146 AN ESKIMO VILLAGE 



turned to me, and I watched his active old figure, 

 clad in sealskins with a hood pulled down low over 

 his forehead, as he plied his shovel with deliberate 

 strokes. He was a real Eskimo ; he did not seem to 

 mind the weather. At times he had to brace himself 

 against the wind, and his smock flapped as the gusts 

 caught it ; but he worked steadily on, making a way 

 to the church. 



Soon he had reached the door ; he banged it open 

 and went into the porch, and I knew by the shovel- 

 fuls of snow that came flying out that he was clearing 

 away what had blown in during the night. When 

 his work was done he slammed the door again, 

 shouldered his spade, and tramped off homeward. 



I watched the people come along the newly cut 

 path while the bell was ringing for the morning meet- 

 ing ; then, muffled to the eyebrows, I braved the 

 short passage myself. 



Somewhere in the porch the oldest chapel servant 

 was toiling at the bell-rope ; I could hear the 

 measured scrape, scrape, scrape of the cord against 

 the woodwork as I sat in my place in church. 

 Presently the last straggler among the worshippers 

 was seated, snow was wiped out of eyes and hair, 

 and hymn-books were brought to light from pockets 

 and the legs of boots and the hoods of sealskin 

 smocks ; the brawny hunter at the organ cast a 

 glance over his shoulder and began to bring his 

 voluntary to an end ; the bell ceased its clanging, 

 and the old man came in. He closed the door, stoop- 

 ing to clear away a wedge of snow that the passing 



