After a day of toil I hop into the canoe and make my usual evening pilgrimage over to the river mouth to try my luck at trolling. There are plenty of trout to be had. They are continually pulling and jerking on the line, and in no time I have a boatful. With that, I call to the dogs and paddle homeward. The canoe glides gently forward over the silken water, whilst the light from the setting sun sparkles with a ruby phosphorescence in the ripples of our wake. . . . 

The Indians have settled with their families on the islands off Snowdrift. Occasionally I take a trip out to see them and am always received with the utmost hospitality. Now and then they offer me a bit of dried meat which a few of the more economical housewives have managed to save from the winter's hunt, but otherwise their diet is the same as mine: fish. 

The majority of the Indians are troubled with coughing. They catch cold every year with the coming of spring. The remarkably sound health they enjoy all winter long forsakes them as soon as warm weather sets in. Of those who are suffering with tuberculosis, it is invariably predicted that spring will see the last of them. But in so far as possible they pay very little attention to themselves. Cheerfully they enjoy the bright summer days, and when the hunters paddle off in their canoes, they sing so that their voices echo far out over the water. . . .