THE FIRST BOAT

On the fourth Sunday in April the bell of the mis-
sion church rang out upon warm spring air. Little
blue butterflies hovered over the Atlin trail, and in-
sects of all kinds buzzed busily in and out through
the open doors of cabins. Men went about in their
shirt-sleeves, and sat in the sun on dry boards.
Earthy smells came pleasantly to the nostrils after
the first rain of the year.

And on the fourth Sunday in April the throbbing
of a motor surprised the peaceful air. “The boat!
The first boat from Wrangell !”’

The Stikine ran very low, its upper reaches being
still in the grip of winter. Snow lay upon the north-
ern slopes of the hills. Narrow ledges of shelf-ice
still clung to the banks. But the river-boat was com-
ing round the bend; we could see her moving to
right and left as she chose the deeper channels. And
as we watched, we were conscious of a vague resent-
ment;—the Cassiar was being invaded. We who had
outlasted the winter, we who had fought its isola-
tion and its hardships and had survived to see the

spring, why should we share our victory? But the
61