CHAPTER 1 "CALLED AFTER THAT WORK WHICH HE HAD TO DO." "How I wish I had lived hundreds of years ago, when the Vikings lived; it must have been prime!" He was a Shetland boy of fifteen who so spoke, and he was addressing his young sister of eleven. They were sitting on a low crag by the shore, dangling their feet over the water, which flowed clear and bright within a short distance of their toes. They were looking out upon a grand stretch of... more...

INTRODUCTION. It was the opinion of the wise Pythagoras, and of some other philosophers, that the souls of men, women, and children, after their death, are sent into other human bodies, and sometimes into those of beasts and birds, or even insects; and that they hereby change their residence either to their advantage or disadvantage, according to their good or ill behaviour in their preceding state of existence. This singular opinion still... more...

A VISIT TO THE DOCTOR. It was early in the month of March. The dark blue vault of heaven lay over mountain and valley, swept free from clouds by the keen northern blast as it blew across the hills, swaying the big trees hither and thither as if they were bulrushes, and now and then tearing off huge branches which fell crashing to the ground. Other and sadder victims were sacrificed to this fierce north wind. Human beings as well as inanimate... more...

CHAPTER I. HOW THEY CAME TO BE "US." "Blue were their eyes as the fairy-flax,Their cheeks like the dawn of day." Longfellow. A soft rather shaky sort of tap at the door. It does not all at once reach the rather deaf ears of the little old lady and tall, still older gentleman who are seated in their usual arm-chairs, one with his newspaper by the window, the other with her netting by the fire, in the exceedingly neat—neat,... more...

CHAPTER I. IN CAPTAIN BOOMSBY'S SALOON. "I don't think it's quite the thing, Alick," said my cousin, Owen Garningham, as we were walking through Bay Street after our return to Jacksonville from the interior of Florida. "What is not quite the thing, Owen?" I inquired, for he had given me no clue to what he was thinking about. "After I chartered your steamer for a year to come here, and go up the Mississippi River—by the way, this river... more...

CHAPTER I.   Two friends were seated in the private office of Rowland & Starland, Montgomery Street, San Francisco, not long ago, discussing a subject in which both were much interested. Each gentleman was past three-score, but they were well preserved, of rugged health, well to do and prosperous. They had got on for many years without so much as a shadow of difference between them. They had made the tour of Europe together, had... more...

A WAIF ON THE NORTH SEA. “Boat on the weather bow, sir!” shouted the lookout on the top-gallant forecastle of the Young America. “Starboard!” replied Judson, the officer of the deck, as he discovered the boat, which was drifting into the track of the ship. “Starboard, sir!” responded the quartermaster in charge of the wheel. “Steady!” added the officer. “Steady, sir,” repeated the... more...

UNGAVA BOB I HOW BOB GOT HIS "TRAIL" It was an evening in early September twenty years ago. The sun was just setting in a radiance of glory behind the dark spruce forest that hid the great unknown, unexplored Labrador wilderness which stretched away a thousand miles to the rocky shores of Hudson's Bay and the bleak desolation of Ungava. With their back to the forest and the setting sun, drawn up in martial line stood the eight or ten... more...

Introduction. The following story is intended to illustrate one of the many phases of the fur-trader’s life in those wild regions of North America which surround Hudson’s Bay. Most of its major incidents are facts—fiction being employed chiefly for the purpose of weaving these facts into a readable form. If this volume should chance to fall into the hands of any of those who acted a part in the first settlement of Ungava,... more...

PART FIRST To begin with I wish to disclaim the possession of those high gifts of imagination and expression which would have enabled my pen to create for the reader the personality of the man who called himself, after the Russian custom, Cyril son of Isidor—Kirylo Sidorovitch—Razumov. If I have ever had these gifts in any sort of living form they have been smothered out of existence a long time ago under a wilderness of words.... more...