marvellous habit of disappearing when you tried to drum him up to go errands or carry wood.  Fortunately for the boys themselves, they were made of the good stuff that did not mind nicknames and jests; and when, at the ages of ten and twelve, they were packed off to school in a distant city, they were the very first to tell their schoolfellows Peter’s pet names, which, however, never “took root” on the school playground, “Tom” and “Jerry” being far more to the taste of young Canadian football and lacrosse players.

During the school terms, old Peter Ottertail would come to the parsonage every Sunday after church, would dine seriously with Mr. and Mrs. Duncan, and, when saying good-bye, would always shake his head solemnly, and say, “I’ll come no more until my Pony and Partridge come home.”  But the following Sunday saw him back again, and the first day of vacation was not hailed with greater delight by the boys than by their old friend Peter.  The nearest railway station was eleven miles distant, but rain or shine, blood-heat or zero, Peter always hitched up his own team and set out hours too early to meet the train.  On arriving at the station, he would tie up his horses and sit smoking his black stone pipe for a long time.  The distant whistle of the incoming train alone aroused him from rapt thought, and presently his dark old face was beaming on his boys, who always surprised him by having grown greatly during the term, and who made as much fuss and hilarious welcome over him as if Mr. Duncan himself had come to drive them home.  So this delightful comradeship went on, year in, year out.  The boys spent every day of their holidays in the woods or on the river with Peter.  He taught them a thousand things few white boys have the privilege of learning.  They could hollow canoes, shape paddles, make arrows and “feather” them, season bows, distinguish poisonous plants from harmless ones, foretell the wind and the weather, the various moons, and the habits of game and fish, and they knew every tale and superstition on the reserve.

One day, just before the Christmas holidays old Peter appeared at the parsonage.  Mrs. Duncan herself opened the door, smiling, sweet and a little younger-looking than when he had seen her the previous Sunday.

“Come in!  Come in, Peter!” she cried, brightly.  “We’re all in a turmoil, but happy as kittens!  Tom and Jerry are coming to-morrow, and bringing two friends with them, nice boys from Jamaica, who are too far away from their home to return for Christmas.  They’ve never seen snow in their lives until this winter, and we must all try to give the little fellows a good time, Peter.  I’m busy already with extra cooking.  Boys must eat, mustn’t they?”

“Yes, Mis’ Duncan,” answered the old man, slowly, “and these snow-seers will eat double in the north country.  Yes, I’ll go and fetch them with my big lumber sleigh, and take plenty of buffalo robes and wolf skins to keep these children of the sun warm.”