,
Hold forth my hands that so I would enfold
The Infinite thou art.
What matter all the creeds that come and go,
The many gods of men?
My blood outcasts them from its joyous flow."

--_A Pagan Hymn_.

"The Eskimo is a short, squat, dirty man who lives on blubber," said
text-books we had been weaned on, and this was the man we looked for. We
didn't find him.

It was at Arctic Red River, one hundred and ninety miles of river-travel
since we cut the Polar Circle, that we came upon our first Eskimo, the
true class-conscious Socialist of Karl Marx, the one man without a
master on the American continent. A little band of Kogmollycs they were,
men, women, and kiddies, who had come in to trade silver-fox skins for
tobacco and tea at the Post of the Hudson's Bay Company.

On the rocks they sat, waiting for the new steamer to make her landing,
and much excited were they over the iron bowels of this puffing kayak of
the white men. An Eskimo generally lets you know what he thinks, and
this is a basic difference between him and the Indian. An Indian is
always trying to impress you with his importance; he thinks about his
dignity all day and dreams of it at night. The Mackenzie River Eskimo is
a man who commands your respect the moment you look at him, and yet he
is withal the frankest of mortals, affable, joyous, fairly effervescing
with good-humour. His attitude toward the world is that of a little
half-Swiss, half-Chinese baby friend of mine who, in an ecstacy of
good-will when she saw her first Christmas-tree, clutched me tightly
round the neck with, "Everybody are my friend."

One of the Kogmollycs, rejoicing in the name of Wilfrid Laurier, strode
on deck with the swing of a cavalryman and signified his willingness to
trade. Loading down my hunting-coat with pictures, pipes, tobacco,
looking-glasses, needles, files, knives, I climbed over the cliffs with
him to his hut. Down on the floor we sat. Wilfrid put his treasures
between his knees before him, I sat opposite, and the barter began.
"What for this fellow, huh?" and he held up a piece of carved ivory, a
little triangular mincing-knife, a fur mat that his wife had made, or
the skin of a baby-seal. The first thing he asked for was scented soap,
the ring that I was wearing, and my porcupine-quill hat-band which
looked good to him; every exchange was accompanied with smiles, each
bargain sealed with a handshake.

Wilfrid Laurier is doing his part toward bridging the old