THE KILL OF A KING 



A STALWART son of a race whose 

 sun has set, holds firmly the birch 

 canoe, — a product of his own handi- 

 work. Carved it is at bow and stern, 

 with strange scenes of Indian life, and the stranger 

 words that mean so much even when rendered 

 into English. With a lack of grace shown by- 

 many white men in getting into a birch canoe, I 

 succeed in settling myself in the seat prepared for 

 me and made comfortable by a broad back covered 

 with deer skin, and by cushions made from inter- 

 woven dried grasses. A strong shove that sends the 

 frail craft out into the sparkling wavelets, a spring 

 of my guide, Lomay, a flash of paddles, all ap- 

 parently in one movement, and we are off for the 

 grounds. From the stern the net hangs within 

 easy reach of my copper-hued boatman. 



Such a morning ! Keen and crisp is the air. 

 The winds ruffle into motion the surface of the 

 lake. Around are green islands, proud in their 

 wealth of fir-trees, and blackened rocks snapping 

 into purring foam the waters that quiver against 

 them. 



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