THE author of The Blazed Trail has once more turned
his remarkable and intimate knowledge of British North America to admirable account. The date of the story can be fixed by internal evidence,—the mention of the Winchester rifle as a new invention, and the wide powers exerted by the officials of the Honourable the Hudson's Bay Company. Now the Winchester repeating-rifle appeared in 1867, and the cession to the British Government by the Hudson's Bay Company of its territorial claims took place in 1869, so that the conditions of life and the relations between whites and Indians described in these pages are those of some forty years back. As for the motive of the story, it is simplicity itself. The Factor of a trading post on the Moose River despatches two of his most trusted woodsmen to capture and bring back a defaulting Indian debtor in order to make an example of him, and • Th.! saint Boxes. By Stewart Edward White. Lormlon Hodder and Stoughton. [ea.]
the recital of their adventures in forest and on flood on this long and dangerous man-hunt occupies the remainder of the book. As a concise and accurate account of what took place, it is impossible to better the admirably laconic state- ment of Sam Bolton, the elder of the two hunters, on his return :—
" How did you find him ? ' demanded the Factor, abruptly.- ' We went with old Haukemah's band down as far as the Matta- wishguia. There we left them and went up stream and over the divide. Dick here broke his leg and was laid up for near three months. I looked all that district over while he was getting well. Then we made winter travel down through the Kabiru- kiigam country and looked her over. We got track of this Jingoss over near the hills, but he got wind of us and skipped when we was almost on top of him. We took his trail. He went straight north, trying to shake us off, and we got up into the barren country. We'd have lost him in the snow if it hadn't been for that dog there. He could trail him through new snow. We run out of grub up there, and finally I gave out. Dick here pushed on alone and found the Injun wandering around snow- blind. He run onto some caribou about that time, too, and killed some. Then he came back and got me :—I had a little pemmican and boiled my moccasins. We had lots of meat, so we rested up a couple of weeks, and then came back.' That was all. These men had done a great thing, and thus simply they told it. And they only told that much of it because it was their duty ; they must report to their chief."
What Mr. White has done, and done with remarkable skill and charm, is to reveal the human interest, the romance, and the mystery that lay bidden behind this bare outline of facts. And for this he is singularly well equipped, alike by his intimate knowledge of the ground, his familiarity with the outlook of Indians and white woodsmen, and his intense love of Nature. Viewed merely as a tale of adventure, the book makes excellent reading. But it appeals to the sportsman, the psychologist, the naturalist, and the poet as well. It is full of curious and precise information, unobtrusively conveyed, as to the mode of life in camp or on the trail,—how moccasins are made, and portages are effected, when the pole is substituted nor the paddle, and scores of other instructive facts as to wood- craft and watermanship, Indian superstitions and etiquette. As' a student of character Mr. White claims our respect for his faithful delineation of the two well-chosen and excellently contrasted types of impetuous youth and sagacious old age, each relying on the other for the complementary qualities needed to achieve their arduous task. Nor are the claims of romance overlooked in the tragic episode of the Indian girl, impelled by Dick Herron's thoughtless attentions to abandon her people and barter her life, after weeks of patient suffering, for one short hour of innocent yet illusive happiness. This primitive idyll of unrequited love, and its illuminating and purifying effect on Dick Herron, are treated with rare delicacy and restraint. We may conclude our notice of a very charming book by quoting from the final scene of all, premisinc, that the Factor's daughter had given the two men silk handker- chiefs as they set out on their quest :— " At this moment Virginia Albret, on some errand to her father, appeared outlined in slender youth against the doorway. On the instant she recognised them. Why, Sam and Dick,' she said, I am glad to see you. When did you get back ?'—' Just back, Miss Virginia,' replied Sam.—' That's good. I hope you've had a successful trip.'—' Yes,' answered Sam. The woodsmen stood there a little awkwardly, wishing to be polite, not sure as to whether they should now go without further dismissal. See, Miss Virginia,' hesitated Sam, to fill in the pause, have your handkerchief yet.'—' I'm glad you kept it, Sam,' replied the young girl ; and have you yours, Dick ?' And suddenly to Dick the contrast between this reality and that other came home with the vividness of a picture. He saw again the snow-swept plain, the wavering shapes of illusion, the mock suns dancing in un- holy. revel. The colour of the North burned before his eyes ; a madness of the North unsealed his lips. I used it to cover a dead girl's face,' he replied, bluntly. The story had been as gray as a report of statistics,—so many places visited, so much time consumed. The men smoking cigars, lounging on cushioned seats in the tepid summer air, had listened to it unimpressed, as one listens to the reading of minutes of a gathering long past. This simple sentence breathed into it life. The magnitude of the undertaking sprang up across the horizon of their com- prehension. They saw between the mile-post markings of Sam Bolton's dry statements of fact, glimpses of vague, mysterious, and terrible deeds, indistinct, wonderful. The two before them loomed big in the symbolism of the wide world of men's endur- ance and determination and courage. The darkness swallowed them before the group on the veranda had caught its breath. In a moment the voices about the cannon raised in greeting. A swift play of question and answer shot back and forth. Out all the year?' Where ? Kabinikaigam ? Oh, yes, east of Brunswick Lake." Good trip ? " That's right." Glad of it.' Then the clamour rose, many beseeching, one refusing. The year was done. These men had done a mighty deed, and yet a few careless answers were all they had to tell of it. The group, satisfied, were begging another song. And so, in a moment, just as a year before, Dick's rich, husky baritone was raised in the words of the old melody. The circle was closed.
'There was an old darky, and his name was Uncle Ned, And he lived long ago, long ago—' The night hushed to silence. Even the wolves were still, and the giddes down at the Indian camp ceased their endless quarrelling. Dick's voice had all the world to itself. The men on the Factory veranda smoked, the discs of their cigars dulling and glowing. Galen Albret, inscrutable, grim, brooded his unguessable thoughts. Virginia, in the doorway, rested her head pensively against one arm outstretched against the lintel.
For there's no more work for poor old Ned, He's gone where the good darkies go.'
The song finished. There succeeded the great compliment of quiet. To Virginia it was given to speak the concluding word of this episode. She sighed, stretching out her arms. The greatness of my people,' she quoted softly."
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