494 
the snow beside the temporary grave, 
he notched a slit into the soft, springy 
wood with his (the blacksmith’s) crook- 
knife, and into the crack he forced a 
fold in the corner of his red handker- 
chief. 
“T will come with dogs from the 
Island,” said he. “I will bring him to 
the priest.”” Then he assumed the bur- 
den of the double pack, and plunged 
on the heavy, clogging snow, eastward 
for home. His mind had not adjusted 
itself as yet, but the priest would know. 
Jimmy would do as his inspiration bade 
him, and if wrong were entailed there- 
by the priest would right the tangle 
and in the end all would be well. 
He camped that night as before. It 
rained hard before morning and he did 
penance for any uncertainties as to 
right and wrong which lay within his 
mind, sitting huddled in his blanket by 
the fire, piling on fresh wood when 
needful, but wet and cold and destitute 
of comfort. Strangely enough that 
very sense of hardship made him happy. 
He was paying for his good fortune 
and the price was little enough. The 
Syrian’s pack was his the more indis- 
putably, the more it rained and the less 
he slept. Who else was there to claim 
it with juster title? Friends? Heirs? 
Jimmy had seen enough of Semitic 
peddlers to know that in this country 
they had neither. A despised, spirit- 
less lot who fawned and cheated and 
grew rich on the money of hard-work- 
ing men. Anyway, the priest would 
know, and if necessary he could pay 
for masses. 
When Christmas morning broke a 
dry wind was blowing and once more 
frost was sharpening the air and crisp- 
ing a crust on the snow. With a blithe 
spirit Jimmy set out upon the last 30- 
mile stretch of his journey, heavy laden 
but light at heart. He had passed 
through the shadow of doubt and his 
road lay free and glistening before him. 
eae Bes ial oe ure * 
Old Mrs. Friday and all Bear Island 
had feasted right royally as was the 
Christmas wont, on beaver, wild goose, 
RECREATION 
moose meat, pork, whitefish, pancakes 
and potatoes. Not in all the year was 
such a chance for growing given 
brown-faced, beady-eyed little folks as 
upon Christmas Day. Only once a year 
was there any certainty of tasting 
beaver, for the law is now on beaver, 
and white men only may be seen with 
beaver skins. So the Company pays 
less for them than. formerly, and any- 
way, beaver is very scarce. But on 
Christmas Day—well, beaver is a tradi- 
tion. And now it was night, all the 
village was at Friday’s house to dance, 
and Jimmy had not come home from 
the shanties. 
Willy Petrant was there with his 
fiddle; Jea’ Batis’ was there with his 
corked river-driving boots to dance 
the clog; Michel Whitebear, the 
chief, still, silent, joyless, was there 
with his squaw and his pretty, French- 
looking daughter, Angele. Big Alex 
Paul, the old bowsman of the Fur 
Brigade, he of the massive shoulders, 
the shaggy black-bear head, the great, 
shining bronze cheek bones and the 
thin, black, brush-like chin whisker—he 
was there in the corner, one moccasined 
foot across his knee, smoking his pipe, 
and grinning cheerfully through his 
broken teeth. They were all there but 
Jimmy Friday. And so, for the young - 
men would not wait, the fiddles rasped 
—G D A E on the open strings, and 
the dance began. é 
They dance at Bear Island like they 
dance few other places where white 
men go. In the summer, at the Ran- 
gers’ hall, you may see them some- 
times when a tourist party comes, and. 
a dance is made ready as a show. But 
the spirit lacks something then. The 
girls are shy before the ladies from the 
big, stylish cities and the men feel that 
it is but a mere awkward show business. 
It is at Christmas they really dance, and 
they do not stop except to sleep and to 
eat, until the New Year has well begun. 
Indian dances they are, grafted on to 
the square sets learned from the French 
voyageurs and the English-speaking 
Celts who work in the shanties: the 
