The stories give us some idea of the difference between winter and summer travel across Great Slave Lake.  Captain Mills tells of two Indian women, one old enough to have a daughter of forty, who drove a dogsled one hundred and forty-eight miles from Providence to Rae, in four days.  The older one walked ahead of the dogs and made the trail while the other drove.  Coming back, it took them five days, and the old woman explained, “We didn’t make such good time, as we had a man with us.”  It was her son-in-law whom she brought back with her.

A striking picture is given us of a woman who walked alone from Hay River to Province on snowshoes, taking thirteen days to do it.  She had no matches, and carried her fire with her, keeping it alight in a little copper kettle.  This, of course, necessitated her guarding it very closely and stopping to renew the fire from time to time; for if the burning wood was once permitted to die down, her life in that intense cold would go out with it.

How cold does it get?  Mr. Campbell Young, of our little group, says that he has been out when a thermometer—­one obtained from the U.S.  Meteorological Station—­registered seventy-six degrees below zero, and has worked in weather like that.  “I’ve been trapping in that temperature, when of course the weather was absolutely still, and I tell you I’d rather be out in seventy-six below than to cross Smith Portage with the mosquitoes.”  Mr. Christie, of the Keele Survey Party, says, “Last winter I had to go out and get a moose for the camp, and on the second day I met the Mounted Police boys who told me it had been seventy-five below.  I had started out when it was quite mild, only forty-five below.  You know when it is below fifty, for then your breath begins to crackle, and that’s a sure sign.”  Mr. John Gaudet says, “I was driving last winter on Lesser Slave Lake when it was sixty-four below.  Yes, it was quite cold.”

At Resolution we see once more our old friend Dr. Sussex, happy and busied among his Indians.  It is just hail and farewell.  The little “red lemonade” kiddies are the first to greet us as we come into Fort Smith, and here everybody goes visiting.  Mrs. (Archdeacon) Macdonald tells us that her grandfather had two wives, and was the father of twenty-two children.  She says she and her brother are glad of this, as it gives them so many friends in all parts of the country; and we notice that at every port where we stop Mrs. MacDonald has friends to visit—­a cousin here, and an auntie there.  The fancy bag in which you carry your calling cards and little friendly gifts up here is a “musky-moot”; the more formidable receptacle, which gives your friends warning that you may stay a day or two, is a “skin-ichi-mun." Visiting a little on our own account, we note that we have penetrated to a latitude into which the gaudy calendars of the advertiser have not yet made their way.  Each man, foolish enough here to want a calendar, marks out his own on pencilled paper.  We come across an H.B.  Journal of the vintage of 1826 where the reckless scribe introduces two Thursdays into one week, acknowledging his error in a footnote with the remark, “It is not likely that the eye of man will ever read this record.”