dig hole and lie down on deep snow and draw skin over head and over
feet, and fol' arms, so"--Rafael illustrated--"and I hol' it aroun' wid
my hands. And I get warm right away, warm, as bread toast. So I been
slippy, and heavy wid tired, and I got comfortable in dat moose skin and
I go aslip quick. I wake early on morning, and dat skin got froze tight,
like box made on wood, and I hol' in dat wid my arms fol' so, and my
head down so"--illustrations again--"and I can't move, not one inch. No.
What, m'sieur? Yes, I was enough warm, me. But I lie lak dat and can't
move, and I t'ink somet'ing. I t'ink I got die lak dat, in moose-skin.
If no sun come, I did got die. But dat day sun come and be warm, and
moose skin melt lil' bit, slow, and I push lil' bit wid shoulder, and
after while I got ice broke, on moose skin, and I crawl out. Yes. I
don' die yet."

Rafael's chuckle was an amen to his saga, and at once, with one of his
lightning-changes, he was austere.

"M'sieur go need beeg trout tonight; not go need moose skin till nex'
wik. Ze rod is ready take feesh, I see feesh jump by ole log. Not much
room to cast, but m'sieur can do it. Shall I carry rod down to river for
m'sieur?"

In not so many words as I have written, but in clear pictures which
comprehended the words, Memory, that temperamental goddess of moods,
had, at the prick of the word "Huron," shaken out this soft-colored
tapestry of the forest, and held it before my eyes. And as she withdrew
this one, others took its place and at length I was musing profoundly,
as I put more of something on my plate and tucked it away into my
anatomy. I mused about Rafael, the guide of sixty, who had begun a life
of continued labor at eight years; I considered the undying Indian in