nged him over the drop,
and he was lost instantly in the froth and foam of the falls.

Far down, at a bend of the Athabasca, something white could be seen
drifting towards the shore. That night Smith the Silent made an entry in
his little red book marked "Grand Trunk Pacific," and tented under the
stars.

THE CURE'S CHRISTMAS GIFT

"A country that is bad or good,
Precisely as your claim pans out;
A land that's much misunderstood,
Misjudged, maligned and lied about."

When the pathfinders for the New National Highway pushed open the side
door and peeped through to the Pacific they not only discovered a short
cut to Yokohama, but opened to the world a new country, revealing the
last remnant of the Last West.

Edmonton is the outfiling point, of course, but Little Slave Lake is the
real gateway to the wilderness. Here we were to make our first stop (we
were merely exploring), and from this point our first portage was to the
Peace River, at Chinook, where we would get into touch once more with
the Hudson's Bay Company.

Jim Cromwell, the free trader who was in command of Little Slave, made
us welcome, introducing us _ensemble_ to his friend, a former H.B.
factor, to the Yankee who was looking for a timber limit, to the
"Literary Cuss," as he called the young man in corduroys and a wide
white hat, who was endeavoring to get past "tradition," that has damned
this Dominion both in fiction and in fact for two hundred years, and do
something that had in it the real color of the country.

At this point the free trader paused to assemble the Missourian. This
iron-gray individual shook himself out, came forward, and gripped our
hands, one after another.

The free trader would not allow us to make camp that night. We were
sentenced to sup and lodge with him, furnishing our own bedding, of
course, but baking his bread.

The smell of cooking coffee and the odor of frying fish came to us from
the kitchen, and floating over from somewhere the low, musical, well
modulated voice of Cromwell, conversing in Cree, as he moved about among
his mute and apparently inoffensive camp servants.

The day died hard. The sun was still shining at 9 P.M. At ten
it was twilight, and in the dusk we sat listening to tales of the far
North, totally unlike the tales we read in the story-books. Smith the
Silent, who was in charge of our party, was interested in the country,
of course, its physical condition, its timber, its coal,