onder, was Ochenaskumagan--
"Having passed many Birthdays." Her hair was gray and black rather
than iron-gray, her eyes sunken but bright, her nose well formed,
her mouth unshrunken but rather projecting, her cheeks and brow a
mass of wrinkles, and her hands, strange to say, not shrivelled, but
soft and delicate as a girl's. The body, however, was nothing but
bones and integument; but, unlike her half-sister, she could walk
without assistance. After our long talk through an interpreter she
readily consented to be photographed with me, and, seating ourselves
on the grass together, she grasped my hand and disposed herself in a
jaunty way so as to look her very best. Indeed, she must have been a
pretty girl in her youth, and, old as she was, had some of the arts
of girlhood in her yet.

At this point the issue of certificates for scrip practically
ended, the total number distributed being 1,843, only 48 of which
were for land.

Leaving Calling River before noon, we passed Riviere la Biche
towards evening, and camped about four miles above it on the same
side of the river. We were not far from the Landing, and therefore
near the end of our long and toilsome yet delightful journey. It
was pleasant and unexpected, too, to find our last camp but one
amongst the best. The ground was a flat lying against the river,
wooded with stately spruce and birch, and perfectly clear of underbrush.
It was covered with a plentiful growth of a curious fern-like plant
which fell at a touch. The great river flowed in front, and an almost
full moon shone divinely across it, and sent shafts of sidelong light
into the forest. The huge camp-fires of the trackers and canoemen,
the roughly garbed groups around them, the canoes themselves, the
whole scene, in fact, recalled some genre sketch by our half-forgotten
colourist, Jacobi. Our own fire was made at the foot of a giant spruce,
and must have been a surprise to that beautiful creature, evidently
brimful of life. Indeed, I watched the flames busy at its base with
a feeling of pain, for it is difficult not to believe that those
grand productions of Nature, highly organized after their kind,
have their own sensations, and enjoy life.

The 17th fell on a Sunday, a delicious morning of mist and sunshine
and calm, befitting the day. But we were eager for letters from
home, and therefore determined to push on. Perhaps it was less
desecrating to travel on such a morning than to lie in camp. One
felt