tryin' to shoot a gull. Here,
Bill, run an' fetch yer dad, an' tell him Dr. Grenfell wants 'un."

A half-naked little boy about nine years old darted off into the scrub
bushes.

"What's the matter with baby?" Dr. Grenfell inquired kindly, as the
infant clasped his finger and looked up into his mild face.

"Hungry," was the mother's sufficient answer. "I ain't got nothin' to
give him." Her lip trembled, and she turned her head away.

The baby kept up a constant whimpering, like a lamb very badly scared.

"It's half-starved," said the Doctor. "What do you give it?"

"Flour, and berries," was the response. "I chews the loaf first--or
else it ain't no good for him."

Then a little girl, of perhaps five, and a boy of--maybe--seven, shyly
came from behind the tent, where they had fled wild-eyed and hid when
the strangers came. They had nothing on: but they were brown as
chestnuts and fat as butter.

It was snowing, and the snow had driven them toward the poor, mean
fire where mother sat with the baby.

"Glad to see the other children are fat," said the Doctor.

"They bees eatin' berries all the time," was the mother's answer. Then
suddenly the full force of their plight swept all other thoughts out
of her mind.

"What's t' good of t' government?" she cried. "Here is we all
starvin'. And it's ne'er a crust they gives yer. There bees a sight o'
pork an' butter in t' company's store. But it's ne'er a sight of 'im
us ever gets. What are them doin'? T' agent he says he can't give Tom
no more'n dry flour, an' us can't live on dat."

Then a bent and weary figure shuffled on the scene. It was Tom, the
poor husband and father. He had an old and rusty, single-barreled
muzzle-loading gun, and he was carrying a dead sea-gull by the tip of
one of its wings. Two small boys trudged along after him, their faces
old before their time. They stood looking at the Doctor in wonderment.

"Well, Tom, you've had luck!" was Grenfell's greeting. He explains
that he meant Tom was very lucky not to have the gun open at the wrong
end and discharge its contents into his face!

"It's only a kitty," the hunter answered, sadly. "An' I been sittin'
out yonder on the p'int all day." A kitty is a little gull.

"Your gun isn't heavy enough to kill the big gulls, I suppose."

"No, Doctor. I hain't much powder--and ne'er a bit o' shot. I has to
load her up most times with a handful o' they round stones. T' hammer
don't always set her off, neithe