For the world is changing, the sun is changing, and the breeds of
men are changing. At the Landing in July there are seventeen hours
of sunlight; at Fort Chippewyan there are eighteen; at Fort
Resolution, Fort Simpson, and Fort Providence there are nineteen;
at the Great Bear twenty-one, and at Fort McPherson, close to the
polar sea, from twenty-two to twenty-three. And in December there
are also these hours of darkness. With light and darkness men
change, women change, and life changes. And Pierre and Henri and
Jacques meet them all, but always THEY are the same, chanting the
old songs, enshrining the old loves, dreaming the same dreams, and
worshiping always the same gods. They meet a thousand perils with
eyes that glisten with the love of adventure.

The thunder of rapids and the howlings of storm do not frighten
them. Death has no fear for them. They grapple with it, wrestle
joyously with it, and are glorious when they win. Their blood is
red and strong. Their hearts are big. Their souls chant themselves
up to the skies. Yet they are simple as children, and when they
are afraid, it is of things which children fear. For in those
hearts of theirs is superstition--and also, perhaps, royal blood.
For princes and the sons of princes and the noblest aristocracy of
France were the first of the gentlemen adventurers who came with
ruffles on their sleeves and rapiers at their sides to seek furs
worth many times their weight in gold two hundred and fifty years
ago, and of these ancient forebears Pierre and Henri and Jacques,
with their Maries and Jeannes and Jacquelines, are the living
voices of today.

And these voices tell many stories. Sometimes they whisper them,