g6 AN ESKIMO VILLAGE 



snow was soft, and the great yellow dog was giving 

 voice. 



It sank its shoulders in the powdery sea ; it swam 

 and floundered in the yielding, clinging snow. 

 "Mauja," it whined, "soft snow, soft snow." 



Many are the memories of travelling times ; of 

 nights in snow huts, built on mountain passes or in 

 some gully near the frozen sea ; of comings to vil- 

 lages in the dark of the evenings, when the people 

 had settled themselves to sleep, and only came tum- 

 bling out of their doorways when the howling of their 

 dogs told them that something new was in the air ; 

 of turnings aside from our track to see some lonely 

 household dwelling in the utmost solitude. 



It was in the afternoon of a spring day that we 

 swung round the bend of a frozen channel and came 

 in sight of a queer little hut. 



The dogs pricked up their ears and tugged at 

 their traces, and, with never a thought of the track 

 that we were following, they galloped along in a 

 mad scramble, dragging the heavy travelling sledge 

 with many a jolt and bump towards the hummocks 

 that fringed the shore. We had hardly time to turn 

 aside if we wanted to reach home that night ; but 

 the dogs had seen the little hut, with its thin wreath 

 of blue smoke curling upwards, and their minds were 

 full of doggy visions of food and rest and shelter 

 from the frost. So little John smiled and shrugged 

 his shoulders, and the dogs had their way. 



"We cannot stop them if we would," he said, 

 "but we must not linger only half an hour." And 

 he jumped from the sledge to guide it through the 



