Through it, working its way by river and dog sledge from the South, had gone the precious freight for which the farther North gave in exchange its still more precious furs.

And today, as Kent looked down upon it, he saw that same activity as it had existed through the years of a century.

A brigade of scows, laden to their gunwales, was just sweeping out into the river and into its current.

Kent had watched the loading of them; now he saw them drifting lazily out from the shore, their long sweeps glinting in the sun, their crews singing wildly and fiercely their beloved Chanson des Voyageurs as their faces turned to the adventure of the North.
In Kent's throat rose a thing which he tried to choke back, but which broke from his lips in a low cry, almost a sob.

He heard the distant singing, wild and free as the forests themselves, and he wanted to lean out of his window and shout a last good-by.