An Eskimo Trap for Bears, Foxes or Wolves.
This was used before the time of Europeans living in this country. The trap was composed of thin pieces of whalebone with sharpened points bent up and bound at the top by cross strings of gut or sinew, the whole being embedded in a piece of meat and left in the run of animals. The animal swallows the meat and trap. The gut strings dissolved in the stomach and the instrument sprang open as in the accompanying sketch, transfixing the stomach and killing the animal.
At last, utterly exhausted and nearly drowned, it comes up the last time and meets its fate at the hands of the plucky and relentless pursuer. Should the [[258]]hunter miss his stroke at the first awful attack and fail to get clear, the kyak is instantly overturned and the man savagely mauled in the water, the walrus driving its tusks right through his body time and time again. Or it sometimes seizes the hunter between its flippers and, in full view of the other kyakers, holds him under water, coughing hoarse defiance at them all as they rush up to the rescue; and then slowly submerges, taking its enemy with it. Such are the casualties of arctic life.
One of the very few creatures who seems to have it all his own way in the frozen regions of the north is the raven. He supplies an element of sheer impishness and insouciance in Eskimo life, without which the native might want for a good deal of fun and aggravation.
The bird abounds everywhere. Even in the most bitter and desolate spots the raven turns up in a sufficiently glossy and well nourished condition. His huge beak is a formidable weapon and always stands him in good stead. He is like a spirit of mischief, able to calculate to a hair how near to spear or gun he may with safety venture. He is the despair of men and dogs alike. He is an expert thief, and cannot be excelled in pilfering.
During the day, whilst the hunters are away and there is nothing much doing, the raven sits on a crag or other convenient spot overlooking the village, and with a melancholic and malignant eye broods in disgust. You can almost hear him hoarsely remark: [[259]]
“What a rotten show! What a poverty-stricken hole! This really is the limit! Not a scrap to filch since daybreak!”
Should you pass by, he brightens up and cocks an eye at you in an expectant way, as though it were the plainest duty of all bipeds to shed scraps and bits for him to enable him to pick up an honest living. Although, as a matter of fact, he much prefers a dishonest one.
Towards evening, there is an air of expectancy about the raven group. They have trimmed themselves up and sharpened their beaks on any stone or pole handy for the purpose. As the hunters begin to put in an appearance the birds move off and entrench themselves behind such cover as the neighbourhood may afford. They know from experience that man is uncertain with his gun, and it may go off unexpectedly with detrimental effects to themselves. Anyhow, they prefer to have a boulder in between.
Presently one bird, sharper-set than the rest, peers from his concealment to see how things are progressing. A croak of disgust at the leaden-footedness of events announces his observations to the rest. But presently a hunter emerges from his house with a bowl of dainties for the dogs (the dainties are more or less putrid), and empties it into a tumultuous crowd of them, when each one vies with his neighbour in catching and bolting as much as possible in the least space of time. At this, there is an ebon rush from [[260]]the surrounding crags, and a fierce rear attack upon the dogs from the voracious birds.