Suddenly, however, just when their enjoyment may be at its height, the children’s cry of “Kumokse! Kumokse! Netsérkpok!”—(A sled, a sled! He’s got a seal!) breaks up the gathering in excited confusion. There is a rush, each wife to her own home. Cries of joy and anticipation fill the air, and the whole village is stirred with cheerful and prosperous bustle. The hunters are returning, and fresh supplies are at hand. Very soon the cracking of the dog whips is heard, shouts of command, barks and howls; and the teams appear, scrambling over the sigjak (the broken ice along the shore), with their welcome loads. Quickly the harness is thrown off and safely bestowed, the lines and everything eatable being carried into the sukso; the dogs are fed and quieted, and curl round and go to sleep in the snow.
Then comes the evening meal. The stewpot is taken from the slings and set in front of the mistress of the igloo. The sturdy men and children crowd round her and each one is served with a generous piece of sealmeat. They hold it in their hands to eat. Each bronzed or wind-blackened face glows with enjoyment and contentment in the homely lamplight, and an atmosphere of unfeigned goodwill and cheer dominates the little group. The hungry folk whose husbands and fathers have not been successful all day simply distribute themselves through the [[101]]village, and share the food of the lucky. The captor of to-day may return empty handed to-morrow, when he may look for hospitality to his guests of to-night.
As soon as the meal in the pot is finished, the soup is poured out into a drinking bowl and handed round, each one taking a good pull in turn. The air soon reeks—the tight-packed assemblage of unwashed humanity, the stench of seal oil and blubber, the strong odours from the pot and the exhalations of garments spread out on the racks to dry, all contribute to the malodorous atmosphere. But what of that to those accustomed to nothing else, to whom the whole means warmth and plenty and the nearness of his own, in the frozen immensity of the awful arctic world without?
As soon as the meal is done the day’s catch of seals is cut up. Each animal is placed on its back on the floor, opened and dismembered, and pieces of the meat and blubber are given to the needy. Open hospitality is the law of the land in the Arctics. Travellers, whether native or European, are always sure of welcome and shelter on reaching an Eskimo village. On these occasions the stranger is always the first to be served from the generous family stew.
This sanguinary and odoriferous business being despatched, and the neighbours having taken themselves off, the door is fixed for the night—the door being a slab of snow cut to fit the main entrance to the igloo, and set on one side during the day. The lamps are trimmed to a low flame, wet clothes are [[102]]spread on the drying frames above them, and each member of the family rolls up in a fur blanket on the sleeping bench and so goes to bed. Occasionally the mother wakes up, to trim the lamps and turn the clothes during the night. She will be the first to wake and rise in the morning, since it is part of the woman’s work “which is never done,” to rub and soften the leathern clothing of her good man and the boys, which had hardened in drying while they slept.
Before the advent of the white man and his methods, the Eskimo used to start a fire by means of “firesticks.” The writer has seen this done repeatedly at the present day. An oblong piece of wood with a depression made in it to hold the tinder (a mixture of dried moss and cotton plant), receives the spindle. Another small piece of wood, placed on top of the latter, is held in position by the teeth and pressed down firmly upon it. The spindle is made to rotate rapidly by means of a rough bow until a spark, caused by the friction, starts up in the tinder. This is gently blown to a flame, and the fire is kindled. Nowadays, steel, or pieces of iron, are used in place of the driftwood board and spindle, especially on hunting expeditions; for although matches have found their way into the Eskimo igloo, they are costly, and apt to get damp.
There seems to be a happy sort of sex equality among these people, or perhaps it should rather be said that a mutually agreeable division of equally essential labours cause the men and women to live [[103]]more on a common footing than they seem to do among many other uncivilised folk. Old women, widows, and orphan girls, never want for protection and sustenance, so long as the rest can shelter and support them. The Eskimo are a very improvident people, never taking thought for the hungry morrow when they can feast to-day; but so long as the good things last, so long as they are to be had, the old and helpless of both sexes are never neglected. If a time should come when there arises a question of superfluous mouths to fill, the old people go into a sort of voluntary retreat in their own houses, and willingly die the death of starvation. More will be said on this subject elsewhere.
On one dreadful occasion an Eskimo woman was betrayed by force of circumstances into an act of cannibalism. This woman was a tall, commanding figure from the south coast, with a grave, intelligent face. She was an excellent huntress, equally at home with gun or spear. She could wield her needle, too, and together with her husband, was a first-rate worker and much respected by all the tribe.
A party of women, including herself and her baby, were travelling to a trading station. Their sled was well provisioned and their dogs in good condition, and the route lay over mountains and valleys, and across all the intervening fiords and bays. Soon after they started things began to go wrong. The weather changed and a wind got up, bearing snow. Storm after storm swept the country, through which the [[104]]travellers could scarcely force their way. The dogs sank to their shoulders in the deep drift, and at last could make no further progress at all. The little expedition called a halt. They built a sleeping place and prepared to wait till the violence of the weather abated. But, as day after day went howling by, each as impossible as the last, the stock of rations became exhausted, and the whole party reached the verge of starvation.
The Eskimo woman from the south fell ill, in consequence of the hardships and privations, and lost consciousness. While she happened to be in this state, a council was held by the others of the party, who decided to keep life going by killing and eating the child. This was accordingly done, and as soon as she could be partially roused, a portion was given to the famished mother. Not knowing what it was she did, she ate the meat—and survived. Some time afterwards the forlorn band was rescued by some hunters and taken to their camp, and only then the woman learnt the truth about her supposedly dead baby. Years after the horrible thing occurred the writer met her and had the story from her own lips.