66 AN ESKIMO VILLAGE 



gestures and wavings of his knife, how the seal rose 

 and plunged again, moving from place to place until 

 it came within range of his gun. He talks of his 

 plans for the morrow, how he will try that fishing 

 place again, or how he will go round that rock 

 where he saw a group of seals at play ; and as he 

 talks first one and then another utters a sigh of 

 " Nakomek " (thanks), and wipes his knife, finish- 

 ing the meal with a draught of water, lukewarm 

 from the kettle, or a mug of weak sweet tea. 



When all have finished, old Friedrik rises and 

 goes to the table ; he takes the New Testament and 

 sits down again. He finds his spectacles between 

 the pages, where he left them last night, and settles 

 them upon his nose, for, though his eyes are still 

 keen for the hunting, old age needs some help to 

 read. Carefully he thumbs the pages, and, point- 

 ing with his finger, he reads with a slow, impressive 

 utterance. The other members of the household- 

 his own wife, motherly and plump, his well-built 

 son, on whose shoulders the brunt of the hunting 

 is beginning to fall, the fine buxom daughter-in-law, 

 nursing a fat and sleepy baby, the several happy- 

 faced and bright-eyed children sitting so demurely 

 listen eagerly and reverently to the well-loved 

 Word of God. It is their favourite book, and they 

 never tire of the sound of its words ; they_ seem, 

 indeed, to be drinking in the message ; it is very 

 real, very precious to them. I seem to see them as 

 they sit, and as I watch them there comes to me the 

 real meaning of that oil-stained, battered Bible. It 

 is no irreverent using, but the old man's daily read- 



