"
"You have a wicked heart, Silver Tassel. You know well that one man
can't handle the boat and the nets also. Is there no one of you--?"
A figure shot forwards from a corner. "I will go with Oshondonto," came
the voice of Wingo, the waif of the Crees.
The eye of the mikonaree flashed round in contempt on the tribe. Then
suddenly it softened, and he said to the lad: "We will go together,
Wingo."
Taking the boy by the hand, he ran with him through the rough wind to the
shore, launched the canoe on the tossing lake, and paddled away through
the tempest.
The bitter winds of an angry spring, the sleet and wet snow of a belated
winter, the floating blocks of ice crushing against the side of the boat,
the black water swishing over man and boy, the harsh, inclement world
near and far. . . . The passage made at last to the nets; the brave
Wingo steadying the canoe--a skilful hand sufficing where the strength of
a Samson would not have availed; the nets half full, and the breaking cry
of joy from the lips of the waif-a cry that pierced the storm and brought
back an answering cry from the crowd of Indians on the far shore.
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