32 BY ESKIMO DOG-SLED 



He laughed. &quot; Oh yes, it sometimes blows 

 over when the wind is strong ; but never mind, 

 what does it matter ? We can soon erawl ovit 

 and set it on its poles again, and it is all right. 

 The stones do not blow away ; they stay there 

 all the time. When the winter comes, and we 

 can find snow to build snow houses, we leave 

 the stones lying until we come again in the 

 spring. I always put my tent in the same 

 place, for it is a good place. That big rock 

 shelters us from the north-west wind, and we 

 can drink from that stream of water near by ; 

 besides, we are close to the sea, and I can soon 

 launch my skin canoe and go hunting the 

 seals. Yes, it is a good place, and I shall come 

 again next year. Some of the people do not 

 find good places ; they go to fresh places each 

 year ; but my place is good.&quot; 



His face was aglow, and I caught some of his 

 emotion ; I felt the glamour of his simple life. 

 I thought of the many times when I have come 

 across the rings of stones, relics of deserted 

 tent ing-places. They are generally in some 

 grassy nook near the seashore. The rank 

 grass grows over and among them, and the 

 sandy space which they surround is strewn 

 with fishbones and shells and all the other 

 litter of Eskimo tent life. There is an air of 

 desolation about those rings of stones. Their 



