HOME 155 



the bare scenery of his childhood the circle of 

 bleak hills, all sprinkled with snow ; the grey water 

 and the stony beach ; the wooden huts on the hill- 

 side, so different from the tall buildings he had seen. 

 "Yes," he said "yes, I have come home." 

 And so it was. This pathetic wanderer, this man 

 on the verge of middle age, he had felt the call of 

 his native land and had come home. His parents 

 were dead, the playmates of his boyhood had grown 

 to middle age like himself, but the call of home 

 had gripped him. And so he settled down among 

 the Okak folk ; he found food and shelter in their 

 hospitable homes. With a smile upon his face he 

 sat polishing his gun ; he bound his new harpoon 

 with thongs ; he learnt to hunt again. In spite of 

 all that he had tasted of civilised cookery during 

 the years of his wanderings, the flavour of raw seal- 

 meat was still pleasant to his palate. At heart he 

 was an Eskimo. He made his way once more to 

 the church where he had sat as a little child, and 

 took his place humbly among the others. He drank 

 in eagerly the Word of God. How long since he 

 had heard it in his own tongue ! He sang again the 

 old familiar hymns ; indeed, he was at home. Soon 

 he married a sensible Eskimo girl, and the two of 

 them set up their housekeeping in a little wooden 

 hut that his own hands had built. And such is the 

 story of a wanderer. 



It seems a pity to end up these chronicles of our 

 village on a note of sadness, but so it must be. 

 Since the days when I dwelt among these kindly 



