THE CHRISTMAS DANCE AT JIMMY FRIDAY’S 
waboose or rabbit dance, the snake 
dance, the papoose dance, the duck 
dance, the break-down and many oth- 
ers. No Bear Island girl is shy at 
Christmas time, and rawboned canoe- 
men and fur-trappers grow graceful 
from pure joyousness. A grand sight 
it was at Friday’s house that night 
when finally the muqua* was chosen 
and the bear dance begun. Now, the 
bear dance comes last on the long pro- 
gram, and the fashion of its dancing is 
this: The company, boys, girls, bucks 
and squaws, form a ring as big as the 
log walls spread apart, hand to hand, 
and the muqua stands in the center, 
blindfolded. When the fiddles start, 
the “bear” growls, the children scream, 
and lads and lassies twine in the grand 
chain. When of a sudden the fiddler 
lifts his bow each man must seize a 
partner by the waist, and the muqua 
swoops down and also captures one, 
if he can. This leaves a man without 
a mate, and he must then forthwith be 
blindfolded and growl from the ring 
like a bear. Great fun it is and up- 
roarious even in summer time when 
tourists come, but at Christmas time 
who can describe it? 
' At the very height of the frolic— 
that night at Jimmy Friday’s—the door 
opened and—entered the priest! And 
who was it he came leading, already 
blindfolded? Another muqua!  In- 
stantly the fiddles stopped in sheer sur- 
prise, and right into the arms of the 
first muqua the priest led this new one! 
Such a strange muqua! A rabbit-skin 
blanket was thrown over his shoulders 
and gathered at the neck and waist by 
a red sash. A woolen toque was pulled 
down over his face, and a great bulging 
pack was strapped to his back. 
The house grew silent, almost, for the 
first time that night. And then the new 
muqua growled more prodigiously than 
ever yet bear did. But the fiddles re- 
mained quiet, for the mystery still held. 
Then did the priest announce that a 
new game was to begin—the game of 
Santa Claus, and he told the story as 
* Bear. 
495 
the old people of the South heard it 
years ago, adding much moral philos- 
ophy according to his high place and 
duty as a churchman. Every boy and 
girl, every man and woman in the vil- 
lage was to get a present—that was the 
part of the story that made most im- 
pression, however, which loosened the 
tongues and set good Mother Friday’s 
log-walled, white-washed kitchen in a 
hub-bub. 
From out.the pack which the priest 
helped the stranger set on the floor be- 
side him, there came forth presently a 
long string of blue glass beads, and a 
deep, strange voice spoke the name of 
the littlest, brownest, shyest girl-child 
in the room. Pushed forward by her 
mother and encouraged by the priest, 
she sidled forward, clasped the treasure 
and scurried back to the skirts of the 
older women, seated on the floor with 
their backs to the wall. 
Beads, garters, ribbons, rings—every 
girl got something. And then the boys 
—knives, neckties, belts, mouth-organs, 
every one something. Nor did the mat- 
ter stop with children. There were silk 
handkerchiefs, dress lengths of calico, 
scissors, brooches, rosaries, ear-rings 
for grown women, maids, mothers.and 
grandmothers. Never was there such 
a game as Santa Claus! 
And now the men looked nervous 
and expectant. Down into that white 
man’s pack-sack went the stranger’s 
hand. When it came forth each fin- 
ger clutched a dangling watch chain, 
weighted with a swinging, shining gold 
watch—yellow watches,—good and yel- 
low,—watches carved with pictures of 
steam engines like you see at Mattawa 
and Temiscamingue and Sturgeon 
Falls,—watches shiny with carved 
flowers, watches with lids and open. 
faces both. Every man might have one 
and more were left! Even Michel 
Whitebear smiled, while old Alex Paul, 
the bowsman, grinned from ear to ear. 
And now the hand of the stranger 
was dipped into the bag once more. Far 
down it went. 
“Is there a mother here,” asked the 
