When a man journeys into a far country, he must be prepared to forget many of the things he has learned, and to acquire such customs as are inherent with existence in the new land; he must abandon the old ideals and the old gods, and oftentimes he must reverse the very codes by which his conduct has hitherto been shaped. To those who have the protean faculty of adaptability, the novelty of such change may even be a source of pleasure; but to those who happen to be hardened to the ruts in which they were created, the pressure of the altered environment is unbearable, and they chafe in body and in spirit under the new restrictions which they do not understand. This chafing is bound to act and react, producing divers evils and leading to various misfortunes. It were better for the man who cannot fit himself to the new groove to
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"We 'll pull out to-morrow, if we camp within five miles, -- just to get everything in running order and remember if we 've forgotten anything."
* * *
The sleds groaned by on their steel-shod runners, and the dogs strained low in the harnesses in which they were born to die. Jacques Baptiste paused by the side of Sloper to get a last glimpse of the cabin. The smoke curled up pathetically from the Yukon stove-pipe. The two Incapables were watching them from the doorway.
Sloper laid his hand on the other's shoulder.
"Jacques Baptiste, did you ever hear of the Kilkenny cats?"
The half-breed shook his head.
"Well, my friend and good comrade, the Kilkenny cats fought till neither hide, nor hair, nor yowl, was left. You understand? -- till nothing was left. Very good. Now, these two men don't like work. They won't work. We know that. They 'll be all alone in that cabin all winter, -- a mighty long, dark winter. Kilkenny cats, -- well?"
The Frenchman in Baptiste shrugged his shoulders, but the Indian in him was silent. Nevertheless, it was an eloquent shrug, pregnant with prophecy.
* *
"We 'll pull out to-morrow, if we camp within five miles, -- just to get everything in running order and remember if we 've forgotten anything."
* * *
The sleds groaned by on their steel-shod runners, and the dogs strained low in the harnesses in which they were born to die. Jacques Baptiste paused by the side of Sloper to get a last glimpse of the cabin. The smoke curled up pathetically from the Yukon stove-pipe. The two Incapables were watching them from the doorway.
Sloper laid his hand on the other's shoulder.
"Jacques Baptiste, did you ever hear of the Kilkenny cats?"
The half-breed shook his head.
"Well, my friend and good comrade, the Kilkenny cats fought till neither hide, nor hair, nor yowl, was left. You understand? -- till nothing was left. Very good. Now, these two men don't like work. They won't work. We know that. They 'll be all alone in that cabin all winter, -- a mighty long, dark winter. Kilkenny cats, -- well?"
The Frenchman in Baptiste shrugged his shoulders, but the Indian in him was silent. Nevertheless, it was an eloquent shrug, pregnant with prophecy.
* *