THE INDIAN TRAPPER 139 



Whittling a limber branch from a sapling, the In 

 dian hastily 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 snowglare, 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, pal 

 pable, 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 intel 

 ligent 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 : 



&quot;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.&quot; 



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 



