THE INDIAN TRAPPER 219 



makes a bow, and shoots arrow after arrow with the tip in flame 

 to high mid-air, hoping to signal the far-off lodges. But the night 

 is too clear. The sky is silver with stars, and moonlight and re- 

 flected snow-glare, and the Northern Lights flicker and wane and 

 fade and flame with a brilliancy that dims the tiny blaze of the 

 arrow signal. The smoke rising from his fire in a straight column 

 falls at the height of the trees, for the frost lies on the land heavy, 

 palpable, impenetrable. And for all the frost is thick to the touch, 

 the night is as clear as burnished steel. That is the peculiarity 

 of Northern cold. The air seems to become absolutely compressed 

 with the cold ; but that same cold freezes out and precipitates 

 every particle of floating moisture till earth and sky, moon and 

 stars shine with the glistening of polished metal. 



A curious crackling, like the rustling of a flag in a gale, comes 

 through the tightening silence. The intelligent half-breed says 

 this is from the Northern Lights. The white man says it is electric 

 activity in compressed air. The Indian says it is a spirit, and he 

 may mutter the words of the braves in death chant : 



"If I die, I die valiant, 

 I go to death fearless. 

 I die a brave man. 

 I go to those heroes who died without fear. " 



Hours pass. The trapper gives over shooting fire arrows into 

 the air. He heaps his fire and watches, musket in hand. The 

 light of the moon is white like statuary. The snow is pure as 

 statuary. The snow-edged trees are chiselled clear like statuary; 

 and the silence is of stone. Only the snap of the blaze, the crackling 

 of the frosted air, the break of a twig back among the brush, where 

 something has moved, and the little, low, smothered barkings of 

 the dog on guard. 



By-and-bye the rustling through the brush ceases ; and the 

 dog at last lowers his ears and lies quiet. The trapper throws a 



