ration: The Train au Galise 080]

I am to steer betwixt the east side of Round Island and Boblo. When we
come into the shadow of Boblo we are chill with damp, far worse than the
clear sharp air that blows from Canada. I lope beside the traino, and
not take my eyes off the course to Cheboygan, except that I see the
islands look blue, and darkness stretching before its time. The sweat
drop off my face, yet I feel that wind through my wool clothes, and
am glad of the shelter between Boblo and Round Island, for the strait
outside will be the worst.

There is an Indian burying-ground on open land above the beach on that
side of Round Island. I look up when the thick woods are pass, for the
sunset ought to show there. But what I see is a skeleton like it is
sliding down hill from the graveyard to the beach. It does not move. The
earth is wash from it, and it hangs staring at me.

I cannot tell how that make me feel! I laugh, for it is funny; but I am
ashame, like my father is expose and Mamselle Rosalin can see him. If
I do not cover him again I am disgrace. I think I will wait till some
other day when I can get back from Cheboygan; for what will she say if
I stop the traino when we have such a long journey, and it is so near
night, and the strait almost ready to move? So I crack the whip, but
something pull, pull! I cannot go on! I say to myself, "The ground is
froze; how can I cover up that skeleton without any shovel, or even a
hatchet to break the earth?"

But something pull, pull, so I am oblige to stop, and the dogs turn in
without one word and drag the sledge up the beach of Bound Island.

"What is the matter?" says Mamselle Eosalin. She is out of the sledge as
soon as it stops.

I not know what to answer, but tell her I have to cut a stick to mend
my whip-handle. I think I will cut a stick and rake some earth over the
skeleton to cover it, and come another day with a shovel and dig a new
grave. The dogs lie down and pant, and she looks through me with her big
eyes like she beg me to hurry.

But there is no danger she will see the skeleton. We both look back to
Mackinac. The island have its hump up against the north, and the village
in its lap around the bay, and the Mission eastward near the cliff; but
all seem to be moving! We run along the beach of Bound Island, and then
we see the channel between that and Boblo is moving too, and the ice is
like wet loaf-sugar, grinding as it floats.

We hear some roars aw