d to see the popular Eskimo Encampment on
the Midway. The most taking attraction among the groups displayed was
a little boy, son of a Northern Chieftain, Kaiachououk by name; and
many a nickel was thrown into the ring that little Prince Pomiuk might
show his dexterity with the thirty-foot lash of his dog whip.

One man alone of all who came to stare at the little people from
far-off Labrador took a real interest in the child. It was the Rev.
C.C. Carpenter, who had spent many years of his life as a clergyman on
the Labrador coast. But one day Mr. Carpenter missed his little
friend. Pomiuk was found on a bed of sickness in his dark hut. An
injury to his thigh had led to the onset of an insidious hip disease.

The Exhibition closed soon after, and the Eskimos went north. But
Pomiuk was not forgotten, and Mr. Carpenter sent him letter after
letter, though he never received an answer. The first year the band
of Eskimos reached as far north as Ramah, but Pomiuk's increasing
sufferings made it impossible for them to take him farther that
season.

Meanwhile in June, 1895, we again steamed out through the Narrows of
St. John's Harbour, determined to push as far north as the farthest
white family. A dark foggy night in August found us at the entrance of
that marvellous gorge called Nakvak. We pushed our way cautiously in
some twenty miles from the entrance. Suddenly the watch sang out,
"Light on the starboard bow!" and the sound of our steamer whistle
echoed and reechoed in endless cadences between those mighty cliffs.
Three rifle shots answered us, soon a boat bumped our side, and a
hearty Englishman sprang over the rail.

It was George Ford, factor of the Hudson Bay Company at that post.
During the evening's talk he told me of a group of Eskimos still
farther up the fjord having with them a dying boy. Next day I had my
first glimpse of little Prince Pomiuk. We found him naked and haggard,
lying on the rocks beside the tiny "tubik."

The Eskimos were only too glad to be rid of the responsibility of the
sick lad, and, furthermore, he was "no good fishing." So the next day
saw us steaming south again, carrying with us the boy and his one
treasured possession--a letter from a clergyman at Andover,
Massachusetts. It contained a photograph, and when I showed it to
Pomiuk he said, "Me even love him."

A letter was sent to the address given, and some weeks later came back
an answer. "Keep him," it said. "He must never know col