After this came the tug of war. Teeth, axe, gun, fire, dog, bear, and
boys all mixed up in a fight to the finish. Finally, as bruin was not
fully recovered from the comatose state of his winter hibernating,
after many scratches and thumps, cuts and shots, came the survival of
the fittest.
Not even imperial Caesar, with the world at his feet, could have been
prouder than were boys and dog when they looked at their prostrate
foe, and reflected that this conquest meant the physical salvation
of our entire family. Soon the chips flew from the tree, and over a
cheerful fire they roasted and devoured bear steaks to repletion.
Digging to the surface, they found that the storm had subsided, and
rigging a temporary sled from the boughs of the tree, they dragged
home this "meat in due season."
All through the hours of the following night the wolves, attracted by
the scent of blood, howled and scratched frantically around the hut,
calling for their share in that "chain of destruction," by which the
laws of the universe have ordained that all creatures shall subsist.
The infant, of course, joined lustily in the chorus until the boys
almost wished themselves back in their shroud of snow.
So, with alternate feasting and fasting we passed the long weeks of
that Arctic winter until the frogs in the neighboring swamp crying:
"Knee deep, knee deep," and "better go round, better go round,"
proclaimed the season of freshets when the vast plain below us was
traversible only in boats.
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