Dr. William H. Dall, Paleontologist of the United States Geological Survey and Honorary Curator of Mollusks at the National Museum at Washington, D. C., has written the following charming verses about the natives of Alaska. "Innuit" is the name by which the Eskimo calls himself and his people from Greenland to Mt. St. Elias. The _topek_ is the winter house of turf and walrus hide. In the igloo, or snow house, there is no wood. All Innuit believe in evil spirits which are supposed to dwell far inland, away from the shores. In times of starvation Innuit ethics permit a mother to put her baby, when she can no longer feed it, out in the snow to die. The child's mouth must be stuffed with mud or grass. Otherwise its spirit will return and be heard crying about the house at night. THE SONG OF THE INNUIT O, we are the Innuit people, Who scatter about the floe And watch for the puff of the breathing seal While the whistling breezes blow. By a silent stroke the ice is broke And the struggling prey below With the crimson flood of its spouting blood Reddens the level snow. O, we are the Innuit people, Who flock to the broken rim Of the Arctic pack where the walrus lie In the polar twilight dim. Far from the shore their surly roar Rises above the whirl Of the eager wave, as the Innuit brave Their flying lances hurl. O, we are the Innuit people Who lie in the topek warm; While the northern blast flies strong and fast And fiercely roars the storm; Recounting the ancient legends Of fighting, hunting and play, When our ancestors came from the southland tame To the glorious Arctic day. There is one sits by in silence With terror in her eyes, For she hears in dreams the piteous screams Of a cast-out babe that dies-- Dies in the snow as the keen winds blow And the shrieking northers come,-- On that dreadful day when the starving lay Alone in her empty home. O, we are the Innuit people, And we lie secure and warm Where the ghostly folk of the Nunatak Can never do us harm. Under the stretching walrus hide Where at the evening meal The well-filled bowl cheers every soul Heaped high with steaming seal. The Awful Folk of the Nunatak Come down in the hail and the snow, And slash the skin of the kayak thin To work the hunter woe. They steal the fish from the next day's dish And rot the walrus lines-- But they fade away with the dawning day As the light of summer shines.