CHAPTER XXII 



THE OLDEST CHAPEL SERVANT 



When I pulled aside the curtains on that stormy 

 January morning, I saw the oldest chapel servant 

 going to his work. It was a terrible morning, the 

 sort of morning that only those who have lived a 

 winter in such a land as Labrador can properly 

 imagine ; indeed, terrible is the only word that seems 

 at all suitable in speaking of it. The wind was swoop- 

 ing down from the west with a ceaseless roar, and 

 the air was filled with powdery snow. When you 

 have made all your plans for a journey by dog- 

 sledge, and you wake to a morning like that, your 

 driver will wave his hand to the west and say, 

 " Ajornarpok " (It is impossible) " pertok " ; and 

 in that short and impressive word, one of the few 

 short words in a language of long ones, he sums up 

 the terrors of the weather. "Pertok" (drift), the 

 weather that the dogs will not face ; the weather that 

 freezes your nose and your cheeks ; the weather in 

 which men get lost. And it was pertok on that 

 January morning. 



But the oldest chapel servant was at his work as 

 usual. The wind had banked up a drift around the 

 door of the church, and the old man was digging a 

 path through it with a shovel. Sometimes as he 

 turned I could see the frost upon his beard and eye- 

 brows, but for the most of the time his back was 



145 10 



