d many of the Crees were scalped. She fled through the
forests to Fort Edmonton, carrying her two children on her back, but
there was much rain and almost she was drowned crossing the rivers.
That was many, many nesting-moons ago, and now she is old and her pipe
is empty of tobacco.

"Is the kind lady going down the river to find a man?"

No! the kind lady has white hair and her man is dead.

"May be it is the _Okimow_?"

No! the _Okimow_ has a wife in the South with brown hair.

Ah well! Ah well! but it was different when she was young. Then every
woman's skin was full of oil and there were many braves who loved her.

After she has been led into the open, and has had her picture taken
with us, the great _Okimow_ takes her back to her blankets and fills
her lap with a heap of pungent tobacco. It will be many moons before
our honourable great-grandmother requires a fresh supply. "An old
straggler," that is what I call her, after the beggar-woman who asked
Sir Walter Scott for alms.

The religion of the gentle Nazarene has cut the fighting sinews of the
Indians. This was why the Christianized Hurons were brushed off the
earth by the tigerish and unapproachable Iroquois. The Hurons became
soft, and being soft, they became a prey. In some inexplicable way, we
Anglo-Saxons have managed to keep our bumps of veneration and
combativeness well partitioned or estranged and so keep mastery of the
changeling tribes who permit them to commingle. This is why the
Indians are a dying race in a new country. This is why our honourable
great-grandmother whimpers for tobacco instead of hurling us over the
bank and throwing her camp-fire on the top of us. I could almost find
it in my heart to wish that she had.

CHAPTER XII

AT THE PARTING OF THE RIVERS

"Think o' the stories round the camp, the yarns along the track
O' Lesser Slave an' Herschel's Isle an' Flynn at Fond du Lac;
Of fur and gun, an' ranch, an' run, an' moose an' caribou,
An' bulldogs eatin' us to death!
Good-bye--Good-luck to you!"

Mirror Landing, where we leave the boat to make the portage to Soto
Landing, is on the Lesser Slave River, at its confluence with the
Athabasca. Its name has been well chosen, for the Lesser Slave River
is a clear stream, and shows a kindly portrait to all who look therein.
A telegraph office, an official residence, a stable, and storage sheds
are the only buildings. What is to be done with the port