22 ON SNOW-SHOES TO THE BARREN GROUNDS 



by that route in the spring on my way back to the rail- 

 road, and when the snow had disappeared, just to satisfy 

 my curiosity. 



We were making for the White-Fish Lake Indian reser- 

 vation, where we had been told we could find feed and a 

 covering for the horses, and a school-master who would 

 give us a place to throw down our blankets, and the best 

 of his larder. We were not concerned for ourselves, for 

 we carried enough to provide a substantial meal, and, I 

 think, all three of us would have preferred sleeping in the 

 open to the average cabin. But the mercury had fallen a 

 great many degrees since leaving Edmonton, a cutting 

 wind was blowing, and our horses were pretty well worn, 

 with still forty-five miles to go the next day before reach- 

 ing La Biche. This was why we pushed on, hoping every 

 turn would show the light in the distance that meant rest 

 for us and an extra feed for our team. We finally reached 

 some straggling cabins of the reservation, but should have 

 been searching for that light yet if we had not roused an 

 Indian from his slumbers, whom Grierson, by some start- 

 ling Cree vocalization, the like of which I never heard be- 

 fore nor since, at length made understand what we were 

 after. Then that drowsy child of nature led the way to a 

 school-master, but not to the school-master we had been 

 seeking, whose house was a few miles farther on, we sub- 

 sequently learned. 



The school-master we found was a study in filth. He 

 lived like a dog in a wretched kennel, and talked like a 

 cockney Englishman ; indeed, he confided to me he had 

 come from London, and was living there chiefly to learn 

 the Cree language, that he might later preach " Jesus to 

 the wayward heathen." Meanwhile he was educating him. 

 This cockney's one idea of education seemed summed up 

 in the single word coercion. If the Indians gathered for 



