218 BY ESKIMO DOG-SLED 



in the band is one of the greatest honours 

 that an Eskimo knows. 



And what more delightful thing can there 

 be than to watch the Eskimos trooping to 

 church on a winter s day ! In a long stream 

 they come pouring from the houses, a winding 

 line of trim little figures, clad in silvery furs 

 or red-tipped blanket, or in newly-washed 

 calico overalls, some with their heads bare to 

 the wind and the snow, and their shaggy 

 black hair hanging over their ears, some with 

 the peaked hood that we know so well from 

 the pictures. They trudge along the narrow 

 path in single file, and the little children 

 stretch their baby legs to tramp in the foot 

 prints of the older people funny little souls, 

 those children, they find it easier, no doubt, 

 to plant their feet in the deep footprints of 

 their elders than to make new holes in the 

 snow for themselves ; and, besides, it pleases 

 them to plod with long strides like the grown 

 ups. And so you see the people marching on, 

 grave and sedate, while the church bell clangs 

 from the tower. 



They march into the porch, and you hear 

 them stamping their feet to beat off the snow 

 that clings to them ; the bell ceases its clang 

 ing ; an old man, bell-ringer and keeper of 

 the door, puts out his head and peers around 



