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d hardly say, was figurative, brief, and easily read. It did not give the intelligent father much trouble in the decipherment. At the top was the picture of a hand fairly, if not elegantly, drawn, with one finger pointing. Below it were several figures, the last of which was a girl in unmistakable Indian costume. The figure in front of her was meant to represent Cheenbuk; in advance of him was an Eskimo woman with her tail flowing gracefully behind, while before her was a hazy group of men, women, and children, which represented the tribe on the march. Adolay had obviously the artistic gift in embryo, for there was a decided effort to indicate form and motion, as well as to suggest an idea of perspective, for the woman and the tribal group were drawn much smaller than the foreground figures, and were placed on higher planes. The sketchiness of the group, too, also told of just ideas as to relative degrees of interest in the legend, while the undue prominence of the leading facial feature was an attempt to give that advice which is so forcibly expressed in the well-known phrase, "Follow your nose." Ten dots underneath, with a group of snow-huts at the end of them, were not so clear at first, but in the end Nazinred made out a sentence, of which the following may be given as a free-and-easy translation: "My hand points the direction in which we have gone. Your loving daughter is following the man who ran away with her. The Eskimo women and men, and dogs, and all the rest of them, are marching before us. Follow me for ten days, and you will come to the snow-huts where we are to winter." Could anything be plainer? The happy father thought not. He took an extra meal. His team gave themselves an extra feed of bits of old blubber picked up in the camp, and while daylight was still engaged in its brave though hopeless struggle with the Arctic night, he tied up his sledge, thrust the old moccasin into his bosom, gave Attim the order to advance, and set off with revived strength and hope on his now hopeful journey. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. A SURPRISE AND A CATASTROPHE. The trail of the Eskimos as they traversed the frozen sea, although not always very distinct on the hard snow, was as plain as a highway to one so skilled in tracking as the Indian chief Nazinred. The weather having been clear and calm ever since he left home, the marks had not been obliterated, and he pursued his way without halt or hesitation.
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