colan from Rome, who has written books on
astronomy; Jake Gaudette, who was born in the Arctic Circle; Indian
Chiefs from near and far, with their wives and children; big Jim
Cornwall, the Cecil Rhodes of the north; Bishop Joussard, the
coadjutor, a short man with a hard-bitten sun-scorched face; factors
and traders from outlying posts (believe me, right merry gentlemen);
Judge Noel and his legal company, who have been dispensing justice in
the regions beyond; lean-hipped, muscular trappers who toe-in from
walking on the trails; equally lean-hipped river men who toe-out from
keeping their balance on a log; children from the mission schools;
black-robed nuns, doctors, government officials, and stalwart ranchers
in homespun and leather--even bankers. This short gentleman, who looks
as if he had just heard a good idea, is George Fraser, wit and
journalist. The tall man in khaki with the positive shoulders is Fred
Lawrence, pioneer and trader, likewise Fellow of the Royal Geographical
Society; these and other interesting folk, the pictures of whom even my
newly cut quill stops short at delineating. In truth, they are all
here--the world and his wife--excepting only white girls. "It would
seem too much like a special miracle," explains an Irish rancher, "to
find half a dozen colleens set down here in Grouard--something like
finding posies in the snow of December."

And the good Bishop Grouard is overcome because he doesn't deserve the
homage of these people. "Truly, madame, I did not think to receive all
this honour. I am only an old voyageur, a poor old fellow who gets
near the end of the river."

"Does the paddle grow heavy, monseigneur?" I ask, "or is it that the
journey is long?"

"Non, non, madame; it is the thought of home at the end, and the loved
ones."

"But surely, monseigneur, the end is yet a long way off. Your eyes are
not dimmed, neither is your natural force abated. And did we not this
very day hear you speak to the tribes in six tongues?"

"Six was it?" queries the bishop. "Six! Ah, well! they seem to come
to me easily. I feel like the man who had only to open his mouth to
have roast ducklings fly therein."

Now this old northman has a close grip on twelve languages--it was
Father Fahler who gave me the list--so that his modesty is truly
disconcerting in an age wherein vanity seems to vary inversely with
talent. He is a master in the use of Greek, Latin, French, English,
Cree, Eskimo, Rabb