357, 



The burden of possessions weighed 

 heavily upon us. I thought of Bert's 

 story of the divided pockethand- 

 kerchief and felt that one would be 

 courageous to keep even the half 

 with the hole in it. The hole would 

 have been burden enough. 



The long portage trail was rough, 

 hilly and boggy and obstructed by 

 fallen trees, but Sally and I hurried 

 along to "get away from the dead 

 wolf," we said. I dare say we felt 

 alike. Not inheriting the blood and 

 traditions of Indian priests, we did 

 not enjoy the idea of human sacrifice, 

 nor care to watch the efforts of our 

 guides with those ungodly packs. 

 Several times we had found it ex- 

 pedient to rest, light though our 

 pockethandkerchiefs were, and when 

 we reached the next water, the sun 

 was waning, somewhat earlier than 

 usual, as it was beginning to snow. 



11 The snow will make good track- 

 ing' ' we said, trying to be cheerful. 

 This trail end was an impossible 

 place even for a one-night camp. 

 It was cut through a dense grove of 

 jack pines and down timber. There 

 was not even a shore. The steep 



