“Only one person ever returns from the ‘Shadow Trail,’ and he comes once a year on this night—­Christmas Eve.  The stars wake and sing as he passes, the Sky Flowers of the North surround him on his journey from the summits to this valley where we live.  He is a little Child, who was born hundreds of years ago in a manger beneath the Eastern stars, in the Land of Morning.  Many times I have met him on the Shadow Trail, for I have travelled towards its heights for nearly eighty years.  Perhaps I shall see the little Child again to-night, for Indian eyes can see a long way.  Indian ears catch oftenest the singing of the stars, and the Indian heart both sees and hears.”

Peter Ottertail’s voice ceased.  The boys lay very silent, the soft fur rugs half hiding their rapt faces.  No one spoke, for each was watching the “Shadow Trail.”  Then the deep-toned clock struck one—­two—­three—­four—­evenly on to twelve—­midnight!

The door opened from the inner hall.

“Merry Christmas, dears!  Merry Christmas!” came the hearty, loving voices of Mr. and Mrs. Duncan, as they bustled into the kitchen, the boys and Peter all scrambling to their feet to meet them.

“Merry Christmas!  And off to bed with the whole lot of you, or we’ll have a nice pack of sleepyheads in the morning!  Peter, you’re surely not going home to-night!” as the old Indian began to get into his overcoat and scarlet sash.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ll go.”  And, after gay good wishes and handshakes, the old man went out into the night, perhaps to watch for the Christmas Child coming down the Shadow Trail!

The Saucy Seven

Probably Bob Stuart would never have been asked to join the camping party had he not been the best canoeist in the Club.  He was so much younger than the other half dozen that composed the party that his joining was much discussed, but there were no two opinions about Bob’s paddling nor yet about his ability to pitch a tent, cast a fly, shoot small game at long range, and, when you are far up North, on a canoe cruise, and have to depend on the forest and river to supply your dinner, you don’t sneer at an enthusiastic fisherman or a good shot.  So one royal August day Bob found himself on the train with six University graduates, bound for “up North,” for a glorious three weeks’ outing.  Their canoes, tents and duffle were all stored away in the express car ahead.  Their cares and their studies were packed away in the weeks left behind, their hearts as merry, their clothes as hideous as a jolly crowd of merry-makers could desire.  It was a long, hot, dusty railway journey, but at last the tiny Northern railway station hove in sight, the rasping screech of the sawmill rivalled the shrill call of the locomotive, and directly behind the little settlement stretched the smooth surface of “Lake Nameless,” ready and waiting to be ruffled by the dip of paddle blades.