Athabasca in the Far North is the scene of this story--Athabasca, one of
the most beautiful countries in the world in summer, but a cold, bare
land in winter. Yet even in winter it is not so bleak and bitter as the
districts south-west of it, for the Chinook winds steal through from the
Pacific and temper the fierceness of the frozen Rockies. Yet forty and
fifty degrees below zero is cold after all, and July strawberries in this
wild North land are hardly compensation for seven months of ice and snow,
no matter how clear and blue the sky, how sweet the sun during its short
journey in the day. Some days, too, the sun may not be seen even when
there is no storm, because of the fine, white, powdered frost in the air.
A day like this is called a poudre day; and woe to the man who tempts it
unthinkingly, because the light makes the delicate mist of frost shine
like silver. For that powder bites the skin white in short order, and
sometimes reckless men lose ears, or noses, or hands under its sharp
caress. But when it really storms in that Far North, then neither man
nor beast should be abroad--not even the Eskimo dogs; though times and
seasons can scarcely be chosen when travelling in Athabasca, for a storm
comes unawares. Upon the plains you will see a cloud arising, not in the
First Page Previous Page Next Page Last Page
Read Pause
Resume
Stop
Titles Menu View Credits and Copyright
|