ice, right at the immediate entrance of the houses, the natives kept
their dogs. Inside they had only room for the mother dogs, which at
this period brought into being litters of beautiful little puppies with
which the Eskimo children played. Outside, scores of splendid animals,
which could not be sheltered, were frozen to death in great drifts.
These, during the following days, were dug out and used as food both
for men and the living animals.

During a quiet period between storms, Ootah, venturing from his
shelter, heard a shuffling noise near his igloo. In the northern sky a
creamy light palpitated, and in one of the quick flares he saw a bear
nosing about the village. He called his dogs and they soon surrounded
the animal. Fortunately the incandescent light of the aurora
increased--now and then a ribbon of light, palpitant with every color
of the rainbow, was flung across the sky. Ootah lifted his harpoon
lance--the sky was momentarily flooded with light--he struck. In the
next flare he saw the bear lying on the ice--his lance had pierced the
brute's heart. Attracted by the barking of Ootah's dogs, several
tribesmen soon joined him in dressing the animal. During their task,
one suddenly beckoned silence, and whispered softly:

"The Voice . . . the Voice . . ." And they paused.

A weird whistling sound sang eerily through the skies. The air,
electrified, seemed to snap and crackle. It was the voice that comes
with the aurora.

The knives fell from the natives' hands. The howling of the hungry
dogs was stilled. In hushed awe, in reverence, with vague wondering,
they listened. Ootah was on his knees. An inspired light transfigured