IN THE LAND OF LITTLE STICKS 189 



when it shone, as Indians always do, and by my compass 

 when it stormed, as it mostly did, we climbed to the top 

 of the highest elevations that lay in our course or near it, 

 and while we smoked a pipe, viewed the forlorn panorama 

 which, when the storm permitted, unrolled before us so 

 repeatedly and monotonously. There it was, always the 

 same, unchangeable and unchanged glittering snow, 

 ridge-encircled lakes, rocky mounds and basins, and far 

 away in the distance a small black speck, perhaps a wood 

 oasis in the desert of snow. 



From the hour of leaving our lucky friend in the woods, 

 two days before, we had eaten no meat. We had kept a 

 sharp though unsuccessful lookout for caribou. Beniah 

 had produced some grease from a little bag he carried, 

 and another Indian had found a piece of frozen caribou 

 intestine in the depths of his sledge, and these, with a few 

 hitherto undiscovered bones, remains of dog-feed, stayed 

 our eight stomachs for the first day's travel in the Land 

 of Little Sticks. We had taken along no supply of dried 

 meat or grease, because caribou signs at the edge of timber 

 convinced the Indians that the cows had begun their mi- 

 gration to the North, and we should be able to kill enough 

 for the dogs and ourselves. But all signs fail in the Bar- 

 ren Grounds. The caribou may have been moving, but 

 they were not moving our way. 



Throughout that second day scouts were sent to the 

 east and west searching for caribou, and on top of every 

 hill in our path we halted and hungrily scanned the un- 

 compromising wilderness for a sight of meat. 



The usual chatter of the Indians had ceased. In si- 

 lence, and against a strong head-wind, we plodded all day 

 long, and when in the gloaming we set up our lodge in 

 one of the little patches of pine, there was nothing left us 

 for the evening meal but tea and a pipe. 



