March sees the greatest depth of snow at Great Bear Lake, probably three feet.  In mid-April the thaws begin, and by May-day arrive the earlier water-fowl.  By the end of May the herbaceous plants begin to leaf, frogs are heard, and there is bright light at midnight.  The end of July brings blueberries, and at this time stars are visible at midnight.  September is ushered in by flurries of snow, and by the tenth of October the last of the wild-fowl depart; but it is often Christmas Day before the centre of the lake freezes over.

When we awake it is Sunday, July 12th, Orangeman’s Day, with no one going round with a chip on his shoulder, and nobody to whistle “Boyne Water.”  The wind falling, the steamer is turned and we bear away across the river to Fort Norman, leaving the shelter of Bear Rock, the “Nest of the Wind” of the Indian.  Tradition and superstition hang round this great butte, with its heart of coloured gypsum several hundred feet in thickness, and on its face we plainly see the three beaver-skins that the Great Spirit, “in the beginning,” spread out there to dry.  We find Fort Norman a beautiful place in the sunshine of this Sunday morning, the souls of its scanty populace well looked after by Roman and Protestant missionary.  Bishop Breynat is expected on the mission boat coming up the river, and all is excitement among the sheep belonging to his particular flock.  The parson of the other fold is in his library, and, visiting him, we duly admire his neat garden of potatoes and peas, beets and turnips.  The reverend gentleman owns up to finding Norman lonely in winter and recalls with appreciation his last charge in the outports of Newfoundland, where the tedium was relieved by tennis and pink-teas.

[Illustration:  Roman Catholic Church at Fort Norman]

[Illustration:  The Ramparts of the Mackenzie]

Seldom have we seen a more beautiful vista than the up-climbing path leading from the shore to the Roman chapel at the head of the hill.  It is bordered by flaming fireweed and lined with the eager faces of children dressed in their Sunday best, ready for morning mass and awaiting the blessing of their Bishop.  Wherever the willow-herb flourishes there a Guadet is serving The Company.  One was in charge at lonely Wrigley, and we find his brother here.

Leaving Norman before church-time, we travel on, the glory of the peerless day reflected in the face of every one on board.  We float between two spurs of the Rockies, and about eight in the evening pass Roche Carcajou, looking in vain for the wolverine the name calls for.  The Indians would seem to be strangely inconsistent in this connection.  If there is one animal they fear it is the carcajou, and with him they have an old, old pact:  the Indian on his side promises never to shoot a wolverine, and that cunning thief agrees to leave unmolested the cache of the Red man.  While this bargain still holds, since the day when ammunition first came into the country no Indian has passed this rocky replica of the carcajou without firing a shot at the face of the cliff.