AWELCOME 45 



ward to shake my hand, and here she was in my 

 room. Can you imagine her ? A little, square, squat 

 figure of a woman, with a broad face and a few 

 wisps of grey hair straggling from under the 

 checked handkerchief that covered her head. She 

 was wearing a fine calico smock, with hood and 

 long tails gorgeously embroidered in wools, and a 

 black skirt reaching to the tops of her boots. The 

 boots deserve a line to themselves white bottoms, 

 black tongues and leggings, stitched together by 

 those nimble old fingers with incredible neatness. 



And this was Ruth, this quaint figure that stood 

 in the doorway of my room on that autumn after- 

 noon. She reached for her handkerchief and 

 mopped her face ; she looked rather flustered, as 

 though she had something of importance on her 

 mind. She stuffed the handkerchief back into the 

 wide leg of her boot, and when I caught sight of 

 the assortment of matches and and patchwork and 

 tape there, I knew that Ruth used the leg of her 

 boot as a pocket in the true Eskimo fashion. I am 

 afraid, just a little afraid, that as she pulled up her 

 skirt to fumble in this mysterious pocket I had a 

 glimpse of a well-used tobacco pipe peeping fur- 

 tively out of the other boot. But, as I say, I will 

 not commit myself to that ; it was only a passing 

 glimpse, and, besides, it is a good many years ago 

 now, so we will let the pipe go. 



When the handkerchief was safely in its place, 

 Ruth straightened herself up and smoothed 

 her skirt. " Aksunai " (Be strong), she said. 

 "Ahaila" (Yes, the same to you), said I. That 



