altogether uncalled for, her coura- 

 geous resistance must be judged from 

 her own standard. It was a pretty 

 exhibition of mother defence, while 

 the babies in the birch cheeped and 

 cheeped. 



They were the last of the breath- 

 ing things; such a dead country! Its 

 talent of stones and moss wrapped 

 in a serviette of snow, and buried 

 preserved but unproductive. On 

 and on we pushed for hours. Little 

 pools of melted snow rested in the 

 hollows, the tiny red cups of bugle 

 moss on stiff grey stems nestled 

 against the southern rocky surfaces, 

 which, somewhat chilly stoves, catch 

 and hold what heat there is. It was 

 approved reindeer country. Every 

 moment we scanned the distant 

 slopes for some moving object that 

 could mean but one thing. 



The morning wore away, the after- 

 noon was nearly gone. Of course, 

 there was no dark to fear as the night 

 hours approached, but there were 

 other considerations, such as food 

 and rest and a glowing fire, those 

 " chill ancestral spaces" pall in time, 

 especially as the day had been one 



