wriggling youngster in his hand, he called across to me, “Won’t you come here and kill this wounded bird? I don’t have the heart to do it.”
I hurried over, squeezed the sides of the body over the heart, and it died immediately. Then I burst out: “You were willing to let those other ducklings go without a parent, but you are unwilling to kill this wounded duckling in a humane way!”
As usual, I was unaware of certain human attitudes—that it is sometimes hard for a person to appear cruel to himself in order to perform a humane act. But on the whole, Mr. Todd and I got on very well, and I am sure all members of the party really got much pleasure out of the trip.
We had a hard time getting south on the Inenew. We started out against some big swells and had not gone far when I began to feel sick. As the boat pitched and rolled more and more violently, I became seasick in earnest. There were three little husky pups on the deck. One began wailing piteously, trying to keep its feet on the deck; its mouth frothed, it hung its head, and looked very miserable indeed. I sympathized with that pup—I was not the only sick one. Soon our guide Willie succumbed, then husky Bill’s son. I gave up, went below, and found a bunk. When I awoke, it was quiet; we were back at Great Whale River—too rough!
We waited for a day of much better weather to start southward again. Stopping along the way at various places, it took us several days to reach Charlton Island. There we learned that there was a war in Europe!
A Winter in Eskimo Land
All summer we had traveled together—down rivers, across lakes, up the east coast of James Bay into Hudson Bay—taking notes on animal life and collecting specimens for Carnegie Museum. Now we were back down at Moose Factory, at the southernmost part of James Bay. Here we went out on the tide flats where blue geese and other waterbirds congregate for a month each fall before continuing their migration south. Paul Commanda, well now, had again joined our party. One hundred eighty miles of upriver canoe travel separated us from the “jumping-off place” at Cochrane.
The north had appealed to me—its freedom and its beauty. I had given much thought to it. I didn’t have definite plans but I just wanted to be there. I wanted more.
Finally I talked to Mr. Todd: “Couldn’t I be up here another year? I am sure I could add to your ornithological information by studying the winter life here.”
Mr. Todd was sympathetic. He wanted scientific winter notes from this country and winter specimens for the museum. But he said, “I am sorry; I don’t have the authority to keep you on salary.”
He went as far as he could. “The only thing I can say is that I am sure we of the museum can help you sell any specimens you are able to get up here, and I can arrange a letter of credit with the Hudson’s Bay Company at Montreal, in the amount of your summer’s salary. [I think I was getting one hundred dollars per month, or slightly more.] But you will have to be on your own.”
I was elated by his cooperation and made arrangements to stay in the house of Mr. and Mrs. Moore, employees of the company, there at Moose Factory.
Next morning I said good-bye to my summer’s companions and stood on the bank, watching them paddle up the broad Moose River toward civilization. I turned to face a year of a far different way of life—to spend a winter in this far country.
Not all travelers had yet left the country. Robert Flaherty and a companion had been up on Baffin Island, where Flaherty had been getting material for his famous film Nanook of the North. I was thrilled by his account of experiences up there. I wanted to get farther north too!
One day at Moose Factory I came up to him as he sat on the porch of the store. In the course of our talk he shook his head and exclaimed, “I would like to go over there and strike that Kaiser!” and I could understand. The war had begun, and all legitimate or high-minded civilian aspirations were secondary.
In a little while only permanent residents remained at my new home, Moose Factory (now called Moosonee). This village, the center of the Hudson’s Bay Company fur trade for the whole Hudson Bay area, occupies an island near the mouth of Moose River. A long line of buildings extended down the shore of the island—an imposing array in comparison with the small cluster of houses I found at the more northern trading posts. There was a big store where goods were traded to the Indians, the residence of the district manager, a church and parsonage, various storehouses, and a number of small dwellings. These were the homes of the Hudson’s Bay Company “servants,” as they were called, and a few Indian families. At certain seasons the place would be enlivened with Indian tipis along the edge of the woods bordering the little hay meadow behind the post. Enough hay was raised here to feed a few head of stock and enough potatoes to supply this post and some others farther north.
Across the river was the post of the rival “French Company,” Revillon Frères. In the following weeks I learned that the Hudson’s Bay Company people referred to the other as “The Opposition,” and the Indians called them Opsheeshun.
I soon got acquainted with the Moores, my hosts for the winter, and felt lucky. They were friendly, honest, considerate folk.
It was still autumn, October, and while everyone felt that winter was imminent, we still had some good weather. On October 20 I witnessed an important preparation for winter. On this day they hauled up on the bank the little Inenew (meaning “Indian”) steamer that visited the various fur trading posts, and on which we had come down from Great Whale River. To do this they used every bit of strength in the village, human and animal. In front of one of the buildings was a capstan with a great heavy cable reaching down to the ship. Skids had been laid on the beach for the ship to slide on.
When all was ready everyone—Scotchmen, Indians, a horse, and an ox, pushed and hauled on the spokes of the capstan, round and round, until the boat was safely lodged in its winter berth above the water.
After this important job they all celebrated with whiskey (except the horse and the ox). I find in my journal for the next day the comment: “They were a sadder-looking lot when they went to work this morning.”
My life that winter was varied. I became better acquainted with the Cree Indians. Many of them came to visit the Moores, with whom they seemed to have friendly relations. But one day an Indian woman came to vent her wrath on Mrs. Moore. It seemed that kindly Mrs. Moore had given an Indian boy some meat to eat. Here was that boy’s mother, greatly perturbed. Among the Indians, an animal was always divided into “woman’s meat” and “man’s meat.” Mrs. Moore had unknowingly given the boy woman’s meat.
“Now, dat boy have sore back when he get big!”
This was only one of the many superstitions the Cree Indians had. Several times an Indian would bring Mr. Moore a beaver to eat. Later the Indian would return to get the bones, which he tied in a bundle and hung above the ground in a willow.
Then I learned about their behavior toward the bear. If an Indian came upon a bear while hunting, he would first make a little speech, which I cannot give verbatim, but which was essentially an apology to the bear for the necessary killing. When the bear was killed, its body was carried in on a blanket. The cleaned skull was decorated with black and red bands painted across the forehead and hung in a tree. Such were the bear skulls I had noted along the east coast during the summer. One white man in the village smiled at this custom of making a speech before shooting a bear. But does not this represent a stage in human appreciation of our associated environment, which has widespread expression as Albert Schweitzer’s thought of “reverence for life”?
These Indians appealed to me in many ways. One evening a group of us went out to a flat island to hunt ducks. We left our canoes at the shore and went far inland on our hunt. It was dark when we turned back, but we stumbled along, following a couple of Indians who were leading. Presently one of the other white men turned to me and asked, “Where do you think our canoes are?”
The land was flat; we could only see dimly a little way around us. I pointed in a direction that seemed