DOWN THE PORCUPINE RIVER 235 



he had beached his canoe. I should have been glad to 

 see anybody, but I was particularly glad to recognize this 

 old fellow for I had met him at Macpherson the year 

 before. He had been there in his capacity of deacon of 

 the Church of England to confer with the missionary and 

 had later been the man who undertook to help Stewart 

 across the mountains. The Deacon spoke passable 

 English and I soon knew how everything stood. 



The house I had slept in was the Deacon's. He and 

 his family would occupy it after the freeze-up some two 

 months from now. They and the other Indians that 

 belonged in this village were now camped about half a 

 mile away beyond the next bend, and if I had not gone 

 ashore just here because of seeing the houses I should 

 a few minutes later have drifted into sight of their camp- 

 fires and should have had a far more pleasant night. We 

 proceeded to their camp now. The Deacon's canoe was 

 so small that two of us could not ride in it and I had 

 to pole my way to the village with my raft. Once there 

 my regrets for an uncomfortable night were soon forgot- 

 ten in the warm welcome of the Indians. 



At the village there were small canoes, all made of 

 birch bark. It is one of the signs of intimate connection 

 between these Indians and the Eskimos to the north that 

 their canoes are much the shape and size of the Eskimo 

 kayaks, although differing, of course, in not being covered 

 over. They are one-man boats. One of them was almost 

 big enough for two men, however, and I asked the Deacon 

 whether he would not undertake to carry me in that down 

 to Rampart House. At first he said it could not be done. 

 We considered the possibility of my paddling my own 

 canoe, but this type of craft is so exceedingly cranky and 

 there would be some rapids to run, so the Indians were 



