364 LABRADOR 
trader here a whole boxful of tusks at thirty cents a pound. 
The largest tusks I have had from a Labrador walrus 
weighed, when cleaned and dried, six and one-quarter 
pounds. Possibly a very extraordinary pair might weigh 
ten pounds. 
The old male walrus would scale twenty-five hundred 
pounds, be about fifteen feet long, and has measured as 
much around the waist. They are clumsy, lethargic beasts, 
gregarious and monogamous. They are slow in the water, 
and dead slow on the land, advancing by hauling painfully 
along by their fore flippers, or if hurrying into the water 
“rolling over anyhow.’ Amusing accounts have been 
written as to how they wait for succeeding waves to heave 
them out on sandy beaches, rather than scramble up them- 
selves; when thousands are together, the last comers lie on 
top of the earlier arrivals, simply because they are too 
apathetic to move on. They appear to have a fair sense 
of smell, but not to rely on sight or sound for protection 
from their enemies, among whom is the polar bear. 
Professor Elliot describes how he watched a herd basking 
on an Alaskan beach, and before one dodged off to sleep, 
it poked the next one and woke it up. This grape-vine 
telegraph seemed to be for the purpose of having one always 
somewhat on the alert. They are shy and harmless, 
digging up clams with their tusks for food, and also browsing 
on some of the seaweeds. They have been known to attack 
a kayak, or boat, but only when wounded or when defending 
their young. They use their tusks for helping themselves 
out on an ice edge. 
Though to Europeans of so little value, to an Eskimo 
the walrus may mean everything, — meat, clothing, light, 
