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La 
dian Northland, Spring comes with 
bewildering swiftness. Under the 
steady heat of the advancing sun, 
snow turns to tiny rivulets that be- 
come torrents; clear river ice, that yes- 
terday gave roadway for team or dog 
sled, to-day is black and rotting, and 
to-morrow, perhaps, will go out in a 
surging rush of waters and the boom 
of grinding blocks. The pussy wil- 
lows open their furry buds and the 
purple anemones appear over night 
upon the ridges. The muskrat and the 
beaver, freed from a winter’s cap- 
tivity, wander among the brushwood 
of their summer haunts and stir their 
families with ingenius plans for new 
homes. Long lines of water-fowl re- 
turn to their breeding grounds, and 
from far up in the blue sky comes the 
honk of the grey goose and the clear 
call of the way-vee. The blackbird’s 
song is frequent in the shrubbery and 
even the crow, first harbinger of 
Spring, now stalks with lordly stride 
upon the blackened fields of the more 
adventurous pioneer. 
By night the fairy elves of light and 
shade keep carnival beneath the moon; 
till the night breeze, in pursuit of his 
playmates, steals along the valley, 
murmurs through the deep dimness of 
the pines, ruffles for an instant the 
smooth surface of the lake, plunges 
into the dark shadows of the hills and 
up over their summits, trailing across 
their brows a silver scarf of light. 
A quiet stream murmurs beneath 
the alders. From the distance below 
the rapids comes the rhythmic beat 
of the Tom-Tom, now almost drowned 
by the sullen-roar of the river and 
again swelling louder as some lusty 
brave drums its stretched head in tune 
to the vagaries of the festive Spring 
dance of the Crees; while from a sedgy 
lake, whose waters feed the Whirlpool, 
comes the hollow, mocking laughter of 
the loon. 
70 
[: the broad stretches of the Cana- 



The Bride of the 
Whirlpool 
A Story of the Moose Tamers of the North 
a. ig Od ely ie arts arial 
By JOHN DUNCAN , 
This riotous river of the North is 
born within the hollow fastnesses of 
deep ravines, the steep and rugged 
sides of which are clothed with for- 
ests. It is fed by the waters of many 
mountain lakes, until, in the full glory 
of youth it springs suddenly from be- 
hind a shoulder of the hills, full- 
formed and crested, dashes its tor- 
tuous way from fall to whirlpool, 
through cascade and eddy, only to re- 
peat, chafing its rocky banks, until 
wearied with its strife and filled to 
the brim by the waters of many tribu- 
taries, it takes time to arrive at a 
considered judgment, and deep and 
broad, loiters among the lower lands, 
until in turn its own waters mingle 
with the mightier river below. 
Its headwaters are the breeding 
sanctuary of the moose and the beaver, 
and the haunt of the brown bear and 
the bob-cat. 
Partly because it is so difficult to 
enter this country by the natural path- 
way of the river, and partly because 
its wildness is so forbidding, the hunter 
and the trapper avoid it. Even the 
Indians people its streams and valleys 
with weird spirits, and speak with awe 
of the rigors to be endured by him 
who seeks to pierce its mysteries. 
* * * 
But to Angus McNeil the head- 
waters of the Whirlpool had year by 
year yielded its secrets, until he knew 
its remotest bypaths like the pages of 
an open book. 
EK had roamed its valleys and 
washed the sandbars of its 
streams. From its highest peak he 
had seen the pattern of lake and wood 
unrolled to where the river dashed 
over its rocky barrier. He knew 
where the beavers built, where the 
cow moose hid her young, and had 
watched the antlered bull stalk down 
through shaded paths to revel in the 
lily pond. 
Angus McNeii was a Scotsman; 
sprung of that Celtic stock whose 
children wander to the ends of the 
earth. Six feet two in his stockings 
and tipping the beam with two hun- 
dred pounds of frontier-hardened 
brawn and bone, he stood, on an eve- 
ning in early May, in the doorway of 
his Northern home. 
Blue eyes, above a finely chiselled 
mouth and firm chin, spoke of coolness 
and determined courage; but when he 
smiled his face lit up with such open- 
ness and sincerity of purpose, that no 
one could doubt his transparent hon- 
esty. 
ee feel him near gave confidence; 
to know he was away, alarm. A 
good man for a companion, strong 
and clean, he was the type to whom 
the North gives of its best. 
With one great hand upon the lin- 
tel of the door, he watched with in- 
terest a wrestling bout between his 
two sons. Bruce, the elder, with dark 
hair and eyes of his Mother’s stock, 
though stronger far, had difficulty in 
downing Murray, his younger oppo- 
nent, who, though slighter of build, 
with the paternal blue eyes and fair 
hair, was lither than a willow wand. 
The friendly interference of a pair 
of great dogs ended the bout and 
drew attention to themselves. Sport, 
fawn-colored and short-haired, was a 
cross between greyhound and Russian 
wolf dog, and added to his keen scent, 
he was possessed of great speed. Mc- 
Neil prized him mostly as a deer hun- 
ter, for, at the end of a_ buckskin 
thong, he could scent a deer and lead 
directly towards it, tugging harder as 
he approached, until the rifle cracked 
and he dashed down to the kill—for 
McNeil’s bullets seldom went astray. 
To Pompey, a Russian wolf hound, 
fell the kill when a wolf was the 
game. For Sport, with greater speed, 
caught up with it and worried it un- 
