A most unusual book, a rare book, a strange book, a book entirely different, is Roger Pocock's Man in the Open. It is a dramatic novel. A drama in story form, with two chief characters doing a monologue when the curtain rises. The author claims that the story is true. It is remarkably romantic and deals with a rough Texan, born on the Labrador coast; first a trapper, then a sailor, a cowboy, and a ranger in northern Canada. Full of a quaint humor, true brother to the animals, big and little, and the birds of the wild, such a lover of Nature as all men ought to be, a philosopher by divine right and ordination he passes through a series of terrible and happy experiences which he meets as becomes "a man of the open."
d be too soft, but it was hard as sand. I wished I wasn't a coward, and the bush didn't look so wolfy, and what if I met up with the Eskimo devil! Oh, I was surely the scaredest lil' boy, and dead certain I'd get lost. There was nobody to see if I sat down and cried under father's lob-stick, but I was too durned frightened, because the upper branches looked like arms with claws. Then I went on because I was going, and there was father's trail blazed on past Bake-apple Marsh. The little trees, a cut here, a slash there, the top of a tree lopped and hanging, then Big Boulder, Johnny Boulder, Small Boulder, cross the crick, first deadfall, more lops, a number-one trap empty--how well I remember even now. The way was as plain as streets, and the sun shining warm as he looked over into the valley.
Then I saw a man's mitt, an old buckskin mitt sticking up out of the snow. Father had dropped his mitt, and without that his hand would be froze. When I found him, how glad he'd be to get it!
But when I tri