50 AN ESKIMO VILLAGE 



island, for anything more bare and bleak you could 

 hardly imagine. It was nothing like the desert 

 islands that boys are wont to fancy coral reefs and 

 sands, and palm-trees and glorious sunshine. No, 

 Zakki's island was only a monster heap of dull, grey 

 rocks, patched here and there with stunted brush- 

 wood. But Zakki was well content with his island, 

 for the seals loved to swim in the shelter of those 

 rocks, and the brushwood was loaded with whole- 

 some berries in the autumn. So Zakki was well off. 



But there came a time when Zakki lost his wife. 

 She caught a cold, and was delirious with lung 

 trouble before they realised that anything was 

 amiss ; and she was gone before they could get help. 

 So Zakki was left with his little son, a child of six 

 years, and in his loneliness the poor man's fatherly 

 heart warmed to his son. All the love of his nature 

 centred on the boy. 



And little Zakki was a real Eskimo boy. Even at 

 six years old he could manage a boat, or set a fox- 

 trap, or use a gun. If the father was busy about 

 the house the child would wander off with a home- 

 made cross-bow, and likely enough come home in 

 an hour or two brandishing a couple of little birds 

 which he had shot. Such rewards of his prowess 

 were, I must say, not very frequent, for a cross-bow 

 made from a stave of the household flour barrel is 

 not a very deadly weapon. However, little Zakki 

 was all the time unconsciously training himself for 

 the life of a hunter. His father made a constant 

 companion of him ; they went to the hunt together. 



