ted and ticked off into percentages. But in the
Stewart-Carlton-Grey combination, Fate had thrown together three young
men in whom the human part, the man element, loomed large.

The doctor guessed that under that brave front the heart of the trapper
was eating itself out for the cry of the moose, the smell of wood-smoke
by twilight. We are happiest when we create. So he said to Carlton, "Did
you ever write a story?" The head shook answer. "Well, why don't you
try? You must know a lot, old chap, about out-door things, that nobody
else knows. Think some of it out, and then dictate it to Grey here."

The outcome was disappointing. The uncouth sounds, translated by Grey,
were bald, bare, and stiff. Soon the stiffness worked off. With
half-shut eyes Carlton lived again in the woods. He lifted the dewy
branch of a tree and surprised the mother deer making the toilet of her
fawn, saw the beaver busied with his home of mud and wattles, heard the
coyote scream across the prairie edge. Easily the thought flowed, and
the stuff that Grey handed in was a live story that breathed. In that
brave heart the joy of the creator stirred, and with it that feeling
which makes all endeavour worth while--the thought that somebody cares.
A close observer at this stage of the game may read, too, on the face of
Grey the kindly look that comes when we forget ourselves long enough to
take the trouble to reach out for another man's viewpoint.

Carlton's short stories, submitted to a publisher, were pronounced
good, were accepted, and brought a cash return. They struck a new note
among the squabblings of the nature-fakers. Favourable comment came from
those who read them, who, reading, knew naught of their three authors.
Before this Carlton had never written a line for publication; but he had
been a true observer. He had felt, and was able to project himself into
the minds of those living things he had seen and hunted.

I leave the hospital cot with a strange lump forming in my throat,
although every one around me, and the patient most of all, is gay and
blithe. I say to Carlton, "I wish I could take your knowledge and your
eyes with me into the North, there is so much I will miss because of my
lack of knowledge." With Grey's kindly interpretation I get my answer,
"You must take your own mind, your own eyes; you must see for yourself."

During the last day in Winnipeg, while the Kid (like faithful
Ariovistus) is looking after the impedimenta, I s