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Last Sunday services were largely attended, there being fifteen natives, and ten of our white neighbors. It was proposed, and unanimously carried, that a church be constructed by this community. So Monday. Tuesday and Wednesday over a dozen men were at work on the new chapel, which is located back in a sheltered place in the woods. It is now finished except the fireplace, and will serve as a church, school-room, and lecture-room or town hall.

Several of us are going to start a school for the Eskimo children in the neighborhood. We have seven months before us to occupy in some manner, and why not this? It would be monotonous to be continuously biting off northern zephyrs, and pulling the threads out of a tangled beard, and rubbing one's ears, and eating baking-powder biscuit; biscuit that are none of your light, fluffy things that have no backbone to them, but something that will stay with you on a hunt or a tramp with the temperature below the counting mark. Then there are the nice fat sides of bacon carefully preserved—"the white man's buffalo meat," as the Sioux Indians used to call it. We have ordinary fried bacon, and hashed bacon, and pork chops. When it is dreadfully cold and it doesn't slice readily, we chop it up with the axe—and then it is we have pork chops!