tells him there is one wolf
less, and the others will hold off at a safe distance. Contrary to the
woodman's traditions of chopping only on a windy day, the Indian whips
out his axe and chops with all his might till he has wood enough for a
roaring fire. That will keep the rascals away till the pack goes off in
full cry, or daylight comes.

Whittling a limber branch from a sapling, the Indian hastily makes a
bow, and shoots arrow after arrow with the tip in flame to high mid-air,
hoping to signal the far-off lodges. But the night is too clear. The sky
is silver with stars, and moonlight and reflected snowglare, and the
Northern Lights flicker and wane and fade and flame with a brilliancy
that dims the tiny blaze of the arrow signal. The smoke rising from his
fire in a straight column falls at the height of the trees, for the
frost lies on the land heavy, palpable, impenetrable. And for all the
frost is thick to the touch, the night is as clear as burnished steel.
That is the peculiarity of northern cold. The air seems to become
absolutely compressed with the cold; but that same cold freezes out and
precipitates every particle of floating moisture till earth and sky,
moon and stars shine with the glistening of polished metal.

A curious crackling, like the rustling of a flag in a gale, comes
through the tightening silence. The intelligent half-breed says this is
from the Northern Lights. The white man says it is electric activity in
compressed air. The Indian says it is a spirit, and he may mutter the
words of the braves in death chant:

"If I die, I die valiant,
I go to death fearless.
I die a brave man.
I go to those heroes who died without fear."

Hours pass. The trapper gives over shooting fire arrows into the air. He
heaps his fire and watches, musket in hand. The light of the moon is
white like statuary. The snow is pure as statuary. The snow-edged trees
are chiselled clear like statuary; and the silence is of stone. Only
the snap of the blaze, the crackling of the frosted air, the break of a
twig back among the brush, where something has moved, and the little,
low, smothered barkings of the dog on guard.

* * * * *

By-and-bye the rustling through the brush ceases; and the dog at last
lowers his ears and lies quiet. The trapper throws a stick into the
woods and sends the dog after it. The dog comes back without any
barkings of alarm. The man knows that the wolves have