AN ESKIMO BROTHER 8l 



dimly. Kornelius is most likely sitting on a box 

 against the wall puffing at his pipe, while Maria 

 crouches over the stove, stirring a pot of simmering 

 seal-meat. The air of the house is steamy and heavy 

 and warm, and a tremendously fishy smell is coming 

 from the cookery. In one corner is a big home- 

 made bedstead of rough boards, spread with deer- 

 skins and a patchwork counterpane, in another 

 stands a tiny table, strewn with cups and spoons and 

 knives and fishing tackle. A few cheap ornaments 

 rear their heads among the litter, and a loudly tick- 

 ing clock stands boldly in the midst. There are 

 several well-thumbed books. If you pick them up 

 you will see that they are different parts of the 

 Eskimo Bible, for the long Eskimo words make the 

 Bible a bulky book. Maria and her cooking-stove 

 fill a third corner, and, sure enough, in the fourth 

 corner there is a heap of nets nets torn at the 

 sealing, no doubt, and waiting for the old man's 

 fingers to mend them and above the nets hang the 

 black slabs of dried meat. That is the dried meat 

 that figures in this little story. So, having made 

 the proper acquaintance of Kornelius and Maria 

 and their little home, and of the nipko, let us plunge 

 into the real tale. 



It is not a very long time now since old Kornelius 

 died. He was slowly getting feebler, and at last 

 there came a day when his strength failed him, and 

 he had to take to his bed. He knew that he was on 

 his death-bed ; his Eskimo instinct told him so, and 

 Eskimo instinct is rarely at fault. 



But old Kornelius was not troubled ; he was at 



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