following the chains of rivers and lakes, linked by portages (carrying-spaces), where all turn to and "tote" canoe and stores across. At night, after a supper of fish just pulled out of the lake and cooked on the camp-fire, the sleep in a tent on a bed of spruce boughs is a glorious treat to the city man or maid.

In the cities games of all sorts are played. Everywhere baseball, the national game of the United States, is to be seen, and lacrosse, the national game of Canada, adopted from the Indians, is a great favourite; cricket, tennis, polo, golf, and bowls, all known games, are played with the greatest fervour. In track athletics and in aquatic sports, Canadians have been seen to good advantage in many English contests.

CHAPTER V

FIFTY BELOW ZERO

So long as there is no wind the cold in Canada is, on the whole, not disagreeable. The air is, as a rule, so dry and still that the cold is exhilarating rather than painful. Even when the thermometer drops as low as 50° or 55° below zero—that is to say, when there is as much as 80° to 90° of frost in all—a man will be able to take his coat off and keep himself warm at an active occupation such as wood-cutting. Very often, in fact, you only know that it is freezing as hard as it actually is by hearing the crisp crunch, crunch of the snow under your own feet, or under the hoofs of your horses. When properly dressed, with moccasins and thick woollen stockings on your feet and legs, thick warm underclothing, and a heavy "mackinaw," or frieze jacket, worn over a jersey, mitts—i.e., gloves without fingers—and a tuque, or a fur cap pulled well down over your ears, you can generally defy the cold, and so long as you are active you will not feel it anything like so much as you would expect.

But when the wind blows it is altogether different, and the cold finds its way in all round you, even through the thickest clothing. Indeed, when the temperature is very low, and it begins to snow hard, it is dangerous to be out of doors. The violent snowstorms which sometimes come on at such times are known as "blizzards," and they are greatly dreaded. The air grows black, the snow turns into frozen particles of ice, with sharp cutting edges, and the wind drives them with the speed of shotcorns discharged from a gun. It is impossible to hold up your head against them; they would very soon cut your cheeks into ribbons. How terrible a thing a blizzard is in the north-west of Canada will be shown by the following story, which is quite true:

In a certain part of the prairie a blizzard began to blow. The farmer who was living there knew from the "feel" of the atmosphere and the colour of the sky what was coming, and he hastened to prepare for it. He put down a large supply of hay before each of his horses and each of his cows, and made all weatherproof and safe in and about the stable, for a blizzard often lasts two or three days or longer. Then he carried into the house as much firewood as he could before the storm burst, and when at last it did come he was prepared for it. For two days and two nights it blew a fierce ice hurricane, and during all that time the storm never slackened or abated for one single instant. But at the end of that time the farmer thought the blizzard was not so fierce as it had been; so, taking his cap off the nail on the wall, he tied it under his chin, and, pulling on his big boots, prepared to go out to the stable to see how his horses and cows were getting on, and whether they had eaten up all their hay. Just as he had his hand on the latch of the door his little girl came suddenly into the kitchen, and, stretching out her arms, cried: "Daddy, me go. Me want to go. Daddy, take Lucy!"

The farmer hesitated. But it was only ten yards or so across to the stable, and the little one had been shut in so long, a change would do her good. He glanced at his wife to see if she agreed. "Fetch mammy's shawl, then," answered Lucy's father. Little Lucy ran gleefully to fetch the shawl, and both her father and mother wrapped her carefully up in it, so that when the farmer picked her up in his arms to carry her out she looked more like a bundle of dark red clothing than like a living little girl.

The farmer was right; the blizzard was nothing like so fierce, and he easily found his way across to the stable. He fed his horses and his cows, and satisfied himself that they were all safe and comfortable again, and opened the stable-door to go back to the house. But—the house had disappeared; he was unable to see the smallest sign of it. The blizzard had come back again whilst he was in the stable, and it was now raging fiercer than ever.

A SETTLER'S FARM YARD

However, he knew there was no help for it; get back to the house he must, otherwise his wife would be consumed with the keenest anxiety on his and Lucy's account, and she might perhaps be tempted to come out in search of him. Gathering the shawl, therefore, closer about his little Lucy, and pressing her tightly to him, he bent his head and plunged out into the furious hurricane of driving ice. After running for some seconds, he stopped to catch his breath, and judging he was near the kitchen-door, he stretched out his hand, feeling for the latch, or fastener. He could not find it. He swept his arm all round him as far as he was able to reach. No door anywhere. Then he knew that he had missed it. In the blinding, cutting snowstorm he had done what so often happens at such times and in such circumstances: he had failed to steer a straight course, and had gone beside the house.

Which way to turn? The farmer was in great perplexity. He did not know on which side of the house he was; in fact, he did not know where he was at all. He was just as likely to strike out into the open prairie and go away from home as he was to run against his own house-corner. However, he realized the danger of standing still: he might perish of cold, be frozen to death where he stood. Accordingly, throwing off the chill anxiety which was beginning to creep round his heart, he struck out again at a crouching half-run in the direction in which he fancied the house stood. Again he had to stop to recover his breath. He had not yet found the house. He was as far—or was he farther?—from safety as ever he was. A third time he tried, and a fourth, and still without success. He was beginning to despair of ever reaching his own door again, when a faint sound caught his ear. It was—yes, it must be—his dog barking indoors. Yet what a long way off it seemed! On the other hand, the farmer knew it could not really be a very great distance away, because it was barely five minutes since he had left the stable, and from the way in which he had run he was confident he could not have travelled very far, even supposing he had kept in one straight line all the time. The cold was intense; the very marrow in his bones seemed to shrivel under the icy blast. Clutching his precious burden tighter in his arms, he once more tried to find his own house-door. To his unspeakable joy the dog still continued to bark at intervals, and the farmer followed the direction of the sound. After the lapse of a minute or so, his feet struck against some hard object lying on the ground, which he recognized as a certain post that had fallen down, and in an instant he knew where he was. Then it was a matter of but a few seconds for him to fumble and feel his way along by the broken fence to the house-corner, and from the house-corner to the door was only a few steps more. At last, to his delight—a delight which no words can describe—his fingers clutched the latch, and he was safe.

But when the farmer handed over the red shawl to his wife, and the wife unwrapped it, to