. Mackinac and lake stories. runto Mamselle Rosalin, take off my cap, and bow frommy head to my heel, like you do in the dance. Iwill take her to Cheboygan with my traino—OhGod, yes! And I laugh at the wet track the sledgemake, and pat my dogs and tell them they are nottired. I wrap her up in the fur, and she thank meand tremble, and look me through with her big blackeyes so that I am ready to go down in the strait. The people on the shore hurrah, though some ofthem cry out to warn us. The ice is cracked from Mission Point to thehook of Eound Island, Ignace Pelott! I know that, I say. Good-day
. Mackinac and lake stories. runto Mamselle Rosalin, take off my cap, and bow frommy head to my heel, like you do in the dance. Iwill take her to Cheboygan with my traino—OhGod, yes! And I laugh at the wet track the sledgemake, and pat my dogs and tell them they are nottired. I wrap her up in the fur, and she thank meand tremble, and look me through with her big blackeyes so that I am ready to go down in the strait. The people on the shore hurrah, though some ofthem cry out to warn us. The ice is cracked from Mission Point to thehook of Eound Island, Ignace Pelott! I know that, I say. Good-day, messieurs! The crack from Mission Point—under what youcall Robinsons Folly—to the hook of Round Islandalways comes first in a breaking up; and I hold mybreath in my teeth as I skurry the dogs across ice grinds, the water follows the sledge. Butthe sun is so far down in the southwest, I think The wind will grow colder. The real thaw willnot come before to-morrow. ? The old fellow would not own the THE SKELETON ON ROUND ISLAND I am to steer betwixt the east side of RoundIsland and Boblo. When we come into the shadowof Boblo we are chill with damp, far worse thanthe clear sharp air that blows from Canada. I lopebeside the traino, and not take my eyes off thecourse to Cheboygan, except that I see the islandslook blue, and darkness stretching before its sweat drop off my face, yet I feel that windthrough my wool clothes, and am glad of the shelterbetween Boblo and Eound Island, for the straitoutside will be the worst. There is an Indian burying-ground on open landabove the beach on that side of Round Island. Ilook up when the thick woods are pass, for the sun-set ought to show there. But what I see is a skele-ton like it is sliding down hill from the graveyardto the beach. It does not move. The earth is washfrom it, and it hangs staring at me. I cannot tell how that make me feel! I laugh,for it is funny; but I am ashame, like my father isexpose a
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