"We scrape it a very long time and pull and rub," she said. "Plenty of time for patience in winter." "Your hands are too small and slim. I shouldn't think you could do much with those stiff skins," said Teddy. Alalik smiled at the compliment, and a little flush crept into the clear olive of her skin. She was clean and neat, and the _eglu_, though close from being shut up, was neater than most of the Esquimo houses. The bowl filled with seal oil, which served as fire and light, was unlighted, and Alalik's father motioned to her and said something in Innuit, to which she smilingly replied: "My father wishes you to eat with us," she said, and produced her flint bag. In this were some wads of fibrous material used for wicks. Rolling a piece of this in wood ashes, she held it between her thumb and a flint, struck her steel against the stone, and sparks flew out which lighted the fibre so that it burst into flame. This was thrown into the bowl of oil, and she deftly began preparing tea. She served it in cups of grass, and Ted thought he had never tasted anything nicer than the cup of afternoon tea served in an _eglu_. "Alalik, what were you singing as we came in?" asked Ted. "A song my mother always sang to us," she replied. "It is called 'Ahmi,' and is an Esquimo slumber song." "Will you sing it now?" asked Mr. Strong, and she smiled in assent and sang the quaint, crooning lullaby of her Esquimo mother-- "The wind blows over the Yukon. My husband hunts the deer on the Koyukun Mountains, Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, wake not. Long since my husband departed. Why does he wait in the mountains? Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, softly. Where is my own? Does he lie starving on the hillside? Why does he linger? Comes he not soon, I will seek him among the mountains. Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, sleep. The crow has come laughing. His beak is red, his eyes glisten, the false one. 'Thanks for a good meal to Kuskokala the Shaman. On the sharp mountain quietly lies your husband.' Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, wake not. 'Twenty deers' tongues tied to the pack on his shoulders; Not a tongue in his mouth to call to his wife with, Wolves, foxes, and ravens are fighting for morsels. Tough and hard are the sinews, not so the child in your bosom.' Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, wake not. Over the mountains slowly staggers the hunter. Two bucks' thighs on his shoulders with bladders of fat between them. Twenty deers' tongues in his belt. Go, gather wood, old woman! Off flew the crow, liar, cheat, and deceiver! Wake, little sleeper, and call to your father. He brings you back fat, marrow and venison fresh from the mountain. Tired and worn, he has carved a toy of the deer's horn, While he was sitting and waiting long for the deer on the hillside. Wake, and see the crow hiding himself from the arrow, Wake, little one, wake, for here is your father."