North intensely interested in the affairs of the world outside, but as a
rule they are not. There is no discussion of American banks and equally
no mention of the wheat crop. The one conjecture round the bar and in
the home is, "When will the rabbits run this year?" The rabbits in the
North are the food of the lynx; cheap little bunny keeps the vital spark
aglow in the bodies of those animals with richer fur who feed upon him.
Every seven years an epidemic attacks the wild rabbits, and that year
means a scarcity of all kinds of fur. As surely as wheat stands for
bullion in the grain-belt, little Molly Cottontail is the currency of
the North.

It is at this point we join the Fur-Brigade of the Hudson's Bay Company
making its annual transport to the posts of the Far North, taking in
supplies for trading material and bringing back the peltries obtained in
barter during the previous winter. The big open scows, or
"sturgeon-heads," which are to form our convoy have been built, the
freight is all at The Landing, but for three days the half-breed boatmen
drag along the process of loading, and we get our introduction to the
word which is the keynote of the Cree character,--"Kee-am," freely
translated, "Never mind," "Don't get excited," "There's plenty of time,"
"It's all right," "It will all come out in the wash."

When the present Commissioner of the Hudson's Bay Company entered office
he determined to reduce chaos to a methodical exactness, and framed a
time-table covering every movement in the northward traffic. When it was
shown by the local representative to the Cree boatmen at The Landing,
old Duncan Tremblé, a river-dog on the Athabasca for forty years, looked
admiringly at the printed slip and said, "Aye, aye; the Commissioner he
makes laws, but the river he boss." It is only when ice is out and
current serves that the brigade moves forward. Old Duncan knows seven