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HAT night, in the queer little 

 hunting camp by the river, while 

 the birch logs glowed on the 

 stone hearth and sang for the 

 last time the songs which the winds had 

 taught them, old Newell answered my ques- 

 tions about the fisher we had caught, and 

 told me of his lonely trapper's life and the 

 many trails he had followed. Under his skill- 

 ful hands as he worked, Pequam's glossy skin 

 changed its face and crept down to the very 

 end of the long cedar stretcher, ready at last 

 to take its place in the row of marten and 



-45 





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