The Canadian Provinces which propinquity would seem to call to this international whale-joust are British Columbia and Alberta.  British Columbia, in her splendid whaling-stations and refineries on Vancouver Island, has tasted whale-blood, the blood of the Humpback and Sulphur bottom, the Orca or Killer, the Cachalot or true Sperm, and one would think her appetite sufficiently whetted to want to acquire the “feel” of Arctic Bowhead profits, the fattest dividend-sheets of them all.  Alberta claims as rich hinterland all the coal and gas and timber, tar, furs, feathers, and fish between the parallel of 60 deg. and the uttermost edge of things.  These winning bulks of blubber should by all laws of the game be hers.  Some day Alberta’s metropolis on the Saskatchewan, overcoming the rapids on the Athabasca and the Slave, will send her deep-sea vessels by interior waterways to pull down into Canadian pockets a tardy share of these leviathans.  Will there be any left?  It is hard to say.

Little wind-swept island of Herschel!  We reach you to-day not by deep-sea vessel from the westward but up through the continent by its biggest northward-trending stream.  Eighty miles through the Northern Ocean itself from the Mackenzie mouth brings our whale-boat grating upon the shingle.  “As far as we go!” This is essentially the Island of Whales, the farthest north industrial centre in America, the world’s last and most lucrative whaling-ground.  It is well to take our bearings.  We are in latitude 69-1/2 deg.  N. and just about 139 deg. west of Greenwich; we are a full thousand miles nearer our Pole than the Tierra del Fuegan in South America is to his.  And it blows.  A nor’easter on Herschel never dies in debt to a sou’wester.  Lifting itself one thousand feet above sea-level, this septentrional shelter for ships where the seagulls wheel at our approach, and as they wheel, whine like lost souls, is twenty-three miles in circumference, with neither water nor fuel.  For six months every year comparative darkness wraps it around.  Snow and ice hold it fast till mid-July; and yet people with tropic isles to choose from and green valleys where the meadow-lark sings have crowded here for twenty years to make their home!

The most incongruous lot that Fate ever jostled together into one corner,—­who are they?  The whaler of every country and complexion from Lascar to Swede, Eskimo men and women and big-eyed babies, half-caste hybrids of these two factors, Missionaries, and Mounted Police.  It is interesting to note the order of their arrival.  The whaler drawn by oily lure followed the Bowhead east and north from Bering Sea.  To man his boats, to hunt caribou for him, and to furnish temporary spouses, the whaler picked up and attached to his menage the Eskimo from the mainland in little bunches en famille.  Ensuing connubial complications brought the missionary on the scene.  To keep the whaler and the missionary from each other’s throats, and incidentally to make it easy for the American citizen to trade in Canadian baleen and blubber, came the debonair Royal Northwest Mounted Policeman, the red-coated incarnation of Pax Britannica.  There winter at Herschel every year two hundred and fifty whalers and an equal number of Kogmollye and Nunatalmute Eskimo.