A BRITISH ESKIMO.

Hokitika Guardian, 5 April 1918, Page 1

A BRITISH ESKIMO.

FROM THE ARCTIC TO DEATH (Lacey A thy in London Paper.) It came to me only yesterday the hardest blow of the war. A “ returned postal packet,” and inside a letter of my own sent him several weeks ago. On its face was the soulless stainp “ Deceased.” Six years ago we met, John Shiwak and I, "in the most detached part of the Empire - the hyperborean places where icebergs are born, where seal grunt along the shore, where cod run blindly into the nets of adventurous fishermen gpo® north in a midsummer eight weeks of perilous, comfortless, uncertain industry. Far “ down ” the desolate coast of Lajmador, a thousand miles north of niy Newfoundland starting point, I came on him in a trifling settlement that hugged, shivering and unsteady, about along white building, atr..,liug post of the Hudson’s Bay Company the merest collection of wiuduwless boards that housed human beings only in the less harrowing summertime. For John Slfiwak was an Eskimo.

Just one week I knew him, and then we separated never to meet again. But in that week I came to know him b.etter than from a years acquaintance with less simple souls, and his record to his glorious end proves how well I did know him. There, where the bitterness of teii months of the year drives tlie two straggling thousand hitman beings of half as many miles of coast-line to the less grim, loss bleak interior, John Shiwak ha,d awakened to, the bigness of life. He had taught himself to, read aud write. Every winter he trailed the hunter’s lonely round back within sound of the Grand Falls, which only a score have seen—often alone for months in weather that never emerged from zero. And every summer, when the ice broke in June, .there came out to me in Canada his- winter’s diary, written wearily by the light of candle, hemmed in by a hundred miles of fathomless, manless snow. And no fiction or fact of skilled writer spoke so from the heart. He was a natural y poet, a natural artist, a natural narrator. In a thumb-nail dash of \words he carried one straight into the clutch of the soundless Arctic.

And then came War. Aud even tq that nevertheless, comfortless coast it carried its message of Empire. John wrote me that he would be a “ soljer. ’ I dismissed it as one of his many vain ambitions against which his race would raise an impossible barrier. And months later came his mote from Scotland, where he was in t raining. I followed him to England, but before we could meet he was in France, When, last summer, he obtained sudden leave, I was in Devon. His simple note of regret rests now like a tear on my heart. But I have heard from him every week. He was never at home in his new career; something about it he did not quite understand- Latterly the loneliness of the life breathed from his lines. For he made no friends, in his silent, waiting way. His hunting companion was killed, and the great bereavement of it was like a strong man’s sob. lie was cold out there, even he. the Labrador hunter. But the heavy cardigan and gloves 1 sent did not reach him in time. . . .

In his last letter was a great longing fpr home —his Eskimo father whom he had left at ten years to carve his own fortune, his two dusky sisters who were to him like creatures from an augel world, the doctor for whom he worked in Labrador in the summer

time, liis old hunter friends. “ There will be no more letters' from them until the ice breaks again,” he moaned. But the ice of a new world has broken for John,

He hfid earned his long rest. Out hqre in lonesome Snipers’ Land he

lay, day after day ; and the cunning that made him a hunter of fox, and marten, ancl otter, and bear, and wolf brought to liim better game.

Apd pH he ever asked was, “ When •will the wot be over ? ” Only then would he return to his huskies and traps where few men dare a life of ice for a living almost as cold. John Shiwak— Eskimo—patriot.