watchful too.

It was here that our conversation wheeled off from the consideration of
this legend to the northern postman. In the final summary he must be
classed among those peerless fellows who, because of their courage and
incredible endurance, have won for Canada this myriad-acred but
hitherto waste heritage. No man here who puts his hand to the mail
bags must ever look back; he must have the quality of keeping on
against the odds. He is the modern young Lord Lochinvar, who stays not
for brake and stops not for stone. Often his route is stretched out to
hundreds of miles, and there is no corner grocery where he may thaw out
his extremities while mumbling driftless things about the weather and
the government.

Presently the railways will have taken over his perilous profession,
and he will exist only as a memory of pioneer days. For this reason I
took great heed while my host talked concerning him and of the
qualities which go into making a successful postie under the aurora.
He must be agile, light of weight, abstemious, trustworthy, tireless,
thewed and sinewed like a lynx, and, above all, he must have
wire-strung nerves. In a word, his profession requires a strong will
in a sound body.

"Does it ever happen that the mail is not delivered?" I asked.

My host hesitated, and made three rings of smoke while he considered
the answer, as though he would be sure-footed as to his facts.

"Sometimes it is not delivered, Madam," said he; "there may be an
untoward happening, in which event its delivery depends upon the
recovery of the carrier's body."

When he made another three rings of smoke he proceeded with the story.
"Yes! the mail-carrier in this country is a special person and must not
be judged as general. He deserves a much better reward than he gets.
To my thinking, it is a vast pity poetic justice so frequently fails.
It may be that some day you will write a story about us Northmen, and
if you do, be sure you set down how Destiny so often blue-pencils our
lives in the wrong places. We will read your book down here, all of
us, just to see if you have been true to us instead of laying up for
yourself royalties on earth."

"And where do you bury a postman who dies with his mail-bags?" I
further pursued.

"Holy Patriarch!" he ejaculated. "You don't think he is carried back
to Athabasca Landing? His body is cached in a tree and the police are
notified. When they give their permission, and when t