with him. "I never saw any one navigate as you do, captain, you seem to have neither chart nor compass."

"No," assents he, biting hard on the little black pipe, "we just go by the power o' man," and with the words a sharp turn of the wheel lurches us out from the lee of a batture. The jolt jerks up its passengers in the semidetached steerage. A growling of huskies, a kick, and a muttered adjuration in Cree, and all is silent again.

By six o'clock every one is astir, and Saturday is a long glorious day. At noon we stop to take aboard an Indian who hails us from the scrub-pine, sore afraid that he will miss connection with his five dollar treaty present from the Government. It is good to stretch out on the grass after this somewhat restricted Primrose path of dalliance. In front of us extends a long row of islands, in the hot haze suspended midway between blue of lake and blue of sky. Their covering of baby-willows suggests a face guilty of a three days' beard. We rest, so far as the mosquitoes think it proper we should rest, on a bed of reindeer moss (cladonia rangiferina?), the tripe de roche of the North. This constitutes almost the sole winter-food of the reindeer, its gelatinous or starchy matter giving the nutritive property to the odd-looking stuff. Reindeer-moss has saved the life of many an Indian lost in these woods. We try it, and find the taste slightly pungent and acrid; but when boiled it forms a jelly said to be nourishing and tonic.

No orders are given when we land, and we study countenances and actions to guess the time-limit of our tether. For twenty-four hours we have wondered if there were trout in Lake Athabasca and if they would rise to the fly. With a borrowed rod we take a canoe and off the shadow of a cottonwood point try a cast at random. The gut carries three flies—a brown hackle, a coachman, with a Jock Scott at the tail—a rainbow aggregation. To the coachman we get a rise and it takes three of us to land him. There are no scales; so his weight must forever be unrecorded, but as we lay him out he measures just a trifle over twenty-three inches, as beautiful a lake trout as ever sent thrill up and down a sympathetic spine. Bye-and-bye this road we travel is going to be listed on the sporting routes of the world, and tired souls from the Seven Seas with rod and gun will here find Nepenthe.



Clutching our catch, we step gingerly along an outstretched oar and climb on board. The orders of the captain to the mate are sporty and suggest turf rather than surf. "Kick her up, Mac!" "Give her a kick ahead!" "Who-o-oa!" On Sunday evening, June 28th, we reach Fond du Lac, clinging close to the water-line on her beautiful stretch of sand. All unregarded are the church-bells, and the Indians crowd to meet us,—bent old crones, strong men, and black-eyed babies. For is not the coming of the treaty party the one event of the Fond du Lac year?

Half way along the traverse of the lake we had crossed the inter-Provincial boundary, and now find ourselves near the northern limit of the Province of Saskatchewan, and in the latitude of Sweden's Stockholm. There are but two people in Fond du Lac who speak English,—Mr. Harris who trades fur with the Indians, and Father Beibler who would fain shepherd their souls.

These Caribou-Eater Indians are true nomads who come into the post only at treaty-payment time or to dispose of their hunt. In the moon-when-the-birds-cast-their-feathers (July) they will press back east and north to the land of the caribou. September, the-moon-when-the-moose-loose-their-horns, will find them camping on the shore of some far unnamed lake, and by the time of the hour-frost-moon, or the ice-moon, they will be laying lines of traps.

We have learned to estimate the prosperity or otherwise of the Indians by the condition of their dogs. Fond du Lac dogs are fat; each baby in its moss-bag exudes oil from every pore. Peace and Plenty have crowned the Caribou-Eaters during the winter that is past. The law of Saskatchewan permits the taking of the beaver. Alberta for the present has enacted restrictive legislation on this hunt, to which restriction, by the way, among the Indians at the treaty-tent at Chipewyan, objection had been loud and eloquent.



We call upon Mr. Harris and his Chipewyan wife, a tall handsome woman whom he addresses as "Josette." Their three girls are being educated in the convent at Fort Chipewyan. The room in which we sit reflects the grafting of red life on white. A rough bookcase of birchwood, with thumbed copies of schoolboy classics, Carlyle, the Areopagitica, and the latest Tractate on Radium, gives one a glimpse of the long, long winter nights when all race and latitude limitations fade away and the mind of the Master of Fond du Lac jumps the barrier of ice and snow to mix with the great world of thought outside. "Stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage." Fighting our way with the mosquitoes, under birches somewhat dwarfed but beautiful, through a pungent bocage of ground pine, wild roses, giant willow-herb, mints innumerable and Labrador tea (Ledum latifolium), we reach the H.B. garden where the potatoes are six or eight inches high. We wander into a little graveyard, surely the most lonely God's acre in all Canada. The inscriptions in syllabic Chipewyan show the patient devotion of Father Beihler, who comes across us as we gaze at the graves. Eight long years the priest has put in at Fond du Lac, sent here when but three months in the priesthood. His English, acquired from Mr. Harris, is a bit hesitating. His home was in Alsace-Lorraine; he tells us his mother was out of her mind for three days when he was ordered here, and he himself wept. White women are a rara avis. Father Beihler wants to know how old we are and if we are Catholics and how much money we earn. Pointing wisely to the Kid, he assures me, "They are not an-gell (angel) at that age," and says, "I am not a woman-hater, and I am not a woman chercher." The priest is as great a curiosity to us as we are to him, and each is interested in studying a new kind of animal. One sympathy we have in common,—the good Father knows every bird that flies over Fond du Lac. Who can tell what they whisper to him of the sweet Alsace so far away? We are treated to peeps into the nests of the orange-crowned warbler, the hermit thrush, and that shy wader, the spotted sandpiper.



These ultimate woods fascinate us, with their worn north trails of the trapper beaten as hard as asphalt with the moccasins of generations. The father of the Chipewyan down at the tents receiving his treaty money to-day and his grandfather before him trod these same trails and served The Company. Dusky feet trod these paths when good Queen Anne ruled in England, men made toilsome portages up these waterways, and here Crowfoot and Running Rabbit and Gaston Lamousette kept undisturbed the tenour of their way and matched wits with Carcajou the wolverine.

To the student who would read at first hand the story of fur, more interesting than dark otters, Hudson Bay sables, or silver-fox, one form silhouettes on the white canvas of the North. It is the figure of the Trapper. Here, as elsewhere, the man who mixes brains with his bait and makes a scientific art of a rude craft is the man who succeeds. It is a contest of wit worthy the cleverest. The animals, as the years pass, become more rather than less wary, and the days of the magenta string tying a chunk of fat to a nice new shiny trap are long past. The man who used to "make fur" in that way is, like Fenimore Cooper's Indians, the extinct product of a past race that never existed.

The Chipewyan trapper eats at once, or dries for the future, every ounce of flesh he traps, from the scant flesh-covering over the animal's skull to the feet and the entrails. As soon as the skins of beaver and musquash are removed, the bodies, so many skinned cats, are impaled on sticks of jack-pine and set sizzling before the fire. In the woods as in the camp, the laborious work falls to the woman. Lordly man kills the animal and that is all. With her babies on her back or toddling by her side, the wife trails the game home on hand-sled, and afterwards in camp she must dress the meat and preserve the skin.

The band of Fond du Lac Indians is the largest in the whole North, and they are perhaps the least unspoiled of "civilisation," as their range is removed from the north-and-south route afforded by the Mackenzie. To-morrow the treaty party will leave, the skin tepees will be pulled down, and in those beautiful birchbark canoes whole families will be on the move. These people are essentially meat-eaters. Their hearts have not learned to hunger for those soggy bannocks, unventilated shacks, and sheet-iron stoves which are luring their tribal cousins on the germ-strewn way to higher culture with convenient stopping-places in the graves by the wayside.



Starting from Fond du Lac in July, a Chipewyan family sets out in two canoes, the big communal one, and the little hunting-canoe, the dogs following along shore. It is paddle and portage for days and weary weeks, inland and ever inland. In October the frost crisps into silence the running water and the lake lip. Snow begins to fall, and the grind of forming ice warns the Chipewyan it is time to change birchbark for moccasin and snow-shoe. Canoes are cached, and the trail strikes into the banksian pine and birchwood. The door of the forest is lonely and eerie. It no longer seems incongruous that, although Big Partridge wears a scapular on his burnt-umber breast and carries with him on his journey the blessing of Father Beihler, he also murmurs the hunting incantation of the Chipewyans and hangs the finest furs of his traps flapping in the top of the jack-pine, a sop to the Cerberus of Mitchie Manitou, the feared Spirit of the Wood.

Winter sees Indian families, each little group a vignette in the heart of the wider panorama, flitting over lake surfaces to ancestral fur-preserves. In the early snow they pitch tepee, family fires are lighted, and from this centre the trapper radiates. The man sets his traps, and if the couple is childless his wife makes an independent line of snares. Each individual traps for miles and days alone, and an accident in the woods means a death as lonely and agonising as that of the animal he snares. With blanket, bait, and bacon on a small hand-sled, silently the trapper trudges forward. The Northern Lights come down o' nights, and it is cold; but cold makes finer fur. Down far trails in gloomy forests, across the breasts of silent streams, the Chipewyan trudges from trap to trap; if he finds fifty dollars worth of fur along the whole line he is content. It is not this lonely man who gets the high price, madame, for your marten stole or opera-cloak of ermine.

On the trail the hunter may go hungry for two days and no word of complaint, just a tightening of the lips and L'Assumption belt, and a firm set to the jaw; but when a moose is killed life is one long supper. A jolly priest whispers of this confession from a son of the Church, a recent brand from the burning, "O Father, I know that Christianity is true, the great, the strong religion. When I was a heathen Chipewyan and trapped with my mother's tribe I ate ten rabbits a day. But now I am a Christian, a good Catholic, seven rabbits are enough for me—I will eat no more!"

In the early days the H.B. Company allowed its men en voyage five pounds of meat a day, and each kiddie three pounds. In British Columbia and the Yukon the ration was one salmon; up here on the Athabasca one wild goose or three big whitefish; on the Arctic foreshore two fish and three pounds of reindeer meat. This was the scheduled fare, but the grimness of the joke appears in the fact that each man had to run his breakfast to earth before he ate it.

Forty miles a day from trap to trap is a hard tramp on snowshoes when the wind sweeps down from the Arctic and the silence can be felt. The whole thing is a Louisiana lottery. The very next trap may hold a silver-fox that spells kudos for a year round the winter camp-fires and a trade valuation of one hundred dollars from the tempting stores of Mr. Harris. As long as the red fox brings forth her cubs to play in the starlight and marten and musquash increase after their kind, just so long will there be trappers and sons of trappers setting out from Fond du Lac. In October or November these Chipewyans will meet the migrating caribou on the northern side of Athabasca Lake. Caribou skins are in prime condition then to make coats and robes, and caribou venison, fresh or dried, is the daily bread which Providence sends to these far folk. About Christmas time, if they find themselves at a convenient distance from the post, the Indians come in to Fond du Lac to trade their furs with Mr. Harris and to get from Father Beihler the blessing of Mother Church. Out they go again and make their spring hunt of otter, bear, and beaver, whose skins they bring in when they come for their treaty money and annual reunion in July.

Interesting indeed is the life-history of the Barren Ground caribou (rangifer articus), whose migrant hordes to-day rival in number the bands of the dead and gone buffalo. Caribou go north in spring and south in autumn, as the birds do; and, unlike the seals, the female caribou form the advance line. They drop their young far out toward the seacoast in June, by which month the ground is showing up through melting snow. The male caribou never reach the coast, but join their wives and make the acquaintance of their babies at the end of July. From this time they stay together till the rutting season is over late in October. Then the great herds of caribou,—"la foule,"—gather on the edge of the woods and start on their southern migrations toward the shelter and food afforded by the country of the larger pine trees. A month later the females and males separate, the cows with their intent fixed on the uttermost edge of things beginning to work their way north toward the end of February and reaching the edge of the woods by April.

This is the general rule. Broadly speaking, the north shore of Athabasca Lake to-day forms the southern limit of the caribou range, while the Mackenzie River makes a natural dividing-line between eastward and westward branches of the caribou family. But the trend of this mighty migration will not be pent between mathematical lines of limitation, and the direction of prevailing winds may turn the numberless hosts and divert them from their line of march. Individuals and scattered bands, indeed, have been known not to migrate at all. Fifteen years ago in the last days of July, in latitude 62 deg. 15' North, the Tyrrell Brothers saw a herd of caribou which they estimate contained over one hundred thousand individuals. In 1877 a line of caribou crossed Great Slave Lake near Fort Rae on the ice. It took them two weeks to pass that point, and, in the words of an eye-witness, "daylight could not be seen through the column."