liament, a chauffeur, and myself. I feel
guiltily feminine.

The road is one hundred miles long and connects Edmonton with the
North. Over it are hauled all the supplies for the settlements and
trading posts clear down to the Arctic. Once arrived at Athabasca
Landing, the supplies are loaded on to scows or, in the winter, to
sleighs, and from thence carried to their destination. I secretly call
this the Trail of Sighs, for to the freighter it is a long and weary
way, especially in these later days when editors, M.P.'s and graceless
witty bodies whirl past him at forty miles the hour in motors that are
quite mad. Some day a teamster will kill a chauffeur for sheer spite.
Even now the fuse is fizzing round the magazine, or whatever you call
the gasoline receptacle under the seat.

It would be hard to declare how long this trail has been used, but I
would say for a century at least. From Edmonton for a few miles out,
it is called the Fort Trail because--allowing for a slight
divergence--it goes to Fort Saskatchewan, the head-quarters of the
Mounted Police in this district. From thence, it is called the Landing
Trail.

But soon this whole country will be shod with steel, for, even now, you
may see navvies building grades as you pass along the trail, and next
week the first railway to the Landing will be opened for traffic. I
tell you, these railways are creating a new heavens and a new earth
however much the freighters may object. It is true, the trail will
lose in interest once the lumbering stage coaches and heavily laden
"tote" wagons have disappeared. When there are no long whips that
crack like pistol shots; no night encampments around blazing fires, and
no browsing cattle with tinkling bells, much of its picturesqueness
will have been surrendered to the implacable cause of civilization.

From this time forth, the men who travel the trail will work for a
wage. They will forget the feel of frozen bread in the teeth; the hard
earth underneath them and the rough blanket against their chins. Yes!
and they will also forget the fine elemental thrill that comes from
hitting a running moose at long range, or a slithering wolf that lurks
privily in a covert of kinikinnic. The pity of it!

No longer will our trail know the tired huskies, and still more tired
runners, who each year, come February, make this homestretch to the old
fur-market. The enormous bundles of fur that each spring sell for a
million dolla