CHAPTER II 



THE HEATHEN VILLAGE 



A HUNDRED and fifty years ago that hillside strewn 

 with mounds was an Eskimo village ; those heaps 

 were homes, homes where real people lived, people 

 whose bones you might see under the stones in the 

 ancient graveyard near by. Up that sloping, pebbly 

 beach the hunters carried their canoes and dragged 

 their catch of seals. There was feasting in those 

 mound-like huts. There, of an evening, the people 

 squatted in a ring, with the pot of meat or the freshly 

 killed seal in the middle. They hacked the meat 

 with knives of flint ; they talked of the doings of 

 the day, and the hunter told of the catching of the 

 seal. With graphic gestures and flowing words he 

 pictured the dancing waves, the tumbling canoe, the 

 sleek head peering, the sudden swift harpoon, the 

 tussle, and the triumphant home-coming. 



The villagers crowded in until the hut was filled 

 to overflowing. With a nod of thanks they fed and 

 went away, only to make room for more and more 

 comers, until the meat was done. 



The little children crouched against the wall, 

 chewing such morsels as their parents might fling. 

 And in the midst the dreaded sorcerer stalked in, a 

 weird and filthy fellow, bedaubed and betasselled. 

 A silence fell upon the company ; they made a place 

 for him beside the bowl of meat. The host chose 



i8 



