into balls and spread out in sizzling pans arranged obliquely before
the fire with a bed of coals at the back of each. It was an enlivening
scene. Great roaring fires sent glowing sparks high into the still
night air, lighting up the trees with their intense glare, and casting
weird shadows upon the surrounding tents and bushes. Picturesque,
wild-looking men laughed, talked, and gesticulated at one another. A
few with _capotes_ off were sitting close to the fires, and flipping
into the air the browning flap-jacks that were to be eaten the
following day. Others, with hoods over their heads, lolled back from
the fire smoking their pipes--and by the way, novelists and movie
directors and actors should know that the natives of the northern
wilderness, both white and red, do not smoke cigarettes; they smoke
pipes and nothing else. Some held their moccasins before the fire to
dry, or arranged their blankets for turning in. Others slipped away
under cover of darkness to rub pork rinds on the bottom of their
canoes, for there was much rivalry as to the speed of the crews. Still
more beautiful grows the scene, when the June moon rises above the
trees and tips with flickering light the running waves.

Sauntering from one crew's fire to another, I listened for a while to
the talking and laughing of the voyageurs, but hearing no thrilling
tales or even a humorous story by that noted romancer Old Billy Brass,
I went over and sat down at the officers' fire, where Chief Factor
Thompson was discussing old days and ways with his brother trader.


THE LONGEST BRIGADE ROUTES

After a little while I asked: