Part 9 (1/2)

”Can we go into a hut?” asked Ted.

”I'll ask that woman cooking over there,” said Mr. Strong, as they went up to a woman who was cooking over a peat fire, holding over the coals an old battered skillet in which she was frying fish. She nodded and smiled at the boys, and, as Esquimos are always friendly and hospitable souls, told them to go right into her _iglu_, which was close by.

They climbed down the ladder, crawled along the narrow pa.s.sage to where a skin hung before an opening, and, pus.h.i.+ng it aside, entered the living-room. Here they found an old man busily engaged in carving a walrus tooth, another sewing _mukluks_, while a girl was singing a quaint lullaby to a child of two in the corner.

The young girl rose, and, putting the baby down on a pile of skins, spoke to them in good English, saying quietly:

”You are welcome. I am Alalik.”

”May we see your wares? We wish to buy,” said Mr. Strong, courteously.

”You may see, whether you buy or not,” she said, with a smile, which showed a mouth full of even white teeth, and she spread out before them a collection of Esquimo goods. There were all kinds of carvings from walrus tusks, gra.s.s baskets, moccasins of walrus hide, stone bowls and cups, _parkas_ made of reindeer skin, and one superb one of bird feathers, _ramleikas_, and all manner of carved trinkets, the most charming of which, to Ted's eyes, being a tiny _oomiak_ with an Esquimo in it, made to be used as a breast-pin. This he bought for his mother, and a carving of a baby for Judith; while his father made him and Kalitan happy with presents.

”Where did you learn such English?” asked Mr. Strong of Alalik, wondering, too, where she learned her pretty, modest ways, for Esquimo women are commonly free and easy.

”I was for two years at the Mission at Holy Cross,” she said. ”There I learned much that was good. Then my mother died, and I came home.”

She spoke simply, and Mr. Strong wondered what would be the fate of this sweet-faced girl.

”Did you learn to sew from the sisters?” asked Ted, who had been looking at the garments she had made, in which the st.i.tches, though made in skins and sewn with deer sinew, were as even as though done with a machine.

”Oh, no,” she said. ”We learn that at home. When I was no larger than Zaksriner there, my mother taught me to braid thread from deer and whale sinew, and we must sew very much in winter if we have anything to sell when summer comes. It is very hard to get enough to live. Since the Boston men come, our people waste the summer in idleness, so we have nothing stored for the winter's food. Hundreds die and many sicknesses come upon us. In the village where my people lived, in each house lay the dead of what the Boston men called measles, and there were not left enough living to bury the dead. Only we escaped, and a Black Gown came from the Mission to help, and he took me and Antisarlook, my brother, to the school. The rest came here, where we live very well because there are in the summer, people who buy what we make in the winter.”

”How do you get your skins so soft?” asked Ted, feeling the exquisite texture of a bag she had just finished. It was a beautiful bit of work, a tobacco-pouch or ”Tee-rum-i-ute,” made of reindeer skin, decorated with beads and the soft creamy fur of the ermine in its summer hue.

”We sc.r.a.pe it a very long time and pull and rub,” she said. ”Plenty of time for patience in winter.”

”Your hands are too small and slim. I shouldn't think you could do much with those stiff skins,” said Teddy.

Alalik smiled at the compliment, and a little flush crept into the clear olive of her skin. She was clean and neat, and the _eglu_, though close from being shut up, was neater than most of the Esquimo houses. The bowl filled with seal oil, which served as fire and light, was unlighted, and Alalik's father motioned to her and said something in Innuit, to which she smilingly replied:

”My father wishes you to eat with us,” she said, and produced her flint bag. In this were some wads of fibrous material used for wicks. Rolling a piece of this in wood ashes, she held it between her thumb and a flint, struck her steel against the stone, and sparks flew out which lighted the fibre so that it burst into flame. This was thrown into the bowl of oil, and she deftly began preparing tea. She served it in cups of gra.s.s, and Ted thought he had never tasted anything nicer than the cup of afternoon tea served in an _eglu_.

”Alalik, what were you singing as we came in?” asked Ted.

”A song my mother always sang to us,” she replied. ”It is called 'Ahmi,'

and is an Esquimo slumber song.”

”Will you sing it now?” asked Mr. Strong, and she smiled in a.s.sent and sang the quaint, crooning lullaby of her Esquimo mother--

”The wind blows over the Yukon.

My husband hunts the deer on the Koyukun Mountains, Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, wake not.

Long since my husband departed. Why does he wait in the mountains?

Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, softly.

Where is my own?

Does he lie starving on the hillside? Why does he linger?

Comes he not soon, I will seek him among the mountains.

Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, sleep.

The crow has come laughing.

His beak is red, his eyes glisten, the false one.

'Thanks for a good meal to Kuskokala the Shaman.