o anxious to go.

The morning was propitious. The sun blazed in dazzling splendour in a
sky of deep, unclouded blue, while the white prairie glittered as if it
were a sea of diamonds rolling out in an unbroken sheet from the walls
of the fort to the horizon, and on looking at which one experienced all
the pleasurable feelings of being out on a calm day on the wide, wide
sea, without the disagreeable consequence of being very, very sick.

The thermometer stood at 39 in the shade, and "everythink," as Tom White
emphatically expressed it, "looked like a runnin' of right away into
slush." That unusual sound, the trickling of water, so inexpressibly
grateful to the ears of those who dwell in frosty climes, was heard all
around, as the heavy masses of snow on the housetops sent a few
adventurous drops gliding down the icicles which depended from the ewes
and gables; and there was a balmy softness in the air that told of
coming spring. Nature, in fact, seemed to have wakened from her long
nap, and was beginning to think of getting up. Like people, however,
who venture to delay so long as to _think_ about it, Nature frequently
turns round and goes to sleep again in her icy cradle for a few weeks
after the first awakening.

The scene in the courtyard of Fort Garry harmonised with the cheerful
spirit of the morning. Tom Whyte, with that upright solemnity which
constituted one of his characteristic features, was standing in the
centre of a group of horses, whose energy he endeavoured to restrain
with the help of a small Indian boy, to whom meanwhile he imparted a
variety of useful and otherwise unattainable information.

"You see, Joseph," said he to the urchin, who gazed gravely in his face
with a pair of very large and dark eyes, "ponies is often skittish.
Reason why one should be, an' another not, I can't comprehend. P'r'aps
it's nat'ral, p'r'aps not, but howsomediver so 'tis; an' if it's more
nor above the likes o' _me_, Joseph, you needn't be surprised that it's
somethink haltogether beyond you."

It will not surprise the reader to be told that Joseph made no reply to
this speech, having a very imperfect acquaintance with the English
language, especially the peculiar dialect of that tongue in which Tom
Whyte was wont to express his ideas, when he had any.

He merely gave a grunt, and continued to gaze at Tom's fishy eyes, which
were about as interesting as the face to which they belonged, and _that_
might have bee