each child must stand on his own
footing as an individual, and be liked or disliked accordingly. In the
igloo and the tupik the child has his own accorded place and moves in
and out of the home and about his occupations with that hard-to-describe
air of assuredness that so distinguishes his father and mother.

The Eskimo child accepts himself as the equal of any created thing, but
there is nothing blatant about him, nor is his independence obtrusive.
He is born hardy, and lives hardy, trudging along on the march in his
place beside the grown-ups. Each Eskimo man and woman is an independent
entity, free to go where he pleases. There is no law, no tribunal, no
power to limit or command him, but instinctively he observes the rule of
doing as he would be done by, and he teaches his child the same Golden
Rule. A boy or girl is never considered an encumbrance and is readily
even eagerly adopted if his own parents die. The Eskimo child is ushered
into the earthly arena with no flourish of trumpets, for his coming is
but an incident of the journey if Fate has decreed that he should be
born when the family is on the march. The hour's stop for the mid-day
meal often sees a new little valiant soldier added to the ranks of the
clan and starting his traverse of Arctic trails. If the baby is born
while the family is in camp, mother and babe separate themselves from
the rest of the family for a month, no one being allowed to look at,
much less fuss over, the little stranger.

Naming an Eskimo baby is fraught with significance. If the last grown
man who died in the band was one revered, one whose footsteps are worthy
to be followed, the name of the departed clansman is given to the
newborn child. The belief is that the spirit of the dead man hovers
around the community and immediately upon the birth of the child takes
possession, a re-incarnation in the baby-body. Withdrawing itself in
twelve months' time, the spirit of the ghostly god-father lingers by to
influence the character and destiny of the growing child.

We trace a well-known nursery rhyme to the igloo of the Eskimo. The
summer-born baby dispenses with clothing for the first six months of its
earthly pilgrimage, cuddling its little bare body close to its mother's
back under her _artikki_, or upper garment, which has been made
voluminous to accommodate him. But the husky babe who comes when King
Wenceslaus looks out on the Feast of Stephen has his limbs popped into a
bag of