er
with the Doctor. The Doctor could fix him up, if anybody could, and
moreover--this was the clinching argument--he was "no good fishing."
So the next day found Pomiuk bound south, clasping his only worldly
possession--a letter from a clergyman of Andover, Massachusetts. There
was a photograph with it. If you asked Pomiuk what he had there, he
would turn on that magic smile and show you the picture, and say: "Me
love even him."

The minister who wrote the letter sent money for the care of the poor
"Prince." Next summer Grenfell saw him again, and the child laughed as
he said, "Me Gabriel Pomiuk now." A Moravian missionary had given him
the name. They had made him as comfortable as possible at the Indian
Harbor hospital: his own disposition made him happy. He had been moved
from the hospital to a near-by home, and he hopped about on crutches
as gayly as though he could run and play like the other children.

But malignant disease in his hip was sapping his strength, just as the
ants of Africa will eat away a leg of furniture till it is a hollow
shell, and one day the whole table or chair falls crashing. His
strength was ebbing fast. Suddenly he became very ill: he was put to
bed, with high fever, and was often unconscious. In a week he was
dead. But that little generous, courageous life was the
foundation-stone of Dr. Grenfell's noble orphanage at St. Anthony, put
up with the pennies of American children, where I had the pleasure of
telling dog-stories to smiling Eskimo boys in the summer of 1919.
Gabriel is the angel of comfort: and this small Gabriel has left
behind him the comfort of fatherless homes in Labrador for ages yet to
be.

Dr. Grenfell says that on the night of his passing the heavens were
aflame with the aurora. It was as though little Prince Pomiuk's father
had come to welcome him, and they were at play once more in the old
games they knew.

VIII

CAPTURED BY INDIANS

In the lonely interior of Labrador in midsummer an old man sat on the
rocky ground with a ring of Indians about him.

He was "Labrador" Cabot of Boston. Year after year he had gone to
Labrador to visit the Indian tribes and study their ways. He could
talk the Indian language and understand what they said to him.

"What's the matter with your leg?" asked the Chief, a big, strong
fellow with keen eyes. "Can't you walk? We must get started if we want
to find the deer."

"I think I must have broken my leg when I slipped and f