The People of the Eastern Ice, they are melting like the
They beg for coffee and sugar; they go where the white men
The people of the Western Ice, they learn to steal and fight;
They sell their fur to the trading-post: they sell their souls
to the white.
The People of the Southern Ice, they trade with the whaler's
Their women have many ribbons, but their tents are torn
But the People of the Elder Ice, beyond the white man's
Their spears are made of the narwhal-horn, and they are the
last of the Men!
'HE has opened his eyes. Look!'
'Put him in the skin again. He will be a strong dog. On the fourth month we will name him.'
'For whom?' said Amoraq.
Kadlu's eye rolled round the skin-lined snow-house till it fell on fourteen-year-old Kotuko sitting on the sleeping- bench, making a button out of walrus ivory. 'Name him for me,' said Kotuko, with a grin. 'I shall need him one day.'
Kadlu grinned back till his eyes were almost buried in the fat of his flat cheeks, and nodded to Amoraq, while the puppy's fierce mother whined to see her baby wriggling far out of reach in the little sealskin pouch hung above the warmth of the blubber-lamp. Kotuko went on with his carving, and Kadlu threw a rolled bundle of leather dog- harnesses into a tiny little room that opened from one side of the house, slipped off his heavy deerskin hunting-suit, put it into a whalebone-net that hung above another lamp, and dropped down on the sleeping-bench to whittle at a piece of frozen seal-meat till Amoraq, his wife, should bring the regular dinner of boiled meat and blood-soup.