ON A GLASS ROOF 139 



Wojahose has taken more to French customs of 

 late years, and feeds now mostly upon horses. 

 Not a winter passes that he does not swallow a 

 score or so. 



The south wind was blowing softly, and a veil of 

 summer-like haze had fallen over the rugged steeps 

 of Split Rock Mountain. At its northern point, 

 which gives it its name, the sleeping lighthouse 

 loomed ghostly through it, awaiting the spring 

 evening when it should again awaken and cast the 

 glitter of its eye across the released waters. From 

 behind this promontory suddenly flashed the sail 

 of an ice-boat, swifter than a puff of wind-blown 

 smoke, a phantom flying faster than feathered 

 wings could bear it, and out of sight behind 

 Thompson's Point almost as soon as we had 

 seen it. 



The mellow baying of a distant hound came to 

 us, and presently we saw the fox creeping out from 

 a headland, picking his way along the streaks of 

 glare ice till he had got a half-mile from shore, 

 when he put his best foot foremost and headed for 

 the eastern border of the bay at full speed. When 

 the hound came to the scentless ice he gave a long 

 howl of disappointment, then circled and snuffed 

 in vain, and at last went ashore, stopping now and 

 then to cast a wistful glance behind him. 



The day was on the wane, and home at the other 

 end of a long walk. I pulled in and wound up my 



