(136) Lastly threw up the hand perpendicularly above head, and bringing it down, placed the palm gently over the heart with an air of solemnity—­we are saved.

Free translation of the story.

Many years ago—­my hair, then black and smooth, has since turned gray; I was then in the prime of life; you, I suppose, were a young lad at that time—­the following incident occurred to me: 

Yonder on the ice, two miles eastward, I was one day fishing in company with two others, the old Gabiwabikoke and his son John Baptist.  It was about ten o’clock in the morning—­a fresh breeze from the southwest had previously been getting up—­when the hook-line which I was playing up and down began to take an oblique course as though it were moved by a current.  Surprised, I looked up and around me.  When glancing toward the south I saw a dark streak stretching from shore to shore across the bay; the ice had parted and the wind was carrying it out toward the open lake.  In an instant I had wound up my hook-line, picked up my hatchet and snow-shoes, which I put on my feet, and hurried—­the others following my example—­toward the nearest point of land, yonder where the light-house stands.  The wind was increasing and we traveled as fast as we could.  There we arrived at the very edge of the ice, a streak of water about one hundred yards in width extending northward along the shore as far as we could see.  What to begin with, nothing but a single hatchet?  We were in a bad situation.  Well, something had to be done.  I measured off a square piece on the ice and began cutting it off with the hatchet, a hard and tedious labor.  The ice was only eight inches thick, but slush and water covered it to the depth of a foot.  I soon had my mittens and trowsers wringing wet and began to feel cold and tired.  The old Gabiwabikoke was in a worse state than I. His son next took the hatchet and we all worked by turns.  It was about two o’clock in the afternoon when we finished our work.  With the help of our snow-shoes (stemming their tail-ends against the edge of the solid ice), we succeeded in pushing off our raft.  Turning our snow-shoes the other way (using their tails as handles), we commenced paddling with them toward the shore.  It was a very slow progress, as the wind drifted us outward continually.  John Baptist managed to twist our three hook-lines into a strong cord, and tying the hooks together in the shape of an anchor, he threw it out toward the shore.  Hauling in the line the hooks dragged over the smooth rock bottom and would not catch.  Repeated trials were of no avail.  We all resumed our former attempt and paddled away with increased energy.  The day was drawing near its close, and we began to feel the cold more bitterly.  Gabiwabikoke was suffering badly from its effects and was entirely played out.  We had already drifted more than a mile beyond the light-house point.  John Baptist and I continued paddling steadily and vigorously, and felt relieved and encouraged when we saw the shore draw near and nearer.  The ice-field, by this time, was miles away to the northeast, and a sea was getting up.  At last, just when the sun was setting, only a few yards separated us from the shore; three more paddle-strokes and our raft ran up against the beach.  We were safe.