23270	----	On the Indian Trail, Stories of Missionary Work among Cree and Saulteaux Indians, by Reverend Egerton Ryerson Young. ________________________________________________________________________ In his Introduction to the book the author tells us that some of the stories here recounted are new, while others have been published in others of his works. Thus, if you have read "By Canoe and Dog-Train" you will experience a feeling of deja vue. Like so many nineteenth century clergymen, the author spends a lot of time telling us how very holy he is. But I suppose we have a different view of how we ought to tell others how much time we spend praying. Things are different these days. This book is one of many to be found on the excellent Early Canadiana Online. We used the new (2005) ABBYY screen grabbing tool to capture the images of the pages, using the third of the five sizes available. This size was chosen because the image of each page just fits the text of the page on the screen. From other points of view it would have been better if we could have used the largest size, which we could not easily do for the following reason. The original scans were far from being nice clean ones, so there were many misreads. We used the Athelstane editing system to produce the final text as we have published it. Had we used the full-sized scans it is quite possible that there would have been just the same number of misreads in the OCRed text, because of the number of bits of hair and fluff, scratches and other blemishes in the scans. So it is lucky that the Athelstane system can trap most of the misreads. ________________________________________________________________________ ON THE INDIAN TRAIL, STORIES OF MISSIONARY WORK AMONG CREE AND SAULTEAUX INDIANS, BY REVEREND EGERTON RYERSON YOUNG. PREFACE. This is not a continuous narrative of missionary work as are some of the author's books. It is a collection of distinct chapters, some of which are written expressly for this volume, others of which, having in whole or in part seen the light in other form, are now, at the request of friends, and thanks to the courtesy of the publishers, here gathered. Romantic missionary work among the red Indians will soon be a thing of the past. Civilisation is reaching this people, and the iron horse rushes and shrieks where the Indian trail was once the only pathway. The picturesque garb is fast disappearing, and store clothes, often too soon transformed into rags anything but picturesque, have robbed, the Indian of the interest that once clung to him. These wanderings on the fast disappearing trail, speak of successes rather than failures; not but that there were many of the latter, as well as long waiting after the seed time for the harvest, but because it is so much more pleasant and helpful to look on the bright side of life, and talk of victory rather than defeat. So in the hope that this book will be helpful and encouraging to the friends and supporters of missions, who have become such an innumerable company, and that His name may be glorified thereby, we send it on its way. E.R.Y. _Toronto_. CHAPTER ONE. ON THE PRAIRIE TRAIL. We struck the prairie trail at Saint Paul in 1868. We, that is my young wife and I in company with some other missionaries and teachers, were to travel many hundreds of miles upon it, in order that we might reach the wigwam haunts of the Indians in the northern part of the Hudson Bay Territories, to whom we had been appointed to carry the glorious Gospel of the Son of God. We were to follow up the work begun by men of sublime faith and heroic courage, and to carry it still farther into more remote regions where as yet the sweet story of a Saviour's love had never been heard. We had confidence enough in God to belief that if fur-traders could travel along these trails, and live in those lonely remote regions for from the blessings of civilisation, and in order to make money by trading with the Indians put up with the hardships and privations incident to such a life, we could make equal sacrifices for Christ's sake, to carry the Glad Tidings of His great love to those who had never heard the wondrous Story. After about three weeks journeyings, we had travelled as far as we could by steamboat and railroad, and were at the extreme limit of these splendid methods of civilised locomotion. From this point onward there was nothing before us but the prairie trail. On and on it stretched for hundreds of miles, away and away to the land of the north wind. Over its winding undulating course, long years ago, the hardy pioneers of the new world adventured themselves; and as they bravely pushed on they were filled with amazement and awe at the vastness of the great and illimitable prairies. Following closely in their trail, and even sometimes themselves the pioneers, came those early heroic priestly followers of Loyola, eager and anxious to meet and to make friends of the wild Indians of the plains and forest, that among them they might plant the cross, and, according to their belief, by the simple rite of baptism induct them into the bosom of Mother Church. In later years much of the romance of the great Trail had worn away. Commerce and Trade with their multiplied activities had so taken possession of it that when first we saw it in 1868, the long trains of noisy creaking Red River carts, and the great canvas-covered wagons of the adventurous immigrants, were the most conspicuous sights on its dusty stretches. Occasionally bands of Indian warriors, plumed and painted, were seen upon it, dashing along on their fiery steeds, out on some marauding adventure, or more likely, on the lookout for the vast herds of buffalo that still swarmed in the regions farther west, like "the cattle on a thousand hills." It was one of those perfect days in the lovely month of June when we left the thriving young city of Saint Paul, and with our canvas-covered wagons, and fourteen picked horses, really entered on the trail. As we left the frontier city, thus severing the last link that bound us to civilisation, we realised most vividly that now we were entering upon our missionary work. Thirty days were we on this Prairie Trail. Not all of them were of that rare beauty of the first. Fierce thunderstorms several times assailed us when it was not always possible to protect ourselves from the terrible downpour of rain. One night a genuine cyclone wrecked our camp; tents and wagons with their varied contents went careering in erratic courses before its irresistible power. Our way was beset with dangers: bridgeless streams had to be crossed; prairie fires had to be fought, or wildly run away from treacherous quicksands sometimes spread most invitingly on either side of the miserable looking trail, lured the unwary traveller to trust himself on their smooth and shining surface. But woe to the foolish ones who left the trail for the quicksands: unless speedily rescued by the united strength of friends, horses and travellers would soon be swallowed up; so the warning cry of the guide was ever: "Keep in the trail!" Thus we journeyed on, sometimes in the sunshine, and sometimes in the storm. Every morning and evening we had our family prayers. The Sabbaths were rest days for all--sweet and precious days, when out in the sunshine on the glorious prairies, we, a little company of missionaries and teachers--worshipped God: they were as the days of the Son of Man on earth. Thirty days on such a trail could not pass without some strange adventures, and we had our share of them with white men and with Indians. A talkative parrot in our party nearly frightened the lives out of some very inquisitive and superstitious Indians and French half-breeds. They had stopped their ox-carts one day at the same spot where we, coming in the opposite direction, were resting for the dinner hour. Hearing about the wonderful parrot, they crowded around to see her. Polly stood their inquisitive gazings for awhile, then, apparently somewhat annoyed, with wings ruffled, sprang forward as far as she could in her large cage, and shouted out: "Who are you?" The effect upon the superstitious half-breeds, and Indians, was about as though His Satanic Majesty had suddenly appeared among them. They rushed away, and nothing that we could do would induce any of them to look at the bird again. Another adventure, most unique and startling, occurred on this trip ere we had proceeded many days on the trail. "You had better keep a sharp eye on those splendid horses of yours, or you may wake up some fine morning and find them missing." This was rather startling news and caused a good deal of excitement in our camp. The speakers were some scouts from the United States army, who were making a hurried trip from the head waters of the Missouri where the troops had gone to quell some Indian disturbance. They were now on their way to Saint Paul with dispatches for Washington. Each night of our journey we had, in true western style hobbled our horses and left them to roam about and feed on the luxuriant grasses. This hobbling is merely the tying of the forefeet loosely together with soft leather thongs so that the animal in moving has to lift up both forefeet at once. Its movements being thus necessarily slow, there is no roaming very far from the camp. Having had no fear of danger, we had been very careless, leaving everything unguarded. The terrible Sioux massacres a few years before in these very regions, were now being forgotten. It is true that as we journeyed, the ruins of the destroyed, and in many places, not yet rebuilt homesteads of the settlers, were vivid reminders of those dreadful frontier wars, when over nine hundred white people lost their lives. The Indians were now however far to the north and west of us, so that we had no fears as we leisurely moved along. Hence, it was somewhat startling when these picturesquely garbed scouts halted in our midst, and warned us to have a guard over our horses; telling us, that, the most notorious band of horse thieves was in the neighbourhood, and was rumoured to have heard that there was a party with some magnificent horses in the prairie country, and that doubtless, even now, they were on the lookout for us upon some of the trails. After a short halt for a hurried meal, our bronzed well-armed visitors left us. The last we saw of them was as they galloped away southward on the trail. Immediately a council was called, when it was decided to move on to the vicinity of Clearwater, and there remain until all the final preparations for our long trip were completed. Our horses were turned loose and hobbled during the day, but were not allowed to stray very far from the camp. Watchful eyes were ever upon them, and also scanning the prairies for suspicious intruders. Before sundown they were all gathered in and securely fastened in a large barn that stood out upon the prairie, the sole building left of a large farmstead: all the other buildings, including the dwelling house, had been burned during the Indian wars. No survivors or relatives had as yet come to claim the deserted place, and so the rich prairie grasses had almost covered with their green verdure the spot where the destroyed buildings once stood; and now all that remained to tell of former prosperity was this solitary old barn. The men of our party were appointed to watch the barn during the night and protect the horses against all intruders. Two well armed persons were thought a sufficient guard for each of the eight or ten nights that we remained in that vicinity. One night a young man of our party and I were appointed to watch. He most thoroughly equipped himself with several varieties of weapons, resolved to be prepared for any emergency. I trusted to a quick-firing breech-loading rifle. We gathered in the horses from the prairies, and were leading them toward the barn when we met the leader of our party, a man past middle life, most of whose years had been spent among the Indians, and in the great west. Looking at us who were to be the guards of the horses that night, he said, with a sneer: "Queer guards are you! I have some young Indians that could steal any horse in that crowd to-night from under your very nose." Stung by the sneers of this man, for it was not the first time that he had tried to wound, I replied with perhaps too much emphasis: "Mr -- I have the best horse in the company, and I will give him to you, if either you, or any Indian living, can steal him out of that barn between sundown and sunrise." My comrade and I carefully fastened our horses along one side of the barn where they could stand comfortably, or lie down on some old prairie hay during the night. Then we examined the barn. At one end were the usual large double doors sufficiently wide and high to admit of the entrance of a wagon loaded with hay or sheaves of grain. At the other end was a small door which we securely fastened on the inside. We then carefully examined the building for other places of ingress to make sure that there were no openings sufficiently large for even a naked savage to squeeze through. When thoroughly satisfied with our survey, we collected a quantity of dried hay, and made ourselves some comfortable seats, where we could, without being seen, command the large end doors: one of which was fastened inside with a hook and staple, while the other had only the usual wooden latch. We moved about and chatted on various subjects during the long beautiful gloaming, and when the darkness settled down upon us, we made ourselves comfortable in our assigned positions, and with rides in hand, were indeed sentinels on the watch. As the excitement of the occasion wore off, my young companion who was still in his teens, began to feel exceedingly drowsy. I told him to cuddle down in the hay and go to sleep for a while, and if there was any appearance of danger I would instantly awake him. Very soon he was sleeping quietly at my feet. He had generously requested me to awake him when he had slept an hour or so, offering then to take my place. Thanking him, I said: "Get some sleep if you can; there is none, however, for me to-night."--I remembered too well those taunting words, and could not have slept had I tried. As the hours slowly rolled along, I could not but think of the strange transitions of the last few weeks. Not six weeks before this I was the pastor of a large church in a flourishing city. Then I was living in a beautiful home with all the comforts and conveniences of civilisation around me, where the vigilant policemen paced their various rounds, while we in peace and safety rested without one thought of danger; now I was in the far West, away from the society and comforts of other days, on the boundless plains where dangers lurk, and lawless, thievish vagabonds abound. Not long ago I was in my own pulpit preaching to large congregations; now, during the quiet hours of this night, I was sitting on a bundle of dried prairie grass in an old barn, defending a lot of horses from horse thieves. Strange transformations are these. Truly life is a play, and we, the actors, little know what parts we shall next be called on to assume. Thus I mused; bub hush! What noise is that? Surely it cannot be that a cunning horse thief would come so deliberately this beautiful starlit night and try at the principal door to seek an entrance. No stealthy Indian clever at horse stealing would begin his operations in such a way. But there is the sound, nevertheless. Evidently it is that of a hand feeling for the latch. Strict orders had been given at the camp, that under no consideration should any one of our party approach the barn after dark. So, here was an intruder who must be promptly dealt with, before he could draw and fire. Springing up and lifting the rifle to my shoulder, I waited until the intruder's hand had found the latch. Then the door swung open and there he stood; a very tall man, clearly outlined in the starry night. My first grim resolve was to fire at once. Then there came the thought: "It is a terrible thing suddenly to send a soul into eternity. Perhaps he is not a horse thief. He may be some lone wanderer on the prairies, who, seeing this old barn, desires to get under its shelter out of the heavy dews. You have him covered with your rifle; even if he is a desperate horse thief bent on mischief, ere he can draw his weapons, you can easily drop him." These thoughts must have flashed through my brains very rapidly for the man had not yet entered the barn when I had decided on my course of action. So, while keeping him covered with my rifle, and with my hand upon the trigger, I shouted: "Who's there?" "It's only Matthew. Surely you ought to know me by this time." Instead of an enemy, there came stumbling along in the darkness, one of our young friends from the camp: a school-teacher, going out to instruct the Indians in the plains of the Saskatchewan. Groping his way along, he said: "It is awfully close and hot down there in the camp, and so I thought I would rather come and spend the rest of the night with you in the barn." Foolish fellow! he little knew how near he had come to losing his life by this direct breach of orders. As I recognised his voice in answer to my challenge, and realised how near I had come to shooting one of our party, a quick reaction seized me, and dropping the gun, I sank back trembling like a leaf. After chatting away at a great rate, he at length settled down in the hay, and went to sleep without having the slightest idea of the risk he had run, or of the part I had played in what came so near being a tragedy. I continued my watch until relieved at sunrise, and then, with my comrade, turned over all the horses safe and sound to those whose duty it was to watch them while they were feeding on the prairies. There was a row for a time when I reported to the leaders of our company the visit to the barn. The good-natured delinquent was the subject of a great deal of scolding, which he bore with an unruffled demeanour. As he was six feet, six inches and a half in stature, no physical castigation was administered; nor was any needed; he was so thoroughly frightened when he heard how he had stood under cover of my rifle with my finger on the trigger. CHAPTER TWO. ON THE INDIAN TRAIL. We will call the routes over which I travelled on my large mission field, "Indian trails;" but the name at times would be found to be inept, as often, for scores of miles, there was not the least vestige of a track or path. This was because there was so little travel in summer of a character that would make a well defined trail, for during that season the Indians preferred to avail themselves of the splendid and numerous lakes and rivers, which enabled them to travel very easily by canoe in almost any direction. Thus, when obliged to travel on the short stretches of the so-called, "Indian trail," it is not to be wondered at if the missionary sometimes lost his way, and had to be sought after and found, much to the amusement of the Indians who constituted the hunting party. "Good missionary, but him lost the trail." More than once was I so addressed by my clever and experienced Indian canoeman, with whom every summer I used to journey hundreds of miles into remote regions, to find the poor sheep of the wilderness to whom to preach the glorious Gospel of the Son of God. These summer routes lay through many lakes, and up and down rushing rivers full of rapids and cataracts. Generally two skilful Indian canoemen were my companions, one of whom was called, "the guide." The Indians, for whom we were seeking, drifted naturally from their hunting grounds in the forests, to the shores of the lakes and rivers, for the sake of the fish, which, daring the summer months, could be easily obtained and which then constituted their principal food. The result was, that while in winter, with our dog-trains, we could go anywhere--the terrible ice-king freezing everything solid from the lakes and rivers to the great quaking bogs--in summer, we were confined to those trips which could be only made by the birch-bark canoe: in no other way could the Gospel he carried to these people. After we became accustomed to the canoe and dog-train, we rejoiced that we were counted worthy to be the Messengers of Good Tidings'to these neglected ones, who, having lost faith in their old paganism, were longing for something better. One summer in the early years of my missionary life, when I had had but little experience in the northern methods of travel and was a novice at finding my way on an obscure trail, I took a trip which I remember very distinctly; partly, because of the difficulty I had in keeping the trail when alone and partly because of the dangers to which I was exposed when I lost it. My birch canoe was a good one. It was made especially for running rapids, and was so light that one man could easily carry it on his head when necessary. I had as my companions two very capable Indian canoemen. One of them had never been over that route before and the other, whom by courtesy, we called, "our guide," had only once travelled that way--and that, several years before the date of this trip. All the able bodied men of my mission excepting these two, were away serving the Hudson Bay Company as tripmen, which was the reason why I could not obtain men better acquainted with the long route. I had either to take these men and ran a good deal of risk, or wait another year to carry the Gospel to those hundreds who had never heard it, and who had sent a pleading call for me to come and tell them what the Great Spirit said in His Book. So, after much prayer, I decided, trusting in God and in these men, to make the journey. The country through which we travelled was one of the roughest and wildest in that dreary, desolate land. The streams were so full of rapids that we had constantly to be making portages. This was slow and laborious work. Our method of procedure was something like this: as soon as we discovered that the current was too rapid to be safe, or that we were hearing some great falls, we went ashore and quickly unloaded our canoe; William, the guide, easily lifted it upon his head and starting off, soon disappeared in the forest, running where possible, and keeping parallel with the raging stream until he reached a place below which the waters were again navigable; Peter, my other Indian, as speedily as possible made a large bundle of our blankets, kettles, and supplies, and with this upon his back, supported by a carrying strap round his forehead, quickly followed the trail made by William; while to me was assigned the work of carrying the guns, ammunition, changes of raiment and the presents, and Bibles for the Indians we expected to visit. Although my load was not nearly as heavy as those carried by my stalwart canoemen, yet I was utterly unable to keep up with them in the trail. Indians, when thus loaded, never walk: they seem to glide along on a swinging trot that carries them over the ground very rapidly. A white man, unaccustomed to this pace, is very soon left behind. This was my experience. All I could do, was to trudge bravely along under my miscellaneous load, which was becoming constantly disarranged, thus causing delay. But my greatest trouble was to keep the trail. There was absolutely no path. All the trail, was that made by my two Indians, and Indians are trained to leave as little evidence of their movements as possible. So I was often lost. I would at the beginning of the portage, bravely shoulder my burden and endeavour to keep in sight of my men. This, however, I found to be an utter impossibility. A sharp turn among the rocky ridges, or a plunge into the dense dark forest, and they were gone from my vision. Then my perplexities began. If, as some times happened, the trail was through mud, or reeds and rushes I could generally follow them in it; but, as more frequently happened, the trail was over rocky ridges, or through dense forests, sometimes for miles, and I was often completely bewildered and lost. The trouble at first was, that being too perplexed, or too ignorant of what was the safer course to pursue, I would quicken my pace and hurry on--somewhere. On and on I would stumble under my heavy awkward load until the sweat fell like rain from my brow and my back ached. More than once when thus hurrying I have been startled by some savage beast, that with a snort or a growl, dashed away in front of me. This only added speed to my footsteps, and frightened now I would hurry on, until utterly worn-out and exhausted I threw off my heavy burdens and sank down on the nearest rock or log, tired out. Perhaps in my ignorance and perversity I had wandered far away, even in an opposite direction from that which I should have taken. Fortunate was it for me that I had such men for my comrades. I knew their worth and loyalty, as well as their ability quickly to find me. As soon as they had safely reached the end of the portage they would be on the alert for my arrival. If I delayed beyond what they thought to be sufficient time they would set off on the back trail looking for me. With that unerring instinct which so many of them possess in woodcraft, and which to me always seemed perfectly marvellous, they soon found where I had wandered from the trail. From this point they had not the slightest difficulty in following and finding me. Without any chiding, but with perhaps a pitying look and a quiet utterance that sounded like "Good missionary, but him lost the trail," they would quickly pick up my burdens, and safely guide me to our waiting canoe. All I had to carry was perhaps the Book which I had with me, the reading of which, enabled me profitably to pass the hours that often elapsed ere my faithful men found me. We lived on just what we could shoot, as it was impossible to carry additional supplies in a birch canoe. Hunter's luck varies considerably even in a land of game, and we at least had variety in our bill of fare. Black bears being still numerous in those wild regions we sometimes had bear's steak broiled on the coals, or ribs skidded on a stick and nicely browned before the fire. When my canoemen had time to prepare the bear's feet and boil them they were quite a luxury. In fact, the three great luxuries specially prized by the denizens of that country are, the heaver's tails, the moose's nose, and the bear's paws. Rarely was a deer shot on those canoe trips, unless it happened to be in the far north regions, where occasionally one was caught swimming far out from land in a great lake. When one was thus killed, there was of course abundance of food, but so little of it could be carried with us, that the larger portion had to be left to be devoured by wolves, wolverines, or other wild animals. However, in leaving all this meat on the trail the words of the Psalmist would come to us: "He giveth to the beast his food, and to the young ravens which cry." Perhaps it was only carrying out His great purposes, when we thus left all this food for some of His creatures to whom, "He giveth their meat in due season." Wild ducks, geese, and other aquatic birds were occasionally shot, affording us most savoury food as did also the beavers wild-cats, and muskrats. Our nights were spent where the day's journey ended. Missionaries in nearly all lands can generally find some human, habitation in which to obtain or prepare their food and spend the night. As a child, I used to listen with intense interest to my beloved father, who for many years had been a pioneer missionary in what were then known as the wilds of Upper Canada--tell of his adventures. Many had been his hardships and dangers, but I remember he used to say, that he could generally find the comfortable log-cabin of a friendly settler in which to pass the night. The trail in the wild north land leads through regions of country thousands of miles in extent, where there is not even to be found a leather tepee or a birch-bark wigwam, much less a house. The result was, when making such journeys, we had to do the next best thing, and that was to camp at the spot where night overtook us. Of course we were on the lookout for as comfortable a place as it was possible to find. A smooth dry granite rock for our bed, and dry wood with which to make our fires, where we cooked our food and dried our clothes, were always considered the essential requisites for a comfortable camp. Warm days alternated with damp and chilly ones, but the nights were generally cold. The bright warm camp-fire was always welcomed with great delight after a day's journey of sixty miles on the trail. Pleasant indeed are the memories of happy restful hours so spent, when the good honest day's work was done, and the time of rest well earned. After the hearty evening meal and prayers, it was each a luxury to be able to stretch our cramped limbs before a glorious camp-fire on the rocky shore of some great river or picturesque lake. Then the attempt to read even some favourite author was not always a great success. It seemed more congenial just to lie there, and muse and watch the dying of the day as the brightness gradually faded out of the western sky, and the stars in their modest way, one by one, came out into conscious vision, until the whole heavens were lit up by their radiance. The only sounds were the roar of the distant cataract, the music of the running stream, the rippling of the waves at our feet, broken some nights by the occasional cry of a wild bird or beast, from among the trees of the encircling forest. The quiet, picturesquely garbed men in their statuesque attitudes added much to the attractiveness of the surroundings. Then at night very close to the heart, and appropriate, were the words of the Psalmist: "The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth His handiwork;" and, "When I consider thy heavens the work of thy fingers, the moon and stars which thou hast ordained; what is man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou visitest him?" But the nights spent on the Indian trail, were not always so delightful, or so conducive to lofty and celestial sentiments. When the cyclonic winds howled around us through the long night hours, blowing with such fury that it requited all of our watchfulness and strength to prevent canoe, blankets, and bundles from being blown into the lake or river, our thoughts were not among the stars. Sometimes the black thunderclouds gathered and the rain fell upon us in torrents, putting out our fires, perhaps before our evening meal was cooked, drenching us completely, and continuing sometimes so long that we had not a dry stitch upon us for days together. Under such circumstances, while ringing some quarts of water out of our clothes, or from the blankets in which we had slept, there was no disposition to sentimentalise about the rippling of the waves on the shore or the distant waterfall. Thus in storm as in sunshine, it was necessary that the missionary and his faithful canoemen should be on the trail, if the Book were to be carried, and its glorious truths proclaimed to those wandering people in their wigwam homes, in regions so remote and inaccessible that in no other way could they be reached during the brief summer months. However, in spite of its hardships and dangers, the results accomplished more than compensated for them all. Physical sufferings are not worthy of record, where successful work has been done in the conversion of immortal souls for whom the Saviour died. Many have been the trophies won and marvellous the transformations wrought as the result of these difficult trips on the Indian trail. The missionaries, numbers of whom are still toiling upon them, rejoice that they are counted worthy to endure such hardness, and to be "in perils oft" for His glory, and for the salvation of those for whom He died. As regards some abiding results attained by these adventurous trips, one or two incidents are here recorded. On these long journeys, the missionary generally carried with him a small assortment of medicines. He well knew that many a hard heart could be reached, and many a prejudice overcome, by the healing of some afflicted member of the family, when all other means for influencing them for good, had for the time being failed. At one remote pagan village dwelt a man who had refused most positively to become a Christian. When urged to accept of Christianity he had most emphatically repeated the expression most common among them: "As my fathers lived and died, so will I." He came to me one day in a state of much perplexity, and after speaking about several things, mentioned the thankfulness that was in his heart on account of my having cured his wife, who had been sick a long time. The way in which he expressed himself, however, showed the great ignorance under which he was living. His words were something like these, and most emphatically were they uttered: "Missionary, my wife was long sick. I went to the medicine man of my people to cure her. He tried and tried, but he could not do her any good. Then I came to you, and your medicines cured her, and she soon got well. So I believe, that as your medicine is stronger than that of the medicine men of our religion, your religion must be better than ours. My wife and I have talked it over, and we want to sit at your feet, and learn of this new way." Of course there was a good deal in his mind that was erroneous and I had to explain myself literally and enlighten him, ere I could begin to teach him the truths of the Gospel. However, I had won his heart, and that was half of the battle. Now predisposed toward the truth, he and his wife gladly accepted it. They became sincere and earnest Christians, and were both made a blessing and a benediction to their people. There was a great hunter who had an only son. He had a number of daughters, but they were as nothing in his sight in comparison with his little boy. One day the child fell sick, and the medicine man of the tribe was sent for in great haste, a famous old conjuror by the name of Tapastanum. He had some knowledge of roots and herbs, but like the other conjurors of his nation, pretended to depend upon his incantations and conjurings to effect his cures. With a great deal of ceremony he brought out his sacred medicine bag, his charms, and rattle and drum. Then arraying himself in the most hideous manner possible, he began his wild incantations. He howled and yelled, he shook his rattle and beat his drum. All however was in vain. The child rapidly became worse as the days passed. Seeing that there was no improvement, the father became thoroughly alarmed and lost all faith in Tapastanum's power. Fearing however to offend him, he gave him some presents of tea and tobacco, and told him that he need not trouble himself to come again. Up to this time he had refused to listen to the missionary's teachings. He had been loud and almost persecuting in his opposition to the preaching of the Gospel among his people, and had refused to come where the friendly Indians gathered under the trees to hear the Word read and explained. Indian-like however, he had been most observant, and it had not escaped his notice that some cures had been effected by the pale face that had been too difficult for the native medicine men. So, when he saw his little boy getting worse and worse, in spite of all the yells and antics of the conjuror, so soon as he had dismissed him, he came for the missionary, and in a tone very different from that which he had first used, almost begged him to come and save his little boy. "I will do the best I can," said the missionary, who was thankful for an opportunity thus, perhaps, to win his friendship and to lead him to the cross. When he examined the boy he found that it was a serious case of inflammation, so he candidly told the father, that as the disease had run so long it was hard to say whether he would be able to cure him or not, but he would gladly do his best. The Indian father urged him to begin at once to do all that was possible to save his boy; saying, that he would be so glad if his child recovered, and would not blame the missionary if he died. Prompt remedies were applied, and with God's blessing, and careful nursing, the child recovered, greatly to the joy of the father. Not long after, as the missionary gathered the people together for religious service, he was pleased to see, leaning against a distant tree, the once stubborn old Indian whose son had been healed. It was evident that he was anxious to hear what that missionary who had cured his boy had to say, and jet, he was still too proud to come and sit with the friendly Indians, who were anxious to learn about the message which the Great Spirit had sent to the people. So he compromised by taking a position on the outskirts of the audience. Fortunately the missionary was gifted with a strong clear voice, so without any apparent effort, he told the story of God's love in Jesus Christ in a tone that could be distinctly heard by all, even by the distant hunter leaning against the tree. Very attentively did that Indian listen to all that was said, and so interested was he, that at the next service he stood at a tree considerably nearer the speaker. The next service he was in the midst of the audience, and a few weeks later he was at the Cross, a happy converted man. It was interesting and delightful to listen to his after apologies, and chidings of himself for his stubborn opposition to that in which he now so delighted. Among other things he would say: "But missionary, you know that I was so foolish and stubborn. I was then blind and deaf; but now I have rubbed the dust out of my eyes, pulled the moss out of my ears, so now I see clearly and hear all right. Then, I could only say hard things against the Book which I thought was only for the white man, but now, I have found that it is for every one, and I love to think and talk about the good things that it has brought to us." Long centuries ago Isaiah prophesied: "Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped; "Then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing; "For in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert." Here in this wild north land, as, thank God, it has been on many other mission fields, this glorious prophecy had been, and is being, most literally fulfilled. Eyes long spiritually blinded are now open to behold the blessed light, deaf ears have been unstopped and now hear His loving voice, and tongues unloosened by His power make the wilderness vocal with His praise. CHAPTER THREE. PRACTICAL WORK IN INDIAN HOMES. Since the opening up of the heart of Africa, by the indomitable courage and zeal of such men as Speke and Moffat, Baker and Livingstone, Stanley and Cameron, Bishop Taylor and others, perhaps one of the least known portions of this habitable globe is the northern part of the great Dominion of Canada. The discovery of the rich gold mines in the great Yukon River district--the greater number by far being in Canadian territory--is attracting attention to that part of the hitherto unknown north-western portion of the great Dominion, and will doubtless lead to its becoming better known. It is true that there are vast regions of this great country that are of but little value to civilised people as a home. Still there are hundreds of millions of acres, of land as fertile as any in the world, and thousands of people are crowding in every year and taking possession of what will yet become one of the greatest wheat producing portions of the globe. From east to west, through the Dominion runs the great Canada Pacific Railway, the longest in the world. This great road has not only broken the long silence of the wilderness and opened up the grandest route to the Orient, but it has also unsettled the Indians in their prairie and forest retreat; it has not only brought trade to their wigwam villages but also the missionary with the Bible to their very doors. But north of these new provinces where the whistle of the iron horse is heard, are vast regions that are as free from the inroads of the adventurous pioneer as is the Desert of Sahara. This is a country of magnificent lakes and rivers with their untold wealth of fish. Its vast forests and morasses abound in fur-bearing animals of great value. Bears and wolves, reindeer and moose, and many other animals which the Indians love to hunt, exist in large numbers. The Indian tribes of these northern regions live altogether by hunting and fishing. They are not warlike, as are the tribes of the great prairies, but in their pagan state have many vile and abominable practices, which show that they are just as bad as those who delight in war and as much in need of the Gospel. Missionaries of the different denominations have gone into these remote regions, have lived amidst many privations, and have given their lives to the blessed work of Christianising, and then civilising these long neglected people. They have not toiled in vain. Thousands have renounced their paganism and become earnest, genuine Christians. The missionary life in such a land and among such a people is, as might be well imagined, very different from that in other countries. As these mission fields are in such high latitudes the winter is very long and severe. Hence, the habitations to be at all comfortable must be very warmly built. There is no limestone in that land, and consequently, no lime. As a poor substitute, mud is used. The houses are built with a framework of squared timber which is well logged up, and the chinks well packed with moss and mud. When this is thoroughly dry, and made as air-tight as possible, the building is clapboarded, and lined with tongued and grooved boards. Double windows are used to help keep out the bitter cold. When well built and cared for, some of these homes are fairly comfortable; very different from the wretched, uncomfortable abodes some of the early missionaries were content to dwell in. As great forests are everywhere in those regions, wood is used for fuel instead of coal. Great box stoves are kept red hot day and night from October until May. The food used by the missionaries was the same as that on which the Indians lived. Flour was almost unknown. Fish and game afforded subsistence to nearly all. It is true that, many years ago, the great Saskatchewan, brigades of boats came to Norway house and York factory loaded down with vast quantities of pemmican and dried buffalo meat; but long since the great herds of buffalo have been exterminated, and the far-famed pemmican is now but a memory of the past. The last time I saw the wharves of the Hudson Bay Company's post at Norway House piled up with bags of pemmican, was in 1871. This pemmican was pounded buffalo meat, mixed with the tallow and preserved in large bags made out of the green hides of the slaughtered animals, and was the food that for some months of each year gave variety to our fish diet. It was healthy and nourishing to persons of good appetites and unimpaired digestive organs; but to those not to the "manner born," or unaccustomed to it all their days, it appeared, whether cooked or raw, as partaking more of the nature of soap grease, than of anything more inviting. Cut it has gone to return no more: much to the satisfaction of some, and to the regret of others. I and my Indian fishermen used to catch about ten thousand white fish in gill nets every October and November. These we hung up on great stages where they froze as solid as stones. A few hundred we would pack away in the snow and ice for use in the following May, when those left on the stages began to suffer from the effects of the spring warmth. These ten thousand fish were needed by the missionary's family and his dogs: the faithful dogs, from whom so much was required, lived on them all the time, while the missionary's family had them on the table twenty-one times a week for six months. During the winter we had certain varieties of game which I shot, or which the Indian hunters brought in and exchanged with us for tea, sugar, cotton, flannels, or other things. All trade was done by barter, as there was no money then in the land. During the spring and summer months, occasionally, a wild goose or some ducks were obtained, and proved acceptable additions to our bill of fare. Once or twice during the summer the boats of the Hudson Bay Company--the great trading corporation of the country--brought us from civilisation, our yearly supplies. These consisted of: a few bags of flour, a keg of bolster, a can of coal oil, tea, sugar, soap, and medicines. They also brought an assortment of plain, but good, articles of clothing and dry goods which we required in our own household, and with which we also paid the Indians whom we had to hire, as fishermen, dog-drivers, canoemen or guides on my long journeys over the great mission field which was several hundreds of miles square. So many were the calls upon us on account of the sickness and terrible poverty of the people, that often our little stock of flour was soon gone. Other luxuries quickly followed, and is the mission home, as in the wigwams of the natives, the great staple was fish, fish, fish. So many have inquired how Mrs Young and I managed so long to live and thrive, and keep up our health and spirits, on an almost exclusive fish diet, that I will here give the plan we pursued. We were in good health, and charmed with, and thankful for, our work. We both had so much to do, and were kept very busy either in our own cosy little log house home, or outside among the Indians, that our appetites were generally very good and we were ready for our meals as soon as they were ready for us. Still, after all, the very monotony of the unchangeable fish diet sometimes proved too much for us. We would, perhaps, be seated at the break fast table, neither of us with any appetite for the fish before us. We would sip away at our cups of tea without apparently noticing that the fish were untested, and chat about our plans for the day. "My dear," I would say, "what are you going to do to-day?" "I am going to have Kennedy harness up my dogs, and drive me up the river to Playgreen point to see how that old sick woman is getting on and take her the warm blanket I promised her. I will also stop to see how those sick babies are, and how Nancy's little twins are prospering. In the afternoon I want to drive over to York village and see Oosememou's sick wife--What is your day's programme?" To my good wife's question, my answer would be after this fashion: "Well, first of all, as word has come that the wolves have been visiting our fish-cache, Martin Papanekis and I have arranged to drive over there with the dogs to see the extent of the damage. We may be detained some hours making the place so strong, that if they visit it again, which is likely, they will be unable to reach the fish. Then we will spend the rest of the day in that vicinity, visiting and praying with the neighbours." Having taken our tea, we had prayers, and soon after began to carry out the programmes of the day. For several winters we kept for our varied duties, a number of dogs. Mrs Young and I each had our favourite dog-trains. So widely scattered were the Indians, and for such diverse reasons did they look to us and claim our attention, that our lives were full, not only of solicitude for their welfare, but we were, sometimes for days together kept on the "go," often travelling many miles each day in visiting the sick and afflicted, and in looking after the interests of those who needed our personal help. On that particular day in which the conversation above recorded was held, it was after dark ere our work was accomplished and we met in our little dining-room for our evening meal. It was really the first meal of the day; for we had a tacit understanding that when these times arrived that we could not really enjoy our fish diet, we would resolutely put in the whole days work without tasting food. The result was, that when we drew up to the table after having refused the morning breakfast, and ignored the midday meal, we found that our appetite, even for fish, had returned, and we enjoyed them greatly. And what was more, the appetite for them remained with us for some considerable time thereafter. Hunger is still a good sauce; and we found--and others also have made the same discovery--that when the appetite fails and there is a tendency to criticise, or find fault with the food, or even with the cook, a voluntary abstinence for two or three meals will be most beneficial for mind and body, and bring back a very decided appreciation of some of God's good gifts which hitherto had been little esteemed. Of course the great and prominent work was the preaching of the Gospel and the teaching of the people to read the Word of God. To this latter work we devote a full chapter and so need not refer to it here. Next perhaps to the direct results obtained by the preaching of the Word, we accomplished the most good by the medical work. Indians are fond of medicine and are believers in large doses. The hotter the dose is with cayenne pepper, or the more bitter with any powerful drug, the more it is relished, and the greater faith they have in its power to effect a cure. Various were the expedients of some of them to induce us to give them a good strong cup of tea, made doubly hot with red pepper. In their estimation such a dose was good for almost any disease with which they could be afflicted, and was especially welcomed in the cold and wintry days, when the mercury was frozen hard, and the spirit thermometer indicated anything between forty and sixty degrees below zero. Practical sympathy never failed to reach some hearts, and so influenced them, that they were ultimately brought to Christ. So poverty stricken were the people, that the opportunities of helping them were many. Looked at from our standpoint of comfort, they had very little with which to make themselves happy. Few indeed were their possessions. Owning the land in common, there was in it no wealth to any one of them; but neither were there any landlords, or rents. All their other possessions were their wigwams, traps, nets, guns, canoes, dogs, and clothing. They lived from hand to mouth, as they had no facilities for keeping any surplus food even if they were ever fortunate enough to secure more than they needed for their immediate wants. If some were successful in killing a number of deer or bears, they made but little attempt at trying to dry or preserve some of the meat for future use. Very rarely, a little deer-pemmican would be made out of some of the venison; but this was an exceptional case. The general plan, was to keep open house after a successful hunt, with the pot boiling continually, everybody welcomed and told to eat heartily while the supply lasted. He was considered a mean man indeed, who, being fortunate in killing a large quantity of game, did not share it with all who happened to come along. This hospitality was often earned to such an extent, that there would be but very little left for the hunter himself, or for his own family. Thus, life among the Indians for long generations, was a kind of communism. No unfortunate one actually starved to death in the village so long as there was a whitefish or a haunch of venison in the community. It was feast together when plenty comes; starve together when plenty goes. They could not at first understand why, when the missionary had anything in his mission house, he hesitated about giving it out to any one who said he was hungry. This plan, of once a year getting in front the outside world supplies to last a whole year, was indeed a mystery to them. They had an idea that it was very nice to see so many things coming in by the company's boats; but when they were once in the house, the pagan Indians thought that they should be used up as quickly as anybody asked for them. The practice of rationing out the supplies to last for twelve months, was a style of procedure that more than once exposed a missionary, who rigidly adhered to it, to be thought mean, stingy, and very unfriendly. They even questioned the truthfulness of one frugal, careful missionary, who carried out this system. When asked to help some hungry Indians, he refused on the plea that he had nothing left, knowing that that month's supply was gone. They reasoned from the fact, that, they knew that he had the balance of his year's supply stored away. One very interesting phase of our work, was to help the Indian families, who had moved from a wigwam into a cosy little house, into the mysteries of civilised housekeeping. It is true that these houses were not very large or imposing. They were generally built only of logs, well chinked up with moss and mud, and consisted of but one room, with the fireplace in the end or side. As the people were able, they put up partitions and added various little conveniences. At first, when a family moved into one of these homes, some of its members would be very much inclined to keep to their wigwam habits. As these were very shiftless, and far below what we considered to be their possibilities of methodical and tidy housekeeping, some practical lessons had to be given. As they were willing to learn, various plans and methods were adopted to help them. The following was the most successful and perhaps on the whole, to all concerned, the most interesting. When we were aware that some new houses had been erected and taken possession of by families who had known no other habitations than their wigwams, I would announce from the pulpit on Sabbath, that during the week, in connection with my pastoral visitations, Mrs Young and I would dine at Pugamagon's house on Monday, on Tuesday with Oostasemou, and on Wednesday with Oosememou. These announcements at first caused great consternation among the families mentioned. When the services were over and we were leaving the church, we would be accosted by the men whose names I had mentioned, generally in words like these: "Could we believe our ears to-day, when we thought we heard you say, that you and Ookemasquao, (Mrs Young's Indian name) were coming over to dine with us?" "Certainly, your ears are all right. That is what they heard, and that is what we are thinking of doing," would be our answer. "Nothing but fish, have we to set before you," would generally be their reply, uttered in tones of regret. "Well, that is all right. It is what we generally eat at home," we would reply. "Well, but we have no table as yet, or chairs, or dishes fit for you," would be their next objection. "That is all right, we are coming." Meantime, their half frightened wives would be seen standing behind their husbands, most attentively listening to the conversation. When they found that this enumeration of the lack of variety of food and the poverty of their new homes, could not deter us from our determination to dine with them, almost in desperation they would say: "Well, what are we to do to be ready to receive you?" "That is the very question we wanted you to ask," I would reply. "Now I will tell you what is in our hearts. Have plenty of your fish ready and we will look after the rest of the dinner. But there are several other things about which we are anxious, and to which we want you to attend: first, we want to see when we visit you, how very clean and sweet your new house will be; then, we are also anxious to see, how neat and tidy the members of the family will be; we also wish to see, how bright and polished all your kettles, pots, and plates, will be. We are both coming to your homes as I announced, so be on the lookout and ready for us. I believe we will all have a good time." Somewhat relieved by this interview, they would start off to their homes. Soon after breakfast on Monday morning, Mrs Young would have her own dog-train and cariole brought up to the door, aid aided by willing hands, the cariole would be quickly loaded up for the visit to the Indian home announced for that day's visit. Perhaps it is but right here to state, that we never inflicted these visits upon our Indians except when we had abundance of supplies of some kind or other in the mission house, and were thus able to carry over sufficient, with the fish the family supplied, for a hearty meal. So, in her cariole Mrs Young had, not only this liberal supply of food, with plenty of tea and sugar, but a large tablecloth, dishes, knives, forks, spoons, and other essentials. About nine o'clock she was driven over to the home, where, with a certain amount of trepidation, the expectant family were awaiting her coming. They had been at work very early and never did a floor made of well-planed spruce boards shine whiter. For hours it had been scrubbed; an unlimited amount of elbow-grease aided by some soft soap made out of strong lye and the grease of a fat dog, had done the work most completely. The faces of the children showed that they had been most thoroughly polished, while all the family were arrayed in their Sunday apparel. Every kettle and pot bore evidence of the early hour at which the family had arisen and begun operations. The instructions given to me, were, that I was not to put in an appearance until about half-past twelve, and I was so interested that I was generally on time. It was a very gratifying sight that met me, and a very cordial welcome that I received. Every member of the family was simply radiant with happiness and my good wife had most thoroughly caught the contagion of the hour. I, of course, shook hands all round and kissed the fat little baby in its quaint, moss-bag cradle. Then, we were speedily informed of what was very evident, that dinner was ready. There was not a chair or table in the house. The snow white tablecloth was spread out on the almost equally snow white floor, and upon it were placed in order plates, cups, and saucers, knives and forks. Then the dinner which had been cooked in various pots, and pans, at the capacious fireplace, was served up, or rather, down, and in our assigned places we seated ourselves Indian-like, upon the floor. After heaven's blessing was asked, the feast began. The menu was not very elaborate. Spoiled children of luxury, with lost appetites, might have sneered at it, but to us in that land, and especially to this happy Indian family, it was one of the great events of their lives. The missionary and his wife were happy because they saw these poor people so happy. For perhaps three hours, Mrs Young, had been the instructor of that Indian motherland her daughters, as under her direction they prepared that dinner, and they were very proud of their teacher. The dinner was pronounced a great success, and after it was over, and all had had an abundance, the Bible in the syllabic characters, was brought out and read, when all devoutly kneeling, the missionary with a glad heart offered up an earnest prayer for heaven's blessing ever to abide upon that home. After prayers I was expected to leave, while Mrs Young remained for the rest of the day. When she returned to our mission home in the evening, tired, but very happy over her day's work, she would give me some glimpses into the doings of the afternoon. Of course, the first thing, was to teach the women how, nicely and carefully, to wash and put away the dishes; then, the house was once more swept up, when they were ready for the afternoons work. Sometimes the happy Indian mother was able to bring out a nice piece of dress cloth, which her now kind. Christian husband, had bought for her in exchange for his valuable furs. This dress piece had to be cut and fitted by Mrs Young. When asked as to how she wished to have it made she would generally say: "Please, Ookemasquao, cut it out so that it will be like the one you had on in church, last Sunday." So, as far as possible, the dress was cut and fitted in that style, the sewing of it commenced, and full instructions given so that the owner might go on working, until she became perplexed with its intricacies, when she would come to the mission house for help, and so on until the work was completed. In addition to thus helping in dressmaking there were lessons to be given in patching and darning, and in lengthening out, or adding to, the dresses of the rapidly growing Indian girls. Thus, from house to house we went, and for long years after the good results of those visits remained; thus, was a noble ambition stirred in those Indian women's lives to try and keep house like Ookemasquao; and thus, they endeavoured to let their husbands and children see, that no longer did they wish to live in the careless way of the old pagan life, but, as now they had become Christians in their profession, so in their homes, they would have the neatness and cleanliness, that should belong to those who are thus called. CHAPTER FOUR. HOW THE GOSPEL IS CARRIED: BY CANOE IN SUMMER; BY DOG-TRAIN IN WINTER. That great northern country is a land of innumerable lakes and rivers. Unfortunately, many of the streams abound with rapids, and navigation on them, as generally understood, is an impossibility. Hence, the only way of travelling on them in summer, is in the light birch canoe or in some other craft, so portable, that it can be carried or dragged across the many portages that are so numerous in that land of cataracts and falls. From time immemorial, the birch canoe has been considered a part of the craft of the Indian. Centuries of its use has enabled him so to perfect it, that although attempts have been made by the white man to improve it, they have not been very successful. One of our missionaries, who was one of the best canoemen in the country, was conceited enough to imagine, that the beautiful cedar canoe of the white man was superior to the birch-bark ones of the natives. So certain was he of this, that at a good deal of trouble and expense, he had one of the very best models sent to him all the way from Ontario to Norway House. On the beautiful Playgreen lake and other similar places, he enjoyed it amazingly; but when he started off on his missionary touring, the Indians, who are the best judges of these things urged him not to attempt in that beautiful, but unreliable boat, to run the wild rapids of the mighty Nelson or other great rivers. He, however, only laughed at their fears and protestations. A number of them set off together on a long missionary journey, one of the objects of which was, to assist in the building of a new church. For a time, the erection of the little sanctuary in the wilderness went on uninterruptedly, much to the delight of the resident Christian Indians, who had long wished for one in which to worship God. The securing of sufficient food for the builders, was one of the duties that devolved upon, and gave considerable anxiety to, the missionary. When the supplies which had been secured were about exhausted, and it seemed as though the work of building would have to cease on account of the lack of food, word came through some passing hunters that they had seen abundance of sturgeon sporting at the foot of some great rapids of the Nelson River. As they are considered delicious and nourishing food, an expedition was at once prepared to go and capture as many of them as possible. The missionary himself, an energetic, active man, took charge of the party, and insisted, on going in his beautiful cedar canoe. When they reached the head of the rapids, at the foot of which the sturgeon were reported to have been seen in such numbers, there was a brief rest ere the run down was attempted. The Indians all protested against the missionary's resolve to run such wild rapids in a canoe which they were certain was so unfitted for such a dangerous trip. The missionary, however, was stubborn and unmoved by their entreaties. When they saw that their words availed not, to change his resolve, an old experienced guide said: "Well, then let one of us go with you, to sit in the stern of your boat and help you to steer, and also, by our weight, to keep the head of your canoe high up as we run the rapids." This kindly offer to risk and to share the dangers, he also refused, saying, "that he could go in his white man's canoe anywhere an Indian could go in a birch-bark." Their objection to his canoe, was, that it was not built high enough in front, and so when he made the last wild rush in the rapids where the pitch in the waters was so steep, instead of the boat rising like a duck on the mad billows at the foot, it would plunge under like a log and disappear. Well would it have been for the wilful missionary if he had listened to the advice of these experienced men who knew what they were talking about. He, however, cut them short by ordering them to enter their canoes and go on, and he would soon follow. With regret they left him there, sitting on a rock, leisurely watching them as they began the hazardous trip. With care and skill, the Indians all succeeded in successfully running those dangerous rapids which are as wild and fierce as any in the Saint Lawrence. As quickly as possible they went ashore at the foot, and, with their hearts full of foreboding, clustered at a point where they could watch the missionary make the run. Alas! their fears were too well grounded. Down the rushing, roaring river, they saw the brave, but rash man, coming. With consummate skill in the upper rapids, did he manage his beautifully polished craft; but when the last wild plunge at the foot was made, both canoe and missionary suddenly disappeared. It was many days ere the poor putrid body was recovered, far away down the great river. A solitary grave is there on the bank, and a little tombstone set up by loving hands, records the name of this brave, but rash man. For the manufacture of a first class Indian canoe, the birch-bark must be taken from the tree at the right time of the year with the greatest care. The framework must be arranged with a skill and accuracy that comes only of long practice. The fact is, the first-class canoe-makers, were about as rare among the tribes, as are first-class poets in civilisation. Many Indians could make canoes; but there were a few men whose fame for their splendid crafts, were known far and wide, and who were always able to obtain the highest price for all they could make. It is really wonderful, considering the cranky nature of a canoe at its best, what journeys can be made in them. My skilled canoeman and I used to run wild rapids, and cross over storm swept lakes of large dimensions. We lived on the game we could shoot as we hurried along, slept on the rocks or sandy beach where night overtook us, and were always thankful when we found the little companies of Indians for whom we were seeking. As they were generally eager to hear the truth, but little time was lost between the religious services. Long sermons and addresses were the order of the day; and often from early morn until late at night, there was only the short intermissions for our hasty meals of fish or game. As we journeyed on from place to place, our meals were cooked and eaten in the open air, and for days we met no human beings. Our bed was on some balsam boughs, if obtainable; if not, a smooth granite rock or sandy beach did very well. So healthful were we, and so congenial was the work and its surroundings, that there were no sleepless nights, except when sometimes myriads of mosquitoes assailed us, or a fierce thunderstorm swept over us. Then the nights were not so pleasant, and we welcomed the coming of the day, even if, because of the storm, it revealed a damp condition of affairs among our supplies. This was the general plan of our proceedings: when we reached one of the little Indian villages at a time which had been, perhaps, arranged six months or a year before. All who possibly could come in from contiguous fishing or hunting grounds, were there to meet me; then, for several days services would be held, after which the Indians would return to their different hunting grounds, while I would again launch my canoe and with my skilled paddlers, push on to some other point, where would be gathered another company of Indians awaiting my arrival and longing to hear the glorious Gospel of the Son of God. Very precious was the Word to those people so isolated. The coming of the missionary in his canoe to preach to them, and perhaps teach them how to read for themselves the precious Book, was one of the few happy breaks during the brief summer months in their lonely, monotonous lives. They were ever on the lookout for my coming, and especially did those who had renounced their paganism and accepted Christianity give me a hearty welcome, even if it was expressed in their quiet, dignified way. The Indian's alertness and keenness of hearing, as well as of seeing, was something remarkable to me. The following is a good illustration of it. One summer, when thus travelling, I was on the lookout for some friendly Indians whose camping place was determined each summer by the abundance of the food supply. Anxious to make as much of the time as possible, my men and I were paddling away in our canoe at four o'clock in the morning. To hasten our progress, we pushed out into the centre of the great river, down which we were travelling, as there the current was much more rapid than near the shore. At that early hour, the morning mists still lay low and dense on either side, completely hiding from view every object on the shore. While thus pushing on between those walls of vapoury mist, we were startled by the rapid firing of guns. To me this was a decided mystery, but it was at once understood by my experienced canoemen. Quickly turning the head of our canoe in the direction from which came the tiring, they paddled through the now rapidly disappearing vapours, and there on the shore we descried a company of friendly Indians on the lookout for our coming. Their ears had been of more service than their eyes; for although they had been unable to see us, their practiced ears had caught the sound of our paddles. After greeting us most cordially, they produced some smoked reindeer tongues and other native delicacies which they had brought for the missionary. Some very suggestive and profitable religious services were enjoyed there by the riverside. For the comfort and encouragement of those who had already become His children we talked of the loving kindnesses and providential care of our Heavenly Father. We also pleaded with those who had not yet decided to renounce the paganism of their forefathers, to do so speedily and to accept of the religion of the Lord Jesus Christ. Thus the work went on, and through many happy summers, my canoe was afloat for days on many waters, while as a glad messenger, I travelled through the wilderness beseeching men and women to be reconciled to God. Of the dog-travelling in that land so much has been written, that but a short account need here be given. Winter begins in those regions in the latter part of October and continues without any perceptible break until April. So immense, however, are the ice-fields on the great lakes, that they do not all disappear until a month or six weeks later. One winter I was able to make quite a long journey with my dog-trains, arriving home as late as the eighteenth of May. At that date, however, the snow had all disappeared and the frost was nearly all out of the ground. The cold is intense, the spirit thermometer indicating from thirty to sixty below zero. We have seen the mercury frozen as solid as lead for weeks together. For months milk is frozen into cakes like marble. We used to carry large pieces of it wrapped up in a newspaper, and when at the camp-fire we desired a little in our cup of tea, we cut it off with an axe. As will be seen from this we had about seven months of bright cold winter. During all that time there was not a thaw, the snow was never soft, and there was no dampness in the air or under foot. Soft deer skin moccasins are very much superior to civilised boots or shoes under such conditions. There are no roads in that vast country. The frost King freezes up every lake and stream, and hardens into adamant every muskeg and quaking bog. The snow covers everything with its great mantle of beauty, and makes it possible to travel on snow-shoes or by dog-train through vast regions absolutely impassable in the summer months. Horses or other large animals, are absolutely worthless for travel in such regions. The snow is a great leveller. It fills up many a dangerous pitfall and puts such a cushion on the logs and rocks, that upsets or falls are only laughed at by the dog-travellers as they merrily dash along. The only drawbacks to a tumble down a steep declivity of some hundreds of feet, as once befell the writer, were the laughter of his comrades, and the delay incident to digging him out of the snowdrift at the bottom, which was anywhere from twenty to thirty feet deep. These accidents and delays were not frequent; and, although there were hardships and sufferings, there were many things to instruct and interest, and to break the monotony of winter travelling in that lonely land. In the coldest, brightest, sunniest days, the fitful mirage played its strange antics with distant landscapes, and at times brought within near vision places many miles away. Sometimes circle within circle appeared around the sun, until as many as four were distinctly visible; each circle at times having within it four mock suns--sixteen mock suns visible at the same time was a sight worth going a long distance to see. Strange to say, the Indians dreaded the sight of them, as they declared they were always the forerunners of blizzard storms; and the more vivid these sun-dogs, as they called them, the more dreadful would be the storm. But the most fascinating and glorious of all the celestial phenomena of those glorious regions, are the Northern Lights--the Aurora Borealis. Confined to no particular months of the year, we have seen them flashing and quivering through the few hours of the short nights following the hottest days in July or August, as well as in the long cold nights of the winter months. They would sometimes linger on all night in their weird beauty, until lost in the splendour of the coming day. A description of them has often been attempted by writers of northern scenes, and I have to confess, that I have been rash enough to try it elsewhere; but their full glories are still unwritten and perhaps ever will be. They appear to belong to the spiritual rather than to the earthly; and there are times when they so dazzle and overwhelm, that it does seem as though only the language of spirits is adequate to the task of describing them. Then they are so changeable. Never have I seen two great exhibitions of them alike. At first they are of purest white; but when the scintillations begin, they take on every colour of the rainbow. Sometimes they appear in great brilliant arcs, as in the illustration. At other times they are simply ribbons of wavy undulations that seem to soothe, as well as charm, with their rhythmic motions and ever changing hues. At still other times they are mighty armies of disciplined warriors going out to conflict. Then, when they seem wearied with their warlike deeds, they appear to marshal all their forces; and, fairly filling the northern heavens, to rush on, and up, until the very zenith is reached, where they form a corona of such dazzling splendour, that it really seems as though the longing prayer of the church militant was being fulfilled; and, that universal triumph had come to the world's Redeemer here, and now the angelic and redeemed hosts of heaven and earth are bringing forth the Royal Diadem to "crown Him Lord of all." The dogs which we use in the dog-trains, are generally of any breed that has in it size, endurance, and sagacity. The Esquimaux breed of dogs formerly predominated; but in later years there has been such an admixture of other varieties, that a pure Esquimaux dog is now a rarity except at some of the most northern posts and missions. My worthy predecessor among the Crees, left me a train of mongrels, that were good enough for hauling wood and fish for the mission; and also for the short trips to the places near home where I held weekly services; but when I attempted to make the long journeys of hundreds of miles to the remote parts of my great mission field, which was larger than all England or the state of New York, they proved miserable failures. Travelling with such dogs, was like the experience of the man who, in the olden times, paid first-class fare to ride in a packet boat on the Erie canal, from New York to Buffalo, and then drove a horse on the towpath all the way. So, after nearly killing myself travelling with weak or lazy dogs, having to walk or run on snowshoes all the time on account of their inability to draw me, I resolved, if possible, to become the owner of better ones. I appealed to some good friends in civilisation to aid me, and the result was, that I was soon supplied with some of the finest dogs that could be obtained. Among them, Jack and Cuffy, the gifts of Senator Sanford of Hamilton, were never equalled. Through the kindness of James Ferrier, Esquire, of Montreal, five beautiful Saint Bernards were obtained from Mrs Andrew Allan. Dr Mark of Ottawa, and other friends also remembered me, with the result, that soon I had some of the finest dog-trains in the land. These civilised dogs had all the good qualities of the Esquimaux without any of their thievish tricks. They proved themselves equal in their endurance and sagacity; and only lacked in that their feet seemed more easily to become injured and sore. The dog-sleds are ten feet long and eighteen inches wide. They are used to carry our bedding and supplies, as often for days and nights together we are entirely dependent on our loads for food and lodgings. These miscellaneous loads are well packed up in the great deer skin wrappers and so securely tied to the sleds, that no matter how many may be the upsets, the loads never become disarranged. My own sled, which was called a "cariole," was one of the usual oak sleds with parchment sides and a firm back attached. Sometimes these carioles were handsomely painted and were very comfortable vehicles in which to ride. When well wrapped up in fur robes, with plenty of fat meat to eat, splendid dogs to draw you, and loving loyal Indian attendants with you dog-travelling was not without its pleasures and enjoyments; especially if the sun was bright, the icy pavement under you free from drifting snows, and the temperature not colder than forty degrees below zero. It was a different thing, however, when blizzards howled around you and the air was so fall of the fine cutting particles of icy snow, that it was dangerous to expose any part of the face to their pitiless attacks. Then it was, that the marvellous skill of the experienced Indian-guide was seen, and we were led on amidst such miserable surroundings with an accuracy and speed that seemed almost incredible. The camp, when the day's travel was ended--especially if blizzards had assailed us--was a welcomed spot, even if it was only a whole day out in the snow on the sheltered side on some dense spruce or balsam grove. At times we were able to find places in which thus to camp that were quite picturesque. When the halt for the night was called by the guide, the first thing done was to unharness our faithful dogs. Our snow-shoes were improvised as shovels, and from the spot selected as our resting place, the snow was quickly piled up in a great bank at our rear; and, sometimes, if the night threatened to be unusually severe, on each side of us. Then the great roaring fire of dry wood, at which we cooked our suppers, thawed out the fish for our dogs, and warmed our half frozen bodies, was very welcome. When supper was eaten, and prayers, so sweet and profitable to us all, were over, how delightful to sit down on our robes and spend some hours in pleasant chat ere my bed was made and I was cosily and thoroughly tucked in by my faithful comrades. It was hard at first to sleep with the head completely covered; there was such a sense of smothering, that I often ran the risk of the freezing rather than the smothering. One night, perhaps because of this suffocating sensation, I unconsciously uncovered my head. After a time I awoke suddenly to consciousness, to find that I was trying to pull off my now frozen nose which I thought was the end of an axe handle. We fed our dogs on fish, giving them only one meal a day, and that one, when the day's work was done. To feed them in the morning, caused them to be sluggish and stupid for some time thereafter; and the same happened if they were fed at noon. Long experience has shown, that the dogs thrive the best, and are able to do the most work, on one good meal given to them before their long night's rest. The dog-shoes, which are so essential to their comfort and recovery when a foot is frozen or badly injured, are much prized by them. These shoes are made out of a warm English cloth called duffle, and are in shape like a large mit without a thumb. An old dog that has once become accustomed to dog shoes, is ever hankering after them when on a long cold trip. Sometimes, they will come and most comically hold up their feet to be shod. At other times, they have been known to come into camp and there lie down on their backs, and, holding up their four feet, plead most ludicrously and importunately for these warm woollen shoes. Some of them get very cunning at their work, and shirk from doing their share of the pulling; and yet, to avoid discovery, will appear to be doing more work than any other dog in the train. But this dog travelling was hard work at best; and dogs, as well as their master, were always glad when the long journeys were ended and a welcome rest for a little while could be taken, to heal up the wounds and frost bites, and gather strength for the next trip. Good was accomplished, and that was the great reward for all the risks run and sufferings endured. Many for whom Christ died, would never up to the present hour, have heard the Gospel or have seen the Book, if it had not been for the missionary carrying it to them by the canoe in summer, and the dog-train in winter. Thank God, many of them have heard and have accepted gladly the great salvation thus brought to them. With its reception into their hearts and lives, marvellous have been the transformations. Where the devil-dance, and ghost-dance, and other abominations, performed to the accompaniment of the conjurer's rattle or the monotonous drumming of the medicine man, once prevailed and held the people in a degrading superstition, the house of prayer has now been erected, and the wilderness has become vocal with the sweet songs of Zion. Lives once impure and sinful have been transformed by the Gospel's power, and a civilisation real and abiding, has come in to bless and to add to their comfort for this life, while they dwell in a sweet and blessed assurance of life eternal in the world to come. CHAPTER FIVE. GOD ON THE ROCK, OR HOW THE INDIANS ARE TAUGHT TO READ THE BOOK. The British and Foreign Bible Society, the American Bible Society, and other kindred institutions that print and scatter the Word of God, have been, and are, of incalculable benefit to the missionaries. Long ago the Psalmist said: "The entrance of thy words giveth light;" and blessedly and gloriously is this truth being realised. No matter where a missionary goes, he feels much hampered if he has not the Book in the language of the people. It is a matter of thankfulness, that in these later years--thanks to these glorious Bible Societies-- there is hardly a land or nation where a missionary can go, but he will find the Bible printed in the language or languages of that nation, and offered to the people at rates so reasonable, that the poorest of the poor may have it if they will. But it was not always so, and we need not go back to Wickliffe or Tyndal to read of difficulties in the way of presenting to the common people the Word of God in their own tongue. All the great missionary societies in their earlier days had their Careys, and Morrisons, and Duffs, who struggled on, and persevered against oppositions and difficulties that to ordinary mortals would have been insurmountable, and would have filled them with despair. The difficulties that John Eliot had to overcome ere he was able to give the Bible to the Indians of New England, were numerous and exasperating; but his indomitable will carried him through to ultimate success. Sad indeed is it to think, that there is not a man, woman or child of them left to read his Bible. All the tribes for whom, at such a cost of tears and difficulties, he translated the Book, are gone. The greed for land and the cruelties of the early settlers, were too much for the poor Indian. From his different reservations where Eliot, Brainard, Mayhews, and other devoted friends tried to save him, he was driven back, back, with such destruction and loss at each move, that ultimately he was simply wiped out. And so to-day, in the library of Harvard University and in a very few other places, there are to be found copies of Eliot's Bible; sealed books, which no man can read; a sad evidence of "Man's inhumanity to man." One of the most signal triumphs in giving the Bible to a people in their own language, and printed in a way so simple as to be very easily acquired by them, is that of the translation and printing of the Book in the syllable characters. These syllabic characters were invented by the Rev James Evans, one of the early Methodist missionaries to the scattered tribes of Indians in what were then known as the Hudson Bay Territories. For some years Mr Evans had been employed as a missionary among the Indians who resided on different reservations in the Province of Ontario, then known as Upper Canada. At the request of the parent Wesleyan Missionary Society, and at the solicitation of the Hudson Bay Fur-trading Company, Mr Evans, accompanied by some devoted brother missionaries went into those remote northern regions to begin missionary operations. Mr Evans and some of his companions travelled all the way from Montreal to Norway House, on the Nelson River, in a birch-bark canoe. A look at the map will give some idea of the length and hardships of such a journey in those days. But they succeeded in accomplishing it; and with glad hearts began their blessed work of the evangelisation of the natives. Missionary methods must necessarily differ in different lands. The missionary to succeed must be a man who can adopt himself to his surroundings; and he must be quick to see where success can be most easily attained. Here was a people who were fishermen and hunters, living far north of the agricultural regions. As hunters, they were ever on the go, so that it was almost an impossibility to keep them long enough in one place to teach them to read in the ordinary way. Over these difficulties Mr Evans pondered and worked and, after any amount of experimenting and failure, succeeded in inventing and perfecting that is known as the syllabic characters. These very simple characters each represent a syllable, so all the difficulties of learning to spell are done away with. In prosecuting his work, Mr Evans had to labour under many disadvantages. Living in a land so remote from civilisation, he had but little material on which to experiment, and but few facilities to aid him. From the fur-traders he begged a few sheets of the lead that lines the interior of tea chests. This he melted into suitable pieces, out of which he carved his first type. For paper he was obliged at first to use birch bark. His ink was manufactured out of the soot from his chimney and sturgeon oil. Yet with these rude appliances he succeeded in being able to print portions of the Scriptures and some hymns in the language of the Cree Indians. When the story of his marvellous invention reached England, generous friends came to his assistance. From some of his types, as models, a generous supply was cast; these, with a good hand printing press and all necessary supplies of paper, ink, and other essentials, were shipped to him by the Hudson Bay Company, to Norway House. For years the work of printing portions of the Word of God was there prosecuted, until at length the British and Foreign Bible Society took up the work, and now, all the Bibles the people require are most cheerfully furnished them by that most generous and glorious society. The love of the Christian Indians for their Bible is very gratifying. So great a comfort and solace is it to them in their solitary wigwams and lonely hunting-camps, that nothing will induce them to leave it out of their pack. The trail may be rough and the journey of many days duration; food may have to be carried on their backs for days together so that every pound of weight has to be determined upon; days of hunger must be faced ere the journey ends and abundance of game is reached, yet the Great Book is ever carried as the most prized of all their possessions. Such a thing as a Christian Indian throwing out his Bible, when in an emergency his load had to be lightened, I have never known. Their work as hunters gives them a good deal of leisure time, which enables them to be diligent students of the Book. When in the beginning of the winter, they go to the distant hunting grounds, the hunting lodge is erected, and the traps and snares and other appliances for capturing the game are all arranged. Then, especially in the capture of some kinds of game, they have to allow some days to pass ere they visit the traps. This is to allow all evidences of their presence to disappear, as some of the most valuable fur-bearing animals have a wonderful power of detecting the presence of man, and will not approach either his traps or trail, until some considerable time after the hunter had finished his work and retired. During these long waitings in their wigwams, or hunting lodges, the Indians have not much with which to interest themselves; the result is, the Bible has come to them as a wonderful benediction. Its startling incidents and stories, become more prized than the legends and myths that have come down to them from their forefathers, and have been repeated over and over in their hearing by the old story-tellers of the tribe. Then, when the revelation of God's love in the gift of His Son has been proclaimed to, and received by them--and here in this Book they can read it for themselves--they are filled with grateful and adoring love, and the Book is indeed most precious. As I journeyed among these wonderful people, I carried as part of my outfit, a number of these syllabic Bibles, and no gift was more acceptable to those who had but lately renounced their paganism and given their hearts to God. In some way or other they had acquired a knowledge of the syllables, so that the acquisition of a Bible that they could call their own, was a treasure most prized and used. Amongst those, who until my visit had never seen a Bible or heard a missionary, there were conflicting ideas regarding the Book. Some, at first, were afraid of it. It was "great medicine," and only for the white man. One old conjurer who boasted of his supernatural powers and of the wonderful things he could do by the aid of his "medicines," failing signally when I challenged him to show his power, declared, that it was because of the Book which I carried in my pocket. Then, I permitted an Indian to take the Book some distance away; and when he still failed, he protested that it was because I had so much of it in my head or heart. Of course this feeling of fear for the Book quickly left them as they became acquainted with it. When Christianity is accepted, there comes a great love for the precious volume that has in it so much information of things about which they are in such ignorance, and that reveals the love of the Great Spirit for His Indian children. The missionaries employed simple and primitive ways to teach the syllabic characters to those who knew them not, but who were anxious to learn. Sometimes with a lead pencil on a piece of board or birch-bark, the characters were drawn and slowly and carefully gone over, time and time again, until they were completely mastered. When pencils gave out, the end of a burnt stick, or a piece of coal from the fire, had to serve as a substitute. Our illustration will show one of my methods used at Burntwood River far up in the Nelson River country. I had the honour of being the first missionary who ever reached the Indians of that section and preached to them the Gospel. They are a fine company of Indians, and I found, that with the few exceptions of some old conjurers and medicine men and polygamists, the people were not only glad to see me, but anxious to hear and accept the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ. I visited them twice a year and began the work; but to my beloved first colleague, the Rev John Semmens, was given the work of establishing the mission. On my visits, which as usual were made with my dogs in winter and by canoe in summer, I had to gather the Indians for religious services as best I could. The large kitchen of the Hudson Bay Company's trading post was put at my disposal by the officer in charge, who was ever kindly disposed toward the good work. In this, as well as in the poor wigwams of the natives, we met, and sang, and prayed, and explained to them as well as possible the plan of salvation--God's great love toward them. In the short brilliant summer the work was very much more pleasant. Then, under the beautiful trees, or where the great rocks rose up around us and cast their welcome shadows, we could gather the people and talk of the loving Heavenly Father; not only of His Creative power, but of His redeeming love in the gift of His beloved Son. In my missionary experiences I have found, that the majority of men are sick of sin. Down in the human heart there is a longing for something which is only really satisfied by the acceptance of the Lord Jesus Christ. It is true that these inner feelings may be long hidden from outer vision, or there may be an endeavour to satisfy their cravings by the vigorous exercise of all the religious ceremonies that have been revealed to them in their idolatrous or pagan surroundings; but when they can be induced to speak out and unburden their very souls, their bitter wailing cry is one of dissatisfaction and unrest. Happy is the missionary who can so win the confidence of a people thus dissatisfied, that they will reveal to him their heart's burdens and longings. His victory is more than half assured. Christ in His fulness, lovingly presented to such, and accepted by them, is soon in their hearts a satisfying portion. The missionary ever finds among all classes of pagan people that the Book is always considered a mysterious and wonderful volume. Its marvellous incidents ever attract. They never tire of the services where it has a prominent place. Sermons, even though hours in duration, if full of its truths, will be attentively listened to. One day at one of these places where I was holding some extended services, I said to the friendly Indians who were around me: "Would you not like to read this Book for yourselves?" A chorus of hearty affirmative answers, was the quick response. It did not take us long to organise our school, for it was indeed a primitive affair. I was fortunate in having a goodly number of syllabic Bibles, which, at a great deal of trouble, we had brought with us in our canoe. We had carried them across many a portage and had guarded them from injury in many a storm. Not one person in that audience except my boatmen, knew a letter or syllabic character. We had no primary books, which are considered so essential in organising a school that has to begin at first principles; we had not even a slate, pencil, paper, or blackboard. However, "necessity is the mother of invention," and it was so here. Near at hand was a huge rock that towered up like a house, one side of it being as smooth as a wall. This constituted an admirable substitute for a blackboard. Burnt sticks from the camp-fire, where our fish and bear's meat had been cooked, were used as substitutes for chalk. (Our smaller illustration shows thirty-six syllabic characters with their names.) After a few words of explanation the work of memorising the characters began. A, E, Oo, Ah. It was just like a lot of little children in a primary school beginning with A, B, C. Over, and over again, we repeated them, one after the other, until my mixed audience became familiarised with the sounds. Thus we studied them for hours. At first the interest in the work was very great, and from the old men of eighty, to the boys and girls of six or eight the best of attention was paid. They seemed to vie with one another in their efforts to see which could master them most quickly. After a time the interest flagged considerably, especially among the older men, as to them, these characters alone, were as yet, unmeaning sounds. Some of them got up and lit their pipes, and moving around, divided their time between the lesson and the smoking. Of course I had to let them smoke. I might have found it a difficult matter to have stopped them if I had been so foolish as to have tried. So I told them some pleasant stories, as we toiled on at our lesson, it was not many hours before a number of my undisciplined pupils had a fairly good idea of the names of the characters. Knowing that I could arouse the interest of the most apathetic among them when I began to combine the characters into words, I asked for their earnest attention while I proceeded in my work. I marked out some simple words such as: (pa-pa,) (ma-ma,) (Oo-me-me,)--(English: pigeon.) I showed them how thus to combine these signs into words. This very much interested them; but the climax came, when with the burnt stick I marked (Maneto,--English: God, or the Great Spirit.) Great indeed was the excitement among them. They could hardly believe their own eyes that before them was Maneto, the Great Spirit. He whom they had heard in the thunder and the storm, whose power they had seen in the lightning flash, about whom, with reverence and awe, they had talked in their wigwams, and at their camp-fires--"Maneto!" Here, made by a burnt stick on a rock visible to their eyes, was that name: _God on the Rock_! It was indeed a revelation. Something that filled, and thrilled them, as I have never before or since seen Indians thrilled. For a time I could only keep quiet and look on, and rejoice as I studied them. Some of them in their amazement were doubtful of their own senses. They acted as though they could not believe their own eyes; so they appealed to those nearest to them, and said: "Is it Maneto to you?" Others were noticed rubbing their eyes, as though they feared that by some witchery bad medicine had been thrown in them, and, in their Indian phraseology, they were "seeing double." There was no more inattention. Every pipe went out, and every eye followed me, as in these syllables I wrote on the rock, God is Love. After talking about this a little. I then wrote, God Loves You. This we followed with other short sentences full of blessed Gospel truths. Thus passed some hours in this delightful way, and before they were ended, numbers of my pupils had become quite familiarised with the formation of words out of these characters. Then we opened our bundle of Bibles, and, passing them around as far as they would go, I had them all turn to the first verse of the first chapter of Genesis. After some explanation of a few additional signs which they there saw upon the printed page, and which give some variation to the sound of the syllabic character to which they are attached, we began the study of the verse. Of course our progress at first was slow. It could not be otherwise under such circumstances. But we patiently persevered, and it was not very long ere they were able to read in their own language: "Ma-wache Nistum Kaesamaneto Keoosetou Kesik Mesa Askee, (In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.") When they had acquired the ability to read this verse for themselves, and had grasped a little of its meaning, there was another outburst of delight. That first verse of Genesis is very suggestive and full of meaning to any one, no matter how learned, who strives to investigate it. It is in itself the first chapter of God's revelation of Himself to man, and has long occupied the attention and study of the most godly and profound. Here, for the first time, it was being read by a company of poor Indians just emerging from paganism. But they were sharp and keen, and able to grasp a new truth; and so when the verse first opened before them with its wondrous meaning, great was their delight and amazement. "Now we know all about it!" some of them shouted. "The Kaesa-Maneto, (the great God,) made all these things, the heaven and the earth." Others said: "Our fathers talked about it in their wigwams, and wondered how all these things came as they are; but they had to confess that they were in darkness, and knew nothing. But now we know it! We know it!" Over and over again they read the verse until they had thoroughly committed it to memory. And in after days, at many a campfire and in many a hunting lodge, it was repeated to others who had not heard it, but who, on hearing it, were also filled with gratification and delight at the answer which it gave to what had long been a subject of perplexity and awe. Day after day before that rock the study of other verses followed. Slowly of course at first, but gradually increasing as they became more and more acquainted with the syllabics. Thus these eager interested Indians, studied amidst these primitive surroundings, and applied themselves with such earnestness to their work, that although they had never been to school a day in their lives, some of them, in ten days or two weeks were able to read with fluency the Word of God in their own language. No wonder the great Lord Dufferin, then Governor General of the Dominion of Canada, said to me: The man who invented that syllabic alphabet, was one of the great benefactors of humanity, and more richly deserved a pension, a title, and a resting place in Westminster Abbey, than many who were there buried. For some years, at several of the missions, the Christian Indians were only taught a knowledge of these syllabic characters, and were thus only able to read the books which were printed with them. Now, however, in all the schools, the English language is taught also, and our common alphabet is in general use. The result is, that many of the younger generation understand, talk, and read in English. English Bibles are being circulated among them, and many of the younger people already prefer the English Bible to the Indian translation. Still, all the older people only understand the syllabic characters; and so for years to come, this wonderful invention will still be utilised, and will continue to be a benediction. Hymn-books, catechisms, the Pilgrim's Progress, and a few other books of a religious character, have been printed in the syllables, and are much prized and well used, by their Indian readers. All the churches that are currying on missionary work in those vast northern regions have availed themselves of Mr Evans' invention. Among other tribes than the Cree, where there are different sounds in their language, some few extra characters have been added. Even in Labrador and Greenland the devoted Moravian missionaries who are there toiling, are successfully using the syllabic characters to teach the poor wandering Esquimaux how to read, in his own uncouth Language, the Word of God. CHAPTER SIX. THE STORY OF SANDY HARTE. Among all of my appointments, the one which perhaps afforded me the greatest pleasure and satisfaction, was that of Nelson River. At Oxford house we had a larger number of converted Indians; but that mission had been long organised, and devout and earnest men, like Reverend Messrs Brooking, and Stringfellow, had given to it years of honest self-denying toil. Nelson River, on the other hand, was a new and untried field, where it was my privilege and joy to go as the first missionary. Of the many grand converts there happily rescued from the darkness and power of paganism, there is one beautiful character who is now the right hand of the resident missionary. His name is Sandy Harte. My introduction to him was a peculiar one. The day was one of rare beauty, and I had spent the forenoon in teaching a number of adults and Indian children how to read the Word of God printed in the syllabic characters. During the noon hour of rest I entered the birch bark wigwam of one of the principal Indians, and was naturally surprised to observe a fine looking Indian lad stretched out on a bed of rabbit robes and blankets while the other boys were engaged in various sports. Addressing him, I said: "Why are you lying here this beautiful day?" With a sudden movement he jerked away the upper robe that was over him, and, pointing to his shattered thigh, said in tones full of bitterness: "Missionary, that is the reason why I am here, instead of being out in the sunshine with the other boys." The despairing tone, the emphatic utterance, at once aroused my sympathies and caused me to be deeply interested in this wounded boy, so helpless, not knowing the hour when, according to the prevailing custom, he might be put to death. The heartless reasoning of these Indians in such cases was like this: he will always be lame and helpless; why should he be a burden on his friends? let us kill him at once; it will be better for him and them. However, they had postponed the killing of this lad because he was the son of the chief. After I had examined his wound and had given some directions as to its treatment, I sat down beside him and heard from his lips the sad story of the misfortune which had crippled him for life. It seems, that he and another boy were out shooting partridges and rabbits. While moving through the forest, Sandy walking ahead, the gun of his comrade accidentally went off and poured its contents into his leg. The bone was badly splintered, and the muscles so cut and torn, that there was absolutely no possibility of his ever being able to walk on it again. After I had had quite a chat with him, I asked if he would like to be able to read the Word of God. His bright eyes shone with pleasure, and his response was so expressive of eager longing, that I at once began the first lesson. Sitting beside him on the ground, I drew the syllabic characters and spent an hour or so in teaching them to him. He had a very retentive memory, and was intensely anxious to learn as rapidly as possible. So, every day, when I had finished giving lessons to the crowd of young and old people, I used to hurry over to the wigwam where he lay to give him additional instruction; and so deeply interested was he, that I felt well repaid for my trouble. As I was hundreds of miles from home--having come on that long trail with a couple of Indians in a birch canoe--and had a number of other points at which I wished to stop and do missionary work, I was obliged to bring my visit at this place to an end after a couple of weeks. But before leaving, I had an informal conversation with Murdo, Oowikapun, and some other of the friendly Indians. "What a pity it is," I exclaimed, "that Sandy could not be educated! If only he could be educated enough to be your teacher, what a good thing it would be! For, next to a missionary to live permanently among you, a godly teacher would be the best thing you could have. He will never again have the full use of his leg, so will not be able to become a great hunter; but if he had an education, he might be a blessing to you all!" Then I bade farewell to these northern Indians who had received me so kindly, and with some parting words, especially urging that the wounded boy should be kindly cared for, I resumed my adventurous journey. As we journeyed on from place to place we had plenty of strange adventures. We shot a fine black bear, and, at our first meal after our battle with him, enjoyed picking his ribs. In his capture, I was very much interested in watching how human experience was able to overmatch animal instinct. We had a very narrow escape in some wild and treacherous rapids, where we lost part of the contents of our canoe and were all nearly drowned ere we succeeded in reaching the shore. This loss was the more keenly felt, as in such an isolated place it is utterly impossible to replenish your store. However, after several such mishaps, we succeeded in carrying out our programme; and at length reached home in safety. The long winter, with its seven or eight months of bitter cold, set in shortly after. For a few weeks I was kept busy with home matters and the affairs of the local mission appointment. As soon, however, as the great lakes and rivers were well frozen over and a sufficient fall of snow made it possible to begin my winter journeys, I harnessed my dogs, and with my guide and dog-drivers, responded, as far as possible, to the many calls to tell the Story of the Great Book. So many were the Macedonian calls from other places that winter, that I did not make a trip to Nelson River. This I regretted exceedingly, for although it was the most distant, it was one of the most promising and encouraging of all the new fields to which I had gone. About the middle of the following summer, while enjoying the glories of a magnificent sunset, I saw a canoe with some Indians in it coming toward our home. When they had landed, two of them at once came up to me, greeted me most cordially, and before I could fully return their greetings, or recall where I had before seen them, exclaimed: "We remember your good words to us--and we have brought Sandy along." "Sandy along! Who is Sandy?" I asked. "Why, Sandy Harte--you remember him--the boy who was shot in the leg-- the one you used to go and teach; we have brought him along, for we remember your words, so sweet to us, about him." "What were my words?" I asked, for I could not at that moment recall them. "Why, your words were: What a pity it is that Sandy is not educated! If he were educated, he might be such a blessing to you all. We have not forgotten it. We have often talked about it. What you said to us and taught us from the Great Book was so good, we are hungry for more. We are willing to be taught. You cannot come all the time. We want some one to be with us who knows something; so we have brought Sandy all the way in the canoe to be taught by you; and then, to come back to us, that we may learn of him." There was no mistake about it. There was Sandy in the middle of the canoe looking up at me with those brilliant black eyes that had so attracted me in that wigwam far away. I went down to the canoe, spoke kindly to the lad, shook his hand, and invited all the Indians into my house. After introducing them to my good wife, I told her Sandy's story; and how they had remembered my words of a year ago, and had brought him on this long journey to place him in our care: utterly unable themselves to do anything for his support, I confess, that for the moment, I regretted having been so quick in uttering words which had been so construed, by these Indians and which had thrown upon our care this wild wounded Indian boy. It was the time of the first Riel Rebellion in Manitoba, and although we were living far north of the actual scene of rebellion, yet our supplies had in so great a measure been cut off, that we were existing on very scant rations. Often we averaged no more than two meals a day, and frequently, when eating breakfast, we did not know from what quarter our dinner was to come. And now while on the verge of starvation, came this extraordinary addition to our family, which meant another mouth to feed, and another body to clothe. In our abounding poverty, here indeed was a trial of faith! After talking the matter over with my brave large-hearted wife, and asking divine direction, the noble woman said: "The Lord is in it, and He who has sent the mouth to be filled will surely send all our additional requirements." So we cheerfully received Sandy into our home and made him as one of our family. He was in a deplorable condition in more ways than one. Coming from a wild band of Indians who were in complete ignorance of cleanliness and of the habits and requirements of the whites, this poor wounded Indian boy had many things to learn; and at first, on account of his ignorance and prejudices, we had many opportunities for the exercise of patience and forbearance. HOW SANDY WAS CONQUERED. Like nearly all of the pagan Indians, Sandy had prejudices against women, and it was hard at first to get him to pay any attention to what the missionary's wife said. He thought it humiliating and degrading to obey, or even to pay any attention to a woman's request. Yet we both treated him with the greatest kindness, and hoped and prayed, that time and the grace of God would work the changes needed for him. He was a bright scholar and made rapid progress in his studies, and in a few months was able to read in his own language. For a time, the novelty of his new surroundings kept him interested, and he seemed quite at home. He made many friends among our Christian Indians, who, on learning of the peculiar way in which he had been thrown upon our hands, became much interested in him. He went to Sunday school, and also attended the various services in the church; but for a long time it seemed as though it was only in the spirit of mere idle curiosity, or because others did so. When the first long winter after his arrival had ended, and the springtime had come again, Sandy became very homesick and longed to go back to his far-off wigwam abode. The sight of rippling waters and running streams was too much for his wild untamed spirit, and he chafed under the discipline of a civilised home, and became dejected and miserable. We all noticed his restlessness; but talked kindly to him, and urged him to apply himself to his lessons, that he might the sooner be able to return to his wild free life in his distant home. But Indian-like, the more we said to him, the worse he seemed to become, until he made it very uncomfortable for us all. One day instead of going to school, he hobbled away on his crutches to a picturesque point of land which jutted far out into the lake. In the evening, the teacher came to the mission house and inquired why Sandy had not been at school that day. This of course was news to us. We were at once much alarmed, and immediately began searching for the absentee. After about an hour's search, in which quite a number of Indians took part, Sandy was found curled up among the rocks on the point, crying bitterly for his Nelson River home. Having exhausted all my persuasive powers, I saw that I must change my style of dealing with him. So, appearing to be very indignant, I picked up a large stick, and, rushing at him, sternly ordered him to get up and return to our house as quickly as possible. With a frightened glance into my face to see how much I meant, he sprang up and hurried back to the mission house, I gave him a severe reprimanding, asking him, among other things if he thought such conduct on his part was a fair return for all our kindness to him. Then I said to him sharply: "Go up to your room and bring down all your torn and soiled clothes and moccasins." With a sad look he obeyed, and soon returned with his bundle. After looking over the lot, I took them away from him; and, calling in an Indian woman, gave her some soap and sewing material, and told her to take all of those things, wash and mend them nicely, bring them back to me, and I would pay her for her trouble. When he saw his clothes going away, he was in great perplexity and distress as he was not at all sure that they would be returned to him. The fact was, he had a good deal of vanity about him in those days, and I made the discovery that he had become very proud of the clothes we had given him in place of the wretched ones in which he had been brought to us. So, the threatened loss of all he had except what he wore, was to him a dire calamity, I let him grieve for some hours, saying but little to him, resolved to put a stop to his nonsense which was only making himself and others miserable. When the bundle of clean clothing returned, I added to it new pants, shirts, moccasins, a bright handkerchief, and a hat; then, in the kindest way possible, with loving words. I gave him the whole bundle. Poor boy! he was bewildered and amazed. He could not speak his thanks; but his glistening tear dimmed eyes told us that he was cured and conquered. Never did the stern lesson have to be repeated. But he was greatly perplexed. It was such different treatment from that to which he had been accustomed. This combination of sternness and kindness, was to him such a mystery, that he evidently could not stop thinking and wondering about it. So, one day when he had nothing to do, he went over to have a talk on the subject with one of the Indians who was a sensible Christian man and a great friend of his. "I cannot make out our missionary," said Sandy. "When he came after me to the point where I had hid, he seemed very angry, and took up a big stick as if to strike me. Indeed, he nearly frightened the life out of me although he did not once hit me. Then, after ordering me back to the house in such a hurry, he made me bring out all my clothes, and gave them to a woman to carry away. Of course I never expected to see them again: but I did--they came back clean and mended, and he had added a lot more to them. I cannot understand it. The missionary at first seemed as though he would thrash me, then he turned round and gave me all these good things." From the Christian Indian to whom Sandy had gone, we afterward learned all about this interview. He said he let the lad tell him of his perplexities, and then gave him a long faithful talk. Here is the substance of his reply to Sandy. "The missionary and his kind wife have come here to do us good. They have left their friends far away. They were many days on their journey to this land, and have suffered many hardships. When your friends brought you here, they took you into their home and treated you, not as a servant, but as one of their own family. There is not an Indian in the village but would be glad to change places with you, and to be treated as you have been. If they have food, they share it equally with you. You have had medicine and bandages for your sore leg. You are well dressed. They have been like parents to you. Yet you have not been grateful. You acted very foolishly. You ran away from school and hid yourself. You made their hearts alarmed for fear some serious accident had happened to you. The worst is, you do not obey Ookemasquao (the missionary's wife,) as you ought. White ladies are to be as much obeyed and respected as men. Yet in spite of all your foolishness and stubbornness, they have been very patient with you. They kept hoping, that as you grew older you would grow wiser; but you have been getting so much worse lately, that the missionary has had to deal sternly with you. He, however, felt sorry for you; his heart was kind toward you all the time; and so, when you went back, he showed his love to you by his presents. We all see, that the missionary and his wife have nothing in their hearts toward you but love. But you must be obedient, and you ought to be thankful. They are praying much for you, and hoping that you will yet become a good Christian, and at some future time, be a great blessing to your own people." Thus this sensible Christian Indian talked to Sandy, and it was to him a revelation. From that day there was a decided change in him for the better. He became obedient and studious, and was ever anxious to do what he could in return for the kindnesses shown to him. He was a capital shot, and he and I had some fine bunting and fishing excursions together. As his lameness interfered with successful hunting on land, but not with his dexterity in handling the paddle, I purchased for him a light canoe in which he made many short excursions. Like all Indian boys, he was very clever with the bow and arrow. I remember an exhibition, of his quickness and skill that almost amazed me. I had taken him with me on a shooting excursion to a place which was called the Old Fort. It was so named from the fact, that many years before, the Hudson Bay Company had a trading post there for traffic with the Indians. It had been abandoned for many years, but in its vicinity were some capital hunting grounds. This spot to which Sandy and I had gone for ducks, was about twenty miles from our home. We had paddled that distance in our canoe, and were quite successful in replenishing our larder. While carefully paddling along, we saw a fine large mallard duck swimming quite a distance ahead. When we thought we were within range, Sandy, who was in the bow of the canoe, carefully raised his gun and fired. Whether it was owing to the movement of the canoe or not I cannot say; but he missed the duck. Quick as a flash he threw down his gun, and, catching up his bow and arrow, fired at the duck which of course had instantly risen, and was flying away directly in front of us. Imagine my surprise and delight, to see the arrow wing its way so unerringly, that it pierced the duck, and brought it suddenly down into the river. Thus Sandy not only became a wiser and a better boy, but at times he was quite helpful in his way, and returned from some hunting excursions with quite a variety of small game which added considerably to our household bill of fare. We praised him for his skill and industry and very quickly discovered, that kind loving words were the highest reward which could be given him. Poor boy! he had had but few of them in paganism; and now from us, whom he had learned to respect and love, they were as water to a thirsty soul. SANDY'S CONVERSION. About a year after this unpleasantness with Sandy, a very gracious revival began among our Indians, extending far and wide. It was the fruit of years of teaching and preaching by numbers of devoted missionaries, and of much personal effort to bring the people to a decision for Christianity. I had observed with great joy, that the prayer-meetings and other social religious services, were largely increased by the attendance of Indians who had been under religious influences for a long time, but had not yet fully given themselves to Christ. Even among the pagan Indians there was less opposition to Christianity, and a greater willingness to hear the Word than ever before. At times this spirit showed itself in a way that to most people would have seemed to savour much of selfishness. For example, one day, very early in the morning, the chief came rushing into our mission house, and gave utterance to this extraordinary statement: "Missionary, there are a lot of pagan Indians at the Fort. They are the ones you were talking to about becoming Christians. I have just come from visiting them, and have been urging them to give up their old way; they said to me, `Tell your missionary, if he will give us one good square meal of potatoes, we will come and hear him preach three times!'" Doubtless many will smile at this quaint offer--this queer exchange of commodities; yet we who were on the ground, and remembered the haughty stubborness of those same Indians only a short time before, were glad to hear thus from them. We promptly accepted the challenge and furnished the potatoes. What appetites they had! But they carried out their share of the contract, and listened attentively--and smoked--during the three services. They were always friendly afterward; and, in subsequent years, a number of them became sincere Christians. It pays to get the truth into the heart, even if we have to begin by filling the stomach with potatoes! So anxious had Sandy become to win our approval, that we knew he was willing and courageous enough to take any stand we suggested. But we were so very anxious that his decision for Christ should be built on a deeper, firmer foundation than a mere desire to please us, that, in talking with him, we used no special personal persuasion to bring him to a decision for the Lord Jesus. It was evident to us by his life that the Good Spirit was graciously working upon his heart, and that he was under deep religious conviction. And soon the blessed hour came. One afternoon, while I was urging upon the large audience who had assembled in the church the privilege and necessity of immediate decision for Christ, Sandy, with others, sprang up from his seat near the door and came forward for prayer. His first audible petition still rings in my ear as though uttered but yesterday: "O Tapa-yechekayan Kiss-awa-totawenan!" (Oh Lord, have mercy upon me!) I knelt beside him and pointed him to the dear Saviour--the sinners Friend. I quoted the sweet promises of the blessed Book, and assured him they were for him. He wept, and was deeply anxious for the assurance that even, he had a personal interest in the crucified One. Earnest prayers were offered for him and others, who, like him, were seeking the Pearl of great price. We talked to him of the love of God as revealed in Jesus. We tried to explain to him the way of faith--the simple plan of salvation. That best of all Teachers, that infallible Guide, the Holy Spirit, applied the truth to his heart; and our dear Sandy saw the way, and believed unreservedly in the Lord Jesus. He was a sweet singer, and had often joined with us in our songs of devotion at our family altar; but now as never before he sang in his own musical language the translation of the verse "My God is reconciled," etcetera. "Ma' to noo-too-ta-min Ne-pa-tan a-e-sit, Ak-wa a-wa-ko-mit Na-ma-ne-say-ke-sin, Wa-na-tuk-ne-pa-hi-to-tan Abba No-ta a-e-tae-yan." Need we add that our Indian boy, so strangely thrown on our care, was doubly dear and precious to as from that hour! We had had our long months of trouble and anxiety about him, and friends, both white and Indian, had thought, and had told us, that what we were doing for him was, "love's labour lost." How thankful we were at this glad hour of his clear and beautiful conversion, that we had persevered? We never could help feeling that his coming to us was from God, and in spite of all the discouragements, we had not dared to give up our charge. We had accepted it as a trust although it became a trial of patience; yet when the clouds cleaved away, we had our exceeding great reward. From that day, his presence in our humble mission home was a benediction. He became a very devout and reverent student of the Word of God; and as its blessed truths opened up before him, he had many questions to ask, so that we had many loving talks about the holy Book. Often his heart overflowed with gratitude and thanksgiving to God, and he would exclaim-- "O missionary, these words are very sweet to my heart!" To spend hours on his knees with his open Bible before him, was no uncommon thing for Sandy. And when he came down from his upper room with his face radiant, he would sometimes exclaim: "Oh, how blind and stupid I was! I used to think that the white man's religion was just like the Indian's, only performed in another way, but now I know--yes I know it is different: oh so different! For do I not feel it in my heart, that God is my Father, and His Son is my Saviour, my Elder Brother! Oh yes, I know! I know!" Then he would burst into song, asking us to join with him, which we often did gladly; and heaven seemed nearer while we sang. Thus, he lived with us as a son in our home. He studied hard, and grew physically and spiritually. His faith never wavered, and his simple trust never gave way to doubt. He was a benediction in the schoolroom, and the transformation of a number of wild Indian lads into loving, docile pupils, was the result of his kindly influence over them. The long cold winter came and passed away. During it I travelled some thousands of miles on my dog-sleds, or tramped through, the deep snow, day after day, on my snow shoes. Among other places, I visited Nelson River, and had the great pleasure of taking down some little gifts from Sandy to his relatives. The following summer, I again visited his people and had the joy of telling them, that he was well and was making rapid progress in his studies. Great was their rejoicings at this good news. On these trips we had our usual amount of hardships and dangers, and met with some peculiar adventures. One that very much interested us all, and for a time much excited me, was our discovery of a bear fishing, and our capture of his supplies. He was a fine large black fellow, and had seated himself on a rock near the shore. Between this rock and the shore rushed a little portion of the great river, in which quite a shoal of white fish seemed to have been spawning. The sharp eyes of the bear having detected them, he had resolved to capture a number of them for his supper. His hand-like paw was all the fishing tackle he needed. He very skilfully thrust it low down into the water under the passing fish, and with a sudden movement sent the finny beauty flying through the air, and out upon the not very distant shore. When our canoe appeared around a bend in the river, his fine sense of hearing detected our approach. At first, he seemed to show fight, and acted as though he would defend his fish; but a bullet caused him to change his mind about fighting, and he fled into the forest leaving us to enjoy his splendid fish. Good fish indeed they were, and quite sufficient for our evening and morning meals, in spite of the good appetites which such a glorious out-of-door life had given us. SANDY, A BENEDICTION. The next summer after Sandy's conversion, my good wife and I noticed, that for several days he was restless and excited, and, to use an Indian phrase, there was something on his mind. We kindly questioned him as to the cause of his unrest and mental disquietude, and drew from him, that it was solely on account of a visit that was soon to be paid him by quite a number of the trip men of his own Nelson River people. His anxiety was, that at this the first meeting with his own people since he had become a Christian, the talk which he was going to give them on the subject of the good Book and his acceptance of Christianity, might be made a great blessing to them. So many and so valuable were the furs obtained in those days in the Nelson River district, that often two brigades of boats were necessary to bring up the catch of the previous winter. If the missionaries have been preaching the Gospel at the different posts where these brigades are made up, in all probability, part of the people have accepted Christianity, while others still walk in their own ways. On their trips, the Christians naturally travel together, while the pagans, selecting one of their own party as their leader, form a separate brigade. It was known, that the first brigade coming consisted principally of those who had as yet refused to renounce their pagan ways. Among them were some of Sandy's own relatives, and he was intensely anxious, that they should no longer continue in their opposition to Christianity, and when appealed to on the subject, shrug their shoulders and say: "As our fathers lived and died, so will we." So we found out that the cause of Sandy's restlessness was his great anxiety to help these, his friends, to know the Christ. With glad hearts we cheerfully promised to aid him all we could. Still he lingered, and it was evident that something else was on his mind, although he had very warmly expressed his gratitude for our promise of assistance. We encouraged him to tell us what was still on his heart, so that if possible we might help him. Cheered by our words he said: "Oh! I know you will help me to tell them of Jesus and His love; but you know that most of these boatmen are not yet Christians, and they are so blind and stupid. They are just like I was in my ignorance of this religion--of the Bible; and my trouble and fear is that when I begin to talk to them of this blessed way, they will get up and leave before I have had time to say all that there is in my heart. I am afraid we cannot keep them together unless--unless--" "Unless what?" I said as he stopped. The dear fellow looked up in our faces, and, seeing nothing but encouragement there, mustered up courage to say this that was in his heart: "Unless we give them something to eat." We had been long enough among the Indians to know that the boy was right; for often, to win the poor ignorant creatures and bring them within sound of the Gospel, had we given them even the food from our own table, until we ourselves knew what genuine hunger was. Then we could better understand, how difficult it was for poor hungry listeners to give undivided attention to spiritual exhortations on an empty stomach. "Of course you shall have a dinner for them, Sandy," said my brave wife, "and we will do the best we can afford for you and your people." His cup of happiness seemed full, as he heard this answer, and as we saw the clouds flitting away, I said: "Is this what has been troubling you for days?" "Yes," he replied, "what right have I to ask such a favour from you who have been so kind to me? You let me come into your house when I was wounded, and dark, and wicked; clothed me, and have even treated me as though I had been your son; and best of all, you have led me up into this great joy of knowing that I am a child of God." Here his eyes filled and he was overcome by deep emotion. Much moved, we waited silently until he had controlled himself, when he continued: "You know how every day we have together prayed for my people; and when alone before God I pray for them; they are always in my heart and prayers; and now that I am to have the chance of speaking to them, I do want it to succeed. You know, that the poor pagan Indian seems better able, or more willing, somehow, to listen after he has had something to eat." So it was settled to Sandy's great delight, that when his friends arrived from Nelson River they were to be invited to the mission house for dinner. It was a beautiful day when they came. A long table had been made and put up on the grassy lawn in front of the house, and a good substantial meal had been prepared. Fortunately, our supply boat had arrived from Red River, and some Indian hunters had brought in abundance of game, so that we had enough and to spare, even for a crowd of Indians. Sandy was full of bliss. To watch him, and to observe how interested his people were in him, gave us great delight. He seated his Indian friends to suit his own mind, for his thoughts were more on the after service than on the substantial meal before them. When all were in their assigned places, he said: "Now, wait a minute. From the Great Spirit we receive all our blessings; so shut your eyes while I thank Him and ask His blessing upon us." They obeyed readily: for was he not the son of a chief, and taught of the missionary? They did not know what "Amen" meant, so, after Sandy had said it, still kept their eyes shut, and had to be told to open them and begin at their dinners. They had a good time together. There was nothing rude or awkward in any of their actions, and a stranger looking on, would never have imagined that the majority of these polite, courteous, yet picturesquely garbed bronzed stalwart men, had never before sat at a table or eaten with forks. These latter are considered superfluous in the Indian country. Give an Indian a good knife and a horn or wooden spoon--and what cares he for a fork? His only concern is in reference to the supply of food. But on this occasion we had placed forks at each place, and after those who had never seen them before had observed how one familiar with them used his, they all quickly imitated him and did exceedingly well. What appetites they had! It was a pleasure to see how they enjoyed their dinner--especially as we knew that we had enough for all. SANDY, A MISSIONARY. When dinner was ended, and they were about to rise from the table, a few words from Sandy caused them all to remain quietly seated. Now we perceived, why he had arranged them at the table as he did. Every one was so seated that he could easily see, as well as hear. It was evident that they were all very much interested, and full of curiosity to hear the message he had for them. They were doubtless well aware, that such a feast as had been prepared for them meant a talk at the close; but none of them ever dreamed that Sandy--"their Sandy"--was to be the principal speaker. When at the close he so naturally and ably took control, they were at first amazed, and then delighted, that one of their own people--and a young man at that--was not only able to do such a thing, but was encouraged in the undertaking by the missionary and his wife. Fearing that our presence might embarrass Sandy, my wife and I moved our chairs back a little behind him, but still near enough to hear all that was said. We were intensely interested in the proceedings, and lifted up our hearts to God that divine help and guidance might be given to the one whom we now loved to call "our Sandy." A little nervousness that was at first noticeable, disappeared after a few sentences, and then, with a fluency and eloquence that simply amazed us, the loving burning words flowed from his lips. With few words of explanation he took up his beloved Bible and hymn-book, and began the service. Of the actual words of that address, I can now recall very few; but the memory of it will live forever. He told them the story of his life from the time when, having found my way to their distant land, I met him in his wigwam home as he lay wounded upon the ground, talked kindly to him, and gave him his first lesson. He spoke of his long, long journey in the canoe, and of his arrival at our home. He described how kindly he had been received, how stupidly and ungratefully he had acted when the novelty of the new way of living had worn off, and how he had been so foolish as to long for his old life in the wigwam. He denounced in very emphatic language, his own ingratitude toward us for all the kindness we had shown him and the patience with which we had borne with his stupidity. Then he told the story of his conversion: would that I could tell it as he did! He contrasted their old foolish religion of the conjurers-- which had only kept them in fear and terror all their days, bringing no peace or rest to their souls--with that which was taught in the blessed Book; which had come as a great joy into his life, filling him with peace in the assurance that even he was a child of God. He had his date in his spiritual life--his well remembered birthday; and to it he referred. He told of that afternoon in the church, when, in response to the invitation: "Who will give his heart to God to-day?" he had answered, "I will!" and bowing down before God in prayer, had sought for the forgiveness of his sins and the assurance of the divine favour. Very clearly, and with much emotion he assured them that, while trusting and believing that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, was able and willing to receive him, He had indeed received him. Thus in earnest tones, in his beautiful Indian tongue, he went on and on; now, urging and exhorting them to accept of this great salvation from the Great Spirit who was the loving Father of all, and who desired the salvation of every one of His children whether they were white or Indian; and then, again referring to his own conversion and the joy that had come to him, as one reason why he wished them all to be Christians. Mrs Young and I were delighted and also amazed; not only at his readiness of utterance, but at the religious character and power of the address. I could only say in my heart: "This is the outcome of those long hours which this young child of God has spent day after day with the open Book before him and the Holy Spirit as his teacher; and, thank God, here is the glorious reward for all we have had to do for, and bear with this wild unkempt Indian lad. In this one glad hour we see enough amply to repay us for all we have had to put up with ere there was the first appreciation of our kindness. It has seemed a long time between the seed sowing and the reaping; but the harvest time has come at last and here we witness this glorious sight--Sandy, our once wild rebellious Indian boy, now with radiant face and eloquent tongue, in most beautiful and scriptural language, urging and beseeching his Indian friends to renounce their old foolish paganism and to accept of Christianity." As he talked the faces of his Indian auditors were indeed studies. They were literally drinking in his marvellous words. To a few of them I had preached on some of my long journeys; but beside these few, there were those now listening to Sandy who had never heard such things before, and they seemed amazed and confounded. Persons who have never witnessed it, can hardly imagine the astonishment, and sometimes awe, that fails over a company of pure pagans, when, for the first time, the story of Redeeming Love is heard. Sandy went on to tell them of his love and anxiety for them, and of his desire and constant prayers that they should all become Christians, and know for themselves that God loved them and that they were His children. He explained to them, how, at first, he thought the Bible was only for the white man; but that he had learned, that the Great Spirit has given His Book to all races, loving all alike. This was the reason he was so anxious that his own people should accept this great salvation which was for them. It would make them happy, as it was making others everywhere who fully accepted it. They listened to the end of his long address with intense interest. In response to his request, a number of questions were asked in reference to this new way, and how it was possible for them to enter into it. His answers were very appropriate and beautiful. In addition to his own words, he again opened his Bible and read promise after promise to them, to show the universality of the love of God, and that he had given his Son to die for them all, and what they must do to receive this love into their hearts. At his request, I followed with a short address, endorsing what he had said. I lovingly entreated them to remember his words, and to do as he had done--give their hearts to God; and thus become His happy, loving children. A hymn was sung; earnest prayers were offered up; the benediction was pronounced--and this remarkable service came to an end. Ere they departed they gathered around Sandy and kissed him. They asked him more questions about this new way, and with some of them he had earnest faithful talks. They all came and shook hands with us, and very kindly thanked us for our great love and kindness to their Ookemasis,-- the young chief,--as they now laughingly called Sandy. After remaining with us some years, Sandy returned to his own land and people. Among them he still lives a devoted, industrious Christian. He is the right-hand man of the missionary, a blessing and a benediction to many, and we count it as one of our "chief joys" that we were instrumental in leading him into the light. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE NEW YEAR'S INDIAN FEAST. From time immemorial the Indians have been noted for the number of their feasts. Some of these--as the New Moon and the First-Fruits of the corn, celebrated, by a part of the tribes--were generally innocent, seeming to point to some Jewish origin in the dim past; others--such as the feast of the dogs when the poor animals were wantonly torn to pieces--were loathsome in the extreme. As soon as the missionaries succeeded in getting the red men to listen to the Gospel, they insisted upon the suppression of the sinful feasts; especially as they were more or less associated with their ideas of worship. Even the dog feast was considered "good medicine" to propitiate the evil spirits: for the dogs were prized by the Indian next to his children, and sacrificing them was making a very great offering. When the missionaries went among the Northern Wood Crees, they met with a great degree of success in winning the people from their pagan superstitions. They, of course, insisted upon the entire giving up of all the objectionable habits and customs of their past life; and among them, their sinful feasts. However, they did not try to root the word out of their language; but as a substitute for what was so wrong, organised a Christian festival. This great feast was celebrated on New Year's day--unless that day happened to fall on Sunday, when it was held on the day following--at Norway House, the largest mission station in those days. Preparations for it were begun many months in advance. A great Indian council would be held at which, as a mere formality, the question would be first asked: "Are we to have the great feast this year?" This would be carried unanimously, and--for Indians--with great applause. The next question which required more time for answering would be: "What is each man prepared to give as his contribution toward the feast?" Very strange at first seemed the answers. Mamanowatum, a big Indian moose-hunter, would say: "I have discovered the trail of a moose. I will give half of the animal--and his nose." The moose nose is considered a great delicacy. Moose meat is the best of all venison; and Mamanowatum was a most successful hunter. So this splendid contribution, although the moose had yet to be shot, and was hard to kill, would be recorded with great pleasure. Then Soquatum would say; "I have discovered a bear's den. I will give half the bear to the feast--and all the paws." This generous contribution would also meet with much approval, for the beat's paws are likewise among the great delicacies of the country. Mustagan would speak next, and would say; "I know where there is a large beaver house, and I will give five beavers--and ten tails." This donation would also meet with great satisfaction, as beavers are capital eating, and their great broad tails, together with the moose's nose and the bear's paws, constitute the principal delicacies of the country. Rapidly would the hunters rise up one after another and proffer their gifts, keeping the Indian secretary busily employed in writing down in syllabic characters, the various promised offerings of game, the greater quantity of which would be still roaming--perhaps hundreds of miles away--in the wintry forest. Those among the hunters who excelled in catching the valuable fur-bearing animals, whose flesh is worthless for food, would make their contribution in rich furs, such as minks, martins, otters and ermines, which would be exchanged in the Hudson Bay Company's stores for flour, tea, sugar and plums. The council would last until all who could give, or had any remote idea of success, had recorded their contributions. Shortly after would begin the work of securing the promised offerings for the feast. Even the successful ones did not always bring in what they had promised. Sometimes those who had promised beaver, would be so fortunate as to meet with a herd of reindeer, and thus would return with their contribution in venison, perhaps four times in excess of the beaver promised. Or perhaps the man who promised a couple of wildcats-- and they are not bad eating--while out diligently searching for them, would detect the tiny ascending thread of vapoury steam from a great snowdrift, which told him, that low down there in a den were sleeping some fat hears. These would be dug out, and killed, and part of the meat would be brought in to the feast. Again it sometimes happened--as hunter's luck is very uncertain--that some who promised a large contribution were not able to bring so much. However, with the donations from the fur-traders and the mission house, there would be a large supply: and this was necessary, as Indians have good appetites. As the different kinds of animals were shot or captured, the meat would be brought to the mission, and well secured from cunning dogs in the large fish-house; where it would freeze solid, and so keep in good condition until required. About a week before the day of the feast, the missionary's wife would call to her assistance a small number of clever Indian women; and, aided by some men who would cut the frozen meat into pieces of suitable size, they would roast or boil the whole of this great assortment. It was an "assortment," and proudly would they look at it, and rejoice. Out of the flour, plums, sugar and bear's grease--a substitute for suet--great plum-puddings would be made, hard and solid; but the chunks cut off with an axe, gave much satisfaction to the hearty eaters. When the day arrived, preparations for the feast began very early. The seats were removed from the church, and tables the whole length of the interior, were quickly made and put in position by the native carpenters. Great roaring fires were built in the two iron stoves, and the inside temperature of the building made as nearly tropical as possible; while outside it was fifty degrees below zero, or even colder. This intense heat was necessary to thaw out the meat, which, after it had been cooked a day or two before, had quickly cooled and frozen solid. The great supply was soon carried into the hot church, and after the few hours that elapsed before the feast began, it was in capital condition for the twelve or fifteen hundred hungry Indian who for weeks had been eagerly looking forward to this great event. They were a motley company, all welcome, and all in the best of humour. Chiefs and head men were receiving directions from the missionary, transmitting them to the workers, and seeing that everything was done. Happy busy women, under the loving guidance of the missionary's wife, whom they simply idolised, were arranging the tables, for the equipment of which, all the table necessaries of the village,--principally tin cups and plates,--as well as of the mission pantry, were brought into service. Great boilers and kettles of tea were brewed, and hundreds of flat cakes, made of flour, water and a little salt, were baked in frying pans or on top of the stoves, cut into large pieces, and made ready for distribution. While busy hands were thus employed in making these final arrangements for the great feast, which generally began about one o'clock, the hundreds of other Indians--especially the young men--were having various sports outside. The toboggan slides of the schoolboys had many visitors; and some lively games of football were played on the frozen lake. The snow had been scraped away from a smooth hit of ice where the active skaters showed their speed and skill. But the thoughts of all were on the feast, and they were anxious for the sound of the bell that would summon them to its enjoyment. About the middle of the forenoon, there was a most interesting break in the preparations. The chief would go to the missionary and ask for a pencil and piece of writing paper. Then, taking with him one of the principal men into the church, where the crowd of workers were busily engaged, he would call for a short halt in the proceedings, and standing on a bench, ask: "How many of our people are sick, or aged, or wounded, and are thus unable to be with us at the great feast to-day? Give me their names." As the names were mentioned, they would be recorded; until, perhaps, twenty or more were thus called out. "Any more?" the chief would cry. "Let none be overlooked on this happy day." "Oh yes, there is an old bed-ridden woman, lying on her couch of rabbit skins and balsam boughs, in a wigwam six miles up Jack River," says one. "I heard, that there are two sick people left behind in a wigwam on the island over near York village by the pagan Indians who have come to the feast," says another. "Put them down, of course. But stop! One of you go out and ask those who have come, if there are not more than those two left behind." Soon word comes in that there are not only these two sick ones, but a little girl with a broken leg. "Put her name down, too." The list is again read over, and the question again asked: "Are you sure that we have not overlooked any? It would be a shame for us to be here feasting and any of our aged and afflicted ones forgotten." The matter would be discussed until they were confident that all the names were recorded, even the afflicted ones of the still unconverted Indians who were always welcomed and generally on hand. Then the chief, with an assistant or two would go to the great piles of food, and cut off generous pieces of venison and bear's meat, and, with an assortment of other things, make up as many large parcels as there were names on his list, each bundle, perhaps, containing enough food to last the afflicted ones a couple of days. Then the chief would go out to where the sturdy active young men were at their sports, and shouting the names of as many as he had bundles, give to the fleetest a large bundle and say: "Take that to Ookoominou, who Is sick in bed six miles up the river, and tell her that we are all sorry that she is so old and feeble that she cannot be with us to-day. With it give her our Christian greetings and love, and our wishes that she will enjoy her share of the feast." With a look to see that the strings of his moccasins and his beaded garters are well tied, and tightening his sash belt around his leathern shirt, the swift runner would be off like an arrow; making straight for the far away wigwam, where, in age and feebleness, is one of the grandmothers of the tribe, now loved by all; but who would have been put to death years ago, if the blessed Gospel had not come among this people and wrought its marvellous transformations in their hearts. Six miles would that fleet Indian runner have to go, and return, ere he could have his share of the feast; but never fear, he will be back in time. What are twelve miles to him, when there is such a feast at the end of it? And then, is he not a Christian? And does he not consider it a joy to be the carrier of such a bundle, with such a loving message, to the aged and feeble Ookoominou? Of course he does. Others similarly addressed, and charged with loving messages, are rapidly sent off. While the majority of the messengers prefer to make the journey on flying feet, some, perhaps who have bundles for three or four in the same vicinity, prefer to take their fleet dog-trains. It makes but little difference, however, how they go. They are soon all off, and much sooner back again than we inexperienced ones would expect. Of the great feast itself, it is difficult to give anything like an adequate description. The tables are piled with the various kinds of food, the cups are filled with tea, and all the older people first seated. Some years it was customary for the missionary to have a large table at the head, to which were invited the officials of the Hudson Bay Company and their families, and any visiting friends who might be in the country. The chiefs were also given a place at this table, an honour much appreciated. When all were seated, they very heartily sang as grace before meat, the Cree translation of the Verse: "Be present at our table, Lord, Be here and everywhere adored; These creatures bless, and grant that we May feast in Paradise with Thee." When the older people had eaten, the tables were quickly cleared; then again filled and refilled, until all had feasted, and some had even returned "to fill up," as they said, some vacancies discovered. What appetites they had; and what unrestrained enjoyment! No foreboding fears of coming nightmare, or fits of indigestion, disturbed their felicity. Dyspepsia and its kindred ills, had, up to those times, never visited that healthy hunting people; and so, when such a feast of fat things as this was prepared, where they knew they were all welcome guests, they went in for a good time and had it in full measure, without any anxiety for after consequences. It was an epoch in their history-- the most blessed day of the year. From it some of them recorded time, as so many moons after the feast; and as the year advanced they made engagements by so many moons before the next feast. If supplies were still abundant when the last had eaten, the first were set to work again until the bear's ribs were all picked and every haunch of venison had disappeared. Night was grandly closing in, ere this stage in the proceedings was reached. When it did arrive, willing hands soon took down the tables, swept out the building, replaced the seats, lighted the oil lamps, and the intellectual feast was held. For years Mamanowatum, whose familiar name was Big Tom, was appointed chairman. He was a large man, in fact, almost gigantic, slow and deliberate; but he generally made his mark in everything he undertook to do or say. It was amusing to see him in the chair, presiding over a great meeting. He was very much respected by all, and none dared to presume on his apparent good nature. He rose slowly, seeming to get up in short jerks; but when up, he had something to say and said it. They always opened every kind of a meeting held in the church with religious exercises. Then Mamanowatum made his address, always good and suggestive, the keynote of which was thanksgiving and gratitude to God for the blessings of the year. When he had finished, he called on different Indians for addresses. Some of them were very good also. This is the night of all others, when Indian orators try to be humorous and witty. As a race they do not excel along these lines, but sometimes they get off some very good things. While they began their speeches with some bright pleasantry that brought smiles, and even laughter, there was never anything unbecoming to the place, and all quickly drifted into a strain of thanksgiving to God for his blessings. To listen to their grateful joyous words, one would think they were the most highly favoured people on the earth; that there never was such a feast, such delicious venison, such fat bear meat, such strong tea with so much sugar in it; and that no other people had such kind missionaries. So with more grateful hearts than ever they would sing: "Praise God from whom all blessings flow." Thus they talked and rejoiced together in this peculiar service which was all their own. The whites were expected to take back seats on this occasion and say nothing. About ten o'clock they together sang the doxology; and, with the benediction, pronounced by one of their own number, this most interesting of days, with its varied pleasures and enjoyments, came to a close. Long years have passed, since with the happy Crees we enjoyed those rich feast days; yet they stand in our missionary life as red-letter days; when our hearts were especially touched by the spontaneous and hearty kindness displayed toward the aged and afflicted ones, who unable to be present, were by the generous gifts sent, made to feel, that they were not forgotten or neglected, but were in a large measure made partakers of the pleasures of that eventful day. CHAPTER EIGHT. THE EXTRA DOG-TRAIN OF SUPPLIES, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. "As you have so many splendid dogs this winter, why not take an extra train with you, and bring out from Red River some of the food of civilisation, so that we can have it to remind us of other days?" Thus spake the good wife, who, like myself, sometimes became tired of having the fresh water fish of the country as our principal diet for about one half of the year. During the other six months we lived principally upon game, such as venison, bear's meat, beaver, wild-cat, ptarmigan, rabbits and even muskrats. So, this request to bring out something to eat that savoured of civilisation, was not an unreasonable one. I was going in to Red River settlement on business pertaining to the spiritual advancement of our mission, and this was a good opportunity to bring out with me some things that would add to our comfort and help on in the good work; we had to do so many things for our poor Indians, who were often in trouble, and were constantly looking to us for help. My splendid dugs obtained from Hamilton, Montreal and elsewhere, had increased and multiplied, until now I had a number of the finest sleigh dogs in the country. When the time came for the long trip, I harnessed them up; and, taking an additional train for the extra supply of food which was suggested by my wife, with my guide and dog drivers, began the journey. In order that we could return with full loads, we started with our sleds loaded with fish, numbers of which we cached at our different camping places, that we might have them on which to feed our dogs on the return journey. We were several days on the route, as we encountered a fierce blizzard which made travelling with our heavy loads very difficult. However, we reached the settlement, and met with a warm welcome at the home of our friend, the Hon. Mr Sifton. The business that brought us in to civilisation being soon arranged, we began our purchases of supplies for the return, special attention being given to the purchase of the extra load of good things. First, I went to a butcher, and purchased from him about two hundred and fifty pounds of his choicest cuts of meat; telling him, that as it was to be dragged by dogs on a sled some hundreds of miles, I wanted as little bone as possible. He was a decent man and treated me well. Then, I went to a storekeeper, and purchased from him rice, meal, butter, canned vegetables and various other things, making in all, a load of about six hundred pounds. I was very proud of such a load, in addition to the supply of flour which was on the other sleds. Sending my heavily loaded dog-sleds on a couple of days in advance, I followed--in company with Martin Papanekis, a favourite Indian driver-- with such dogs as. Voyageur, as leader, and Jack and Cuffy and Caesar behind him, knowing we would have no difficulty in overtaking the rest of our party. We so arranged our return journey, that each night we reached the camp we had used on the outgoing trip. In two places, much to our disgust, we found that the wolves or wolverines, had been too clever for us, and had discovered our cache and devoured our fish. So those nights, we had to feed our dogs from the supplies of meat bought in Red River. In due time we reached our mission home where there was great satisfaction over the abundance and variety of the supplies secured at such a cost of toil and danger. The bill of fare was much improved, and twice a week we had a little roast of beef or mutton, with vegetables, and a dessert of rice pudding. For two or three weeks this continued, when our hearts were saddened, and our duties and cares greatly increased, by the breaking out of the measles among our Indians. This epidemic was caused, by the coming in to our country of some free-traders who had lately had the disease. They had been discharged from the hospital as cured; but in some way or other they had carried the germs of the disease so that going in and out of the wigwams they spread the contagion among the natives, and an epidemic broke out. This strange new disease terrified the people. At that time I had parties of Indians at Oomeme River, and also at Berens River, where we were then living. About this same time the measles also broke out among a number of pagan Indians under the rule of Thickfoot, a stubborn yet friendly old chief who refused to become a Christian. At this place we had but lately completed a mission house, some outbuildings, and a comfortable school-house, which we were using as a church until the latter should be completed. All the timber for these buildings we had drawn with our dogs from a large island several miles out from, the mainland. When the measles broke out, and we saw the fear of the Indians, at once, as far as possible, we turned our mission premises into a hospital. In addition to the buildings already mentioned, we also put up for the sick our large buffalo leather tent. Here, on improvised beds and couches, we gathered about us the afflicted ones, making them as comfortable as our limited means would allow. Over at Oomeme River, our Christian Indians fortunately escaped; but the pagan Indians, among whom the disease broke out, were wild with fear, and in many cases acted in a manner to aggravate the disease. Some of them, when they broke out, rushed from their heated wigwams and rolled themselves in the snow, which of course was most disastrous treatment, resulting in the death of numbers. Thereupon, their relatives became so terrified, that, being afraid to bury their bodies, they stripped the wigwams from around them, leaving them exposed to the devouring wolves; and then, sent word over to me, that if I desired their friends to be decently buried, I must come over and do it myself. Hearing this, I took some boards, nails, hammer, spades and other things necessary, and with some Indians, hurried over to the place. After some persuasion, I succeeded in getting an Indian family to move their wigwam from the spot where it had stood the whole winter, and where constantly the fire had been burning; and there, where the ground was yet warm and unfrozen, dug the grave, making it sufficiently large for all who had died. With our boards we made the coffins, and after a simple religious service buried their dead. At Berens River, our method of procedure among our sick was something like this. Early in the morning, large pots partly filled with water were hung over a good fire. Into them were put several pounds of the good fresh beef or mutton which we had brought from civilisation. When well boiled, several pounds of rice were stirred in and the whole left to boil until cooked into a rich nourishing soup. Then nourishing flat cakes were made in abundance. While this breakfast for the sick was being prepared, the missionary, with his assistants, was busily engaged in making the rounds of the sick. Their various wants were attended to, medicine was given, and every thing that could be, was cheerfully done for their comfort. Then, the missionary's wife, with her helpers, followed with kettles of warm soup, bread and tea. Meals of this nourishing food were given to, and much relished by, the afflicted ones. There were some such severe cases, that at times it looked as though it would be impossible to save them; but with heaven's blessing on our efforts, we were successful in bringing about the recovery of every case under our immediate care. While doing everything that we could for their physical recovery, we had grand opportunities for imparting religious instruction. Sweet hymns, translated into their own language, were sung, and the exceeding great and precious promises of the blessed Book, were often read and explained at every bedside. Their fear of this strange new disease left them, and they became patient and hopeful. The result was, that while among the pagan Indians at Oomeme River there were many deaths, not one of our Christian Indians died. When the last case was cured and the disease had disappeared, we took stock of our supplies. We found that all of that extra dog-train of food, together with a large quantity of flour and other things, had been used up in feeding our poor sick people. Not one-tenth of the whole had come to our own table; and so we had once again to fall back upon our native food. Fish was again our diet twenty-one times a week. But, we had the great joy and satisfaction of knowing that, in all human probability, we had saved the lives of many of our people; and had found such a place in their hearts, that our future efforts to evangelise or to help along in the blessed life, would be very much more effective. CHAPTER NINE. A LESSON NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN. When I was a small boy, my father was stationed on a large mission in the back woods of Canada. The hardy emigrants from the Old World were crowding into that new country, and every year additional thousands of acres of grain were growing, where shortly before the dark primeval forests, which had stood for centuries, held possession. The native Indian tribes were retreating before this irresistible march of the white man, or were settling on reservations selected for them by the government. For years they retained their right to roam about, and kill the game which still abounded, but which was rapidly becoming less as the white settlements increased. In addition to their hunting and fishing, the industrious Indians added to their comfort by manufacturing native baskets, brooms, handles for axes, hoes and similar articles, which they sold to the friendly settlers for food and clothing. Those that left the fire-water alone, and were industrious, were thus able to live comfortably. To these Indians on their reservations the Gospel was proclaimed by the self-sacrificing missionaries, as they travelled their toilsome rounds. These visits were not made in vain. Many of these children of the forest, sick and dissatisfied with their old paganism which gave no peace to their troubled spirits, gladly received the truth, and became earnest, consistent Christians. Their godly lives were, in many places, a constant reproof to the inconsistencies and sins of their white neighbours. At rare intervals in my boyhood days it was my great privilege to be permitted to accompany my father to some of the Indian encampments that were not very far from our home, I well remember the sweet plaintive voices of the Indians, as they sung some of our hymns which had been translated into their language. Their devout and attentive demeanour during the religious services, deeply impressed me. It was ever a great pleasure to visit them in their wigwams, to see the young people at their sports, and the older ones at their work: building canoes, or making baskets. In my boyish curiosity, I did not confine my rambling solely to the Christian Indians; but, as all were very friendly, I wandered about the encampments to the different wigwams, to see what I could that was novel and interesting. Being known as the son of the Blackcoat--for in this way was the missionary designated by the tribe--I was always welcomed in the wigwams, and was given a seat in the circle around the fire. In one wigwam the following characteristic incident occurred which made a deep impression on my mind. Seated on the ground were representatives of three generations, all, except the aged grandfather, busily engaged in work, principally basket-making. He was a patriarchal-looking old man, and, to my youthful eyes as he sat there on his blanket smoking his long pipe, seemed to be absorbed in thought, noticing neither me nor any one else. The youngest of the company, and the one that naturally attracted my attention, was a young lad of about my own age. He was busily engaged with an Indian crooked knife, endeavouring to make an arrow. In his eagerness to succeed, he let his knife slip, and unfortunately, cut himself very badly. At the sight of the blood,--which flowed freely, for the wound was an ugly one--the lad set up a howl of pain and alarm, which greatly startled his stoical relatives. Relief was quickly afforded, the cut covered with balsam and tied up in a piece of deer skin. Not one word of sympathy did the boy receive; but on the contrary from nearly all in the wigwam arose a chorus of indignation and disgust. To them it was a great disgrace that one of their family, and he a boy of so many winters, should howl and cry like that, for such a trifling injury. How the other families would laugh at them when they heard of it! It looked for a time as if they would severely punish him, not for his awkwardness in handling his knife, but because he did not control his feelings and treat the wound and the pain with utter indifference. The old grandfather especially, was deeply stirred and indignant at conduct so unworthy of his grandson, to whom evidently he was deeply attached. Indians very seldom punish their children. Upon the boys especially, the rod is seldom used. The girls in the heathen families often have a hard time of it, being frequently knocked about and beaten; but the boys generally escape, even if they richly deserve punishment. Here, however, was a very serious case. The boy had committed a crime in crying out at an ordinary cut on his hand, inflicted by himself. It would never do to let this pass. The lad must be taught a lesson he would never forget. And this is the way in which it was done, much to my amazement, by his old grandfather. Placing near him the lad, who evidently was now feeling that he had been very guilty, he gave him a talk upon the duty of bearing pain without uttering a cry, or even a groan. Then the old man, who had been a great warrior in his younger days, told him, that unless he were more courageous than that, he would never become a brave warrior or a good hunter; and, that unless he was able to control his feelings, and never cry out no matter what happened, they could never respect him any more than they would an old grandmother. While the old man talked excitedly to him, now thoroughly roused out of his usual calm demeanour, he renewed the fire which had partly burnt down. When, by the addition of some very dry wood, it was burning very vigorously, he again turned quickly to his grandson, and speaking out sharply and excitedly, said: "See here! Look at me! This is the way a brave warrior should stand pain!" Then, to my horror, he suddenly reached out his hand, and holding one finger in the flame, kept it there until it was fearfully burnt. During this sickening ordeal, not a muscle of the old man's face quivered; not a groan escaped from his firmly set lips. To judge from his appearance, it might have been a stick that he was burning. When at length he drew back the crisp burnt finger of his now blistered hand, he held it toward his grandson and gave him another lecture, telling him among other things that if he ever expected to be great or honoured among his people, he must hear pain without flinching or uttering a cry. CHAPTER TEN. THE HONEST INDIAN; OR, VENISON FOR PEMMICAN. Years ago the missionaries living in the northern part of what were then known as the Hudson Bay territories, were often so remote from civilisation, that they were obliged to depend principally on fish and game for their livelihood. Hence, in times of scarcity, they welcomed the arrival of a hunter who came in with plenty of game. One cold wintry day, a man of this description made his appearance at our mission home. He was a fine stalwart Indian, and, in the quiet way of his people, came into our kitchen without knocking. Unstrapping from his back a fine haunch of venison, he threw it down upon the table. As our supplies of food were very limited at the time--for we were averaging hardly more than two good meals a day--I was glad to see this welcome addition; and so, after I had cordially greeted him, I said: "What shall I give you for this venison?" "I want nothing for it, as it belongs to you," was his answer. "You must be mistaken," I replied, "as I never saw you before, and have had no dealings with you." "Oh, but it does belong to you, and I want nothing more for it," he insisted. "Excuse me," I said, "but you _must_ let me pay you for it. We are very glad to get it, as there is little food in the house; but we have a rule here, that we pay the Indians for everything we get from them." The reason we had come to this determination, was because we had found by rather dear experience,--as we presume other missionaries on similar fields have,--that the natives have an idea the missionary is rich, or that he is backed up by wealthy churches; and, with unlimited resources at his disposal, is able to make large gifts in return for lesser ones received. A few rabbits, or a brace of ducks would be given with great politeness to the missionary or his wife. Then the donor, often accompanied by his wife and several children, would remain to dinner, and, in all probability, eat the greater part of the gift. Of course they must be asked to supper--and they had glorious appetites. As they still lingered on until time for retiring arrived, the missionary was at length obliged to hint, that he thought they would better go and see if their wigwam was where they left it in the morning. This would generally bring things to a crisis, and the man would say: "Ever since we came we have only been waiting to get the present you are going to give us for the one we gave you." While they were contented to sell at a reasonable rate the various things which they could supply for our needs, yet, if a present were accepted, they expected something many times its value. Had this been allowed to continue, we would have been speedily left destitute of everything in the house. Therefore, not many weeks before the arrival of this strange Indian with the venison, as a precautionary measure we had made a rule that no more presents were to be received from the Indians; but that for everything brought which we needed, such as meat, fish, or moccasins, there was to be a fair tariff price mutually agreed upon. Yet in spite of all this, here was a stalwart Indian insisting, that I should receive a haunch of venison without payment. Judging from some past experiences, I was fearful that if I accepted it as a present, it would about bankrupt me. So I again said to him: "You must let me pay you for this." "No, no," he energetically replied. "I take no pay. It belongs to you." "How do you make that out?" I inquired, more perplexed than ever. Then he proceeded to give me his explanation, which deeply interested me, and which will also I am sure interest my readers. First, he began by asking me a few questions: "Did you make a trip with your guide and dog drivers to Burntwood River last winter?" "Yes, I did," was my answer. "And were your dog-sleds not heavily loaded?" "Yes," I replied. "And was there not a heavy fall of snow followed by a blizzard, which as you had no trail through the deep snow, made it very difficult travelling?" "Quite true," I replied, for all had happened just as he was describing it. "And did you not at a certain place make a cache of some of your pemmican and other heavy things, so as to lighten your loads, that your dogs might make better time?" "Yes," I answered, for well did I remember that long journey, and the fearful storm which made travelling through the trackless forest almost impossible. I had gone on a journey of several hundreds of miles to carry the Gospel to some Indians who were still in the darkness of paganism. I travelled with sixteen dogs and four Indian companions, and there was not the least vestige of a road. This is the one great drawback; and any party of hunters, traders, or missionaries, wishing to travel with any rapidity, must send one of their number on ahead of the dog trains to mark out the path with his great snow shoes as he strides along. The skill and endurance with which this work is performed, is marvellous and almost incredible to those who have not witnessed it. Often the country for days together is tamely monotonous, without any striking feature in the landscape, and without the least sign of human footsteps. Clouds may gather and cover the whole heavens with a sombre grey mantle, so that the white man gets bewildered and does not know south from north, or east from west. Yet the Indian guide pushes on without hesitancy, and with unerring accuracy. While endeavouring to push on as rapidly as possible, we were assailed by a fierce storm. The snowfall was so great, that, with our heavy loads, speedy progress was an utter impossibility. We found, that we must either lighten our loads, or be content to lose much valuable time on the way. After talking it over with my Indians, we decided on the former course, and so, a "cache" was made. A number of the heavier articles were tied up in large blankets, some saplings bent down by the stalwart men, and the bundles fastened in their tops. When let go, the young trees sprang up, and thus held their loads so far above the ground that they were safe from the prowling wolves or wolverines. This plan is very much safer than that of using large trees, as up the latter many of the wild animals can climb, and short work would be made of the "cache." With lightened sleds--although some of the things left behind were sadly missed--we hurried on, and after a few days reached our destination. We found the majority of the Indians glad to see us, and anxious for instruction in the ways of the great Book. They had become dissatisfied with the ways of their fathers, and had lost all faith in their conjurers, so they listened with great attention to what we had to tell of the Gospel of the Son of God. While we were thus engaged in our missionary duties, blizzards were raging through that cold northland; so that when we began the long home journey, we discovered but few traces of the trail, which our snow shoes and dog-trains had made not very long before. However, my guide was very clever, and my splendid dogs most sagacious, so we travelled home most of the way on the same route, even though the original path was deeply buried by the snow. The place where our cache had been made was duly reached; and glad enough were we to obtain the additional supplies it contained, for we had been on short allowance for some time. The strong arms of my Indians soon bent down the saplings, untied the bundles and consigned them to the different dog-sleds. To my surprise, I observed, that at one of the bundles--the heaviest article in which had been a piece of pemmican weighing perhaps fifty or sixty pounds--my men were talking and gesticulating most earnestly. In answer to my inquiries, they said, that that bundle had been taken down during our absence, and a piece of pemmican had been cut off and taken away. "Nonsense!" I replied. "You are surely mistaken. It looks to me just as it was when we put it up. And then there was not the vestige of a track here when we returned." However, in spite of my protestations, my men were confident that some pemmican had been taken by a stranger, and that the blizzard had covered up the tracks. With a little more discussion the matter was dropped, and after a good meal we proceeded on our way. Months later, along came this strange Indian with the venison and his story, which we will now let him finish: "I was out hunting in those forests through which you passed: for they are my hunting grounds. I found the trail of a moose, and for a long time I followed it up, but did not succeed in getting a shot. I had poor success on that hunting trip. Shooting nothing for some days, I became very hungry. While pushing along through the woods, I came across your trail and saw your cache. So when I saw it was the missionary's cache, the friend of the Indian, I was glad, and I said to myself. If he were here, and knew that I was hungry, he would say: `Help yourself:'--and that was just what I did. I pulled down a sapling, and opening the bundle, cut off a piece of pemmican--just enough to make me feel comfortable under my belt until I could reach my wigwam, far away. Then I tied up the bundle, fastened it in the treetop, and let it swing up again. And now I have brought you this venison, to pay for that pemmican which I took." Honest man! He had carried the haunch of venison on his back, a distance of about sixty miles. Of course I was delighted, and while complimenting him for his honesty, inquired how he knew that it was my party that had made the cache, rather than a party of Indian hunters. Without any hesitancy he replied: "Oh I saw your snow shoe tracks in the snow." "Impossible!" I answered; "for the snow shoes used by the whole party were made by Sandy, my Indian boy, and were all of one pattern." "That no matter," he answered, while his eyes twinkled with amusement. "Snow shoes all right, but I saw your tracks all the time. When Indian walk, he walk with toes in; when white man walk, he walk with toes out. So I saw where the missionary make tracks all the time." We all voted him a clever, as well as an honest Indian, and rejoiced that under the faithful teachings of another missionary, this red Indian of the forest, had been so grounded in the lessons of the sermon on the mount. CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE VINDICATION OF THE SABBATH. When the missionaries go among the heathen preaching the blessed Gospel of the great Book, they necessarily have to begin, with first principles. When good impressions have been made, and hearts touched, then follows religious instruction in matters of which they have been perfectly ignorant! and much that is false, and often very childish, has to be unlearned. To these people, before the arrival of the missionary, the Sabbath was utterly unknown. The preaching of it at first filled them with perplexity and trouble. They thought that it would interfere with their plans, and so break up their hunting arrangements as to bring them to absolute want. They were poor, even though working and fishing every day; and to give up one day out of every seven, and not fire a gun, or set a net--what would become of them! Thus argued some of the Indians. Faithfully and lovingly the missionaries set before them the commands of God adding the promises of blessings to the obedient. The Book itself was diligently searched, and there was a great desire to know, if such passages as the one we here quote referred to white people and Indians now: "If thou turn away thy foot from the Sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day, and call the Sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord, honourable: and shalt honour him not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words, then shalt thou delight thyself in the Lord, and I will cause thee to ride upon the high places of the earth, and feed thee with the heritage of Jacob thy father; for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it." At last, under faithful teaching, aided by the blessed Spirit, the Christian Indians resolved to take the Book for their guide, and to keep the Sabbath day. At once, the guns and bows and arrows were put aside, and the fish-nets were left hanging in the breeze for that day. No traps were visited, neither were the axes lifted up against the trees. Their simple meals were cooked and eaten, and all who could attend, were found in the house of God three times each Sabbath. But now arose fierce opposition from an unexpected quarter. The great fur-trading company that had for so long a time held despotic power in the land, in their short-sightedness,--fearing a diminution in the returns of the fur by the hunters if one-seventh of the time was to be, as they put it, spent in idleness,--sneered at the actions of the missionaries, and by bribes and threats, endeavoured to induce the Indians to ignore their teachings on the subject. When, the summer tripping began, and the Indians refused to travel or work in the boats on the Sabbath, the action of the company developed into downright persecution. Some description of this "tripping" in that great wild northland is necessary, in order that our readers may understand the position taken by the Sabbath-keeping Indians, and its most satisfactory results. So remote from the seaboard are some of the interior posts of the Hudson Bay Company, that seven years, and sometimes more elapsed, ere the furs obtained for the goods sent, could reach the London market. The bales of goods were first shipped by the company's vessels to York factory, on the Hudson Bay. Then they were taken by the Indian trippers in strong boats that would hold from three to five tons. A number of these boats constituted a "brigade." A captain of the whole was appointed, and a good state of discipline maintained. The first brigade would take the bales up the rivers, often having to pass many dangerous places and encounter many risks. Great care and watchfulness were necessary, and yet in spite of all, boats were sometimes wrecked and lives lost. The hardest part of the work was in what was called, "making the portages." Some of the rivers are full of falls and rapids that are impassable for the boats. Here the portages have to be made. The hardy boatmen row up to the rapids as close as is safe, unload their cargoes, and carry them on their backs to the selected spot below the obstruction in the river. Then the boats have to be hauled ashore, and dragged overland by the united strength of the several crews to the same place; here they are again launched, and with cargoes aboard, the journey is resumed. On some of these trips the number of portages runs up into the scores. Great lakes have to be crossed where fierce storms at times rage, and where head-winds blow with such fury, that sometimes the brigades are delayed many days. At Norway house,--which for many years was the great northern depot for the company's goods, and the great distributing centre for the interior parts,--this first brigade would exchange its cargo of goods for the bales of rich furs which another brigade, that had come from the further interior, perhaps from Athabasca or the Saskatchewan country, had brought down thus far on their way to the ships for the London market. Then this second brigade would return hundreds of miles into the interior; and, meeting another brigade from regions still more remote, would exchange its cargo of goods with this third brigade, for regions yet more distant. Thus it would go on, until some of the bales of goods were more than three thousand miles from the seaboard where they were landed; and the different posts had their supply of goods for the fur trade with the Indians. So it happened, that years elapsed ere the goods reached some of the places; and the furs also were years in reaching the ship for England. All of this heavy work was performed by the Indian boatmen, or "trippers," as they were called. They were the fur-hunters during the cold winter months; but so long as there was open water--that is, no ice--they were employed by hundreds to take in goods and bring out furs. The one despotic command delivered to these brigades by the company was, "push on!" They argued: The summer in these high latitudes is short; we must make the most of it. Every day tells, and there must be no lagging by the way. The result was, that the men were worked to the last degree of endurance. Many failed at the oar, while others dropped under the heavy loads on the difficult portages. "Fill up the ranks quickly, and push on," was the order. It was all excitement, and rush, and high pressure, from the beginning of the tripping season until the close. There was no relaxation--no Sabbath--no rest. It seemed utter folly for the missionary to come in where such a condition of things existed, and say to the best men of the best brigade: "We know the summer is short, and it is essential for the welfare of the company and your own wages, that the goods should be taken in, and the furs brought out. But a Higher Power has said, `Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy, so when Saturday night overtakes you, tie up your boats, lay aside your oars, and rest in quietness and devotion until God's day is over.'" The company in their blindness were at first astounded, then enraged. To lose one-seventh of the short summer, when, as it was, the brigades were sometimes caught by the ice, would never do! This fanaticism must be stopped! They threatened--they persecuted the missionary and the Indians. Their monopoly in the country gave them great power, and they wielded it unmercifully. Unable to induce the missionary by bribes or threats to take another stand, they resorted to persecution; and by calumnies most foul, strove to destroy his good name, and to drive him out of the country. He was a wise and judicious, as well as a brave man; and, standing at his post, endeavoured to show his rich and powerful detractors, that no harm would come to them by their employees resting one day in seven. He bravely declared, that a man could do more work in six days by resting the seventh, than by working continuously; and he challenged them to the test. At first the statement, which had been, so conclusively proved to be true was laughed to scorn. However, as the missionary and his Christian Indians remained true, the company were obliged to yield so far as to send off a Sabbath-keeping brigade, which they did with many fears and misgivings. To their surprise, they did their work just as well, and returned in less time, with the men in better health than those who knew no Sabbath. The logic of actual success triumphed eventually. All opposition ceased, and up to the time when the old order of things came to an end, and oars gave way to steam power, no one was found rash enough to question the ability of the Sabbath-keeping Indians to excel in work those who kept not the day of rest. I often travelled with those Christian Indians, and the Sabbaths spent on these long trips, are sweet and happy memories. Up to the last hour on Saturday when it was safe to travel, the journey would be pursued, until, in some quiet harbour or cosy bend in the river, safe from sudden storms or tornadoes, the boats would be securely fastened, and the cargoes carefully covered with the oilcloths. After a supper cooked on the rocks, all would gather around the bright camp-fire for the evening devotions. A hymn would be sung, a chapter of the good Book read, and prayer offered by one or two of the company. The Sabbath would be spent quietly and restfully, with at least two impressive and simple services. On Monday, at first blush of morn, we were up, and, after a hasty meal and a prayer, the journey would be resumed with renewed vigour. Thus was the Sabbath introduced among the northern Indians. CHAPTER TWELVE. GOD MORE POWERFUL THAN THE CONJURER. The following beautiful story deserves a place among the very many real answers to prayer. Still does the Lord say to his followers: "I will yet for this be inquired of by the house of Israel, to do it for them." Our Indian converts believe in God. With a simple, childlike faith they take Him at his word. One of our Indians at his baptism, received the English name of Edmund Stephenson. He was an earnest, simple Christian. His religion made him industrious, and so by his diligent hunting and fishing he provided comfortably for his wife and two little ones. One evening, about the middle of last October, he left his family at his little home at Norway House, and started up a rapid river to visit some of his relatives, who lived several miles away. In those high latitudes the cold winter sets in so early that already the river, was covered with ice. To make the trip much quicker he fastened on his skates, and when last seen, was speeding rapidly away in the evening twilight. He did not return the next day as he had promised, and his family becoming alarmed, sent an Indian messenger to inquire the reason. To his surprise he was informed by the friends that Edmund had not visited them and they knew not of his whereabouts. When these tidings were carried home there was great alarm, and a search party was quickly organised. From the point where he was last seen alive, they carefully examined the ice, and, after a little time, discovered the most conclusive evidence that the poor man was drowned. Over a part of the river where the current is very rapid, they discovered that the ice had been broken through; and although all was now again firmly frozen over, yet, in the congealed mass, they discovered one of Edmund's deer-skin gloves, a button of his coat, and other evidences that he had here fallen through the ice, and had made a most desperate effort to escape. As it was nearly dark when the searchers made these discoveries as to the place and manner, of his death, they were obliged to be satisfied with this, and to postpone the search for the body until the next day. Early the next morning they set to work diligently. As much snow had fallen since the previous evening, they were very much hampered in their efforts; and, although a large number of men, with snow shovels, axes and grappling irons sought carefully in many places for the remains, several days passed, and they were still unsuccessful in their efforts. Among the searchers were some Indians who still believed in the skill and supernatural powers of the conjurers, or medicine men. These, having become discouraged in their efforts, resolved to consult one of these old men, so they said: "Let us go and consult old Kwaskacarpo, and get him to conjure for us, and tell us where to find the body." The Christian Indians protested against this, and tried to dissuade them; but to no purpose they were so discouraged in their efforts. So they carried gifts of tea and tobacco to the conjurer, and told him of the object of their coming. In response to their wishes, and in return for their gifts, he took his sacred drum and medicine-bag into the tent, drummed away noisily until he worked himself up into a kind of frenzy or delirium, and then told them where to cut the ice and drag for the body of their dead comrade. When the Christian Indians heard that these others had gone to the conjurer for help, they were very much grieved. One especially, a grand old man by the name of Thomas Mustagan, was very much depressed in spirit. While feeling deeply the loss of Edmund, he was very much hurt when the news reached him, that some of the searchers instead of going to God in their perplexity and trouble, had, like King Saul, resorted to such disputable agencies. No sooner had he received this news, than he resolved to adopt a very different course. Getting his wife to cook a quantity of food; he carried it, with some kettles of tea, to a spot on the shore near to where the men were diligently searching for the body. Clearing away the snow he made a fire; and, when the tea was prepared, called the hungry and almost discouraged men around him, and made them eat his food and drink his tea. Then he talked to them of the one living and true God, and of His power to hear and answer prayer. He spoke of the foolishness and wickedness of those, who, having heard about Him, had gone and consulted the wicked old conjurer. "Let us go to that God about whom we have been taught by our missionaries. He is the one to help us in our trouble." With the people all around him, he kneeled down in snow, and earnestly and reverently asked God to hear and help them in their sorrow and perplexity. He prayed that wisdom might be given them, so that they might find the body of their dear friend lying somewhere in that cold river; that they might take it up, and bury it in their little village graveyard. He asked God very earnestly to comfort the poor sorrowing widow and the little helpless children. Thus with believing faith did this venerable old Indian of more than fourscore winters, call upon God. When they arose from their knees he said: "Now trusting in God to answer us, let us go to work." On account of the quantity of snow that had fallen on the ice, they had first to scrape it away, and then use their judgment about where to cut through the ice, and drag for the body. Although Thomas was so old a man, he now seemed the most alert and active of the party. By common consent, he was given charge of the party of Christian Indians, who now worked diligently under his direction. In the meantime, the old conjurer Kwaskacarpo in a confident voice told his followers, that he had conjured, and the answer was, that they were to cut the ice in a certain designated place. Paying no attention to him or his party, the Christian Indians worked away, and as fast as the ice was cleared of snow, Thomas looked through as well as he could. All at once he arose quickly from a spot of semi-transparent ice which he had been carefully examining, and calling to the men with the axes and ice-chisels, he said: "Try here." Soon they had a large hole cut, the grappling irons were brought into use, and there hundreds of yards from the place where the conjurer had directed his followers to look for it, the body was found. Thomas, while intently searching through the ice, had seen on the under surface at that place a quantity of air bubbles. The thought came to him, that here the body had rested, and the last air from the lungs had escaped and formed these bubbles. He had asked for wisdom and divine direction and he was not disappointed, for in less than an hour after these pious Indians had been on their knees in earnest prayer the body of their comrade was being borne away to his home, and from thence to its final resting place in the "God's Acre" of the little Christian village. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. BETSY, THE INDIAN WIFE. She was not a bad looking woman, but she had such a sorrowful face that never seemed to have on it a smile. Mrs Young and I had both noticed this, and had spoken to each other about it. Her name was Betsy. She was the wife of an Indian whose name was Atenou, but who, when baptised, had, like most of his countrymen, asked for the addition to it of an English name, and so was known as Robert Atenou. His record seemed to be that of a quiet, industrious sort of an Indian, who fished and hunted as did the rest, and gave trouble to none. As he, like many of his people, was gifted with readiness of utterance, and was very faithful in his attendance at all of the religious services, and seemed to be living a godly life, he had been, given an official position in the church, which, he very much appreciated. It was noticed however, that Robert's advancement in the church, did not seem to remove the cloud that was on his wife's face. While the other women were so bright and happy and thankful at the change which Christianity had brought into their lives, and were at times not slow in speaking about it, she was a very marked exception. Not wishing to pry into her affairs, while perplexed, we were obliged for a time to remain in the dark, and could only conjecture as to the cause. Perhaps the most marvellous and conspicuous evidence of the blessedness of the Gospel, next to its divine power in the salvation of the soul, is to be seen in the glorious way in which it uplifts women. Sad indeed is the condition of women in lands unreached by the blessed influences of Christianity. He whose wonderful and tender love for His mother, and for the goodly women who ministered to Him, was so manifested when He walked this earth of ours, is Jesus still. And wherever His name is successfully proclaimed, and hearts opened to receive Him, there at once is a glorious uplifting of woman from a condition of inferiority and degradation, into one where she is honoured and respected. The northern Indian tribes on this continent, while not very warlike, or much in the habit of going after the scalps of their enemies, had other crimes and sins, which showed that they were fallen and sinful, and much in need of the Gospel. Among the defects and wickednesses of the men, was the almost universal contempt for, and cruelty to the women. If a man spoke or acted kindly to his wife, or mother, or daughter, it was by them considered a sign of weakness and effeminacy. To be harsh and cold toward the women, was supposed to be one of the signs of the ideal Indian toward which they were ever striving. All manual labour, apart from hunting and fishing, was considered degrading to be left to the women, and some, as much as possible, even left the fishing to them. Where there were no tribal wars, the perfect Indian was only the great hunter. And with the great hunter, his work ended when the game was killed. If it were at all possible to send his wife or mother to the spot where the animal lay, that his arrow or gun had brought down, he would scorn to carry or drag it back to camp. He had killed the bear, or moose, or reindeer, or whatever animal it might happen to be, and now it was woman's work to take it to the wigwam, and as quickly as possible prepare for him his meal. Thus we have seen the great stalwart six-footed hunter come stalking into the village with his gun upon his shoulder, while the poor mother, or wife, or daughter, came trudging on behind, almost crushed down with the weight of the game upon her back. He carried the gun--she the game. Then, no matter how tired she might be with the heavy burden, no time was allowed for rest. With a quick harsh "kinipe" (hurry); she was soon at work. The skin was quickly and skilfully removed, and some of the savoury meat was cooked and placed before her husband or son. Not a mouthful would she be allowed to taste until the despot had leisurely finished, unless it were to pick some of the bones which he condescendingly threw to her, as, at a distance from him, she sat with the girls and dogs. Thus she was treated as a slave, or drudge, or beast of burden. Then when sickness or old age came on, and she became unable to work and toil and slave, she was without mercy put out of existence: the usual method being strangulation. This was the sad condition of women in various parts of this great continent ere the Gospel reached the Indian tribes. Very marvellous and striking have been the transformations which we have witnessed among those to whom we had gone with the truth. At some places we witnessed changes wrought by the labours of the worthy men who had preceded us; in other places we were permitted both to sow the seed and see the glorious harvest. Although, from the white man's standpoint the people here were poor, yet the little houses, where were the followers of the Lord Jesus, were homes of happiness, and the spirit of kindliness and affection everywhere prevailed. There men and women lived on terms of equality. No longer did the men eat alone and of the best of the game and fish, but all together men and women, boys and girls as one loving family, shared proportionately what had been secured. The result was, there was a spirit of contentment and happiness in our mission village that was very gratifying. However, amidst these happy faces and notes of thanksgiving, here was this one sorrowful face and silent tongue. What was the cause? The truth came out at last, and in a way that was almost dramatic. Mrs Young and I were busy one day with our routine duties, when Betsy came into our home, and hardly taking time enough to give the usual morning salutation exclaimed in a most decided way; "Robert is not kind to me, and does not treat me like the other men, who profess to be Christians, treat their wives." This strong emphatic remark startled us, and at once gave us the clue to the cause of the sorrowful face. At first we hardly knew just how to answer such an emphatic utterance, and so in silence waited for her to proceed. But there she sat quietly her face nearly hidden in her black shawl, seeming to be afraid to proceed further. So we had at length to break the awkward silence, by saying we were very sorry to hear her words and could not understand their meaning, as Robert seemed to be a very good man, and an earnest Christian. This at once caused her to break her silence, and turning around to me, she said: "Yes, that is it. If he did not so profess to be a Christian, I would never mind it, and would silently bear it; but he _professes_ to be a Christian, and does not treat me in the way in which the other Christian men treat their wives." Then she quieted down, and in a very straightforward way told us her story, which was as follows: "When Robert goes out and shoots a deer, it is true he does not come home with the gun upon his shoulder, and make me go out on his trail and bring in the game; he brings it in himself, like the other Christian Indians; but when it is brought in, he makes me skin it; and then takes the two haunches over to the fort, and there exchanges them with the fur-traders for some flour, tea and sugar, which he brings home. I have to cook for him a fore-shoulder of the deer, make cakes at the fire, out of his flour, and then when the tea is made and supper is ready, sit and watch him, and our boys, and any men visitors who happen to be there-- and a number are generally around by that time--eat until all is consumed. He never gives any of these good things to me, or to the girls. We have to go out in a canoe, and, with a net, catch some fish for our food. And yet," she added, with some bitterness, "he calls himself a Christian; and treats us in this way, as though he had never heard the missionary." Of course we were both indignant as she told her story, and were not slow in letting her know of our annoyance at her having been, so treated. But wife-like, and woman-like, when I said: "Robert shall hear of this, and shall be straightened out forthwith," her fears were aroused, and it seemed as though she were now frightened at what she had said. However there was not much difficulty in quieting her fears, although at first it did seem as though she would rush out of the house, and return to her tent, and submit to the humiliating life which she saw should not have continued so long. After a little consultation with Mrs Young, our course of action was agreed upon. It was, that Betsy should be kept at the mission house until I had assembled in the church a number of the elderly Christian men; and later Robert, whom we learned from his wife was then at his tent, was to be summoned. But little time was required in which to gather the men I wanted, as most of the people were then at their homes. They were completely in the dark as to the object for which I had called them together. When in the church. I sent for Mrs Young and Betsy to join us. Poor Betsy was now so frightened, that it seemed as if, like a startled deer, she would run to the woods. However, she was in good hands. Mrs Young spoke soothing words, and cheered her much by telling her, that what she had done in coming to us with the story of her wrongs was perfectly right, and that very soon every thing would be cleared up. Shortly after the two women came in and took seats together, Robert, for whom I had sent two men, walked in. At first he was much surprised at the gathering, and especially puzzled and perplexed at seeing his wife sitting there by the side of the wife of the missionary. Before he could say anything, I pointed out a seat for him where he would be in full view of his brother Indians, and yet, where his presence would not overawe, or crush down his wife. Soon after, I locked the church door and said: "Let us pray." After prayers I turned to Betsy, and said: "Now Betsy, if what you told Mrs Young and me in the mission house is true, and I believe it is, I want you now to tell the story over again that these Christian men may hear it. Never mind the fact of Robert's being here; if he is a Christian, as he says he is, the hearing of it will, I hope, do him good." The faces of those Indians were studies. None knew, not even Robert himself, what Betsy had to say; and so they waited in amazement to hear her story. With an encouraging word from Mrs Young, she began; and although at first she was timid and nervous, she soon recovered her self-possession, and in a perfectly natural manner told the story of the treatment she and the girls had received from the hands of her husband. With renewed emphasis she dwelt on that which seemed to have given her the most sorrow? "If he had not so professed to be a Christian, I would not have so much minded it." Indians are the best listeners in the world. They never interrupt anyone in his talk. And so, even Robert, who at first was simply dumbfounded and amazed, controlled himself and held his peace. Very few white men could have done so. I had purposely so placed him, that if he had suddenly attempted violence, stronger men could instantly have restrained him. But nothing of the kind was attempted. As his wife went on and on, showing the difference between his conduct toward her and their girls, and that of the other Christian men toward their wives and daughters, Robert's head went lower and lower, until there he sat, humiliated and disgraced before his brethren. When Betsy finished her talk and sat down, I turned to the good men there assembled and merely said: "What do you think of such conduct on the part of one who professes to be a Christian?" Their indignation knew no bounds. Indian like, they had let Betsy tell her whole story without any interruption; but the looks on their faces as she proceeded, told how deeply affected they were. Now that they had heard her story, it seemed as though they all wanted to speak at ones; but there are well understood, although unwritten, rules of precedence among them, so the first in order spoke, and then the second, and then the third, and so on. How they did dress the poor fellow down! While it was very severe, it was Christian and brotherly. They spoke as men who were grieved and wounded. "Is this the way you have acted! You, Robert Atenou, who for so long a time have professed to be a Christian; you, to treat your poor wife and children like that; as though no Bible, or missionary had come among us! Now we know why Betsy has been so sad, and did not rejoice like the other women." Thus they faithfully chided him, and expressed their sorrow at his heartless conduct. Poor Robert, I had soon to pity him. First, of course, I was a little anxious as to the way in which a once proud-spirited fiery Indian, would take his wife's arraignment of his misdoings and selfishness, and also these reprimands from his brethren. However, it turned out all right. Robert just buried his bronzed face in his hands, and received it all in silence. When I thought it had gone far enough, and had decided in my own mind not then and there to question him, I asked for a cessation of the speaking, and went and opened the church door. At once Robert arose and left the church. Not one word had he spoken to anybody. Betsy, wife-like, wished immediately to follow him, but Mrs Young persuaded her not to go for a little while. She took the poor frightened creature into the mission house, gave her a cup of tea and something to eat, and what she prized more, some loving sympathetic words. When she did return home, she found that Robert was absent. The children said that he had come in, and, after saying some kind words to them, had taken his gun and ammunition and had gone off hunting. He did not return until the next day, but he had with him a fine deer. This he skinned himself, and taking the two hind quarters, went as usual to the fort, and bartered them for flour, tea and sugar. When he returned to his tent, he handed these things to his wife, and desired her to cook them as usual. After all had been prepared he had all placed before his wife, daughters, and sons. Then, telling them to enjoy the meal, he left the tent. Taking a net, he went out upon the lake in a canoe, and after some time spent in fishing, was seen cooking and eating his catch upon the shore. Thus he lived for weeks. He was a good hunter, and worked most industriously and successfully. All the game taken, he brought to his wife and children, upon which he insisted that they should feast, while he confined himself to a fish diet; although those caught at that season were far from being the best. One Saturday evening, as we were standing in the front of our mission home enjoying the splendours of a most magnificent sunset, we saw Robert coming up the trail. As he drew near I accosted him kindly, but it was easy to see that he was in trouble, and that there was "something on his mind." We chatted about various things, and I encouraged him to speak out freely. With a sudden effort he broke loose from his feeling of restraint, and said: "Missionary, are you going to let me come to the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper to-morrow?" Four times a year we had this sacramental service, and it was a great event to our native Christians. In answer to his question I replied: "Why Robert, what is there to cause me to wish to prevent you from coming to the Lord's table?" Looking at me earnestly, he said: "There is a good deal. Just think of the way I have treated my wife and daughters!" "Yes," I said, "I remember that; but I also know how you have been treating them during the last few weeks." With a face from which the shadows had now fled away, he said quickly:-- "Have you heard anything about that?" "O yes, Robert," I replied, "I know all about it. I have good eyes and ears, and I have seen and heard how nobly you have redeemed yourself. I am very glad of it. Of course I will welcome you to the Lord's table." After a little further conversation, I said: "Tell me, Robert, why did you act so selfishly toward your wife and daughters?" He just uttered with emphasis the Indian word which means: "Stupidity,"--then after a little pause he quietly added; "But I think I have got over it." And so he had. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. FIVE INDIANS AND A JACK-KNIFE. Indian boys dearly love pocket-knives. As they have to make their own bows and arrows, the paddles for their birch canoes, and also the frames for their snow shoes, of course a good knife is a valued possession. In whittling, Indian boys do not push the knife from them, but always draw it toward them. They are very clever in the manufacture of the few things which they require, and are encouraged by their fathers to do their work as neatly as possible. So the better the knife, the better the work which these Indian lads can do, and they are ambitious to possess the very best knife that it is possible for them to obtain; just as the older Indians will give any price within their means for the very best guns that are made. Knowing this love for a good knife, I once used it among a lot of Indian lads, as an incentive to encourage them to sing: as our story will explain. At one of our Indian villages, where a flourishing mission with its day and Sunday schools exists, the devoted lady teacher said to me on a recent visit: "I do wish you would do something to encourage our boys to sing. They have good voices, but they seem afraid to use them. If I do succeed in getting one to sing, the others laugh at him, and then there is no more singing that day." I gladly promised to do what I could; but before I describe the plan adopted, perhaps I would better give some description of these Indians among whom this courageous young lady was living. Their hunting grounds are in the vast region which lies between Lake Winnipeg and Hudson Bay. They are called Saulteaux, and are a subdivision of the great Algonquin family. Until very recently they lived altogether by hunting and fishing. So ignorant were they, even of the existence of bread, that when the first missionaries, who translated into their language the Lord's prayer, came to the petition, "Give us this day our daily bread," to make it intelligible to them, they had to translate it, "Give us this day something to keep us in life." They were, and still are very poor. Once the forests abounded in game, and the richest fur-bearing animals, such as the black and silver foxes, otters, beavers, minks, martens and ermines, were caught in large numbers; but incessant huntings have almost annihilated some of these animals, and others are very difficult to find. The lakes once teemed with fish; but the rapid increase of the white population in the north-western states and in Manitoba has so multiplied the demands, that not one quarter as many fish are now caught as formerly. The result is, that the poor Indians whose sole dependence was on these things, are not as well off as they formerly were, even with the little help which they receive from the government. Hence it is the imperative duty of the missionaries, not only to Christianise them, but to do all they can, in harmony with the government officials, to encourage them to raise cattle, to cultivate what land is available, and to raise those hardy crops which will come to maturity in such a cold northern region. This was the place; and those were the Indians whose boys the devoted teacher wished me to encourage to sing. The request was made during the celebration of a feast which I was giving them. I had taken out from civilisation such things as flour, tea, sugar, currants, candies; and at four a.m. the Indian women had come to the place appointed and had cooked the cakes etcetera, and made all other needed preparations. At about ten the people assembled on the bank of the river in front of the church. Everybody came. All were welcome. It was not asked whether they were Christian or pagan. We greeted them all cordially, and treated them alike. Of the happy incidents of the feast, the glad hours of loving converse, and the religious services held after, we have no room here to write. Suffice it to say, that at about four p.m. the children's hour came, and with them we had a very interesting time. I was delighted with their answers to my many questions, especially with their knowledge of the blessed Book. The girls sang very sweetly, but not much music came from the boys, and so I began at once to act on the request of the teacher. Knowing, as I have stated, the boys' love for pocket-knives, I went to one of my boxes, and taking out six very good ones, I stood up before the crowd and said: "Boys, listen to me. I am going to give these six knives to the six boys who will sing the best. And look! While five of them are good two bladed knives, one of them is a splendid four bladed one! Now, I am going to give this best one, to the boy who will sing the best of all!" Great indeed was the excitement among the Indian lads. Nearly every boy in the audience rushed to the front and the trial began. Indians in their wild state have no music worth preserving, and so in all of our missions, our hymns and songs are translated, and the tunes of civilisation are used. The teacher seated herself at the little organ, and the testing began. They sang such hymns as "Rock of Ages", "Come, thou Fount of every blessing", "Just as I am", "Jesus my all, to heaven is gone," and many others. The inferior singers were weeded out very rapidly, and sent back to their seats. When the number was reduced to about ten, the work of selection proceeded more slowly; but eventually the number was reduced to six. The question now was, Which of these six was to receive the four-bladed knife? This was not easy to settle. The members of the committee differed very decidedly; so one boy after another was tried, over and over again, and still no unanimous decision could be reached. While the committee was discussing the matter, five of the boys, seeing our perplexity, took the matter out of our hands and settled it in a way that surprised and delighted us all. These five were fine specimens of Indian lads. They were lithe and strong, and full of life and fun. The sixth boy, Jimmie Jakoos, was a cripple, having one leg which was very much shorter than the other: the result being that he had to use crutches. These five had moved over to one side, and were observed to be excitedly, though quietly, engaged in conversation. After their brief discussion, one of them sprang up, and looking at me asked: "Missionary, may I say something?" "Certainly you may," I replied. "Well, missionary," he answered, "we five boys have been talking it over, and this is what we think about it. You see we are well and strong. We can chase the rabbit, and partridge, and other game; and then when winter comes, we can skate on the rivers, and lake; but Jimmie is lame, he has a bad leg. He cannot run in the woods. He cannot go skating on the ice. But Jimmie is fond of whittling. He is a good hand at making bows, and arrows, and paddles, and other things, and a fine knife would be just the thing for him. And so we five boys have talked the matter over, and as he is a cripple, we will be very glad if you will give the best knife to Jimmie." Noble boys! How the people were thrilled at this speech. It electrified me, and filled not only my eyes with tears, but my heart with joy. I could but think of the past, of the cruelty and intense selfishness of those dark days, when, among both the young and old, everyone was for himself, and the unfortunate, and feeble, were neglected and despised. Now, thanks to the blessed ennobling influences of Christianity, even the boys were catching this Christly spirit, and would spontaneously act in this delightful way. So to Jimmie was given the four-bladed knife and to the other boys were handed the two-bladed ones; but so pleased was I with the beautiful spirit displayed by them, that I added to the gift a good shirt or jacket as each boy chose. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. THE SAULTEAUX CHIEFTAINESS; OR, A SEARCHER AFTER THE TRUTH. She was a large woman, and as she came into our mission home her conduct was so different from that of the ordinary Indian woman, that I was somewhat prejudiced against her. Generally the Indian women when they enter a house are quiet, and modest, and unobtrusive in their movements; but here stalked in a large woman, who gazed at us with searching glances, and had such decided ways, that I felt disturbed at her presence and soon left the house for a couple of hours in the woods where some of my Indian men were at work. When I returned, it was with the hope that she had finished her visit and retired. But no, there she was; and it was quite evident that she had come to stay. When my good wife saw my apparent annoyance at this new visitor, she called me to one side and said: "You must not be annoyed at this woman. She is a chieftainess, and the daughter of a chief. Her husband was a chief, and when he died, she, at the request of her people, took his position, and has maintained it ever since." She had heard from some fur-hunters about our having come to live in the land of the Saulteaux. She had also heard of the wonderful book we had, which was the word of the Great Spirit; and this too, had excited her curiosity. She had listened to these rumours with incredulity and did not believe them; but as they increased, her curiosity was so excited, that she resolved at length to find out for herself if these things were true, and had actually come many days journey to investigate for herself. Here she was, thoroughly installed in our little home, and I, at first, much prejudiced against her on account of her decided emphatic sort of way. I sat down beside her, and had her tell me her story. She was indeed a clever woman, and was full of anxiety to learn if what she had heard were true. She was an anxious inquirer after truth, literally insatiable in her curiosity, and in her desire to learn all she could. She could talk morning, noon and night, and would keep one of us busy answering her questions all the time she was not sleeping or eating. She stayed with us about two weeks, and then returned to her people; meanwhile attending every religious service, and receiving many lessons in divine truth. The simple plan of salvation was explained to her, and she was taught how to pray. Ere she went away, I said to her: Now you are going back home, and I want to say something to you. You must try to remember what we have said about the loving Father, and His beloved Son. You must try to pray every day to Him, and you must try to love Him and keep all of His commands. "Now one of these commands is, `Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.' Christians keep one day in seven, and you say that your people desire to be Christians; and I believe you. We want you to be a Christian in everything, and so we want you to remember this among the other commandments. To help you in this matter, I am going to give you this big sheet of paper and pencil, and you will mark each day as it goes by." So starting her on Monday, I showed her how to mark the days in this way:--111111. "Those six are _your_ days, in which to hunt and fish and attend to all your duties as a chieftainess. Look after all your affairs on those six days; then, when the seventh day comes, make a big mark in this way:-- "This mark is for God's day. Leave your gun and net on that day, and do not go hunting or fishing: it is the day of rest and worship. Make all preparations for it on the day before. See that you have plenty of food captured, and wood cut, so that when the day of God chines, you will not have to work or hunt or fish. On that day think much about the Great Spirit, and pray much to your loving father who sees and hears you all the time, and who is well pleased if we keep His day and worship Him upon it." Ere she left, she pleaded earnestly with me to come and visit her and her tribe, and preach to them, and explain the way of the Great Book. My engagements were very many but finding that I could crowd in a visit, I said: "When the eagle-moon is filling out listen for the ringing of the missionary's sleigh-bells, for then will he be coming to see you and your people with his dog-train and guide." My programme of engagements was so great, that it was about six months ere I could make the promised visit. So when the eagle moon came--which is February--I harnessed up my dogs, and taking one of my experienced guides and a couple of dog-drivers, started for the far-off land of Ookemasis. We were about two weeks on the journey. It was one of the most dangerous and toilsome I ever undertook. We often had to travel along on the narrow ledges of ice that overhung the rapid waters of the great river. Sometimes our dog-sleds would whirl round on the ice and we come very near falling off into the dark cold waters. This was much more dangerous from the fact, that much of the travelling had to be done by night for the dazzling rays of the sun during the daytime rendered us so liable to the terrible snow-blindness, which is such a painful disease. However, we persevered, and by daylight when possible, and by night when we could do no better, pushed on, and at last reached our destination. The last six miles of the journey lay across a frozen lake on the farther shore of which was the village of the chieftainess. When not more than half way across the lake, the sharp eyes of those on the lookout, detected our coming, whereupon great excitement prevailed in the village. Never, it seemed, was there a happier woman than Ookemasis. She received us with a wondrous welcome, and in emphatic ways expressed her gratitude and joy. Already when we arrived, the feast of welcome was being prepared. When she was certain that it was the missionary, she had taken down from a staging some heads of reindeer, and, after singeing off the hair and chopping them into great chunks, had put them into a big pot to boil. After the warm welcome, we were escorted to a large tent to wait until dinner was ready. As she had no tea, I gave her a quantity much to her delight. So excited was she, that she kept running into the tent to tell me how great was her joy, that at length the man and the Book had come to her people. When dinner was ready, she escorted me and my attendants out to it. A spot had been cleaned away, in the centre of which, on a big dish, was a large pile of pieces of reindeer heads. Around were a number of tin cups filled with hot strong tea. Her invitations had been limited to the number of tin cups she could muster. She placed me at her left, and her chief next in authority to herself, on her right. My guide and dog-drivers were next to me on my left, and the circle was completed with other Indian men. She was the only woman in the circle as soon as we were seated on the ground, some of the men at once seized hold of a piece of meat, and drawing their hunting knives, were about to begin their dinners: "Stop," said I. "Wait a minute. You are all going to be Christians, and one thing Christians do, is to ask a blessing upon their food. The Great Spirit gives us all the good things, and we must thank Him for them. So now shut your eyes, and I will ask the blessing." Every eye was closed as I asked a blessing of several sentences. When I had finished, I said "Amen" and of course opened my own eyes. To my amazement and amusement, every eye, except those of my own Indian attendants, was still closed. "Open your eyes," I said. "Amen, here means, _open your eye_. It has some other meanings, but that will do here." Then we went at our dinners. There were no plates or forks, only our hunting knives. Every one, including the missionary, took up a piece of the well-cooked meat in his left hand, and began whittling off his dinner with his knife. My friend, the chieftainess, had large, strong and not very clean hands. But she cared not for that. She grabbed up a large piece of juicy meat, into which her hand almost sank, and cut and tore off the savoury bits with great delight. Then she flung it on the ground and took a good drink of the tea; and then seizing hold of the meat tore at it again with great satisfaction. Suddenly she dropped it again upon the ground, and, plunging her greasy hand into the bosom of her dress, said: "O, missionary, I want you to see how I have tried to keep the record of the praying day." So out of the bosom of her dress she drew a greasy dirty paper, which at first I did not recognise as the large clean sheet I had given her. "Here, look," she said, "see how I have tried to keep the record of the praying day!" With much interest, I examined it, and found, that during all those six months, she had faithfully kept the record. There it was; the right day for all that long period. Then she went on to tell me of all her experiences. She said, that some days when she was in her wigwam trying to think of the Great Spirit and of His Son, and was trying to pray to Him, a boy would rush in and say: "Ookemasis, there is a big reindeer out in the ravine, I am sure you can shoot it." "But I would say, `No. This is the praying day and I cannot fish or shoot on this day.' So I have never gone hunting or fishing on the praying day. I just try to think of the Great Spirit, my Father, and to pray and talk to Him, and have Him talk to me." Of course I spoke kind and encouraging words to her, and she was very happy indeed to hear them. Then she put back the dirty paper, and reaching down to the ground again seized hold of her big piece of meat. Looking at mine, a bony bit which I had selected because I could hold it a little more easily while I carved it, she shouted out: "Your piece of meat is a very poor one, mine is a very good piece," and before I could realise what she was about, she exchanged the pieces. Of course I could do nothing but accept it, with thanks. I had to approve of the motive, even if I did not applaud the deed. It was an act of kindness that we are not all educated up to. After the dinner we had a religious service that lasted until supper time. Then, after a good supper of fish, we had another service, that lasted until midnight. Then she put me in charge of one of her Indians who had a large wigwam. With him my Indians and I spent the night. There were only twenty-two of us sleeping around the fire in the centre. I remained with them for a number of days, and since then, they have all given up paganism, and have become good earnest Christian people. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. BIG TOM. His full name was Mamanowatum, which means, "O be joyful." He was a big man, almost gigantic, and generally slow in his movements, except when on the trail. When he arose to address an assembly, either in council, or church, he got up by inches, and seemed to rest between. But when he was up, and began to talk, he had something to say that was worthy of attention. Our first introduction to him was in 1868. He was the guide and steersman of the Hudson Bay inland boat, in which my wife and I travelled from Fort Garry, on the Red River of the North, to Norway House, situated on Playgreen Lake, beyond the northern extremity of Lake Winnipeg. At this time Big Tom, as he was called by everybody, had been an earnest Christian for several years. Earlier missionaries had preceded us, and among the Indian converts was this godly man, about whom it is a pleasure to write. We both took to him at once. He was one of nature's noblemen. While pleased with his kindly considerate ways, we admired the skill and ability with which he managed the little boat on such a stormy lake. The long and dangerous journey was of about four hundred miles and occupied us for about fourteen days. Big Tom steered our boat with a long oar, which he used as a rudder. The principal propelling power of these boats, is the long strong oars, manned by the Indian crews. We had in our boat eight good oarsmen, and the vigour and endurance of these men was a matter of constant admiration. When head winds prevailed, or we were in the midst of calm, hour sifter hour these faithful men toiled on at their oars, as diligently as ever did any galley slave. A favouring breeze, even if it turned into a dangerous gale, was ever welcomed, as it gave the men a rest from their slavish work. As soon as the wind was favourable the cheery cry of: "Meyoo-nootin," (Fair wind,) from the guide,--or as was the cry on this trip, "Souway-nas," (South wind,)--gladdened every heart. At once there was great activity. The oars were hauled in, and the mast which had been lashed to the side of the boat, was quickly placed in position. Ropes were speedily arranged, the big square sail was hoisted, and on we sped before the favouring breeze. With the rising of the wind, generally came the great waves; and the most careful steering on the part of Big Tom was necessary to keep our heavily laden boat from plunging her prow into foam-covered billows. It was a pleasure to observe the watchful care of this cautious steersman, as well as to see the strength and quickness with which he managed our little boat when great waves seemed about to sweep over us. His courteous ways won our respect, while his ability as a steersman commanded our admiration. He did all that he could to make our trip, which had many drawbacks, as comfortable and as enjoyable as possible. It was not very comfortable to have a great struggling ox on board, very close to the place where we had to sit. Sometimes, as the boat was tossed on the waves, his head was over one side of the little craft; and then shortly after, his tail was over the other side. Every night where we camped on the shore. Big Tom gathered bundles of fragrant grass, part of which he gave the ox as provender, and with the rest he endeavoured to make our surroundings more comfortable and inviting. He regretted, perhaps as much as we did, our having to travel so long a time with this great ox so close to us; and yet ere we reached the end of our journey, it seemed almost a certainty, that what we had considered an unmitigated nuisance, had been our salvation. One night, in our anxiety to push on, the Indians decided not to go ashore and camp, but to sail on all night as the wind was favourable. During the small hours the wind increased almost to a gale, while dark clouds obscured nearly every star. Big Tom--hero that he was--stuck to his post and, nobly aided by his experienced Indians, under close-reefed sail, sped rapidly on in the gloom. The missionary and his wife were sleeping in their camp bed, which had been spread out at the feet of the steersman; and just beyond us, lying down at our feet, was the great ox. Suddenly the boat was thrown on its side, and came to a standstill. For a time there was great excitement, and the shouting of orders by the usually quiet Indians, about equalled the raging of the storm. With great presence of mind. Big Tom instantly lowered the sail, thus saving us from a complete upset. It was found that we had run on the sloping side of a smooth submerged granite rock. Fortunate indeed was it for us that our boat was well ballasted by its cargo, and that the heaviest item was the ox. The unanimous opinion of the Indians was, that his great weight saved us from a capsize. By careful management the boat was released from its perilous position uninjured, and the adventurous journey resumed. After this exciting adventure. Big Tom decided that there must be no more night travelling. So from early dawn until late at night we hurried on, encamping each evening in some favourable spot upon the shore. The camp-fire, generously supplied with fuel from the great forests so near, lit up the swarthy features of our stalwart men, some of whom were engaged in preparing the evening meal, while others, in picturesque groups, were otherwise occupied. This hearty evening meal was enjoyed by all. Shortly after, we all assembled for our evening devotions. Some additional logs thrown upon our camp-fire so brightened it up, that all who wished could easily follow the reading of the lesson in their own Testaments and use their own hymn-books in the service of song. The memories of some of those religious services are very precious. Still can we hear Big Tom's deep rich voice reading in his musical Cree language: "Weya Muneto a ispeeche saketapun uske, ke niakew oo pauko-Koosisana, piko una tapwatowayitche numaweya oo ga nissewunatissety, maka oo ga ayaty kakeka pimatissewin." Which is the translation of that matchless verse, the sixteenth of the third chapter of Saint John's Gospel. Then after the chapter was read, an appropriate hymn would be sung. The Indians have but little music of their own, and less poetry that can be made available for religious worship. The result is, that the missionaries and teachers have already translated over four hundred of our choicest hymns into the Indian language, and use with them the tunes with which they have been generally associated. Upon the occasion to which we refer, it did seem sweet and appropriate to us to sing, even if in another language, the favourite evening hymn: "Glory to thee my God this night, For all the blessings of the light; Keep me, O keep me King of kings, Beneath thine own almighty wings." When our evening hymn had been sung, we knelt reverently upon the rocks, while Big Tom, or some other godly Indian, led us in prayer, followed by one or two others. Then sweet rest was ours, until the early dawn. A sharp call, to which all promptly responded, was followed by a hasty breakfast, and earnest prayers, and then the journey was resumed. Two Sabbaths were spent on this journey. To our Christian Indians, the Sabbath was indeed a much prized blessing. By scripturally using it as a day of rest and religious worship, and not as a day of dissipation, they were physically, as well as spiritually, invigorated; and thus able to do much better work. We had, in addition to the morning and evening prayers, two delightful religious services in both the Indian and English languages. The intervals between were spent in reading the Book and some sweet song services. As the years rolled on, with their varied duties, we ever found in Big Tom, a most valued and trusted assistant. His noble consistent life, made him a benediction, to both whites and Indians. If disputes arose, and arbitration was necessary, it was Big Tom who was first thought of as an arbitrator; and we cannot recall an instance where his decision was rejected. He was a great hunter in his day, and many were the stories afloat of his skill and prowess. For years he held the record of being the best moose hunter in the village. The moose, although the largest of the deer tribe, and of an ungainly appearance, can move through the forest with great rapidity. It never gallops like other deer, but swings along on a pacing trot, at a rate, and with an endurance that would soon leave the swiftest horse behind. Its head is freighted with great broad horns of enormous dimensions and weight, and yet among the dense trees, it can, when alarmed, move so swiftly, that the fleetest hunter is soon left far in the rear. Its sight is not equal to that of some other of the deer species; but nature has given it the most acute powers of hearing and of scent. From Big Tom and others we have heard it stated, that even when a fierce November storm was raging in the woods, with trees swaying to and fro, and branches crashing against each other and breaking in the gale, if the incautious hunter, hundreds of yards away, happened to step on a small dry twig that snapped under his foot, the moose at once detected the sound and was off like an arrow, never stopping for many miles. Of Big Tom's skill as a hunter, we have nothing more to record at present; but here we wish to put on record an instance of his self-abnegation, which beautifully reveals the disinterested character of the man, and shows what was the heart's ambition. For many generations these American Indians have been divided into tribes. Many and diverse are their languages; but numbers of their customs and methods of government are similar. In all the tribes chiefs governed who had more or less authority. In some, the honour was hereditary; in others, not so; although in the latter the son of the chief, if he were at all suitable, had the best chance of being appointed in his father's place. When the Canadian government made treaties with the Indians of the great north-west, it ever acknowledged the authority of the chiefs; and through them, today still transacts all business with the tribes. For some time before the treaty was made with the northern Crees, the office of chieftainship had fallen into abeyance. When word arrived that the government was about to enter into treaty with them, and wished to know who was their chief, there was a good deal of excitement. The Dominion government has been very honourable in its treatment of the Indians, and in the respect which it has paid to the chiefs of this naturally sensitive people, whose allowances have been silver medals, fine clothes, and extra gratuities, both in money and supplies. Of course there was excitement among the Crees at the prospect of great political changes. Councils were frequent, and many pipes were smoked in wigwams and beside camp-fires over the matter. Various names were discussed, and sons and grandsons were brought forward, only to be rejected one after another. Big Tom took but little interest in these proceedings, and attended but few councils. One day to his surprise, while at work in his garden, he was waited upon by a deputation of Indians and informed that he was urgently needed at the council house. Here in full council he was told that he was the choice of the people, and that they wanted him to be their chief--to wear the silver medal with the face of the Great Mother (the Queen) upon it, and to be their voice to speak to the Queen's representative, (the Governor), on all matters that referred to the happiness and welfare of the tribe. I had been informed of the decision of the people, and had accepted an invitation to be present at the council when Big Tom was to be appointed. In other days, I had attended conventions among my white friends, and there had observed the readiness with which proffered honours, political and ecclesiastical, were accepted. Here, however, was a surprise in store for us; an exception to the general rule, so marvellous that it is worth pondering. When the office of chief was offered to him, the big man, who looked every inch a chief, instead of accepting the position at once, became deeply affected, and seemed utterly unable to make any suitable reply. He tried, we thought, to express his thanks for the great honour; but all he really did was in broken words to ask for an adjournment of the council until the next day. While disappointed at the adjournment, I was pleased at the thought that Big Tom, taken unawares, had felt that he could not give the oration which the occasion demanded, and so had asked for time to get his thoughts in order, when he would give us a speech worthy of the great event; for Big Tom was a speaker of no mean order, although rather slow until he warmed up to his subject. On the reassembling of the council, we were all there, eager to hear an Indian oration under the best auspices. It was a speech, calm, eloquent, delightful; but how different from what had been expected. What a chance was here for an ambitious, aspiring man! How he could have talked about himself; what he had done, and what he was going to do! But in Big Tom's address there was nothing of the kind. Quietly and modestly he talked, warming up as he proceeded. The only brief report I have of his address is the following, and it fails to do justice to the occasion or to the man: "Long ago when the missionaries came and preached to us, for a time we refused to listen to them, and would not become Christians. Then, after a while, many of us who had been in darkness, began to feel in our hearts, that what they told us was for our good; and so we accepted these things, and they have done us good. When I got the assurance in my heart that I was a child of God, and had a soul that should live forever, I found, that in working out this salvation, I had something great to live for. To do this was the great object of my life. By and by I married, and then, as my family increased and began to grow up around me, I found I had another object for which to live--to help its members along in the way to heaven, as well as to work for their comfort here. "Then, after a while, the missionary gave me the charge of a class. We were to meet, and talk together about our souls, and God's love for us, and to do all we could to help each other to the better land. To do my duty as the leader was a great and an important work. While attending to these duties, I found I had another object for which to live. These three things,--my own soul's salvation; the salvation of my family; to do all I can to help and encourage the members of my class to be true and faithful to Him,--are uppermost in my heart. "I am thankful for your confidence in me, in asking me to be your chief. I know it is a great honour; but I see it will have many responsibilities, and, that whoever has the position, will have to attend to many other things than those which I have set my mind upon. So you must appoint some one else; for, with those three things I cannot let anything else interfere. I thank you, my brothers, and love you all." Noble, disinterested Big Tom! As I listened to him while he thus talked, I was prouder of him than ever; and I thanked God for the conversion of such men from paganism to Christianity, and for the development in their hearts and lives of such noble qualities and virtues. 
606	----	INDIAN WHY STORIES SPARKS FROM WAR EAGLE'S LODGE-FIRE FRANK B. LINDERMAN [CO SKEE SEE CO COT] I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE BOOK TO MY FRIEND CHARLES M. RUSSELL THE COWBOY ARTIST GEORGE BIRD GRINNELL THE INDIAN'S FRIEND AND TO ALL OTHERS WHO HAVE KNOWN AND LOVED OLD MONTANA FOR I HOLD THEM ALL AS KIN WHO HAVE BUILDED FIRES WHERE NATURE WEARS NO MAKE-UP ON HER SKIN PREFACE The great Northwest--that wonderful frontier that called to itself a world's hardiest spirits--is rapidly becoming a settled country; and before the light of civilizing influences, the blanket-Indian has trailed the buffalo over the divide that time has set between the pioneer and the crowd. With his passing we have lost much of the aboriginal folk-lore, rich in its fairy-like characters, and its relation to the lives of a most warlike people. There is a wide difference between folk-lore of the so-called Old World and that of America. Transmitted orally through countless generations, the folk-stories of our ancestors show many evidences of distortion and of change in material particulars; but the Indian seems to have been too fond of nature and too proud of tradition to have forgotten or changed the teachings of his forefathers. Childlike in simplicity, beginning with creation itself, and reaching to the whys and wherefores of nature's moods and eccentricities, these tales impress me as being well worth saving. The Indian has always been a lover of nature and a close observer of her many moods. The habits of the birds and animals, the voices of the winds and waters, the flickering of the shadows, and the mystic radiance of the moonlight--all appealed to him. Gradually, he formulated within himself fanciful reasons for the myriad manifestations of the Mighty Mother and her many children; and a poet by instinct, he framed odd stories with which to convey his explanations to others. And these stories were handed down from father to son, with little variation, through countless generations, until the white man slaughtered the buffalo, took to himself the open country, and left the red man little better than a beggar. But the tribal story-teller has passed, and only here and there is to be found a patriarch who loves the legends of other days. Old-man, or Napa, as he is called by the tribes of Blackfeet, is the strangest character in Indian folk-lore. Sometimes he appears as a god or creator, and again as a fool, a thief, or a clown. But to the Indian, Napa is not the Deity; he occupies a somewhat subordinate position, possessing many attributes which have sometimes caused him to be confounded with Manitou, himself. In all of this there is a curious echo of the teachings of the ancient Aryans, whose belief it was that this earth was not the direct handiwork of the Almighty, but of a mere member of a hierarchy of subordinate gods. The Indian possesses the highest veneration for the Great God, who has become familiar to the readers of Indian literature as Manitou. No idle tales are told of Him, nor would any Indian mention Him irreverently. But with Napa it is entirely different; he appears entitled to no reverence; he is a strange mixture of the fallible human and the powerful under-god. He made many mistakes; was seldom to be trusted; and his works and pranks run from the sublime to the ridiculous. In fact, there are many stories in which Napa figures that will not bear telling at all. I propose to tell what I know of these legends, keeping as near as possible to the Indian's style of story-telling, and using only tales told me by the older men of the Blackfeet, Chippewa, and Cree tribes. CONTENTS WHY THE CHIPMUNK'S BACK IS STRIPED HOW THE DUCKS GOT THEIR FINE FEATHERS WHY THE KINGFISHER ALWAYS WEARS A WAR-BONNET WHY THE CURLEW'S BILL IS LONG AND CROOKED OLD-MAN REMARKS THE WORLD WHY BLACKFEET NEVER KILL MICE HOW THE OTTER SKIN BECAME GREAT MEDICINE OLD-MAN STEALS THE SUN'S LEGGINGS OLD-MAN AND HIS CONSCIENCE OLD-MAN'S TREACHERY WHY THE NIGHT-HAWK'S WINGS ARE BEAUTIFUL WHY THE MOUNTAIN-LION IS LONG AND LEAN THE FIRE-LEGGINGS THE MOON AND THE GREAT SNAKE WHY THE DEER HAS NO GALL WHY INDIANS WHIP THE BUFFALO-BERRIES FROM THE BUSHES OLD-MAN AND THE FOX WHY THE BIRCH-TREE WEARS THE SLASHES IN ITS BARK MISTAKES OF OLD-MAN HOW THE MAN FOUND HIS MATE DREAMS RETROSPECTION INTRODUCTION It was the moon when leaves were falling, for Napa had finished painting them for their dance with the North wind. Just over the ragged mountain range the big moon hung in an almost starless sky, and in shadowy outline every peak lay upon the plain like a giant pattern. Slowly the light spread and as slowly the shadows stole away until the October moon looked down on the great Indian camp--a hundred lodges, each as perfect in design as the tusks of a young silver-tip, and all looking ghostly white in the still of the autumn night. Back from the camp, keeping within the ever-moving shadows, a buffalo-wolf skulked to a hill overlooking the scene, where he stopped to look and listen, his body silhouetted against the sky. A dog howled occasionally, and the weird sound of a tom-tom accompanying the voice of a singer in the Indian village reached the wolf's ears, but caused him no alarm; for not until a great herd of ponies, under the eyes of the night-herder, drifted too close, did he steal away. Near the centre of the camp was the big painted lodge of War Eagle, the medicine-man, and inside had gathered his grandchildren, to whom he was telling the stories of the creation and of the strange doings of Napa, the creator. Being a friend of the old historian, I entered unhindered, and with the children listened until the hour grew late, and on the lodge-wall the dying fire made warning shadows dance. WHY THE CHIPMUNK'S BACK IS STRIPED What a splendid lodge it was, and how grand War Eagle looked leaning against his back-rest in the firelight! From the tripod that supported the back-rest were suspended his weapons and his medicine-bundle, each showing the wonderful skill of the maker. The quiver that held the arrows was combined with a case for the bow, and colored quills of the porcupine had been deftly used to make it a thing of beauty. All about the lodge hung the strangely painted linings, and the firelight added richness to both color and design. War Eagle's hair was white, for he had known many snows; but his eyes were keen and bright as a boy's, as he gazed in pride at his grandchildren across the lodge-fire. He was wise, and had been in many battles, for his was a warlike tribe. He knew all about the world and the people in it. He was deeply religious, and every Indian child loved him for his goodness and brave deeds. About the fire were Little Buffalo Calf, a boy of eleven years; Eyes-in-the-Water, his sister, a girl of nine; Fine Bow, a cousin of these, aged ten, and Bluebird, his sister, who was but eight years old. Not a sound did the children make while the old warrior filled his great pipe, and only the snapping of the lodge-fire broke the stillness. Solemnly War Eagle lit the tobacco that had been mixed with the dried inner bark of the red willow, and for several minutes smoked in silence, while the children's eyes grew large with expectancy. Finally he spoke: "Napa, OLD-man, is very old indeed. He made this world, and all that is on it. He came out of the south, and travelled toward the north, making the birds and animals as he passed. He made the perfumes for the winds to carry about, and he even made the war-paint for the people to use. He was a busy worker, but a great liar and thief, as I shall show you after I have told you more about him. It was OLD-man who taught the beaver all his cunning. It was OLD-man who told the bear to go to sleep when the snow grew deep in winter, and it was he who made the curlew's bill so long and crooked, although it was not that way at first. OLD-man used to live on this world with the animals and birds. There was no other man or woman then, and he was chief over all the animal-people and the bird-people. He could speak the language of the robin, knew the words of the bear, and understood the sign-talk of the beaver, too. He lived with the wolves, for they are the great hunters. Even to-day we make the same sign for a smart man as we make for the wolf; so you see he taught them much while he lived with them. OLD-man made a great many mistakes in making things, as I shall show you after a while; yet he worked until he had everything good. But he often made great mischief and taught many wicked things. These I shall tell you about some day. Everybody was afraid of OLD-man and his tricks and lies--even the animal-people, before he made men and women. He used to visit the lodges of our people and make trouble long ago, but he got so wicked that Manitou grew angry at him, and one day in the month of roses, he built a lodge for OLD-man and told him that he must stay in it forever. Of course he had to do that, and nobody knows where the lodge was built, nor in what country, but that is why we never see him as our grandfathers did, long, long ago. "What I shall tell you now happened when the world was young. It was a fine summer day, and OLD-man was travelling in the forest. He was going north and straight as an arrow--looking at nothing, hearing nothing. No one knows what he was after, to this day. The birds and forest-people spoke politely to him as he passed but he answered none of them. The Pine-squirrel, who is always trying to find out other people's business, asked him where he was going, but OLD-man wouldn't tell him. The woodpecker hammered on a dead tree to make him look that way, but he wouldn't. The Elk-people and the Deer-people saw him pass, and all said that he must be up to some mischief or he would stop and talk a while. The pine-trees murmured, and the bushes whispered their greeting, but he kept his eyes straight ahead and went on travelling. "The sun was low when OLD-man heard a groan" (here War Eagle groaned to show the children how it sounded), "and turning about he saw a warrior lying bruised and bleeding near a spring of cold water. OLD-man knelt beside the man and asked: 'Is there war in this country?' "'Yes,' answered the man. 'This whole day long we have fought to kill a Person, but we have all been killed, I am afraid.' "'That is strange,' said OLD-man; 'how can one Person kill so many men? Who is this Person, tell me his name!' but the man didn't answer--he was dead. When OLD-man saw that life had left the wounded man, he drank from the spring, and went on toward the north, but before long he heard a noise as of men fighting, and he stopped to look and listen. Finally he saw the bushes bend and sway near a creek that flowed through the forest. He crawled toward the spot, and peering through the brush saw a great Person near a pile of dead men, with his back against a pine-tree. The Person was full of arrows, and he was pulling them from his ugly body. Calmly the Person broke the shafts of the arrows, tossed them aside, and stopped the blood flow with a brush of his hairy hand. His head was large and fierce-looking, and his eyes were small and wicked. His great body was larger than that of a buffalo-bull and covered with scars of many battles. "OLD-man went to the creek, and with his buffalo-horn cup brought some water to the Person, asking as he approached: "'Who are you, Person? Tell me, so I can make you a fine present, for you are great in war.' "'I am Bad Sickness,' replied the Person. 'Tribes I have met remember me and always will, for their bravest warriors are afraid when I make war upon them. I come in the night or I visit their camps in daylight. It is always the same; they are frightened and I kill them easily.' "'Ho!' said OLD-man, 'tell me how to make Bad Sickness, for I often go to war myself.' He lied; for he was never in a battle in his life. The Person shook his ugly head and then OLD-man said: "'If you will tell me how to make Bad Sickness I will make you small and handsome. When you are big, as you now are, it is very hard to make a living; but when you are small, little food will make you fat. Your living will be easy because I will make your food grow everywhere.' "'Good,' said the Person, 'I will do it; you must kill the fawns of the deer and the calves of the elk when they first begin to live. When you have killed enough of them you must make a robe of their skins. Whenever you wear that robe and sing--"now you sicken, now you sicken," the sickness will come--that is all there is to it.' "'Good,' said OLD-man, 'now lie down to sleep and I will do as I promised.' "The Person went to sleep and OLD-man breathed upon him until he grew so tiny that he laughed to see how small he had made him. Then he took out his paint sack and striped the Person's back with black and yellow. It looked bright and handsome and he waked the Person, who was now a tiny animal with a bushy tail to make him pretty. "'Now,' said OLD-man, 'you are the Chipmunk, and must always wear those striped clothes. All of your children and their children, must wear them, too.' "After the Chipmunk had looked at himself, and thanked OLD-man for his new clothes, he wanted to know how he could make his living, and OLD-man told him what to eat, and said he must cache the pine-nuts when the leaves turned yellow, so he would not have to work in the winter time. "'You are a cousin to the Pine-squirrel,' said OLD-man, 'and you will hunt and hide as he does. You will be spry and your living will be easy to make if you do as I have told you.' "He taught the Chipmunk his language and his signs, showed him where to live, and then left him, going on toward the north again. He kept looking for the cow-elk and doe-deer, and it was not long before he had killed enough of their young to make the robe as the Person told him, for they were plentiful before the white man came to live on the world. He found a shady place near a creek, and there made the robe that would make Bad Sickness whenever he sang the queer song, but the robe was plain, and brown in color. He didn't like the looks of it. Suddenly he thought how nice the back of the Chipmunk looked after he had striped it with his paints. He got out his old paint sack and with the same colors made the robe look very much like the clothes of the Chipmunk. He was proud of the work, and liked the new robe better; but being lazy, he wanted to save himself work, so he sent the South-wind to tell all the doe-deer and the cow-elk to come to him. They came as soon as they received the message, for they were afraid of OLD-man and always tried to please him. When they had all reached the place where OLD-man was he said to them: "'Do you see this robe?' "'Yes, we see it,' they replied. "'Well, I have made it from the skins of your children, and then painted it to look like the Chipmunk's back, for I like the looks of that Person's clothes. I shall need many more of these robes during my life; and every time I make one, I don't want to have to spend my time painting it; so from now on and forever your children shall be born in spotted clothes. I want it to be that way to save me work. On all the fawns there must be spots of white like this (here he pointed to the spots on Bad Sickness's robe) and on all of the elk-calves the spots shall not be so white and shall be in rows and look rather yellow.' Again he showed them his robe, that they might see just what he wanted. "'Remember,' he said, 'after this I don't want to see any of your children running about wearing plain clothing, because that would mean more painting for me. Now go away, and remember what I have said, lest I make you sick.' "The cow-elk and the doe-deer were glad to know that their children's clothes would be beautiful, and they went away to their little ones who were hidden in the tall grass, where the wolves and mountain-lions would have a hard time finding them; for you know that in the tracks of the fawn there is no scent, and the wolf cannot trail him when he is alone. That is the way Manitou takes care of the weak, and all of the forest-people know about it, too. "Now you know why the Chipmunk's back is striped, and why the fawn and elk-calf wear their pretty clothes. "I hear the owls, and it is time for all young men who will some day be great warriors to go to bed, and for all young women to seek rest, lest beauty go away forever. Ho!" HOW THE DUCKS GOT THEIR FINE FEATHERS Another night had come, and I made my way toward War Eagle's lodge. In the bright moonlight the dead leaves of the quaking-aspen fluttered down whenever the wind shook the trees; and over the village great flocks of ducks and geese and swan passed in a never-ending procession, calling to each other in strange tones as they sped away toward the waters that never freeze. In the lodge War Eagle waited for his grandchildren, and when they had entered, happily, he laid aside his pipe and said: "The Duck-people are travelling to-night just as they have done since the world was young. They are going away from winter because they cannot make a living when ice covers the rivers. "You have seen the Duck-people often. You have noticed that they wear fine clothes but you do not know how they got them; so I will tell you to-night. "It was in the fall when leaves are yellow that it happened, and long, long ago. The Duck-people had gathered to go away, just as they are doing now. The buck-deer was coming down from the high ridges to visit friends in the lowlands along the streams as they have always done. On a lake OLD-man saw the Duck-people getting ready to go away, and at that time they all looked alike; that is, they all wore the same colored clothes. The loons and the geese and the ducks were there and playing in the sunlight. The loons were laughing loudly and the diving was fast and merry to see. On the hill where OLD-man stood there was a great deal of moss, and he began to tear it from the ground and roll it into a great ball. When he had gathered all he needed he shouldered the load and started for the shore of the lake, staggering under the weight of the great burden. Finally the Duck-people saw him coming with his load of moss and began to swim away from the shore. "'Wait, my brothers!' he called, 'I have a big load here, and I am going to give you people a dance. Come and help me get things ready.' "'Don't you do it,' said the gray goose to the others; 'that's OLD-man and he is up to something bad, I am sure.' "So the loon called to OLD-man and said they wouldn't help him at all. "Right near the water OLD-man dropped his ball of moss and then cut twenty long poles. With the poles he built a lodge which he covered with the moss, leaving a doorway facing the lake. Inside the lodge he built a fire and when it grew bright he cried: "'Say, brothers, why should you treat me this way when I am here to give you a big dance? Come into the lodge,' but they wouldn't do that. Finally OLD-man began to sing a song in the duck-talk, and keep time with his drum. The Duck-people liked the music, and swam a little nearer to the shore, watching for trouble all the time, but OLD-man sang so sweetly that pretty soon they waddled up to the lodge and went inside. The loon stopped near the door, for he believed that what the gray goose had said was true, and that OLD-man was up to some mischief. The gray goose, too, was careful to stay close to the door but the ducks reached all about the fire. Politely, OLD-man passed the pipe, and they all smoked with him because it is wrong not to smoke in a person's lodge if the pipe is offered, and the Duck-people knew that. "'Well,' said Old-man, 'this is going to be the Blind-dance, but you will have to be painted first. "'Brother Mallard, name the colors--tell how you want me to paint you.' "'Well,' replied the mallard drake, 'paint my head green, and put a white circle around my throat, like a necklace. Besides that, I want a brown breast and yellow legs: but I don't want my wife painted that way.' "OLD-man painted him just as he asked, and his wife, too. Then the teal and the wood-duck (it took a long time to paint the wood-duck) and the spoonbill and the blue-bill and the canvasback and the goose and the brant and the loon--all chose their paint. OLD-man painted them all just as they wanted him to, and kept singing all the time. They looked very pretty in the firelight, for it was night before the painting was done. "'Now,' said OLD-man, 'as this is the Blind-dance, when I beat upon my drum you must all shut your eyes tight and circle around the fire as I sing. Every one that peeks will have sore eyes forever.' "Then the Duck-people shut their eyes and OLD-man began to sing: 'Now you come, ducks, now you come--tum-tum, tum; tum-tum, tum.' "Around the fire they came with their eyes still shut, and as fast as they reached OLD-man, the rascal would seize them, and wring their necks. Ho! things were going fine for OLD-man, but the loon peeked a little, and saw what was going on; several others heard the fluttering and opened their eyes, too. The loon cried out, 'He's killing us--let us fly,' and they did that. There was a great squawking and quacking and fluttering as the Duck-people escaped from the lodge. Ho! but OLD-man was angry, and he kicked the back of the loon-duck, and that is why his feet turn from his body when he walks or tries to stand. Yes, that is why he is a cripple to-day. "And all of the Duck-people that peeked that night at the dance still have sore eyes--just as OLD-man told them they would have. Of course they hurt and smart no more but they stay red to pay for peeking, and always will. You have seen the mallard and the rest of the Duck-people. You can see that the colors OLD-man painted so long ago are still bright and handsome, and they will stay that way forever and forever. Ho!" WHY THE KINGFISHER ALWAYS WEARS A WAR-BONNET Autumn nights on the upper Missouri river in Montana are indescribably beautiful, and under their spell imagination is a constant companion to him who lives in wilderness, lending strange, weird echoes to the voice of man or wolf, and unnatural shapes in shadow to commonplace forms. The moon had not yet climbed the distant mountain range to look down on the humbler lands when I started for War Eagle's lodge; and dimming the stars in its course, the milky-way stretched across the jewelled sky. "The wolf's trail," the Indians call this filmy streak that foretells fair weather, and to-night it promised much, for it seemed plainer and brighter than ever before. "How--how!" greeted War Eagle, making the sign for me to be seated near him, as I entered his lodge. Then he passed me his pipe and together we smoked until the children came. Entering quietly, they seated themselves in exactly the same positions they had occupied on the previous evenings, and patiently waited in silence. Finally War Eagle laid the pipe away and said: "Ho! Little Buffalo Calf, throw a big stick on the fire and I will tell you why the Kingfisher wears a war-bonnet." The boy did as he was bidden. The sparks jumped toward the smoke-hole and the blaze lighted up the lodge until it was bright as daytime, when War Eagle continued: "You have often seen Kingfisher at his fishing along the rivers, I know; and you have heard him laugh in his queer way, for he laughs a good deal when he flies. That same laugh nearly cost him his life once, as you will see. I am sure none could see the Kingfisher without noticing his great head-dress, but not many know how he came by it because it happened so long ago that most men have forgotten. "It was one day in the winter-time when OLD-man and the Wolf were hunting. The snow covered the land and ice was on all of the rivers. It was so cold that OLD-man wrapped his robe close about himself and his breath showed white in the air. Of course the Wolf was not cold; wolves never get cold as men do. Both OLD-man and the Wolf were hungry for they had travelled far and had killed no meat. OLD-man was complaining and grumbling, for his heart is not very good. It is never well to grumble when we are doing our best, because it will do no good and makes us weak in our hearts. When our hearts are weak our heads sicken and our strength goes away. Yes, it is bad to grumble. "When the sun was getting low OLD-man and the Wolf came to a great river. On the ice that covered the water, they saw four fat Otters playing. "'There is meat,' said the Wolf; 'wait here and I will try to catch one of those fellows.' "'No!--No!' cried OLD-man, 'do not run after the Otter on the ice, because there are air-holes in all ice that covers rivers, and you may fall in the water and die.' OLD-man didn't care much if the Wolf did drown. He was afraid to be left alone and hungry in the snow--that was all. "'Ho!' said the Wolf, 'I am swift of foot and my teeth are white and sharp. What chance has an Otter against me? Yes, I will go,' and he did. "Away ran the Otters with the Wolf after them, while OLD-man stood on the bank and shivered with fright and cold. Of course the Wolf was faster than the Otter, but he was running on the ice, remember, and slipping a good deal. Nearer and nearer ran the Wolf. In fact he was just about to seize an Otter, when SPLASH!--into an air-hole all the Otters went. Ho! the Wolf was going so fast he couldn't stop, and SWOW! into the air-hole he went like a badger after mice, and the current carried him under the ice. The Otters knew that hole was there. That was their country and they were running to reach that same hole all the time, but the Wolf didn't know that. "Old-man saw it all and began to cry and wail as women do. Ho! but he made a great fuss. He ran along the bank of the river, stumbling in the snowdrifts, and crying like a woman whose child is dead; but it was because he didn't want to be left in that country alone that he cried--not because he loved his brother, the Wolf. On and on he ran until he came to a place where the water was too swift to freeze, and there he waited and watched for the Wolf to come out from under the ice, crying and wailing and making an awful noise, for a man. "Well--right there is where the thing happened. You see, Kingfisher can't fish through the ice and he knows it, too; so he always finds places like the one OLD-man found. He was there that day, sitting on the limb of a birch-tree, watching for fishes, and when OLD-man came near to Kingfisher's tree, crying like an old woman, it tickled the Fisher so much that he laughed that queer, chattering laugh. "OLD-man heard him and--Ho! but he was angry. He looked about to see who was laughing at him and that made Kingfisher laugh again, longer and louder than before. This time OLD-man saw him and SWOW! he threw his war-club at Kingfisher; tried to kill the bird for laughing. Kingfisher ducked so quickly that OLD-man's club just grazed the feathers on his head, making them stand up straight. "'There,' said OLD-man, 'I'll teach you to laugh at me when I'm sad. Your feathers are standing up on the top of your head now and they will stay that way, too. As long as you live you must wear a head-dress, to pay for your laughing, and all your children must do the same. "This was long, long ago, but the Kingfishers have not forgotten, and they all wear war-bonnets, and always will as long as there are Kingfishers. "Now I will say good night, and when the sun sleeps again I will tell you why the curlew's bill is so long and crooked. Ho!" WHY THE CURLEW'S BILL IS LONG AND CROOKED When we reached War Eagle's lodge we stopped near the door, for the old fellow was singing--singing some old, sad song of younger days and keeping time with his tom-tom. Somehow the music made me sad and not until it had ceased, did we enter. "How! How!"--he greeted us, with no trace of the sadness in his voice that I detected in his song. "You have come here to-night to learn why the Curlew's bill is so long and crooked. I will tell you, as I promised, but first I must smoke." In silence we waited until the pipe was laid aside, then War Eagle began: "By this time you know that OLD-man was not always wise, even if he did make the world, and all that is on it. He often got into trouble but something always happened to get him out of it. What I shall tell you now will show you that it is not well to try to do things just because others do them. They may be right for others, and wrong for us, but OLD-man didn't understand that, you see. "One day he saw some mice playing and went near to watch them. It was spring-time, and the frost was just coming out of the ground. A big flat rock was sticking out of a bank near a creek, and the sun had melted the frost from the earth about it, loosening it, so that it was about to fall. The Chief-Mouse would sing a song, while all the other mice danced, and then the chief would cry 'now!' and all the mice would run past the big rock. On the other side, the Chief-Mouse would sing again, and then say 'now!'--back they would come--right under the dangerous rock. Sometimes little bits of dirt would crumble and fall near the rock, as though warning the mice that the rock was going to fall, but they paid no attention to the warning, and kept at their playing. Finally OLD-man said: "'Say, Chief-Mouse, I want to try that. I want to play that game. I am a good runner.' "He wasn't, you know, but he thought he could run. That is often where we make great mistakes--when we try to do things we were not intended to do. "'No--no!' cried the Chief-Mouse, as OLD-man prepared to make the race past the rock. 'No!--No!--you will shake the ground. You are too heavy, and the rock may fall and kill you. My people are light of foot and fast. We are having a good time, but if you should try to do as we are doing you might get hurt, and that would spoil our fun.' "'Ho!' said OLD-man, 'stand back! I'll show you what a runner I am.' "He ran like a grizzly bear, and shook the ground with his weight. Swow!--came the great rock on top of OLD-man and held him fast in the mud. My! how he screamed and called for aid. All the Mice-people ran away to find help. It was a long time before the Mice-people found anybody, but they finally found the Coyote, and told him what had happened. Coyote didn't like OLD-man very much, but he said he would go and see what he could do, and he did. The Mice-people showed him the way, and when they all reached the spot--there was OLD-man deep in the mud, with the big rock on his back. He was angry and was saying things people should not say, for they do no good and make the mind wicked. "Coyote said: 'Keep still, you big baby. Quit kicking about so. You are splashing mud in my eyes. How can I see with my eyes full of mud? Tell me that. I am going to try to help you out of your trouble.' He tried but OLD-man insulted Coyote, and called him a name that is not good, so the Coyote said, 'Well, stay there,' and went away. "Again OLD-man began to call for helpers, and the Curlew, who was flying over, saw the trouble, and came down to the ground to help. In those days Curlew had a short, stubby bill, and he thought that he could break the rock by pecking it. He pecked and pecked away without making any headway, till OLD-man grew angry at him, as he did at the Coyote. The harder the Curlew worked, the worse OLD-man scolded him. OLD-man lost his temper altogether, you see, which is a bad thing to do, for we lose our friends with it, often. Temper is like a bad dog about a lodge--no friends will come to see us when he is about. "Curlew did his best but finally said: 'I'll go and try to find somebody else to help you. I guess I am too small and weak. I shall come back to you.' He was standing close to OLD-man when he spoke, and OLD-man reached out and grabbed the Curlew by the bill. Curlew began to scream--oh, my--oh, my--oh, my--as you still hear them in the air when it is morning. OLD-man hung onto the bill and finally pulled it out long and slim, and bent it downward, as it is to-day. Then he let go and laughed at the Curlew. "'You are a queer-looking bird now. That is a homely bill, but you shall always wear it and so shall all of your children, as long as there are Curlews in the world.' "I have forgotten who it was that got OLD-man out of his trouble, but it seems to me it was the bear. Anyhow he did get out somehow, and lived to make trouble, until Manitou grew tired of him. "There are good things that OLD-man did and to-morrow night, if you will come early, I will tell you how OLD-man made the world over after the water made its war on the land, scaring all the animal-people and the bird-people. I will also tell you how he made the first man and the first woman and who they were. But now the grouse is fast asleep; nobody is stirring but those who were made to see in the dark, like the owl and the wolf.-- Ho!" OLD-MAN REMAKES THE WORLD The sun was just sinking behind the hills when we started for War Eagle's lodge. "To-morrow will be a fine day," said Other-person, "for grandfather says that a red sky is always the sun's promise of fine weather, and the sun cannot lie." "Yes," said Bluebird, "and he said that when this moon was new it travelled well south for this time of year and its points were up. That means fine, warm weather." "I wish I knew as much as grandfather," said Fine-bow with pride. The pipe was laid aside at once upon our entering the lodge and the old warrior said: "I have told you that OLD-man taught the animals and the birds all they know. He made them and therefore knew just what each would have to understand in order to make his living. They have never forgotten anything he told them--even to this day. Their grandfathers told the young ones what they had been told, just as I am telling you the things you should know. Be like the birds and animals--tell your children and grandchildren what I have told you, that our people may always know how things were made, and why strange things are true. "Yes--OLD-man taught the Beaver how to build his dams to make the water deeper; taught the Squirrel to plant the pine-nut so that another tree might grow and have nuts for his children; told the Bear to go to sleep in the winter, when the snow made hard travelling for his short legs--told him to sleep, and promised him that he would need no meat while he slept. All winter long the Bear sleeps and eats nothing, because OLD-man told him that he could. He sleeps so much in the winter that he spends most of his time in summer hunting. "It was OLD-man who showed the Owl how to hunt at night and it was OLD-man that taught the Weasel all his wonderful ways--his bloodthirsty ways--for the Weasel is the bravest of the animal-people, considering his size. He taught the Beaver one strange thing that you have noticed, and that is to lay sticks on the creek-bottoms, so that they will stay there as long as he wants them to. "Whenever the animal-people got into trouble they always sought OLD-man and told him about it. All were busy working and making a living, when one day it commenced to rain. That was nothing, of course, but it didn't stop as it had always done before. No, it kept right on raining until the rivers overran their banks, and the water chased the Weasel out of his hole in the ground. Yes, and it found the Rabbit's hiding-place and made him leave it. It crept into the lodge of the Wolf at night and frightened his wife and children. It poured into the den of the Bear among the rocks and he had to move. It crawled under the logs in the forest and found the Mice-people. Out it went to the plains and chased them out of their homes in the buffalo skulls. At last the Beavers' dams broke under the strain and that made everything worse. It was bad--very bad, indeed. Everybody except the fish-people were frightened and all went to find OLD-man that they might tell him what had happened. Finally they found his fire, far up on a timbered bench, and they said that they wanted a council right away. "It was a strange sight to see the Eagle sitting next to the Grouse; the Rabbit sitting close to the Lynx; the Mouse right under the very nose of the Bobcat, and the tiny Humming-bird talking to the Hawk in a whisper, as though they had always been great friends. All about OLD-man's fire they sat and whispered or talked in signs. Even the Deer spoke to the Mountain-lion, and the Antelope told the Wolf that he was glad to see him, because fear had made them all friends. "The whispering and the sign-making stopped when OLD-man raised his hand-like that" (here War Eagle raised his hand with the palm outward)--"and asked them what was troubling them. "The Bear spoke first, of course, and told how the water had made him move his camp. He said all the animal-people were moving their homes, and he was afraid they would be unable to find good camping-places, because of the water. Then the Beaver spoke, because he is wise and all the forest-people know it. He said his dams would not hold back the water that came against them; that the whole world was a lake, and that he thought they were on an island. He said he could live in the water longer than most people, but that as far as he could see they would all die except, perhaps, the fish-people, who stayed in the water all the time, anyhow. He said he couldn't think of a thing to do--then he sat down and the sign-talking and whispering commenced again. "OLD-man smoked a long time--smoked and thought hard. Finally he grabbed his magic stone axe, and began to sing his war-song. Then the rest knew he had made up his mind and knew what he would do. Swow! he struck a mighty pine-tree a blow, and it fell down. Swow! down went another and another, until he had ten times ten of the longest, straightest, and largest trees in all the world lying side by side before him. Then OLD-man chopped off the limbs, and with the aid of magic rolled the great logs tight together. With withes of willow that he told the Beaver to cut for him, he bound the logs fast together until they were all as one. It was a monstrous raft that OLD-man had built, as he sang his song in the darkness. At last he cried, 'Ho! everybody hurry and sit on this raft I have made'; and they did hurry. "It was not long till the water had reached the logs; then it crept in between them, and finally it went on past the raft and off into the forest, looking for more trouble. "By and by the raft began to groan, and the willow withes squeaked and cried out as though ghost-people were crying in the night. That was when the great logs began to tremble as the water lifted them from the ground. Rain was falling--night was there, and fear made cowards of the bravest on the raft. All through the forest there were bad noises--noises that make the heart cold--as the raft bumped against great trees rising from the earth that they were leaving forever. "Higher and higher went the raft; higher than the bushes; higher than the limbs on the trees; higher than the Woodpecker's nest; higher than the tree tops, and even higher than the mountains. Then the world was no more, for the water had whipped the land in the war it made against it. "Day came, and still the rain was falling. Night returned, and yet the rain came down. For many days and nights they drifted in the falling rain; whirling and twisting about while the water played with the great raft, as a Bear would play with a Mouse. It was bad, and they were all afraid--even OLD-man himself was scared. "At last the sun came but there was no land. All was water. The water was the world. It reached even to the sky and touched it all about the edges. All were hungry, and some of them were grumbling, too. There are always grumblers when there is great trouble, but they are not the ones who become great chiefs--ever. "OLD-man sat in the middle of the raft and thought. He knew that something must be done, but he didn't know what. Finally he said: 'Ho! Chipmunk, bring me the Spotted Loon. Tell him I want him.' "The Chipmunk found the Spotted Loon and told him that OLD-man wanted him, so the Loon went to where OLD-man sat. When he got there, OLD-man said: "'Spotted Loon you are a great diver. Nobody can dive as you can. I made you that way and I know. If you will dive and swim down to the world I think you might bring me some of the dirt that it is made of--then I am sure I can make another world.' "'It is too deep, this water,' replied the Loon, 'I am afraid I shall drown.' "'Well, what if you do?' said OLD-man. 'I gave you life, and if you lose it this way I will return it to you. You shall live again!' "'All right, OLD-man,' he answered, 'I am willing to try'; so he waddled to the edge of the raft. He is a poor walker--the Loon, and you know I told you why. It was all because OLD-man kicked him in the back the night he painted all the Duck-people. "Down went the Spotted Loon, and long he stayed beneath the water. All waited and watched, and longed for good luck, but when he came to the top he was dead. Everybody groaned--all felt badly, I can tell you, as OLD-man laid the dead Loon on the logs. The Loon's wife was crying, but OLD-man told her to shut up and she did. "Then OLD-man blew his own breath into the Loon's bill, and he came back to life. "'What did you see, Brother Loon?' asked OLD-man, while everybody crowded as close as he could. "'Nothing but water,' answered the Loon, 'we shall all die here, I cannot reach the world by swimming. My heart stops working.' "There were many brave ones on the raft, and the Otter tried to reach the world by diving; and the Beaver, and the Gray Goose, and the Gray Goose's wife; but all died in trying, and all were given a new life by OLD-man. Things were bad and getting worse. Everybody was cross, and all wondered what OLD-man would do next, when somebody laughed. "All turned to see what there could be to laugh at, at such a time, and OLD-man turned about just in time to see the Muskrat bid good-by to his wife--that was what they were laughing at. But he paid no attention to OLD-man or the rest, and slipped from the raft to the water. Flip!--his tail cut the water like a knife, and he was gone. Some laughed again, but all wondered at his daring, and waited with little hope in their hearts; for the Muskrat wasn't very great, they thought. "He was gone longer than the Loon, longer than the Beaver, longer than the Otter or the Gray Goose or his wife, but when he came to the surface of the water he was dead. "OLD-man brought Muskrat back to life, and asked him what he had seen on his journey. Muskrat said: 'I saw trees, OLD-man, but I died before I got to them.' "OLD-man told him he was brave. He said his people should forever be great if he succeeded in bringing some dirt to the raft; so just as soon as the Muskrat was rested he dove again. "When he came up he was dead, but clinched in his tiny hand OLD-man found some dirt--not much, but a little. A second time OLD-man gave the Muskrat his breath, and told him that he must go once more, and bring dirt. He said there was not quite enough in the first lot, so after resting a while the Muskrat tried a third time and a third time he died, but brought up a little more dirt. "Everybody on the raft was anxious now, and they were all crowding about OLD-man; but he told them to stand back, and they did. Then he blew his breath in Muskrat's mouth a third time, and a third time he lived and joined his wife. "OLD-man then dried the dirt in his hands, rubbing it slowly and singing a queer song. Finally it was dry; then he settled the hand that held the dirt in the water slowly, until the water touched the dirt. The dry dirt began to whirl about and then OLD-man blew upon it. Hard he blew and waved his hands, and the dirt began to grow in size right before their eyes. OLD-man kept blowing and waving his hands until the dirt became real land, and the trees began to grow. So large it grew that none could see across it. Then he stopped his blowing and sang some more. Everybody wanted to get off the raft, but OLD-man said 'no.' "'Come here, Wolf,' he said, and the Wolf came to him. "'You are swift of foot and brave. Run around this land I have made, that I may know how large it is.' "The Wolf started, and it took him half a year to get back to the raft. He was very poor from much running, too, but OLD-man said the world wasn't big enough yet so he blew some more, and again sent the Wolf out to run around the land. He never came back--no, the OLD-man had made it so big that the Wolf died of old age before he got back to the raft. Then all the people went out upon the land to make their living, and they were happy, there, too. "After they had been on the land for a long time OLD-man said: 'Now I shall make a man and a woman, for I am lonesome living with you people. He took two or three handfuls of mud from the world he had made, and moulded both a man and a woman. Then he set them side by side and breathed upon them. They lived!--and he made them very strong and healthy--very beautiful to look upon. Chippewas, he called these people, and they lived happily on that world until a white man saw an Eagle sailing over the land and came to look about. He stole the woman--that white man did; and that is where all the tribes came from that we know to-day. None are pure of blood but the two humans he made of clay, and their own children. And they are the Chippewas! "That is a long story and now you must hurry to bed. To-morrow night I will tell you another story--Ho!" WHY BLACKFEET NEVER KILL MICE Muskrat and his grandmother were gathering wood for the camp the next morning, when they came to an old buffalo skull. The plains were dotted with these relics of the chase, for already the hide-hunting white man had played havoc with the great herds of buffalo. This skull was in a grove of cottonwood-trees near the river, and as they approached two Mice scampered into it to hide. Muskrat, in great glee, secured a stick and was about to turn the skull over and kill the Mice, when his grandmother said: "No, our people never kill Mice. Your grandfather will tell you why if you ask him. The Mice-people are our friends and we treat them as such. Even small people can be good friends, you know--remember that." All the day the boy wondered why the Mice-people should not be harmed; and just at dark he came for me to accompany him to War Eagle's lodge. On the way he told me what his grandmother had said, and that he intended to ask for the reason, as soon as we arrived. We found the other children already there, and almost before we had seated ourselves, Muskrat asked: "Grandfather, why must we never kill the Mice-people? Grandmother said that you knew." "Yes," replied War Eagle, "I do know and you must know. Therefore I shall tell you all to-night why the Mice-people must be let alone and allowed to do as they please, for we owe them much; much more than we can ever pay. Yes--they are great people, as you will see. "It happened long, long ago, when there were few men and women on the world. OLD-man was chief of all then, and the animal-people and the bird-people were greater than our people, because we had not been on earth long and were not wise. "There was much quarrelling among the animals and the birds. You see the Bear wanted to be chief, under OLD-man, and so did the Beaver. Almost every night they would have a council and quarrel over it. Beside the Bear and Beaver, there were other animals, and also birds, that thought they had the right to be chief. They couldn't agree and the quarrelling grew worse as time went on. Some said the greatest thief should be chosen. Others thought the wisest one should be the leader; while some said the swiftest traveller was the one they wanted. So it went on and on until they were most all enemies instead of friends, and you could hear them quarrelling almost every night, until OLD-man came along that way. "He heard about the trouble. I forget who told him, but I think it was the Rabbit. Anyhow he visited the council where the quarrelling was going on and listened to what each one had to say. It took until almost daylight, too. He listened to it all--every bit. When they had finished talking and the quarrelling commenced as usual, he said, 'stop!' and they did stop. "Then he said to them: 'I will settle this thing right here and right now, so that there will be no more rows over it, forever.' "He opened his paint sack and took from it a small, polished bone. This he held up in the firelight, so that they might all see it, and he said: "'This will settle the quarrel. You all see this bone in my right hand, don't you?' "'Yes,' they replied. "'Well, now you watch the bone and my hands, too, for they are quick and cunning.' "OLD-man began to sing the gambling song and to slip the bone from one hand to the other so rapidly and smoothly that they were all puzzled. Finally he stopped singing and held out his hands--both shut tight, and both with their backs up. "'Which of my hands holds the bone now?' he asked them. "Some said it was in the right hand and others claimed that it was the left hand that held it. OLD-man asked the Bear to name the hand that held the bone, and the Bear did; but when OLD-man opened that hand it was empty--the bone was not there. Then everybody laughed at the Bear. OLD-man smiled a little and began to sing and again pass the bone. "'Beaver, you are smart; name the hand that holds the bone this time.' "The Beaver said: 'It's in your right hand. I saw you put it there.' "OLD-man opened that hand right before the Beaver's eyes, but the bone wasn't there, and again everybody laughed--especially the Bear. "'Now, you see,' said OLD-man, 'that this is not so easy as it looks, but I am going to teach you all to play the game; and when you have all learned it, you must play it until you find out who is the cleverest at the playing. Whoever that is, he shall be chief under me, forever.' "Some were awkward and said they didn't care much who was chief, but most all of them learned to play pretty well. First the Bear and the Beaver tried it, but the Beaver beat the Bear easily and held the bone for ever so long. Finally the Buffalo beat the Beaver and started to play with the Mouse. Of course the Mouse had small hands and was quicker than the Buffalo--quicker to see the bone. The Buffalo tried hard for he didn't want the Mouse to be chief but it didn't do him any good; for the Mouse won in the end. "It was a fair game and the Mouse was chief under the agreement. He looked quite small among the rest but he walked right out to the centre of the council and said: "'Listen, brothers--what is mine to keep is mine to give away. I am too small to be your chief and I know it. I am not warlike. I want to live in peace with my wife and family. I know nothing of war. I get my living easily. I don't like to have enemies. I am going to give my right to be chief to the man that OLD-man has made like himself.' "That settled it. That made the man chief forever, and that is why he is greater than the animals and the birds. That is why we never kill the Mice-people. "You saw the Mice run into the buffalo skull, of course. There is where they have lived and brought up their families ever since the night the Mouse beat the Buffalo playing the bone game. Yes--the Mice-people always make their nests in the heads of the dead Buffalo-people, ever since that night. "Our people play the same game, even today. See," and War Eagle took from his paint sack a small, polished bone. Then he sang just as OLD-man did so long ago. He let the children try to guess the hand that held the bone, as the animal-people did that fateful night; but, like the animals, they always guessed wrong. Laughingly War Eagle said: "Now go to your beds and come to see me to-morrow night. Ho!" HOW THE OTTER SKIN BECAME GREAT "MEDICINE" It was rather late when we left War Eagle's lodge after having learned why the Indians never kill the Mice-people; and the milky way was white and plain, dimming the stars with its mist. The children all stopped to say good night to little Sees-in-the-dark, a brand-new baby sister of Bluebird's; then they all went to bed. The next day the boys played at war, just as white boys do; and the girls played with dolls dressed in buckskin clothes, until it grew tiresome, when they visited relatives until it came time for us all to go to their grandfather's lodge. He was smoking when we entered, but soon laid aside the pipe and said: "You know that the otter skin is big medicine, no doubt. You have noticed that our warriors wear it sometimes and you know that we all think it very lucky to wear the skin of the Otter. But you don't know how it came to be great; so I shall tell you. "One time, long before my grandfather was born, a young-man of our tribe was unlucky in everything. No woman wanted to marry him, because he couldn't kill enough meat to keep her in food and clothes. Whenever he went hunting, his bow always broke or he would lose his lance. If these things didn't happen, his horse would fall and hurt him. Everybody talked about him and his bad luck, and although he was fine-looking, he had no close friends, because of his ill fortune. He tried to dream and get his medicine but no dream would come. He grew sour and people were sorry for him all the time. Finally his name was changed to 'The Unlucky-one,' which sounds bad to the ear. He used to wander about alone a good deal, and one morning he saw an old woman gathering wood by the side of a River. The Unlucky-one was about to pass the old woman when she stopped him and asked: "'Why are you so sad in your handsome face? Why is that sorry look in your fine eyes?' "'Because,' replied the young-man, 'I am the Unlucky-one. Everything goes wrong with me, always. I don't want to live any longer, for my heart is growing wicked.' "'Come with me,' said the old woman, and he followed her until she told him to sit down. Then she said: 'Listen to me. First you must learn a song to sing, and this is it.' Then she sang a queer song over and over again until the young-man had learned it well. "'Now do what I tell you, and your heart shall be glad some day.' She drew from her robe a pair of moccasins and a small sack of dried meat. 'Here,' she said, 'put these moccasins on your feet and take this sack of meat for food, for you must travel far. Go on down this river until you come to a great beaver village. Their lodges will be large and fine-looking and you will know the village by the great size of the lodges. When you get to the place, you must stand still for a long time, and then sing the song I taught you. When you have finished the singing, a great white Beaver, chief of all the Beavers in the world, will come to you. He is wise and can tell you what to do to change your luck. After that I cannot help you; but do what the white Beaver tells you, without asking why. Now go, and be brave!' "The young-man started at once. Long his steps were, for he was young and strong. Far he travelled down the river--saw many beaver villages, too, but he did not stop, because the lodges were not big, as the old woman told him they would be in the right village. His feet grew tired for he travelled day and night without resting, but his heart was brave and he believed what the old woman had told him. "It was late on the third day when he came to a mighty beaver village and here the lodges were greater than any he had ever seen before. In the centre of the camp was a monstrous lodge built of great sticks and towering above the rest. All about, the ground was neat and clean and bare as your hand. The Unlucky-one knew this was the white Beaver's lodge--knew that at last he had found the chief of all the Beavers in the world; so he stood still for a long time, and then sang that song. "Soon a great white Beaver--white as the snows of winter--came to him and asked: 'Why do you sing that song, my brother? What do you want of me? I have never heard a man sing that song before. You must be in trouble.' "'I am the Unlucky-one,' the young-man replied. 'I can do nothing well. I can find no woman who will marry me. In the hunt my bow will often break or my lance is poor. My medicine is bad and I cannot dream. The people do not love me, and they pity me as they do a sick child.' "'I am sorry for you,' said the white Beaver--chief of all the Beavers in the world--'but you must find my brother the Coyote, who knows where OLD-man's lodge is. The Coyote will do your bidding if you sing that song when you see him. Take this stick with you, because you will have a long journey, and with the stick you may cross any river and not drown, if you keep it always in your hand. That is all I can do for you, myself.' "On down the river the Unlucky-one travelled and the sun was low in the west on the fourth day, when he saw the Coyote on a hillside near by. After looking at Coyote for a long time, the young-man commenced to sing the song the old woman had taught him. When he had finished the singing, the Coyote came up close and asked: "'What is the matter? Why do you sing that song? I never heard a man sing it before. What is it you want of me?' "Then the Unlucky-one told the Coyote what he had told the white Beaver, and showed the stick the Beaver-chief had given him, to prove it. "'I am hungry, too,' said the Unlucky-one, 'for I have eaten all the dried meat the old woman gave me.' "'Wait here,' said the Coyote, 'my brother the Wolf has just killed a fat Doe, and perhaps he will give me a little of the meat when I tell him about you and your troubles.' "Away went the Coyote to beg for meat, and while he was gone the young-man bathed his tired feet in a cool creek. Soon the Coyote came back with meat, and young-man built a fire and ate some of it, even before it was warm, for he was starving. When he had finished the Coyote said: "'Now I shall take you to OLD-man's lodge, come.' "They started, even though it was getting dark. Long they travelled without stopping--over plains and mountains--through great forests and across rivers, until they came to a cave in the rough rocks on the side of a mighty mountain. "'In there,' said the Coyote, 'you will find OLD-man and he can tell you what you want to know.' "The Unlucky-one stood before the black hole in the rocks for a long time, because he was afraid; but when he turned to speak to the Coyote he found himself to be alone. The Coyote had gone about his own business--had silently slipped away in the night. "Slowly and carefully the young-man began to creep into the cave, feeling his way in the darkness. His heart was beating like a tom-tom at a dance. Finally he saw a fire away back in the cave. "The shadows danced about the stone sides of the cave as men say the ghosts do; and they frightened him. But looking, he saw a man sitting on the far side of the fire. The man's hair was like the snow and very long. His face was wrinkled with the seams left by many years of life and he was naked in the firelight that played about him. "Slowly the young-man stood upon his feet and began to walk toward the fire with great fear in his heart. When he had reached the place where the firelight fell upon him, the OLD-man looked up and said: "'How, young-man, I am OLD-man. Why did you come here? What is it you want?' "Then the Unlucky-one told OLD-man just what he had told the old woman and the white Beaver and the Coyote, and showed the stick the Beaver had given him, to prove it. "'Smoke,' said OLD-man, and passed the pipe to his visitor. After they had smoked OLD-man said: "'I will tell you what to do. On the top of this great mountain there live many ghost-people and their chief is a great Owl. This Owl is the only one who knows how you can change your luck, and he will tell you if you are not afraid. Take this arrow and go among those people, without fear. Show them you are unarmed as soon as they see you. Now go!' "Out into the night went the Unlucky-one and on up the mountain. The way was rough and the wind blew from the north, chilling his limbs and stinging his face, but on he went toward the mountain-top, where the storm-clouds sleep and the winter always stays. Drifts of snow were piled all about, and the wind gathered it up and hurled it at the young man as though it were angry at him. The clouds waked and gathered around him, making the night darker and the world lonelier than before, but on the very top of the mountain he stopped and tried to look through the clouds. Then he heard strange singing all about him; but for a long time there was no singer in sight. Finally the clouds parted and he saw a great circle of ghost-people with large and ugly heads. They were seated on the icy ground and on the drifts of snow and on the rocks, singing a warlike song that made the heart of the young-man stand still, in dread. In the centre of the circle there sat a mighty Owl--their chief. Ho!--when the ghost-people saw the Unlucky-one they rushed at him with many lances and would have killed him but the Owl-chief cried, 'Stop!' "The young-man folded his arms and said: 'I am unarmed--come and see how a Blackfoot dies. I am not afraid of you.' "'Ho!' said the Owl-chief, 'we kill no unarmed man. Sit down, my son, and tell me what you want. Why do you come here? You must be in trouble. You must smoke with me.' "The Unlucky-one told the Owl-chief just what he had told the old woman and the Beaver and the Coyote and OLD-man, and showed the stick that the white Beaver had given him and the arrow that OLD-man had given to him to prove it. "'Good,' said the Owl-chief, 'I can help you, but first you must help yourself. Take this bow. It is a medicine-bow; then you will have a bow that will not break and an arrow that is good and straight. Now go down this mountain until you come to a river. It will be dark when you reach this river, but you will know the way. There will be a great cottonwood-tree on the bank of the stream where you first come to the water. At this tree, you must turn down the stream and keep on travelling without rest, until you hear a splashing in the water near you. When you hear the splashing, you must shoot this arrow at the sound. Shoot quickly, for if you do not you can never have any good luck. If you do as I have told you the splasher will be killed and you must then take his hide and wear it always. The skin that the splasher wears will make you a lucky man. It will make anybody lucky and you may tell your people that it is so. "'Now go, for it is nearly day and we must sleep.' "The young-man took his bow and arrow and the stick the white Beaver had given him and started on his journey. All the day he travelled, and far into the night. At last he came to a river and on the bank he saw the great cottonwood-tree, just as the ghost Owl had told him. At the tree the young-man turned down the stream and in the dark easily found his way along the bank. Very soon he heard a great splashing in the water near him, and--zipp--he let the arrow go at the sound--then all was still again. He stood and looked and listened, but for a long time could see nothing--hear nothing. "Then the moon came out from under a cloud and just where her light struck the river, he saw some animal floating--dead. With the magic stick the young-man walked out on the water, seized the animal by the legs and drew it ashore. It was an Otter, and the young-man took his hide, right there. "A Wolf waited in the brush for the body of the Otter, and the young-man gave it to him willingly, because he remembered the meat the Wolf had given the Coyote. As soon as the young-man had skinned the Otter he threw the hide over his shoulder and started for his own country with a light heart, but at the first good place he made a camp, and slept. That night he dreamed and all was well with him. "After days of travel he found his tribe again, and told what had happened. He became a great hunter and a great chief among us. He married the most beautiful woman in the tribe and was good to her always. They had many children, and we remember his name as one that was great in war. That is all--Ho!" OLD-MAN STEALS THE SUN'S LEGGINGS Firelight--what a charm it adds to story-telling. How its moods seem to keep pace with situations pictured by the oracle, offering shadows when dread is abroad, and light when a pleasing climax is reached; for interest undoubtedly tends the blaze, while sympathy contributes or withholds fuel, according to its dictates. The lodge was alight when I approached and I could hear the children singing in a happy mood, but upon entering, the singing ceased and embarrassed smiles on the young faces greeted me; nor could I coax a continuation of the song. Seated beside War Eagle was a very old Indian whose name was Red Robe, and as soon as I was seated, the host explained that he was an honored guest; that he was a Sioux and a friend of long standing. Then War Eagle lighted the pipe, passing it to the distinguished friend, who in turn passed it to me, after first offering it to the Sun, the father, and the Earth, the mother of all that is. In a lodge of the Blackfeet the pipe must never be passed across the doorway. To do so would insult the host and bring bad luck to all who assembled. Therefore if there be a large number of guests ranged about the lodge, the pipe is passed first to the left from guest to guest until it reaches the door, when it goes back, unsmoked, to the host, to be refilled ere it is passed to those on his right hand. Briefly War Eagle explained my presence to Red Robe and said: "Once the Moon made the Sun a pair of leggings. Such beautiful work had never been seen before. They were worked with the colored quills of the Porcupine and were covered with strange signs, which none but the Sun and the Moon could read. No man ever saw such leggings as they were, and it took the Moon many snows to make them. Yes, they were wonderful leggings and the Sun always wore them on fine days, for they were bright to look upon. "Every night when the Sun went to sleep in his lodge away in the west, he used the leggings for a pillow, because there was a thief in the world, even then. That thief and rascal was OLD-man, and of course the Sun knew all about him. That is why he always put his fine leggings under his head when he slept. When he worked he almost always wore them, as I have told you, so that there was no danger of losing them in the daytime; but the Sun was careful of his leggings when night came and he slept. "You wouldn't think that a person would be so foolish as to steal from the Sun, but one night OLD-man--who is the only person who ever knew just where the Sun's lodge was--crept near enough to look in, and saw the leggings under the Sun's head. "We have all travelled a great deal but no man ever found the Sun's lodge. No man knows in what country it is. Of course we know it is located somewhere west of here, for we see him going that way every afternoon, but OLD-man knew everything--except that he could not fool the Sun. "Yes--OLD-man looked into the lodge of the Sun and saw the leggings there--saw the Sun, too, and the Sun was asleep. He made up his mind that he would steal the leggings so he crept through the door of the lodge. There was no one at home but the Sun, for the Moon has work to do at night just as the children, the Stars, do, so he thought he could slip the leggings from under the sleeper's head and get away. "He got down on his hands and knees to walk like the Bear-people and crept into the lodge, but in the black darkness he put his knee upon a dry stick near the Sun's bed. The stick snapped under his weight with so great a noise that the Sun turned over and snorted, scaring OLD-man so badly that he couldn't move for a minute. His heart was not strong--wickedness makes every heart weaker--and after making sure that the Sun had not seen him, he crept silently out of the lodge and ran away. "On the top of a hill OLD-man stopped to look and listen, but all was still; so he sat down and thought. "'I'll get them to-morrow night when he sleeps again'; he said to himself. 'I need those leggings myself, and I'm going to get them, because they will make me handsome as the Sun.' "He watched the Moon come home to camp and saw the Sun go to work, but he did not go very far away because he wanted to be near the lodge when night came again. "It was not long to wait, for all the OLD-man had to do was to make mischief, and only those who have work to do measure time. He was close to the lodge when the Moon came out, and there he waited until the Sun went inside. From the bushes OLD-man saw the Sun take off his leggings and his eyes glittered with greed as he saw their owner fold them and put them under his head as he had always done. Then he waited a while before creeping closer. Little by little the old rascal crawled toward the lodge, till finally his head was inside the door. Then he waited a long, long time, even after the Sun was snoring. "The strange noises of the night bothered him, for he knew he was doing wrong, and when a Loon cried on a lake near by, he shivered as with cold, but finally crept to the sleeper's side. Cautiously his fingers felt about the precious leggings until he knew just how they could best be removed without waking the Sun. His breath was short and his heart was beating as a war-drum beats, in the black dark of the lodge. Sweat--cold sweat, that great fear always brings to the weak-hearted--was dripping from his body, and once he thought that he would wait for another night, but greed whispered again, and listening to its voice, he stole the leggings from under the Sun's head. "Carefully he crept out of the lodge, looking over his shoulder as he went through the door. Then he ran away as fast as he could go. Over hills and valleys, across rivers and creeks, toward the east. He wasted much breath laughing at his smartness as he ran, and soon he grew tired. "'Ho!' he said to himself, 'I am far enough now and I shall sleep. It's easy to steal from the Sun--just as easy as stealing from the Bear or the Beaver.' "He folded the leggings and put them under his head as the Sun had done, and went to sleep. He had a dream and it waked him with a start. Bad deeds bring bad dreams to us all. OLD-man sat up and there was the Sun looking right in his face and laughing. He was frightened and ran away, leaving the leggings behind him. "Laughingly the Sun put on the leggings and went on toward the west, for he is always busy. He thought he would see OLD-man no more, but it takes more than one lesson to teach a fool to be wise, and OLD-man hid in the timber until the Sun had travelled out of sight. Then he ran westward and hid himself near the Sun's lodge again, intending to wait for the night and steal the leggings a second time. "He was much afraid this time, but as soon as the Sun was asleep he crept to the lodge and peeked inside. Here he stopped and looked about, for he was afraid the Sun would hear his heart beating. Finally he started toward the Sun's bed and just then a great white Owl flew from off the lodge poles, and this scared him more, for that is very bad luck and he knew it; but he kept on creeping until he could almost touch the Sun. "All about the lodge were beautiful linings, tanned and painted by the Moon, and the queer signs on them made the old coward tremble. He heard a night-bird call outside and he thought it would surely wake the Sun; so he hastened to the bed and with cunning fingers stole the leggings, as he had done the night before, without waking the great sleeper. Then he crept out of the lodge, talking bravely to himself as cowards do when they are afraid. "'Now,' he said to himself, 'I shall run faster and farther than before. I shall not stop running while the night lasts, and I shall stay in the mountains all the time when the Sun is at work in the daytime!' "Away he went--running as the Buffalo runs--straight ahead, looking at nothing, hearing nothing, stopping at nothing. When day began to break OLD-man was far from the Sun's lodge and he hid himself in a deep gulch among some bushes that grew there. He listened a long time before he dared to go to sleep, but finally he did. He was tired from his great run and slept soundly and for a long time, but when he opened his eyes--there was the Sun looking straight at him, and this time he was scowling. OLD-man started to run away but the Sun grabbed him and threw him down upon his back. My! but the Sun was angry, and he said: "'OLD-man, you are a clever thief but a mighty fool as well, for you steal from me and expect to hide away. Twice you have stolen the leggings my wife made for me, and twice I have found you easily. Don't you know that the whole world is my lodge and that you can never get outside of it, if you run your foolish legs off? Don't you know that I light all of my lodge every day and search it carefully? Don't you know that nothing can hide from me and live? I shall not harm you this time, but I warn you now, that if you ever steal from me again, I will hurt you badly. Now go, and don't let me catch you stealing again!' "Away went OLD-man, and on toward the west went the busy Sun. That is all. "Now go to bed; for I would talk of other things with my friend, who knows of war as I do. Ho!" OLD-MAN AND HIS CONSCIENCE Not so many miles away from the village, the great mountain range so divides the streams that are born there, that their waters are offered as tribute to the Atlantic, Pacific, and Arctic Oceans. In this wonderful range the Indians believe the winds are made, and that they battle for supremacy over Gunsight Pass. I have heard an old story, too, that is said to have been generally believed by the Blackfeet, in which a monster bull-elk that lives in Gunsight Pass lords it over the winds. This elk creates the North wind by "flapping" one of his ears, and the South wind by the same use of his other. I am inclined to believe that the winds are made in that Pass, myself, for there they are seldom at rest, especially at this season of the year. To-night the wind was blowing from the north, and filmy white clouds were driven across the face of the nearly full moon, momentarily veiling her light. Lodge poles creaked and strained at every heavy gust, and sparks from the fires inside the lodges sped down the wind, to fade and die. In his lodge War Eagle waited for us, and when we entered he greeted us warmly, but failed to mention the gale. "I have been waiting," he said. "You are late and the story I shall tell you is longer than many of the others." Without further delay the story-telling commenced. "Once OLD-man came upon a lodge in the forest. It was a fine one, and painted with strange signs. Smoke was curling from the top, and thus he knew that the person who lived there was at home. Without calling or speaking, he entered the lodge and saw a man sitting by the fire smoking his pipe. The man didn't speak, nor did he offer his pipe to OLD-man, as our people do when they are glad to see visitors. He didn't even look at his guest, but OLD-man has no good manners at all. He couldn't see that he wasn't wanted, as he looked about the man's lodge and made himself at home. The linings were beautiful and were painted with fine skill. The lodge was clean and the fire was bright, but there was no woman about. "Leaning against a fine back-rest, OLD-man filled his own pipe and lighted it with a coal from the man's fire. Then he began to smoke and look around, wondering why the man acted so queerly. He saw a star that shone down through the smoke-hole, and the tops of several trees that were near the lodge. Then he saw a woman--way up in a tree top and right over the lodge. She looked young and beautiful and tall. "'Whose woman is that up there in the tree top?' asked OLD-man. "'She's your woman if you can catch her and will marry her,' growled the man; 'but you will have to live here and help me make a living.' "'I'll try to catch her, and if I do I will marry her and stay here, for I am a great hunter and can easily kill what meat we want,' said Old-man. "He went out of the lodge and climbed the tree after the woman. She screamed, but he caught her and held her, although she scratched him badly. He carried her into the lodge and there renewed his promise to stay there always. The man married them, and they were happy for four days, but on the fifth morning OLD-man was gone--gone with all the dried meat in the lodge--the thief. "When they were sure that the rascal had run away the woman began to cry, but not so the man. He got his bow and arrows and left the lodge in anger. There was snow on the ground and the man took the track of OLD-man, intending to catch and kill him. "The track was fresh and the man started on a run, for he was a good hunter and as fast as a Deer. Of course he gained on OLD-man, who was a much slower traveller; and the Sun was not very high when the old thief stopped on a hilltop to look back. He saw the man coming fast. "'This will never do,' he said to himself. 'That queer person will catch me. I know what I shall do; I shall turn myself into a dead Bull-Elk and lie down. Then he will pass me and I can go where I please.' "He took off his moccasins and said to them: 'Moccasins, go on toward the west. Keep going and making plain tracks in the snow toward the big-water where the Sun sleeps. The queer-one will follow you, and when you pass out of the snowy country, you can lose him. Go quickly for he is close upon us.' "The moccasins ran away as OLD-man wanted them to, and they made plain tracks in the snow leading away toward the big-water. OLD-man turned into a dead Bull-Elk and stretched himself near the tracks the moccasins had made. "Up the hill came the man, his breath short from running. He saw the dead Elk, and thought it might be OLD-man playing a trick. He was about to shoot an arrow into the dead Elk to make sure; but just as he was about to let the arrow go, he saw the tracks the moccasins had made. Of course he thought the moccasins were on OLD-man's feet, and that the carcass was really that of a dead Elk. He was badly fooled and took the tracks again. On and on he went, following the moccasins over hills and rivers. Faster than before went the man, and still faster travelled the empty moccasins, the trail growing dimmer and dimmer as the daylight faded. All day long, and all of the night the man followed the tracks without rest or food, and just at daybreak he came to the shore of the big-water. There, right by the water's edge, stood the empty moccasins, side by side. "The man turned and looked back. His eyes were red and his legs were trembling. 'Caw--caw, caw,' he heard a Crow say. Right over his head he saw the black bird and knew him, too. "'Ho! OLD-man, you were in that dead Bull-Elk. You fooled me, and now you are a Crow. You think you will escape me, do you? Well, you will not; for I, too, know magic, and am wise.' "With a stick the man drew a circle in the sand. Then he stood within the ring and sang a song. OLD-man was worried and watched the strange doings from the air overhead. Inside the circle the man began to whirl about so rapidly that he faded from sight, and from the centre of the circle there came an Eagle. Straight at the Crow flew the Eagle, and away toward the mountains sped the Crow, in fright. "The Crow knew that the Eagle would catch him, so that as soon as he reached the trees on the mountains he turned himself into a Wren and sought the small bushes under the tall trees. The Eagle saw the change, and at once began turning over and over in the air. When he had reached the ground, instead of an Eagle a Sparrow-hawk chased the Wren. Now the chase was fast indeed, for no place could the Wren find in which to hide from the Sparrow-hawk. Through the brush, into trees, among the weeds and grass, flew the Wren with the Hawk close behind. Once the Sparrow-hawk picked a feather from the Wren's tail--so close was he to his victim. It was nearly over with the Wren, when he suddenly came to a park along a river's side. In this park were a hundred lodges of our people, and before a fine lodge there sat the daughter of the chief. It was growing dark and chilly, but still she sat there looking at the river. The Sparrow-hawk was striking at the Wren with his beak and talons, when the Wren saw the young-woman and flew straight to her. So swift he flew that the young-woman didn't see him at all, but she felt something strike her hand, and when she looked she saw a bone ring on her finger. This frightened her, and she ran inside the lodge, where the fire kept the shadows from coming. OLD-man had changed into the ring, of course, and the Sparrow-hawk didn't dare to go into the lodge; so he stopped outside and listened. This is what he heard OLD-man say: "'Don't be frightened, young-woman, I am neither a Wren nor a ring. I am OLD-man and that Sparrow-hawk has chased me all the day and for nothing. I have never done him harm, and he bothers me without reason.' "'Liar--forked-tongue,' cried the Sparrow-hawk. 'Believe him not, young-woman. He has done wrong. He is wicked and I am not a Sparrow-hawk, but conscience. Like an arrow I travel, straight and fast. When he lies or steals from his friends I follow him. I talk all the time and he hears me, but lies to himself, and says he does not hear. You know who I am, young-woman, I am what talks inside a person.' "OLD-man heard what the Sparrow-hawk said, and he was ashamed for once in his life. He crawled out of the lodge. Into the shadows he ran away--away into the night, and the darkness--away from himself! "You see," said War Eagle, as he reached for his pipe, "OLD-man knew that he had done wrong, and his heart troubled him, just as yours will bother you if you do not listen to the voice that speaks within yourselves. Whenever that voice says a thing is wicked, it is wicked--no matter who says it is not. Yes--it is very hard for a man to hide from himself. Ho!" OLD-MAN'S TREACHERY The next afternoon Muskrat and Fine Bow went hunting. They hid themselves in some brush which grew beside an old game trail that followed the river, and there waited for a chance deer. Chickadees hopped and called, "chick-a-de-de-de" in the willows and wild-rose bushes that grew near their hiding-place; and the gentle little birds with their pretty coats were often within a few inches of the hands of the young hunters. In perfect silence they watched and admired these little friends, while glance or smile conveyed their appreciation of the bird-visits to each other. The wind was coming down the stream, and therefore the eyes of the boys seldom left the trail in that direction; for from that quarter an approaching deer would be unwarned by the ever-busy breeze. A rabbit came hopping down the game trail in believed perfect security, passing so close to Fine Bow that he could not resist the desire to strike at him with an arrow. Both boys were obliged to cover their mouths with their open hands to keep from laughing aloud at the surprise and speed shown by the frightened bunny, as he scurried around a bend in the trail, with his white, pudgy tail bobbing rapidly. They had scarcely regained their composure and silence when, "snap!" went a dry stick. The sharp sound sent a thrill through the hearts of the boys, and instantly they became rigidly watchful. Not a leaf could move on the ground now--not a bush might bend or a bird pass and escape being seen by the four sharp eyes that peered from the brush in the direction indicated by the sound of the breaking stick. Two hearts beat loudly as Fine Bow fitted his arrow to the bowstring. Tense and expectant they waited--yes, it was a deer--a buck, too, and he was coming down the trail, alert and watchful--down the trail that he had often travelled and knew so well. Yes, he had followed his mother along that trail when he was but a spotted fawn--now he wore antlers, and was master of his own ways. On he came--nearly to the brush that hid the hunters, when, throwing his beautiful head high in the air, he stopped, turning his side a trifle. Zipp--went the arrow and, kicking out behind, away went the buck, crashing through willows and alders that grew in his way, until he was out of sight. Then all was still, save the chick-a-de-de-de, chick-a-de-de-de, that came constantly from the bushes about them. Out from the cover came the hunters, and with ready bow they followed along the trail. Yes--there was blood on a log, and more on the dead leaves. The arrow had found its mark and they must go slowly in their trailing, lest they lose the meat. For two hours they followed the wounded animal, and at last came upon him in a willow thicket--sick unto death, for the arrow was deep in his paunch. His sufferings were ended by another arrow, and the chase was done. With their knives the boys dressed the buck, and then went back to the camp to tell the women where the meat could be found--just as the men do. It was their first deer; and pride shone in their faces as they told their grandfather that night in the lodge. "That is good," War Eagle replied, as the boys finished telling of their success. "That is good, if your mother needed the meat, but it is wrong to kill when you have plenty, lest Manitou be angry. There is always enough, but none to waste, and the hunter who kills more than he needs is wicked. To-night I shall tell you what happened to OLD-man when he did that. Yes, and he got into trouble over it. "One day in the fall when the leaves were yellow, and the Deer-people were dressed in their blue robes--when the Geese and Duck-people were travelling to the country where water does not freeze, and where flowers never die, OLD-man was travelling on the plains. "Near sundown he saw two Buffalo-Bulls feeding on a steep hillside; but he had no bow and arrow with him. He was hungry, and began to think of some way to kill one of the Bulls for meat. Very soon he thought out a plan, for he is cunning always. "He ran around the hill out of sight of the Bulls, and there made two men out of grass and sage-brush. They were dummies, of course, but he made them to look just like real men, and then armed each with a wooden knife of great length. Then he set them in the position of fighting; made them look as though they were about to fight each other with the knives. When he had them both fixed to suit, he ran back to the place where the Buffalo were calling: "'Ho! brothers, wait for me--do not run away. There are two fine men on the other side of this hill, and they are quarrelling. They will surely fight unless we stop them. It all started over you two Bulls, too. One of the men says you are fat and fine, and the other claims you are poor and skinny. Don't let our brothers fight over such a foolish thing as that. It would be wicked. Now I can decide it, if you will let me feel all over you to see if you are fat or poor. Then I will go back to the men and settle the trouble by telling them the truth. Stand still and let me feel your sides--quick, lest the fight begin while I am away.' "'All right,' said the Bulls, 'but don't you tickle us.' Then OLD-man walked up close and commenced to feel about the Bulls' sides; but his heart was bad. From his robe he slipped his great knife, and slyly felt about till he found the spot where the heart beats, and then stabbed the knife into the place, clear up to the hilt. "Both of the Bulls died right away, and OLD-man laughed at the trick he had played upon them. Then he gave a knife to both of his hands, and said: "'Get to work, both of you! Skin these Bulls while I sit here and boss you.' "Both hands commenced to skin the Buffalo, but the right hand was much the swifter worker. It gained upon the left hand rapidly, and this made the left hand angry. Finally the left hand called the right hand 'dog-face.' That is the very worst thing you can call a person in our language, you know, and of course it made the right hand angry. So crazy and angry was the right hand that it stabbed the left hand, and then they began to fight in earnest. "Both cut and slashed till blood covered the animals they were skinning. All this fighting hurt OLD-man badly, of course, and he commenced to cry, as women do sometimes. This stopped the fight; but still OLD-man cried, till, drying his tears, he saw a Red Fox sitting near the Bulls, watching him. 'Hi, there, you--go away from there! If you want meat you go and kill it, as I did.' "Red Fox laughed--'Ha!--Ha!--Ha!--foolish OLD-man--Ha!--ha!' Then he ran away and told the other Foxes and the Wolves and the Coyotes about OLD-man's meat. Told them that his own hands couldn't get along with themselves and that it would be easy to steal it from him. "They all followed the Red Fox back to the place where OLD-man was, and there they ate all of the meat--every bit, and polished the bones. "OLD-man couldn't stop them, because he was hurt, you see; but it all came about through lying and killing more meat than he needed. Yes--he lied and that is bad, but his hands got to quarrelling between themselves, and family quarrels are always bad. Do not lie; do not quarrel. It is bad. Ho!" WHY THE NIGHT-HAWK'S WINGS ARE BEAUTIFUL I was awakened by the voice of the camp-crier, and although it was yet dark I listened to his message. The camp was to move. All were to go to the mouth of the Maria's--"The River That Scolds at the Other"--the Indians call this stream, that disturbs the waters of the Missouri with its swifter flood. On through the camp the crier rode, and behind him the lodge-fires glowed in answer to his call. The village was awake, and soon the thunder of hundreds of hoofs told me that the pony-bands were being driven into camp, where the faithful were being roped for the journey. Fires flickered in the now fading darkness, and down came the lodges as though wizard hands had touched them. Before the sun had come to light the world, we were on our way to "The River That Scolds at the Other." Not a cloud was in the sky, and the wind was still. The sun came and touched the plains and hilltops with the light that makes all wild things glad. Here and there a jack-rabbit scurried away, often followed by a pack of dogs, and sometimes, though not often, they were overtaken and devoured on the spot. Bands of graceful antelope bounded out of our way, stopping on a knoll to watch the strange procession with wondering eyes, and once we saw a dust-cloud raised by a moving herd of buffalo, in the distance. So the day wore on, the scene constantly changing as we travelled. Wolves and coyotes looked at us from almost every knoll and hilltop; and sage-hens sneaked to cover among the patches of sage-brush, scarcely ten feet away from our ponies. Toward sundown we reached a grove of cottonwoods near the mouth of the Maria's, and in an incredibly short space of time the lodges took form. Soon, from out the tops of a hundred camps, smoke was curling just as though the lodges had been there always, and would forever remain. As soon as supper was over I found the children, and together we sought War Eagle's lodge. He was in a happy mood and insisted upon smoking two pipes before commencing his story-telling. At last he said: "To-night I shall tell you why the Nighthawk wears fine clothes. My grandfather told me about it when I was young. I am sure you have seen the Night-hawk sailing over you, dipping and making that strange noise. Of course there is a reason for it. "OLD-man was travelling one day in the springtime; but the weather was fine for that time of year. He stopped often and spoke to the bird-people and to the animal-people, for he was in good humor that day. He talked pleasantly with the trees, and his heart grew tender. That is, he had good thoughts; and of course they made him happy. Finally he felt tired and sat down to rest on a big, round stone--the kind of stone our white friend there calls a bowlder. Here he rested for a while, but the stone was cold, and he felt it through his robe; so he said: "'Stone, you seem cold to-day. You may have my robe. I have hundreds of robes in my camp, and I don't need this one at all.' That was a lie he told about having so many robes. All he had was the one he wore. "He spread his robe over the stone, and then started down the hill, naked, for it was really a fine day. But storms hide in the mountains, and are never far away when it is springtime. Soon it began to snow--then the wind blew from the north with a good strength behind it. OLD-man said: "'Well, I guess I do need that robe myself, after all. That stone never did anything for me anyhow. Nobody is ever good to a stone. I'll just go back and get my robe.' "Back he went and found the stone. Then he pulled the robe away, and wrapped it about himself. Ho! but that made the stone angry--Ho! OLD-man started to run down the hill, and the stone ran after him. Ho! it was a funny race they made, over the grass, over smaller stones, and over logs that lay in the way, but OLD-man managed to keep ahead until he stubbed his toe on a big sage-brush, and fell--swow! "'Now I have you!' cried the stone--'now I'll kill you, too! Now I will teach you to give presents and then take them away,' and the stone rolled right on top of OLD-man, and sat on his back. "It was a big stone, you see, and OLD-man couldn't move it at all. He tried to throw off the stone but failed. He squirmed and twisted--no use--the stone held him fast. He called the stone some names that are not good; but that never helps any. At last he began to call: "'Help!--Help!--Help!' but nobody heard him except the Night-hawk, and he told the OLD-man that he would help him all he could; so he flew away up in the air--so far that he looked like a black speck. Then he came down straight and struck that rock an awful blow--'swow!'--and broke it in two pieces. Indeed he did. The blow was so great that it spoiled the Night-hawk's bill, forever--made it queer in shape, and jammed his head, so that it is queer, too. But he broke the rock, and OLD-man stood upon his feet. "'Thank you, Brother Night-hawk,' said OLD-man, 'now I will do something for you. I am going to make you different from other birds--make you so people will always notice you.' "You know that when you break a rock the powdered stone is white, like snow; and there is always some of the white powder whenever you break a rock, by pounding it. Well, Old-man took some of the fine powdered stone and shook it on the Night-hawk's wings in spots and stripes--made the great white stripes you have seen on his wings, and told him that no other bird could have such marks on his clothes. "All the Night-hawk's children dress the same way now; and they always will as long as there are Night-hawks. Of course their clothes make them proud; and that is why they keep at flying over people's heads--soaring and dipping and turning all the time, to show off their pretty wings. "That is all for to-night. Muskrat, tell your father I would run Buffalo with him tomorrow--Ho!" WHY THE MOUNTAIN-LION IS LONG AND LEAN Have you ever seen the plains in the morning--a June morning, when the spurred lark soars and sings--when the plover calls, and the curlew pipes his shriller notes to the rising sun? Then is there music, indeed, for no bird outsings the spurred lark; and thanks to OLD-man he is not wanting in numbers, either. The plains are wonderful then--more wonderful than they are at this season of the year; but at all times they beckon and hold one as in a spell, especially when they are backed or bordered by a snow-capped mountain range. Looking toward the east they are boundless, but on their western edge superb mountains rear themselves. All over this vast country the Indians roamed, following the great buffalo herds as did the wolves, and making their living with the bow and lance, since the horse came to them. In the very old days the "piskun" was used, and buffalo were enticed to follow a fantastically dressed man toward a cliff, far enough to get the herd moving in that direction, when the "buffalo-man" gained cover, and hidden Indians raised from their hiding places behind the animals, and drove them over the cliff, where they were killed in large numbers. Not until Cortez came with his cavalry from Spain, were there horses on this continent, and then generations passed ere the plains tribes possessed this valuable animal, that so materially changed their lives. Dogs dragged the Indian's travois or packed his household goods in the days before the horse came, and for hundreds--perhaps thousands of years, these people had no other means of transporting their goods and chattels. As the Indian is slow to forget or change the ways of his father, we should pause before we brand him as wholly improvident, I think. He has always been a family-man, has the Indian, and small children had to be carried, as well as his camp equipage. Wolf-dogs had to be fed, too, in some way, thus adding to his burden; for it took a great many to make it possible for him to travel at all. When the night came and we visited War Eagle, we found he had other company--so we waited until their visit was ended before settling ourselves to hear the story that he might tell us. "The Crows have stolen some of our best horses," said War Eagle, as soon as the other guests had gone. "That is all right--we shall get them back, and more, too. The Crows have only borrowed those horses and will pay for their use with others of their own. To-night I shall tell you why the Mountain lion is so long and thin and why he wears hair that looks singed. I shall also tell you why that person's nose is black, because it is part of the story. "A long time ago the Mountain-lion was a short, thick-set person. I am sure you didn't guess that. He was always a great thief like OLD-man, but once he went too far, as you shall see. "One day OLD-man was on a hilltop, and saw smoke curling up through the trees, away off on the far side of a gulch. 'Ho!' he said, 'I wonder who builds fires except me. I guess I will go and find out.' "He crossed the gulch and crept carefully toward the smoke. When he got quite near where the fire was, he stopped and listened. He heard some loud laughing but could not see who it was that felt so glad and gay. Finally he crawled closer and peeked through the brush toward the fire. Then he saw some Squirrel-people, and they were playing some sort of game. They were running and laughing, and having a big time, too. What do you think they were doing? They were running about the fire--all chasing one Squirrel. As soon as the Squirrel was caught, they would bury him in the ashes near the fire until he cried; then they would dig him out in a hurry. Then another Squirrel would take the lead and run until he was caught, as the other had been. In turn the captive would submit to being buried, and so on--while the racing and laughing continued. They never left the buried one in the ashes after he cried, but always kept their promise and dug him out, right away. "'Say, let me play, won't you?' asked OLD-man. But the Squirrel-people all ran away, and he had a hard time getting them to return to the fire. "'You can't play this game,' replied the Chief-Squirrel, after they had returned to the fire. "'Yes, I can,' declared OLD-man, 'and you may bury me first, but be sure to dig me out when I cry, and not let me burn, for those ashes are hot near the fire.' "'All right,' said the Chief-Squirrel, 'we will let you play. Lie down,'--and OLD-Man did lie down near the fire. Then the Squirrels began to laugh and bury OLD-man in the ashes, as they did their own kind. In no time at all OLD-man cried: 'Ouch!--you are burning me--quick!--dig me out.' "True to their promise, the Squirrel-people dug OLD-man out of the ashes, and laughed at him because he cried so quickly. "'Now, it is my turn to cover the captive,' said OLD-man, 'and as there are so many of you, I have a scheme that will make the game funnier and shorter. All of you lie down at once in a row. Then I will cover you all at one time. When you cry--I will dig you out right away and the game will be over.' "They didn't know OLD-man very well; so they said, 'all right,' and then they all laid down in a row about the fire. "OLD-man buried them all in the ashes--then he threw some more wood on the fire and went away and left them. Every Squirrel there was in the world was buried in the ashes except one woman Squirrel, and she told OLD-man she couldn't play and had to go home. If she hadn't gone, there might not be any Squirrels in this world right now. Yes, it is lucky that she went home. "For a minute or so OLD-man watched the fire as it grew hotter, and then went down to a creek where willows grew and made himself a great plate by weaving them together. When he had finished making the plate, he returned to the fire, and it had burned low again. He laughed at his wicked work, and a Raven, flying over just then, called him 'forked-tongue,' or liar, but he didn't mind that at all. OLD-man cut a long stick and began to dig out the Squirrel-people. One by one he fished them out of the hot ashes; and they were roasted fine and were ready to eat. As he fished them out he counted them, and laid them on the willow plate he had made. When he had dug out the last one, he took the plate to the creek and there sat down to eat the Squirrels, for he was hungry, as usual. OLD-man is a big eater, but he couldn't eat all of the Squirrels at once, and while eating he fell asleep with the great plate in his lap. "Nobody knows how long it was that he slept, but when he waked his plate of Squirrels was gone--gone completely. He looked behind him; he looked about him; but the plate was surely gone. Ho! But he was angry. He stamped about in the brush and called aloud to those who might hear him; but nobody answered, and then he started to look for the thief. OLD-man has sharp eyes, and he found the trail in the grass where somebody had passed while he slept. 'Ho!' he said, 'the Mountain-lion has stolen my Squirrels. I see his footprints; see where he has mashed the grass as he walked with those soft feet of his; but I shall find him, for I made him and know all his ways.' "OLD-man got down on his hands and knees to walk as the Bear-people do, just as he did that night in the Sun's lodge, and followed the trail of the Mountain-lion over the hills and through the swamps. At last he came to a place where the grass was all bent down, and there he found his willow plate, but it was empty. That was the place where the Mountain-lion had stopped to eat the rest of the Squirrels, you know; but he didn't stay there long because he expected that OLD-man would try to follow him. "The Mountain-lion had eaten so much that he was sleepy and, after travelling a while after he had eaten the Squirrels, he thought he would rest. He hadn't intended to go to sleep; but he crawled upon a big stone near the foot of a hill and sat down where he could see a long way. Here his eyes began to wink, and his head began to nod, and finally he slept. "Without stopping once, OLD-man kept on the trail. That is what counts--sticking right to the thing you are doing--and just before sundown OLD-man saw the sleeping Lion. Carefully, lest he wake the sleeper, OLD-man crept close, being particular not to move a stone or break a twig; for the Mountain-lion is much faster than men are, you see; and if OLD-man had wakened the Lion, he would never have caught him again, perhaps. Little by little he crept to the stone where the Mountain-lion was dreaming, and at last grabbed him by the tail. It wasn't much of a tail then, but enough for OLD-man to hold to. Ho! The Lion was scared and begged hard, saying: "'Spare me, OLD-man. You were full and I was hungry. I had to have something to eat; had to get my living. Please let me go and do not hurt me.' Ho! OLD-man was angry--more angry than he was when he waked and found that he had been robbed, because he had travelled so far on his hands and knees. "'I'll show you. I'll teach you. I'll fix you, right now. Steal from me, will you? Steal from the man that made you, you night-prowling rascal!' "OLD-man put his foot behind the Mountain-lion's head, and, still holding the tail, pulled hard and long, stretching the Lion out to great length. He squalled and cried, but OLD-man kept pulling until he nearly broke the Mountain-lion in two pieces--until he couldn't stretch him any more. Then OLD-man put his foot on the Mountain-lion's back, and, still holding the tail, stretched that out until the tail was nearly as long as the body. "'There, you thief--now you are too long and lean to get fat, and you shall always look just like that. Your children shall all grow to look the same way, just to pay you for your stealing from the man that made you. Come on with me'; and he dragged the poor Lion back to the place where the fire was, and there rolled him in the hot ashes, singeing his robe till it looked a great deal like burnt hair. Then OLD-man stuck the Lion's nose against the burnt logs and blackened it some--that is why his face looks as it does to-day. "The Mountain-lion was lame and sore, but OLD-man scolded him some more and told him that it would take lots more food to keep him after that, and that he would have to work harder to get his living, to pay for what he had done. Then he said, 'go now, and remember all the Mountain-lions that ever live shall look just as you do.' And they do, too! "That is the story--that is why the Mountain-lion is so long and lean, but he is no bigger thief than OLD-man, nor does he tell any more lies. Ho!" THE FIRE-LEGGINGS There had been a sudden change in the weather. A cold rain was falling, and the night comes early when the clouds hang low. The children loved a bright fire, and to-night War Eagle's lodge was light as day. Away off on the plains a wolf was howling, and the rain pattered upon the lodge as though it never intended to quit. It was a splendid night for story-telling, and War Eagle filled and lighted the great stone pipe, while the children made themselves comfortable about the fire. A spark sprang from the burning sticks, and fell upon Fine Bow's bare leg. They all laughed heartily at the boy's antics to rid himself of the burning coal; and as soon as the laughing ceased War Eagle laid aside the pipe. An Indian's pipe is large to look at, but holds little tobacco. "See your shadows on the lodge wall?" asked the old warrior. The children said they saw them, and he continued: "Some day I will tell you a story about them, and how they drew the arrows of our enemies, but to-night I am going to tell you of the great fire-leggings. "It was long before there were men and women on the world, but my grandfather told me what I shall now tell you. "The gray light that hides the night-stars was creeping through the forests, and the wind the Sun sends to warn the people of his coming was among the fir tops. Flowers, on slender stems, bent their heads out of respect for the herald-wind's Master, and from the dead top of a pine-tree the Yellowhammer beat upon his drum and called 'the Sun is awake--all hail the Sun!' "Then the bush-birds began to sing the song of the morning, and from alders the Robins joined, until all live things were awakened by the great music. Where the tall ferns grew, the Doe waked her Fawns, and taught them to do homage to the Great Light. In the creeks, where the water was still and clear, and where throughout the day, like a delicate damaskeen, the shadows of leaves that overhang would lie, the Speckled Trout broke the surface of the pool in his gladness of the coming day. Pine-squirrels chattered gayly, and loudly proclaimed what the wind had told; and all the shadows were preparing for a great journey to the Sand Hills, where the ghost-people dwell. "Under a great spruce-tree--where the ground was soft and dry, OLD-man slept. The joy that thrilled creation disturbed him not, although the Sun was near. The bird-people looked at the sleeper in wonder, but the Pine squirrel climbed the great spruce-tree with a pine-cone in his mouth. Quickly he ran out on the limb that spread over OLD-man, and dropped the cone on the sleeper's face. Then he scolded OLD-man, saying: 'Get up--get up--lazy one--lazy one--get up--get up.' "Rubbing his eyes in anger, OLD-man sat up and saw the Sun coming--his hunting leggings slipping through the thickets--setting them afire, till all the Deer and Elk ran out and sought new places to hide. "'Ho, Sun!' called OLD-man, 'those are mighty leggings you wear. No wonder you are a great hunter. Your leggings set fire to all the thickets, and by the light you can easily see the Deer and Elk; they cannot hide. Ho! Give them to me and I shall then be the great hunter and never be hungry.' "'Good,' said the Sun, 'take them, and let me see you wear my leggings.' "OLD-man was glad in his heart, for he was lazy, and now he thought he could kill the game without much work, and that he could be a great hunter--as great as the Sun. He put on the leggings and at once began to hunt the thickets, for he was hungry. Very soon the leggings began to burn his legs. The faster he travelled the hotter they grew, until in pain he cried out to the Sun to come and take back his leggings; but the Sun would not hear him. On and on OLD-man ran. Faster and faster he flew through the country, setting fire to the brush and grass as he passed. Finally he came to a great river, and jumped in. Sizzzzzzz--the water said, when OLD-man's legs touched it. It cried out, as it does when it is sprinkled upon hot stones in the sweat-lodge, for the leggings were very hot. But standing in the cool water OLD-man took off the leggings and threw them out upon the shore, where the Sun found them later in the day. "The Sun's clothes were too big for OLD-man, and his work too great. "We should never ask to do the things which Manitou did not intend us to do. If we keep this always in mind we shall never get into trouble. "Be yourselves always. That is what Manitou intended. Never blame the Wolf for what he does. He was made to do such things. Now I want you to go to your fathers' lodges and sleep. To-morrow night I will tell you why there are so many snakes in the world. Ho!" THE MOON AND THE GREAT SNAKE The rain had passed; the moon looked down from a clear sky, and the bushes and dead grass smelled wet, after the heavy storm. A cottontail ran into a clump of wild-rose bushes near War Eagle's lodge, and some dogs were close behind the frightened animal, as he gained cover. Little Buffalo Calf threw a stone into the bushes, scaring the rabbit from his hiding-place, and away went bunny, followed by the yelping pack. We stood and listened until the noise of the chase died away, and then went into the lodge, where we were greeted, as usual, by War Eagle. To-night he smoked; but with greater ceremony, and I suspected that it had something to do with the forthcoming story. Finally he said: "You have seen many Snakes, I suppose?" "Yes," replied the children, "we have seen a great many. In the summer we see them every day." "Well," continued the story-teller, "once there was only one Snake on the whole world, and he was a big one, I tell you. He was pretty to look at, and was painted with all the colors we know. This snake was proud of his clothes and had a wicked heart. Most Snakes are wicked, because they are his relations. "Now, I have not told you all about it yet, nor will I tell you to-night, but the Moon is the Sun's wife, and some day I shall tell you that story, but to-night I am telling you about the Snakes. "You know that the Sun goes early to bed, and that the Moon most always leaves before he gets to the lodge. Sometimes this is not so, but that is part of another story. "This big Snake used to crawl up a high hill and watch the Moon in the sky. He was in love with her, and she knew it; but she paid no attention to him. She liked his looks, for his clothes were fine, and he was always slick and smooth. This went on for a long time, but she never talked to him at all. The Snake thought maybe the hill wasn't high enough, so he found a higher one, and watched the Moon pass, from the top. Every night he climbed this high hill and motioned to her. She began to pay more attention to the big Snake, and one morning early, she loafed at her work a little, and spoke to him. He was flattered, and so was she, because he said many nice things to her, but she went on to the Sun's lodge, and left the Snake. "The next morning very early she saw the Snake again, and this time she stopped a long time--so long that the Sun had started out from the lodge before she reached home. He wondered what kept her so long, and became suspicious of the Snake. He made up his mind to watch, and try to catch them together. So every morning the Sun left the lodge a little earlier than before; and one morning, just as he climbed a mountain, he saw the big Snake talking to the Moon. That made him angry, and you can't blame him, because his wife was spending her time loafing with a Snake. "She ran away; ran to the Sun's lodge and left the Snake on the hill. In no time the Sun had grabbed him. My, the Sun was angry! The big Snake begged, and promised never to speak to the Moon again, but the Sun had him; and he smashed him into thousands of little pieces, all of different colors from the different parts of his painted body. The little pieces each turned into a little snake, just as you see them now, but they were all too small for the Moon to notice after that. That is how so many Snakes came into the world; and that is why they are all small, nowadays. "Our people do not like the Snake-people very well, but we know that they were made to do something on this world, and that they do it, or they wouldn't live here. "That was a short story, but to-morrow night I will tell you why the Deer-people have no gall on their livers; and why the Antelope-people do not wear dew-claws, for you should know that there are no other animals with cloven hoofs that are like them in this. "I am tired to-night, and I will ask that you go to your lodges, that I may sleep, for I am getting old. Ho!" WHY THE DEER HAS NO GALL Bright and early the next morning the children were playing on the bank of "The River That Scolds the Other," when Fine Bow said: "Let us find a Deer's foot, and the foot of an Antelope and look at them, for to-night grandfather will tell us why the Deer has the dew-claws, and why the Antelope has none." "Yes, and let us ask mother if the Deer has no gall on its liver. Maybe she can show both the liver of a Deer and that of an Antelope; then we can see for ourselves," said Bluebird. So they began to look about where the hides had been grained for tanning; and sure enough, there were the feet of both the antelope and the deer. On the deer's feet, or legs, they found the dew-claws, but on the antelope there were none. This made them all anxious to know why these animals, so nearly alike, should differ in this way. Bluebird's mother passed the children on her way to the river for water, and the little girl asked: "Say, mother, does the Deer have gall on his liver?" "No, my child, but the Antelope does; and your grandfather will tell you why if you ask him." That night in the lodge War Eagle placed before his grandchildren the leg of a deer and the leg of an antelope, as well as the liver of a deer and the liver of an antelope. "See for yourselves that this thing is true, before I tell you why it is so, and how it happened." "We see," they replied, "and to-day we found that these strange things are true, but we don't know why, grandfather." "Of course you don't know why. Nobody knows that until he is told, and now I shall tell you, so you will always know, and tell your children, that they, too, may know. "It was long, long ago, of course. All these things happened long ago when the world was young, as you are now. It was on a summer morning, and the Deer was travelling across the plains country to reach the mountains on the far-off side, where he had relatives. He grew thirsty, for it was very warm, and stopped to drink from a water-hole on the plains. When he had finished drinking he looked up, and there was his own cousin, the Antelope, drinking near him. "'Good morning, cousin,' said the Deer. 'It is a warm morning and water tastes good, doesn't it?' "'Yes,' replied the Antelope, 'it is warm to-day, but I can beat you running, just the same.' "'Ha-ha!' laughed the Deer--'you beat me running? Why, you can't run half as fast as I can, but if you want to run a race let us bet something. What shall it be?' "'I will bet you my gall-sack,' replied the Antelope. "'Good,' said the Deer, 'but let us run toward that range of mountains, for I am going that way, anyhow, to see my relations.' "'All right,' said the Antelope. 'All ready, and here we go.' "Away they ran toward the far-off range. All the way the Antelope was far ahead of the Deer; and just at the foot of the mountains he stopped to wait for him to catch up. "Both were out of breath from running, but both declared they had done their best, and the Deer, being beaten, gave the Antelope his sack of gall. "'This ground is too flat for me,' said the Deer. 'Come up the hillside where the gulches cut the country, and rocks are in our way, and I will show you how to run. I can't run on flat ground. It's too easy for me.' another race with you on your own ground, and I think I can beat you there, too.' "Together they climbed the hill until they reached a rough country, when the Deer said: "'This is my kind of country. Let us run a race here. Whoever gets ahead and stays there, must keep on running until the other calls on him to stop.' "'That suits me,' replied the Antelope, 'but what shall we bet this time? I don't want to waste my breath for nothing. I'll tell you--let us bet our dew-claws.' "'Good. I'll bet you my dew-claws against your own, that I can beat you again. Are you all ready?--Go!' "Away they went over logs, over stones and across great gulches that cut the hills in two. On and on they ran, with the Deer far ahead of the Antelope. Both were getting tired, when the Antelope called: "'Hi, there--you! Stop, you can beat me. I give up.' "So the Deer stopped and waited until the Antelope came up to him, and they both laughed over the fun, but the Antelope had to give the Deer his dew-claws, and now he goes without himself. The Deer wears dew-claws and always will, because of that race, but on his liver there is no gall, while the Antelope carries a gall-sack like the other animals with cloven hoofs. "That is all of that story, but it is too late to tell you another to-night. If you will come to-morrow evening, I will tell you of some trouble that OLD-man got into once. He deserved it, for he was wicked, as you shall see. Ho!" WHY THE INDIANS WHIP THE BUFFALO-BERRIES FROM THE BUSHES The Indian believes that all things live again; that all were created by one and the same power; that nothing was created in vain; and that in the life beyond the grave he will know all things that he knew here. In that other world he expects to make his living easier, and not suffer from hunger or cold; therefore, all things that die must go to his heaven, in order that he may be supplied with the necessities of life. The sun is not the Indian's God, but a personification of the Deity; His greatest manifestation; His light. The Indian believes that to each of His creations God gave some peculiar power, and that the possessors of these special favors are His lieutenants and keepers of the several special attributes; such as wisdom, cunning, speed, and the knowledge of healing wounds. These wonderful gifts, he knew, were bestowed as favors by a common God, and therefore he revered these powers, and, without jealousy, paid tribute thereto. The bear was great in war, because before the horse came, he would sometimes charge the camps and kill or wound many people. Although many arrows were sent into his huge carcass, he seldom died. Hence the Indian was sure that the bear could heal his wounds. That the bear possessed a great knowledge of roots and berries, the Indian knew, for he often saw him digging the one and stripping the others from the bushes. The buffalo, the beaver, the wolf, and the eagle--each possessed strange powers that commanded the Indian's admiration and respect, as did many other things in creation. If about to go to war, the Indian did not ask his God for aid--oh, no. He realized that God made his enemy, too; and that if He desired that enemy's destruction, it would be accomplished without man's aid. So the Indian sang his song to the bear, prayed to the bear, and thus invoked aid from a brute, and not his God, when he sought to destroy his fellows. Whenever the Indian addressed the Great God, his prayer was for life, and life alone. He is the most religious man I have ever known, as well as the most superstitious; and there are stories dealing with his religious faith that are startling, indeed. "It is the wrong time of year to talk about berries," said War Eagle, that night in the lodge, "but I shall tell you why your mothers whip the buffalo-berries from the bushes. OLD-man was the one who started it, and our people have followed his example ever since. Ho! OLD-man made a fool of himself that day. "It was the time when buffalo-berries are red and ripe. All of the bushes along the rivers were loaded with them, and our people were about to gather what they needed, when OLD-man changed things, as far as the gathering was concerned. "He was travelling along a river, and hungry, as he always was. Standing on the bank of that river, he saw great clusters of red, ripe buffalo-berries in the water. They were larger than any berries he had ever seen, and he said: "'I guess I will get those berries. They look fine, and I need them. Besides, some of the people will see them and get them, if I don't.' "He jumped into the water; looked for the berries; but they were not there. For a time Old-man stood in the river and looked for the berries, but they were gone. "After a while he climbed out on the bank again, and when the water got smooth once more there were the berries--the same berries, in the same spot in the water. "'Ho!--that is a funny thing. I wonder where they hid that time. I must have those berries!' he said to himself. "In he went again--splashing the water like a Grizzly Bear. He looked about him and the berries were gone again. The water was rippling about him, but there were no berries at all. He felt on the bottom of the river but they were not there. "'Well,' he said, 'I will climb out and watch to see where they come from; then I shall grab them when I hit the water next time.' "He did that; but he couldn't tell where the berries came from. As soon as the water settled and became smooth--there were the berries--the same as before. Ho!--OLD-man was wild; he was angry, I tell you. And in he went flat on his stomach! He made an awful splash and mussed the water greatly; but there were no berries. "'I know what I shall do. I will stay right here and wait for those berries; that is what I shall do'; and he did. "He thought maybe somebody was looking at him and would laugh, so he glanced along the bank. And there, right over the water, he saw the same bunch of berries on some tall bushes. Don't you see? OLD-man saw the shadow of the berry-bunch; not the berries. He saw the red shadow-berries on the water; that was all, and he was such a fool he didn't know they were not real. "Well, now he was angry in truth. Now he was ready for war. He climbed out on the bank again and cut a club. Then he went at the buffalo-berry bushes and pounded them till all of the red berries fell upon the ground--till the branches were bare of berries. "'There,' he said, 'that's what you get for making a fool of the man who made you. You shall be beaten every year as long as you live, to pay for what you have done; you and your children, too.' "That is how it all came about, and that is why your mothers whip the buffalo-berry bushes and then pick the berries from the ground. Ho!" OLD-MAN AND THE FOX I am sure that the plains Indian never made nor used the stone arrow-head. I have heard white men say that they had seen Indians use them; but I have never found an Indian that ever used them himself, or knew of their having been used by his people. Thirty years ago I knew Indians, intimately, who were nearly a hundred years old, who told me that the stone arrow-head had never been in use in their day, nor had their fathers used them in their own time. Indians find these arrow-points just as they find the stone mauls and hammers, which I have seen them use thousands of times, but they do not make them any more than they make the stone mauls and hammers. In the old days, both the head of the lance and the point of the arrow were of bone; even knives were of bone, but some other people surely made the arrow-points that are scattered throughout the United States and Europe, I am told. One night I asked War Eagle if he had ever known the use, by Indians, of the stone arrow-head, and he said he had not. He told me that just across the Canadian line there was a small lake, surrounded by trees, wherein there was an island covered with long reeds and grass. All about the edge of this island were willows that grew nearly to the water, but intervening there was a narrow beach of stones. Here, he said, the stone arrow-heads had been made by little ghost-people who lived there, and he assured me that he had often seen these strange little beings when he was a small boy. Whenever his people were camped by this lake the old folks waked the children at daybreak to see the inhabitants of this strange island; and always when a noise was made, or the sun came up, the little people hid away. Often he had seen their heads above the grass and tiny willows, and his grandfather had told him that all the stone arrow-heads had been made on that island, and in war had been shot all over the world, by magic bows. "No," he said, "I shall not lie to you, my friend. I never saw those little people shoot an arrow, but there are so many arrows there, and so many pieces of broken ones, that it proves that my grandfather was right in what he told me. Besides, nobody could ever sleep on that island." I have heard a legend wherein OLD-man, in the beginning, killed an animal for the people to eat, and then instructed them to use the ribs of the dead brute to make knives and arrow-points. I have seen lance-heads, made from shank bones, that were so highly polished that they resembled pearl, and I have in my possession bone arrow-points such as were used long ago. Indians do not readily forget their tribal history, and I have photographed a war-bonnet, made of twisted buffalo hair, that was manufactured before the present owner's people had, or ever saw, the horse. The owner of this bonnet has told me that the stone arrow-head was never used by Indians, and that he knew that ghost-people made and used them when the world was young. The bow of the plains Indian was from thirty-six to forty-four inches long, and made from the wood of the choke-cherry tree. Sometimes bows were made from the service (or sarvice) berry bush, and this bush furnished the best material for arrows. I have seen hickory bows among the plains Indians, too, and these were longer and always straight, instead of being fashioned like Cupid's weapon. These hickory bows came from the East, of course, and through trading, reached the plains country. I have also seen bows covered with the skins of the bull-snake, or wound with sinew, and bows have been made from the horns of the elk, in the early days, after a long course of preparation. Before Lewis and Clark crossed this vast country, the Blackfeet had traded with the Hudson Bay Company, and steel knives and lance-heads, bearing the names of English makers, still remain to testify to the relations existing, in those days, between those famous traders and men of the Piegan, Blood, and Blackfoot tribes, although it took many years for traders on our own side of the line to gain their friendship. Indeed, trappers and traders blamed the Hudson Bay Company for the feeling of hatred held by the three tribes of Blackfeet for the "Americans"; and there is no doubt that they were right to some extent, although the killing of the Blackfoot warrior by Captain Lewis in 1805 may have been largely to blame for the trouble. Certain it is that for many years after the killing, the Blackfeet kept traders and trappers on the dodge unless they were Hudson Bay men, and in 1810 drove the "American" trappers and traders from their fort at Three-Forks. It was early when we gathered in War Eagle's lodge, the children and I, but the story-telling began at once. "Now I shall tell you a story that will show you how little OLD-man cared for the welfare of others," said War Eagle. "It happened in the fall, this thing I shall tell you, and the day was warm and bright. OLD-man and his brother the Red Fox were travelling together for company. They were on a hillside when OLD-Man said: 'I am hungry. Can you not kill a Rabbit or something for us to eat? The way is long, and I am getting old, you know. You are swift of foot and cunning, and there are Rabbits among these rocks.' "'Ever since morning came I have watched for food, but the moon must be wrong or something, for I see nothing that is good to eat,' replied the Fox. 'Besides that, my medicine is bad and my heart is weak. You are great, and I have heard you can do most anything. Many snows have known your footprints, and the snows make us all wise. I think you are the one to help, not I.' "'Listen, brother,' said OLD-man, 'I have neither bow nor lance--nothing to use in hunting. Your weapons are ever with you--your great nose and your sharp teeth. Just as we came up this hill I saw two great Buffalo-Bulls. You were not looking, but I saw them, and if you will do as I want you to we shall have plenty of meat. This is my scheme; I shall pull out all of your hair, leaving your body white and smooth, like that of the fish. I shall leave only the white hair that grows on the tip of your tail, and that will make you funny to look at. Then you are to go before the Bulls and commence to dance and act foolish. Of course the Bulls will laugh at you, and as soon as they get to laughing you must act sillier than ever. That will make them laugh so hard that they will fall down and laugh on the ground. When they fall, I shall come upon them with my knife and kill them. Will you do as I suggest, brother, or will you starve?' "'What! Pull out my hair? I shall freeze with no hair on my body, OLD-man. No--I will not suffer you to pull my hair out when the winter is so near,' cried the Fox. "'Ho! It is vanity, my brother, not fear of freezing. If you will do this we shall have meat for the winter, and a fire to keep us warm. See, the wind is in the south and warm. There is no danger of freezing. Come, let me do it,' replied OLD-man. "'Well--if you are sure that I won't freeze, all right,' said the Fox, 'but I'll bet I'll be sorry.' "So Old-man pulled out all of the Fox's hair, leaving only the white tip that grew near the end of his tail. Poor little Red Fox shivered in the warm breeze that OLD-man told about, and kept telling OLD-man that the hair-pulling hurt badly. Finally OLD-man finished the job and laughed at the Fox, saying: 'Why, you make me laugh, too. Now go and dance before the Bulls, and I shall watch and be ready for my part of the scheme.' "Around the hill went the poor Red Fox and found the Bulls. Then he began to dance before them as OLD-man had told him. The Bulls took one look at the hairless Fox and began to laugh. My! How they did laugh, and then the Red Fox stood upon his hind legs and danced some more; acted sillier, as OLD-man had told him. Louder and louder laughed the Bulls, until they fell to the ground with their breath short from the laughing. The Red Fox kept at his antics lest the Bulls get up before OLD-man reached them; but soon he saw him coming, with a knife in his hand. "Running up to the Bulls, OLD-man plunged his knife into their hearts, and they died. Into the ground ran their blood, and then OLD-man laughed and said: 'Ho, I am the smart one. I am the real hunter. I depend on my head for meat--ha!--ha!-ha!' "Then OLD-man began to dress and skin the Bulls, and he worked hard and long. In fact it was nearly night when he got the work all done. "Poor little Red Fox had stood there all the time, and OLD-man never noticed that the wind had changed and was coming from the north. Yes, poor Red Fox stood there and spoke no word; said nothing at all, even when OLD-man had finished. "'Hi, there, you! what's the matter with you? Are you sorry that we have meat? Say, answer me!' "But the Red Fox was frozen stiff--was dead. Yes, the north wind had killed him while OLD-man worked at the skinning. The Fox had been caught by the north wind naked, and was dead. OLD-man built a fire and warmed his hands; that was all he cared for the Red Fox, and that is all he cared for anybody. He might have known that no person could stand the north wind without a robe; but as long as he was warm himself--that was all he wanted. "That is all of that story. To-morrow night I shall tell you why the birch-tree wears those slashes in its bark. That was some of OLD-man's work, too. Ho!" WHY THE BIRCH-TREE WEARS THE SLASHES IN ITS BARK The white man has never understood the Indian, and the example set the Western tribes of the plains by our white brethren has not been such as to inspire the red man with either confidence or respect for our laws or our religion. The fighting trapper, the border bandit, the horse-thief and rustler, in whose stomach legitimately acquired beef would cause colic--were the Indians' first acquaintances who wore a white skin, and he did not know that they were not of the best type. Being outlaws in every sense, these men sought shelter from the Indian in the wilderness; and he learned of their ways about his lodge-fire, or in battle, often provoked by the white ruffian in the hope of gain. They lied to the Indian--these first white acquaintances, and in after-years, the great Government of the United States lied and lied again, until he has come to believe that there is no truth in the white man's heart. And I don't blame him. The Indian is a charitable man. I don't believe he ever refused food and shelter or abused a visitor. He has never been a bigot, and concedes to every other man the right to his own beliefs. Further than that, the Indian believes that every man's religion and belief is right and proper for that man's self. It was blowing a gale and snow was being driven in fine flakes across the plains when we went to the lodge for a story. Every minute the weather was growing colder, and an early fall storm of severity was upon us. The wind seemed to add to the good nature of our host as he filled and passed me the pipe. "This is the night I was to tell you about the Birch-Tree, and the wind will help to make you understand," said War Eagle after we had finished smoking. "Of course," he continued, "this all happened in the summer-time when the weather was warm, very warm. Sometimes, you know, there are great winds in the summer, too. "It was a hot day, and OLD-man was trying to sleep, but the heat made him sick. He wandered to a hilltop for air; but there was no air. Then he went down to the river and found no relief. He travelled to the timberlands, and there the heat was great, although he found plenty of shade. The travelling made him warmer, of course, but he wouldn't stay still. "By and by he called to the winds to blow, and they commenced. First they didn't blow very hard, because they were afraid they might make OLD-man angry, but he kept crying: "'Blow harder--harder--harder! Blow worse than ever you blew before, and send this heat away from the world.' "So, of course, the winds did blow harder--harder than they ever had blown before. "'Bend and break, Fir-Tree!' cried OLD-man, and the Fir-Tree did bend and break. 'Bend and break, Pine-Tree!' and the Pine-Tree did bend and break. 'Bend and break, Spruce-Tree!' and the Spruce-Tree did bend and break. 'Bend and break, O Birch-Tree!' and the Birch-Tree did bend, but it wouldn't break--no, sir!--it wouldn't break! "'Ho! Birch-Tree, won't you mind me? Bend and break! I tell you,' but all the Birch-Tree would do was to bend. "It bent to the ground; it bent double to please OLD-man, but it would not break. "'Blow harder, wind!' cried OLD-man, 'blow harder and break the Birch-Tree.' The wind tried to blow harder, but it couldn't, and that made the thing worse, because OLD-man was so angry he went crazy. 'Break! I tell you--break!' screamed OLD-man to the Birch-Tree. "'I won't break,' replied the Birch; 'I shall never break for any wind. I will bend, but I shall never, never break.' "'You won't, hey?' cried OLD-man, and he rushed at the Birch-Tree with his hunting-knife. He grabbed the top of the Birch because it was touching the ground, and began slashing the bark of the Birch-Tree with the knife. All up and down the trunk of the tree OLD-man slashed, until the Birch was covered with the knife slashes. "'There! that is for not minding me. That will do you good! As long as time lasts you shall always look like that, Birch-Tree; always be marked as one who will not mind its maker. Yes, and all the Birch-Trees in the world shall have the same marks forever.' They do, too. You have seen them and have wondered why the Birch-Tree is so queerly marked. Now you know. "That is all--Ho!" MISTAKES OF OLD-MAN All night the storm raged, and in the morning the plains were white with snow. The sun came and the light was blinding, but the hunters were abroad early, as usual. That day the children came to my camp, and I told them several stories that appeal to white children. They were deeply interested, and asked many questions. Not until the hunters returned did my visitors leave. That night War Eagle told us of the mistakes of OLD-man. He said: "OLD-man made a great many mistakes in making things in the world, but he worked until he had everything good. I told you at the beginning that OLD-man made mistakes, but I didn't tell you what they were, so now I shall tell you. "One of the things he did that was wrong, was to make the Big-Horn to live on the plains. Yes, he made him on the plains and turned him loose, to make his living there. Of course the Big-Horn couldn't run on the plains, and OLD-man wondered what was wrong. Finally, he said: 'Come here, Big-Horn!' and the Big-Horn came to him. OLD-man stuck his arm through the circle his horns made, and dragged the Big-Horn far up into the mountains. There he set him free again, and sat down to watch him. Ho! It made OLD-man dizzy to watch the Big-Horn run about on the ragged cliffs. He saw at once that this was the country the Big-Horn liked, and he left him there. Yes, he left him there forever, and there he stays, seldom coming down to the lower country. "While OLD-man was waiting to see what the Big-Horn would do in the high mountains, he made an Antelope and set him free with the Big-Horn. Ho! But the Antelope stumbled and fell down among the rocks. He couldn't man called to the Antelope to come back to him, and the Antelope did come to him. Then he called to the Big-Horn, and said: "'You are all right, I guess, but this one isn't, and I'll have to take him somewhere else.' "He dragged the Antelope down to the prairie country, and set him free there. Then he watched him a minute; that was as long as the Antelope was in sight, for he was afraid OLD-man might take him back to the mountains. "He said: 'I guess that fellow was made for the plains, all right, so I'll leave him there'; and he did. That is why the Antelope always stays on the plains, even to-day. He likes it better. "That wasn't a very long story; sometime when you get older I will tell you some different stories, but that will be all for this time, I guess. Ho!" HOW THE MAN FOUND HIS MATE Each tribe has its own stories. Most of them deal with the same subjects, differing only in immaterial particulars. Instead of squirrels in the timber, the Blackfeet are sure they were prairie-dogs that OLD-man roasted that time when he made the mountain-lion long and lean. The Chippewas and Crees insist that they were squirrels that were cooked and eaten, but one tribe is essentially a forest-people and the other lives on the plains--hence the difference. Some tribes will not wear the feathers of the owl, nor will they have anything to do with that bird, while others use his feathers freely. The forest Indian wears the soft-soled moccasin, while his brother of the plains covers the bottoms of his footwear with rawhide, because of the cactus and prickly-pear, most likely. The door of the lodge of the forest Indian reaches to the ground, but the plains Indian makes his lodge skin to reach all about the circle at the bottom, because of the wind. One night in War Eagle's lodge, Other-person asked: "Why don't the Bear have a tail, grandfather?" War Eagle laughed and said: "Our people do not know why, but we believe he was made that way at the beginning, although I have heard men of other tribes say that the Bear lost his tail while fishing. "I don't know how true it is, but I have been told that a long time ago the Bear was fishing in the winter, and the Fox asked him if he had any luck. "'No,' replied the Bear, 'I can't catch a fish.' "'Well,' said the Fox, 'if you will stick your long tail down through this hole in the ice, and sit very still, I am sure you will catch a fish.' "So the Bear stuck his tail through the hole in the ice, and the Fox told him to sit still, till he called him; then the Fox went off, pretending to hunt along the bank. It was mighty cold weather, and the water froze all about the Bear's tail, yet he sat still, waiting for the Fox to call him. Yes, the Bear sat so still and so long that his tail was frozen in the ice, but he didn't know it. When the Fox thought it was time, he called: "'Hey, Bear, come here quick--quick! I have a Rabbit in this hole, and I want you to help me dig him out.' Ho! The Bear tried to get up, but he couldn't. "'Hey, Bear, come here--there are two Rabbits in this hole,' called the Fox. "The Bear pulled so hard to get away from the ice, that he broke his tail off short to his body. Then the Fox ran away laughing at the Bear. "I hardly believe that story, but once I heard an old man who visited my father from the country far east of here, tell it. I remembered it. But I can't say that I know it is true, as I can the others. "When I told you the story of how OLD-man made the world over, after the water had made its war upon it, I told you how the first man and woman were made. There is another story of how the first man found his wife, and I will tell you that. "After OLD-man had made a man to look like himself, he left him to live with the Wolves, and went away. The man had a hard time of it, with no clothes to keep him warm, and no wife to help him, so he went out looking for OLD-man. "It took the man a long time to find OLD-man's lodge, but as soon as he got there he went right in and said: "'OLD-man, you have made me and left me to live with the Wolf-people. I don't like them at all. They give me scraps of meat to eat and won't build a fire. They have wives, but I don't want a Wolf-woman. I think you should take better care of me.' "'Well,' replied OLD-man, 'I was just waiting for you to come to see me. I have things fixed for you. You go down this river until you come to a steep hillside. There you will see a lodge. Then I will leave you to do the rest. Go!' "The man started and travelled all that day. When night came he camped and ate some berries that grew near the river. The next morning he started down the river again, looking for the steep hillside and the lodge. Just before sundown, the man saw a fine lodge near a steep hillside, and he knew that was the lodge he was looking for; so he crossed the river and went into the lodge. "Sitting by the fire inside, was a woman. She was dressed in buckskin clothes, and was cooking some meat that smelled good to the man, but when she saw him without any clothes, she pushed him out of the lodge, and dropped the door. "Things didn't look very good to that man, I tell you, but to get even with the woman, he went up on the steep hillside and commenced to roll big rocks down upon her lodge. He kept this up until one of the largest rocks knocked down the lodge, and the woman ran out, crying. "When the man heard the woman crying, it made him sorry and he ran down the hill to her. She sat down on the ground, and the man ran to where she was and said: "'I am sorry I made you cry, woman. I will help you fix your lodge. I will stay with you, if you will only let me.' "That pleased the woman, and she showed the man how to fix up the lodge and gather some wood for the fire. Then she let him come inside and eat. Finally, she made him some clothes, and they got along very well, after that. "That is how the man found his wife--Ho!" DREAMS As soon as manhood is attained, the young Indian must secure his "charm," or "medicine." After a sweat-bath, he retires to some lonely spot, and there, for four days and nights, if necessary, he remains in solitude. During this time he eats nothing; drinks nothing; but spends his time invoking the Great Mystery for the boon of a long life. In this state of mind, he at last sleeps, perhaps dreams. If a dream does not come to him, he abandons the task for a time, and later on will take another sweat-bath and try again. Sometimes dangerous cliffs, or other equally uncomfortable places, are selected for dreaming, because the surrounding terrors impress themselves upon the mind, and even in slumber add to the vividness of dreams. At last the dream comes, and in it some bird or animal appears as a helper to the dreamer, in trouble. Then he seeks that bird or animal; kills a specimen; and if a bird, he stuffs its skin with moss and forever keeps it near him. If an animal, instead of a bird, appears in the dream, the Indian takes his hide, claws, or teeth; and throughout his life never leaves it behind him, unless in another dream a greater charm is offered. If this happens, he discards the old "medicine" for the new; but such cases are rare. Sometimes the Indian will deck his "medicine-bundle" with fanciful trinkets and quill-work At other times the "bundle" is kept forever out of the sight of all uninterested persons, and is altogether unadorned. But "medicine" is necessary; without it, the Indian is afraid of his shadow. An old chief, who had been in many battles, once told me his great dream, withholding the name of the animal or bird that appeared therein and became his "medicine." He said that when he was a boy of twelve years, his father, who was chief of his tribe, told him that it was time that he tried to dream. After his sweat-bath, the boy followed his father without speaking, because the postulant must not converse or associate with other humans between the taking of the bath and the finished attempt to dream. On and on into the dark forest the father led, followed by the naked boy, till at last the father stopped on a high hill, at the foot of a giant pine-tree. By signs the father told the boy to climb the tree and to get into an eagle's nest that was on the topmost boughs. Then the old man went away, in order that the boy might reach the nest without coming too close to his human conductor. Obediently the boy climbed the tree and sat upon the eagle's nest on the top. "I could see very far from that nest," he told me. "The day was warm and I hoped to dream that night, but the wind rocked the tree top, and the darkness made me so much afraid that I did not sleep. "On the fourth night there came a terrible thunder-storm, with lightning and much wind. The great pine groaned and shook until I was sure it must fall. All about it, equally strong trees went down with loud crashings, and in the dark there were many awful sounds--sounds that I sometimes hear yet. Rain came, and I grew cold and more afraid. I had eaten nothing, of course, and I was weak--so weak and tired, that at last I slept, in the nest. I dreamed; yes, it was a wonderful dream that came to me, and it has most all come to pass. Part is yet to come. But come it surely will. "First I saw my own people in three wars. Then I saw the Buffalo disappear in a hole in the ground, followed by many of my people. Then I saw the whole world at war, and many flags of white men were in this land of ours. It was a terrible war, and the fighting and the blood made me sick in my dream. Then, last of all, I saw a 'person' coming--coming across what seemed the plains. There were deep shadows all about him as he approached. This 'person' kept beckoning me to come to him, and at last I did go to him. "'Do you know who I am,' he asked me. "'No, "person," I do not know you. Who are you, and where is your country?' "'If you will listen to me, boy, you shall be a great chief and your people shall love you. If you do not listen, then I shall turn against you. My name is "Reason."' "As the 'person' spoke this last, he struck the ground with a stick he carried, and the blow set the grass afire. I have always tried to know that 'person.' I think I know him wherever he may be, and in any camp. He has helped me all my life, and I shall never turn against him--never." That was the old chief's dream and now a word about the sweat-bath. A small lodge is made of willows, by bending them and sticking the ends in the ground. A completed sweat-lodge is shaped like an inverted bowl, and in the centre is a small hole in the ground. The lodge is covered with robes, bark, and dirt, or anything that will make it reasonably tight. Then a fire is built outside and near the sweat-lodge in which stones are heated. When the stones are ready, the bather crawls inside the sweat-lodge, and an assistant rolls the hot stones from the fire, and into the lodge. They are then rolled into the hole in the lodge and sprinkled with water. One cannot imagine a hotter vapor bath than this system produces, and when the bather has satisfied himself inside, he darts from the sweat-lodge into the river, winter or summer. This treatment killed thousands of Indians when the smallpox was brought to them from Saint Louis, in the early days. That night in the lodge War Eagle told a queer yarn. I shall modify it somewhat, but in our own sacred history there is a similar tale, well known to all. He said: "Once, a long time ago, two 'thunders' were travelling in the air. They came over a village of our people, and there stopped to look about. "In this village there was one fine, painted lodge, and in it there was an old man, an aged woman, and a beautiful young woman with wonderful hair. Of course the 'thunders' could look through the lodge skin and see all that was inside. One of them said to the other: 'Let us marry that young woman, and never tell her about it.' "'All right,' replied the other 'thunder.' 'I am willing, for she is the finest young woman in all the village. She is good in her heart, and she is honest.' "So they married her, without telling her about it, and she became the mother of twin boys. When these boys were born, they sat up and told their mother and the other people that they were not people, but were 'thunders,' and that they would grow up quickly. "'When we shall have been on earth a while, we shall marry, and stay until we each have four sons of our own, then we shall go away and again become "thunders,"' they said. "It all came to pass, just as they said it would. When they had married good women and each had four sons, they told the people one day that it was time for them to go away forever. "There was much sorrow among the people, for the twins were good men and taught many good things which we have never forgotten, but everybody knew it had to be as they said. While they lived with us, these twins could heal the sick and tell just what was going to happen on earth. "One day at noon the twins dressed themselves in their finest clothes and went out to a park in the forest. All the people followed them and saw them lie down on the ground in the park. The people stayed in the timber that grew about the edge of the park, and watched them until clouds and mists gathered about and hid them from view. "It thundered loudly and the winds blew; trees fell down; and when the mists and clouds cleared away, they were gone--gone forever. But the people have never forgotten them, and my grandfather, who is in the ground near Rocker, was a descendant from one of the sons of the 'thunders.' Ho!" RETROSPECTION It was evening in the bad-lands, and the red sun had slipped behind the far-off hills. The sundown breeze bent the grasses in the coulees and curled tiny dust-clouds on the barren knolls. Down in a gulch a clear, cool creek dallied its way toward the Missouri, where its water, bitter as gall, would be lost in the great stream. Here, where Nature forbids man to work his will, and where the she wolf dens and kills to feed her litter, an aged Indian stood near the scattered bones of two great buffalo-bulls. Time had bleached the skulls and whitened the old warrior's hair, but in the solitude he spoke to the bones as to a boyhood friend: "Ho! Buffalo, the years are long since you died, and your tribe, like mine, was even then shrinking fast, but you did not know it; would not believe it; though the signs did not lie. My father and his father knew your people, and when one night you went away, we thought you did but hide and would soon come back. The snows have come and gone many times since then, and still your people stay away. The young-men say that the great herds have gone to the Sand Hills, and that my father still has meat. They have told me that the white man, in his greed, has killed--and not for meat--all the Buffalo that our people knew. They have said that the great herds that made the ground tremble as they ran were slain in a few short years by those who needed not. Can this be true, when ever since there was a world, our people killed your kind, and still left herds that grew in numbers until they often blocked the rivers when they passed? Our people killed your kind that they themselves might live, but never did they go to war against you. Tell me, do your people hide, or are the young-men speaking truth, and have your people gone with mine to Sand Hill shadows to come back no more?" "Ho! red man--my people all have gone. The young-men tell the truth and all my tribe have gone to feed among the shadow-hills, and your father still has meat. My people suffer from his arrows and his lance, yet there the herds increase as they did here, until the white man came and made his war upon us without cause or need. I was one of the last to die, and with my brother here fled to this forbidding country that I might hide; but one day when the snow was on the world, a white murderer followed on our trail, and with his noisy weapon sent our spirits to join the great shadow-herds. Meat? No, he took no meat, but from our quivering flesh he tore away the robes that Napa gave to make us warm, and left us for the Wolves. That night they came, and quarrelling, fighting, snapping 'mong themselves, left but our bones to greet the morning sun. These bones the Coyotes and the weaker ones did drag and scrape, and scrape again, until the last of flesh or muscle disappeared. Then the winds came and sang--and all was done." 
34495	----	Rob Nixon, by W.H.G. Kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ ROB NIXON, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON. CHAPTER ONE. Picture a wide, gently undulating expanse of land covered with tall grass, over which, as it bends to the breeze, a gleam of light ever and anon flashes brightly. It is a rolling prairie in North America, midway between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. On either hand the earth and sky seem to unite, without an object to break the line of the horizon, except in the far distance, where some tall trees, by a river's side, shoot up out of the plain, but appear no higher than a garden hedge-row. It is truly a wilderness, which no wise man would attempt to traverse without a guide. That man has wandered there, the remnants of mortality which lie scattered about--a skull and the bare ribs seen as the wind blows the grass aside,--afford melancholy evidence. A nearer inspection shows a rifle, now covered with rust, a powder-flask, a sheath-knife, a flint and steel, and a few other metal articles of hunter's gear. Those of more destructible materials have disappeared before the ravenous jaws of the hosts of locusts which have swept over the plain. Few portions of the earth's surface give a more complete idea of boundless extent than the American prairie. Not a sound is heard. The silence itself is awe-inspiring. The snows of winter have lain thickly on that plain, storms have swept over it, the rain has fallen, the lightning flashed, the thunder roared, since it has been trodden by the foot of man. Perhaps the last human being who has attempted to cross it was he whose bones lie blanching in the summer sun--that sun which now, having some time passed its meridian height, is sinking towards the west. Southward appear, coming as it were from below the horizon, some dark specks, scattered widely from east to west, and moving slowly. On they come, each instant increasing in numbers, till they form one dark line. They are animals with huge heads and dark shaggy manes, browsing as they advance, clearing the herbage before them. They are a herd of bison, known by the wild hunters of the west as buffaloes--countless apparently in numbers--powerful and ferocious in appearance, with their short thick horns and long heads. Now they halt, as the richer pasturage entices; now again advance. A large number lie down to rest, while others, moving out of the midst, seem to be acting as scouts to give notice of the approach of danger. They go on as before, darkening the whole southern horizon. The wind is from the west; the scouts lift up their shaggy heads and sniff the air, but discover no danger. From the east another dark line rises quickly above the horizon: the ground shakes with the tramp of horses. It is a troop of huntsmen--savage warriors of the desert. What clothing they wear is of leather gaily adorned. Some have feathers in their heads, and their dark red skins painted curiously. Some carry bows richly ornamented: a few only are armed with rifles. A few, who, by their dress, the feathers and adornments of the head, appear to be chiefs, ride a-head and keep the line in order. Every man holds his weapon ready for instant use. They advance steadily, keeping an even line. Their leader waves his rifle. Instantly the steeds spring forward. Like a whirlwind they dash on: no want of energy now. The huntsmen are among the bewildered herd before their approach has been perceived. Arrows fly in quick succession from every bow--bullets from the rifles. The huntsmen have filled their mouths with the leaden messengers of death, and drop them into their rifles as they gallop on, firing right and left--singling out the fattest beasts at a glance--and never erring in their aim. In a few minutes the plain is thickly strewn with the huge carcasses of the shaggy buffaloes, each huntsman, as he passes on, dropping some article of his property by which he may know the beast he has killed. Now the herd begin to seek for safety in flight, still keeping in the direction they had before been taking, some scattering, however, on each side. The eager hunters pursue till the whole prairie, from right to left, is covered with flying buffaloes and wild horsemen; the crack of the rifles sounding distinctly through the calm summer air, in which the tiny wreath of smoke ascends unbroken and marks the hunter's progress. Among the huntsmen rides one distinguished from the rest by his more complete, yet less ornamented clothing; by a leather cap without feathers, and by the perfect order of his rifle and hunting accoutrements. On a nearer inspection his skin--though tanned, and wrinkled, and furrowed, by long exposure to the weather, and by age and toil--might be discovered to have been of a much lighter hue originally than that of his companions. Old as he was, no one was more eager in the chase, and no one's rifle brought down so great a number of buffaloes as did his. To all appearance he was as active and strong as the youngest huntsman of the band. In the course of the hunt he had reached the extreme left of the line. A superb bull appeared before him. "I'll have you for your robe, if not for your meat, old fellow," exclaimed the hunter, galloping on towards the animal's right flank, so as to turn him yet further from the herd, and to obtain a more direct shot at his head or at his shoulders. There are occasions when the most practised of shots will find himself at fault--the firmest nerves will fail. The old hunter had reached a satisfactory position--he raised his rifle, and fired. At that instant, while still at full speed, his horse's front feet sunk into a hole made by a badger, or some other of the smaller creatures inhabiting the prairie; and the animal, unable to recover itself, threw the hunter violently forward over its head, where he lay without moving, and apparently dead. The horse struggled to free itself; and then, as it fell forward, gave utterance to one of those piercing cries of agony not often heard, and, when heard, not to be forgotten. Both fore legs were broken. Its fate was certain. It must become the prey of the ravenous wolves, who speedily scent out the spots where the hunters have overtaken a herd of buffaloes. Meantime the buffalo, who had been struck by the hunter's bullet, but not so wounded as to bring him instantly to the ground, galloped on for some distance in the direction he was before going, when, feeling the pain of his wound, or hearing the cry of the horse, he turned round to face his enemies. Seeing both steed and rider prostrate, he tossed his head, and then, lowering his horns close to the ground, prepared to charge. The last moments of the old hunter seemed approaching. The cry of agony uttered by his favourite steed roused him. He looked up and saw the buffalo about to make its charge. His hand had never relaxed its grasp of his rifle. To feel for his powder-flask and to load was the work of an instant; and, without an attempt to rise, he brought the muzzle of his piece to bear on the furious animal as it was within a few paces of him. "Rob Nixon never feared man nor beast, and will not this time; let an old bull bellow as loud as he may," he muttered, as he raised his rifle and fired. The bullet took effect, but did not stop the headlong career of the enraged monster, which came on, ploughing up the ground, towards him. The hunter saw his danger and tried to rise, but in vain. He then made a desperate endeavour to drag himself out of the way of the creature. He but partially succeeded, when the buffalo, sinking down, rolled over and over, crushing, with his huge carcase, the already injured legs and lower extremities of the unfortunate hunter. In spite of the pain he was enduring, the old man, raising himself on his elbow, grimly, surveyed his conquered foe--"You've the worst of it, though you nearly did for me, I own," he exclaimed, nodding his head; "but a miss is as good as a mile, and when I'm free of you, maybe I'll sup off your hump." To liberate himself from the monster's carcase was, however, no easy task, injured as he was already by his fall, and by the weight of the buffalo pressing on him. He made several attempts, but the pain was very great, and he found that his strength was failing him. While resting, before making another attempt to move, he perceived his poor horse, whose convulsive struggles showed how much he had been injured. On looking round, also, he discovered that the accident had taken place in a slight hollow, which, shallow as it was, shut him out from the view of his companions, who were now pursuing the remainder of the herd at a considerable distance from where he lay. Again and again he tried to drag his injured limbs from beneath the buffalo. He had never given in while consciousness remained, and many were the accidents which had happened to him during his long hunter's life. Would he give in now? "No, not I," he muttered; "Rob Nixon is not the boy for that." At length, however, his spirit succumbed to bodily suffering, and he sank back exhausted and fainting, scarcely conscious of what had happened, or where he was. Had he retained sufficient strength to fire his rifle he might have done so, and summoned some of the hunters to his assistance; but he was unable even to load it, so it lay useless by his side. Thus he remained; time passed by--no one approached him--the sun sank in the horizon--darkness came on. It appeared too probable that the fate of many a hunter in that vast prairie would be his. How long he had remained in a state of stupor he could not tell; consciousness returned at length, and, revived by the cool air of night, he sat up and gazed about him. The stars had come out and were shining brilliantly overhead, enabling him to see to the extent of his limited horizon. The dead buffalo still pressed on his legs--a hideous nightmare; his horse lay near giving vent to his agony in piteous groans, and every now and then making an attempt to rise to his feet. "My poor mustang, you are in a bad way I fear," said the hunter, in a tone of commiseration, forgetting his own sufferings; "I would put an end to thy misery, and so render thee the only service in my power, but that I cannot turn myself to load my rifle. Alack! alack! we shall both of us ere long be food for the wolves; but, though I must meet my fate as becomes a man, I would save you--poor, dumb brute that you are--from being torn by their ravenous fangs while life remains in you." Such were the thoughts which passed through the hunter's mind, for it can scarcely be said that he spoke them aloud. He would probably again have relapsed into a state of stupor, but that a hideous howl, borne by the night breeze, reached his ears. "Wolves!" he exclaimed; "ah! I know you, you brutes." The howl was repeated again and again, its increased loudness showing that the creatures were approaching. The well-known terrible sounds roused up the old hunter to make renewed exertions to extricate himself. This time, by dint of dragging himself out with his arms, he succeeded in getting his feet from under the buffalo; but he then discovered, to his dismay, that his thigh had either been broken, or so severely sprained by his fall, that to walk would be impossible. He managed, however, to load his rifle. Scarcely had he done so when the struggles of his horse reminded him of the pain the poor animal was suffering. Although he knew that every charge of powder in his flask would be required for his own defence, he did not hesitate in performing the act of mercy which the case required. He uttered no sentimental speech, though a pang of grief passed through his heart as he pointed the weapon at the horse's head. His aim was true, and the noble animal fell dead. "He's gone; not long before me, I guess," he muttered, as he reloaded his piece. "Those brutes will find me out, there is no doubt about that; but I'll have a fight first--Rob Nixon will die game." The old hunter drew a long knife from a sheath at his side, and, deliberately examining its point, placed it on the ground near him while he reloaded his rifle. Thus did the old man prepare for an inevitable and dreadful death, as he believed; yet not a prayer did he offer up, not a thought did he cast at the future. Eternity, heaven, and hell, were matters unknown; or, if once known, long since forgotten. Yet forgetfulness of a fact will not do away with it. They are awful realities, and will assuredly be found such, however much men may strive to banish them from their thoughts. The young especially are surprised to hear that old men have forgotten what they learned in their youth, that they neglect to pray, to read the Bible, to think about God and their own souls; but let them be assured that if once they give up the habit of praying, of studying God's holy Word, of obeying His commands, there is one ever ready to persuade them that there is no harm in this neglect; that it will save them much trouble; and that it is far more manly to neglect prayers, to be irreligious and profane, than to love, serve, and obey their Maker. A downward course is sadly easy; let them beware of taking the first step. Each step they take in the wrong direction they will find it more and more difficult to recover, till, like the old huntsman, they will cease to care about the matter, and God will no longer be in their thoughts. There lay that old man on the wild prairie, a melancholy spectacle,--not so much that he was surrounded by dangers--that he was wounded and crippled--that wild beasts were near him--that, if he escaped their fangs, starvation threatened him,--but that he had no hope for the future--that he had no trust in God--that he had not laid hold of the means of salvation. As Rob Nixon lay on the ground supporting his head on his arm, he turned his gaze round and round, peering into the darkness to watch for any thing moving near him. He knew that before the sun set his Indian comrades would have carried off the flesh from the buffaloes they had killed, and that after that they, would move their camp to a distance, no one being likely to return. He probably would not be missed for some time, and when missed, it would be supposed that he had fallen into the hands of the Salteux, or Ojibways, the hereditary enemies of their nation, and that already his scalp had been carried off as a trophy by those hated foes. "They'll revenge me; that's one comfort, and the Ojibways will get paid for what the wolves have done." These were nearly the last thoughts which passed through the brain of the old hunter, as the howls and yelps of the wolves, which had formed a dreadful concert at a distance around him, approached still nearer. "I guessed the vermin wouldn't be long in finding me out," he muttered; and, on looking up, he saw through the darkness, glaring fiercely down on him from the edge of the hollow in which he lay, the eyes of a pack of wolves. "I'll stop the howling of some of you," he exclaimed, lifting his rifle. There was no cry; but a gap in the circle of eyes showed that a wolf had fallen, and instantly afterwards the loud barking and yelping proved that the savage creatures were tearing their companion to pieces. This gave time to the old man to re-load and to pick off another wolf. In this manner he killed several, and though he did not drive them away, they were prevented from approaching nearer. On finding that such was the case, his hopes of escaping their fangs rose slightly, at the same time that the lightness of his powder-flask and bullet bag, told him that his ammunition would soon fail, and that then he would have his hunting knife alone on which to depend. He accordingly waited, without again firing, watching his foes, who continued howling and wrangling over the bodies of their fellows. Now and then one would descend a short way into the hollow, attracted by the scent of the dead horse and buffalo, but a sudden shout from the old hunter kept the intruders at a respectful distance. He was well aware, however, that should exhausted nature for one instant compel him to drop asleep, the brutes would be upon him, and tear him limb from limb. Thus the hours of the night passed slowly along. Many men would have succumbed; but, hardened by a long life of danger and activity, Robert Nixon held out bravely, in spite of the pain, and thirst, and hunger, from which he was suffering. Never for one moment was his eye off his enemies, while his fingers were on the trigger ready to shoot the first which might venture to approach. More than once he muttered to himself, "It must be near morning, and then these vermin will take themselves off, and let me have some rest. Ah, rest! that's the very thing I have been wanting," he continued; "it's little enough I've ever had of it. I've been working away all my life, and where's the good I've got out of it? There's been something wrong, I suppose; but I can't make it out. Best! Yes, that's it. I should just like to find myself sitting in my lodge among a people who don't care, like these Dakotahs, to be always fighting or hunting: but they are not a bad people, and they've been good friends to me, and I've no fault to find with their ways, though I'll own they're more suited to young men than to an old one like me. But there's little use my thinking this. Maybe, I shall never see them or any other of my fellow-creatures again." It was only now and then that his mind framed any thoughts as coherent as these; generally he remained in a dreamy condition, only awake to the external objects immediately surrounding him. Gradually, too, his strength began to fail, though he was not aware of the fact. The howls, and barks, and snarling, and other hideous sounds made by the wolves, increased. He could see them moving about in numbers, around the edge of the basin, their red fiery eyes ever and anon glaring down on him. At last they seemed to be holding a consultation, and to have settled their disputes, probably from not having longer a bone of contention unpicked among them. They were evidently, once more, about to make an attack on him. A large brute, who had long been prowling round, first crept on, gnashing his teeth. The old man lifted his rifle and the creature, with a loud cry, fell dead. Another and another came on, and before he could load, the foremost had got close up to him. He fired at the animal's head. It rolled over, and, the flash of his rifle scaring the rest, with hideous yelps, they took to flight, the old man firing after them directly he could re-load. He could scarcely believe that he was to remain unmolested, and once more loading his rifle, he rested as before on his arm, watching for their re-appearance. Gradually, however, exhausted nature gave way, and he sank down unconscious on the ground, to sleep, it might be, the sleep of death. CHAPTER TWO. The sun rose and shone forth brightly on the earth. There was the sound of winged creatures in Robert Nixon's ears as he once more awoke and gazed languidly around. His first impulse was to attempt to rise, but the anguish he suffered the instant he moved reminded him of the injuries he had received. Vain were his efforts; to stand up was impossible. Although the wolves for the time were gone, they, to a certainty, would return at night, and thus, without ammunition, how could he defend himself against them? He might subsist on the meat of the buffalo for a day or two, but that would soon become uneatable, and as he could scarcely hope to recover from his hurt for many days, even if he escaped the wolves, he must die of starvation. Again he sank into a state of mental stupor, though his eye still remained cognisant of external objects. As the old hunter thus lay on the ground his eye fell on a horseman riding rapidly by. He was a Salteux, or Ojibway Indian, a people having a deadly feud with his friends, the Sioux. The sight roused him. To kill the man and capture his horse was the idea which at once occurred to him. Rousing himself by a violent exertion he levelled his rifle and fired. Not for an instant did he hesitate about taking the life of a fellow-creature. That fellow-creature was a foe of his friends, whose badge he wore, and would, he believed, kill him if he was discovered. He had miscalculated his powers--his eye had grown dim, his arm had lost its nerve; the bullet which once would have proved a sure messenger of death flew wide of its mark, and the Indian sat his horse unharmed. He turned, however, immediately, and galloped towards the spot whence the shot came. The old hunter had expended his last bullet. With grim satisfaction he awaited the Indian's approach, and the expected flourish of the scalping-knife, or the kinder blow of the tomahawk, which would deprive him at once of life. "Better so than be torn by the fangs of those vermin the wolves," he muttered, for though he clutched his knife to strike back, he well knew that he was at the mercy of his adversary. The Indian, though a rifle hung at his back, rode steadily up without unslinging it. "A friend!" he shouted in the Salteux, or Ojibway dialect,--"A friend! fire not again." "A friend! How so?" exclaimed the old hunter. "Your people and mine are mortal foes." "I would be a friend to all the suffering and distressed," was the unexpected answer. "I see what has happened--you have fought bravely for your life; the remains of the wolves tell me that, but before another sun has risen you would have been torn limb from limb by their fellows. Truly I am thankful that I was sent to save you from death." "Sent! Who sent you?" cried the old hunter, gazing up at the strange Indian. The other having just dismounted from his horse stood looking compassionately down on him. "He who watches over the fatherless and widows, and all who are distressed," answered the Indian. "A generous kind person I doubt not, but I know of none such in this land; he must live far away from here," said the old hunter. "He lives in Heaven, and His eye is everywhere," said the Indian solemnly. "He loves all mankind; without His will not a sparrow falls to the ground; and I am sure, therefore, that it was His will that I should come to you." "Truly you speak strange words for a redskin!" exclaimed the hunter. "I have heard long ago white men talk as you, but never an Indian. You are one I see; there is no deceiving me. I cannot understand the matter." "I will tell you as we go along," said the Indian; "but we must no longer delay, father; we have many miles to travel before we can reach my people, and I know not how I can restore you to your friends. It would be dangerous for me to approach them, for they could not understand how I can only wish them good." "I will go with you, friend," said the old man. "I would gladly dwell with your people, and hear more of those strange matters of which you have been speaking." Without further exchange of words the Indian, having examined the old man's hurts, gave him some dried meat and a draught from his water-flask, and lifted him with the utmost care on his horse; he then took the hunter's rifle and horse's trappings before moving off. He also secured the tongue and hump, and some slices from the buffalo's back, which he hung to his saddle-bow. "We may require more provision than our own rifles can supply before we reach our journey's end," he observed; as he did so, pointing to the north-east. Robert Nixon without hesitation yielded to all his suggestions. The day was already considerably advanced, and the Indian seemed anxious to push on. Keeping up a rapid pace, he walked by the side of his companion, who, overcome by weakness and want of sleep would have fallen off, had not his strong arm held him on. Thus they journeyed hour after hour across the prairie. The Indian from the first employed various devices for rendering his trail invisible. On starting he moved for some distance westward, till he reached the bed of a small stream, on which even the sharp eye of a native could scarcely perceive a trace; then circling round, he commenced his intended course. Many miles were passed over; and the bank of a rapid river was reached, when the setting sun warned him that it was time to encamp. Instead, however, of doing so, he at once led his horse into the stream, and keeping close to the shore waded against the current, often having the water up to his waist, for a considerable distance, then coming to a ford he crossed over and continued along in the same direction till he once more returned to dry ground. The bank was fringed on each side by a belt of trees, which in the warm weather of summer afforded ample shelter from the dew, and concealment from any passing enemy. The chief trees were poplar, willow, and alder; but there were also spruce and birch. Bound the latter lay large sheets of the bark. A quantity of these the Indian at once collected, and with some thin poles which he cut with his hatchet he rapidly constructed a small hut or wigwam, strewing the floor with the young shoots of the spruce-fir. On this couch he placed his injured companion, putting his saddle under his head as a pillow. He then brought the old man some food and water, and next proceeded to examine his hurts with more attention than he had before been able to bestow. Bringing water from the river he fomented his bruises for a long time, and then searching for some leaves of a plant possessed of healing qualities, he bound them with strips of soft leather round his swollen limbs. More than once the old hunter expressed his surprise that a stranger should care so much for him, and should actually feed and tend him before he had himself partaken of food and rested. "I serve a loving Master, and I am but obeying His wishes," was the laconic answer. "Very strange! very strange!" again and again muttered the old man; "you must tell me something about that Master of yours. I cannot understand who he can be." "I will not disappoint you, father, for I love to speak of Him," said the Indian; "I will come anon and sit by your side and tell you what I know. It will interest you, I doubt not, and maybe you will wish to know more about Him." Some time passed, however, before the Indian was able to fulfil his promise. He had to tend his horse and to set some traps to catch any small game which might pass, and to search for certain roots and berries for food. He showed, too, by all his movements that he considered himself in an enemy's country, or in the neighbourhood of an enemy from whom it was necessary to keep concealed. When he came back the old man had fallen asleep. "Let him sleep on," said the Indian to himself: "our Father in Heaven will watch over and protect us both. I would that I could watch, but my body requires rest." Having tethered his horse close at hand, strewed the ground with a few spruce-fir tops, and placed his rifle by his side, he knelt down and prayed, not as once to Manitou, to the Great Spirit, the unknown God, but to the true God,--a God no longer feared as a worker of evil, but beloved as the source of all good, of all blessings, spiritual and temporal. His prayer finished, he stretched himself on his couch, and was in an instant asleep. The silvery streaks of early dawn were just appearing in the eastern sky--seen amid the foliage of the wood, when the Indian, impulsively grasping his rifle, started to his feet. His quick ear had caught, even in his sleep, the sound of a distant shot. It might be fired by a friend, but very likely by a foe, and it behoved him to be on the alert. The old hunter heard it also, but it did not awake him. "Ah! they are on us. No matter, we'll fight for our lives," he muttered in his sleep. "Hurrah, lads! Rob Nixon will not yield--never while he's an arm to strike." He spoke in English, which the Indian seemed to understand, though the observation he made was in his own language. "Our own arms will do little for us, father, unless we trust in Him who is all-powerful to save." His voice awoke the old man, who sat up and looked around from out of his hut. Seeing the Indian in the attitude of listening, he at once comprehended the state of matters. "Few or many I'll stand by you, friend Redskin," he exclaimed, apparently forgetting his helpless condition; "load my rifle, and hand it to me. If foes are coming, they shall learn that Rob Nixon has not lost the use of his arms and eyes, whatever he may have of his legs." "I doubt not your readiness to fight, father," said the Indian, addressing the old man thus to show his respect for age; "but we may hope to avoid the necessity of having to defend ourselves. Friends and not foes may be near us, or we may escape discovery; or, what is better still, we may overcome the enmity of those who approach us with bad intent." "Your talk is again strange, as it was yesterday," answered the hunter; "I know not what you mean by overcoming enmity. There is only one way that I have ever found answer both with pale-faces and redskins, and that is by killing your enemy." "Try what kindness will do, father. Love is the law of the true God," said the Indian; "but we will anon talk of these things. I will go forth and learn what the shot we heard just now means." "Load my rifle, and give it me first, I pray you," said the white hunter; "I have great faith in my old way of doing things, and am not likely to change." The Indian loaded the rifle and handed it to him, and without saying a word more set off through the wood, and was soon out of sight. Rob Nixon lay still, with his rifle resting across his body, ready to fire should an enemy appear. Over and over again he muttered: "Strange! strange! that a redskin should talk so. I cannot make it out." Several minutes passed by, and the Indian did not return. The old man grew more anxious than he would have acknowledged to himself. He had some natural feeling on his own account should his new friend have been cut off, but he was also anxious for that new friend, to whom he could not but be grateful for the service he had rendered him. At length he saw the bushes move, and the Indian appeared and crept close up to him. "There are foes, and many of them," he said in a low voice; "they are near at hand, but they are not seeking for us; and thus, if they do not cross our trail, we may yet escape discovery." The Indian had already concealed his horse in a thicket, and, by carefully surrounding the spot where they lay with boughs, their little camp was completely hidden from the sight of any casual passer-by. The boughs he had cut from the interior part of a thicket, for, had they been taken from the outer side, the eye of an Indian would at once have observed the white stumps which were left. Again, by crossing the river in the mode they had done, there was no trail to lead to their camp. For these reasons the Indian and the white hunter had good cause to believe that they might escape discovery. As their enemies were as yet at some distance it was not deemed necessary to keep altogether silent. The old hunter was the most loquacious. "I would, friend Redskin," said he, "that I had the use of my legs and half a dozen of my old companions at my back, and I wouldn't fear as to holding my own against three-score or more of Crees, or Ojibways; no offence to you, friend; for there are not many like you, I guess." "Your people fight bravely but foolishly, according to Indian notions," answered the Indian; "for, instead of advancing on their foes under shelter and trying to take them unawares, they dress themselves in fine clothes, make a great noise when going forth to battle, and expose their bodies to be shot at. I was once esteemed a mighty warrior, and was a man of blood; I have engaged in much fighting, but would now wish to bury the hatchet of war with all the world. I thank you for what you say of me; but things of which I once boasted, I boast of no longer. I am a chief of many people; but instead, as at one time, of wishing to lead them to war, I now desire to lead them to a knowledge of the Lord and Master whom I serve--the Saviour of the world." "Every man to his taste, friend Redskin," said the old hunter; "when I was a young man like you I could not have fighting or hunting enough. Now, I own, I am growing somewhat weary of the work; and, if we get to the end of this journey with our scalps on, maybe I'll settle down with your people." It may seem strange that the old man could not comprehend what was the meaning of the Indian when he spoke thus. If he had a glimmering of the truth, he turned away from it. Many do the same. Felix has numberless imitators. Both the Indian and Rob Nixon were silent for some minutes, attentively listening for the approach of the strangers. Not a sound, however, being heard, they began to hope that their enemies had gone a different way. "There'll be no fighting this time, I guess, friend Redskin," said the old man. "It's all the better, too, considering that you don't seem much inclined for it; and I'm not in the best trim for work of that sort, or any work, truth to say." Rob Nixon had remarked that the Indian had winced more than once when addressed as Redskin, which was certainly not a respectful or complimentary mode of addressing him. The reason of this became still more evident when he spoke of himself as a chief. Chiefs in general would not for an instant have suffered such familiarity. Rob Nixon saw that it was time to apologise. He did so in his own way. "I say, friend, I've just a thing to ask you. You've a name, I doubt not, showing forth some of the brave deeds you have done, the enemies you have slain, the miles you have run, the rivers you have swam across, the bears you have captured, or the beavers you have trapped. Tell me, what is it? for I've a notion the one I've been giving you is not altogether the right or a pleasant one." The Indian smiled as he answered quietly, "The name I bear, and the only one by which I desire to be called, is Peter. It was given me, not for killing men or slaughtering beasts, but at my baptism, when I was received into the Church of Christ, and undertook to love, honour, serve, and obey Him in all things as my Lord and Master." "Peter! Peter! that's a strange name for an Injun," said the white hunter half to himself. "Why, that's such a name as they give in the old country to a Christian." "And I, too, am a Christian, though an unworthy one, father," answered the Indian humbly. "Never heard before of a Christian Injun!" exclaimed the old man bluntly; "but strange things happen I'll allow. I don't doubt your word; mind that, friend. It was strange that when you saw I was a friend of the Dakotahs you didn't scalp me, without asking questions, and leave me to be eaten by wolves. That's the true Injun way. It was strange that you should take me up, put me on your horse, walk yourself all these miles, with some hundreds more before you, and risk your own life to save mine. All that is strange, I say; and so, friend, I don't know what other strange things may happen. Well, if so you wish, I'll call you Peter; but I'd rather by far call you by your Injun name. It was a good one, I'll warrant. Come, tell it now. You need not be ashamed of it." "In the sight of man I am not ashamed of it, for by most of my people I am called by it still; but in the sight of God I am ashamed of it, and still more am I ashamed of the deeds which gained it for me. How, think you, blood-stained and guilty as I was, could I stand in the presence of One pure, holy, loving, and merciful? I tell you, aged friend, neither you nor I, nor any man, could appear before God without fear and trembling, if it were not that He is a God of love, and that through His great love for us, His creatures, whom He has placed on the world, He sent His only Son, that all who believe in Him should not perish, but have eternal life." The young Christian Indian warmed as he went on in his discourse, which was intermingled with many beautiful illustrations and figures of speech, which it would be vain to attempt to translate. Gradually he thus unfolded the fundamental truths of the Gospel. The old white hunter listened, and even listened attentively, but, far from warming, seemed scarcely to comprehend what was said. "Strange! very strange!" he muttered frequently; "and that an Injun should talk thus. Forty years have I lived among the redskins, and never believed that they knew more than their fathers." Peter,--as he desired to be called, though his heathen name was Aronhiakeura, or otherwise the Fiery Arrow, from the rapidity of his onslaught and the devastation he caused,--now stated his belief that they might venture to proceed without the likelihood of being molested. Scarcely, however, had he emerged from their leafy cover when another shot was fired close to them; and, before he could again seek concealment, three fully armed Dakotahs appeared directly in front of him. The Dakotahs instantly rushed behind the trees, to serve as shields should he fire, but he held up his hands to show that he was unarmed, and in a low voice entreated his companion to remain quiet. That resistance would be hopeless was evident by the appearance directly afterwards of a dozen or more Indians, who were seen flitting amidst the wood, each man obtaining the best shelter in his power. Peter stood fully exposed to view, without flinching or even contemplating concealing himself. Fearless behaviour is sure to obtain the admiration of Indians. Naturally suspicious they possibly supposed that he had a strong force concealed somewhere near at hand, and that they had themselves fallen into an ambush. Had they found and followed up his trail they would have discovered exactly the state of the case. That he had a wounded companion would not have escaped their notice, and that he had but one horse, and travelled slowly would also have been known to them. By his having crossed the stream, however, and come along its bed for some distance they were at fault in this respect. Peter kept his post without flinching; he well knew that the Dakotahs were watching him; indeed, here and there he could distinguish the eye of a red-skinned warrior glimmering, or the top of a plume waving among the trunks of the trees or brushwood. All the time Rob Nixon on his part was watching his preserver with intense anxiety. He had conceived a warm regard for him, and, knowing the treachery so often exhibited by the natives, trembled for his safety. Peter at length waved his hand to show that he was about to speak; "What seek you, friends?" he said in a calm tone; "I am a man of peace, I desire to be friends with all men, and to injure no one; moreover, I would that you and all men had the wisdom and enjoyed the happiness which I possess. See, I cannot harm you;" as he spoke he raised up both his hands high in the air. The Dakotahs, totally unaccustomed to an address of this description, were greatly astonished. Their chief, not to be undone in fearlessness, stepped from behind his covert, completely exposing himself to view. "Who are you, friend? and whence do you come?" he asked; "you cannot be what you seem?" "I am a man like yourself, friend, and I am truly what I seem--a native of this land, and of a tribe unhappily constantly at enmity with yours," answered Peter firmly; "but know, O chief, that I differ from many of my people; that I love you and your people, and all mankind. Will you listen to the reason of this? Let your people appear, there is no treachery intended them; I am in your power--why doubt my word?" One by one the Dakotahs crept from behind the trees which had concealed them, and a considerable number assembled in front of the Indian, who spoke to them of the Gospel of love, and of the glorious scheme of redemption. They listened attentively; most of them with mute astonishment. Now and then one of the chief men would give way to his feelings by a sound signifying either approbation or dissent, but not a remark was uttered till the speaker ceased. For a time all were silent, then with gravity and deliberation one of the chiefs waved his hand and observed, "These are strange words the man speaks--he must be a great medicine man." "Truly he has the wisdom of the white-faces," said a second; "has he their treachery? Can he be trusted?" "The things he says may be true, but they concern not us," remarked a third. "Wisdom is wisdom whoever speaks it," said a grave old warrior who had shown himself as active in his movements as the youngest of his companions. "What the stranger tells us of must be good for one man, as for another. Rest is good for the weary; who among my brothers, too, would not rather serve a powerful and kind chief than an inferior and merciless one. He tells us of rest for the weary; of a great and good chief, who can give us all things to make us happy,--I like his discourse, my brothers." The last speaker seemed to be carrying several with him, when another started up exclaiming, "What the stranger says comes from the pale-faces--it may be false; there must be some treacherous design in it. Let us rather dance this night the scalp-dance round his scalp than listen to his crafty tales. See, I fear him not." The savage as he spoke lifted his rifle and was about to fire it at Peter, when the rest drew him back, crying out, "He is a medicine man--a great medicine man, and may work us ill; interfere not with him; though we do not listen to his counsel, let him go free. Even now, while we are speaking, we know not what injury he may be preparing to do us!" Thus the discussion went on for a considerable time, Peter waiting patiently for its result. Although the speakers had retired rather too far off for him to hear all that was said, he gathered sufficient to know the tenor of the discussion; still, no fear entered his bosom, he knew that his life was in the hand of One mighty to save. While he stood waiting the result he prayed for himself certainly, but yet more earnestly that the truth might be brought home to the dark hearts of his countrymen. North American Indians are deliberate in their councils. Peter knew that his fate would not be decided quickly; but neither by word, look, nor action, did he show the slightest impatience. The old white hunter, meantime, had made up his mind to risk everything rather than allow any injury, which he could avert, to happen to his new friend. That they would recognise him he had no doubt; and the fact that he was found in company with a member of a hostile tribe would be considered so suspicious, that they would possibly put him to death without stopping to ask questions. However, should Peter be killed or made prisoner by the Dakotahs, he would be left to perish; so that he felt, indeed, that his fate depended on that of his friend. From where he lay he could see amid the branches the Indians holding their council. His trusty rifle was by his side, and noiselessly he brought it to cover their principal chief. His purpose was to fire at the first hostile movement, hoping that on the fall of their leader the Indians, fancying that they had got into a trap, would take to flight. At length the Dakotahs' leader advanced a few steps. He little thought that the lifting his hand with a menacing gesture might cost him his life. "Stranger, with you we would gladly smoke the pipe of peace," he began; "but your ways are not our ways, or your notions our notions--we have nothing in common. Go as you came, we wish to have no communication with you. We desire not to desert our fathers' ways as you have done; yet, undoubtedly, the Spirit you serve will protect you--go--go--go." In vain Peter entreated the savages to hear him once again, assuring them that he would tell them only what was for their good. One by one they quitted the spot where the council had been held; the first walked off with becoming dignity, but as more departed, the pace of each in succession increased, till the last scampered off almost as fast as his legs would carry him, fearful lest he should be overtaken by the strange medicine man, whose supposed incantations he dreaded. Peter was less astonished than a white man would have been at the behaviour of his countrymen. Still, he had gained an unexpected triumph. The Dakotahs did not stop, even to look behind them, but continued their course towards the west, through the wood and across the prairie, till they were lost to sight in the distance. The old hunter, to his surprise, saw Peter fall on his knees, on the spot where he had been standing, to return thanks to Heaven for his deliverance from a danger, far greater than it might appear to those unacquainted with Indian customs; for seldom or never do two parties of the Dakotahs and Ojibways encounter each other, without the stronger endeavouring to destroy the weaker with the most remorseless cruelty. Mercy is never asked for nor expected. The scalping-knife is employed on the yet living victim, should the tomahawk have left its work unfinished. CHAPTER THREE. "Well, you are a wonderful man, friend Peter," exclaimed Robert Nixon, when the Indian returned to him and narrated what had occurred; "I never yet have seen the like of it." "The reason is simply this, father, most men trust to their own strength and wisdom, and fail. I go forth in the strength of One all-powerful, and seek for guidance from One all-wise," answered the Indian humbly. "It is thus I succeed." "That's curious what you say, friend Redskin," answered the old man in a puzzled tone; "it's beyond my understanding, that's a fact." "The time will come shortly, I hope, father, when you will see the truth of what I say. But we must no longer delay here, we should be moving on." The mustang was caught and saddled, the old hunter placed on it, and once more the two travellers were on their way eastward, or rather to the north-east, for that was the general direction of their course. They were compelled, however, to diverge considerably, in order to keep along the course of streams, where many important advantages could be obtained: water, wood for firing, shelter, and a greater supply of game. On the open prairie there was no want of deer of several descriptions, and of small animals, like rabbits or hares; but, unless by leaving the horse with his burthen, the Indian could seldom get near enough to shoot them. For some distance the open country was of a sterile and arid description, but as they got farther away from the United States border it greatly improved, and a well-watered region, with rich grass and vetches, was entered, which extended north, and east, and west, in every direction, capable of supporting hundreds and thousands of flocks and herds, for the use of man, although now roamed over only by a comparatively few wild buffalo, deer, and wolves, and bears. Although they were in British territory, the arm of British law did not extend over this wild region, and Peter, therefore, kept a constant look-out to ascertain that no lurking enemies were near at hand. When he camped at night, also, he selected the most sheltered spot he could find, and concealed his companion and himself amid some thicket or rock, where any casual passer-by would not be likely to discover them. "At first, as Peter watched his companion, he thought that he would scarcely reach a place of safety where he might die in peace among civilised men, but gradually the old hunter's strength returned, and each day, as he travelled on, his health seemed to improve. He also became more inclined to talk; not only to ask questions, but to speak of himself. Religious subjects, however, he avoided as much as possible; indeed, to human judgment, his mind appeared too darkened, and his heart too hardened, to enable him to comprehend even the simplest truths. "You'd like to know something about me, friend Redskin, I've no doubt," said the old man to Peter, when one day he had got into a more than usually loquacious mood. "It's strange, but it's a fact, I've a desire to talk about my early days, and yet, for forty years or more, maybe, I've never thought of them, much less spoken about them. I was raised in the old country--that's where most of the pale-faces you see hereabouts came from. My father employed a great many men, and so I may say he was a chief; he was a farmer of the old style, and hated anything new. He didn't hold education in any great esteem, and so he took no pains to give me any, and one thing I may say, I took no pains to obtain it. My mother, of that I am certain, was a kind, good woman, and did her best to instruct me. She taught me to sing little songs, and night and morning made me kneel down, with my hands put together, and say over some words which I then though! very good--and I am sure they were, as she taught me them; but I have long, long ago forgotten what they were. She also used to take me with her to a large, large house, where there were a great number of people singing and often talking together; and then there was one man in a black dress, who got up in a high place in the middle, and had all the talk to himself for a long time, I used to think; but I didn't mind that, as I used generally to go to sleep when he began, and only woke up when he had done. "I was very happy whenever I was with my mother, but I didn't see her for some days, and then they took me into the room where she slept, and there I saw her lying on a bed; but she didn't speak me, she didn't even look at me, for her eyes were closed, and her cheek was cold--very cold. I didn't know then what had happened, though I cried very much. I never saw her again. From that time I began to be very miserable; I don't know why; I think it was not having my mother to go to and talk to. After that I don't know exactly what happened to me; for some time I got scolded, and kicked, and beaten, and then I was sent to a place where there were a good many other boys; and, thinks I to myself, I shall be happier here; but instead of that I was much more beaten and scolded, till I got a feeling that I didn't care what I did, or what became of me. That feeling never left me. I was always ready to do anything proposed by other boys, such as robbing orchards, or playing all sorts of pranks. I now and then went home to see my father; but I remember very little about him, except that he was a stout man, with a ruddy countenance. If he did not scold me and beat me, he certainly did not say much to me; I never felt towards him as I had done towards my mother. I must have been a biggish boy, though I was still nearly at the bottom of the school, when another lad and I got into some scrape, and were to be flogged. He proposed that we should run away, and I at once agreed, without considering where we should run to, or what we should gain by our run. There is a saying among the pale-faces, `out of the frying pan into the fire.' We soon found that we had got into a very hot fire. After many days' running, sleeping under hedges and in barns, and living on turnips and crusts of bread, which we bought with the few pence we had in our pockets, we reached a sea-port town. Seeing a large ship about to sail, we agreed that we would be sailors, if any one would take us. We were very hungry and hadn't a coin left to buy food, so aboard we went. The ship was just sailing,--the cook's boy had run away and the captain's cabin boy had just died,--and so we were shipped, without a question being asked, to take their places. They didn't inquire our names, but called us Bill and Tom, which were the names of the other boys. The captain took me into his service, and called me Bill, and my companion, who fell to the cook, was called Tom. I don't know which was the most miserable. Tom had the dirtiest and hardest work, and was not only the cook's but everybody else's servant. I received the most kicks and thrashings, and had the largest amount of oaths and curses showered down on my head. We were both of us very ill, but our masters didn't care for that, and kicked us up to work whenever they found us lying down. Away we sailed; we thought that we should never come to land again. I didn't know where we were going, but I found we were steering towards the south and west. Week after week I saw a wild, high headland on our right hand, and then we had mist, and snow, and heavy weather, and were well nigh driven back; but at last we were steering north, and the weather became fine and pleasant. The ship put into many strange ports; some were in this big country of America, and some were in islands, so we heard; but neither Tom nor I was ever for one moment allowed to set foot on shore. "Often and often did we bitterly repent our folly, and wish ourselves back home; but wishing was of no use. We found that we were slaves without the possibility of escape. Tom, who had more learning by a great deal than I had, said one day that he would go and appeal to the Consul,--I think he was called, a British officer at the port where we lay,--when the mate, who heard him, laughed, and told him, with an oath, that he might go and complain to whomsoever he liked; but that both he and Bill had signed papers, and had no power to get away. By this Tom knew that if we complained the captain would produce the papers signed by the other boys, and that we should be supposed to be them, and have no remedy. Tom then proposed that we should play all sorts of pranks, and behave as badly as we could. We tried the experiment, but we soon found that we had made a mistake; for our masters beat and starved us till we were glad to promise not again to do the same. Our only hope was that we should some day get a chance of running away; and, if it hadn't been for that, we should, I believe, have jumped overboard and drowned ourselves. Month after month passed by, the ship continued trading from port to port in the Pacific Ocean,--as the big lake you've heard speak of, friend Redskin, is called,--over to the west there; but the chance we looked for never came. We then hoped that the ship would be cast away, and that so we might be free of our tyrants. If all had been drowned but ourselves we shouldn't have cared. At last, after we'd been away three years or more, we heard that the ship was going home. We didn't conceal our pleasure. It didn't last long. Another captain came on board one day. I heard our captain observe to him, `You shall have them both a bargain. Thrash them well, and I'll warrant you'll get work out of them.' I didn't know what he meant at the time. In the evening, when the strange captain's boat was called away, Tom and I were ordered to get up our bags and jump in. We refused, and said we wanted to go home. We had better have kept silence. Down came a shower of blows on our shoulders, and, amid the jeers and laughter of our shipmates, we were forced into the boat. We found ourselves aboard a whaler just come out, with the prospect of remaining in those parts three years at least. You've heard speak, Peter, of the mighty fish of the big lake. The largest sturgeon you ever set eyes on is nothing to them--just a chipmunk to a buffalo. We had harder and dirtier work now than before--catching, cutting out, and boiling down the huge whales-- and our masters were still more cruel and brutal. We were beaten and knocked about worse than ever, and often well nigh starved by having our rations taken from us. How we managed to live through that time I don't know. I scarcely like to think of it. The ship sailed about in every direction; sometimes where the sun was so hot that we could scarce bear our clothes on our backs, and sometimes amid floating mountains of ice, with snow and sleet beating down on us. At last, when we had got our ship nearly full of oil, and it was said that we should soon go home, we put into a port, on the west coast of this continent, to obtain fresh provisions. There were a few white people settled there, but most of the inhabitants were redskins. The white men had farms, ranchos they were called, and the natives worked for them. "Tom and I agreed that, as the ship was soon going home, the captain would probably try to play off the same trick on us that our first captain had done, and so we determined to be beforehand with him. We were now big, strongish fellows; not as strong as we might have been if we had been better fed and less knocked about; but still we thought that we could take good care of ourselves. We hadn't much sense though, or knowledge of what people on shore do; for how should we, when you see that since the day we left our native country, when we were little ignorant chaps, we hadn't once set our feet on dry land. Tom swore, and so did I, that if we once did reach the shore, we'd get away as far from the ocean as we could, and never again smell a breath of it as long as we lived. How to get there was the difficulty. We had always before been watched; and so, to throw our shipmates off their guard, we pretended to think of nothing but about going home, and our talk was all of what we would do when we got back to old England. We said that we were very much afraid of the savages on shore, and wondered any one could like to go among them. After a time, we found that we were no longer watched as we used to be. This gave us confidence. The next thing was to arrange how we were to get on shore. We neither of us could swim; and, besides, the distance was considerable, and there were sharks--fish which can bite a man's leg off as easily as a white fish bites a worm in two. We observed that, in the cool of the evening, some boats and canoes used to pull round the ship, and sometimes came alongside to offer things for sale to the men. Tom and I agreed that if we could jump into one of them while the owner was on board, we might get off without being discovered. Night after night we waited, till our hearts sunk within us, thinking we should never succeed; but, the very night before the ship was to sail, several people came below, and, while they were chaffering with the men, Tom and I slipped up on deck. My heart seemed ready to jump out of my skin with anxiety as I looked over the side. There, under the fore-chains, was a canoe with a few things in her, but no person. I glanced round. The second mate was the only man on deck besides Tom, who had gone over to the other side. I beckoned to Tom. The mate had his back to us, being busily engaged in some work or other, over which he was bending. Tom sprang over to me, and together we slid down into the canoe. The ship swung with her head towards the shore, or the mate would have seen us. We pulled as for our lives; not, however, for the usual landing-place, but for a little bay on one side, where it appeared that we could easily get on shore. Every moment we expected to see a boat put off from the ship to pursue us, or a gun fired; but the sun had set, and it was growing darker and darker, and that gave us some hope. Still we could be seen clearly enough from the ship if anybody was looking for us. The mate had a pair of sharp eyes. `He'll flay us alive if he catches us,' said I. `Never,' answered Tom, in a low tone; `I'll jump overboard and be drowned whenever I see a boat make chase after us.' `Don't do that, Tom,' said I; `hold on to the last. They can but kill us in the end, and we don't know what may happen to give us a chance of escape.' You see, friend Peter, that has been my maxim ever since, and I've learned to know for certain that that is the right thing. "Well, before long we did see a boat leave the ship. It was too dark to learn who had gone over the side into her. We pulled for dear life for a few seconds, when Tom cried out that he knew we should be taken. I told him to lie down in the bottom of the canoe, and that if the ship's boat came near us I would strip off my shirt and pretend to be an Injun. At first he wouldn't consent; but, as the boat came on, some muskets were fired, and suddenly he said he'd do as I proposed, and he lay down, and I stripped off my shirt and smoothed down, my hair, which was as long as an Injun's. On came the boat; I pulled coolly on as if in no way concerned. The boat came on--she neared us. Now or never, I thought; so I sang out, in a feigned voice, and pointed with my paddle towards the other side of the harbour. I don't think I ever felt as I did at that moment. Did they know me? or should I deceive them? If the mate was there I knew that we should have no chance. The people in the boat ceased pulling. I didn't move either, though the canoe, with the last stroke I had given, slid on. Again I pointed with my paddle, gave a flourish with it, and away I went as if I had no business with them. I could not understand how I had so easily deceived my shipmates, and every instant I expected them to be after us. At last we lost sight of them in the gloom; but Tom, even then, was unwilling to get up and take his paddle. I told him that, if he didn't, we should have a greater chance of being caught. The moment I said that, up he jumped, and paddled away so hard that I could scarcely keep the canoe in the right course for the place where we wanted to land. The stars helped us with their light; and, as we got close in with the shore, we found the mouth of a stream. "Though we had so longed to get on shore we felt afraid to land, not knowing what we should do with ourselves. The shore looked so strange, and we expected to see all sorts of wild animals and snakes which we had heard talk of. Tom was the most timid, `It was bad aboard, Bill,' said he, `but if we was to meet a bear or a buffalo what what should we do?' I couldn't just answer him; but when we found the river we agreed that we would pull up it as far as we could go, and it would carry us some way into the country at all events. We little knew the size of this mighty land, or of the big, long, long rivers running for hundreds of miles through it. This America of yours is a wonderful country, friend Redskin, if you did but know it. Well, up the river we pulled for some miles; it was but a mere brook, you'll understand, but we thought it a great river. It was silent enough, for there were no habitations except a few native wigwams. We had all the night before us, that was one thing in our favour. As on we went we heard a roaring, splashing noise, which increased. `Hillo! here's a heavy sea got up; I see it right-a-head,' cried Tom. `We must go through it, however,' said I; and so I tried to paddle the canoe through it. We very nearly got swamped; it was, you see, a waterfall and rapid, and higher up even our canoe could not have floated. We now agreed that go on shore we must, like it or not; I stepped out first, and then helped Tom, or in his fright he would have capsized the canoe. There we were both of us on firm ground for the first time since, as little boys, we left old England. I did feel strange, and when I tried to walk, I could scarcely get along. "Tom rolled about as if he was drunk, hardly able to keep his feet. The rough ground hurt us, and we were every instant knocking our toes and shins against stumps and fallen branches. We both of us sat down ready to cry. `How shall we ever get along?' asked Tom. `We shall get accustomed to it,' I answered; `but it does make me feel very queer.' We found a good supply of provisions in the canoe, and we loaded ourselves with as much as we could carry, and we then had the sense to lift our canoe out of the water, and to carry her some way till we found a thick bush in which we hid her. `If they find out we got away in the canoe they'll think we are drowned, and not take the trouble to look for us,' observed Tom, as we turned our backs on the spot. We were pretty heavily laden, for we didn't know where we might next find any food; and as we walked on we hurt our feet more and more, till Tom roared out with pain, and declared he would go no further. `Then we shall be caught and flayed alive, that's all, Tom,' said I. `But let us see if we can't mend matters; here, let us cut off the sleeves of our jackets and bind them round our feet.' We did so, and when we again set off we found that we could walk much better than before. We hadn't been so many years at sea without learning how go steer by the stars. What we wanted was to get to the east; as far from the sea and our hated ship as possible: that one thought urged us on. Through brushwood which tore our scanty clothes to shreds, and over rough rocks which wounded our feet, and across marshes and streams which wetted us well nigh from head to foot, we pushed our way for some hours--it seemed to us the whole night--till we got into an Indian track. We didn't know what it was at the time, but found it was an easy path, so we followed it up at full speed. On we ran; we found that it led in the right direction, and that's all we thought of. Unaccustomed to running or walking as we were, it seems surprising how we should have held out; but the truth is it was fear helped us along, and a burning desire to be free. "Daylight found us struggling up a high hill or ridge, rather running north and south; we reached the top just as the sun rose above a line of lofty and distant mountains. We turned round for a moment to look on the far-off blue waters which lay stretched out below us, and on which we had spent so large a portion of our existence. `I've had enough of it,' cried Tom, fiercely shaking his fist; and then we turned along again, and rushed down the ridge towards the east. It was the last glimpse I ever had of the wide ocean. Still we did not consider ourselves safe. We should have liked to have put a dozen such ridges between our tyrants and ourselves. On we went again till at last our exhausted strength failed, and we stopped to take some food. Once having sat down it was no easy matter to get up again, and before we knew what was happening we were both fast asleep. We must have slept a good many hours, and I dreamed during that time that the mate, and cook, and a dozen seamen were following us with flensing-knives, and handspikes, and knotted ropes, shrieking and shouting at our heels. We ran, and ran for our lives, just as we had been running all night, but they were always close behind us. The mate--oh! how I dreaded him--had his hand on my shoulder, and was giving a growl of satisfaction at having caught me, when I awoke; and, looking up, saw not the mate, but the most terrible-looking being I had ever set eyes on, so I thought. "I had, to be sure, seen plenty of savages who came off to the ship from the islands at which we used to touch, but they were none of them so fierce as he looked. I won't describe him, because he was simply a redskin warrior in his war paint and feathers. It was his hand that was on my shoulder; his grunt of surprise at finding us awoke me. I cried out, and Tom and I jumped to our feet and tried to run away; a dozen Indians however surrounded us, and escape was impossible. `Let us put a bold face on the matter, Tom,' I sang out; `I don't think they mean to kill us.' Our captors talked a little together and they seemed pleased with the way we looked at them, for they showed us by signs that they meant us no evil. They were a portion of a war party on their way to destroy the pale-face settlement on the coast. They guessed by our dress and looks, and from our clothes being torn, that we were runaway English seamen; and, knowing that we should not wish to go back to our ship, considered that we should prove of more value to them alive than our scalps would be if they took them. We understood them to say that they wanted us to go with them to attack their enemies, but we showed them by our feet that we could not walk a step, and as they were not ill-tempered people they did not insist on it. After a talk they lifted us up--two taking Tom, and two me between them--and carried us along at a quick rate for some miles to their camp; there we saw a large number of Indians collected, some armed with bows, and some few with fire-arms. "There were a few women, in whose charge we were placed. We could not make out whether we were considered prisoners or not; at all events, we could not run away. Leaving us, the whole party set forth towards the west on their expedition. Two days passed, and then, with loud shoutings, and shriekings, and firing of muskets, the party appeared, with numerous scalps at the end of their spears, and some wretched captives driven before them, I remember, even now, how I felt that night, when the war-dance was danced, and the prisoners tortured; how fearfully the men, and even the women, shrieked, and how the miserable people who had been taken, as they were bound to stakes, writhed under the tortures inflicted on them. While we looked on, Tom and I wished ourselves back again, even on board the ship, thinking that we ourselves might next be treated in the same manner. At last the savages brought fire, and then, as the flames blazed up, we saw three people whom we knew well,--the captain, and mate, and one of the men, who had been among the worst of our tyrants. Though their faces were distorted with agony and horror, as the light fell on them, there was no doubt about the matter. They might have seen us. If they did, it must have added to their misery. They had come on shore to visit some of the settlers, we concluded, and, at all events, were found fighting with them. We got accustomed, after a time, to such scenes, and learned to think little of them, as you doubtless do, friend Peter; but at that time, I went off in a sort of swoon, as the shrieks and cries for mercy of the burning wretches reached my ears. The Indians had got a great deal of booty, and having taken full revenge for the injury done them, and expecting that they would be hunted out if they remained in the neighbourhood, they judged it wise to remove to another part of the country. Our feet had sufficiently recovered during the rest of two days to enable us to walk, or I am not certain that we should not have been killed, to save our captors the trouble of carrying us. It took us a week to reach the main camp, where most of the women and children were collected. We limped on, with difficulty and pain, thus far concealing our sufferings as much as we could. We could not have gone a mile further, had not the tribe remained here to decide on their future course. The rest, and the care the women took of us, sufficiently restored our strength to enable us to move on with the tribe to the new ground they proposed taking up. Your Indian ways, friend Peter, were very strange to us at first, but by degrees we got into them, and showed that we were every bit as good men as the chief braves themselves. Whatever they did, we tried to do, and succeeded as well as they, except in tracking an enemy, and that we never could come up with. They, at first, treated us as slaves, and made us work for them, as they did their women; but when they saw what sort of lads we were, they began to treat us with respect, and soon learned to look upon us as their equals. We both of us became very different to what we were at sea, Tom especially. There we were cowed by our task-masters, here we felt ourselves free men; and Tom, who was looked upon as an arrant coward on board ship, was now as brave as the bravest warrior of the tribe. We were braver, indeed; for while they fought Indian-fashion, behind trees, we would rush on, and never failed to put our enemies to flight. "We were of great service to our friends in assisting them to establish themselves in their new territory, and to defend themselves against the numerous foes whom they very soon contrived to make. Still we held our own, and our friends increased in numbers and power. Our chief was ambitious, and used every means to add fresh members to his tribe, by inducing those belonging to other tribes to join us. His object, which was very clear, excited the jealousy of a powerful chief, especially, of the great Dakotah nation, inhabiting the country north-east of our territory. He, however, disguised his intentions, and talked us into security by pretending the greatest friendship. Through his means, our other enemies ceased to attack us, and we began to think that the hatchet of war was buried for ever. Tom and I had been offered wives-- daughters of chiefs--and we had agreed to take them to our lodges, when we both of us set out on a hunting expedition, to procure game for our marriage feast, and skins to pay for the articles we required. We had great success, and were returning in high spirits, when night overtook us, within a short distance of the village. We camped where we were, as we would not travel in the dark, hoping to enter it the next morning in triumph. About midnight, both Tom and I started from our sleep, we knew not why. Through the night air there came faint sounds of cries, and shrieks, and shouts, and warlike noises. We thought it must be fancy; but presently, as we stood listening, there burst forth a bright light in the direction of the village, which went on increasing, till it seemed that every lodge must be on fire. What could we do? Should we hasten on to help our friends? It was too late to render them any assistance. We must wait till daylight to learn what way the foe had gone, and how we could best help our friends; so we stood watching the flames with grief and anger, till they sunk down for want of fuel. We had not lived so long with Indians, without having learned some of their caution; and concealing our game and skins, as soon as it was dawn we crept on towards the village. As we drew near, not a sound was heard-- not even the bark of a dog. We crept amid the bushes on hands and feet, closer and closer, when from a wooded knoll we could look down on the lately happy village, or, I should say, on the spot where it lately stood. "By the grey light of the morning a scene of desolation and bloodshed was revealed to us, which, in all my experience of warfare, I have never seen equalled. Every lodge was burnt to the ground; here and there a few blackened posts alone remaining to show where they once stood: but a burnt village I have often seen. It was the sight of the mangled and blackened bodies of our late friends and companions thickly strewed over the ground which froze the blood in our veins. For some moments we could scarcely find breath to whisper to each other. When we did, we reckoned up the members of the tribe, men, women, and children, and then counting the bodies on the ground, we found that our foes had killed every one of them, with the exception of perhaps a dozen, who might have been carried off. This told us, too correctly, how the event had occurred. In the dead of night the village had been surrounded, torches thrown into it, and, as the people rushed out confused, they were murdered indiscriminately--old and young, women and children. Were our intended wives among them? we almost wished they were; but we dared not descend to ascertain. The place was no longer for us. `I wish that I was back in England, Tom,' said I. `So do I, Bill, right heartily,' said he. `East or west, Tom?' said I. `Not west! no, no!' he answered, with a shudder; `we might be caught by another whaler.' `East, then,' said I, pointing to the rising sun; `we may get there some day, but it's a long way, I've a notion.' `If we keep moving on, we shall get there though, long as it may be,' said Tom. So we crept back to where we had left our goods, and having taken food for a couple of days, we went and hid ourselves in some thick bushes, where we hoped our enemies would not find us. For two days and nights we lay hid, and on the third morning we agreed that we might as well chance it as stay where we were, when the sound of voices, and of people moving through the woods reached our ears, and, peeping out, we saw several warriors passing along at no great distance. From the way they moved we knew that they were not looking for any one, nor believing that any enemy was near; but still, should any one of their quick eyes fall on our trail, they would discover us in an instant. I never felt my scalp sit more uneasy on my head. Suddenly they stopped and looked about; I thought that it was all over with us; the keen eyes of one of them, especially, seemed to pierce through the very thicket where we lay. We scarcely dared to breathe, lest we should betray ourselves. Had there been only five or six we might have sprung out and attacked them with some chance of success, but there were a score at least, and more might be following, and so the odds were too great. They were most of them adorned with scalps--those of our slaughtered friends, we did not doubt, and we longed to be avenged on them. On they came, and just as we thought that we had seen the end of them, more appeared, and several of them looked towards us. How we escaped discovery I do not know. Long after the last had passed on into the forest we came out of our hiding-place, and gathering up all our property, prepared to commence our journey. We pushed on as fast as our legs would carry us, every moment expecting to come upon some of our enemies, or to have them pouncing out upon us from among the trees or rocks. All day we pushed on, almost without stopping, and for several days resting only during the hours of darkness, till at last we hoped that we had put a sufficient distance between our enemies and ourselves to escape an attack. We now camped to catch more game, and to make arrangements for our course. We had got some little learning at school, though most of it was forgotten; but we remembered enough to make us know that England was to the north-east of us, and so we determined to travel on in that direction. I won't tell you now all about our journey. We had not got far before we found the country so barren that we were obliged to keep to the north, which brought us into the territory owned by the Dakotah people. We knew nothing of the way then, except from the accounts picked up over the camp fires of our former friends, and we had managed hitherto to keep out of the way of all strangers. We were ignorant, too, of the great distance we were from England; and of another thing we were not aware, and that was of the cold of winter. We were still travelling on, when the nights became so cold that we could scarcely keep ourselves from freezing, though sleeping close to our camp fires. It got colder and colder, and then down came the snow, and we found that winter had really set in. To travel on was impossible, so we built ourselves a lodge, and tried to trap and kill animals enough to last us for food till the snow should disappear. They became, however, scarcer and scarcer, and we began to fear that the supply of food we had collected would not last us out till summer. We had, however, a good number of skins, and though we had intended to sell them, we made some warm clothing of them instead. "We had too much to do during the day in hunting and collecting wood for our fire to allow of the time hanging very heavy on our hands. At first we got on very well, but our food decreased faster than we had calculated; and then Tom fell down from a rock, and hurt himself so much that I could scarcely get him home. While he was in this state I fell sick, and there we two were, in the middle of a desert, without any one to help us. Tom grew worse, and I could just crawl out from our bed of skins and leaves to heap up wood on our fire, and to cook our food. That was growing less and less every day, and starvation stared us in the face. Our wood, too could not hold out much longer, and though there was plenty at a little distance, I was too weak to go out and fetch it and cut it up, and poor Tom could not even stand upright. Day by day our stock of food decreased. All was gone! There was wood enough to keep our fire alight another day, and then we knew that in one, or, at most, two days more, we must be starved or frozen to death. Tom groaned out that he wished we had but a bottle of rum to keep us warm, and drive away dreadful thoughts. So did I wish we had. That was a hard time, friend Peter." "Fire water! was that all you thought of? Did you never pray? Did you never ask God to deliver you?" inquired the Indian in a tone of astonishment. "No! What had God to do with us poor chaps in that out-of-the-way place? He wouldn't have heard us if we had prayed; and, besides, we had long ago forgotten to pray," answered the old man in an unconcerned tone. "Ah! but He would have heard you, depend on that. The poor and destitute are the very people He delights to help," observed the Indian. "Ah! old friend, you little know what God is when you fancy that He would not have heard you." As he spoke he produced a Testament in the Ojibway tongue, from which he read the words, "God is love," and added, "This is part of the Bible, which your countrymen, the missionaries, have translated for us into our tongue." "Ay! maybe," remarked the old man, after considering a time; "I remember about the Bible when I was a boy, and it's all true; but I don't fancy God could have cared for us." "Why? is that wisdom you speak, old friend?" exclaimed Peter. "See, God did care for you, though you did not even ask Him, or you wouldn't be alive this day. He has cared for you all your life long. You have already told me many things which showed it, and I doubt not if you were to tell me everything that has happened to you since you can remember up to the present day, many, many more would be found to prove it. Was it God's love which sent me to you when you were on the point of death, or was it His hatred? Was it God's love which softened the hearts of the Sioux towards us? Come, go on with your history. I doubt not that the very next thing that you have to tell me will prove what I say." "Well, friend Redskin, what you say may be true, and I don't wish to differ with you," answered the hunter, still apparently unmoved. "As I was saying, Tom and I expected nothing but starvation. It was coming, too, I have an idea; for my part I had got so bad that I did not know where we were or what had happened. The hut was dark, for I had closed up the hole we came in and out at with snow and bundles of dry grass, or we should very quickly have been frozen to death. "The last thing I recollect was feeling cold--very cold. Suddenly a stream of light burst in on my eyes, and, that waking me up, I saw several Indians, in full war-dress, standing looking at Tom and me. I felt as if I did not care whether they scalped me or not: I was pretty well past all feeling. One of them, however, poured something down my throat, and then down Tom's throat: it did not seem stronger than water though it revived me. I then saw that their looks were kind, and that they meant us no harm. The truth was that our forlorn condition touched their hearts: it is my opinion, friend Peter, that nearly all men's hearts can be moved, if touched at the right time. These men were Sioux--very savage, I'll allow--but just then they were returning home from a great meeting, where, by means of a white man, certain matters were settled to their satisfaction, and they felt, therefore, well disposed towards us. Who the white man was I don't know, except that he was not a trader, and was a friend of the Indians. The Sioux gave us food, and lighted our fire, and camped there for two days, till we were able to move on, and then took us along with them. We lived with them all the winter, and soon got into their ways. When we proposed moving on, they would, on no account, hear of it, telling us that the distance was far greater than we supposed, and that there were cruel, treacherous white men between us and the sea, who were always making war on their people to drive them off their lands, and that they would certainly kill us. The long and the short of it is that Tom and I gave up our intention of proceeding, and, having wives offered to us much to our taste, we concluded to stay where we were. Every day we got more accustomed to the habits of our new friends; and we agreed also, that our friends in England would not know us, or own us, if we went back. We were tolerably happy; our wives bore us children; and, to make a long story short, we have lived on with the same tribe ever since. Tom has grown stout and cannot join in the hunt, but his sons do, and supply him with food. If Tom had been with the rest, he would not have left the neighbourhood of the ground where I fell without searching for me. It is through he and I being together that I can still speak English, and recollect things about home and our early days. We have been friends ever since we were boys, and never have we had a dispute. Four of my children died in infancy, and I have a son and a daughter. The only thing that tries me is leaving Tom and them, for their mother is dead; and yet I should like to go and hear more of the strange things you have told me about, and see some of my countrymen again before I die. They won't mourn long for the old man: it is the lot of many to fall down and die in the wilds, as I should have died if you had not found me. Tom, maybe, will miss me; but of late years, since he gave up hunting, we have often been separate, and he'll only feel as if I had been on a longer hunt than usual." "And your children?" said Peter. "They'll feel much like Tom, I suppose," answered the white hunter. "You know, friend Redskin, that Injun children are not apt to care much for their old parents. Maybe I will send for them, or go for them, if I remain with the pale-faces." The Indian was silent for some time. He then observed gravely, "Maybe, old friend, that the merciful God, who has protected you throughout your life, may have ordered this event also for your benefit; yet why do I say `maybe.' He orders all things for the best: this much I have learned respecting Him--the wisest man can know no more." Were not the Indians of North America indued with a large amount of patience they could not get through the long journeys they often perform, nor live the life of trappers and hunters, nor execute the curious carved work which they produce. Patience is a virtue they possess in a wonderful degree. Day after day Peter travelled on, slowly, yet patiently, with his charge, at length reaching the banks of the Assiniboine River, a large and rapid stream which empties itself into the Red River, at about the centre of the Selkirk settlement. The banks, often picturesque, were, in most places, well clothed with a variety of trees, while the land on either side, although still in a state of nature, showed its fertility by the rich grasses and clover which covered it. The old hunter gazed with surprise. "Why, friend Peter, here thousands and thousands of people might live in plenty, with countless numbers of cattle and sheep!" he exclaimed. "I knew not that such a country existed in tiny part of this region." "We are now on the territory of the English, a people who treat the red man as they should--as fellow men, and with justice," answered the Indian. "It may be God's will that, ere many years are over, all this vast land, east and west, may be peopled by them, still leaving ample room for the red men, who, no longer heathen hunters, may settle down in Christian communities as cultivators of the soil, or keepers of flocks and herds." Still more surprised was the old hunter when, a few days after this, they came upon several well cultivated fields, and saw beyond them a widely-scattered village of neat cottages, and the spire of a church rising amid them towards the blue sky. "What! are those the houses of English settlers?" asked the old man; "it will do my heart good to see some of my own countrymen again." "You will see few of your countrymen here, father; the inhabitants are settlers, truly, but nearly all my people. There is, however, here a good minister, and a school-master, white men, who will welcome you gladly. Their hearts are full of Christian love, or they would not come to live out here, far removed from relatives and friends, labouring for the souls' welfare of my poor countrymen." The old man shook his head, "No, no; I have no desire to see a parson. I remember well the long sermons--the last I ever heard was when I was at school--the parson used to give, and I used to declare that when I was a man I would keep clear of them, on this account." "You would not speak so of our minister here, were you to hear him," said the Indian. "I will not ask you to do what you dislike--but here is my house--those within will give you a hearty welcome." An Indian woman, neatly dressed, with a bright, intelligent countenance, came forth with an infant in her arms, to meet Peter, several children following her, who clung around him with affectionate glee. A few words, which Peter addressed to his wife, made her come forward, and, with gentle kindness, assist the old man into the cottage, where the elder children eagerly brought a chair and placed him on it. One boy ran off with the horse to a stable close at hand, and another assisted his mother to prepare some food, and to place it on a table before his father and their guest. The old man's countenance exhibited pleased surprise. "Well! well! I shouldn't have believed it if I had heard it," he muttered. "I remember many a cottage in the old country that did not come up to this." Many and many a cottage very far behind it, the old hunter might have said-- and why? Because in them the blessed Gospel was not the rule of life; while in that of the Indian God's law of love was the governing principle of all. Christ's promised gift--the gift of gifts--rested on that humble abode of His faithful followers. Several days passed by, and, to Peter's regret, the old hunter showed no desire to converse with the devoted missionary minister of the settlement. He came more than once, but the old man, shut up within himself, seemed not to listen to anything he said. At length he recovered sufficiently to go out, and one evening, wandering forth through the village, he passed near the church. The sound of music reached his ears as he approached the sacred edifice; young voices are raised together in singing praises to God for His bounteous gifts bestowed on mankind:-- "Glory to Thee, my God, this night, For all the blessings of the light; Keep me, O keep me, King of Kings! Beneath Thine own Almighty wings." The old hunter stopped to listen: slowly, and as if in awe, he draws near the open porch. Again he stops, listening still more earnestly. The young Christians within are singing in the Indian tongue. Closer he draws--his lips open--his voice joins in the melody. Words long, long forgotten, come unconsciously from his lips. They are the English words of that time-honoured hymn, often sung by children in the old country. Scarcely does his voice tremble: it sounds not like that of a man, but low and hushed, as it might have been when he first learned, from his long-lost mother, to lisp those words of praise. The music ceases. The old hunter bursts into tears--tears unchecked. Now he sinks on his knees, with hands uplifted--"Our Father, which art in Heaven,"--he is following the words of the missionary within. Are a mother's earnest, ceaseless prayers heard--prayers uttered ere she left this world of trial? Yes; undoubtedly. But God's ways are not man's ways: though He tarry long, yet surely He will be found--aye, "Found of them who sought Him not." The children's prayer meeting is over. The old man remains on his knees, with head bent down, and hands clasped, till the shades of evening close over him. CHAPTER FOUR. That was the turning-point; from that day Rob Nixon was an altered man. Of course, I do not mean that he at once found all his difficulties gone, his heart full of love, his prayers full of devotion; but from this time he felt, as he had never felt before, that he was "blind, and poor, and naked," and far away from his home. His good and faithful friend, Peter, had given him wise and good advice, and had introduced him to the excellent minister of the settlement, Archdeacon Hunter, who soon became a daily visitor at Peter's cottage. Skilful in imparting religious knowledge, he was able, by slow degrees, to instruct the old hunter in the leading truths of Christianity. Once comprehended, the old man grasped them joyfully; and though long unaccustomed to the sight of a book, he set to work again to learn to read, that he might himself peruse the sacred volume. He, of course, learned in English, and it was curious to remark, how his countenance beamed with pleasure as he recognised once familiar, but long forgotten, letters and words, and how rapidly he recovered the knowledge he had possessed as a boy. His great delight was to attend the school-children's service, and to hear them afterwards catechised by the minister; and the greyheaded, gaunt old man, might have been seen constantly sitting among them, truly as a little child, imbibing the truths of the Gospel. But, after a time, a change came over him. He appeared no longer content to remain, as hitherto, quietly in the cottage of his friend Peter, but spoke of wishing, once more, to be in the saddle, following his calling of a hunter. His rifle and accoutrements had carefully been brought home by Peter; but they would be of no use without a horse, powder and shot, and provisions. The autumn hunt, in which a large number of the natives of the Red River settlement engage every year, was about to commence; and, to Peter's surprise and regret, Rob Nixon expressed his intention of accompanying them, should he be able to obtain the means of so doing. Peter trembled lest his old friend's conversion should not have been real--lest the seed, which he had hoped would have borne good fruit, had, after all, been sown on stony ground. He delicately expressed his fears, describing the temptations to which a hunter is exposed. A tear appeared in the old man's eye, as he called Peter's eldest boy to him. "Friend, you love this boy?" he said. "I do, fondly," was the natural answer. "And you love his soul?" he asked. "Far more surely. It is the most precious part of him," said the Christian father. "I, too, have a son, and I love him; but I knew that he could take good care of himself, and so I left him with little regret," said the hunter. "But now, friend, I know that he has a soul which is in danger of perishing, I long to seek him out, to tell him of his danger, to win him back to that Saviour from whom he has strayed so far. I have a daughter and a friend too, and that friend has children. To all I would show how they may be saved. I loved them once, thinking nothing of their souls. How much more do I love their souls now that I know their value!" Peter warmly grasped the old hunter's hand, as he exclaimed, "Pardon me, father, that I had hard thoughts of you. I understand your object, and I doubt not that aid will be afforded you to carry it out, for it is surely one well pleasing in God's sight. `He who converteth a sinner from the error of his way, shall save a soul from death, and shall hide a multitude of sins.'" The whole matter being laid before the missionary minister the next day, he highly approved of the old hunter's intention, and promised to aid him as far as he had the power. He was on the point of setting out to visit the settlements, as the Red River colony is called, and he invited Robert Nixon to accompany him, that he might there obtain the necessary aid for the accomplishment of his enterprise. It was agreed, in the first place, that the old man should not undertake the journey alone. The difficulty was to find a companion for him. Fortunately, two years before, a young Sioux had been taken prisoner by a party of Crees, a numerous, people, who inhabit the country round Lake Winnepeg, their lodges being found far in other directions. They, like the heathen Ojibways, are always at war with the Sioux, and no opportunity is lost of taking each others' scalps. This young Sioux, to whom the name of Joseph had been given, was anxious to carry the glad tidings of salvation to his countrymen, and hearing of the old hunter's wish, gladly volunteered to accompany him. Peter would willingly himself have been his companion, but that he had his duties as a teacher to attend to, and his family to care for; besides which, a Sioux would be able to enter the country of his people with less risk of being killed by them, than would one of the Cree, or Ojibway nation. Peter, however, insisted on Nixon taking his horse. "You can repay me for the hire some day, or your son can repay my children, should you bring him back. If it is not God's will that you should succeed in your mission, yet I fear not that He will repay me, as the loan is for an object well pleasing in His sight." A horse for the young Sioux, as well as provisions and articles as gifts to propitiate any chiefs of tribes who might not know him, were still considered necessary, and these could only be procured at the Red River. The distance between the little colony of Prairie Portage and Red River is about sixty-five miles, but this neither the old hunter nor his companions thought in any way a long journey. The astonishment of Robert Nixon was very great on finding a well-beaten road the whole distance, over which wheeled carriages could pass with perfect ease; still more when he passed several farms, even to the west of Lane's Post, which formed the termination of their first day's journey. Their course was in the same direction as that of the Assiniboine, which very winding river they occasionally sighted. The banks were generally well clothed with fine wood, and the soil everywhere appeared to be of the richest quality. Considerably greater than before was the old man's astonishment when, on the second day about noon, the party arrived at a comfortable farm, where the owner hospitably invited them to rest, and placed before them the usual luxuries to be found in a well-ordered farm-house in the old country, such as good wheat and maize bread, cheese, butter, bacon and eggs, with capital beer, and in addition, preserves and fruit, several vegetables, and fresh maize boiled, answering the purpose of green peas. A joint of mutton was roasting at the fire, and potatoes were boiling. After this repast, the farmer brought out a supply of tobacco which, he told his guests, grew on the farm. "Indeed, gentlemen, I may say we here live in plenty," he observed; "and all we want are people to settle down about us, and make our lives more sociable than they now are. We have drawbacks, I'll allow; and what farmer, even in the old country, can say that he has not? Ours are--early and late frosts, though chiefly the latter; grasshoppers, which will clear a field of every green thing in a night; and, occasionally, wolves and bears; but those gentry don't like the smell of our gunpowder, and have mostly taken their departure. On the Red River farms they seldom or never hear of one, and the injury they can do us is but slight." This was the commencement of a long line of farms which extends, with few breaks, the whole distance to the Red River, into which the Assiniboine falls. Often the old hunter was silent, considering the unexpected scenes which met his sight, though he occasionally indulged in quiet remarks on them; but when, at length, the lofty and glittering spire of a large cathedral, [note] appearing, as the rays of the evening sun shone on it, as if formed of burnished silver--numerous edifices, some of considerable dimensions, scattered about--public buildings and dwelling houses--other churches in the distance--several windmills, with their white arms moving in the breeze, high above the richly tinted foliage of the trees, which formed an irregular fringe to the banks of the river flowing beneath them, while near at hand, at the point where the Assiniboine flows into the larger stream, rose the walls and battlements of a strong fort, whose frowning guns commanded the surrounding plains,--when he saw all this, the scene appeared to his bewildered eyes as if it had sprung up by the touch of the enchanter's wand, in the midst of the desert. "Well! well!" he exclaimed, "and I have been living all this time, but a few weeks' journey from this place, and never should have thought of it." The sight of the large sails of the freighters' boats made him somewhat uncomfortable, lest he should be carried off to sea, and he could scarcely be persuaded that he was still not far short of two thousand miles from the Atlantic ocean, and that there was no chance of his being kidnapped. He was even more frightened than his steed when a steamer came puffing up to a wharf below Fort Garry. "What creature is that they have aboard there?" he exclaimed, "Where does the strange craft come from? What is she going to do?" He sprang from his horse, and stood looking over the cliff at the steamer. He at once recognised her as a vessel, though of a construction wonderfully strange to his eyes, as no steamers had been built when he left England, and he had never heard of their invention. The stream of steam puffed off, and the loud screams accompanying it made him somewhat incredulous as to the nature of the vessel. When, however, all was quiet, and he saw a stream of people issuing from her side, he was satisfied that she was of mortal build, and he was at length persuaded to go down and examine her himself. It almost took away his breath, as he said, to find that vessels of far greater size now ploughed the ocean in every direction, and that continents were traversed by long lines of carriages, dragged by single locomotives, at the rate of forty miles an hour. After hearing of this, he was scarcely surprised at any of the wonders which were told him, and of the numerous discoveries and inventions which have been brought into practical use during half-a-century. At the close of the day the travellers reached a well-built rectory, on the banks of the river, where they were hospitably received and entertained. While seated in the evening before the fire with his host, the old man, as he looked round the room and observed the various comforts which it contained, heaved a deep sigh. "Ah! I feel now how sadly I have thrown my life away," he exclaimed. "I might, but for my early folly, have enjoyed all the comforts of civilisation, and played my part as a civilised man, instead of living the life of a savage among savages." "Friend," observed the minister, "this is not the only life. There is another and a better--to last for ever. "Then you have no desire to return to your former friends, the Sioux?" the minister continued, after a pause. "Ah! yes; but not for the pleasure such a life as they lead could give me. There is the friend of my youth, and there are his children, and my children. My great desire is to return to them to tell them that they have souls, and what the Lord, in His loving kindness, has done for their souls." The object of the old hunter was no sooner known in the settlement than he obtained all the assistance he could require. Few persons who had for so long led a savage life could have appreciated more fully than he now seemed to do the advantages of civilisation, and yet none of them could turn him from his purpose. Within five days he and his young Sioux companion, Joseph, were ready to set out. They had a led-horse to carry their provisions and presents, and they had arms, though rather to enable them to kill game for their support than for the purpose of fighting. "I pray that our hands may be lifted up against no man's life, even though we may be attacked by those who are what we ourselves were but a short time back, and should still be, but for God's grace," said the old man, as he slung his rifle to his saddle-bow. Once more Robert Nixon turned his back on the abodes of civilised men. Had it not been for the object in view it would have been with a heavy heart. "If Tom and I had remained at school, and laboured on steadily, we might have been like one of those ministers of the Gospel, or settlers, and our children the same, instead of the young savages they now are, ignorant of God and His holy laws." Thus he mused as he rode along. He and his young companion did not neglect the usual precautions, when they camped at night, to avoid discovery by any wandering natives who might be disposed to molest them. The young Indian, though possessing much less religious knowledge than Peter, yet showed a sincere anxiety to fulfil his religious duties, and, without fail, a hymn was sung and prayer was offered up before starting on their day's journey, and when they lay down on their beds of spruce, fir-twigs, or leaves, or dry grass, at night. The travellers rode on day after day without encountering any material impediments to their progress. There were no rugged mountains to ascend, no dense forests to penetrate, or wild defiles amid which they had to find their way. There were rivers and streams; but some were easily forded, across others they swam their horses, and passed their provisions and goods on small rafts, which they towed behind them. Leaving British territory, and moving west, the country had a barren and arid appearance. In many districts sand predominated, with sand-hills of more or less elevation; in others grass, growing in tufts out of the parched-up, stony ground, was the only herbage. Indeed, from north to south and east to west, for many hundred miles, there exists an extent of country, known as the Dakotah territory, unfitted, from the absence of water, to become the permanent abode of civilised man. Here, however, at certain seasons, herds of buffalo find pasturage on their way to and from the more fertile regions of the north; and thus, with the aid of fish, and other wild animals, and roots and berries, considerable tribes of the Dakotah nation find a precarious existence. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note. This cathedral belongs to the Roman Catholics, who have also a large convent near at hand. They maintain a considerable number of Missionary Stations in different parts of the country. CHAPTER FIVE. It was in the western portion of the Dakotah territory, described in the last chapter, that a numerous band of the lords of the soil had pitched their skin tents by the side of a stream, whose grassy banks, fringed with trees, contrasted strongly with the dry and hilly ground before mentioned, which, as far as the eye could reach, extended on either side of them. Yet the scene was animated in the extreme. In the centre of a wide basin, into which a valley opened from the distant prairie, was erected a high, circular enclosure of stakes, and boughs, and skins. There was but one entrance towards the valley, and on either side of this entrance commenced a row of young trees, or branches of trees, the distance between each line becoming greater and greater the further off they were from the enclosure. The figure formed by the lines was exactly that of a straight road drawn in perspective on paper: being very wide at one end, and narrowing gradually till it became only the width of the entrance to the enclosure at the other. Between each of the trees or bushes was stationed an Indian armed with bow or spear, and having a cloak, or a thick mass of branches in his hand. Outside the enclosure were numerous persons, chiefly women and old men and boys, the latter armed with bows and arrows, and the former having cloaks or boughs. They were flitting to and fro, apparently waiting some event of interest. As the travellers reached the top of a hill overlooking the enclosure, a cloud of dust was seen approaching the further end. "There they come, there they come!" exclaimed the old hunter, with difficulty refraining from dashing down the hill, as, at the instant, a herd of some three or four hundred buffaloes burst, at headlong speed, from out of the dust--tossing their heads and tails, tearing up the earth with their horns, trampling, in their terror, over each other--followed closely by a band of red-skinned huntsmen, with bow or spear in hand, most of them free of clothing, and uttering the wildest cries and shouts, now galloping here, now there, as some fierce bull turned and stood at bay, sending an arrow into the front of one, dashing a spear into the side of another, while they hung on the flanks of the herd, keeping the animals, as nearly as possible, in the centre of the road. Whenever any of the herd approached the line of bushes on either side, the Indians stationed there shook the cloaks or the boughs they held in their hands, and shouted and shrieked, thus effectually turning the bewildered animals into the main stream. Sometimes the whole herd attempted to break through, but were turned with equal facility. If they attempted to stop, the hunters behind, closing in on them, urged them on until, still more and more compressed, those in the interior of the herd being utterly unable to see where they were going, they were forced, by redoubled shouts and shrieks in their rear, through the narrow gateway into the enclosure. Through it they dashed, a dark stream of wild, fierce heads and manes surging up and down, till the whole were driven in, and the hunters themselves, leaping the bar across the entrance, followed close in their rear. Now, round and round the confined pound, the affrighted creatures rushed, not discovering a single opening which might afford them a chance of escape, bellowing and roaring, the strong trampling on the young and weak, the calves soon falling and being crushed to death; showers of arrows from the hunters' bows bringing many low, while others, wounded by the darts and spears of the people outside, or gored by their fellows, sunk down exhausted from loss of blood. It was truly a spectacle of wanton and barbarous slaughter, which none but those accustomed to it could have watched unmoved. Even Robert Nixon, though he had often joined in similar scenes, regarded it with feelings very different to what he would formerly have done. "Alas! alas! is it thus God's creatures are destroyed to no purpose by these poor savages?" he exclaimed to his companion. "Not one-twentieth part of the meat can be consumed by them; and the lay will come when they will seek for food and there will be none for them, and they themselves must vanish away out of the land." The two travellers had been moving along the height above the valley, but so entirely engaged were the Indians in the work of entrapping the buffalo, that they were observed by no one. They now descended towards the tents. In front of one of them sat a somewhat portly man, his countenance, and the hue of his complexion, rather than his costume, showing that he was of the white race. The tents were pitched on a spot sufficiently elevated above the valley to enable him to watch all that was taking place within the pound. His attention also was so completely absorbed by the proceedings of his companions, that he did not perceive, for some time, the approach of the horsemen. When he did, starting to his feet, and upsetting the three-legged stool on which he was sitting, he exclaimed, "What, old chum! is it you--you, indeed? I made sure that what they told me was true, and that you were long, long ago food for the wolves. Let me look at you. I cannot yet believe my senses." Rob Nixon having dismounted, the two old men stood for some moments grasping each other's hands. It was some time before old Tom could persuade himself that his friend was really alive; not, indeed, till the latter had given a brief account of the way he had been found and rescued by the Indian, Peter, and the chief events which had occurred to him. "Well, well! I'm right glad to get you back; and now you must give up hunting, as I have done, and just take your ease for the rest of your days," said old Tom. "Hunting I have done with; but I have yet much work to do before I die," answered the old hunter. "You and I are great sinners; we were brought up in a Christian land, and still we have been living the lives of heathens. But, Tom, since I have been away I have read the Bible; I have there learned about Christ; and I see that we have been living lives as different from His as black is from white, as light is from darkness. Tom, would you like to learn about Him?" Tom signified his readiness with a nod. It was all Robert Nixon required, and he at once opened on the subject of God's love, and man's sin, and Christ the Saviour from sin. The young Indian stood by holding the horses, and watching the countenances of the speakers. It must have been a great trial for him to remain thus inactive while his countrymen were engaged in their exciting occupation; but a new rule of life had become his, and duty had taken the place of inclination. "There, Tom; I've just said a little about the chiefest thing I've got to say to you," were the words with which Rob wound up his address. Tom looked puzzled, but not displeased, as some men might have been. His friend was prevented from saying more by the loud shouts of the Indians as the last bull of a herd of nearly three hundred animals sunk, overcome by loss of blood from numberless arrows and darts, to the saturated ground. There lay the shaggy monsters in every conceivable attitude into which a violent death could throw them, some on their backs as they had rolled over, others with the young calves, which they had run against in their mad career round the pound, impaled on their horns; many had fallen over each other, and, dying from their wounds, had formed large heaps in every direction. It was truly a sickening spectacle. [Note.] The old hunter after a pause pointed towards it;--"There Tom, that's just a picture of what has been going on in the world time without mind," he remarked; "the Indians are doing what the spirits of evil do, and the poor buffaloes are like the people in the world, all driven madly together, destroying one another till none remain alive; but Christ delivers men from the spirits of evil, and leads them into safety and rest." Hitherto the new comers had escaped observation, but now numerous Indians crowded round, some to welcome the old white hunter, others to inquire the cause which brought the young man with him. The first to approach the old man was a young girl; her complexion was fairer than that of several other girls who accompanied her, and her dress was more ornamented with beads and feathers than theirs. She stopped timidly at a short distance--Indian etiquette would not allow her to approach nearer. She was very beautiful, but her beauty was that of the wild gazelle, it had not yet been destroyed by the hard toil and often cruel usage to which the older women of her people were exposed. "Come daughter, come," said the old man in the Dakotah tongue, holding out his arms, "I have good tidings for thee." The young girl bounded forward, and Rob Nixon, taking her in his arms, imprinted a kiss on her brow. "Father, father, that you have come back when we thought you lost, is good news enough; you cannot bring me better," looking up into the old man's face, not without some surprise, however, at the affectionate manner in which she was treated, contrasted with the stern way in which the Indians treat the females of their people. "I will tell thee of the good news anon. You might not value it as it deserves," said Robert Nixon. "Thy brother, where is he?" "He left the camp with a score more of our young braves nearly ten moons ago, to make war on the Crees of the plain, and he has not yet returned. Scouts have been sent out, but no tidings have been received of the party." The father did not conceal his disappointment. "I have a rich gift to offer him," he thought; "would that he had been here to have accepted it. Alas! alas! how great is my sin, who was born a Christian, to have allowed my children to grow up ignorant heathens." It is sad to think that many white men in many parts of the vast territory known as Rupert's land, may have cause to feel as did Robert Nixon. Two of old Tom's sons were also away on the same hazardous expedition, but though anxious about them, for he was a kind-hearted man, he could not enter into Rob Nixon's feelings in the matter. Now as the evening came on the people crowded into the encampment, all eager to hear how their white friend and one of their chief, as well as the oldest, of their leaders had escaped death. He used no bitter expressions, but he could not help asking, ironically, how it was that--among so many who professed regard for him--no one had thought of turning back to look for him when he was missed? Numerous were the excuses offered, and all were glad when he dropped the subject, and held up a book out of which he proposed to read to them in their own language. Not knowing the nature of a book, they naturally supposed it to be some powerful charm, and declared that he had become a great medicine man. "If it is a charm, and I do not say that it is not, it is one that, if you will listen, may do you good, and will make you wiser than you have ever before been," he answered. "Do you, or do you not wish to hear me?" There were no dissentient voices, and he then read to them how God, the Great Spirit, so loved the world, that He sent His Son into the world that all who believe in Him should not perish but have eternal life,--"men, women, and children, old and young alike," he added. "I will tell you more about the matter by-and-by, friends. Talk over now what I have said. This book, though small, contains a great deal; many a day must pass before you know its contents. Those who wish to know more may come to my lodge when they will, and I will read to them." Bob Nixon made a very efficient missionary in his humble, unpretending way. He did not attack Manitou or any of the superstitions, but he placed the better way before them, that they might have the opportunity of comparing it with their own foolish customs and notions. With his own daughter and his old friend, whom he knew he could trust, he proceeded in a different method; his friend he reminded of what he had been taught in his youth, how he had spent his life, and again and again inquired what hope he had for the future. To his daughter he pointed out the folly of the religious belief and the customs of the red people, and showed her the advantages of those of true Christians. To an artless, unsophisticated mind, where sin has not ruled triumphantly, the Gospel will always prove attractive, if offered--as its Divine Originator intended it should be offered--as a blessing--as a charter of freedom, not a code of legal restrictions. The young girl received it joyfully, and day by day increased in knowledge and grace. He was, however, often in despair with regard to old Tom. His friend listened to what he read and said, but the truth did not appear to find an entrance into his mind; still he listened and tried to pray, and as he tried he found praying less difficult; and when he listened he comprehended better and better what he heard. Tom's sons and daughters still remaining with him began also to listen, and came oftener and oftener to the old hunter's lodge, as their interest increased, till they declared that they were ready to go wherever they could constantly hear the Word of God, and be more fully instructed in its truths. A large part of Robert Nixon's object was accomplished, but not the whole. A great grief lay at his heart--the loss and probable death of his son. The winter had now set in, snow covered the whole face of nature in every direction for many hundreds of miles. Travelling, though not impracticable, had become more difficult and dangerous; it could, however, be accomplished by means of dog-sleighs or carioles, though all the wealth possessed by Nixon and his friend could scarcely furnish dogs sufficient to transport all the party and provisions to the banks of the Assiniboine. No news had been received of the missing band. Old Tom shared his friend's grief, and now he began to dread their loss for the most important reason. Nixon's time was also engaged among the tribe generally; even the chief listened to him attentively, and offered no opposition to his proceedings. For himself he said that he was too old to change, but that his people might follow the new way, if they found it better than the old. Joseph, the young Sioux, was a great assistance to him. Nixon offered to allow him to go back to his own people, but he declined, saying that he was not strong enough to resist temptations, and might be inclined to go back to their evil ways, if he found himself among them; an example which more civilised youths might wisely follow-- not to run into temptation. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note. The chief object of the Indians in thus slaughtering so large a number of buffalo is to lay in a store of their flesh, which they preserve and call pemmican. It is first cut off free of fat and hung up in thin strips to dry in the sun. It is then pounded between stones and put into leathern bags, with the boiled fat of the animal poured in and mixed with it. The white fur traders also purchase this pemmican, as well as the skins known as robes, and also the sinews. Very many more animals are killed than can be used by the thoughtless savages, and thus thousands are left to rot uselessly on the prairie. As the buffaloes decrease in number, so do the red men disappear from the face of the earth. The settlement of civilised men in the territory appears to be the only mode of saving the natives by affording them the means of subsistence. CHAPTER SIX. It was during the short spring of the North American continent, which so suddenly breaks into perfect summer, that a camp might have been seen pitched on the side of the bank of a broad and rapid river. The spot selected for the camp formed a bay of the river, or it might be called a nook in the bank. It appeared to have been chosen for the purpose of concealment: for only from one point on the opposite bank could it be seen, while above it was completely sheltered by the thick growth of trees which fringed each side of the river. From the conical shape of the skin-covered tents, the accoutrements of the steeds tethered near, the dog-sleds, for carrying goods and provisions, and the people standing or sitting about, it would have been known at once to be a Sioux encampment. On a nearer inspection, however, several points of difference would have been discovered. In front of one of the tents sat two old men whose complexion showed that they were not Indians, while the dress of one of them was that of a civilised man. Several young women and girls were busily preparing the evening meal, some young men were bringing them a supply of fire-wood and water, while others were engaged in fishing in the river. Several, both of the young men and girls, had complexions much lighter than those of Indians, though others, from their dark colour, were evidently of the native race. They seemed to be fearless of interruption; indeed, they probably relied on due notice of danger being given them by their scouts or sentries, who were watching from some of the more elevated spots in the neighbourhood. One of the old men had been reading to the other from the Bible. He closed the sacred volume--"Let us thank God, old friend, that within a week we may hope once more to be among our Christian countrymen, and be able to join with them in His worship and praise, and to thank Him for His loving mercy to us," said Robert Nixon. "For my part I have only one desire: to recover my boys and yours, and to see them be longing to Christ's flock." "Ah, Bill!" Tom always called his friend by that name, "I, too, should like to see the day; but it's far off, I fear. But I hope they'll go to Heaven somehow." This conversation was interrupted by a loud cry of alarm from the young women of the party; and, looking up, they saw a dozen redskin warriors, who had just issued from among the trees on the summit of the bank above them. Several had rifles, others were armed only with bows. They were in the act of taking aim with their weapons when Nixon saw them. Forgetting the native language in his agitation, he shouted out to them, in English, to desist. They hesitated. Some of the girls took the opportunity of rushing off to seek for shelter behind the trees. Tom went into the tent for his gun. Nixon advanced towards the Indians, whom he perceived to be Crees, the mortal enemies of the Dakotahs. His daughter, believing him to be in danger, instead of running for shelter, like her companions, flew after him. Old Tom re-appeared at the moment with his rifle. The Crees, believing that resistance was about to be offered, fired. Their powder or weapons were bad: some did not go off, the bullets, generally, flew wide, but one, alas! took effect. It was in the bosom of Rob Nixon's daughter. Her cry made him turn round, and, forgetting all else, he caught her in his arms as she was sinking to the ground. Before the savages had time to re-load, and as they were about to rush down the hill, scalping-knife in hand, to complete their cruel work, they were set upon by an equal number of Sioux, who sprang so suddenly on them from behind that not one of them had time to use his weapon in self-defence. A desperate struggle ensued, each man trying to pin his antagonist to the ground. Two Crees, desperately wounded, lay fainting from loss of blood. Tom, climbing up the hill, still further turned the balance in favour of the Sioux. The Sioux were, Tom perceived, of his own party. They had been warned by one of their scouts that an enemy was at hand, and without disturbing the rest of the camp had gone out to intercept them. They had, however, missed them, but again discovering their trail, had followed close in their rear, though not fast enough to prevent the unhappy catastrophe which had occurred. The struggle was fierce and desperate. Neither party expected any mercy from the victors. Three of the Crees were killed, and this releasing three of the Sioux party, aided by old Tom, the latter were able to assist their companions. Their aim was, however, not to kill. The Crees were quickly disarmed, and being bound, stood expecting the usual fate of the vanquished. At a signal from Nixon they were led down the bank to where he knelt by the side of his daughter, in vain attempting to staunch the life-blood streaming from her wound. "Father!" she whispered; "I am leaving you. I feel death coming, but I am happy, for I know One powerful to save is ready to receive me. I would have lived to have comforted you, but I believe my prayers are heard, and that my brother will yet be restored to you." She was silent for some time; then her eyes, opening, fell on the prisoners as they stood bound on the top of the bank, and she continued: "I have but one petition to make. It is that those ignorant men may not be punished. They followed but the ways of their people, and thought not of the wicked act they were doing. I would speak to them." In a faint voice the dying girl addressed the prisoners, and urged them to listen to the words her father would speak to them, adding: "Truly do I forgive you, and may you find forgiveness from the Great Good Spirit whom you know not." It would be difficult to describe the astonishment of the Crees when they found that not only were they not to undergo torment before being killed, but that they were actually freely pardoned. After consulting for some time, one of them, who appeared to be the leader, stepped forward and said:--"We have heard that there are praying men among the pale-faces, but that their praying made their people different to us we did not know, for most of the things we do they do; they fight with each other and with us, they drive us from our lands, they cheat us when trading, they shoot us without pity whenever they catch us, and they bring disease and death among us, so that, though once we were numerous as the stones which strew the prairie lands of the Dakotahs, now we can count our people while the sun rests at its mid-day height in the sky. Such was our notion of the pale-faces, but you have given us a different notion. Though we have done you a great injury, though our weapons have cruelly cut down one who is surely the most lovely of the flowers of the prairie, instead of slaying us, you forgive us; she too, even, not only forgives us, but prays to the Great Spirit for us. Our minds are astonished; our hearts are softened, melted within us. We would be your friends, and we wish to prove it. We know the pale-faces who dwell towards the rising of the sun, and we will accompany you on your way to them, and guard you from further attacks. You doubt us. You fear treachery. You are wise. We will prove that we are honest. Some moons past, ere the snows of winter had covered the ground, our tribe was assailed by a party of Dakotah braves. We had notice of their coming, and had an ambush prepared for them. Among them we discerned three whom we knew by their colour to be the children of the pale-faces. We judged that they had been carried off when young, and we hoped to obtain a reward by restoring them to their parents or countrymen, our friends. The Dakotahs we slew, but, though they fought desperately and were much wounded, we succeeded in saving the three young men alive. We could not then travel with them, so we kept them in our lodges while the snow remained. We were on our way to the east with them when, in our folly, we resolved to attack your camp. Our prisoners we left with a small number of our band who are but a short way from this." "Oh! bring them--haste!--haste!" exclaimed the wounded girl, alone divining who they were of whom the Cree spoke; "I would see my brother ere I die. I have much--much to say to him." Anxious to gratify his daughter, and satisfied that the Cree chief spoke the truth, and would not prove treacherous, Robert Nixon allowed two of his followers, known as fleet of foot, to hasten to his camp to bring in the young men spoken of, having no doubt that his own son, and his friend's two sons, were the prisoners spoken of. Meantime, it appeared doubtful whether the dying girl would survive till their arrival. While the rest of the party stood round grieving, she reclined in her father's arms, occasionally whispering a few words of comfort in his ear, and assuring him of her happiness. At length she lifted up her head in the attitude of listening. Her quick ear had caught the sound of approaching footsteps, even before the rest of the party. It was some time before any one appeared. "I knew it--I knew it--my brother!" she cried out, as several young men, running at full speed, burst from among the trees at the top of the bank. One of them, who was leading, taking a hurried glance around, rushed down, and, with an expression in which surprise and grief were mingled, threw himself by her side. She took his hand, and strange to his ear were the communications she made. Another of the youths approached her. She gave him her other hand, and turned her countenance towards him as she did so. "I was the cause of your going on that expedition. I was ignorant, dark-minded, wicked. I knew well that you loved me. I know it now; but, oh! listen to my father. He will tell you of One who loves you far more than I could do, whose love will make ample amends for the loss of mine; and then we may meet in the realms of happiness, to dwell for ever and ever together." To the young heathen this language was an enigma. Ere it was solved, the speaker had ceased to breathe. "The Lord's will be done!" said the old hunter: and those who knew how he loved his child understood what a mighty change religion had wrought in his heart. They buried her in that secluded spot, beneath the green turf, on which she had lately trod so full of life and beauty; and those who had loved her, and their late foes, assisted to raise a monument, of materials furnished by the river bed and the surrounding trees, above her tomb. Rob Nixon and all the party reached the settlements in safety. He mourned as a father for his daughter, but his mourning was full of hope. Her dying words were not thrown away on her brother, or on his companions. Before long, they were all baptised, and admitted to the privileges and blessings of Christ's church. When the father knelt at the Lord's table, for the first time after his daughter's death, and thought of the dead for whom thanks had been given, because they had died in Christ's faith and fear, he felt that his beloved daughter had not died in vain. He declared that he had not been preserved from so many and great dangers of body and spirit, to lead a life of idleness, and while life remained, he never wearied in striving to bring others to a knowledge of Him, whom he had found to be so precious to his own soul. THE END. 
21244	----	By Canoe and Dog-Train By Egerton Ryerson Young ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ BY CANOE AND DOG-TRAIN BY EGERTON RYERSON YOUNG CHAPTER ONE. THE SUMMONS TO THE INDIAN WORK--THE DECISION--THE VALEDICTORY SERVICES-- DR. PUNSHON--THE DEPARTURE--LEAVING HAMILTON--ST. CATHERINE'S--MILWAUKEE CUSTOM-HOUSE DELAYS--MISSISSIPPI--ST. PAUL'S--ON THE PRAIRIES--FRONTIER SETTLERS--NARROW ESCAPE FROM SHOOTING ONE OF OUR SCHOOL TEACHERS--SIOUX INDIANS AND THEIR WARS--SAVED BY OUR FLAG--VARIED EXPERIENCES. Several letters were handed into my study, where I sat at work among my books. I was then pastor of a Church in the city of Hamilton. Showers of blessing had been descending upon us, and over a hundred and forty new members had but recently been received into the Church. I had availed myself of the Christmas holidays by getting married, and now was back again with my beloved, when these letters were handed in. With only one of them have we at present anything to do. As near as I can remember, it read as follows:-- "Mission Rooms, Toronto, 1868. "Reverend Egerton R. Young. "Dear Brother,--At a large and influential meeting of the Missionary Committee, held yesterday, it was unanimously decided to ask you to go as a missionary to the Indian tribes at Norway House, and in the North-West Territories north of Lake Winnipeg. An early answer signifying your acceptance of this will much oblige, "Yours affectionately, "E. Wood, "L. Taylor." I read the letter, and then handed it, without comment, across the table to Mrs Young--the bride of but a few days--for her perusal. She read it over carefully, and then, after a quiet moment, as was quite natural, asked, "What does this mean?" "I can hardly tell," I replied; "but it is evident that it means a good deal." "Have you volunteered to go as a missionary to that far-off land?" she asked. "Why, no. Much as I love, and deeply interested as I have ever been in the missionary work of our Church, I have not made the first move in this direction. Years ago I used to think I would love to go to a foreign field, but lately, as the Lord has been so blessing us here in the home work, and has given us such a glorious revival, I should have thought it like running away from duty to have volunteered for any other field." "Well, here is this letter; what are you going to do about it?" "That is just what I would like to know," was my answer. "There is one thing we can do," she said quietly; and we bowed ourselves in prayer, and "spread the letter before the Lord," and asked for wisdom to guide us aright in this important matter which had so suddenly come upon us, and which, if carried out, would completely change all the plans and purposes which we, the young married couple, in all the joyousness of our honeymoon, had just been marking out. We earnestly prayed for Divine light and guidance to be so clearly revealed that we could not be mistaken as to our duty. As we arose from our knees, I quietly said to Mrs Young, "Have you any impression on your mind as to our duty in this matter?" Her eyes were suffused in tears, but the voice, though low, was firm, as she replied, "The call has come very unexpectedly, but I think it is from God, and we will go." My Church and its kind officials strongly opposed my leaving them, especially at such a time as this, when, they said, so many new converts, through my instrumentality, had been brought into the Church. I consulted my beloved ministerial brethren in the city, and with but one exception the reply was, "Remain at your present station, where God has so abundantly blessed your labours." The answer of the one brother who did not join in with the others has never been forgotten. As it may do good, I will put it on record. When I showed him the letter, and asked what I should do in reference to it, he, much to my surprise, became deeply agitated, and wept like a child. When he could control his emotions, he said, "For my answer let me give you a little of my history. "Years ago, I was very happily situated in the ministry in the Old Land. I loved my work, my home, and my wife passionately. I had the confidence and esteem of my people, and thought I was as happy as I could be this side [of] heaven. One day there came a letter from the Wesleyan Mission Rooms in London, asking if I would go out as a missionary to the West Indies. Without consideration, and without making it a matter of prayer, I at once sent back a positive refusal. "From that day," he continued, "everything went wrong with me. Heaven's smile seemed to have left me. I lost my grip upon my people. My influence for good over them left me, I could not tell how. My once happy home was blasted, and in all my trouble I got no sympathy from my Church or in the community. I had to resign my position, and leave the place. I fell into darkness, and lost my hold upon God. A few years ago I came out to this country. God has restored me to the light of His countenance. The Church has been very sympathetic and indulgent. For years I have been permitted to labour in her fold, and for this I rejoice. But," he added, with emphasis, "I long ago came to the resolve that if ever the Church asked me to go to the West Indies, or to any other Mission field, I would be careful about sending back an abrupt refusal." I pondered over his words and his experience, and talked about them with my good wife, and we decided to go. Our loving friends were startled at our resolve, but soon gave us their benedictions, united to tangible evidences of their regard. A blessed peace filled our souls, and we longed to be away and at work in the new field which had so suddenly opened before us. "Yes, we will go. We may no longer doubt To give up friends, and home, and every tie, That binds our heart to thee, our country. Henceforth, then, It matters not if storms or sunshine be Our earthly lot, bitter or sweet our cup. We only pray, God fit us for the work, God make us holy, and our spirits nerve For the stern hour of strife. Let us but know There is an Arm unseen that holds us up, An Eye that kindly watches all our path, Till we our weary pilgrimage have done. Let us but know we have a Friend that waits To welcome us to glory, and we joy To tread that drear and northern wilderness." The grand valedictory services were held in the old Richmond Street Church, Toronto, Thursday, May 7th, 1868. The church was crowded, and the enthusiasm was very great. The honoured President of the Conference for that year, the Reverend James Elliott, who presided, was the one who had ordained me a few months before. Many were the speakers. Among them was the Reverend George McDougall, who already had had a varied experience of missionary life. He had something to talk about, to which it was worth listening. The Reverend George Young, also, had much that was interesting to say, as he was there bidding farewell to his own Church and to the people, of whom he had long been the beloved pastor. Dr Punshon, who had just arrived from England, was present, and gave one of his inimitable magnetic addresses. The memory of his loving, cheering words abode with us for many a day. It was also a great joy to us that my honoured father, the Reverend William Young, was with us on the platform at this impressive farewell service. For many years he had been one of that heroic band of pioneer ministers in Canada who had laid so grandly and well the foundations of the Church which, with others, had contributed so much to the spiritual development of the country. His benedictions and blessings were among the prized favours in these eventful hours in our new career. My father had been intimately acquainted with William Case and James Evans, and at times had been partially associated with them in Indian evangelisation. He had faith in the power of the Gospel to save even Indians, and now rejoiced that he had a son and daughter who had consecrated themselves to this work. As a long journey of many hundreds of miles would have to be made by us after getting beyond cars or steamboats in the Western States, it was decided that we should take our own horses and canvas-covered waggons from Ontario with us. We arranged to make Hamilton our starting-point; and on Monday, the 11th of May, 1868, our little company filed out of that city towards St. Catherine's, where we were to take passage in a "propeller" for Milwaukee. Thus our adventurous journey was begun. The following was our party. First, the Reverend George McDougall, who for years had been successfully doing the work of a faithful missionary among the Indians in the distant Saskatchewan country, a thousand miles north-west of the Red River country. He had come down to Canada for reinforcements for the work, and had not failed in his efforts to secure them. As he was an old, experienced Western traveller, he was the guide of the party. Next was the Reverend George Young, with his wife and son. Dr Young had consented to go and begin the work in the Red River Settlement, a place where Methodism had never before had a footing. Grandly and well did he succeed in his efforts. Next came the genial Reverend Peter Campbell, who, with his brave wife and two little girls, relinquished a pleasant Circuit to go to the distant Mission field among the Indians of the North-West prairies. We had also with us two Messrs. Snyders, brothers of Mrs Campbell, who had consecrated themselves to the work as teachers among the distant Indian tribes. Several other young men were in our party, and in Dacota we were joined by "Joe" and "Job," a couple of young Indians. These, with the writer and his wife, constituted our party of fifteen or twenty. At St. Catherine's on the Welland Canal we shipped our outfit, and took passage on board the steamer _Empire_ for Milwaukee. The vessel was very much crowded, and there was a good deal of discomfort. In passing through Lake Michigan we encountered rough weather, and, as a natural result, sea-sickness assailed the great majority of our party. We reached Milwaukee on Sabbath, the 17th of May. We found it then a lively, wide-awake Americo-German city. There did not seem to be, on the part of the multitudes whom we met, much respect for the Sabbath. Business was in full blast in many of the streets, and there were but few evidences that it was the day of rest. Doubtless there were many who had not defiled their garments and had not profaned the day, but we weary travellers had not then time to find them out. Although we had taken the precaution to bond everything through to the North-West, and had the American Consular certificate to the effect that every regulation had been complied with, we were subjected to many vexatious delays and expenses by the Custom House officials. So delayed were we that we had to telegraph to head-quarters at Washington about the matter and soon there came the orders to the over-officious officials to at once allow us to proceed. Two valuable days, however, had been lost by their obstructiveness. Why cannot Canada and the United States, lying side by side, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, devise some mutually advantageous scheme of reciprocity, by which the vexatious delays and annoyances and expense of these Custom Houses can be done away with? We left Milwaukee for La Crosse on the Mississippi on Tuesday evening at eight o'clock. At La Crosse we embarked on the steamer _Milwaukee_ for St. Paul's. These large flat-bottomed steamers are quite an institution on these western rivers. Drawing but a few inches of water, they glide over sandbars where the water is very shallow, and, swinging in against the shore, land and receive passengers and freight where wharves are unknown, or where, if they existed, they would be liable to be swept away in the great spring freshets. The scenery in many places along the upper Mississippi is very fine. High bold bluffs rise up in wondrous variety and picturesque beauty. In some places they are composed of naked rock. Others are covered to their very summit with the richest green. Here, a few years ago, the war-whoop of the Indians sounded, and the buffalo swarmed around these Buttes, and quenched their thirst in these waters. Now the shrill whistle of the steamer disturbs the solitudes, and echoes and re-echoes with wondrous distinctness among the high bluffs and fertile vales. "Westward the Star of Empire takes its way." We arrived at St. Paul's on Thursday forenoon and found it to be a stirring city, beautifully situated on the eastern side of the Mississippi. We had several hours of good hard work in getting our caravan in order, purchasing supplies, and making all final arrangements for the long journey that was before us. For beyond this the iron horse had not yet penetrated, and the great surging waves of immigration, which soon after rolled over into those fertile territories, had as yet been only little ripples. Our splendid horses, which had been cooped up in the holds of vessels, or cramped up in uncomfortable freight cars, were now to have an opportunity for exercising their limbs, and showing of what mettle they were made. At 4 PM we filed out of the city. The recollection of that first ride on the prairie will live on as long as memory holds her throne. The day was one of those gloriously perfect ones that are but rarely given us, as if to show what earth must have been before the Fall. The sky, the air, the landscape--everything seemed in such harmony and so perfect, that involuntarily I exclaimed, "If God's footstool is so glorious, what will the throne be?" We journeyed a few miles, then encamped for the night. We were all in the best of spirits, and seemed to rejoice that we were getting away from civilisation, and more and more out into the wilderness, although for days we were in the vicinity of frontier villages and settlements, which, however, as we journeyed on, were rapidly diminishing in number. After several days' travelling we encamped on the western side of the Mississippi, near where the thriving town of Clear Water now stands. As some of our carts and travelling equipage had begun to show signs of weakness, it was thought prudent to give everything a thorough overhauling ere we pushed out from this point, as beyond this there was no place where assistance could be obtained. We had in our encampment eight tents, fourteen horses, and from fifteen to twenty persons, counting big and little, whites and Indians. Whenever we camped our horses were turned loose in the luxuriant prairie grass, the only precaution taken being to "hobble" them, as the work of tying their forefeet together is called. It seemed a little cruel at first, and some of our spirited horses resented it, and struggled a good deal against it as an infringement on their liberties. But they soon became used to it, and it served the good purpose we had in view--namely, that of keeping them from straying far away from the camp during the night. At one place, where we were obliged to stop for a few days to repair broken axle-trees, I passed through an adventure that will not soon be forgotten. Some friendly settlers came to our camp, and gave us the unpleasant information, that a number of notorious horse-thieves were prowling around, and it would be advisable for us to keep a sharp look- out on our splendid Canadian horses. As there was an isolated barn about half a mile or so from the camp, that had been put up by a settler who would not require it until harvest, we obtained permission to use it as a place in which to keep our horses during the nights while we were detained in the settlement. Two of our party were detailed each night to act as a guard. One evening, as Dr Young's son George and I, who had been selected for this duty, were about starting from the camp for our post, I overheard our old veteran guide, the Reverend George McDougall, say, in a bantering sort of way, "Pretty guards they are! Why, some of my Indian boys could go and steal every horse from them without the slightest trouble." Stung to the quick by the remark, I replied, "Mr McDougall, I think I have the best horse in the company; but if you or any of your Indians can steal him out of that barn between sundown and sunrise, you may keep him!" We tethered the horses in a line, and fastened securely all the doors but the large front one. We arranged our seats where we were partially concealed, but where we could see our horses, and could command every door with our rifles. In quiet tones we chatted about various things, until about one o'clock, when all became hushed and still. The novelty of the situation impressed me, and, sitting there in the darkness, I could not help contrasting my present position with the one I had occupied a few weeks before. Then the pastor of a city Church, in the midst of a blessed revival, surrounded by all the comforts of civilisation; now out here in Minnesota, in this barn, sitting on a bundle of prairie grass through the long hours of night with a breech- loading rifle in hand, guarding a number of horses from a band of horse- thieves. "Hush! what is that?" A hand is surely on the door feeling for the wooden latch. We mentally say, "You have made too much noise, Mr Thief, for your purpose, and you are discovered." Soon the door opened a little. As it was a beautiful starlight night, the form of a tall man was plainly visible in the opening. Covering him with my rifle, and about to fire, quick as a flash came the thought, "Better be sure that that man is a horse-thief, or is intent on evil, ere you fire; for it is at any time a serious thing to send a soul so suddenly into eternity." So keeping my rifle to my shoulder, I shouted out, "Who's there?" "Why, it's only your friend Matthew," said our tall friend, as he came stumbling along in the darkness; "queer if you don't know me by this time." As the thought came to me of how near I had been to sending him into the other world, a strange feeling of faintness came over me, and, flinging my rifle from me, I sank back trembling like a leaf. Meanwhile the good-natured fellow, little knowing the risk he had run, and not seeing the effect his thoughtless action had produced on me, talked on, saying that as it was so hot and close over at the tents that he could not sleep there, he thought he would come over and stop with us in the barn. There was considerable excitement, and some strong words were uttered at the camp next morning at his breach of orders and narrow escape, since instructions had been given to all that none should, under any consideration, go near the barn while it was being guarded. At another place in Minnesota we came across a party who were restoring their homes, and "building up their waste places" desolated by the terrible Sioux wars of but a short time before. As they had nearly all of them suffered by that fearful struggle, they were very bitter in their feelings towards the Indians, completely ignoring the fact that the whites were to blame for that last sanguinary outbreak, in which nine hundred lives were lost, and a section of country larger than some of the New England States was laid desolate. It is now an undisputed fact that the greed and dishonesty of the Indian agents of the United States caused that terrible war of 1863. The principal agent received 600,000 dollars in gold from the Government, which belonged to the Indians, and was to be paid to Little Crow and the other chiefs and members of the tribe. The agent took advantage of the premium on gold, which in those days was very high, and exchanged the gold for greenbacks, and with these paid the Indians, putting the enormous difference in his own pocket. When the payments began, Little Crow, who knew what he had a right to according to the Treaty, said, "Gold dollars worth more than paper dollars. You pay us gold." The agent refused, and the war followed. This is only one instance out of scores, in which the greed and selfishness of a few have plunged the country into war, causing the loss of hundreds of lives and millions of treasure. In addition to this, these same unprincipled agents, with their hired accomplices and subsidised press, in order to hide the enormity of their crimes, and to divert attention from themselves and their crookedness, systematically and incessantly misrepresent and vilify the Indian character. "Stay and be our minister," said some of these settlers to me in one place. "We'll secure for you a good location, and will help you get in some crops, and will do the best we can to make you comfortable." When they saw we were all proof against their appeals, they changed their tactics, and one exclaimed, "You'll never get through the Indian country north with those fine horses and all that fine truck you have." "O yes, we will," said Mr McDougall; "we have a little flag that will carry us in safety through any Indian tribe in America." They doubted the assertion very much, but we found it to be literally true, at all events as regarded the Sioux; for when, a few days later, we met them, our Union Jack fluttering from the whip-stalk caused them to fling their guns in the grass, and come crowding round us with extended hands, saying, through those who understood their language, that they were glad to see and shake hands with the subjects of the "Great Mother" across the waters. When we, in our journey north, reached their country, and saw them coming down upon us, at Mr McDougall's orders we stowed away our rifles and revolvers inside of our waggons, and met them as friends, unarmed and fearless. They smoked the pipe of peace with those of our party who could use the weed, and others drank tea with the rest of us. As we were in profound ignorance of their language, and they of ours, some of us had not much conversation with them beyond what could be carried on by a few signs. But, through Mr McDougall and our own Indians, they assured us of their friendship. We pitched our tents, hobbled our horses and turned them loose, as usual. We cooked our evening meals, said our prayers, unrolled our camp-beds, and lay down to rest without earthly sentinels or guards around us, although the camp-fires of these so-called "treacherous and bloodthirsty" Sioux could be seen in the distance, and we knew their sharp eyes were upon us. Yet we lay down and slept in peace, and arose in safety. Nothing was disturbed or stolen. So much for a clean record of honourable dealing with a people who, while quick to resent when provoked, are mindful of kindnesses received, and are as faithful to their promises and treaty obligations, as are any other of the races of the world. We were thirty days in making the trip from St. Paul's to the Red River settlement. We had to ford a large number of bridgeless streams. Some of them took us three or four days to get our whole party across. We not unfrequently had some of our waggons stuck in the quicksands, or so sunk in the quagmires that the combined strength of all the men of our party was required to get them out. Often the ladies of our company, with shoes and stockings off, would be seen bravely wading across wide streams, where now in luxurious comfort, in parlour cars, travellers are whirled along at the rate of forty miles an hour. They were a cheerful, brave band of pioneers. The weather, on the whole, was pleasant, but we had some drenching rain- storms; and then the spirits of some of the party went down, and they wondered whatever possessed them to leave their happy homes for such exile and wretchedness as this. There was one fearful, tornado-like storm that assailed us when we were encamped for the night on the western bank of Red River. Tents were instantly blown down. Heavy waggons were driven before it, and for a time confusion reigned supreme. Fortunately nobody was hurt, and most of the things blown away were recovered the next day. Our Sabbaths were days of quiet rest and delightful communion with God. Together we worshipped Him Who dwelleth not in temples made with hands. Many were the precious communions we had with Him Who had been our Comforter and our Refuge under other circumstances, and Who, having now called us to this new work and novel life, was sweetly fulfilling in us the blessed promise: "Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world." CHAPTER TWO. STILL ON THE ROUTE--FORT GARRY--BREAKING UP OF OUR PARTY OF MISSIONARIES--LOWER FORT--HOSPITABLE HUDSON'S BAY OFFICIALS-- PECULIARITIES--FOURTEEN DAYS IN A LITTLE OPEN BOAT ON STORMY LAKE WINNIPEG--STRANGE EXPERIENCES--HAPPY CHRISTIAN INDIAN BOATMEN--"IN PERILS BY WATERS." At Fort Garry in the Red River settlement, now the flourishing city of Winnipeg, our party, which had so long travelled together, broke up with mutual regrets. The Reverend George Young and his family remained to commence the first Methodist Mission in that place. Many were his discouragements and difficulties, but glorious have been his successes. More to him than to any other man is due the prominent position which the Methodist Church now occupies in the North-West. His station was one calling for rare tact and ability. The Riel Rebellion, and the disaffection of the Half-breed population, made his position at times one of danger and insecurity; but he proved himself to be equal to every emergency. In addition to the many duties devolving upon him in the establishment of the Church amidst so many discordant elements, a great many extra cares were imposed upon him by the isolated missionaries in the interior, who looked to him for the purchasing and sending out to them, as best he could, of their much-needed supplies. His kindly laborious efforts for their comfort can never be forgotten. The Revs. George McDougall and Peter Campbell, with the teachers and other members of the party, pushed on, with their horses, waggons, and carts, for the still farther North-West, the great North Saskatchewan River, twelve hundred miles farther into the interior. During the first part of their journey over the fertile but then unbroken prairies, the only inhabitants they met were the roving Indians and Half-breeds, whose rude wigwams and uncouth noisy carts have long since disappeared, and have been replaced by the comfortable habitations of energetic settlers, and the swiftly moving trains of the railroads. From Fort Garry Mrs Young and myself performed the rest of our journey by water, going down the Red River to its mouth, and then along the whole length of the stormy Lake Winnipeg, and beyond, to our own far-off northern home. The trip was made in what is called "the Hudson's Bay inland boat." These boats are constructed like large skiffs, only each end is sharp. They have neither deck nor cabin. They are furnished with a mast and a large square sail, both of which are stowed away when the wind is not favourable for sailing. They are manned by six or eight oarsmen, and are supposed to carry about four tons of merchandise. They can stand a rough sea, and weather very severe gales, as we found out during our years of adventurous trips in them. When there is no favourable wind for sailing, the stalwart boatmen push out their heavy oars, and, bending their sturdy backs to the work, and keeping the most perfect time, are often able to make their sixty miles a day. But this toiling at the oar is slavish work, and the favouring gale, even if it develops into a fierce storm, is always preferable to a dead calm. These northern Indians make capital sailors, and in the sudden squalls and fierce gales to which these great lakes are subject, they display much courage and judgment. Our place in the boat was in the hinder part near the steersman, a pure Indian, whose name was Thomas Mamanowatum, familiarly known as "Big Tom," on account of his almost gigantic size. He was one of Nature's noblemen, a grand, true man, and of him we shall have more to say hereafter. Honoured indeed was the missionary who led such a man from Paganism to Christianity. We journeyed on pleasantly for twenty miles down the Red River to Lower Fort Garry, where we found that we should have to wait for several days ere the outfit for the boats would be ready. We were, however, very courteously entertained by the Hudson's Bay officials, who showed us no little kindness. This Lower Fort Garry, or "the Stone Fort," as it is called in the country, is an extensive affair, having a massive stone wall all around it, with the Company's buildings in the centre. It was built in stormy times, when rival trading parties existed, and hostile bands were ever on the war path. It is capable of resisting almost any force that could be brought against it, unaided by artillery. We were a little amused and very much pleased with the old-time and almost courtly etiquette which abounded at this and the other establishments of this flourishing Company. In those days the law of precedents was in full force. When the bell rang, no clerk of fourteen years' standing would think of entering before one who had been fifteen years in the service, or of sitting above him at the table. Such a thing would have brought down upon him the severe reproof of the senior officer in charge. Irksome and even frivolous as some of these laws seemed, doubtless they served a good purpose, and prevented many misunderstandings which might have occurred. Another singular custom, which we did not like, was the fact that there were two dining-rooms in these establishments, one for the ladies, and the other for the gentlemen of the service. It appeared to us very odd to see the gentlemen with the greatest politeness escort the ladies into the hall which ran between the two dining-rooms, and then gravely turn to the left, while the ladies all filed off into the room on the right. As the arrangement was so contrary to all our ideas and education on the subject, we presumed to question it; but the only satisfaction we could get in reference to it was, that it was one of their old customs, and had worked well. One old crusty bachelor official said, "We do not want the women around us when we are discussing our business matters, which we wish to keep to ourselves. If they were present, all our schemes and plans would soon be known to all, and our trade might be much injured." Throughout this vast country, until very lately, the adventurous traveller, whose courage or curiosity was sufficient to enable him to brave the hardships or run the risks of exploring these enormous territories, was entirely dependent upon the goodwill and hospitality of the officials of the Hudson's Bay Company. They were uniformly treated with courtesy and hospitably entertained. Very isolated are some of these inland posts, and quite expatriated are the inmates for years at a time. These lonely establishments are to be found scattered all over the upper half of this great American Continent. They have each a population of from five to sixty human beings. These are, if possible, placed in favourable localities for fish or game, but often from one to five hundred miles apart. The only object of their erection and occupancy is to exchange the products of civilisation for the rich and valuable furs which are to be obtained here as nowhere else in the world. In many instances the inmates hear from the outside world but twice, and at times but once, in twelve months. Then the arrival of the packet is the great event of the year. We spent a very pleasant Sabbath at Lower Fort Garry, and I preached in the largest dining-room to a very attentive congregation, composed of the officials and servants of the Company, with several visitors, and also some Half-breeds and Indians who happened to be at the fort at that time. The next day two boats were ready, and we embarked on our adventurous journey for our far-off, isolated home beyond the northern end of Lake Winnipeg. The trip down Red River was very pleasant. We passed through the flourishing Indian Settlement, where the Church of England has a successful Mission among the Indians. We admired their substantial church and comfortable homes, and saw in them, and in the farms, tangible evidence of the power of Christian Missions to elevate and bless those who come under their ennobling influences. The cosy residence of the Venerable Archdeacon Cowley was pointed out to us, beautifully embowered among the trees. He was a man beloved of all; a life-long friend of the Indians, and one who was as an angel of mercy to us in after years when our Nellie died, while Mrs Young was making an adventurous journey in an open boat on the stormy, treacherous Lake Winnipeg. This sad event occurred when, after five years' residence among the Crees at Norway House, we had instructions from our missionary authorities to go and open up a new Indian Mission among the then pagan Salteaux. I had orders to remain at Norway House until my successor arrived; and as but one opportunity was offered for Mrs Young and the children to travel in those days of limited opportunities, they started on several weeks ahead in an open skiff manned by a few Indians, leaving me to follow in a birch canoe. So terrible was the heat that hot July, in that open boat with no deck or awning, that the beautiful child sickened and died of brain-fever. Mrs Young found herself with her dying child on the banks of Red River, all alone among her sorrowing Indian boatmen, "a stranger in a strange land;" no home to which to go; no friends to sympathise with her. Fortunately for her, the Hudson's Bay officials at Lower Fort Garry were made aware of her sorrows, and received her into one of their homes ere the child died. The Reverend Mr Cowley also came and prayed for her, and sympathised with her on the loss of her beautiful child. As I was far away when Nellie died, Mrs Young knew not what to do with our precious dead. A temporary grave was made, and in it the body was laid until I could be communicated with, and arrangements could be made for its permanent interment. I wrote at once by an Indian to the Venerable Archdeacon Cowley, asking permission to bury our dead in his graveyard; and there came promptly back, by the canoe, a very brotherly, sympathetic letter, ending up with, "Our graveyards are open before you; `in the choicest of our sepulchres bury thy dead.'" A few weeks after, when I had handed over my Mission to Brother Ruttan, I hurried on to the settlement, and with a few sympathising friends, mostly Indians, we took up the little body from its temporary resting-place, and buried it in the St. Peter's Church graveyard, the dear archdeacon himself being present, and reading the beautiful Burial Service of his Church. That land to us has been doubly precious since it has become the repository of our darling child. As we floated down the current, or were propelled along by the oars of our Indian boatmen, on that first journey, little did we imagine that this sad episode in our lives would happen in that very spot a few years after. When we were near the end of the Indian Settlement, as it is called, we saw several Indians on the bank, holding on to a couple of oxen. Our boats were immediately turned in to the shore near them, and, to our great astonishment, we found out that each boat was to have an addition to its passenger list in the shape of one of these big fellows. The getting of these animals shipped was no easy matter, as there was no wharf or gangway; but after a good deal of pulling and pushing, and lifting up of one leg, and then another, the patient brutes were embarked on the frail crafts, to be our companions during the voyage to Norway House. The position assigned to the one in our boat was just in front of us, "broadside on," as the sailors would say; his head often hanging over one side of the boat, and his tail over the other side. The only partition there was between him and us was a single board a few inches wide. Such close proximity to this animal for fourteen days was not very agreeable; but as it could not be helped it had to be endured. At times, during the first few days, the ox made some desperate efforts to break loose; and it seemed as though he would either smash our boat to pieces or upset it; but, finding his efforts unsuccessful, he gracefully accepted the situation, and behaved himself admirably. When storms arose he quietly lay down, and served as so much ballast to steady the boat. "Tom," the guide, kept him well supplied with food from the rich nutritious grasses which grew abundantly along the shore at our different camping-places. Winnipeg is considered one of the stormiest lakes on the American Continent. It is about three hundred miles long, and varies from eighty to but a few miles in width. It is indented with innumerable bays, and is dangerous to navigators, on account of its many shoals and hidden rocks. _Winnipeg_, or _Wenipak_, as some Indians pronounce it, means "the sea," and _Keche Wenipak_ means "the ocean." The trip across Lake Winnipeg was one that at the present day would be considered a great hardship, taking into consideration the style of the boat and the way we travelled. Our method of procedure was about as follows. We were aroused very early in the morning by the guide's cry of _Koos koos kwa_! "Wake up!" Everybody was expected to obey promptly, as there was always a good deal of rivalry between the boats as to which could get away first. A hasty breakfast was prepared on the rocks; after which a morning hymn was sung, and an earnest prayer was offered up to Him Who holds the winds and waves under His control. Then "All aboard" was the cry, and soon tents, kettles, axes, and all the other things were hurriedly gathered up and placed on board. If the wind was favourable, the mast was put up, the sail hoisted, and we were soon rapidly speeding on our way. If the oars had to be used, there was not half the alacrity displayed by the poor fellows, who well knew how wearisome their task would be. When we had a favourable wind, we generally dined as well as we could in the boat, to save time, as the rowers well knew how much more pleasant it was to glide along with the favouring breeze than to be obliged to work at the heavy oars. Often during whole nights we sailed on, although at considerable risks in that treacherous lake, rather than lose the fair wind. For, if there ever was, in this world of uncertainties, one route of more uncertainty than another, the palm must be conceded to the voyages on Lake Winnipeg in those Hudson's Bay Company's inland boats. You might make the trip in four days, or even a few hours less; and you might be thirty days, and a few hours over. Once, in after years, I was detained for six days on a little rocky islet by a fierce northern gale, which at times blew with such force that we could not keep up a tent or even stand upright against its fury; and as there was not sufficient soil in which to drive a tent pin, we, with all our bedding and supplies, were drenched by the pitiless sleet and rain. Often in these later years, when I have heard people, sitting in the comfortable waiting-room of a railway station, bitterly complaining because a train was an hour or two late, memory has carried me back to some of those long detentions amidst the most disagreeable surroundings, and I have wondered at the trifles which can upset the equanimity of some or cause them to show such fretfulness. When the weather was fine, the camping on the shore was very enjoyable. Our tent was quickly erected by willing hands; the camp fire was kindled, and glowed with increasing brightness as the shadows of night fell around us. The evening meal was soon prepared, and an hour or two would sometimes be spent in pleasant converse with our dusky friends, who were most delightful travelling companions. Our days always began and closed with a religious service. All of our Indian companions in the two boats on this first trip were Christians, in the best and truest sense of the word. They were the converts of the earlier missionaries of our Church. At first they were a little reserved, and acted as though they imagined we expected them to be very sedate and dignified. For, like some white folks, they imagined the "black-coat" and his wife did not believe in laughter or pleasantry. However, we soon disabused their minds of those erroneous ideas, and before we reached Norway House we were on the best of terms with each other. We knew but little of their language, but some of them had a good idea of English, and, using these as our interpreters, we got along finely. They were well furnished with Testaments and hymn-books, printed in the beautiful syllabic characters; and they used them well. This worshipping with a people who used to us an unknown tongue was at first rather novel; but it attracted and charmed us at once. We were forcibly struck with the reverential manner in which they conducted their devotions. No levity or indifference marred the solemnity of their religious services. They listened very attentively while one of their number read to them from the sacred Word, and gave the closest attention to what I had to say, through an interpreter. Very sweetly and soothingly sounded the hymns of praise and adoration that welled up from their musical voices; and though we understood them not, yet in their earnest prayers there seemed to be so much that was real and genuine, as in pathetic tones they offered up their petitions, that we felt it to be a great privilege and a source of much blessing, when with them we bowed at the mercy-seat of our great loving Father, to Whom all languages of earth are known, and before Whom all hearts are open. Very helpful at times to devout worship were our surroundings. As in the ancient days, when the vast multitudes gathered around Him on the seaside and were comforted and cheered by His presence, so we felt on these quiet shores of the lake that we were worshipping Him Who is always the same. At times delightful and suggestive were our environments. With Winnipeg's sunlit waves before us, the blue sky above us, the dark, deep, primeval forest as our background, and the massive granite rocks beneath us, we often felt a nearness of access to Him, the Sovereign of the universe, Who "dwelleth not in temples made with hands,"--but "Who covereth Himself with light as with a garment; Who stretcheth out the heavens like a curtain; Who layeth the beams of His chambers in the waters; Who maketh the clouds his chariot; Who walketh upon the wings of the wind; Who laid the foundations of the earth, that it should not be removed for ever." Our Sabbaths were days of rest. The Christian Indians had been taught by their faithful missionaries the fourth commandment, and they kept it well. Although far from their homes and their beloved sanctuary, they respected the day. When they camped on Saturday night, all the necessary preparations were made for a quiet, restful Sabbath. All the wood that would be needed to cook the day's supplies was secured, and the food that required cooking was prepared. Guns were stowed away, and although sometimes ducks or other game would come near, they were not disturbed. Generally two religious services were held and enjoyed. The Testaments and hymn-books were well used throughout the day, and an atmosphere of "Paradise Regained" seemed to pervade the place. At first, long years ago, the Hudson's Bay Company's officials bitterly opposed the observance of the Sabbath by their boatmen and tripmen; but the missionaries were true and firm, and although persecution for a time abounded, eventually right and truth prevailed, and our Christian Indians were left to keep the day without molestation. And, as has always been found to be the case in such instances, there was no loss, but rather gain. Our Christian Indians, who rested the Sabbath day, were never behindhand. On the long trips into the interior or down to York Factory or Hudson Bay, these Indian canoe brigades used to make better time, have better health, and bring up their boats and cargoes in better shape, than the Catholic Half-breeds or pagan Indians, who pushed on without any day of rest. Years of studying this question, judging from the standpoint of the work accomplished and its effects on men's physical constitution, apart altogether from its moral and religious aspect, most conclusively taught me that the institution of the one day in seven as a day of rest is for man's highest good. Thus we journeyed on, meeting with various adventures by the way. One evening, rather than lose the advantage of a good wind, our party resolved to sail on throughout the night. We had no compass or chart, no moon or fickle Auroras lit up the watery waste. Clouds, dark and heavy, flitted by, obscuring the dim starlight, and adding to the risk and danger of our proceeding. On account of the gloom part of the crew were kept on the watch continually. The bowsman, with a long pole in his hands, sat in the prow of the boat, alert and watchful. For a long time I sat with the steersman in the stern of our little craft, enjoying this weird way of travelling. Out of the darkness behind us into the vague blackness before us we plunged. Sometimes through the darkness came the sullen roar and dash of waves against the rocky isles or dangerous shore near at hand, reminding us of the risks we were running, and what need there was of the greatest care. Our camp bed had been spread on some boards in the hinder part of our little boat; and here Mrs Young, who for a time had enjoyed the exciting voyage, was now fast asleep. I remained up with "Big Tom" until after midnight; and then, having exhausted my stock of Indian words in conversation with him, and becoming weary, I wrapped a blanket around myself and lay down to rest. Hardly had I reached the land of dreams, when I was suddenly awakened by being most unceremoniously thrown, with wife, bedding, bales, boxes, and some drowsy Indians, on one side of the boat. We scrambled up as well as we could, and endeavoured to take in our situation. The darkness was intense, but we could easily make out the fact that our boat was stuck fast. The wind whistled around us, and bore with such power upon our big sail that the wonder was that it did not snap the mast or ropes. The sail was quickly lowered, a lantern was lit, but its flickering light showed no land in view. We had run upon a submerged rock, and there we were held fast. In vain the Indians, using their big oars as poles, endeavoured to push the boat back into deep water. Finding this impossible, some of them sprang out into the water which threatened to engulf them; but, with the precarious footing the submerged rock gave them, they pushed and shouted, when, being aided by a giant wave, the boat at last was pushed over into the deep water beyond. At considerable risk and thoroughly drenched, the brave fellows scrambled on board; the sail was again hoisted, and away we sped through the gloom and darkness. CHAPTER THREE. ARRIVAL AT NORWAY HOUSE--OUR NEW HOME--REVEREND CHARLES STRINGFELLOW-- THUNDERSTORM--REVEREND JAMES EVANS--SYLLABIC CHARACTERS INVENTED-- DIFFICULTIES OVERCOME--HELP FROM ENGLISH WESLEYAN MISSIONARY SOCIETY-- EXTENSIVE USE OF THE SYLLABIC CHARACTERS--OUR PEOPLE, CHRISTIAN AND PAGAN--LEARNING LESSONS BY DEAR EXPERIENCE--THE HUNGRY WOMAN--THE MAN WITH THE TWO DUCKS--THE FIRST SABBATH IN OUR NEW FIELD--SUNDAY SCHOOL AND SABBATH SERVICES--FAMILY ALTARS. We reached Norway House on the afternoon of the 29th of July, 1868, and received a very cordial welcome from James Stewart, Esquire, the gentleman in charge of this Hudson's Bay post. This is one of the most important establishments of this wealthy fur-trading Company. For many years it was the capital, at which the different officers and other officials from the different districts of this vast country were in the habit of meeting annually for the purpose of arranging the various matters in connection with their prosecution of the fur trade. Here Sir George Simpson, for many years the energetic and despotic Governor, used to come to meet these officials, travelling by birch canoe, manned by his matchless crew of Iroquois Indians, all the way from Montreal, a distance of several thousand miles. Here immense quantities of furs were collected from the different trading posts, and then shipped to England by way of Hudson's Bay. The sight of this well-kept establishment, and the courtesy and cordial welcome extended to us, were very pleasing after our long toilsome voyage up Lake Winnipeg. But still we were two miles and a half from our Indian Mission, and so we were full of anxiety to reach the end of our journey. Mr Stewart, however, insisted on our remaining to tea with him, and then took us over to the Indian village in his own row- boat, manned by four sturdy Highlanders. Ere we reached the shore, sweet sounds of melody fell upon our ears. The Wednesday evening service was being held, and songs of praise were being sung by the Indian congregation, the notes of which reached us as we neared the margin and landed upon the rocky beach. We welcomed this as a pleasing omen, and rejoiced at it as one of the grand evidences of the Gospel's power to change. Not many years ago the horrid yells of the conjurer, and the whoops of the savage Indians, were here the only familiar sounds. Now the sweet songs of Zion are heard, and God's praises are sung by a people whose lives attest the genuineness of the work accomplished. We were cordially welcomed by Mrs Stringfellow in the Mission house, and were soon afterwards joined by her husband, who had been conducting the religious services in the church. Very thankful were we that after our long and adventurous journeyings for two months and eighteen days, by land and water, through the good providence of God we had reached our field of toil among the Cree Indians, where for years we were to be permitted to labour. Mr and Mrs Stringfellow remained with us for a few days ere they set out on their return trip to the province of Ontario. We took sweet counsel together, and I received a great deal of valuable information in reference to the prosecution of our work among these Red men. For eleven years the missionary and his wife had toiled and suffered in this northern land. A goodly degree of success had attended their efforts, and we were much pleased with the state in which we found everything connected with the Mission. While we were at family prayers the first evening after our arrival, there came up one of the most terrific thunderstorms we ever experienced. The heavy Mission house, although built of logs, and well mudded and clap-boarded, shook so much while we were on our knees that several large pictures fell from the walls; one of which, tumbling on Brother Stringfellow's head, put a very sudden termination to his evening devotions. Rossville Mission, Norway House, was commenced by the Reverend James Evans in the year 1840. It has been, and still is, one of the most successful Indian Missions in America. Here Mr Evans invented the syllabic characters, by which an intelligent Indian can learn to read the Word of God in ten days or two weeks. Earnestly desirous to devise some method by which the wandering Indians could acquire the art of reading in a more expeditious manner than by the use of the English alphabet, he invented these characters, each of which stands for a syllable. He carved his first type with his pocket-knife, and procured the lead for the purpose from the tea-chests of the Hudson's Bay Company's post. His first ink he made out of the soot from the chimney, and his first paper was birch bark. Great was the excitement among the Indians when he had perfected his invention, and had begun printing in their own language. The conjurers, and other pagan Indians, were very much alarmed, when, as they expressed it, they found the "bark of the tree was beginning to talk." The English Wesleyan Missionary Society was early impressed with the advantage of this wonderful invention, and the great help it would be in carrying on the blessed work. At great expense they sent out a printing press, with a large quantity of type, which they had had specially cast. Abundance of paper, and everything else essential, were furnished. For years portions of the Word of God, and a goodly number of hymns translated into the Cree language, were printed, and incalculable good resulted. Other missionary organisations at work in the country quickly saw the advantage of using these syllabic characters, and were not slow to avail themselves of them. While all lovers of Missions rejoice at this, it is to be regretted that some, from whom better things might have been expected, were anxious to take the credit of the invention, instead of giving it to its rightful claimant, the Reverend James Evans. It is a remarkable fact, that so perfectly did Mr Evans do his work, that no improvement has been made as regards the use of these characters among the Cree Indians. Other missionaries have introduced them among other tribes, with additions to meet the sounds used in those tribes which are not found among the Crees. They have even been successfully utilised by the Moravians among the Esquimaux. On our arrival at Rossville the Indians crowded in to see the new missionary and his wife, and were very cordial in their greetings. Even some pagan Indians, dressed up in their wild picturesque costumes, came to see us, and were very friendly. As quickly as possible we settled down to our work, and tried to grasp its possibilities. We saw many pleasing evidences of what had been accomplished by faithful predecessors, and were soon convinced of the greatness of the work yet to be done. For, while from our church, and the houses of our Christian people, the songs of Zion were heard, our eyes were saluted by the shouts and yells of old Indian conjurers and medicine-men, added to the monotonous sounds of their drums, which came to us nightly from almost every point in the compass, from islands and headlands not far away. Our first Sabbath was naturally a very interesting day. Our own curiosity to see our people was doubtless equalled by that of the people to see their new missionary. Pagans flocked in with Christians, until the church was crowded. We were very much pleased with their respectful demeanour in the house of God. There was no laughing or frivolity in the sanctuary. With their moccasined feet and cat-like tread, several hundred Indians did not make one quarter the noise often heard in Christian lands, made by audiences one-tenth the size. We were much delighted with their singing. There is a peculiar plaintive sweetness about Indian singing that has for me a special attractiveness. Scores of them brought their Bibles to the church. When I announced the lessons for the day, the quickness with which they found the places showed their familiarity with the sacred volume. During prayers they were old-fashioned Methodists enough to kneel down while the Sovereign of the universe was being addressed. They sincerely and literally entered into the spirit of the Psalmist when he said: "O come, let us worship and bow down: let us kneel before the Lord our Maker." I was fortunate in securing for my interpreter a thoroughly good Indian by the name of Timothy Bear. He was of an emotional nature, and rendered good service to the cause of Christ. Sometimes, when interpreting for me the blessed truths of the Gospel, his heart would get fired up, and he would become so absorbed in his theme that he would in a most eloquent way beseech and plead with the people to accept this wonderful salvation. As the days rolled by, and we went in and out among them, and contrasted the pagan with the Christian Indian, we saw many evidences that the Gospel is still the power of God unto salvation, and that, whenever accepted in its fulness, it brings not only peace and joy to the heart, but is attended by the secondary blessings of civilisation. The Christian Indians could easily be picked out by the improved appearance of their homes, as well as by the marvellous change in their lives and actions. We found out, before we had been there many days, that we had much to learn about Indian customs and habits and modes of thought. For example: the day after Mr and Mrs Stringfellow had left us, a poor woman came in, and by the sign language let Mrs Young know that she was very hungry. On the table were a large loaf of bread, a large piece of corned beef, and a dish of vegetables, left over from our boat supplies. My good wife's sympathies were aroused at the poor woman's story, and, cutting off a generous supply of meat and bread, and adding thereto a large quantity of the vegetables and a quart of tea, she seated the woman at the table before the hearty meal. Without any trouble the guest disposed of the whole, and then, to our amazement, began pulling up the skirt of her dress at the side till she had formed a capacious pocket. Reaching over, she seized the meat, and put it in this large receptacle, the loaf of bread quickly followed, and lastly, the dish of vegetables. Then, getting up from her chair, she turned towards us, saying, "Na-nas-koo-moo-wi-nah," which is the Cree for thanksgiving. She gracefully backed out of the dining-room, holding carefully onto her supplies. Mrs Young and I looked in astonishment, but said nothing till she had gone out. We could not help laughing at the queer sight, although the food which had disappeared in this unexpected way was what was to have been our principal support for two or three days, until our supplies should have arrived. Afterwards, when expressing our astonishment at what looked like the greediness of this woman, we learned that she had only complied with the strict etiquette of her tribe. It seems it is their habit, when they make a feast for anybody, or give them a dinner, if fortunate enough to have abundance of food, to put a large quantity before them. The invited guest is expected to eat all he can, and then to carry the rest away. This was exactly what the poor woman did. From this lesson of experience we learnt just to place before them what we felt our limited abilities enabled us to give at the time. One day a fine-looking Indian came in with a couple of fat ducks. As our supplies were low, we were glad to see them; and in taking them I asked him what I should give him for them. His answer was, "O, nothing; they are a _present_ for the missionary and his wife." Of course I was delighted at this exhibition of generosity on the part of this entire stranger to us so soon after our arrival in this wild land. The Indian at once made himself at home with us, and kept us busy answering questions and explaining to him everything that excited his curiosity. Mrs Young had to leave her work to play for his edification on the little melodeon. He remained to dinner, and ate one of the ducks, while Mrs Young and I had the other. He hung around all the afternoon, and did ample justice to a supper out of our supplies. He tarried with us until near the hour for retiring, when I gently hinted to him that I thought it was about time he went to see if his wigwam was where he left it. "O," he exclaimed, "I am only waiting." "Waiting?" I said; "for what are you waiting?" "I am waiting for the _present_ you are going to give me for the _present_ I gave you." I at once took in the situation, and went off and got him something worth half-a-dozen times as much as his ducks, and he went off very happy. When he was gone, my good wife and I sat down, and we said, "Here is lesson number _two_. Perhaps, after we have been here a while, we shall know something about the Indians." After that we accepted of no presents from them, but insisted on paying a reasonable price for everything we needed which they had to sell. Our Sunday's work began with the Sunday School at nine o'clock. All the boys and girls attended, and often there were present many of the adults. The children were attentive and respectful, and many of them were able to repeat large portions of Scripture from memory. A goodly number studied the Catechism translated into their own Language. They sang the hymns sweetly, and joined with us in repeating the Lord's Prayer. The public service followed at half-past ten o'clock. This morning service was always in English, although the hymns, lessons, and text would be announced in the two languages. The Hudson's Bay officials who might be at the Fort two miles away, and all their _employes_, regularly attended this morning service. Then, as many of the Indians understood English, and our object was ever to get them all to know more and more about it, this service usually was largely attended by the people. The great Indian service was held in the afternoon. It was all their own, and was very much prized by them. At the morning service they were very dignified and reserved; at the afternoon they sang with an enthusiasm that was delightful, and were not afraid, if their hearts prompted them to it, to come out with a glad "Amen!" They bring with them to the sanctuary their Bibles, and very sweet to my ears was the rustle of many leaves as they rapidly turned to the Lessons of the day in the Old or New Testament. Sermons were never considered too long. Very quietly and reverently did the people come into the house of God, and with equal respect for the place, and for Him Whom there they had worshipped, did they depart. Dr Taylor, one of our missionary secretaries, when visiting us, said at the close of one of these hallowed afternoon services, "Mr Young, if the good people who help us to support Missions and missionaries could see what my eyes have beheld to-day, they would most cheerfully and gladly give us ten thousand dollars a year more for our Indian Missions." Every Sunday evening I went over to the Fort, by canoe in summer, and dog-train in winter, and held service there. A little chapel had been specially fitted up for these evening services. Another service was also held in the church at the Mission by the Indians themselves. There were among them several who could preach very acceptable sermons, and others who, with a burning eloquence, could tell, like Paul, the story of their own conversion, and beseech others to be likewise reconciled to God. We were surprised at times by seeing companies of pagan Indians stalk into the church during the services, not always acting in a way becoming to the house or day. At first it was a matter of surprise to me that our Christian Indians put up with some of these irregularities. I was very much astounded one day by the entrance of an old Indian called Tapastonum, who, rattling his ornaments, and crying, "Ho! Ho!" came into the church in a sort of trot, and gravely kissed several of the men and women. As my Christian Indians seemed to stand the interruption, I felt that I could. Soon he sat down, at the invitation of Big Tom, and listened to me. He was grotesquely dressed, and had a good-sized looking-glass hanging on his breast, kept in its place by a string hung around his neck. To aid himself in listening, he lit his big pipe and smoked through the rest of the service. When I spoke to the people afterwards about the conduct of this man, so opposite to their quiet, respectful demeanour in the house of God, their expressive, charitable answer was: "Such were we once, as ignorant as Tapastonum is now. Let us have patience with him, and perhaps he, too, will soon decide to give his heart to God. Let him come; he will get quiet when he gets the light." The week evenings were nearly all filled up with services of one kind or another, and were well attended, or otherwise, according as the Indians might be present at the village, or away hunting, or fishing, or "tripping" for the Hudson's Bay Company. What pleased us very much was the fact that in the homes of the people there were so many family altars. It was very delightful to take a quiet walk in the gloaming through the village, and hear from so many little homes the voice of the head of the family reading the precious volume, or the sounds of prayer and praise. Those were times when in every professed Christian home in the village there was a family altar. CHAPTER FOUR. CONSTANT PROGRESS--WOMAN'S SAD CONDITION IN PAGANISM--ILLUSTRATIONS-- WONDROUS CHANGES PRODUCED BY CHRISTIANITY--ILLUSTRATIONS--NEW YEAR'S DAY CHRISTIAN FESTIVAL--THE AGED AND FEEBLE ONES FIRST REMEMBERED--CLOSING THANKSGIVING SERVICES. We found ourselves in a Christian village surrounded by paganism. The contrast between the two classes was very evident. Our Christians, as fast as they were able to build, were living in comfortable houses, and earnestly endeavouring to lift themselves up in the social circle. Their personal appearance was better, and cleanliness was accepted as next to godliness. On the Sabbaths they were well dressed, and presented such a respectable and devout appearance in the sanctuary as to win the admiration of all who visited us. The great majority of those who made a profession of faith lived honest, sober, and consistent lives, and thus showed the genuineness of the change wrought in them by the glorious Gospel of the Son of God. One of the most delightful and tangible evidences of the thoroughness and genuineness of the change was seen in the improvement in the family life. Such a thing as genuine home life, with mutual love and sympathy existing among the different members of the family, was unknown in their pagan state. The men, and even boys, considered it a sign of courage and manliness to despise and shamefully treat their mothers, wives, or sisters. Christianity changed all this; and we were constant witnesses of the genuineness of the change wrought in the hearts and lives of this people by the preaching of the Gospel, by seeing how woman was uplifted from her degraded position to her true place in the household. My heart was often pained at what I saw among some of the wild savage bands around us. When, by canoe in summer, or dog-train in winter, I have visited these wild men, I have seen the proud, lazy hunter come stalking into the camp with his gun on his shoulder, and in loud, imperative tones shout out to his poor wife, who was busily engaged in cutting wood, "Get up there, you dog, my squaw, and go back on my tracks in the woods, and bring in the deer I have shot; and hurry, for I want my food!" To quicken her steps, although she was hurrying as rapidly as possible, a stick was thrown at her, which fortunately she was able to dodge. Seizing the long carrying strap, which is a piece of leather several feet in length, and wide at the middle, where it rests against the forehead when in use, she rapidly glides away on the trail made by her husband's snow-shoes, it may be for miles, to the spot where lies the deer he has shot. Fastening one end of the strap to the haunches of the deer, and the other around its neck, after a good deal of effort and ingenuity, she succeeds at length in getting the animal, which may weigh from a hundred and fifty to two hundred pounds, upon her back, supported by the strap across her forehead. Panting with fatigue, she comes in with her heavy burden, and as she throws it down she is met with a sharp stern command from the lips of the despot called her husband, who has thought it beneath his dignity to carry in the deer himself, but who imagines it to be a sign of his being a great brave thus to treat his wife. The gun was enough for him to carry. Without giving the poor tired creature a moment's rest, he shouts out again for her to hurry up and be quick; he is hungry, and wants his dinner. The poor woman, although almost exhausted, knows full well, by the bitter experiences of the past, that to delay an instant would bring upon herself severe punishment, and so she quickly seizes the scalping knife and deftly skins the animal, and fills a pot with the savoury venison, which is soon boiled and placed before his highness. While he, and the men and boys whom he may choose to invite to eat with him, are rapidly devouring the venison, the poor woman has her first moments of rest. She goes and seats herself down where women and girls and dogs are congregated, and there women and dogs struggle for the half-picked bones which the men, with derisive laughter, throw among them! This was one of the sad aspects of paganism which I often had to witness as I travelled among those bands that had not, up to that time, accepted the Gospel. When these poor women get old and feeble, very sad and deplorable is their condition. When able to toil and slave, they are tolerated as necessary evils. When aged and weak, they are shamefully neglected, and, often, put out of existence. One of the missionaries, on visiting a pagan band, preached from those blessed words of the Saviour: "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." In his sermon he spoke about life's toils and burdens, and how all men had to work and labour. The men of the congregation were very angry at him; and at an indignation meeting which they held, they said, "Let him go to the squaws with that kind of talk. They have to carry all the heavy burdens, and do the hard work. Such stuff as that is not for us men, but for the women." So they were offended at him. At a small Indian settlement on the north-eastern shores of Lake Winnipeg lived a chief by the name of Moo-koo-woo-soo, who deliberately strangled his mother, and then burnt her body to ashes. When questioned about the horrid deed, he coolly and heartlessly said that as she had become too old to snare rabbits or catch fish, he was not going to be bothered with keeping her, and so he deliberately put her to death. Such instances could be multiplied many times. Truly "the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel." In delightful contrast to these sad sights among the degraded savages around us, were the kindly ways and happy homes of our converted Indians. Among them a woman occupied her true position, and was well and lovingly treated. The aged and infirm, who but for the Gospel would have been dealt with as Moo-koo-woo-soo dealt with his mother, had the warmest place in the little home and the daintiest morsel on the table. I have seen the sexton of the church throw wide open the door of the sanctuary, that two stalwart young men might easily enter, carrying in their arms their invalid mother, who had expressed a desire to come to the house of God. Tenderly they supported her until the service ended, and then they lovingly carried her home again. But for the Gospel's blessed influences on their haughty natures they would have died ere doing such a thing for a woman, even though she were their own mother. Life for the women was not now all slavery. They had their happy hours, and knew well how to enjoy them. Nothing, however, seemed so to delight them as to be gliding about in the glorious summer time in their light canoes. And sometimes, combining pleasure with profit, many a duck was shot by these young Indian maidens. This changed feeling towards the aged and afflicted ones we have seen manifested in a very expressive and blessed way at the great annual New Year's Feast. It was customary for the Indians, long before they became Christians, to have a great feast at the beginning of the New Year. In the old times, the principal article of food at these horrid feasts was dogs, the eating of which was accompanied by many revolting ceremonies. The missionaries, instead of abolishing the feast, turned it into a religious festival. I carried out the methods of my worthy predecessors at Norway House, and so we had a feast every New Year's Day. The Crees call this day "Ooche-me-gou Kesigow," which literally means "the kissing day," as on this day the men claim the right to kiss every woman they meet; and, strange to say, every woman expects to be kissed. It used to amuse me very much to see thirty or forty Indians, dressed up in their finest apparel, come quietly marching into the Mission House, and gravely kiss Mrs Young on her cheek. When I used to rally her over this strange phase of unexpected missionary experience, she would laughingly retort, "O, you need not laugh at me. See that crowd of women out there in the yard, expecting you to go out and kiss them!" It was surprising how much work that day kept me shut in my study; or if that expedient would not avail, I used to select a dear old sweet-faced, white-haired grandma, the mother of the chief, and say, "Now I am going to kiss grandma; and as I kiss her you must all consider yourselves kissed." This institution is more ancient among them than shaking hands, about which they knew nothing until it was introduced by the whites. For weeks before New Year's Day great preparations were made for the feast. A council would be called, and the men would have recorded what they were willing to give towards it. Some, who were good deer-hunters, promised venison. Others promised so many beavers. Perhaps there were those who knew where bears had made their winter dens, and they agreed to go and kill them for the feast. Others, who were good fur-hunters, stated their willingness to exchange some of the furs they would catch for flour and tea and sugar at the trading post. Thus the business went on, until enough was promised, with the liberal supplies given by the Hudson's Bay Company's officials and the missionary, to make the affair a great success. An outbuilding of the Mission, called "the fish house," was the place where all these various things, as they were obtained, were stored. Months were sometimes consumed in collecting the meat. But Jack Frost is a good preservative, and so nothing spoiled. A few days before the feast, Mrs Young would select several of the Indian women, and under her superintendency the various supplies would be cooked. Very clever were these willing helpers; and in a short time a quantity of food would be piled up, sufficient for all, although it is well known that Indians have good appetites. When the great day arrived, the men quickly removed the seats out of the church, and there put up long tables. Great boilers of tea were made ready, and every preparation was completed for a good time. But, before a mouthful was eaten by any of the eight hundred or thousand persons present, the chief used to ask me for a pencil and a piece of writing paper; and then, standing up on a box or bench, he would shout out, "How many of our people are aged, or sick, or afflicted, and cannot be with us to-day!" As one name after another was mentioned, he rapidly wrote them down. Then he read over the list, and said, "Let us not forget any one." Somebody shouted out, "There is an old woman ten miles up the river towards the old Fort." Somebody else said, "Have you the name of that boy who was accidentally shot in the leg?" Their names were both put down. Then somebody says, "There are two or three left behind in the tent of the pagans, while the rest have come to the feast." "Let us feed those who have come, and send something with our kind greetings to the others," is the unanimous response. When it was certain that none had been overlooked, request was made to me for all the old newspapers and packing paper I could give them, and soon loving hands were busily engaged in cutting off large pieces of different kinds of meat and arranging them with the large flat cakes in generous bundles. To these were added little packages of tea and sugar. In this way as many large bundles--each containing an assortment of everything at the feast--would be made up as there were names on the paper. Then the chief would call in, from where the young men were busily engaged in playing football, as many of the fleet runners as there were bundles, and giving each his load, would indicate the person to whom he was to give it, and also would add, "Give them our New Year's greetings and sympathy, and tell them we are sorry they cannot be with us to-day." Very delightful were these sights to us. Such things paid us a thousandfold for our hardships and sufferings. Here, before a mouthful was eaten by the healthy and vigorous ones, large generous bundles, that would last for days, were sent off to the aged and infirm or wounded ones, who in all probability, but for the blessed influences of the Gospel, if not quickly and cruelly put out of existence, would have been allowed to linger on in neglect and wretchedness. Even the young runners seemed to consider that it was an honour to be permitted to carry these bundles, with the loving messages, to the distant homes or wigwams where the afflicted ones were. It was quite amusing to watch them tighten up their belts and dash off like deers. Some of them had several miles to go; but what cared they on this glad day? According to seniority the tables were filled, and the feast began as soon as the "Grace before Meat" had been sung. Mrs Young had her own long table, and to it she invited not only the Hudson's Bay Company's people, but as many of the aged and worthy from among the poor Indians as we wished specially to honour. Sometimes we filled one table with wild pagans who had come in from some distant forest home, attracted by the reports of the coming great feast. Through their stomachs we sometimes reached their hearts, and won them to Christ. Thus for hours the feast continued, until all had been supplied. None were neglected, and everybody was happy. Then with a glad heart they sang: "Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow." When all the guests were satisfied, what was left was carried off by the needy ones, among whom it was generously divided; the tables were quickly taken down by the men, and the church was speedily swept clean by some active women. The seats and pews were replaced, and every arrangement was made for the great annual New Year's Meeting. The church was lit up; and when the audience had gathered, a chairman was appointed, and, after singing and prayer, speeches were made by several of the Indians. Many pleasant and many sensible things were said. Some of the sober- minded ones reviewed the year just gone, with all its blessings and mercies, and expressed the hope that the one on which they had entered would be crowned with blessings. Some of the speeches referred to Treaty matters with the Government, and others were in reference to their huntings and fisheries. Some were bright and witty, and were received with laughter and applause. Others were of a serious, religious character, and were equally welcome, and touched responsive hearts. With pleasure I noticed that in them all the most frequent word was "Na-nas-koomoo-win-ah," which means "Thanksgiving," and for this my heart rejoiced. Thus ended, with the Doxology and Benediction, these happy days, in which we saw so many evidences that the preaching of the Gospel had not been in vain. CHAPTER FIVE. OXFORD HOUSE MISSION--VISITED BY CANOE--DESCRIPTION OF THIS USEFUL CRAFT-INDIAN SKILL--OXFORD LAKE--DR. TAYLOR--EDWARD PAPANEKIS--STILL ON THE TRAIL BY BIRCH CANOE--NARROW ESCAPE FROM BEING CRUSHED BY THE ICE-- ON STORMY LAKE WINNIPEG--PIONEERING FARTHER NORTH--SUCCESSES--"SHOW US THE FATHER, AND IT SUFFICETH US"--CHRIST ACCEPTED IN THE PLACE OF IDOLS. I had received instructions from the Missionary Secretaries to visit Oxford Mission as soon as possible, and to do all I could for its upbuilding. This Mission had had a good measure of success in years gone by. A church and Mission house had been built at Jackson's Bay, and many of the Indians had been converted. But the village was too far from the Hudson's Bay Company's Post, where the Indians traded, and where naturally they gathered. For several years the work had been left in charge of a native teacher. The people regretted the absence of an ordained Missionary, and the place suffered accordingly. Making all the arrangements I could for the successful prosecution of the work in my absence, I left Norway House in a small canoe, manned by two of my Christian Indians, one of whom was my interpreter. With this wonderful little boat I was now to make my first intimate acquaintance. For this wild land of broad lakes and rapid rivers and winding creeks, the birch- bark canoe is the boat of all others most admirably fitted. It is to the Indian denizen here what the horse is to his more warlike red brother on the great prairies, or what the camel is to those who live and wander amidst Arabian deserts. The canoe is absolutely essential to these natives in this land, where there are no other roads than the intricate devious water routes. It is the frailest of all boats, yet it can be loaded down to the water's edge, and, under the skilful guidance of these Indians, who are unquestionably the finest canoe men in the world, it can be made to respond to the sweep of their paddles, so that it seems almost instinct with life and reason. What they can do in it, and with it, appeared to me at times perfectly marvellous. Yet when we remember that for about five months of every year some of the hunters almost live in it, this may not seem so very wonderful. It carries them by day, and in it, or under it, they often sleep by night. At the many portages which have to be made in this land, where the rivers are so full of falls and rapids, one man can easily carry it on his head to the smooth water beyond. In it we have travelled thousands of miles, while going from place to place with the blessed tidings of salvation to these wandering bands scattered over my immense Circuit. Down the wild rapids we have rushed for miles together, and then out into great Winnipeg, or other lakes, so far from shore that the distant headlands were scarce visible. Foam-crested waves have often seemed as though about to overwhelm us, and treacherous gales to swamp us, yet my faithful, well- trained canoe men were always equal to every emergency, and by the accuracy of their judgment, and the quickness of their movements, appeared ever to do exactly the right thing at the right moment. As the result, I came at length to feel as much at home in a canoe as anywhere else, and with God's blessing was permitted to make many long trips to those who could not be reached in any other way, except by dog-trains in winter. Good canoe-makers are not many, and so really good canoes are always in demand. Frail and light as this Indian craft may be, there is a great deal of skill and ingenuity required in its construction. Great care is requisite in taking the bark from the tree. A long incision is first made longitudinally in the trunk of the tree. Then, from this cut, the Indian begins, and with his keen knife gradually peels off the whole of the bark, as high up as his incision went, in one large piece or sheet. And even now that he has safely got it off the tree, the greatest care is necessary in handling it, as it will split or crack very easily. Cedar is preferred for the woodwork, and when it can possibly be obtained, is always used. But in the section of the country where I lived, as we were north of the cedar limit, the canoe-makers used pieces of the spruce tree, split very thin, as the best substitute for cedar that our country afforded. All the sewing of the pieces of birch bark together, and the fastening of the whole to the outer frame, is done with the long slender roots of the balsam or larch trees, which are soaked and rubbed until they are as flexible as narrow strips of leather. When all the sewing is done, the many narrow limber pieces of spruce are crowded into their places, giving the whole canoe its requisite proportions and strength. Then the seams and weak spots are well covered over with melted pitch, which the Indians obtain from the spruce and balsam trees. Great care is taken to make the canoe watertight. To accomplish this, the boat is often swung between trees and filled with water. Every place where the slightest leak is discovered is marked, and, when the canoe is emptied, is carefully attended to. Canoes vary in style and size. Each tribe using them has its own patterns, and it was to me an ever interesting sight, to observe how admirably suited to the character of the lakes and rivers were the canoes of each tribe or district. The finest and largest canoes were those formerly made by the Lake Superior Indians. Living on the shores of that great inland sea, they required canoes of great size and strength. These "great north canoes," as they were called, could easily carry from a dozen to a score of paddlers, with a cargo of a couple of tons of goods. In the old days of the rival fur-traders, these great canoes played a very prominent part. Before steam or even large sailing vessels had penetrated into those northern lakes, these canoes were extensively used, loaded with the rich furs of those wild forests, they used to come down into the Ottawa, and thence on down that great stream, often even as far as to Montreal. Sir George Simpson, the energetic but despotic and unprincipled governor of the Hudson's Bay Company for many years, used to travel in one of these birch canoes all the way from Montreal up the Ottawa on through Lake Nipissing into Georgian Bay; from thence into Lake Superior, on to Thunder Bay. From this place, with indomitable pluck, he pushed on back into the interior, through the Lake of the Woods, down the tortuous river Winnipeg into the lake of the same name. Along the whole length of this lake he annually travelled, in spite of its treacherous storms and annoying head winds, to preside over the Council and attend to the business of the wealthiest fur-trading company that ever existed, over which he watched with eagle eye, and in every department of which his distinct personality was felt. His famous Iroquois crew are still talked about, and marvellous are the stories in circulation about many a northern camp fire of their endurance and skill. How rapid the changes which are taking place in this world of ours! It seems almost incredible, in these days of mighty steamships going almost everywhere on our great waters, to think that there are hundreds of people still living who distinctly remember when the annual trips of a great governor were made from Montreal to Winnipeg in a birch-bark Canoe, manned by Indians. Of this light Indian craft Longfellow wrote:-- "Give me of your bark, O Birch tree! Of your yellow bark, O Birch tree! Growing by the rushing river, Tall and stately in the valley! I a light canoe will build me, Build a swift canoe for sailing. "Thus the Birch canoe was builded In the valley, by the river, In the bosom of the forest; All its mystery and its magic, All the brightness of the birch tree, All the toughness of the cedar, All the larch trees supple sinews; And it floated on the river Like a yellow leaf in autumn, Like a yellow water-lily." We left for Oxford Mission on the 8th of September. The distance is over two hundred miles, through the wildest country imaginable. We did not see a house--with the exception of those built by the beavers--from the time we left our Mission home until we reached our destination. We paddled through a bewildering variety of picturesque lakes, rivers, and creeks. When no storms or fierce head-winds impeded us, we were able to make fifty or sixty miles a day. When night overtook us, we camped on the shore. Sometimes it was very pleasant and romantic. At other times, when storms raged and we were drenched with the rain so thoroughly that for days we had not a dry stitch upon us, it was not quite so agreeable. We generally began our day's journey very early in the morning, if the weather was at all favourable, and paddled on as rapidly as possible, since we knew not when head-winds might arise and stop our progress. The Oxford route is a very diversified one. There are lakes, large and small, across which we had to paddle. In some of them, when the wind was favourable, our Indians improvised a sail out of one of our blankets. Lashing it to a couple of oars, they lifted it up in the favouring wind, and thus very rapidly did we speed on our way. At times we were in broad beautiful rivers, and then paddling along in little narrow creeks amidst the reeds and rushes. We passed over, or, as they say in that country, "made" nine portages around picturesque falls or rapids. In these portages one of the Indians carried the canoe on his head. The other made a great load of the bedding and provisions, all of which he carried on his back. My load consisted of the two guns, ammunition, two kettles, the bag containing my changes of raiment, and a package of books for the Indians we were to visit. How the Indians could run so quickly through the portages was to me a marvel. Often the path was but a narrow ledge of rock against the side of the great granite cliff. At other times it was through the quaking bog or treacherous muskeg. To them it seemed to make no difference. On they went with their heavy loads at that swinging Indian stride which soon left me far behind. On some of my canoe trips the portages were several miles long, and through regions so wild that there was nothing to indicate to me the right direction. When we were making them, I used to follow on as long as I knew I was in the right way. When I lost the trail, I at once stopped and patiently waited until one of my faithful men, having carried his load safely to the end, would come back for me. Quickly picking up my load, he would hurry off, and even then, unencumbered as I was, it was often as much as I could do to keep up with him. Oxford Lake is one of the most beautiful and picturesque lakes I ever saw. It is between twenty and thirty miles long and several miles wide. It is studded with islands of every imaginable variety. Its waters are almost as transparent as the clear, fresh air above it. When no breath ripples its surface, one can look down into its crystal depths and see, many feet below, the great fish quietly moving about. To visit the Indians who fish in its waters, and hunt upon its shores, I once brought one of our Missionary Secretaries, the eloquent Reverend Lachlin Taylor, DD. The trip down had not been one of the most pleasant. The rains had drenched him, and the mosquitoes had plagued him with such persistency, that he loudly bemoaned his lot in being found in a country that was cursed with such abominable animals. One night I heard him muttering between his efforts to get them out of his tent, where he declared they were attacking him in battalions:-- "They throng the air, and darken heaven, And curse this Western land." However, when we reached Oxford Lake, the mosquitoes left us for a time. The sun came out in splendour, and we had some days of rarest beauty. The good doctor regained his spirits, and laughed when I rallied him on some of his strong expressions about the country, and told him that I hoped, as the result of his experience, he, as all Missionary Secretaries ought, would have a good deal of sympathy for the Missionaries who live in such regions for years together. We camped for the night on one of the most picturesque points. We had two canoes, and to man them four Indians from our Norway House Mission. As the doctor was an enthusiastic fisherman, he decided that we must stop there during the forenoon, while he tried his hand. His first haul was a splendid pike over two feet long. Great was his excitement as his success was assured. Eloquence poured from him; we were flooded with it. The Indians looked on in amazement while he talked of the beauties of the lake and islands, of the water and the sky. "Wait a moment, doctor," I said. "I can add to the wild beauty of the place something that will please your artistic eye." I requested two fine-looking Indians to launch one of the canoes, and to quietly paddle out to the edge of an island which abruptly rose from the deep, clear waters before us, the top of which had on it a number of splendid spruce and balsams, massed together in natural beauty. I directed the men to drop over the side of the canoe a long fishing line, and then, posing them in striking attitudes in harmony with the place, I asked them to keep perfectly still until every ripple made by their canoe had died away. I confess I was entranced by the loveliness of the sight. The reflections of the canoe and men, and of the islands and rocks, were as vivid as the actual realities. So clear and transparent was the water, that where it and the air met there seemed but a narrow thread between the two elements. Not a breath of air stirred, not a ripple moved. It was one of those sights which come to us but seldom in a lifetime, where everything is in perfect unison, and God gives us glimpses of what this world, His footstool, must have been before sin entered. "Doctor," I said quietly, for my heart was full of the Doxology, "tell me what you think of that vision." Standing up, with a great rock beneath his feet, in a voice of suppressed emotion he began. Quietly at first he spoke, but soon he was carried away with his own eloquence:-- "I know well the lochs of my own beloved Scotland, for in many of them I have rowed and fished. I have visited all the famed lakes of Ireland, and have rowed on those in the Lake counties of England. I have travelled far and oft on our great American lakes, and have seen Tahoe, in all its crystal beauty. I have rowed on the Bosphorus, and travelled in a felucca on the Nile. I have lingered in the gondola on the canals of Venice, and have traced Rob Roy's canoe in the Sea of Galilee, and on the old historic Jordan. I have seen, in my wanderings in many lands, places of rarest beauty, but the equal of this mine eyes have never gazed upon." Never after did I see the lake as we saw it that day. On it we have had to battle against fierce storms, where the angry waves seemed determined to engulf us. Once, in speeding along as well as we could from island to island, keeping in the lee as much as possible, we ran upon a sharp rock and stove a hole in our canoe. We had to use our paddles desperately to reach the shore, and when we had done so, we found our canoe half-full of water, in which our bedding and food were soaked. We hurriedly built a fire, melted some pitch, and mended our canoe, and hurried on. On this lake, which can give us such pictures of wondrous beauty, I have encountered some of the greatest gales and tempests against which I have ever had to contend, even in this land of storms and blizzards. Then in winter, upon its frozen surface it used to seem to me that the Frost King held high carnival. Terrible were the sufferings of both dogs and men on some of those trips. One winter, in spite of all the wraps I could put around me, making it possible for me to run--for riding was out of the question, so intense was the cold--every part of my face exposed to the pitiless blast was frozen. My nose, cheeks, eyebrows, and even lips, were badly frozen, and for days after I suffered. Cuffy, the best of my Newfoundland dogs, had all of her feet frozen, and even Jack's were sore for many a day after. My loyal Indians suffered also, and we all declared Oxford Lake to be a cold place in winter, and its storms worse than the summer mosquitoes. The Indians of Oxford Lake were among the finest in all the great North- West. It was ever a joy to meet them as I used to do once in summer by canoe trip, and then again in winter by dog-train. God blessed my visits to them. The old members were cheered and comforted as the Gospel was preached to them, and the Sacraments administered. Some pagans were induced to renounce their old lives, and the cause of religion was more and more established. The Reverend Mr Brooking, and, later, the studious and devoted Reverend Orrin German, did blessed service in that lonely Mission. At the present time the Reverend Edward Papanekis is the acceptable Missionary there. Long years ago I found Edward a careless, sinful young man. Once he rushed into the Mission house under the influence of liquor, and threatened to strike me. But the blessed truth reached his heart, and it was my joy to see him a humble suppliant at the Cross. His heart's desire was realised. God has blessedly led him on, and now he is faithfully preaching that same blessed Gospel to his countrymen at Oxford Mission. In responding to the many Macedonian cries my Circuit kept so enlarging that I had to be "in journeyings often." My canoes were sometimes launched in spring, ere the great floating ice-fields had disappeared, and through tortuous open channels we carefully paddled our way, often exposed to great danger. On one of these early trips we came to a place where for many miles the moving ice fields stretched out before us. One narrow channel of open water only was before us. Anxious to get on, we dashed into it, and rapidly paddled ourselves along. I had two experienced Indians, and so had no fear, but expected some novel adventures--and had them with interest. Our hopes were that the wind would widen the channel, and thus let us into open water. But, to our disappointment, when we had got along a mile or so in this narrow open space, we found the ice was quietly but surely closing in upon us. As it was from four to six feet thick, and of vast extent, there was power enough in it to crush a good-sized ship; so it seemed that our frail birch-bark canoe would have but a poor chance. I saw there was a reasonable possibility that when the crash came we could spring on to the floating ice. But what should we do then? was the question, with canoe destroyed and us on floating ice far from land. However, as my Indians kept perfectly cool, I said nothing, but paddled away and watched for the development of events. Nearer and nearer came the ice; soon our channel was not fifty feet wide. Already behind us the floes had met, and we could hear the ice grinding and breaking as the enormous masses met in opposite directions. Now it was only about twenty feet from side to side. Still the men paddled on, and I kept paddling in unison with them. When the ice was so close that we could easily touch it on either side with our paddles, one of the Indians quietly said, "Missionary, will you please give me your paddle?" I quickly handed it to him, when he immediately thrust it with his own into the water, holding down the ends of them so low horizontally under the canoe that the blade end was out of water on the other side of the boat. The other Indian held his paddle in the same position, although from the other side of the canoe. Almost immediately after the ice crowded in upon us. But as the points of the paddles were higher than the ice, of course they rested upon it for an instant. This was what my cool-headed, clever men wanted. They had a fulcrum for their paddles, and so they pulled carefully on the handle ends of them, and, the canoe sliding up as the ice closed in and met with a crash under us, we found ourselves seated in it on the top of the ice. The craft, although only a frail birch-bark canoe, was not in the least injured. As we quickly sprang out of our canoe, and carried it away from where the ice had met and was being ground into pieces by the momentum with which it met, I could not but express my admiration to my men at the clever feat. After some exciting work we reached the shore, and there patiently waited until the wind and sun cleared away the ice, and we could venture on. My plan was to spend at least a week in each Indian village or encampment, preaching three times a day, and either holding school with the children, or by personal entreaty beseeching men and women to be reconciled to God. When returning from the visit, which was a very successful one, we had to experience some of the inconveniences of travelling in such a frail bark as a birch canoe on such a stormy lake as Winnipeg. The weather had been very unsettled, and so we had cautiously paddled from point to point. We had dinner at what the Indians call Montreal Point, and then started for the long crossing to Old Norway House Point, as it was then called. It is a very long open traverse, and as lowering clouds threatened us we pulled on as rapidly as our three paddles could propel us. When out a few miles from land the storm broke upon us, the wind rose rapidly, and soon we were riding over great white-crested billows. My men were very skilful, and we had no fear; but the most skilful management was necessary to safely ride the waves, which soon in size were rivalling those of the ocean. A canoe is a peculiar craft, and requires an experienced hand in these great storms. We were getting on all right, and were successfully climbing the big waves in quick succession, alert and watchful that no sudden erratic move should catch us off our guard and overturn us. At length we met a wave of unusual height, and succeeded in climbing up into its foaming crest all right. Then down its side our little craft shot with the apparent velocity of a sled down a toboggan slide. When we reached the bottom of this trough of the sea, our canoe slapped so violently upon the water that the birch bark on the bottom split from side to side. Of course the water rushed in upon us with uncomfortable rapidity. The more we paddled the worse the water entered, as the exertion strained the boat and opened the rent. Quickly folding up a blanket, I carefully placed it over the long rent, and kneeled down upon it to keep it in place. The man in the front of the canoe put down his paddle, and, taking up the kettle, baled as rapidly as he could, while the Indian in the stern, and myself in the middle, plied our paddles for dear life. We turned towards the Spider Islands, which were over a mile away, and by vigorous work succeeded in reaching one of them, although our canoe was half full of water. Then could we enter into David's words, as for life we struggled, and our little craft was tossed on the cross sea in our efforts to reach a place of safety: "They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit's end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and He bringeth them out of their distresses." We paddled up as far as we could on a smooth granite rock that came out gradually in the water. Then out we sprang, and strong hands dragged our little canoe up beyond the reach of the waves. We hastily pulled out our dripping blankets and soaked food and other things, and then, overturning the canoe, emptied it of water; and as we saw the large break in the bottom, we realised as we had not before the danger we had been in, and the providential escape which had been ours. So, with glad hearts, we said, "We do `praise the Lord for His goodness, and for His wonderful works to the children of men.'" We quickly built a fire, and melted some pitch, a quantity of which is always carried ready for such emergencies. The long rent was covered over with a piece of cloth well saturated in the boiling pitch, a quantity more was poured over, and the whole was carefully smoothed out over the weak place. Soon it cooled and hardened, and the work was done. We ate a little food, and then launched our frail craft and pushed on. No serious accidents again troubled us, and we ended this long canoe trip, as we had done many others, thankful that we had such blessed opportunities to go to the remote places as heralds of the Cross, and doubly thankful when we were safe at home again. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ On one of my canoe trips, when looking after pagan bands in the remote Nelson River District, I had some singular experiences, and learned some important lessons about the craving of the pagan heart after God. We had been journeying on for ten or twelve days when one night we camped on the shore of a lake-like river. While my men were busily employed in gathering wood and cooking the supper, I wandered off and ascended to the top of a well wooded hill which I saw in the distance. Very great indeed was my surprise, when I reached the top, to find myself in the presence of the most startling evidences of a degraded paganism. The hill had once been densely covered with trees, but about every third one had been cut down, and the stumps, which had been left from four to ten feet high, had been carved into rude representations of the human form. Scattered around were the dog-ovens, which were nothing but holes dug in the ground and lined with stones, in which at certain seasons, as part of their religious ceremonies, some of their favourite dogs--white ones were always preferred--were roasted, and then devoured by the excited crowd. Here and there were the tents of the old conjurers and medicine men, who, combining some knowledge of disease and medicine with a great deal of superstitious abominations, held despotic sway over the people. The power of these old conjurers over the deluded Indians was very great. They were generally lazy old fellows, but succeeded nevertheless in getting the best that was going, as they held other Indians in such terror of their power, that gifts in the shape of fish and game were constantly flowing in upon them. They have the secret art among themselves of concocting some poisons so deadly that a little put in the food of a person who has excited their displeasure will cause death almost as soon as a dose of strychnine. They have other poisons which, while not immediately causing death to the unfortunate victims, yet so affect and disfigure them that, until death releases them, their sufferings are intense and their appearance frightful. Here on this hill top were all these sad evidences of the degraded condition of the people. I wandered around and examined the idols, most of which had in front of them, and in some instances on their flat heads, offerings of tobacco, food, red cotton, and other things. My heart was sad at these evidences of such degrading idolatry, and I was deeply impressed with my need of wisdom and aid from on high, so that when I met the people who here worshipped these idols I might so preach Christ and Him crucified that they would be constrained to accept Him as their all-sufficient Saviour. While there I lingered, and mused, and prayed, the shadows of the night fell on me, and I was shrouded in gloom. Then the full moon rose up in the East, and as her silvery beams shone through the trees and lit up these grotesque idols, the scene presented a strange weird appearance. My faithful Indians, becoming alarmed at my long absence--for the country was infested by wild animals--were on the search for me, when I returned to the camp fire. We ate our evening meal, sang a hymn, and bowed in prayer. Then we wrapped ourselves up in our blankets, and lay down on the granite rocks to rest. Although our bed was hard and there was no roof above us, we slept sweetly, for the day had been one of hard work and strange adventure. After paddling about forty miles the next day we reached the Indians of that section of the country, and remained several weeks among them. With the exception of the old conjurers, they all received me very cordially. These old conjurers had the same feelings toward me as those who made silver shrines for Diana of Ephesus had toward the first preachers of Christianity in their city. They trembled for their occupation. They well knew that if I succeeded in inducing the people to become Christians their occupation would be gone, and they would have to settle down to work for their own living, like other people, or starve. I visited them as I did the rest of the encampment, but they had enmity in their hearts toward me. Of all their efforts to injure or destroy me of course I knew not. That their threats were many I well understood; but He Who had said, "Lo, I am with you alway," mercifully watched over me and shielded me from their evil deeds. My two Indian attendants also watched as well as prayed, with a vigilance that seemed untiring. Very pleasant, indeed, are my memories of my faithful Indian comrades on those long journeys. Their loyalty and devotion could not be excelled. Everything that they could do for my safety and happiness was cheerfully done. We held three religious services every day, and between these services taught the people to read in the Syllabic characters. One day, in conversing with an old fine-looking Indian, I said to him, "What is your religion? If you have any clear idea of a religion, tell me in what you believe." His answer was; "We believe in a good Spirit and in a bad spirit." "Why, then," I said, "do you not worship the good Spirit? I came through your sacred grounds, and I saw where you had cut down some trees. Part you had used as fuel with which to cook your bear or deer meat; out of the rest you had made an idol, which you worship. How is one part more sacred than the other? Why do you make and worship idols?" I can never forget his answer, or the impressive and almost passionate way in which the old man replied:-- "Missionary, the Indian's mind is dark, and he cannot grasp the unseen. He hears the great Spirit's voice in the thunder and storms. He sees the evidences of His existence all around, but neither he nor his fathers have ever seen the great Spirit, or any one who has; and so he does not know what He looks like. But man is the highest creature that he knows of, and so he makes his idols like a man, and calls it his `Manito.' We only worship them because we do not know what the great Spirit looks like, but these we can understand." Suddenly there flashed into my mind the request of Philip to the Lord Jesus: "Show us the Father, and it sufficeth us;" and the wonderful answer: "Have I been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not known Me, Philip? He that hath seen Me hath seen the Father; and how sayest thou then, Show us the Father?" I opened my Indian Bible at that wonderful chapter of disinterested love, the fourteenth of John, and preached unto them Jesus, in His two natures, Divine and human. While emphasising the redemptive work of the Son of God, I referred to His various offices and purposes of love and compassion, His willingness to meet us and to save us from perplexity and doubt, as well as from sin. I spoke about Him as our elder Brother, so intimately allied to us, and still retaining His human form as He pleads for us at the throne of God. I dwelt upon these delightful truths, and showed how Christ's love had so brought him to us, that with the eye of faith we could see Him, and in Him all of God for which our hearts craved. "Whom having not seen, we love; in Whom, though now we see Him not, yet believing, we rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory." For many days I needed no other themes. They listened attentively, and the holy Spirit applied these truths to their hearts and consciences so effectively that they gladly received them. A few more visits effectually settled them in the truth. They have cut down their idols, filled up the dog-ovens, torn away the conjurers' tents, cleared the forest, and banished every vestige of the old life. And there, at what is called "the Meeting of the Three Rivers," on that very spot where idols were worshipped amidst horrid orgies, and where the yells, rattles, and drums of the old conjurers and medicine men were heard continuously for days and nights, there is now a little church, where these same Indians, transformed by the glorious Gospel of the Son of God, are "clothed and in their right mind, sitting at the feet of Jesus." My visits to Nelson River so impressed me with the fact of the necessity of some zealous missionary going down there and living among the people, that, in response to appeals made, the Reverend John Semmens, whose heart God had filled with missionary zeal, and who had come out to assist me at Norway House, nobly resolved to undertake the work. He was admirably fitted for the arduous and responsible task. But no language of mine can describe what he had to suffer. His record is on high. The Master has it all, and He will reward. Great were his successes, and signal his triumphs. At that place, where I found the stumps carved into idols, which Brother Semmens has so graphically described, the church, mainly through his instrumentality and personal efforts, has been erected. In the last letter which I have received from that land, the writer says: "The Indians now all profess themselves to be Christians. Scores of them by their lives and testimonies assure us of the blessed consciousness that the Lord Jesus is indeed their own loving Saviour. Every conjuring drum has ceased. All vestiges of the old heathenish life are gone, we believe for ever." "The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose." Grandly has this prophecy been fulfilled, and dwarfs into insignificance all the sufferings and hardships endured in the pioneer work which I had in beginning this Mission. With a glad heart I rejoice that "unto me, who am less than the least of all saints, is this grace given, that I should preach among the Gentiles the unsearchable riches of Christ." CHAPTER SIX. THE WILD NORTH LAND--THE TWO METHODS OF TRAVEL, BY CANOE AND DOG-TRAIN-- THE NATIVE DOGS--ST. BERNARD AND NEWFOUNDLAND DOGS--THE DOG SLEDS--THE GUIDE--THE DOG DRIVERS--THE LONG JOURNEYS--NIGHT TRAVELLING--WONDROUS VISIONS OF THE NIGHT. So destitute are these wild north lands of roads that there are really no distinct words in the languages of these northern tribes to represent land vehicles. In translating such words as "waggon" or "chariot" into the Cree language, a word similar to that for "dog-sled" had to be used. No surveyor, up to the years about which I am writing, had visited those regions, and there were literally no roads as understood in civilised lands. So numerous are the lakes and rivers that roads are unnecessary to the Indian in the summer time. With his light birch canoe he can go almost everywhere he desires. If obstructions block up his passage, all he has to do is to put his little canoe on his head, and a short run will take him across the portage, or around the cataracts or falls, or over the height of land to some other lake or stream, where he quickly embarks and continues his journey. All summer travelling is done along the water routes. Naturally the various trading posts and Indian villages or encampments are located on the edges of the lakes or rivers, or very near them, so as to be most conveniently reached in this way. So short are the summers that there are only about five months of open water to be depended upon in these high latitudes. During the other seven months the dog sled is the only conveyance for purposes of travelling. So rough and wild is the country that we know of no vehicle that could take its place, and no animals that could do the work of the dogs. As the years of toil rolled on, my Mission field or Circuit so enlarged that it extended irregularly north and south over five hundred miles, with a width in some places of over three hundred. In summer I travelled over it in a birch canoe, and in winter with my dog-trains. At first it seemed very novel, and almost like child's play, to be dragged along by dogs, and there was almost a feeling of rebellion against what seemed such frivolous work. But we soon found out that we had travelled in worse conveyances and with poorer steeds than in a good dog sled, when whirled along by a train of first-class dogs. The dogs generally used are of the Esquimaux breed, although in many places they have become so mixed up with other varieties as to be almost unrecognisable. The pure Esquimaux sled dogs are well-built, compact animals, weighing from eighty to a hundred and twenty pounds. They are of various colours, and have a close, warm, furry coat of hair. They have sharp-pointed ears and very bushy, curly tails. They are the most notorious thieves. I never could completely break an Esquimaux dog of this propensity. It seemed ingrained in their very natures. I have purchased young puppies of this breed from the natives, have fed them well, and have faithfully endeavoured to bring them up in the way in which they ought to go, but I never could get them to stay there. Steal they would, and did, whenever they had an opportunity. This serious defect may have been the result of the constant and unremitting neglect with which Indians generally treat their dogs. They are fond of them in a way, and are unwilling to part with them, except at a good price; yet, except when working them, they very seldom feed them. The dogs are generally left to steal their living, and some of them become very clever at it, as more than once I found to my sorrow. When the fisheries are successful, or many deer have been killed, the dogs, like their owners, are fat and flourishing. When food is scarce, the dogs' allowance is the first cut off. We could always tell at a glance, when a band of wild, wandering pagan Indians came in to visit our village from their distant hunting grounds, how they had prospered. If they and their dogs were fat and good-natured, they had had abundance of food. If, while the people looked fairly well, the dogs were thin and wolfish, we knew they had fared but moderately. If the dogs were all gone and the people looked gaunt and famine-stricken, we knew they had had hard times, and, as a last resort, had eaten their poor dogs to keep themselves alive. Some of the Indians who make a pretence to feed their dogs in winter never think of doing so in summer. The result is that, as they have to steal, hunt, or starve, they become adepts in one or the other. Everything that is eatable, and many things apparently uneatable, are devoured by them. They fairly howled with delight when they found access to such things as old leather moccasins, dog harness, whips, fur caps, mitts, and similar things. They greedily devoured all they could, and then most cunningly buried the rest. Many of them go off in summer- time on long fishing excursions. I once, when away on a canoe trip, met a pack of them up a great river over a hundred miles from their home. When we first saw them at a long distance, we mistook them for wolves, and began to prepare for battle. The quick eyes of my Indian canoe men soon saw what they were, and putting down our guns, we spent a little time in watching them. To my great surprise I found out that they were fishing on their own account. This was something new to me, and so I watched them with much interest. On the side of the river on which they were was a shallow, reedy marsh, where the water was from a few inches to a foot in depth. In these shallow waters, at certain seasons of the year, different varieties of fish are to be found. The principal is the Jack fish, or pike, some of which are over three feet long. As they crowd along in these shallows, often with their back fins out of the water, they are observed by the dogs, who quietly wade out, often to a distance of many yards, and seize them with such a grip that, in spite of their struggles, they are carried in triumph to the shore, and there speedily devoured. Sometimes the dogs will remain away for weeks together on these fishing excursions, and will return in much better condition than when they left. During the winter of the first Riel Rebellion, when all our supplies had been cut off, my good wife and I got tired of dining twenty-one times a week on fish diet, varied only by a pot of boiled musk rats, or a roast hind-quarter of a wild cat. To improve our bill of fare, the next summer, when I went into the Red River Settlement, I bought a sheep, which I carefully took out with me in a little open boat. I succeeded in getting it safely home, and put it in a yard that had a heavy stockade fence twelve feet high around it. In some way the dogs got in and devoured my sheep. The next summer, I took out a couple of pigs, and put them into a little log stable with a two-inch spruce plank door. To my great disgust, one night the dogs ate a hole through the door and devoured my pigs. There seemed to be a good deal of the wolf in their nature. Many of them never manifested much affection for their masters, and never could be fully depended upon. Still I always found that even with Esquimaux dogs patience and kindness went farther than anything else in teaching them to know what was required of them, and in inducing them to accept the situation. Some of them are naturally lazy, and some of them are incorrigible shirks; and so there is in dog-driving a capital opportunity for the exercise of the cardinal virtue of patience. As my Mission increased in size, and new appointments were taken up, I found I should have to be on the move nearly all the winter if those who longed for the Word of Life were to be visited. Do the best I could, there were some bands so remote that I could only visit them twice a year. In summer I went by canoe, and in winter by dog-train. After a few wretched experiences with native dogs, where I suffered most intensely, as much on account of their inferior powers as anything else, I began to think of the many splendid St. Bernard and Newfoundland dogs I had seen in civilised lands, doing nothing in return for the care and affection lavished upon them. These thoughts, which came to me while far from home, were promptly followed by action as soon as that terrible trip was ended, in which every part of my face exposed to the intense cold had been frozen, even to my eyebrows and lips. Missionary Secretaries were amused at the requisition for dogs, and had their laugh at what they called "my unique request," and wrote me to that effect. Thanks, however, to the kindness of such men as the Honourable Mr Sanford, of Hamilton, the Honourable Mr Ferrier, of Montreal, and other friends, I had in my possession some splendid dogs before the next season opened, and then the work went on with increasing interest and satisfaction. With splendid, well-trained dogs, I could so shorten the time of the three hundred miles' trip, that, instead of shivering seven or eight nights in a hole dug in the snow, we could reduce the number to four or five. Those who have experienced the sufferings and hardships of camping out in the forest with the temperature ranging from thirty to sixty degrees below zero, will agree that to escape two or three nights of it meant a good deal. I found by years of experience that the St. Bernard and Newfoundland dogs had all the good qualities, and none of the defects, of the Esquimaux. By kindness and firmness they were easily broken in, and then a whip was only an ornamental appendage of the driver's picturesque costume. Of these splendid dogs I often had in my possession, counting old and young, as many as twenty at a time. The largest and best of them all was Jack, a noble St. Bernard. He was black as jet, and stood over thirty-three inches high at his fore shoulder. When in good working trim, he weighed about a hundred and sixty pounds. He had no equal in all that northern land. Several times he saved my life, as we shall see further on. No whip ever ruffled his glossy coat; no danger ever deterred him from his work, when he with his marvellous intelligence once got to know what was expected of him. No blizzard storm, no matter how fickle and changeful, could lead him off from the desired camping place, even if the courage of other dogs failed them, and even though the guides gave up in despair. The distance we could travel with dogs depended of course very much on the character of the trail or route. On the frozen surface of Lake Winnipeg, when no blinding gales opposed us, and our dogs were good and loads not too heavy, we have made from seventy to ninety miles a day. One winter I accomplished the journey from Fort Garry to Norway House in five days and a half--a distance of nearly four hundred miles. When we were toiling along in the dense forests, where the snow lay deep and the obstructions were many, and the country was broken with hills and ravines, we often did not make more than a third of that distance, and then suffered much more than when we had made much greater journeys under more favourable auspices. The dog sleds are made of two oak or birch boards, about twelve feet long, eight or nine inches wide, and from half an inch to an inch thick. These two boards are fastened securely together, edge to edge, by crossbars. Then one of the ends is planed down thin, and so thoroughly steamed or soaked in hot water that it can easily be bent or curved up to form what is called the head of the sled. It is then planed smooth, and fitted out with side loops. The front ones are those to which the traces of the dogs are attached, and the others along the sides are used to fasten the load securely. When finished, allowing two or three feet for the curled-up head, a good dog sled is nine or ten feet long, and from sixteen to eighteen inches wide. Sometimes they are fitted with parchment sides and a comfortable back. Then they are called carioles. When the dogs were strong enough, or the trail was a well beaten one, or we were travelling on the great frozen lakes, I was able to ride the greater part of the time. Then it was not unpleasant or toilsome work. But as many of my winter trails led me through the primeval forests, where the snow was often very deep, and the hills were steep, and the fallen trees many, and the standing ones thickly clustered together, on such journeys there was but little riding. One had to strap on his snow shoes, and help his faithful Indians to tramp down the deep snow in the trail, that the poor dogs might drag the heavily loaded sleds along. Four dogs constitute a train. They are harnessed in tandem style, as all this vast country north of the fertile prairies is a region of forests. The Esquimaux style of giving each dog a separate trace, thus letting them spread out in a fan-like form, would never do in this land of trees and dense under-bush. The harness, which is made of moose skin, is often decorated with ribbons and little musical bells. Singular as it may appear, the dogs were very fond of the bells, and always seemed to travel better and be in greater spirits when they could dash along in unison with their tinkling. Some dogs could not be more severely punished than by taking the bells off their harness. The head dog of the train is called "the leader." Upon him depends a great deal of the comfort and success, and at times the safety, of the whole party. A really good leader is a very valuable animal. Some of them are so intelligent that they do not require a guide to run ahead of them, except in the most dense and unbeaten forest trails. I had a long-legged white dog, of mixed breed, that ever seemed to consider a guide a nuisance, when once he had got into his big head an idea of what I wanted him to do. Outside of his harness Old Voyager, as we called him, was a morose, sullen, unsociable brute. So hard to approach was he that generally a rope about sixty feet long, with one end fastened around his neck, trailed out behind him. When we wanted to catch him, we generally had to start off in the opposite direction from him, for he was as cunning as a fox, and ever objected to being caught. In zigzag ways we moved about until he was thrown off his guard, and then by-and- by it was possible to come near enough to get hold of the long rope and haul him in. When once the collar was on his neck, and he had taken his place at the head of the party, he was the unrivalled leader. No matter how many trains might happen to be travelling together, no one thought of taking first place while Old Voyager was at hand. Lake Winnipeg is very much indented with deep, wide bays. The headlands are from five to thirty miles apart. When dog-travelling on that great lake in winter, the general plan is to travel from headland to headland. When leaving one where perhaps we had slept or dined, all we had to do was to turn Old Voyager's head in the right direction, and show him the distant point to which we wished to go; and although it might be many miles away, a surveyor's line could not be much straighter than the trail our sleds would make under his unerring guidance. I have gone into these details about this mode of travelling, because there is so little known about it in the outside world. Doubtless it will soon become a thing of the past, as the Indians are settling down in their Reservations, and, each tribe or band having a resident Missionary, these long, toilsome journeys will not be essential. The companions of my long trips were the far-famed Indian runners of the north. The principal one of our party was called "the guide." To him was committed the responsibility of leading us by the quickest and safest route to the band of Indians we wished to visit with the good news of a Saviour's love. His place was in front of the dogs, unless the way happened to lead us for a time over frozen lakes or well-beaten trails, where the dogs were able to go on alone, cheered by the voice of their drivers behind. When the trail was of this description, the guide generally strode along in company with one of the drivers. As the greater part of my work was in the wild forest regions, there were many trips when the guide was always at the front. Marvellously gifted were some of these men. The reader must bear in mind the fact that there were no roads or vestiges of a path. Often the whole distance we wished to go was through the dense unbroken forest. The snow, some winters, was from two to four feet deep. Often the trees were clustered so closely together that it was at times difficult to find them standing far enough apart to get our sleds, narrow as they were, between them. In many places the under-brush was so dense that it was laborious work to force our way through it. Yet the guide on his large snowshoes was expected to push on through all obstructions, and open the way where it was possible for the dog-sleds to follow. His chief work was to mark out the trail, along which the rest of us travelled as rapidly as our loaded sleds, or wearied limbs, and often bleeding feet, would allow. Wonderfully clever and active were these guides in this difficult and trying work. To them it made but little difference whether the sun shone brightly, or clouds obscured the sky. On and on they pushed without hesitancy or delay. There were times when the sun's rays were reflected with such splendour from the snowy wastes, that our eyes became so affected by the glare, that it was impossible to travel by sunlight. The black eyes of the Indians seemed very susceptible to this disease, which they call "snow blindness." It is very painful, as I know by sad experience. The sensation is like that of having red-hot sand thrown on the eyeballs. Often my faithful dog-drivers used to suffer so from it that, stoical as they naturally are, I have known them to groan and almost cry out like children in the camp. Once, in travelling near Oxford Lake, we came across a couple of Indians who were stone-blind from this disease. Fortunately they had been able to reach the woods and make a camp and get some food ready ere total blindness came upon them. We went out of our course to guide them to their friends. To guard against the attack of this disease, which seldom occurs except in the months of March and April, when the increasing brightness of the sun, in those lengthening days, makes its rays so powerful, we often travelled only during the night-time, and rested in the sheltered camps during the hours of sunshine. On some of our long trips we have travelled eight nights continuously in this way. We generally left our camp about sundown. At midnight we groped about as well as we could, aided by the light of the stars or the brilliant auroras, and found some dry wood and birch bark, with which we made a fire and cooked a midnight dinner. Then on we went until the morning light came. Then a regular camp was prepared, and breakfast cooked and eaten, and the dogs were fed, instead of at night. Prayers said, and ourselves wrapped up in our blankets and robes, we slept until the hours of brilliant sunshine were over, when on we went. It always seemed to me that the work of the guides would be much more difficult at night than during the daytime. They, however, did not think so. With unerring accuracy they pushed on. It made no matter to them whether the stars shone out in all the beauty and brilliancy of the Arctic sky, or whether clouds arose and obscured them all. On the guide pushed through tangled underwood or dense gloomy forest, where there were not to be seen, for days, or rather nights, together, any other tracks than those made by the wild beasts of the forest. Sometimes the wondrous auroras blazed out, flashing and scintillating with a splendour indescribable. At times the whole heavens seemed aglow with their fickle, inconstant beauty, and then various portions of the sky were illumined in succession by their ever-changing bars, or columns of coloured light. Man's mightiest pyrotechnic displays dwarfed into insignificance in the presence of these celestial visions. For hours at a time have I been entranced amidst their glories. So bewildering were they at times to me that I have lost all ideas of location, and knew not which was north or south. But to the experienced guide, although, like many of the Indians, he had a keen appreciation of the beauties of nature, so intent was he on his duties that these changing auroras made no difference, and caused him no bewilderment in his work. This, to me, was often a matter of surprise. They are very susceptible in their natures, and their souls are full of poetry, as many of their expressive and beautiful names indicate. To them, in their pagan state, those scintillating bars of coloured light were the spirits of their forefathers, rank after rank, rushing out to battle. Yet, while on our long trips I have had Indians as guides who became intensely interested in these wondrous visions of the night, I never knew them to lose the trail or become confused as to the proper route. Very pleasant are my memories of different guides and dog-drivers. With very few exceptions they served me loyally and well. Most of them were devoted Christian men. With me they rejoiced to go on these long journeys to their countrymen who were still groping in the darkness, but most of them longing for the light. Many of them were capable of giving exhortations or addresses; and if not able to do this, they could, Paul- like, tell the story of their conversion, and how they had found the Saviour. My heart warms to those faithful men, my companions in many a storm, my bed-fellows in many a cold wintry camp. Memory brings up many incidents where they risked their lives for me, and where, when food was about exhausted, and the possibilities of obtaining additional supplies for days were very poor, they quietly and unostentatiously put themselves on quarter rations, for days together, that their beloved missionary might not starve. Some of them have finished their course. Up the shining trail, following the unerring Guide, they have gone beyond the auroras and beyond the stars right to the throne of God. CHAPTER SEVEN. ON THE TRAIL WITH THE DOGS, TO FIELDS RIPE FOR THE REAPER--THE PLACE-- THE TRIP--THE WINTER CAMP--THE BITTER COLD--ENDURING HARDNESS--DEATH SHAKING HANDS WITH US--MANY DAYS ON THE TRAIL. In January, 1869, I started on my first winter trip to Nelson River, to visit a band of Indians there, who had never yet seen a missionary or heard the glad tidings of salvation. Their principal gatherings were at the little trading post on the Burntwood River. Their hunting grounds extended so very far north that they bordered on those of the Esquimaux, with whom, however, the Indians have no dealings. Between these two races, the Indian and the Esquimaux, there is no affinity whatever. They differ very materially in appearance, language, customs, and beliefs. Though they will seldom engage in open hostilities, yet they are very rarely at peace with each other, and generally strive to keep as far apart as possible. The weather was bitterly cold, as the temperature ranged from thirty- five to fifty-five below zero. Our course was due north all the way. The road we made, for there was none ahead of the snow-shoe tracks of our guide, was a rugged, unbroken forest path. As the country through which we passed is rich in fur-bearing animals, we saw many evidences of their presence, and occasionally crossed a hunter's trail. We passed over twenty little lakes, averaging from one to thirty miles in diameter. Over these our dogs drew us very fast, and we could indulge in the luxury of a ride; but in the portages and wood-roads our progress was very slow, and generally all of us, with our snow-shoes on, and at times with axes in hand, had to tramp on ahead and pack the deep snow down, and occasionally cut out an obstructing log, that our dogs might be able to drag our heavily laden sleds along. Sometimes the trees were so thickly clustered together that it was almost impossible to get our sleds through them. At times we were testing our agility by climbing over fallen trees, and then on our hands and knees had to crawl under reclining ones. Our faces were often bleeding, and our feet bruised. There were times when the strap of my snowshoes so frayed and lacerated my feet that the blood soaked through the moccasins and webbing of the snowshoes, and occasionally the trail was marked with blood. We always travelled in Indian file. At the head ran or walked the guide, as the roads would permit. On these trips, when I got to understand dog- driving, I generally followed next; and behind me were three other dog- trains, each with an Indian driver. Sometimes the snow was so deep that the four dog-drivers went ahead of the dogs, immediately behind the guide, and, keeping in line with him, industriously packed down the snow, that the dogs might the more easily drag the heavy sleds along. The reason why our loads were so heavy was this. We were not in a country where, when night overtook us, we could find some hospitable home to welcome us. Neither were we where there were hotels or houses in which for money we could secure lodgings. We were in one of the most desolate and thinly inhabited parts of the world, where those who travel long distances see no human beings, except the Indian hunters, and these but rarely. Hence, in spite of all our efforts to make our loads as light as possible, they would be heavy, although we were only carrying what was considered absolutely essential. We had to take our provisions, fish for our dogs, kettles, tin dishes, axes, bedding, guns, extra clothing, and various other things, to meet emergencies that might arise. The heaviest item on our sleds was the fish for the dogs. Each dog was fed once a day, and then received two good white fishes, each weighing from four to six pounds. So that if the daily allowance for each dog averaged five pounds, the fish alone on each sled would weigh one hundred and twenty pounds, when we began a trip of a week's duration. Then the bitter cold and the vigorous exercise gave both the drivers and the missionary good appetites, and so the food provided for them was of no insignificant weight. We generally stopped about half an hour before sundown in order to have time, ere darkness enshrouded us, to prepare our camp. As we journeyed on we had observed that the guide who had been running along in front had been, for the last half hour or so, carefully scanning the forest to the right and left. At length he stopped, and as we came up to him we said, "Well, Tom, what is the matter?" His answer is, "Here is a capital place for our camp." "Why do you think so?" we ask. He replies, "Do you see those balsams? They will furnish us with a bed, and this cluster of dry, dead small trees will give us the wood we need for our fire." So we quickly set to work to prepare for our all-night stay in the woods. The dogs were soon unharnessed, and seemed thankful to get their heads out of their collars. They were never tied up, neither did they ever desert us, or take the back track for home. Some of the younger ones often organised a rabbit hunt on their own responsibility, and had some sport. The older and wiser ones looked around for the most cosy and sheltered spots, and there began to prepare their resting-places for the night. They would carefully scrape away the snow until they came to the ground, and there, with teeth and paws, would make the spot as smooth and even as possible. They would then curl themselves up, and patiently wait until they were called to supper. After unharnessing our dogs, our next work was with our axes, and there was a good sharp one for the Missionary, to cut down some of the green balsams and dry dead trees. Then using our snowshoes as shovels, from the place selected for our camp we soon scraped away the snow, piling it up as well as we could to the right, left, and in rear of where we were to sleep. On the ground thus cleared of snow we spread out a layer of the balsam boughs, and in front, where the wind would blow the smoke from us, we made up a large fire with the small dry trees which we had cut down. On this blazing log fire we put our two kettles, which we had filled with snow. When it melted down, we refilled the kettles, until enough water was secured. In the large kettle we boiled a piece of fat meat, of goodly size, and in the other we made our tea. On my first trip I carried with me a tin basin, a towel, and a cake of soap. At our first camp-fire, when the snow had been melted in our kettle, I asked the guide to give me a little of the water in my basin. Suspecting the purpose for which I wanted it, he said, "What are you going to do with it?" "Wash my face and hands," I replied. Very earnestly he answered, "Please, Missionary, do not do so." I was longing for a good wash, for I felt like a chimney-sweep. We had been travelling for hours through a region of country where, in the previous summer, great forest fires had raged, leaving many of the trunks of the trees charred and black. Against some of them we had often rubbed, and to some of them, or their branches, we had had to cling as we went dashing down some of the ravines. The result of these weary hours of toil amidst charred trunks was very visible, and I rejoiced that an opportunity had arrived when I could wash off the sooty stuff. Great indeed was my surprise to hear this strong protest on the part of my guide against my doing anything of the kind. "Why should I not wash?" I said, holding up my blackened hands. "You must not let water touch you out in the open air, when it is so very cold as it is to-day," was his answer. I was very inexperienced then, and not willing to lose my wash, which I so much needed, I did not heed the warning. Having a blazing fire before me and a good dry towel, I ventured to take the wash, and for a minute or two after felt much better. Soon, however, there were strange prickling sensations on the tops of my hands, and then they began to chap and bleed, and they became very sore, and did not get well for weeks. The one experiment of washing in the open air with the temperature in the fifties below zero was quite enough. In the following years I left the soap at home and only carried the towel. When very much in need of a wash, I had to be content with a dry rub with the towel. Mrs Young used to say, when I returned from some of these trips, that I looked like old mahogany. The bath was then considered a much-needed luxury. For our food, when travelling in such cold weather, we preferred the fattest meat we could obtain. From personal experience I can endorse the statements of Arctic explorers about the value of fat or oil and blubber as articles of food, and the natural craving of the system for them. Nothing else seemed to supply the same amount of internal heat. As the result of experience, we carried the fattest kind of meat. As soon as the snow was melted down in the larger of our kettles, meat sufficient for our party was soon put on and boiled. While it was cooking, we thawed out the frozen fish for our dogs. Such is the effect of the frost that they were as hard as stone, and it would have been cruel to have given them in that state to the noble animals that served us so well. Our plan was to put down a small log in front of the fire, so close to it that when the fish were placed against it, the intensity of the heat would soon thaw them out. The hungry dogs were ever sharp enough to know when their supper was being prepared; and as it was the only meal of the day for them, they crowded around us and were impatient at times, and had to be restrained. Sometimes, in their eagerness and anxiety for their food--for it often required a long time for the fire to thaw the fishes sufficiently for us to bend them--the dogs in crowding one before the other would get into a fight, and then there would be trouble. Two dogs of the same train very seldom fought with each other. Yoke-fellows in toil, they were too wise to try to injure each other in needless conflict. So, when a battle began, the dogs quickly ranged themselves on the sides of their own comrades, and soon it was a conflict of train against train. At first I thought it cruel not to feed them more frequently, but I found, as all experienced dog-drivers had told me, that one good meal a day was the best for them. So great were my sympathies for them that sometimes I would give them a good breakfast in the morning; but it did not turn out to be of any real benefit. The additional meal made them sluggish and short-winded, and they did not seem to thrive so well. Good white fish was the best food we could give them, and on this diet they could thrive and work as on no other. A goodly number of _dog-shoes_ were very necessary on these wild, rough trips. Dogs' feet are tender, and are liable to injury from various causes. On the smooth glare ice the pads of the feet would sometimes wear so thin that they bled a good deal. Then on the rough roads there was always the danger of their breaking off a claw or running a sliver through the webbing between the toes. Many of the wise old dogs that had become accustomed to these shoes, and thus knew their value, would suddenly stop the whole train, and by holding up an injured foot very eloquently, if mutely, tell the reason why they had done so. The dog-shoes are like heavy woollen mits without the thumbs, made in different sizes. When a foot is injured, the mit is drawn on and securely tied with a piece of soft deer-skin. Then the grateful dog, which perhaps had refused to move before, springs to his work, often giving out his joyous barks of gratitude. So fond do some of the dogs become of these warm woollen shoes that instances are known where they have come into the camp from their cold resting-places in the snow, and would not be content until the men got up and put shoes on all of their feet. Then, with every demonstration of gratitude, they have gone back to their holes in the snow. Our dogs having been fed, we next make our simple arrangements for our own supper. A number of balsam boughs are spread over the spot near the fires, from which the snow has been scraped away by our snowshoes. On these is laid our table-cloth, which was generally an empty flour bag, cut down the side. Our dishes, all of tin, are placed in order, and around we gather with vigorous appetites. It is fortunate that they are so good, as otherwise our homely fare would not be much prized. The large piece of fat meat is served up in a tin pan, and our pint cups are filled up with hot tea. If we are fortunate enough to have some bread, which was far from being always the case, we thaw it out and eat it with our meat. Vegetables were unknown on these trips. Our great staple was fat meat, and the fatter the better; morning, noon, and night, and often between times did we stop and eat fat meat. If we did vary the _menu_, it would be by making a raid on the dogs' supply, and in the evening camp cooking ourselves a good kettle of fish. As we dared not wash our hands or faces, of course such a thing as washing dishes was unknown. When supper was in progress, Jack Frost made us busy in keeping ourselves and provisions warm. I have seen the large piece of meat put back into the pot three times during the one meal, to warm it up. I have seen the ice gather on the top of the cup of tea that a few minutes before was boiling vigorously in the kettle. After supper wood was cut, to be in readiness for the morning's fire; and every break in clothes or harness was repaired, that there might be no delay in making a good start. Then the guide, who always had charge of all these things, when satisfied that all was arranged, would say, "Missionary, we are ready for prayers." The Bible and Hymn-book were brought out, and the Indians gathered round me, and there together we offered up our evening devotions. Would that our readers could have seen us! The background is of dense balsam trees, whose great drooping branches, partially covered with snow, sweep the ground. Above us are the bright stars, and, it may be, the flashing auroras. In front of us is the blazing fire, and scattered around us, in picturesque confusion, are our dog-sleds, snow-shoes, harness, and the other essentials of our outfit. A few of the dogs generally insisted on remaining up until their masters had retired, and they were now to be seen in various postures around us. With uncovered heads, no matter how intense the cold, my Christian Indians listened reverently, while in their own language I read from the precious volume which they have learned to love so well. Then together we sang a hymn. Frequently it would be the Evening Hymn, the first verse of which in their beautiful Cree language is as follows:-- "Ne mahmechemon ne muntome Kahke wastanahmahweyan, Kah nah way yemin Kechabyah Ah kwah-nahtahtah-kwahnaoon." After singing we bow in prayer. There is there, as there should be everywhere, a consciousness of our dependence upon the great Helper for protection and support, and so the prayer we sang:-- "Keep me, O keep me, King of Kings, Beneath Thine own Almighty wings." is indeed our heart's desire. Sometimes we are a hundred and fifty miles from the nearest human habitation. We are camping out in the woods in a hole dug in the snow. We have no walls around us but the snow thrown out of the place in which we are huddled, with perhaps the addition of some balsam boughs. We have no roof above us but the stars. There in that place we are going to lie down and try to sleep during that bitter cold night. The light fire will soon go out. A foot of snow may fall upon us, and its coming will be welcomed, as its warmth will lessen our shivering. Prowling grey wolves may come near us, but the terrible Frost King is more to be feared than they. Does anybody, who knows the efficacy of prayer, wonder that, as we draw near to God, "by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving," we crave the assurance of His favour and smile, and that He, Who never slumbers or sleeps, will be our Guardian and our Friend? After prayers we soon _retire to rest_. The guide's familiar words soon after prayers used to be, "Now, Missionary, I will make your bed." This was his work, and he was an adept at it. He first spread out a layer of evergreen boughs, and then on these he laid a large buffalo robe, and upon this a heavy blanket. Then, placing my pillow so that my head would be farthest away from the fire, he would say to me, "Now, if you will get into bed, I will cover you up and tuck you in." Such a thing as disrobing out there in a wintry camp is unknown, unless, as the result of the violent exercise of running all day, a person's underclothing has become very damp by perspiration, and it is not safe to sleep in it in that condition. Some travellers sleep in a fur bag, in which they manage to insert themselves, and then have it tightened around their necks. Then a large fur hood over the usual head-gear completes their sleeping apparel. I used to wrap myself up in a heavy overcoat over my usual apparel, and then putting on long buffalo-skin boots, fur mits, cap, cape, and big mufflers, considered myself rigged up for retiring. When thus wrapped, I used to have some difficulty in getting down into the bed, although it was only on the ground. When in position, the guide would throw over me another heavy blanket and fur robe. Then very skilfully, and in a way most motherly, he would begin at my feet and carefully tuck me in. Rapidly and deftly did he proceed with his work, and almost before I was aware of what he was doing, he had reached my head, which he began to cover completely up with the heavy robe which he seemed to be crowding down under my back and shoulders. The first time he packed me in in this manner I was only able to stand it for a minute or two, as I thought I should be smothered. So I very suddenly threw up my arms and sent the whole upper covering off in a hurry. "Do you wish to smother me, man?" I said. "I cannot live with my head covered up like that!" Without any annoyance at my having so quickly undone his work, he replied very kindly, "I know it must be hard work for you white people to sleep with your heads completely covered up, but you will have to do it here, or you will freeze to death. You must be very careful, for this seems to be a very cold night indeed." Then he called my attention to the distant thunder-like sounds which we had been hearing occasionally during the evening. That, he told me, was the ice, from four to six feet thick, on the great lake, cracking in the bitter cold. "Look at the smoke," he added. "See how it keeps very near the ground. It does that in the bitter cold nights." From the trees around us we heard occasionally a sharp pistol-like report, loud enough at times to make a nervous person fancy that lurking enemies were firing at us. The observant Indians say these loud reports are burstings in the trees caused by the freezing of the sap. Admiring his cleverness and kindness, I told him that I had been taught that every person requires so many cubic feet of fresh air; and, cold or no cold, how did he think I could get my share with my head covered up as he desired? "You must do with less out here," he said, as he proceeded to cover me up again, while I tried to arrange myself so that I could at least have a small portion of air. Kindly and patiently he humoured me, and then, when he had finished tucking me in, he said, "Now, Missionary, good-night; but don't stir. If you do, you may disarrange your coverings while you sleep, and you may freeze to death without waking up." "Don't stir!" What a command, I thought, to give a tired traveller whose bones ache from his long snow-shoe tramping in the woods, whose nerves and muscles are unstrung, and who, like others when thus fatigued, has even found it helpful to his rest and comfort to turn occasionally and stretch his limbs! In this frame of mind, and under this order, which, after all, I felt must be obeyed for fear of the dire results that might follow, I at length managed to fall asleep, for I was very weary. After a while I woke up to a state of semi-consciousness, and found myself tugging and pulling at what I thought in my dreamy condition was the end of an axe handle. The vague impression on my mind was, that some careless Indian had left his axe just behind my head, and in the night the handle had fallen across my face, and I had now got hold of the end of it. Fortunately for me, I very quickly after this woke fully up, and then found out that what I had imagined to be the end of an axe handle was my own nose; and a badly frozen one it was, and both of my ears were about in the same condition. With the guide's last orders in my ears, I think I must have gone to sleep all right, but I suppose, from the unusual smothering sensation, unconsciously I must have pushed down the robes from my face, and uncovered my head and my hand, and then gradually returned to consciousness with the above results. However, after a few nights of this severe kind of discipline, I at length became as able to sleep with my head covered up as an Indian. When a foot or eighteen inches of snow fell upon us, we rejoiced, for it added to our comfort, and caused us to sleep the better. Under this additional covering we generally rested a couple of hours longer than usual, often to make up for the loss of sleep of the previous nights, when we had found it impossible, or had considered it dangerous, to go to sleep. The hardest work and the most disagreeable is the getting up from such a bed in such a place. Often, in spite of the intense cold, we are in a kind of a clammy perspiration, on account of the many wraps and coverings about us. As we throw off these outer garments, and spring up in our camp, Jack Frost instantly assails us in a way that makes us shiver, and often some are almost compelled to cry out in bitter anguish. Fortunately the wood is always prepared the night before, and so, as quickly as possible, a great roaring fire is built up, and our breakfast of strong tea and fat meat is prepared and eaten with all speed. There were times when the morning outlook was gloomy indeed, and our position was not an enviable one. On one of my trips, of only a hundred and eighty miles, in order to save expense, I only took with me one companion, and he was a young Indian lad of about sixteen years of age. We each had our own train of dogs, and as Old Voyager was leader we guided him by voice alone, and he did not disappoint us. One morning, when we sprang up from our wintry camp-bed, we found that several inches of snow had fallen upon us during the night. As soon as possible we arranged our wood in order and endeavoured to kindle our fire. We had been late the previous evening in reaching this camping place, and so had to grope around in the rapidly increasing darkness for our wood. It was of very inferior quality, but as we had succeeded in cooking our suppers with part of it, we had not anticipated any trouble with the rest. The snow which had fallen upon it had not improved it, and so, as we lighted match after match, we were at first disgusted, and then alarmed, at finding that the poor stuff persistently refused to ignite. Of course we had to take our hands out of our big fur mits when trying to light the matches. Before we had succeeded in our attempts to start the fire our hands began to chill, and soon they were so powerless that we were not able to hold a match in our fingers. Very naturally we became alarmed, but we persevered as long as possible. I remember that, taking one of the matches between my teeth and holding up an axe before me, I tried to jerk my head quick enough to light it in that way, but the experiment was not a success. Suddenly there came the consciousness that we were not far from perishing if we could not make a fire. I quickly turned to my young comrade, and saw by the look in his face that he also grasped the situation, and was terrified at the outlook. "Alec," I said, "this is a serious thing for us." "Yes, Missionary," said he. "I am afraid we die here. If we can make no fire and have no breakfast, I am afraid we will freeze to death." "Not so bad as that yet, Alec," I said. "God is our refuge and help. He has given us other ways by which we can get warm. As quickly as possible get on your snow-shoes, and up with your hood and on with your mits, and I will do likewise, and now see if you can catch me." In much less time than I have taken to describe it, we were rigged up for rapid snow-shoe running, and were off. Away I rushed through the woods as rapidly as I could on my snow-shoes. The lad followed me, and thus we ran chasing and catching each other alternately as though we were a couple of boisterous schoolboys instead of a Missionary and his Indian companion striving to save themselves from freezing to death. After about half an hour of this most vigorous exercise, we felt the warmth coming back to our bodies, and then the hot blood began working its way out to our benumbed hands, and by-and-by we could bend our fingers again. When we felt the comfortable glow of warmth over our whole bodies, we rushed back again to the camp, and, gathering a quantity of birch bark which we found loosely hanging from the trees, and which is very inflammable, we soon had a good fire and then our hot breakfast. At our morning devotions which followed there was a good deal of thanksgiving, and the grateful spirit continued in our hearts as we packed up our loads, harnessed up our dogs, and sped on our way. It was a very narrow escape. The King of Terrors looked us both in the face that cold morning, and very nearly chilled us into death by the icy fingers of the Frost King. As the hours of daylight in the winter months in these high latitudes are so few, we generally roused ourselves up several hours before daylight. Often my kind-hearted men endeavoured to get up first, and have a rousing fire made and breakfast cooked, before I would awake. This, however, did not occur very often, as such a bed was not conducive to sleep; so, generally, after about four or five hours in such a state of suffocation, I was thankful to get up the instant I heard any one stirring. I would rather freeze to death than be suffocated. There were times not a few when I was the first to get up, and kindle the fire and cook the breakfast before I called my faithful wearied companions, who, long accustomed to such hardships, could sleep on soundly, where for me it was an absolute impossibility. Sometimes my men, when thus aroused, would look up at the stars and say "Assam weputch," _i.e._, "Very early." All I had to do was to look gravely at my watch, and this satisfied them that it was all right. The breakfast was quickly eaten, our prayers were said, our sleds loaded, dogs captured and harnessed--with the Esquimaux ones this was not always an easy task--and we were ready to start. Before starting we generally threw the evergreen brush on which we had slept on the fire, and by its ruddy, cheerful light began our day's journey. When some mornings we made from twenty-five to forty miles before sunrise, the Indians began to think the stars were about right after all, and the Missionary's watch very fast. However, they were just as willing to get on rapidly as I was, and so did not find fault with the way in which I endeavoured to hurry our party along. I paid them extra whenever the record of a trip was broken, and we could lessen the number of nights in those open-air camps in the snow. We were six days in making our first winter trip to Nelson River. In after years we reduced it to four days. The trail is through one of the finest fur-producing regions of the North-West. Here the wandering Indian hunters make their living by trapping such animals as the black and silver foxes, as well as the more common varieties of that animal. Here are to be found otters, minks, martens, beavers, ermines, bears, wolves, and many other kinds of the fur-bearing animals. Here the black bears are very numerous. On one canoe trip one summer we saw no less than seven of them, one of which we shot and lived on for several days. Here come the adventurous fur traders to purchase these valuable skins, and great fortunes have been made in the business. If, merely to make money and get rich, men are willing to come and put up with the hardships and privations of the country, what a disgrace to us if, for their souls' sake, we are afraid to follow in these hunters' trail, or, if need be, show them the way, that we may go with the glad story of a Saviour's love! CHAPTER EIGHT. NELSON RIVER--A DEMONSTRATIVE WELCOME--FIRST RELIGIOUS SERVICE--A FOUR HOURS' SERMON--THE CHIEF'S ELOQUENT REPLY--THE OLD MAN WITH GRANDCHILDREN IN HIS WIGWAM--"OUR FATHER"--"THEN WE ARE BROTHERS"--"YES"--"THEN WHY IS THE WHITE BROTHER SO LONG TIME IN COMING WITH THE GOSPEL TO HIS RED BROTHER?"--GLORIOUS SUCCESSES. It was at my second visit to Nelson River that the work really commenced. Through some unforeseen difficulty at the first visit, many of the natives were away. Hunting is even at the best a precarious mode of obtaining a livelihood. Then, as the movements of the herds of deer, upon the flesh of which many of these Indians subsist for the greater part of the year, are very erratic, it is often difficult to arrange for a place of meeting, where food can be obtained in sufficient abundance while the religious services are being held. It used to be very discouraging, after having travelled for several days together, either by canoe in summer, or dog-trains in winter, to reach a certain place which had been arranged for meeting, and find very few present. The deer, and other animals on which they had expected to live, had gone in another direction, and the Indians had been obliged to follow them. Everything, however, favoured us on our second visit. We found over fifty families camped at the place of meeting, and full of curiosity to see the Missionary. They had all sorts of strange notions in their minds. When Mr Rundle, of the English Wesleyan Church, first went among some of the wild tribes of the great Saskatchewan country, with his open Bible, preaching the wonderful Gospel truths, great was the excitement of the people to know where this strange man had come from. So a great council was summoned, and the conjurers were ordered to find out all about it. After a great deal of drumming and dreaming and conjuring, they gravely reported that this strange man with his wonderful book had been wrapped up in an envelope, and had come down from the Great Spirit on a rainbow! The Nelson River Indians welcomed me very cordially, and were much more demonstrative in their greetings than were any of the other tribes I had visited, although I had had my share of strange welcomes. Here the custom of handshaking was but little known, but the more ancient one of kissing prevailed. Great indeed was my amazement when I found myself surrounded by two hundred and fifty or three hundred wild Indians, men, women, and children, whose faces seemed in blissful ignorance of soap and water, but all waiting to kiss me. I felt unable to stand the ordeal, and so I managed to put them off with a shake of the hand, and a kind word or two. At eight o'clock the next morning we called the Indians together for the first public religious service which most of them had ever attended. They were intensely interested. My Christian Indians from Norway House aided me in the opening services, and, being sweet singers, added very much to the interest. We sang several hymns, read a couple of lessons from the Bible, and engaged in prayer. At about nine o'clock I read as my text those sublime words: "For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life." They listened with the most enrapt attention, while for four hours I talked to them of some of the truths of this glorious verse. They had never heard a sermon before; they were ignorant of the simplest truths of our blessed Christianity; and so I had to make everything plain and clear as I went along. I could not take anything for granted with that audience. So I had to take them back to the Creation and Fall. Then I spoke of God's love in providence and grace; and of His greatest act of love, the gift of His only begotten beloved Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, Who died that we might live. I dwelt on the benefits which come to us from the personal acceptance of this Saviour. I tried hard to show how we, who had wandered so far away, were invited back to actual adoption into God's great family, as a conscious reality. I spoke of the universality and impartiality of God's love; of His willingness to receive all, to fill our hearts with joy and peace, to comfort us all through life, to sustain us in death, and then to take us to everlasting life in a world of light and glory. The ever-blessed Spirit most graciously applied the truth, as I tried, in the simplest and plainest way, to bring it down to their comprehension. The attention they gave showed that my words were being understood. Their bright eyes glistened and at times were suffused with tears, and as I closed the long-pent-up silence gave place to loud exclamations of delight. Then we translated into their language and sang part of the good old hymn:-- "O for a thousand tongues to sing My great Redeemer's praise, The glories of my God and King, The triumphs of His grace!" Again we bowed in prayer, and, at my request, they repeated after me all the petitions which in short easy sentences we offered up to Him Who is the Hearer and Answerer of prayer. A spirit of awe and solemnity seemed to rest upon us. It was the first time the great majority had ever attempted to pray in the Name of Jesus, and I felt a sweet assurance that those simple petitions, from the hearts and lips of those poor Indians, were not despised by Him Whose great heart of love beats so true to all. After prayer I requested them all to again seat themselves on the ground, as I wished to hear from them about these great truths which I had come so far to tell them of. I wanted to know what were their wishes and determinations about becoming Christians. When I had finished, every eye turned towards the principal chief, as these Indians, like the other tribes, have their unwritten laws of precedence. He rose up from his place among his people, and, coming near me on my right hand, he made one of the most thrilling addresses I ever heard. Years have passed away since that hour, and yet the memory of that tall, straight, impassioned Indian is as vivid as ever. His actions were many, but all were graceful. His voice was particularly fine and full of pathos, for he spoke from his heart. Here is the bare outline of his speech, as, with my interpreter to aid me, I shortly afterwards wrote it down. "Missionary, I have long lost faith in our old paganism." Then pointing down to the outer edge of the audience, where some old conjurers and medicine men were seated, he said, "They know I have not cared for our old religion. I have neglected it. And I will tell you, Missionary, why I have not believed in our old paganism for a long time. I hear God in the thunder, in the tempest, and in the storm; I see His power in the lightning that shivers the tree into kindling wood; I see His goodness in giving us the moose, the reindeer, the beaver, and the bear; I see His loving-kindness in giving us, when the south winds blow, the ducks and geese; and when the snow and ice melt away, and our lakes and rivers are open again, I see how He fills them with fish. I have watched these things for years, and I see how during every moon of the year He gives us something; and so He has arranged it, that if we are only industrious and careful, we can always have something to eat. So thinking about these things which I had observed, I made up my mind years ago, that this Great Spirit, so kind and so watchful and so loving, did not care for the beating of the conjurer's drum, or the shaking of the rattle of the medicine man. So I for years have had no religion." Then turning towards me and looking me in the face, he said, in tones that thrilled me, "Missionary, what you have said to-day fills up my heart and satisfies all its longings. It is just what I have been expecting to hear about the Great Spirit. I am so glad you have come with this wonderful story. Stay as long as you can; and when you have to go away, do not forget us, but come again as soon as you can." Loud expressions of approval greeted these words of the chief. When he had finished, I said, "I want to hear from others, and I want your own views on these important things." Many responded to my request, and, with the exception of an old conjurer or two, who feared for their occupation, all spoke in the same strain as did the head chief. The last to speak was an old man with grizzly hair, and wild, excited movements. He was a queer, savage-looking man, and came from the rear of the company to the front with strange springy movements. His hair was braided, and reached to his knees. Threading his way through the audience, he came up close to me, and then, pushing his fingers into his hair as far as its braided condition would allow, he exclaimed in a tone full of earnestness, "Missionary, once my hair was as black as a crow's wing, now it is getting white. Grey hairs here, and grandchildren in the wigwam, tell me that I am getting to be an old man; and yet I never before heard such things as you have told us to-day. I am so glad I did not die before I heard this wonderful story. Yet I am getting old. Grey hairs here, and grandchildren yonder, tell the story. Stay as long as you can, Missionary, tell us much of these things, and when you have to go away, come back soon, for I have grandchildren, and I have grey hairs, and may not live many winters more. Do come back soon." He turned as though he would go back to his place and sit down; but he only went a step or two ere he turned round and faced me, and said, "Missionary, may I say more?" "Talk on," I said. "I am here now to listen." "You said just now, `Notawenan.'" ("Our Father.") "Yes," I said, "I did say, `Our Father.'" "That is very new and sweet to us," he said. "We never thought of the Great Spirit as Father: we heard Him in the thunder, and saw Him in the lightning, and tempest; and blizzard, and we were afraid. So, when you tell us of the Great Spirit as Father, that is very beautiful to us." Hesitating a moment, he stood there, a wild, picturesque Indian, yet my heart had strangely gone out in loving interest and sympathy to him. Lifting up his eyes to mine, again he said, "May I say more?" "Yes," I answered, "say on." "You say, `Notawenan'." ("_Our_ Father"). "He is your Father?" "Yes, He is my Father." Then he said, while his eyes and voice yearned for the answer, "Does it mean He is my Father--poor Indian's Father?" "Yes, O yes!" I exclaimed. "He is your Father too." "Your Father--missionary's Father, and Indian's Father, too!" he repeated. "Yes, that is true," I answered. "Then we are brothers?" he almost shouted out. "Yes, we are brothers," I replied. The excitement in the audience had become something wonderful. When our conversation with the old man had reached this point, and in such an unexpected, and yet dramatic manner, had so clearly brought out, not only the Fatherhood of God, but the oneness of the human family, the people could hardly restrain their expressions of delight. The old man, however, had not yet finished, and so, quietly restraining the most demonstrative ones, he again turned to me, and said,-- "May I say more?" "Yes, say on; say all that is in your heart." Never can I forget his answer. "Well, I do not want to be rude, but it does seem to me that you, my white brother, have been a long time in coming with that great Book and its wonderful story, to tell it to your red brothers in the woods." This question thrilled me, and I found it hard to answer. This is the question that millions of weary, longing, waiting souls, dissatisfied with their false religions, and craving for that soul rest which only can be found in the hearty acceptance of the glorious Gospel of the Son of God, are asking. I tried to apologise for the slowness of the advancement of the Redeemer's kingdom, and the apathy of those who, while acknowledging the brotherhood of humanity, so often forget that they are their brother's keeper. We closed the service for a brief period, and then, as soon as a hurried dinner had been eaten, we all assembled again for the afternoon service. This second service lasted for five hours. After singing and prayer, I read the beautiful story of the Ethiopian eunuch, and the Baptismal Service. I endeavoured to explain what we meant by becoming Christians, and stated that I was willing to baptize all who would renounce their paganism, with its polygamy, conjuring, gambling, and other vices, and from that time begin to worship the true God. Polygamy was the greatest stumbling-block among them, as some of them had three or four wives. Intemperance here is but little known, on account perhaps of the great difficulty of importing liquor into a region so remote from civilisation. After I had spent a long time in making clear the doctrines or the blessed Book, and had answered many questions, I invited all who were willing to comply with these conditions, and desired baptism, to come to the front of the audience, where I was standing. About forty men and women immediately responded, and came forward and seated themselves at my feet. Some were trembling, others were weeping: all seemed deeply moved. Then I read the beautiful Scripture lessons in connection with the baptismal service for children, and dwelt upon the love of Jesus for children, and His willingness to receive them. I invited the parents to consecrate their children to God, even if they themselves were as yet undecided. We had a solemn and impressive time. All desired new names, and for the great majority I had to make the selection. While baptizing them and selecting Christian names as additions to their generally poetic and expressive Indian names, my constant prayer was, that they might "see His face, and His name" be Written "in their foreheads." Still there was some opposition. Satan would not thus easily be dispossessed or driven out. Old conjurers and medicine men, faithful followers of the enemy, quickly began their opposition. Their selfish natures were aroused. They were shrewd enough to see that if I succeeded, as I was likely to do, they, like Demetrius, the shrine-maker of Diana, would soon be without an occupation. So at this afternoon gathering they were there to oppose. But they were in such a helpless minority that they dared do no worse than storm and threaten. One savage old conjurer rushed up to me, just as I was about to baptize his wife, who, with many others, had come for this sign and seal of her acceptance of Christ. Before I had perceived his purpose, or had power to stop him, he seized and shook her roughly, and, looking at me, in his impotent wrath, said in an insulting manner,-- "Call her Atim," ("dog"). "No," I said, looking kindly at the poor trembling woman, "I will do nothing of the kind; but I will give her the sweetest name ever borne by woman, for it was the name of the mother of Jesus." So I baptized her Mary. We spent several days in giving lessons in the Syllabic characters between the religious services, three of which we endeavoured to hold each day. Sometimes we assembled all the people together, and, with these characters marked on the side of a rock with a burnt stick, we taught them as best we could. At other times we went from tent to tent, and gave them lessons, and had religious conversation and prayer. It was on one of these rounds of wigwam visitations that I came across Pe-pe-qua-na-pua, or Sandy Harte, the story of whose life and conversion has been so widely circulated. Several acquired such a knowledge of these characters that, by persevering for a few weeks, they were able to read very nicely in the blessed Book. I left with them several dozen copies of the New Testament, Hymn-books, and Catechisms, in their own language. So great was their anxiety for religious instruction, that many of them remained for three days after they had eaten all of their provisions. When I first heard this, I could hardly credit it, but found out by personal investigation that it was the actual fact. With tears in their eyes they bade me farewell, and said, that on account of their famishing children they must start off for their fishing and hunting grounds. But they added, "What we have heard from you will make us glad and thankful all the time." With my faithful travelling companions, I made a trip out from Nelson River to another small band about thirty miles away. We spent the Sabbath in a miserable wigwam, where the snow and sleet dashed in upon us, making us shiver in spite of all we could do. Still, as the poor Indians were anxious to hear the Gospel, we soon forgot our physical discomforts in the joy of preaching this great salvation. Nineteen of them accepted Christ as their Saviour, and were baptized. We held a meeting for the purpose of hearing them tell of their wishes as to this blessed religion. Many very interesting things were said. We here record only one. A fine-looking man said, "What has fully decided me to endeavour to be a good Christian all my days is this. The Missionary has told us many reasons, all sufficient to decide us; but the one that came very near to my heart was, that all the little children who have died have been taken to that better land, and there they are with the loving Saviour in heaven. My little ones have passed away, leaving my heart sore and bleeding. I yearn after them; I long to meet them again. So I want so to live that when I die Jesus will permit me to embrace them, and never be separated from them again." On this trip, we found at another small encampment a young girl, about twelve years of age, dying of consumption. I talked to her of Jesus and heaven, and prayed with her several times. When the closing scene drew near, she said to her sorrowing mother, "I am glad the praying man has told me such words of comfort. I have lost that dread of death I had. I believe that dear Jesus will take me to that better land; but, mother, when you come, will you look for me until you find me? for I do wish to see you again." Is it any wonder that I became deeply attached to these Nelson River Indians? I visited them twice a year, and by pen and voice pleaded for them until my heart's desire was obtained, and a brother beloved volunteered to go and live among them. Of him with joy I write. CHAPTER NINE. A WELCOME ACCESSION--THE REVEREND JOHN SEMMENS--A DEVOTED YOUNG MISSIONARY--FIRST TO RESIDE AT NELSON RIVER--IN LABOURS AND IN PERILS OFT--IN JOURNEYINGS OFT BY DOG-TRAINS TOGETHER--THE CENTENARIAN OLD CHRISTIAN--WILLIAM PAPANEKIS--HIS GODLY LIFE AND WONDROUS TRANSLATION. One cold wintry morning we were gladdened by the arrival of a dear brother and colleague in the work, the Reverend John Semmens, who had left a comfortable charge in Ontario, and had come out to help me in the prosecution of the blessed work. Brother Semmens had to taste, early in his missionary work among the Indians, some of the dangers incident to such a life. He came to us at Norway House in the depth of the winter, and suffered much from the intense cold and blizzard storms. One night, while trying to rest in the camp in the woods on his way out, a fierce storm blew down a large tree, which fell very close to him. Providentially no one was hurt. He soon became very popular among the Indians, for whom he subsequently gave many years of successful, self-denying toil. His presence with us in our home was a great joy. None but those who have been deprived of the pleasure of the society and fellowship of kindred spirits can realise what a benediction this sweet-spirited and devoted young brother was in our home. With one great object before us, that of doing the greatest possible good we could to the Indians among whom we were called to labour, and fortunately seeing "eye to eye" as to the methods of our work, we spent some months and broken years in harmony in doing what we could. Brother Semmens' name will ever be associated with the Nelson River Mission, as he was the first missionary to go and live in that region of country and among those wandering Aborigines, who had received me with such expressions of joy when on my visits, so few, alas! and far between. Very many indeed were Mr Semmens' hardships. Their wandering life made his work slow and at times discouraging. He had not at first a knowledge of their language, and could not always get an interpreter. However, as the love of Christ was the constraining motive, he persevered, and great indeed was his success among them. We will not here insert any of the many thrilling incidents of his romantic pioneer work among them. We hope that from his fluent pen will come his own record, which will be a very valuable addition to missionary literature. Often did we, like the early ones sent out by the Master in pairs, go together on some long and difficult exploring tours. At many a camp-fire and in many a wigwam have we talked and pleaded with the wandering Indians, and have besought them to be reconciled to God. Hundreds of miles have we tramped on together, until our limbs were cramped and our feet were bleeding; and then, in the cold camp after supper and prayers, have we crowded in close together under the same robes and tried to sleep. Will either of us ever forget the trip in to District Meeting at Winnipeg, where on the great Lake we got separated from the rest of our party, but by rapid travelling reached the comfortable home and cordial welcome of our beloved Chairman, the Reverend George Young, thus escaping the terrible blizzard in which so many suffered? Then the return trip was equally exciting and perilous. We left Winnipeg on the Saturday afternoon with our heavily loaded dog sleds. At Mr Sifton's, near Selkirk, we were cordially welcomed, and here we remained in quiet rest and joyous worship during the Sabbath day. When the clock struck the hour of midnight, we exchanged our black clothes for our leather suits. We harnessed up our dogs, and then, after eating a midnight meal, we bade our host and hostess farewell, and pushed out under the stars on our long journey to the far North. Mr Semmens' journey would not be finished until he was six or seven hundred miles nearer the North Pole. Mr Sifton told me in after years, that they could only sit there and weep as they thought of our starting off in the bitter cold and gloom of that midnight hour on such a journey. Missionary work to them from that hour took on itself additional interest, and ever after much greater, if possible, was their love for those who for His sake were willing to endure hardness in extending the knowledge of His Name. Ere the sun rose, we were near the Willow Islands, and there we had our breakfast. It was getting late in the winter season, and so the reflection of the brilliant rays of the sun on the dazzlingly white snowy waste of Winnipeg gave us both a touch of snow-blindness. Still, as we could see a little, we only stopped when it was necessary, and rapidly hurried on. When about twenty miles from Beren's River night came down upon us; but I could not bear the idea of having again to sleep in a miserable camp when home was so near, for at this time I was in charge of the new work among the Saulteaux. So I said to Brother Semmens, and to our two well-disciplined dog-drivers, "Courage, men, a little longer; let us not stop here in the bitter cold when our homes are so near." The Indians responded with a will, and rejoiced that we were to go on. But my beloved Brother Semmens was completely tired out, and my heart was filled with sorrow as I saw how utterly exhausted he was. Throwing himself down on the cold, icy surface of the lake, he said, "Throw me out a blanket and a piece of pemmican, and leave me here. I cannot go a step further. The rest of you have wives and children to lure you on to your homes; I have none. I can go no farther. My feet are bleeding from the straps of my snowshoes. I will stay here. Never mind me." Thus the dear fellow talked, for he was exhausted and discouraged. I did not feel much better, but I tried to put a bold face on the matter, and I said, "No, indeed, we will not leave you here. We are going on, and we are going to take you with us; and a good supper under a roof, and then a warm bed, are to be yours before morning comes." One of my dogs, called Muff, a magnificent but over-ambitious St. Bernard, the gift of Mrs Andrew Allen, of Montreal, had broken her collar-bone during this trip. The plan generally adopted, when such an accident happens to one of the dogs, was to kill it at once, and then push on with the diminished train. However, as Muff was such a valuable dog, and there was a possibility of her recovering, I decided to carry her home, although we were a long distance from it. I so arranged my sled that she could ride upon it, and she soon became quite reconciled to her place. But it meant a good deal of hard running for me. Before the accident occurred, I could ride a great part of the time, although we had over six hundred pounds weight upon the sled. However, as Jack was one of the train, I was able to ride when the ice was good. Now, however, with one dog less in the train, and that one as so much additional weight on the sled, it meant the end of my riding for that trip. Very quickly did I decide how to act in order to help my dear companion in tribulation. With our axes my Indians and myself chopped a hole in the solidly packed snow and ice near the shore of the lake. In this we spread out a buffalo robe, and on it we placed the injured dog. Then around her we placed the greater part of the load of the dog-sled, and then covered all up as well as we could with the large deer-skin sleigh wrapper. Giving the dog orders to guard well the supplies from prowling wild animals, and making a large number of tracks as an additional precaution, we left Muff there with her goods. Then we drove the dogs over to the spot where Mr Semmens lay, and, wrapping him well up in robes and putting a little pillow under his head, we tied him on the sled, and started off on the last stage of our journey. We were all so weary that we made but slow progress, and it was after midnight ere the welcome Mission House was reached, and we were within the walls of home. Mr Semmens had fortunately slept most of the way. A good supper, after a warm bath, and then a long, sweet, dreamless sleep, that lasted until nearly noon of the next day, wonderfully refreshed his spirits, and as he came down and greeted us, his first words were, "O Egerton, I am so glad you did not leave me there to perish on the ice!" Still in his prime, with a noble wife and precious children around him, he is in that land doing good service for the Master. From him we yet expect to hear good tidings, for in physical strength and mental equipment and thorough consecration to his work he is the peer of any who there toil. THE CENTENARIAN. One of the first Indians to attract our attention at Norway House was a venerable-looking old man of more than usual height. His appearance was quite patriarchal. His welcome had been most cordial, and his words seemed to us like a loving benediction. He called us his children, and welcomed us to our home and work in the name of the Lord Jesus. As he was very aged, and had to come a long distance from his home to the Sunday morning service, we invited him, on the first Sunday after our arrival at the Mission, to dine with us. He was very grateful, and said this would enable him to remain for the afternoon native service, which he dearly prized. He was not only a blessed Christian, but a natural gentleman. We were so drawn towards him that we invited him to dine with us, and then rest awhile, each Sabbath between the services. Like all the old Indians, his age was unknown, but it must have been over a century, as men above fifty said he was called an old man when they were boys. The fact that his name had been on the Hudson's Bay Company's book for eighty years, as a skilful hunter, makes it quite safe to class him as a centenarian. His testimony to the blessedness of the Gospel was very clear and delightful. He "knew Whom he had believed," and ever rejoiced in the blessed assurance that he would have grace given to keep him to the end. He was one of the first converts of the early Missionaries, and had remained true and steadfast. He had been a successful Class Leader for many years, and faithfully and well did he attend to his duties. If any of his members were not at the meeting, he knew the reason why before the next evening, if they were within five or six miles of his home. As he lived a couple of years after we reached the Mission, we got to be very well acquainted, and it was ever a blessing to talk to him of spiritual things. I had a very convincing evidence one day of the thoroughness with which he had renounced his old pagan life and its sinful practices. We had been talking on various subjects, and the matter of different kinds of beliefs came up. As he had a very retentive memory, and I had been told that he was the best authority on old Indian religions and superstitions, I took out of my pocket a note- book and pencil, and said, "Mismis" (English, "Grandfather"), "I want you to tell me some things about your old conjurings and religions. I may want to write a book some time, and put some of these things in it." The dear old man's face became clouded, and he shook his head and remained silent. I urged my request, saying I felt certain he, from his great age, must have much to talk about. For his answer, he sat down in his chair, and, putting his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands, and seemed lost in a kind of reverie. I waited for a few minutes, for all was hushed and still. His family had heard my question, and they had become intensely interested. The silence became almost painful, and so I said in a cheery strain, "Come, grandfather, I am waiting to write down what you have to say." Suddenly he sprang up in a way that startled us all, and, stretching out his hand like an orator, he began:-- "Missionary! the old wicked life is like a nightmare, like a bad dream, like a terrible sickness that made us cry out with pain. I am trying to banish it, to forget it, to wipe it out of my memory. Please do not ask me to talk about it, or to bring it up. I could not sleep; I should be miserable." Of course I put up my book and pencil, and did not further trouble the dear old man, who seemed so loth to talk about his old belief. The next Sunday after this interview we had a Fellowship Meeting in the church. One of the first to speak was this venerable grandfather. He said, "The Missionary wanted me to talk to him about my old religion. I could not do it. It was my enemy. It only made me miserable. The more I followed it, the more unhappy I was. So I have cast it out of my life, and from my heart. Would that I could wash it out of my memory!" Then he added, "But perhaps the memory of it helps to make me love my Saviour better, as I can remember from what He has saved me. I was so far from him, and so dark and sinful He reached down His strong arm and lifted me out of the dark place, and put me into the light. O, I am so thankful Jesus saves me, and I love to talk about it." And he did talk about it, and our hearts rejoiced with him. Of him it could be truthfully said, "What he once loved he now hates, and does it so thoroughly that he does not even wish to talk about it." While writing these pleasant memories, perhaps I cannot do better than here record the remarkable closing scenes of the life of this venerable old man, the patriarch of the village. His family was a large one. He had several sons. Worthy, excellent men they were. About some of them we shall have interesting things to say. The youngest, Edward, it was my joy to lead into the sweet assurance that his sins were all forgiven. In July, 1889, he was ordained, in Winnipeg, to the office and work of the Christian ministry. Martin, another of his sons, was one of my most loved and trusted guides, and my companion, for thousands of miles, in birch canoe by summer, and dog-trains by winter. We have looked death in the face together many times, but I never knew him to flinch or play a coward's part. Supplies might fail, and storms and head-winds delay us, until starvation stared us in the face, and even the Missionary himself began to question the wisdom of taking these wild journeys where the chances were largely against our return, when from Martin, or one of the others, would come the apt quotation from the Sacred Word, or from their musical voices the cheering hymn which said,-- "Give to the winds thy fears; Hope, and be undismayed: God hears thy sighs, and counts thy tears, God shall lift up thy head. "Through waves and clouds and storms He gently clears thy way: Wait thou His time, so shall this night Soon end in joyous day." Very precious and very real were many of the blessed promises, and their fulfilment, to us in those times of peril and danger, when death seemed to be so near, and we so helpless and dependent upon the Almighty arm. Another son of this old saint was Samuel, the courageous guide and modest, unassuming Christian. He was the one who guided his well-loaded brigade up the mighty Saskatchewan river to the rescue of the whites there, and having safely and grandly done his work, "holding on to God," went up the shining way so triumphantly that there lingered behind on his once pallid face some radiance of the glory like that into which he had entered; and some seeing it were smitten with a longing to have it as their portion, and so, then and there, they gave themselves to God. Of him we shall hear more farther on. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One day when the venerable father met his class, he told his members that his work was nearly done, and very soon indeed he expected to pass over to the better land. Although as well as he had been for months, yet he had a premonition that the end of his life was near. Very lovingly and faithfully did he talk to them, and exhorted them to be faithful to the end. The next day he sent for me, and requested me to appoint one of his sons as leader of his class, if I thought him worthy of the place. I said, "We do not want to lose you. Your class members all love you. Why resign your position?" A strange look in his face told me that he had set his heart on joining another company, and that it seemed as though he were only postponing his departure until his little affairs on earth were set in order. "I am going very soon now, and I want to have everything settled before I go; and I shall be so glad to see my son William leader of my class, if you think it best." As the son was a most excellent man the appointment was made, much to the aged father's delight. The next day he had assembled all the old members who had renounced paganism and become Christians at the same time as he did, over thirty years before. There were enough of them to fill his house, and all came who possibly could. They sang and prayed together, and then he stood up before them and addressed them in loving and affectionate words. As I sat there and looked upon the scene, while, for about an hour, he was reviewing the past, and talking of God's goodness in bringing them out of paganism, and conferring so many blessings upon them, I thought of Joshua's memorable gathering of the elder people at Shechem to hear his dying charge. At his request I administered to them all, and those of his many relations who were worthy, the sacrament of the Lord's Supper. It was a most impressive time. He Whose dying we celebrated seemed in Spirit very blessedly near. Then perhaps another hour was spent, at his desire, in singing his favourite hymns and in prayer. He entered with great spirit into the devotions, and many said afterwards, "Heaven seemed very near." I shook hands with him and said, "Goodbye," and returned to my home. With the exception of a little weariness on account of the exciting services through which he had passed, I saw no change in him. His voice was just as cheery, his eye as bright, his grip as firm as usual, and I saw no reason why he should not live a good while yet. About an hour after, while talking the matter over with Mrs Young, and giving her some of the specially interesting incidents of the memorable services with our dear old friend, there was a sudden call for me by an Indian, who, rushing in without any ceremony, exclaimed, "Come quickly; grandfather is dead!" I hurriedly returned with him, and found that the aged patriarch had indeed passed away. They told me that after I had left them he continued for a time to speak loving words of counsel and advice to them. Then, as had been his habit, he lay down on his bed, and drew his blanket around him, as though prepared for rest. As they knew he must be weary, they kept very still, so as not to disturb him. Not hearing him breathe, one of them touched him, and found that he had fallen into that sleep which here knows no waking. He was not, for God had taken him. It was a remarkable death. The great difficulty among us seemed to be, to realise the presence of death at all. He suffered from no disease, and never complained of pain. His mind was unclouded till the last. In his humble position he had done his work, and done it well; and so now, with all the confidence of a loving child resting in the arms of a mother, he laid his head down on the bosom of his Lord. With rejoicings, rather than weepings, we laid in the little graveyard all that was mortal of William Papanekis. We missed him very much, for his presence was like the sunshine, and his prayers were benedictions upon us all. CHAPTER TEN. REVEREND JAMES EVANS, THE PEERLESS MISSIONARY--HIS JOURNEYS BY CANOE AND DOG-TRAIN--THE CREE SYLLABIC CHARACTERS, HIS INVENTION--LORD DUFFERIN'S WORDS CONCERNING HIM--HIS SUCCESSES--HIS TRIALS--ACCIDENTAL SHOOTING OF HIS INTERPRETER--SURRENDERING HIMSELF TO THE AVENGERS--ADOPTED INTO A PAGAN FAMILY--VISIT TO ENGLAND--SUDDEN DEATH. Without any question, the Reverend James Evans was the grandest and most successful of all our Indian Missionaries. Of him it can be said most emphatically, "While others have done well, he excelled them all." In burning zeal, in heroic efforts, in journeyings oft, in tact that never failed in many a trying hour, in success most marvellous, in a vivacity and sprightliness that never succumbed to discouragement, in a faith that never faltered, and in a solicitude for the spread of our blessed Christianity that never grew less, James Evans stands among us without a peer. If full accounts of his long journeys in the wilds of the great North- West could be written, they would equal in thrilling interest anything of the kind known in modern missionary annals. There is hardly an Indian Mission of any prominence to-day in the whole of the vast North- West, whether belonging to the Church of England, the Roman Catholic, or the Methodist Church, that James Evans did not commence; and the reason why the Methodist Church to-day does not hold them all is, because the apathetic Church did not respond to his thrilling appeals, and send in men to take possession and hold the fields as fast as they were successfully opened up by him. From the northern shores of Lake Superior away to the _ultima Thule_ that lies beyond the waters of Athabasca and Slave Lakes, where the Aurora Borealis holds high carnival; from the beautiful prairies of the Bow and Saskatchewan Rivers to the muskegs and sterile regions of Hudson's Bay; from the fair and fertile domains of Red and Assinaboia Rivers, to the foot-hills of the Rocky Mountains, enduring footprints of James Evans may still be seen. At many a camp-fire, and in many a lonely wigwam, old Indians yet linger, whose eyes brighten and whose tongues wax eloquent as they recall that man whose deeds live on, and whose converts from a degrading paganism are still to be counted by scores. Many a weary hour has been charmed away, as I have listened to Papanekis the elder, or Henry Budd, or some other old Indian guide or dog-driver, or canoe-man, while they rehearsed the thrilling adventures, the narrow escapes, the wonderful deliverances, and also some of the tragic events, through which they passed in company with the "Nistum Ayumeaookemou," the "first Missionary." The dog-drivers loved to talk about Mr Evans' wonderful train of half dogs, half wolves, with which for years he travelled. With great enthusiasm they would talk of their marvellous speed and endurance, of their fierceness and sagacity; of how, when the nights in the wintry camps were unusually cold--say fifty or sixty degrees below zero--these fierce animals would crowd into the camp, and, lying on their backs, would hold up both their fore and hind feet, and thus mutely beg for some one to have compassion upon them and put on the warm woollen dog- shoes. His canoe trips were often of many weeks' duration, and extended for thousands of miles. No river seemed too rapid, and no lake too stormy, to deter him in his untiring zeal to find out the Indian in his solitudes, and preach to him the ever-blessed Gospel. Ever on the look- out for improvements to aid him in more rapid transit through the country, Mr Evans constructed a canoe out of sheet tin. This the Indians called the "Island of light," on account of its flashing back the sun's rays as it glided along propelled by the strong paddles in the hands of the well trained crew. With them they carried in this novel craft solder and soldering-iron, and when they had the misfortune to run upon a rock they went ashore and quickly repaired the injured place. Mr Evans had been for years a Minister and Missionary in the Canadian Methodist Church. With the Reverend William Case he had been very successfully employed among the Indians in the Province of Ontario. When the English Wesleyan Society decided to begin work among the neglected tribes in the Hudson's Bay Territories, the Reverend James Evans was the man appointed to be the leader of the devoted band. In order to reach Norway House, which was to be his first principal Mission, his household effects had to be shipped from Toronto to England, and thence reshipped to York Factory on the Hudson Bay. From this place they had to be taken up by boats to Norway House in the interior, a distance of five hundred miles. Seventy times had they to be lifted out of these inland boats and carried along the portages around falls and cataracts ere they reached their destination. Mr Evans himself went by boat from Toronto. The trip from Thunder Bay in Lake Superior to Norway House was performed in a birch bark canoe. Hundreds of Indians listened to his burning messages, and great good was done by him and his faithful companions in arms, among them being the heroic Mr Barnley, and Mr Rundle, of the English Wesleyan Church. The great work of Mr Evans' life, and that with which his name will be ever associated, was undoubtedly the invention and perfecting of what is now so widely known as the Cree Syllabic Characters. What first led him to this invention was the difficulty he and others had in teaching the Indians to read in the ordinary way. They are hunters, and so are very much on the move, like the animals they seek. To-day their tents are pitched where there is good fishing, and perhaps in two weeks they are far away in the deep forests, where roam the reindeer, or on the banks of streams where the beavers build their wonderful dams and curious homes. The constant thought in this master Missionary's mind was, "Can I possibly devise a plan by which these wandering people can learn to read more easily?" The principle of the characters which he adopted is phonetic. There are no silent letters. Each character represents a syllable; hence no spelling is required. As soon as the alphabet is mastered, and a few additional secondary signs, some of which represent consonants, and some aspirates, and some partially change the sound of the main character, the Indian student, be he a man or woman of eighty, or a child of six years, can commence at the first chapter of Genesis and read on, slowly of course at first, but in a few days with surprising ease and accuracy. Many were Mr Evans' difficulties in perfecting this invention and putting it in practical use, even after he had got the scheme clear and distinct in his own mind. He was hundreds of miles away from civilisation. Very little indeed had he with which to work. Yet with him there was no such word as failure. Obtaining, as a great favour, the thin sheets of lead that were around the tea-chests of the fur traders, he melted these down into little bars, and from them cut out his first types. His ink was made out of the soot of the chimneys, and his first paper was birch bark. After a good deal of effort, and the exercise of much ingenuity, he made a press, and then the work began. Great indeed was the amazement and delight of the Indians. The fact that the bark could "talk" was to them most wonderful. Portions of the Gospels were first printed, and then some of the beautiful hymns. The story of this invention reached the Wesleyan Home Society. Generous help was afforded. A good supply of these types was cast in London, and, with a good press and all the essential requisites, including a large quantity of paper, was sent out to that Mission, and for years it was the great point from which considerable portions of the Word of God were scattered among the wandering tribes, conferring unnumbered blessings upon them. In later years the noble British and Foreign Bible Society has taken charge of the work; and now, thanks to their generosity, the Indians have the blessed Word scattered among them, and thousands can read its glorious truths. All the Churches having Missions in that great land have availed themselves, more or less, of Mr Evans' invention. To suit other tribes speaking different languages, the characters have been modified or have had additions to them, to correspond with sounds in those languages which were not in the Cree. Even in Greenland the Moravian Missionaries are now using Evans' Syllabic Characters with great success among the Esquimaux. When Lord Dufferin was Governor-General of the Dominion of Canada, hearing that a couple of Missionaries from the Indian tribes were in Ottawa, where he resided, he sent a courteous request for us to call upon him. With two or three friends, Mr Crosby, our successful and energetic Missionary from British Columbia, and I, obeyed the summons. The interview was a very pleasant and profitable one. Lord Dufferin questioned Mr Crosby about British Columbia and his work, and was pleased to hear of his great success. After a bright and earnest conversation with me in reference to the Indians of the North-West Territories, in which his Excellency expressed his solicitude for the welfare and happiness of the aboriginal tribes of red men, he made some inquiries in reference to missionary work among them, and seemed much pleased with the answers I was able to give. In mentioning the help I had in my work, I showed him my Cree Indian Testament printed in Evans' Syllabic Characters, and explained the invention to him. At once his curiosity was excited, and, jumping up, he hurried off for pen and ink, and got me to write out the whole alphabet for him; and then, with that glee and vivacity for which his lordship was so noted, he constituted me his teacher, and commenced at once to master them. As their simplicity, and yet wonderful adaptation for their designed work, became evident to him--for in a short time he was able to read a portion of the Lord's Prayer--Lord Dufferin was much excited, and, getting up from his chair and holding up the Testament in his hand, exclaimed, "Why, Mr Young, what a blessing to humanity the man was who invented that alphabet!" Then he added, "I profess to be a kind of a literary man myself, and try to keep posted up in my reading of what is going on, but I never heard of this before. The fact is, the nation has given many a man a title, and a pension, and then a resting-place and a monument in Westminster Abbey, who never did half so much for his fellow-creatures." Then again he asked, "Who did you say was the author or inventor of these characters?" "The Reverend James Evans," I replied. "Well, why is it I never heard of him before, I wonder?" My reply was, "My lord, perhaps the reason why you never heard of him before was because he was a humble, modest Methodist preacher." With a laugh he replied, "That may have been it," and then the conversation changed. Mr Evans was ever anxious that the Indian converts should at once be made to understand all the duties and responsibilities of the new life on which they were entering, he was a fearless man, and boldly declared unto them the whole counsel of God. Knowing the blighting, destroying influences of the "fire water" upon the poor Indian race, he made the Church a total abstinence society, and, as all missionaries should, he set them the example of his own life. Then, as regards the keeping of the Sabbath, he took his stand on the Word of God, and preached the absolute necessity of the one day's rest in seven. In after years we saw the good results of the scriptural lessons which he and his worthy successors taught in reference to the holy day. Many and severe were the trials, and mysterious some of the persecutions, which this glorious man had to bear. Because of his unswerving loyalty to truth, and his conscientious and fearless teaching of all the commandments of God's Word, some in high authority, who at first were supposed to be friendly, turned against him, and became his unprincipled foes. The trouble first seemed to begin when Mr Evans taught the Indians to "Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy." At his request, they, when hunting or fishing or tripping in the months of open water, rested on the Lord's day. Short-sighted employers, unconscious of the fact, so often demonstrated, that they who rest the one day in seven can do more work in the other six, opposed this teaching, and, when they could not stop it, assailed the Missionary in a way that must have caused a jubilee in hell. I shall not go into particulars. Most of the principal actors are in the presence of the Judge of all the earth. He Who suffered for a time the name of this devoted servant of His to be so shamefully clouded has cleared all the mists away; and like the silver refined by the furnace, so has it been in this case. But persecutions, and even these bitter assaults upon his character, could not turn him from the most intense activity in his blessed life- work. Like an Apostle Paul in primitive times, or like a Coke or Asbury in the early years of this century, so travelled James Evans. When we say he travelled thousands of miles each year on his almost semi- continental journeys, we must remember that these were not performed by coach or railroad, or even with horse and carriage, or in the saddle or sailing vessel, but by canoe and dog-train. How much of hardship and suffering that means, we are thankful but few of our readers will ever know. There are a few of us who do know something of these things, and this fellowship of his suffering knits our hearts in loving memory to him who excelled us all, and the fragrance of whose name and unselfish devotion to his work met us almost everywhere, although years had passed away since James Evans had entered into his rest. "He being dead yet speaketh." To write about him and his work is a labour of love. Would that the pen of some ready writer might give us a biography of this Missionary of such versatility of gifts, and such marvellous success in his work! Room only have I here, in addition to what has already been written, to give some account of the sad event of his life, the accidental shooting of his interpreter, Joseph Hasselton, and the after consequences. Word reached Mr Evans one year, that the priests were endeavouring to crowd up into the Athabasca and Mackenzie River country, and get a foothold among some very interesting Indians whom Mr Evans had visited and found very anxious for the truth. Desirous that they should not be led away from the simplicity of the Gospel, he felt that the best plan was for him to hurry up by light canoe and get into that country and among his Indians before the priests arrived. They had gone the usual route up the Saskatchewan, and from thence were to go over the height of land, and then by boat down the streams which from those regions run towards the Arctic Ocean. Mr Evans' plan was to take what is called "the back route," that was, to go partly down the Nelson River, and then, turning westward through an almost endless succession of lakes and rivers and portages, arrive before the other parties, although several weeks of severest toil would be passed in making the long journey. With his beloved interpreter, who was one of the most remarkable Indians of his day, a man who could talk almost every Indian language spoken by the natives of the land, and, what was better, a devoted Christian, full of zeal and enthusiasm for the work, and with another reliable native from whom I received my information as to what occurred, the long journey was commenced. For several days they made good progress, and were rejoicing at the prospect of success. One morning, very early, while they were paddling along in the great Nelson River, Hasselton, the interpreter, who was in the front of the canoe, said, "I see some ducks in those reeds near the shore. Hand me the gun." In these small canoes the guns are generally kept in the stern with the muzzles pointing back, so as to prevent accidents. The man who was in the stern quickly picked up the gun, and foolishly drew back the trigger. With the muzzle pointing forward he passed the gun to Mr Evans, who did not turn his head, as he was earnestly looking if he also could see the ducks. As Mr Evans took the gun passed to him he unfortunately let the trigger, which had no guard around it, strike against the thaft of the canoe. Instantly it went off, and the contents were discharged into the head of the poor man in front. He turned his dying eyes upon Mr Evans, and then fell over, a corpse. It was an awful accident, and doubly painful on account of the unfortunate surroundings. Here the two survivors were, about two hundred miles from any habitation. They could not take the body back with them. For days they would meet none to whom they could tell their story. They went ashore, and, when their first paroxysm of grief was over, they had to dig, as best they could, a grave in the wilderness, and there bury their dead. They turned their faces homeward, and very sorrowful indeed was the journey. Great was the grief at the village, and greater still the consternation when it was discovered what Mr Evans had resolved to do. His interpreter was the only Christian among his relatives. The rest of them were wild pagans with bad records. Life for life was their motto, and many had been their deeds of cruelty and bloodshed in seeking that revenge which occupies so large a place in the savage Indian's heart. They lived several hundred miles away, and Mr Evans resolved to go and surrender himself to them, tell them what he had done, and take all the consequences. Many friends, knowing how quick the Indian is to act when aroused by the news of the death of a relative--for often before he hears all the circumstances does he strike the fatal blow--urged him not to go himself, but to send a mediator. To this suggestion he turned a deaf ear, and, having made his will and left all instructions as to the work if he should never return, and bidden farewell to his stricken family, who never expected to see him alive again, he started off on his strange and perilous journey. Reaching the distant village, he walked into the tent of the parents of his interpreter, and told them that his heart was broken, and why. Angry words were uttered, and tomahawks and guns were freely handled, while he described the tragic scene. Feeling so utterly miserable that he little cared whether they killed him or let him live, there he sat down on the ground in their midst, and awaited their decision. Some of the hot-headed spirits were for killing him at once; but wiser counsels prevailed, and it was decided that he must be adopted into the family from which he had shot the son, and be all to them, as far as possible, that their son had been. This had been a good deal. Becoming a Christian had made him kind and loving, and so all that he could spare of his wages, earned while interpreting for Mr Evans, had been faithfully sent to his parents. The ceremony of adoption lasted several days. Mr Evans assumed as his Indian name that of this family, and a good son indeed they found in him. When he left to return to his Mission they kissed him, and acted towards him with as much affection as such people can show. Many were the gifts which were sent them by their adopted son, who took good care of them as long as he lived. But while this difficulty was thus tided over, the memory of it never faded away from Mr Evans. He was never the same man after. Yet he did not allow it to deter him from the most vigorous prosecution of his work: indeed, it seemed to his people as though he tried to bury his sorrow in incessant toil, and labours so abundant, that but few even of the Indians "in journeyings oft" could equal him. To aid the further prosecution of his labours, and to excite greater interest in the well-being of the Red Indians of British North America, Mr Evans went to England to speak about his work and its needs. His story of marvellous incidents and varied experiences in this land of which so little was known, produced a deep impression, and great crowds came out to hear him, and insisted on his continuing at great length his wonderful descriptions of travelling by canoe and dog-train, and the longing desire there was in the hearts of the Indians for the Gospel. On November 23rd, 1846, after having spoken at Keelby in Lincolnshire, he returned with his wife, who was in every respect a devoted helpmate for such a work, to the home of the gentleman and lady with whom they were stopping. While chatting on various subjects, Mrs Evans turned to her husband, who was comfortably seated in a large arm-chair, and said, "My dear, I have had such a strange presentiment--that we shall never see Norway House and our faithful Indians again." He turned to her and said, with something of his old enthusiasm, "Why should that thought trouble you, my dear? Heaven is just as near from England as from America." The two ladies said, "Good night!" and retired, leaving Mr Evans and the gentleman of the house to chat together a little longer. Shortly after, the gentleman said something to Mr Evans, and, receiving no answer, he turned from the fire and looked at him. At first he thought he had fallen asleep, but this was only for an instant. Springing up and going to him, he found that the immortal spirit had so quietly and gently flitted away, that there had not been the slightest sob or cry. The noble Indian Missionary was dead. The eloquent tongue was hushed for ever. For his return hundreds of anxious weeping Indians in those northern wilds would long and wait, but wait in vain. He had been conveyed by angel bands to that innumerable company of redeemed, blood- washed saints around the throne of God, which even then had received many happy converted Indians, who, brought to God by his instrumentality, had finished their course with joy, and before him had entered in through the gates into the city, and were there to welcome him. Hundreds, since then, of his spiritual children have had the "abundant entrance ministered unto" them, and they have joined him in that rapidly increasing throng. And although many years have passed away since he preached to them his last sermon, at many a camp-fire, and in many a wigwam, still linger old men, and women too, whose eyes glisten, and then become bedimmed with tears, as they think of him who so long ago went on before. But while they weep, they also rejoice that that salvation, which, as the result of his preaching, they accepted, is still their solace and their joy, and, clinging to it and its great Author, they shall by-and-by meet their Missionary and loved ones who have finished their course and gained the eternal shores. On the previous page are the Syllabic Characters, as invented by Mr Evans; and on this we give the Lord's Prayer in Cree, as printed in them. Perhaps the following explanations will help the student who may have a wish to master this wonderful invention. In the Alphabet the first line of characters, the equilateral triangle in four positions, reads as follows, a e oo ah. The addition of the little dot, as seen in the second line, adds to any character after which it is placed the sound of w. So this second line reads wa, we, woo, wah. The following lines read thus: pa pe poo pah; ta te too tah; ka ke koo kah; cha che choo chah; ma mee moo mah; na ne noo nah; sa se soo sah; ya ye yoo yah. With a little patience the Lord's Prayer can be read even without a teacher. I have gone to a pagan band far away in the northern wilderness, and after they have become willing to receive the truth, I have commenced to teach them to read the Word of God. Very limited indeed were our appliances, for we were hundreds of miles from the nearest school house. But from the camp-fire, where we had cooked our bear's meat or beaver, I would take a burnt stick, and with it make these Syllabic Characters on the side of a rock, and then patiently repeat them over and over again with my school of often three generations of Indians together, until they had some idea of them. Then I would give them the copies of the Bible I had brought, and at the first verse of Genesis we would begin. It paid for the hardships of the trip a thousandfold to see the looks of joy and delight on their faces as they themselves were able to read that wonderful verse. By Canoe and Dog-Train--by Egerton Ryerson Young CHAPTER ELEVEN. SOWING AND REAPING--BEAUTIFUL INCIDENT--"HELP ME TO BE A CHRISTIAN!"-- THIRTY YEARS BETWEEN THE SOWING AND THE REAPING--SORROWING, YET STUBBORN, INDIANS INDUCED TO YIELD BY THE EXPRESSION, "I KNOW WHERE YOUR CHILDREN ARE!" While in our every-day missionary life there were dark hours, and times when our faith was severely tried, there was, on the other hand, much to encourage us to persevere in the blessed work among these Cree Indians. An incident that occurred to us brought up very forcibly to our minds the couplet: "Whate'er may die and be forgot, Work done for God, it dieth not." I was sitting, one pleasant day in June, in my study at Norway House, absorbed in my work, when I was startled by a loud "Ahem!" behind me. I quickly sprang up, and, turning round, discovered that the man who had thus suddenly interrupted me in my thoughts was a big, stalwart Indian. He had come into the room in that catlike way in which nearly all of the Indians move. Their moccasined feet make no sound, and so it is quite possible for even scores of them to come into the house unheard. Then, as Indians have a great dislike to knocking, they generally omit it altogether, and unceremoniously enter, as this man had done, and as quietly as possible. My first glance at him told me that he was an entire stranger, although I had by this time become acquainted with some hundreds of the natives. I shook hands with him and said a few commonplace things to him, to which I thought he paid but little heed. I pointed to a chair, and asked him to be seated; but, instead of doing so, he came up close to me and said with great earnestness: "Missionary, will you help me to be a Christian?" Surprised and pleased by this abrupt question, I replied, "Certainly I will; that is my business here." "Will you help my wife and children also to become Christians?" he added with equal emphasis. "Of course I will," I answered again. "It was for just such work as that my good wife and I came from our far-away home to live in this land." Naturally I had already become very much interested in this big, bronzed Indian; and so I said to him, "Tell me who you are, and from what place you have come." I made him sit down before me, and he told me the following remarkable story. I wish I could put into the narrative his pathos and his dramatic action. He did not keep his seat very long after he began talking, but moved around, and at times was very much excited. He said,-- "Many years ago, when I was a little boy, I was kindly cared for by the first Missionary, Mr Evans. I was a poor orphan. My father and mother had died, leaving none to care for me; so the good Missionary took me to his own house and was very kind to me. 'Tis true I had some relatives, but they were not Christians and so there was not much love in their hearts towards a poor orphan boy. So Mr Evans took me to his house, and was very kind to me. He gave me clothes and food, and a home. He taught me to read the new letters he had made for our people, and told me much about the Great Spirit and His Son Jesus. He taught me and other children to pray to God, and he often talked to us about Him, and how kind and good He was. He kept me with him two or three years, and I was very well off indeed in having such a home and such a friend, if I had only known it. "One summer, among the many Indians who came to trade their furs at the Company's store, was one family who lived very far away. They seemed to take a liking to me, and often would talk to me. They had no little boy, they said, in their wigwam, and they told me a lot of foolish stuff about how much happier I would be, if I lived with them, than I was here, where I had to obey the white man. Like the foolish child that I was, I listened to this nonsense, and one night, when they had got everything ready to start, I slipped quietly out of the house and joined them. We paddled hard most of the night, for we felt that we had done wrong, and did not know but we should be followed. "After travelling many days we reached their hunting grounds and wigwams. I did not find it as pleasant as they had told me it would be. Often they were very cruel to me, and sometimes we did not have much to eat. But I dared not run away, for there was no place to which I could go, except to other wicked Indians; and they would only make things worse. They were all very bad Indians, and very much afraid of the medicine men. All the worship they did was to the bad spirit. They were afraid of him, and so they worshipped him, so that he might not do them much harm. I became as bad as any of them. I tried to forget all that the good Missionary had told me. I tried to wipe all his teachings and prayers from my memory. All he had told me about the Good Spirit and His Son I tried to forget. "I grew up to be a man. I had become a wicked pagan; but I was a good hunter, and one of the men sold me one of his daughters to be my wife. We have quite a family. Because I had seen, when I was a little boy, how Christian Indian men treat the women better than the pagan Indians treat theirs, I treated my wife and children well. I was never cruel to them. I love my wife and children. "Last winter, you remember, the snow was very deep. I had taken my family and gone out into the region of deer and other animals, and there had made my hunting lodge for the winter. There we set our traps for the fur-bearing animals. We took a good many of the smaller animals that have got furs, but the larger ones, that are good for food, were very few. We had a hard time, as food was very scarce. I could not find any deer to shoot, and we had come far from the great lakes and rivers, and so had no fish. "At length it seemed as though we must starve. I tried hard to get something, but I seemed to fail every time. Sometimes, when I did manage to get within range of the moose or reindeer, and I fired, my gun, which is only a flintlock, would only flash the powder in the pan, and so the charge would not go off. The noise, however, had so frightened the deer that he had rushed away before I could get ready to fire again. "At length it got so bad with us that I became completely discouraged, and I said, `I will only try once more; and if I do not succeed in shooting a deer, I will shoot myself.' So I took up my gun and hurried into the forest away from my half-starved family. I cautiously tramped along on my snowshoes all the first day, and did not see even a track. I made a little camp and lay down cold and hungry. I hunted all the next day and only got a rabbit. This I ate in the little camp I made the second night in the snow. On the third day I hunted until about noon. Then feeling very weak and hungry, I got so discouraged that I said, as I sat down on a log covered with snow, `I will die here. I am weak with hunger, I can go no further.' I was cross and angry, and I said, as I talked to myself, `No use trying any more.' Then I loaded my gun with a heavy charge of powder and two bullets, and, drawing back the trigger, my plan was to put the muzzle of the gun against the side of my head, and then press on the trigger with my big toe, which, you know, moves easily in the moccasin. Just as I was getting ready thus to kill myself, something seemed to speak to me, `William!' I pushed the gun away, for I was frightened. I looked all around, but could not see anybody. Then I found that the voice was in me, and it began to talk to me out of my heart; and as I listened it seemed to say, `William, do you not remember what the Missionary told you long ago about the Great Spirit? He said He was kind and forgiving, and that even if we did wander far away from him, if we became sorry and would come back, He would forgive. Do you not remember, William, he said that if we ever got into great trouble, the Great Spirit was the best Friend to Whom to go to help us out? You are in great trouble, William. Don't you think you had better come back to him?' "But I trembled and hesitated, for I was ashamed to come. I thought over my life, how I had run away from the kind Missionary who had taken me, a poor orphan boy, into his home, and fed and clothed me, and taught me so much about the true way. Then I remembered so well how I had tried to wipe out from my memory all I had learned about the Great Spirit and His Son, and the good Book. I had denied to the pagan people that I knew anything about the white man's religion. I had been very bad, and had got very far away; how could I come back? Still all the answer I got was, `You had better come back.' "There I sat and trembled, and I felt I was too mean to come back. But all the answer I got was, `It is meaner to stay away, if what the Missionary said is true.' While I was hesitating what to do, and all trembling in the cold, I seemed to hear my wife and children in the wigwam far away crying for food. This decided me. So I turned round, and kneeled down in the snow by the log, and began to pray. I hardly know what I said, but I do remember I asked the Great Spirit to forgive the poor Indian who had got so far away from Him, and had been so wicked, and had tried to wipe Him out of his memory. I told him I was sorry, and wanted to do better; and there in the snow I promised, if He would forgive and help me in my trouble, and give something for my wife and children to eat, I would, just as soon as the snow and ice left the rivers and lakes, go and find the Missionary, and ask him to help me to be a Christian. "While I prayed I felt better; I seemed to feel in my heart that help was coming. I got up from my knees, and it seemed as though that prayer had strengthened me like food. I forgot I was cold and hungry. I took up my gun with a glad heart, and away I started; and I had not gone far before a large reindeer came dashing along. I fired and killed him. I was very glad. I quickly skinned him, and I soon made a fire and cooked some of the meat. Then I pulled down a small tree, and fastened part of the meat into the top of it, and let it swing up again, so as to keep it from the wolves and wolverines. Then I took the rest on my back and hurried home to my hungry wife and children. Soon after I went back for the rest of the venison, and found it all right. "Since that hour we have always had something. I have hunted hard, and have had success. None of us have been hungry since. The Great Spirit has been all that the Missionary said He would be to us. He has cared for us, and given us all that we have needed. "I have not forgotten my promise made while kneeling in the snow beside the log in the woods. The snow has gone, and the ice has left the lakes and rivers. I have launched my canoe, and have come with my wife and children to ask you to help us to be Christians." We were very much pleased to hear such a wonderful experience, which was thus leading him back to God; and we told him so. When we learned that all this time he had been talking, his wife and children were patiently sitting in the canoe outside at the shore, we hurried out with him and brought them into the Mission House. Mrs Young, and one or two others, attracted by William's earnest words, had come into my study, and had heard most of his story, and of course were also deeply interested. Out of our scant supplies we gave the whole family a good hearty meal, and we both did what we could by words and actions to make them feel that we were their friends, and would do all we could to help them to be Christians. We were delighted to find that since that memorable day when at the snow-covered log in the forest William had bowed in prayer, he had been diligent in teaching his family all that he could remember of the blessed truths of the Gospel. They had gladly received it and were eager for more. I called together some of the head men of the village, and told them the story of this family, and what William had said about his early life. A few of the older people remembered the circumstance of his adoption by Mr Evans after the death of his parents, whom they remembered well. Happy Christians themselves, and anxious that others should enjoy the same blessedness, they rejoiced at William's return, and especially with such a desire in his heart. So they at once gave the exile a place among themselves, and some needed help. Thorough and genuine were the changes wrought in the hearts of that family by Divine grace, and they have remained firm and true. In their house was a family altar, and from the church services they were never absent, unless far off in distant hunting grounds. Various were the arguments which the Good Spirit gave us to use in persuading men and women to be reconciled to God. Here is a beautiful illustration:-- "WHERE ARE OUR CHILDREN?" On the banks of a wild river, about sixty miles from Beaver Lake, I visited a band of pagan Indians, who seemed determined to resist every appeal or entreaty I could make to induce them to listen to my words. They were so dead and indifferent that I was for a time quite disheartened. The journey to reach them had taken about eight days from home through the dreary wilderness, where we had not met a single human being. My two faithful canoemen and I had suffered much from the character of the route, and the absence of game, which had caused us more than once to wrap ourselves up in our blankets and lie down supperless upon the granite rocks, and try to sleep. The rain had fallen upon us so persistently that for days the water had been dripping from us, and we had longed for the sunshine that we might get dry again. We had met with some strange adventures, and I had had another opportunity for observing the intelligence and shrewdness of my men, and their quickness in arriving at right conclusions from very little data. Many think of the Indians as savages and uncivilised, yet in some respects they are highly educated, and are gifted with a quickness of perception not excelled by any other people in the world. We had the following illustration of it on this trip. As most of the Indians had gone away in the brigades to York Factory, to carry down the furs and to freight up the goods for the next winter's trade, I could not find any canoemen who were acquainted with the route to the pagan band which I wished to visit. The best I could do was to secure the services of a man as a guide who had only been as far as Beaver Lake. He was willing to go and run the risk of finding the Indian band, if possible, although so far beyond the most northern point he had ever gone before. As I could do no better I hired him and another Indian, and away we went. After several days of hard work--for the portages around the falls and rapids were many, and several times we had to wade through muskegs or morasses up to our knees for miles together, carrying all our load on our heads or backs--we at length reached Beaver Lake. Here we camped for the night and talked over our future movements. We had come two hundred and forty miles through these northern wilds, and yet had about sixty miles to go ere we expected to see human beings, and were all absolutely ignorant of the direction in which to go. We spent the night on the shore of the lake, and slept comfortably on the smooth rocks. Early the next morning we began to look out for signs to guide us on our way. There were several high hills in the vicinity, and it was decided that we should each ascend one of these, and see if from these elevated positions the curling smoke from some distant Indian camp-fire, or other signs of human beings, could be observed. Seizing my rifle, I started off to ascend the high hill which had been assigned me, while my Indians went off in other directions. This hill was perhaps half a mile from our camp-fire, and I was soon at its foot, ready to push my way up through the tangled underbrush that grew so densely on its sides. To my surprise I came almost suddenly upon a creek of rare crystal beauty, on the banks of which were many impressions of hoofs, large and small, as though a herd of cattle had there been drinking. Thoughtlessly, for I seemed to have forgotten where we were, I came to the conclusion that as the herd of cattle had there quenched their thirst, they and their owner must be near. So I hurried back to the camp, and signalled to the men to return, and told them what I had seen. There was an amused look on their faces, but they were very polite and courteous men, and so they accompanied me to the creek, where, with a good deal of pride, I pointed out to them the footprints of cattle, and stated that I thought that they and their owners could not be far off. They listened to me patiently, and then made me feel extremely foolish by uttering the word "Moose." I had mistaken the footprints of a herd of moose for a drove of cattle, much to their quiet amusement. We looked around for a time, and, getting no clue, we embarked in our canoe, and started to explore the different streams that flowed into or out of this picturesque lake. After several hours of unsuccessful work we entered into the mouth of quite a fine river, and began paddling up it, keeping close to one of its sandy shores. Suddenly one of my Indians sprang up in the canoe, and began carefully examining some small tracks on the shore. A few hasty words were uttered by the men, and then we landed. They closely inspected these little footprints, and then exclaimed, "We have got it now, Missionary; we can take you soon to the Indians!" "What have you discovered?" I said. "I see nothing to tell me where the Indians are." "We see it very plain," was the reply. "You sent word that you were coming to meet them this moon. They have been scattered hunting, but are gathering at the place appointed, and a canoe of them went up this river yesterday, and the dog ran along the shore, and these are his tracks." I examined these impressions in the sand, and said, "The country is full of wild animals; these may be the tracks of a wolf or wolverine or some other beast." They only laughed at me, and said, "We can see a great difference between these tracks and those made by the wild animals." Our canoe was soon afloat again, and, using our paddles vigorously, we sped rapidly along the river. With no other clue than those little footprints in the sand my men confidently pushed along. After paddling for about twenty miles we came to the camp-fire, still smouldering, where the Indians had slept the night before. Here we cooked our dinner, and then hurried on, still guided by the little tracks along the shore. Towards evening we reached the encampment, just as my canoemen had intimated we should. The welcome we received was not very cordial. The Indians were soured and saddened by having lost many of their number, principally children, by scarlet fever, which for the first time had visited their country, and which had been undoubtedly brought into their land by some free- traders the year before. With the exception of an old conjurer or two, none openly opposed me, but the sullen apathy of the people made it very discouraging work to try to preach or teach. However, we did the best we could, and were resolved that, having come so far, and suffered so many hardships to reach them, we would faithfully deliver the message, and leave the results to Him Who had permitted us to be the first who had ever visited that Land to tell the story of redeeming love. One cold, rainy day a large number of us were crowded into the largest wigwam for a talk about the truths in the great Book. My two faithful Christian companions aided me all they could by giving personal testimony to the blessedness of this great salvation. But all seemed in vain. There the people sat and smoked in sullen indifference. When questioned as to their wishes and determinations, all I could get from them was, "As our fathers lived and died, so will we." Tired out and sad of heart, I sat down in quiet communion with the Blessed Spirit, and breathed up a prayer for guidance and help in this hour of sore perplexity. In my extremity the needed assistance came so consciously that I almost exulted in the assurance of coming victory. Springing up, I shouted out, "I know where all your children are, who are not among the living! I know, yes, I do know most certainly where all the children are, whom Death has taken in his cold grasp from among us, the children of the good and of the bad, of the whites and of the Indians, I know where all the children are." Great indeed was the excitement among them. Some of them had had their faces well shrouded in their blankets as they sat like upright mummies in the crowded wigwam. But when I uttered these words, they quickly uncovered their faces, and manifested the most intense interest. Seeing that I had at length got their attention, I went on with my words: "Yes, I know where all the children are. They have gone from your camp-fires and wigwams. The hammocks are empty, and the little bows and arrows lie idle. Many of your hearts are sad, as you mourn for those little ones whose voices you hear not, and who come not at your call. I am so glad that the Great Spirit gives me authority to tell you that you may meet your children again, and be happy with them for ever. But you must listen to His words, which I bring to you from His great Book, and give Him your hearts, and love and serve Him. There is only one way to that beautiful land, where Jesus, the Son of the Great Spirit, has gone, and into which He takes all the children who have died; and now that you have heard His message and seen His Book, you too must come this way, if you would be happy and there enter in." While I was thus speaking, a big, stalwart man from the other side of the tent sprang up, and rushed towards me. Beating on his breast, he said, "Missionary, my heart is empty, and I mourn much, for none of my children are left among the living; very lonely is my wigwam. I long to see my children again, and to clasp them in my arms. Tell me, Missionary, what must I do to please the Great Spirit, that I may get to that beautiful land, that I may meet my children again?" Then he sank at my feet upon the ground, his eyes suffused with tears, and was quickly joined by others, who, like him, were broken down with grief, and were anxious now for religious instruction. To the blessed Book we went, and after reading what Jesus had said about little children, and giving them some glimpses of His great love for them, we told them "the old, old story," as simply and lovingly as we could. There was no more scoffing or indifference. Every word was heard and pondered over, and from that hour a blessed work began, which resulted in the great majority of them deciding to give their hearts to God; and they have been true to their vows. CHAPTER TWELVE. ON THE TRAIL TO SANDY BAR--SLEEPING ON THE ICE--THIEVISH ESQUIMAUX DOGS--NARROW ESCAPE OF JACK--JOYOUS WELCOME--SOCIETY FORMED--BENJAMIN CAMERON, ONCE A CANNIBAL, NOW A LAY HELPER--PLUM-PUDDING--A STRIKING INSTANCE OF HONESTY. In December, 1877, I made a journey to the Indians living at Sandy Bar. As there were some experiences quite different from those of other trips, they shall here be recorded. Sandy Bar, or White Mud, as some call it, is over a hundred miles south of Beren's River, where we then resided. We made the usual preparations for our journey, getting sleds loaded with supplies for ourselves and fish for our dogs, with all the cooking arrangements necessary for a month's absence from home. As the people among whom we were going were poor, we ever felt that, Paul-like, for the furtherance of the Gospel, the wisest course among those bands who had not fully accepted salvation was to keep ourselves as far as possible from being burdensome unto them. So my good wife cooked a generous supply of meat and buns, made as rich with fat as possible. Fortunate indeed were we in having supplies sufficient for this to be done. It was not always so. At this very Mission, all we had one morning for breakfast was a hind-quarter of a wild cat! All our preparations were completed, and we were ready to start at one o'clock in the morning. To our great regret a fierce storm arose, and so we were obliged to wait until the day dawned, ere we could harness our dogs and venture out. When we had gone about twenty miles, the storm swept with such power over the great Lake Winnipeg, driving the recently fallen snow before it, with such a stinging, blinding effect, that we were forced to give up the struggle, and run into the forest and camp. We cleared away the snow from a space about eight feet square. At one side of this we built up our fire, and over the rest of the cleared space we spread some evergreen boughs, on which we placed our beds. We unharnessed our dogs, and thawed out for them some frozen fish. As this was one of my short trips, I had with me but two dog-trains and two good Indians. We melted snow in our kettles, and made tea, and cooked some meat. This, with the bread, of which we were on this trip the happy possessors, constituted our meals. About sundown we had prayers, and then, as we had been up most of the previous night, we wrapped ourselves in our robes and blankets, and went to sleep to the lullaby of the howling tempest. About ten o'clock that night I woke up, and, uncovering my head, found that the storm had ceased. I sprang up and kindled the fire, but my fingers ached and my body shivered ere I succeeded in getting it to blaze brightly. I filled the tea-kettle with snow, and while it was melting I called up my two travelling companions, and also a couple of young natives, who, with their dog-trains, had joined us. The Indians can tell with marvellous accuracy the hour of the night by the position of the Great Bear in the heavens. This is their night clock. I saw by their puzzled looks, as they gazed at the stars, that they wanted to tell me I had made a great mistake, if I thought it was near morning. But I did not give them the opportunity, and only hurried up the breakfast. After prayers we harnessed our dogs, tied up our loads of bedding, food, kettles, and other things; and then, throwing the boughs on which we had slept on the fire, by the light which it afforded us, we wended our way out through the forest gloom to the frozen lake. Taking the lead with my own splendid dogs, we travelled at such a rate that, ere the sun rose up to cheer us, over forty miles of Winnipeg's icy expanse lay between us and the snowy bed where we had sought shelter and slept during the raging storm. After stopping at Dog's Head, where were a few Indians, under the eccentric chief, Thickfoot, onward we travelled, crossing the lake to what is called Bull's Head, where we camped for the night. The face of the cliff is here so steep that we could not get our heavy loads up into the forest above, so we were obliged to make our fire and bed in the snowdrift at the base of the cliff. It was a poor place indeed. The snow, from the constant drifting in from the lake, was very deep. There was no shelter or screen from the fierce cold wind, which, changing during the night, blew upon us. We tried to build up the fire, but, owing to our peculiar position, could not change it. In the woods, at our camps, we build the fire where the smoke will be driven from us. If the wind changes, we change our fires. Here at the base of this cliff we could do nothing of the kind; the result was, we were either shivering in the bitter cold, or blinded by the smoke. While in this uncomfortable plight, and trying to arrange our camp beds on the snow, for we could not get any balsam boughs here to put under us, we were joined by several wild Indians, who, coming down the lake, saw our camp-fire. They had a number of thin, wild, wolfish, half- starved Esquimaux dogs with them. They made a great fuss over me, which here meant so much tea and food. I treated them kindly, and, fearing for our supplies, and even our dog harness, and the other things for which the terrible Esquimaux dog has such an appetite, I politely informed them that I thought they would be more comfortable if they travelled on a little further. This hint was met with loud protestations that they could not, under any circumstances, think of denying themselves the pleasure of at least stopping one night in the camp of the Missionary, about whom they had heard so much as the great friend of the Indian. Of course I could not go back on my record, or resist such diplomacy; but I saw trouble ahead, and I was not disappointed. In order to save something, I gave to their wolfish dogs all the fish I had, which was sufficient for my eight for several days. These the Esquimaux speedily devoured. I made the men bring the dog harness into the camp, and with the sleds, to save the straps and lashings, they built a little barricade against the wind. In addition to the food supplies for the trip, I had a bag of meat, and another of buns, for my use when I should reach the village, where I was going to preach and to teach. I gathered a pile of clubs, which I cut from the driftwood on the shore, from which we had also obtained that for our fire. Then, putting the bag of meat, which was frozen hard, under my pillow, and giving the bag of buns to one of my Indians, with orders to guard it carefully, I lay down and tried to go to sleep. Vain effort indeed was it for a long time. No sooner were we down than in upon us swarmed the dogs. They fought for the honour of cleaning, in dog fashion, our meat kettle, and then began seeking for something more. Over us they walked, and soon, by their gathering around my head, I knew they had scented the meat. Up I sprang, and, vigorously using my clubs, a number of which I sent among them, I soon drove them out into the darkness of the lake. Then under my robes again I got, but not to sleep. In less than ten minutes there was an _encore_, which was repeated several times. At length my supply of clubs gave out. My only consolation was that the dogs had received so many of them that they acted as though they were ready to cry quits and behave themselves. As it looked as though they were settling down to rest, I gladly did the same. Vain hope, indeed! I went to sleep very quickly, for I was very weary, but I woke up in the morning to find that there was not an ounce of meat left in the bag under my head, nor a single bun left in the bag which the Indian had orders so carefully to guard. Our condition the next morning was not a very pleasant one. The outlook was somewhat gloomy. Our camp was in an exposed snow-drift. We had no roof over us. The fire was a poor one, as the drift-wood with which it was made was wretched stuff, giving out more smoke than heat, which, persisting in going the wrong way, often filled our eyes with blinding tears. Our generous supply of meat, that we so much require in this cold climate, and our rich buns, so highly prized, were devoured by the dogs which, with the most innocent looks imaginable, sat around us in the snow and watched our movements. Fortunately one of the Indians had put a few plain biscuits in a small bag, which he was taking, as a great gift, to a friend. These were brought out, and with our tea and sugar were all we had, or could get, until we were sixty miles further south. No time for grumbling, so we prepared ourselves for the race against the march of hunger, which we well knew, by some bitter experiences, would, after a few hours, rapidly gain upon us. After the light breakfast we knelt down in the snow and said our prayers, and then hurried off. My gallant dogs responded to my call upon them so nobly that ere that short wintry day in December had fled away, and the lake was shrouded in darkness, the flying sparks from the tops of the little cabins of the friendly Indians told us we had conquered in the race, although not without some narrow escapes and scars. While crossing a long traverse of at least twenty-five miles, my largest dog, Jack, went through a crack in the ice up to his collar. These ice cracks are dangerous things. The ice, which may be several feet thick, often bursts open with a loud report, making a fissure which may be from a few inches to several feet wide. Up this fissure the water rushes until it is level with the top. Of course, as the cold is so intense, it soon freezes over, but it is very dangerous for travellers to come along soon after the fissure has been made. I have seen the guide get in more than once, and have had some very narrow escapes myself. On this occasion I was riding on the sled; the two foremost dogs of the train got across the thinly frozen ice all right, but Jack, who was third, broke though into the cold water below. The head dogs kept pulling ahead, and the sled dog did his work admirably, and so we saved the noble St. Bernard from drowning, and soon got him out. The cold was so intense that in a few minutes his glossy black coat was covered with a coat of icy mail. He seemed to know the danger he was in; and so, the instant I got the sled across the ice crack, he started off direct for the distant forest at such a rate that he seemed to drag the other dogs as well as myself most of the time. We were about twelve miles from the shore, but in a little more than an hour the land was reached, and as there was abundance of dry wood here, a good fire was soon kindled, before which, on a buffalo skin, I placed my ice-covered companion. He turned himself around when necessary, and, ere the other sled arrived, Jack was himself again. As two of the Indians behind us had fallen into this same fissure, we were delayed for some time in getting them dry again. We boiled our kettle and had some more tea, and then on we hurried. I met with a very warm welcome from the people. The greater part of them were Indians I had met in other years. Many were from Norway House. To this place they had come, attracted by the stories of its valuable fisheries and productive soil. So rapidly had the Mission at Norway House increased that fish and game were beginning to fail. Hence a large number emigrated to this and other places. To this place they had come late in the summer, and so the little houses they had built were small and cold. Then, to make matters worse, the fisheries had not proved to be what they had been represented. They crowded round me as I drove into their village, and told me of their "hungerings oft," and other hardships. As some sleds were ready to start for Manitoba, I hurried into one of the little homes to pencil a note to my Chairman, the Reverend George Young, but found it to be almost an impossibility, as the four fingers of my right hand were frozen. These, and a frozen nose, reminded me for several days of that sixty miles' run on short rations. I found, in addition to the Christian Indians, quite a number of others who had been attracted to this place. I spent eight days among them. They had about a dozen little houses, in addition to a large number of wigwams. For their supplies they were depending on their rabbit snares, and their nets for fish, which were obtained in but limited quantities. As my food had been stolen from me by the dogs, I had nothing but what they gave me; but of their best they supplied me most cheerfully, and so I breakfasted, dined, and supped on rabbit or fish, and fared well. I preached, as was my custom, three times a day, and kept school between the services. I organised a class or society of thirty-five members, ten of whom for the first time now decided for Christ, and resolved henceforth to be His loyal followers. It was a great joy to be gathering in those decided ones, as the result of the seed sown amidst the discouragements of earlier years. I was very fortunate in securing a good leader, or spiritual overseer, for this little flock in the wilderness. Benjamin Cameron was his name. He had had a strange career. He had been a cannibal in his day, but Divine Grace had gone down into the depths of sin into which he had sunk, and had lifted him out, and put his feet upon the Rock, and filled his lips with singing, and his heart with praise. He was emphatically "a good man, and full of the Holy Ghost." The hours I spent with the children were very pleasant and profitable. I was pleased to hear the elder children read so well, and was especially delighted with their knowledge of the Catechism in both Cree and English. I distributed a fresh supply of books which I had brought them, and also gave to the needy ones some warm, comfortable garments sent by loving friends from Montreal. If the dear friends, into whose hearts the good desire to send these very comfortable garments had been put, could only have seen how much misery was relieved, and happiness conferred, they would have felt amply rewarded for their gifts. In connection with one of the Sunday services I administered the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper. We had a most solemn and impressive yet delightful time. The Loving Saviour seemed very near, and fresh vows and covenants were entered into by all, that to Him they would be true. I spent Christmas among them, and as one of them had succeeded in getting some minks in his traps, and for the skins had obtained from some passing "free-traders" some flour and plums, they got up, in honour of my visit, a plum-pudding. It haunts me yet, and so I will not here describe it. As beautiful weather favoured us on our return, we took the straight route home, and arrived there in two days, rejoicing that the trip, as regarded its spiritual aspects, had been a great success. One day an Indian came into my house and threw down a fine haunch of venison upon the table. As we were poorly off for food, I was very much pleased, and said to him, "What shall I give you for this meat?" "Nothing," he replied; "it belongs to you." "You must be mistaken," I said. "I never had any dealings with you." "But I had with you," he answered. "And so this meat is yours." Being unacquainted with the man, I asked him to tell me who he was, and how he made it out that this meat belonged to me. Said he, "Did you not go to Nelson River with dogs and Indians about two moons ago?" "Yes," I replied, "I did." "Well, I was out hunting deer, but I did not have much luck. The snow was deep, the deer were very shy, and I had no success. One day, when very hungry, for I had only taken a little dried rabbit meat with me from my wigwam, I came across your trail, and I found where your Indians had made a _cache_, that is, a big bundle of provisions and other things had been tied up in a blanket, and then a small tree had been bent down by your men, and the bundle fastened on the top, and let spring up again to keep it from the wolves. I saw your bundle hanging there, and as I was very hungry I thought, `Now if the kind-hearted Missionary only knew the poor Indian hunter was here looking at his bundle of food, he would say, "Help yourself;"' and that was what I did. I bent down the tree, and found the large piece of pemmican. I cut off a piece big enough to make me a good dinner, then I tied up the bundle again, and let it swing up as you had it. And now I have brought you this venison in place of what I took." I was pleased with his honesty, and had in the incident another example of the Indian quickness to read much where the white man sees nothing. The reason why we had made the _cache_ which the Indian had discovered was, that we had taken a large quantity of pemmican for our food, as the people we wore going to see were poor, and we did not wish to be a burden to them; but we had been caught in a terrible storm, and as the snow was very deep, making the travelling heavy, we were obliged to lighten our loads as soon as possible. So we left a portion, as the Indian has described, on the way. When we returned to the _cache_, and my men pulled it down and opened the bundle, one of them quickly cried out, "Somebody has been at our _cache_." "Nonsense," I replied; "nobody would disturb it. And then there were no tracks around when we reached here to-night." Looking at the largest piece of pemmican, the Indians said, "Missionary, somebody has taken down our bundle and cut off a piece just here. That there are no tracks, is because there have been so many snow-storms lately. All tracks made a few days ago are covered up." As I knew they were so much quicker along these lines of education than white men, I did not argue any more with them. The coming of the old hunter with the venison was the proof of the cleverness of my men, and also a very honourable act on his part. I kept the old man to dinner, and among other things I asked him how he knew it was the Missionary's party that passed that way. He quickly replied, "By your tracks in the snow. Indians' toes turn in when they walk, white men's toes turn out." CHAPTER THIRTEEN. AN INDIAN LOVEFEAST--MANY WITNESSES--SWEET SONGS OF ZION--THE LORD'S SUPPER--MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MEMOTAS, THE DEVOTED CHRISTIAN. Our Lovefeasts and sacramental services were always well attended, if it were within the range of possibility for the Indians to be present. To come in on Saturday from their distant hunting grounds sixty miles away, that they might enjoy the services of the Lord's house on His own day, was no unusual thing. Then on Monday morning we have seen them again strap on their snowshoes, and with glad hearts and renewed zeal start off to return to their lonely hunting camps in the distant forests. They are able to express themselves clearly, and often quite eloquently. When their hearts are full of the love of God, and they are rejoicing in the blessed assurance of the Divine favour, they are willing to speak about it. "What they have felt and seen With confidence they tell." Here are some of their testimonies. Those are the living words of men and women who were once the slaves of a debasing paganism. But on their hearts the blessed Spirit shone, and to His pleading voice they responded, and now, happy in the consciousness that they are the children of God, they love to talk about what wonderful things have been done for them and wrought in them. Timothy Bear said: "It is such a joy to me, that I can tell you of great things done for me. Great is the joy I have in my heart to-day. I rest in the consciousness that He is my own reconciled Heavenly Father, and so I feel it good to be here in the Lord's house, and with those that love Him. The good Spirit gives me to see how good and kind my heavenly Father is; and so I can say that the greatest anxiety of my heart and life is to serve God better and better as I grow older. To do this I have found out that I must have Divine help. But He is my Helper for everything, and so I need not fail. So I am encouraged that I shall love God more and more, and, with that, I want to love His cause and people, and those who have not yet become His people, that they may soon do so, more and more. For the conversion of the unsaved, let us, who feel that Jesus saves us, pray more earnestly than ever, and may God help us to live our religion, that the heathen around us may see in our lives what a wonderful thing it is." Timothy's burning words produced a deep impression, and some one began to sing: "Ayume-oo-we-nah," "The praying Spirit breathe." Half a dozen were on their feet when the verses were sung, but Thomas Walker spoke first. He said: "When I first heard the Gospel long winters ago, as brought to us by Mr Evans, I was soon convinced that I was a sinner and needed forgiveness. I found I could not of myself get rid of my sins, so I believed in Christ, and found that He had power to forgive. I was very wretched before I was forgiven. I was afraid I should be lost for ever. I mourned and wept before God on account of my sins. In the woods alone, I cried in my troubles, and was in deep distress. But I heard of the love and power, and willingness to save, of this Jesus of the great Book, and so I exercised a living faith in Him; and as I believed, God's voice was heard, saying, `My son, I have forgiven your sins; I have blotted them out. Go in peace.' I am sure I was not mistaken; I felt filled with peace and joy. I felt that I, Thomas Walker, was cleansed from my many sins, and clothed with the garments of salvation. That was a blessed day when the Spirit of God shone into my heart and drove out the darkness. Since then, my way in Him has been like the sunlight on the waters. The more waves, the more sunshine. I am happy in His love to-day. I am confident that, because He aids me, I am growing in grace. "I rejoice at being spared to come to another celebration of the Lord's Supper; and in view of partaking of the emblems of the dying, loving Jesus, I feel that my soul is feeding on Christ, the true Bread of Life." Earnest yet suppressed words of praise and adoration quietly dropped from many lips as Thomas ended. Then dear old Henry Budd succeeded in getting a hearing. Henry was Mr Evans' marvellous dog-driver over twenty-five years before the date of this blessed lovefeast. He had had many wonderful adventures and some narrow escapes. Once, when running ahead on a treacherous river, where in places the current was very rapid, and consequently the ice was thin, he broke through into the current underneath. He quickly caught hold of the edge of the ice, but it was so weak it would not hold him up. His only comrade could not get very near him as the ice was so bad, and so had to run about a mile for a rope. When he returned, so intense was the cold that both of Henry's hands, with which he had been holding on to the ice, were frozen. He was utterly unable to close them on the rope. George shouted to him to open his mouth. The rope was then thrown, lasso-like, so skilfully, that the poor half-frozen man seized it in his teeth, and was thus dragged out, and rushed off to the nearest wigwam. He was literally saved by the "skin of his teeth." Thus Henry Budd had, like many others, much for which to praise God. He spoke on this occasion as follows: "I rejoice in God my Saviour, Who has done such wonderful things for me. I feel very happy. I am His child. He is my reconciled Father. How can I help being happy? "When I first began to get my poor blind eyes opened, and there came to me a desire to seek God, and to obtain salvation for my soul, I was troubled on account of my sins. My many transgressions rose up before me like a cloud. I was ignorant, and so my mind was full of doubts and fears. Yet with all my doubts there was the anxious desire to be saved. But the victory came at last. I was enabled to hear enough about the Almighty Friend, and so, as I had confidence in His power and love, and believed in Him, I was at last enabled to rejoice in the knowledge of sins forgiven through faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. From those sad doubts and fears I am now happily delivered. I feel I love God, and that God loves me. I am growing in grace, and in the knowledge of God my Saviour. My hopes are brightening all the time. I am getting old, but not unhappy, for I am cheered with the blessed assurance of one day meeting, in my Father's house in heaven, with many who are safely there, and many more who, like me, will soon enter in. That this may be a blessed certainty, I desire to be faithful unto the end, that no man take my crown." When Henry sat down, before another one could be heard, the large congregation were singing:-- "Pe teh-na-mah-me cha-te yak Ke ehe ne-ka-mo-yak," etc. "O for a thousand tongues to sing My great Redeemer's praise." The next to get the floor was one of the sweetest, purest Christians it was ever my lot to become acquainted with in any land. His name was William Memotas. He was a very happy Christian. As he was a Local Preacher and a Class Leader, I was much in his society, and I can say, as many others have said, that William, since the day of his conversion, was never heard to utter an unkind word about any one, or do anything that could give the enemies of the Lord Jesus an opportunity to scoff at his profession of loving the Lord with all his heart. He was never a very strong man physically while we knew him, and so was unable to go on the long tripping or hunting expeditions with him more vigorous comrades. He suffered much from inward pain, but was ever bright and hopeful. When he stood up to add his testimony, the sick, pallid face caused a wave of sympathy to pass over the audience, but his cheery words quickly lifted the cloud, and we seemed to look through the open door into the celestial city, into which he was so soon to enter. His obituary, which I wrote at the time of his death, is added at the close of this chapter. He said:-- "For many years I have now been walking in this way, and proving this great salvation. It is a blessed way, and it is getting more delightful all the time. Every day on it is a day's walk nearer Jesus. It is not like the trails in our country, sometimes rocks, and then more often muskegs and quaking bogs; but it is the solid rock all the time, and on it we may always be sure of our footing, and it leads us up to Him Who is the Rock of Ages. I am not now a strong man, as you know I once was. This poor weak body is like the old wigwam. It is breaking up. As each storm tears fresh rents in the old wigwam, so each attack of disease seems to tear me, and bring me nearer the time when what is immortal of me shall slip away from the worn body into the everlasting brightness of that land where the happy people never say, `I am sick.' I am very glad and happy in the service of this Jesus, and will serve Him as long as He lends me health. But I do want to go home. I cannot do much more here. Our Missionary, Mr Young, said to me, `William, don't talk so much about leaving us. How can we spare you?' I thank him for his love and friendship, but there is another Friend I am getting such a longing in my heart to see, and that is Jesus, my Saviour, my Redeemer. I am praying for patience, but by-and-by I shall be with Him, with him for evermore. There I shall have no pain, and I will praise my Jesus for evermore. So, while waiting, I ask God to be with me here, and to let me serve Him in some way every day." With suppressed emotion, for many eyes were full of tears, the people sang-- "Tapwa meyoo ootaskewuk, Ispemik ayahchik," etc. "There is a land of pure delight, Where saints immortal reign." William was a sweet singer, and joined heartily with the rest in singing several verses of that grand old hymn. We had a presentiment that the end was not far off, but we little thought, as we looked into his radiant face, and heard his clear scriptural testimony, and his longings for rest and heaven, that this was to be the last Lovefeast in which our dear brother was to be with us. Ere another similar service was held, William Memotas had gone sweeping through the gates, washed in the blood of the Lamb. James Cochrane, a Class Leader, said,-- "I have great reason to bless God for the privileges and mercies I have had from him. I am so glad to be with you to-day in his house. I try to arrange all my huntings and journeys so as to be present at all of these love-feasts and sacraments. Since I decided, many years ago, to give up paganism and become a Christian, I have never missed one of these meetings, though sometimes I have had to take several days and travel hundreds of miles to get here. I only had to travel sixty miles on my snow-shoes to be here to-day. It has paid me well to come. I rejoice that God has enabled me to be faithful all these years since I started in His service. When I first began, I had a great many doubts and fears. The way seemed very long ahead of me. I felt so weak and so prone to sin. It seemed impossible that such a weak, unworthy creature as I could stand true and faithful; but trusting in God, and constantly endeavouring to exercise a living faith in Christ, I have been kept to this day, and I can say I realise a daily growth in grace. I ask God to give me His Holy Spirit to help me to follow Christ's example and to keep all of God's commandments. May I, too, prove faithful." Mary Cook, a very old woman, who has had to endure persecution for Christ's sake, spoke next. She said: "I am very glad to be here once more. I have many pagan relatives who have no feeling of friendship towards me, because I am a follower of Jesus. But He is my Friend, so it is all right. I have been very sick, and thought that God was going to take me home to heaven. That thought made me very happy in my sickness. My poor little room often seemed light with the presence of my Lord. I love to dwell with God's people. It is my chief joy. I refused to go and live with my relatives in the woods, even though I should be better off, because I love the house of God, and because I so love to worship with God's people." Mary Oig said: "Very happy do I feel in my heart to-day. My heart is filled with his love. I knew I love Him and his people; and His service is to me a great delight. Once, like many others, I was in the great darkness, wandering in sin; but God sought me by His Holy Spirit, and convinced me of my lost condition, and shewed me Himself as my only Hope, and enabled me to rejoice in his pardoning mercy through faith in the Atonement. May God keep me faithful, that with you I may join around the Throne above." Thomas Mamanowatum, generally known as "Big Tom," on account of his almost gigantic size, was the next to speak. He is one of the best of men. I have used him to help me a good deal, and have ever found him one of the worthiest and truest assistants. His people all love and trust him. He is perhaps the most influential Indian in the village. Tom said: "I, too, desire to express my gratitude to God for His great blessings and mercies to me. I am like David, who said, `Come, all ye who fear the Lord, and I will tell you what He hath done for my soul.' He has taken me out of the pit of sin, and set me on the rock. So I rejoice, for I have felt and tasted of His love. When I think of what he has done for me, and then think of what I have been, I feel that I am not worthy even to stand up in such a place as this. But He is worthy, and so I must praise Him. I have a comfortable assurance that He, my good Father, is contented with me. But it is only because the grace of God is sufficient to keep me. I am growing in grace, and I desire more than ever to glorify God in all I think, or speak, or do. I have been helping our Missionary at Beren's River in the good work among the people there. I often felt happy while endeavouring to point my heathen brethren to Jesus Christ, Who takes away the sins of the world. My first consecration was of myself, when converted to Christ. My second was of my family to Him. My third is of my class. I am often very happy while trying to lead them on in the way to heaven. To-day I renew my vows of consecration. I offer the sacrifice of thanksgiving, for He is my God and my portion for ever. As He is the Source of Love and Light and Safety, I want to be continually drawing nearer to Him." Very appropriate was the hymn which was next sung,-- "Ke-se-wog-ne-man-toom Ke-nah-te-tin," etcetera, "Nearer, my God, to Thee." After three verses of this beautiful hymn were sung, we had a large number of short testimonies. Some of the people beautifully expressed themselves by quoting passages from their Indian Bibles. For example, one said: "The joy of the Lord is my portion." Another: "The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want." Another: "Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when He shall appear, we shall be like Him; for we shall see him as He is." Thus delightfully passed away two hours. Perhaps fifty or sixty gave their testimonies, or quoted passages of Scripture. The speaking was up to the average of a similar gathering among white people, as these examples we have given would indicate. They were faithfully translated by two of our best interpreters, and then compared. And yet many of the beautiful Indian images are lost in the translation into English. The best of all has also to be left out. The Divine power, the holy emotions, the shining faces, the atmosphere of heaven, cannot be put down on paper. Many of my readers know what I mean as thus I write, for they have been in those hallowed gatherings where "they that feared the Lord spake often one to another." Then followed the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper. To the Christian Indians this service is, as it ever should be, the most solemn and impressive in the Church. Our custom was to hold four Communion services during the year. In addition, we sometimes gave a dying devoted member this sacrament, if so desired. Here there were a few other very important occasions, when we celebrated in this way the dying of the Lord Jesus. As, for example, when several scores of our people were going off on a dangerous trip in a plague-infected district with but very poor prospects of all returning home again. WILLIAM MEMOTAS. William Memotas was converted from the darkness of paganism to the light of the Gospel soon after the introduction of the glad tidings of salvation among the Cree Indians by that most useful and godly man, the Reverend James Evans. William's conversion was so clear and positive that he never had any doubts about it. His progress in the Divine life was marked and intelligent, and soon he became a useful and acceptable worker in the Church. He was a Class Leader and Local Preacher of great power and acceptability. He was pre-eminently a happy Christian. His face seemed full of sunshine. There was a genial sweetness about him that caused his very presence to act as a charm. His coming into our Mission home was like the sunshine, in which even our little ones basked with great delight. He was an every-day Christian. Although I was often in his company, and was thrown in contact with him on some occasions calculated to severely test him, yet I never heard from him an improper word, or heard of his having in any way gone contrary to his Christian profession during the thirty years that he had professed to be a follower of the Lord Jesus. His greatest aim in life seemed to be to get to heaven; and next to that he strove to induce others to follow in the same course. When some of the Indians were getting excited about their lands, and the treaties which were soon to be made with the Government, William, in writing to a friend, said: "I care for none of these things; they will all come right. My only desire is to love Jesus more and more, so as to see Him by-and-by." He was a useful Christian, possessing a good knowledge of the roots and herbs of his native forests, and also having had some instruction given him in reference to some of the simpler medicines of the whites, he was often styled our "village doctor." Although seldom remunerated for his services, he was always ready to listen to the calls of the afflicted, and, with Heaven's blessing, was instrumental in accomplishing some marvellous cures. He believed in using a good deal of prayer with his medicines. His skill in dressing and curing gun-shot wounds could not be excelled. Yet, while doing all he could to cure others, his own health was very poor for several years. He suffered frequently from violent headaches that caused intense pain. Yet he was never heard to murmur or complain, but would say to us, when we tried to sympathise with him, "Never mind, by-and-by I shall get home, and when I see Jesus I shall have no more pain." About nine days before his departure he caught a severe cold that settled upon his lungs, which seemed to have been diseased for a long time. He had from the beginning a presentiment that his sickness was "unto death," and never did a weary toiler welcome his bed of rest with greater delight than did William the grave. The prospect of getting to heaven seemed so fully to absorb his thoughts that he appeared dead to everything earthly. In life he had been a most loving and affectionate husband and father, but now, with a strong belief in God's promises of protection and care over the widow and fatherless, he resigned his family into the Lord's hands, and then seemed almost to banish them from his thoughts. Being very poor on account of his long-continued ill health, which had incapacitated him for work, he had, when his severe illness began, nothing to eat but fish. We cheerfully supplied him with what things our limited means would allow, to alleviate his sorrows and poverty. One day, when my beloved Brother Semmens and I had visited him, we had prayer and a blessed talk with him. As we were leaving him, after giving him some tangible evidences of our love, Brother Semmens said, "Now, Brother William, can we do anything else for you? Do you want anything more?" The poor sick man turned his radiant face towards us and said, "O no, I want nothing now, but more of Christ." He often conversed with us about his glorious prospects and the joy and happiness he felt as the pearly gates of the Golden City seemed to be opening before him. Here are some of his dying words whispered either to my beloved colleague or to myself. Would that we could portray the scene, or describe the happy, shining face of the dying man, lying there on a bed of blankets and rabbit skins in his little dwelling! He said, "While my body is getting weaker, my faith is getting stronger, and I am very happy in Jesus' love. Very glad am I that I responded to Mr Evans' invitations, and gave my heart to Him Who has saved me and kept me so happy in His love. I am so glad I was permitted to do some little work for Jesus. He used to help me when I tried to talk about His love and recommend Him to others. I used to get very happy in my own soul when thus working for Him. I am happier now than ever before. I am resting in His love." Thus would the happy man talk on as long as his strength permitted. It was ever a blessing to visit him. It wonderfully encouraged and strengthened us in our work. One day, as we came from one of these blessed visits, Brother Semmens burst out in almost ecstatic delight,-- "O may I triumph so When all my warfare's past!" When we administered to him the emblems of the broken body and spilt blood of the Redeemer, he was much affected, and exclaimed, "My precious Saviour! I shall soon see Him. `That will be joy for evermore.'" Once, when conversing with him, I happened to say, "I hope you will not leave us. We want you to remain with us. We need you to help us to preach. We need you in the Sunday School and in the Prayer Meetings. Your sixty class members are full of sorrow at your sickness. They think they cannot spare you. Do not be in a hurry to leave us, William. We want your presence, your example, your prayers." He listened patiently while I talked, and then he looked up at me so chidingly, like a weary, home-sick child, and exclaimed, in a voice that showed that earth had lost all its charms, "Why do you wish to detain me? You know I want to go home." Shortly after, his heart's desire was his in actual possession. Triumphantly he went home. While we felt that our Mission was much the loser by his departure, we knew it was better for him, and an accession to heaven's glorious company of one who was worthy to mingle with the white-robed throng around the throne of God. There is nothing that more roots and grounds us in this blessed Gospel, and more stimulates us to labour on, even amidst hardships and sufferings, than the consistent lives and triumphant deaths of our Indian converts. Ignorant as many of them are of the non-essentials of our religion, yet possessing by the Spirit's influence a vivid knowledge of their state by nature, and of the Saviour's love for them, they cling to Him with a faith so strong and abiding, that the blessed assurance of His favour abides with them as a conscious reality through life; and when the end draws near, sustained by His presence, even the Valley of the Shadow of Death is entered with delight. The Missions among the Indians of North America have not been failures. The thousands converted from different tribes, and now before the throne of God, and the many true and steadfast ones following after, tell us that although many of the toilers among them, as they went with the seed, literally went forth weeping, yet the harvest has been an abundant one, and has more than compensated for the tears and toils of the sewers. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. VARIED DUTIES--CHRISTIANITY MUST PRECEDE CIVILISATION--ILLUSTRATIONS-- EXPERIMENTAL FARMING--PLOUGHING WITH DOGS--ABUNDANCE OF FISH--VISITS FROM FAR-OFF INDIANS--SOME COME TO DISTURB--MANY SINCERE INQUIRERS AFTER THE TRUTH--"WHERE IS THE MISSIONARY?"--BEREN'S RIVER MISSION BEGUN-- TIMOTHY BEAR--PERILS ON THE ICE. Very diversified were our duties among these Indians. Not only were there those that in all places are associated with ministerial or pastoral work, but there were also many others, peculiar to this kind of missionary toil. Following closely on the acceptance of the spiritual blessings of the Gospel came the desire for temporal progress and development. Christianity must ever precede a real and genuine civilisation. To reverse this order of proceedings has always resulted in humiliating failure among the North American Indians. Sir Francis Bond Head, one of the early Governors of Canada, took a great interest in the Indians. He zealously endeavoured to improve them, and honestly worked for their advancement. He gathered together a large number of them at one of their settlements, and held a great council with them. Oxen were killed, and flour and tea and tobacco were provided in large quantities. The Indians feasted and smoked, and listened attentively to this great man who represented the Queen, and who, having also supplied them with food for the great feast, was worthy of all attention. The Governor told them that the great object of his coming to see them, and thus feasting them, was to show his kindness to them, and interest in their welfare. Then, with much emphasis he told them how the game was disappearing, and the fish also would soon not be so plentiful, and, unless they settled down and cultivated the soil, they would suffer from hunger, and perhaps starve to death. He got them to promise that they would begin this new way of life. As they were feeling very comfortable while feasting on his bounties, they were in the humour of promising everything he desired. Very much delighted at their docility, he said he would send them axes to clear more of their land, and oxen and ploughs to prepare it for seed; and when all was ready he would send them seed grain. Great were their rejoicings at these words, and with stately ceremony the council broke up. In a few days along came the ploughs, oxen, and axes. It was in the pleasant springtime, but instead of going to work and ploughing up what land there was cleared in their village, and beginning with their axes to get more ready, they held a council among themselves. These were their conclusions: "These axes are bright and shine like glass. If we use them to cut down trees, they will lose their fine appearance. Let us keep them as ornaments. These oxen now are fat and good. If we fasten them up to these heavy ploughs, and make them drag them through the ground, they will soon get poor and not fit for food. Let us make a great feast." So they killed the oxen, and invited all of the surrounding Indians to join them, and as long as a piece of meat was left the pots were kept boiling. Thus ended, just as many other efforts of the kind have ended, this effort to civilise the Indians before Christianising them. We found that almost in proportion to the genuineness of the Indian's acceptance of the Gospel was his desire to improve his temporal circumstances. Of course there were some places where the Indians could not cultivate the land. We were four hundred miles north of the fertile prairies of the great western part of the Dominion of Canada, where perhaps a hundred millions of people will yet find happy times. From these wondrously fertile regions my Nelson River Indians were at least six hundred miles north. As hunters and fishermen these men, and those at Oxford Mission, and indeed nearly all in those high latitudes, must live. But where there was land to cultivate the Indians had their gardens and little fields. I carried out with me four potatoes. I did not get them in the ground until the 6th of August. Yet in the short season left I succeeded in raising a few little ones. These I carefully packed in cotton wool and kept safe from the frost. The next year I got from them a pailful. The yield the third year was six bushels, and the fourth year one hundred and twenty-five bushels; and before I left the Indians were raising thousands of bushels from those four potatoes. They had had some before, but there had been some neglect, and they had run out. One summer I carried out, in a little open boat from Red River, a good Scotch iron beam plough. The next winter, when I came in to the District Meeting, I bought a bag of wheat containing two bushels and a half; and I got also thirty-two iron harrow teeth. I dragged these things, with many others, including quite an assortment of garden seeds, on my dog-trains, all the way to Norway House. I harnessed eight dogs to my plough, and ploughed up my little fields; and, after making a harrow, I harrowed in my wheat with the dogs. The first year I had thirty bushels of beautiful wheat. This I cut with a sickle, and then thrashed it with a flail. Mrs Young sewed several sheets together, and one day, when there was a steady, gentle breeze blowing, we winnowed the chaff from the wheat in the wind. There were no mills within hundreds of miles of us; so we merely cracked the wheat in a hand coffee-mill, and used some of it for porridge, and gave the rest to the Indians, who made use of it in their soups. Thus we laboured with them and for them, and were more and more encouraged, as the years rolled on, at seeing how resolved they were to improve their temporal circumstances, which at the best were not to be envied. The principal article of food was fish. The nets were in the water from the time the ice disappeared in May until it returned in October; and often were holes cut in the ice, and nets placed under it, for this staple article of food. The great fall fisheries were times of activity and anxiety, as the winter's supply of food depended very much upon the numbers caught. So steady and severe is the frost at Norway House, and at all the Missions north of it, that the fish caught in October and the early part of November, keep frozen solid until April. The principal fish is the white fish, although many other varieties abound. Each Indian family endeavoured to secure from three to five thousand fish, each fall, for the winter's supply. For my own family use, and more especially for my numerous dogs, which were required for my long winter trips to the out Mission appointments, I used to endeavour to secure not less than ten thousand fish. It is fortunate that those lakes and rivers so abound in splendid varieties of fish. If it were not so, the Indians could not exist. But, providentially,-- "The teeming sea supplies The food the niggard soil denies." Deer of several varieties abound, and also other animals, the flesh of which furnishes nutritious food. But all supplies of food thus obtained are insignificant in comparison with the fish, which the Indians are able to obtain except in the severest weather. As with the natives, so it was with the Missionaries; the principal article of food upon their tables was fish. During the first Riel Rebellion, when all communication with the interior was cut off, and our supplies could not as usual be sent out to us from Red River, my good wife and I lived on fish twenty-one times a week, for nearly six months. Of course there were times when we had on the table, in addition to the fish, a cooked rabbit, or it may be a piece of venison or bear's meat. However, the great "stand-by," as they say out in that land, was the fish. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Every summer hundreds of Indians from other places visited us. Some came in their small canoes, and others with the Brigades, which in those days travelled vast distances with their loads of rich furs, which were sent down to York Factory on the Hudson Bay, to be shipped thence to England. Sometimes they remained several weeks between the trading post and the Mission. Very frequent were the conversations we had with these wandering red men about the Great Spirit and the Great Book. Some, full of mischief, and at times unfortunately full of rum, used to come to annoy and disturb us. One summer a band of Athabasca Indians so attacked our Mission House that for three days and nights we were as in a state of siege. Unfortunately for us our own loyal able-bodied Indian men were all away as trip men, and the few at the Mission village were powerless to help. Our lives were in jeopardy, and they came very near burning down the premises. Shortly after these Athabasca Indians had left us I saw a large boatload of men coming across the lake towards our village. Imagining them to be some of these same disturbers, I hastily rallied all the old men I could, and went down to the shore, to keep them, if possible, from landing. Very agreeable indeed was my surprise to find that they were a band of earnest seekers after the Great Light, who had come a long distance to see and talk with me. Gladly did I lead them to the Mission House, and until midnight I endeavoured to preach to them Jesus. They came a distance of over three hundred miles; but in that far-off district had met in their wanderings some of our Christian Indians from Norway House, who, always carrying their Bibles with them, had, by reading to them and praying with them, under the good Spirit's influence, implanted in their hearts longing desires after the great salvation. They were literally hungering and thirsting after salvation. Before they left for their homes, they were all baptized. Their importunate request to me on leaving was the same as that of many others: "Do come and visit us in our own land, and tell us and our families more of these blessed truths." From God's Lake, which is sixty miles from Oxford Lake, a deputation of eleven Indians came to see me. They had travelled the whole distance of two hundred and sixty miles in order that they might hear the Gospel, and get from me a supply of Bibles, Hymn-books, and Catechisms. One of them had been baptized and taught years ago by the Reverend H. Brooking. His life and teachings had made the others eager for this blessed way, and so he brought these hungry sheep in the wilderness that long distance that they might have the truth explained to them more perfectly, and be baptised. As it had been with the others who came from a different direction, so it was with these. Their earnest, oft- repeated entreaty was, "Come and visit us and ours in our far-away homes." A few weeks after, another boatload of men called to have a talk with me. They seated themselves on the grass in front of the Mission House, and at first acted as though they expected me to begin the conversation. I found out very soon that they were Saulteaux, and had come from Beren's River, about a hundred and fifty miles away. After a few words as to their health and families had passed between us, an old man, who seemed to be the spokesman of the party, said, "Well, Ayumeaookemou" ("praying master," the Missionary's name), "do you remember your words of three summers ago?" "What were my words of three summers ago?" I asked. "Why," he replied, "your words were that you would write to the Keche- ayumeaookemou" (the great praying masters, the Missionary Secretaries) "for a Missionary for us." When I first passed through their country, they with tears in their eyes had begged for a Missionary. I had been much moved by their appeals, and had written to the Mission House about them and for them, but all in vain. None had come to labour among them. For my answer to this old man's words I translated a copy of my letter, which had been published, and in which I had strongly urged their claims for a Missionary. They all listened attentively to the end, and then the old man sprang up and said, "We all thank you for sending that word, but _where is the Missionary_?" I was lost for an answer, for I felt that I was being asked by this hungering soul the most important question that can be heard by the Christian Church, to whom God has committed the great work of the world's evangelisation. "WHERE IS THE MISSIONARY?" The question thrilled me, and I went down before it like the reed before the storm. I could only weep and say, "Lord, have mercy upon me and on the apathetic Christian world." That was the hardest question a human being ever asked me. To tell him of a want of men, or a lack of money, to carry the glad tidings of salvation to him and his people, would only have filled his mind with doubts as to the genuineness of the religion enjoyed by a people so numerous and rich as he knew the whites were. So I tried to give them some idea of the world's population, and the vast number yet unconverted to Christianity. I told him the Churches were at work in many places and among many nations, but that many years would pass away before all the world would be supplied with Missionaries. "How many winters will pass by before that time comes?" he asked. "A great many, I fear," was my answer. He put his hands through his long hair, once as black as a raven's wing, but now becoming silvered, and replied: "These white hairs show that I have lived many winters, and am getting old. My countrymen at Red River on the south of us, and here at Norway House on the north of us, have Missionaries, and churches, and schools; and we have none. I do not wish to die until we have a church and a school." The story of this old man's appeal woke up the good people of the Churches, and something was soon done for these Indians. I visited them twice a year by canoe and dog-train, and found them anxious for religious instruction and progress. At first I sent to live among them my faithful interpreter, Timothy Bear. He worked faithfully and did good service. He was not a strong man physically, and could not stand much exposure. To live in, he had my large leather tent, which was made of the prepared skins of the buffalo. One night a great tornado swept over the country, and Timothy's tent was carried away, and then the drenching rains fell upon him and his. A severe cold resulted, and when word reached me several weeks after at Norway House, it was that my trusted friend was hopelessly ill, but was still endeavouring to keep at his duties. So great was my anxiety to go and comfort him that I started out with my dog-trains so soon after the winter set in that that trip very nearly proved to be my last. The greater part of that journey was performed upon Lake Winnipeg. Very frequently on the northern end of that lake the ice, which there forms first, is broken up by the fierce winds from the southern end, which, being three hundred miles further south, remains open several days longer. I had with me two Indians,--one was an old experienced man, named William Cochran; the other a splendid specimen of physical manhood, named Felix. When we reached Lake Winnipeg, as far as we could judge by the appearance of the ice, it must have formed three times, and then have been broken up by the storms. The broken masses were piled up in picturesque ridges along the shore, or frozen together in vast fields extending for many miles. Over these rough ice-fields, where great pieces of ice, from five to twenty feet high, were thrown at every angle, and then frozen solid, we travelled for two days. Both men and dogs suffered a great deal from falls and bruises. Our feet at times were bruised and bleeding. Just about daybreak, on our third day, as we pushed out from our camp in the woods where we had passed the night, when we had got a considerable distance from the shore, Felix was delighted to find smooth ice. He was guiding at the time. He put on his skates and bounded off quickly, and was soon followed by the dogs, who seemed as delighted as he that the rough ice had all been passed, and now there was a possibility of getting on with speed and comfort. Just as I was congratulating myself on the fact of our having reached good ice, and that now there was a prospect of soon reaching my sick Indian brother, a cry of terror came from William, the experienced Indian who was driving our provision sled behind mine. "This ice is bad, and we are sinking," he shouted. Thinking the best way for me was to stop I checked my dogs, and at once began to sink. "Keep moving, but make for the shore," was the instant cry of the man behind. I shouted to my splendid, well-trained dogs, and they at once responded to the command given, and bounded towards the shore. Fortunately the ice was strong enough to hold the dogs up, although under the sled it bent and cracked, and in some places broke through. Very grateful were we when we got back to the rough strong ice near the shore. In quiet tones we spoke a few words of congratulation to each other, and lifted up our hearts in gratitude to our great Preserver, and then hurried on. If we had broken in, we could have received no earthly aid, as there was not even a wigwam within a day's journey of us. That night at the camp-fire I overheard William saying to Felix, "I am ashamed of ourselves for not having taken better care of our Missionary." We found Timothy very sick indeed. We ministered to his comfort, and had it then in our power so to arrange that, while the work should not suffer, he could have rest and quiet. His success had been very marked, and the old Saulteaux rejoiced that he and the rest of them were to be neglected no longer. He had made such diligent progress himself in spiritual things that I gladly baptized him and his household. There were times when our supplies ran very short, and hunger and suffering had to be endured. During the first Riel Rebellion, when we were cut off from access to the outside world, we were entirely dependent upon our nets and guns for a long time. Our artist has tried to tell a story in three pictures. At the breakfast table we had nothing to eat but the hind-quarter of a wild cat. It was very tough and tasteless; and while we were trying to make our breakfast from it, Mrs Young said, "My dear, unless you shoot something for dinner, I am afraid there will be none." So I took down my rifle, and tied on my snow-shoes, and started off looking for game. See Picture I. Pictures II and III tell the rest of the story. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. SMALL-POX PESTILENCE--HEROIC CONDUCT OF CHRISTIAN INDIANS--WHITES SUPPLIED WITH PROVISIONS BY RED MEN--THE GUIDE SAMUEL PAPANEKIS--HIS TRIUMPHANT DEATH--NANCY, THE HAPPY WIDOW--IN POVERTY, YET REJOICING. We were very much shocked, during the early spring, to hear that that terrible disease, the small-pox, had broken out among the Indians on the great plains of the Saskatchewan. It seems to have been brought into the country by some white traders coming up from the State of Montana. When once it had got amongst them, it spread with amazing rapidity and fatality. To make matters worse, one of the tribes of Indians, being at war with another, secretly carried some of the infected clothing, which had been worn by their own dead friends, into the territory of those with whom they were at war, and left it where it could be easily found and carried off. In this way the disease was communicated to this second tribe, and thousands of them died from it. Every possible precaution against the spread of this terrible destroyer was taken by the Missionaries, Messrs. McDougall and Campbell, aided by their Christian people. But, in spite of all their efforts, it continued cutting down both whites and Indians. To save some of his people Mr McDougall got the Indians of his Victoria Mission to leave their homes and scatter themselves over the great prairies, where, he hoped, they would, by being isolated, escape the contagion. The pagan Indians, rendered desperate under the terrible scourge which was so rapidly cutting them off, and being powerless to check it, resolved to wreak their vengeance upon the defenceless whites. So they sent a band of warriors to destroy every white person in the country. The first place they reached, where dwelt any of the pale-faces, was the Victoria Mission on the Saskatchewan River. Indian-like, they did not openly attack, but, leaving the greater number of their warriors in ambush in the long grass, a few of them sauntered into the Mission House. Here, to their surprise, they found that the small-pox had entered, and some of the inmates of the home had died. Quickly and quietly they glided away, and told their comrades what they had seen. A hasty consultation was held, and they decided that it could not have been the Missionary who had control of the disease; for, if he had, he would not have allowed it to have killed his own. They then decided it must have been the fur-traders, and so they started for the trading post. Here they pursued the same tactics, and found to their surprise that a Mr Clarke, the gentleman in charge of that place, had fallen a victim. Another hasty council made them think that they had been mistaken, and so they quickly returned to their own country without having injured any one. But the Missionary and his family were surrounded by perils. The Indians were excited and unsettled, and their old pagan conjurers were ever ready to incite them to deeds of violence. The restraining power of God alone saved them from massacre. Once the Missionary's wife and some of the family were at work in the garden, while secreted in the long grass not a hundred yards from them lay eleven Blackfeet, who had come to murder and pillage the place, but, as they afterwards acknowledged, were strangely restrained from firing. At another time some of the fierce warriors of this same bloodthirsty tribe crawled through a field of barley, and for a long time watched the movements of the family, and then noiselessly retired, doing no harm to any one. To hear the ping of a bullet as it passed in close proximity to the head was no very rare event in the lives of several of the early Missionaries among the excited pagans. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ While the small-pox was raging in the Great Saskatchewan country, strenuous efforts were made to prevent it spreading to other districts. Manitoba had now been formed into a province, and was filling up with white settlers. The old name, Fort Garry, had been changed to Winnipeg, and this place was rapidly growing into a prosperous town. From Fort Garry long trains of Red River carts had been in the habit of going for years with the supplies needed in the far-off Saskatchewan country. These carts were made without having in their construction a single piece of iron. The Half-breeds or Indian drivers never oiled or greased them, and the result was they could be heard about as far as seen, even on the level prairies. Each cart was drawn by one ox, and was supposed to carry from eight to twelve hundred pounds of supplies, in addition to the food and outfit of the driver, who was always expected to walk. This freighting by carts on the prairies is the counterpart of transporting goods by open boats or canoes in the northern rivers, to which we have elsewhere referred. The arrival of the brigade of carts with the supplies, and the news from the outside world, was the great event of the year in the early times at those lonely prairie settlements. But stern measures had to be adopted in this year of the small-pox plague. A proclamation was issued by the Governor of the Province of Manitoba, absolutely prohibiting any trade or communication in any way with the infected district. Not a single cart or traveller was permitted to go on the trail. This meant a good deal of suffering and many privations for the isolated Missionaries and traders and other whites who, for purposes of settlement or adventure, had gone into that remote interior country. As it was, only twice a year in many places did the lonely Missionaries hear from the outside world. Then the mail-carrier was very welcome, whether he came by canoe or dog-train. Although there were still plenty of buffalo on the plains, it was well known that the ammunition was about exhausted, as well as all other supplies, including medicines, now so much needed. Some interested parties vainly urged the Governor to relent and allow some supplies to be sent in. But, conscious of the risks that would be run of the pestilence reaching the province over which he governed, he remained firm, while he felt for those who necessarily must suffer. "What can be done to aid those unfortunate ones, who, in addition to their sorrows and troubles incident to the ravages of the small-pox among them, are now to be exposed to pinching famine and want?" was the question that sympathising friends were asking each other. As a last resort it was decided to appeal to the Norway House Christian Indians, and ask them to form a brigade of boats, and take the much-needed supplies up the mighty Saskatchewan River, where they could be reached by those needing them. To me, as Missionary of these Indians, Mr Stewart, the highest official of the Hudson's Bay Company, came; and we talked the matter over, and the risks which the Indians, not one of whom had been vaccinated, must run in going on such a perilous journey. They would have to go hundreds of miles through the disease-stricken land where hundreds had died. But it seemed essential that something must be done, and there were possibilities that the Indians, by acting very wisely, could escape infection: so we decided to call them together, and see what they would do in this emergency. When the church bell was rung, and the people had assembled together in their Council house, wondering what was the matter, I described the sad circumstances to them, and then presented the request, that one hundred and sixty of them should take twenty boats loaded with supplies, and go up the Saskatchewan, to save these white people from starving. I said to these converted Indians, my own people: "I know your race on this continent has not always been fairly treated; but never mind that. Here is a grand opportunity for you to do a glorious act, and to show to the world and to the good Lord, Whose children you are, that you can make sacrifices and run risks when duty calls, as well as the whites can." We told them that there was a possibility that they, by keeping in the middle of the great river all the time, and _never_ going ashore, might all escape. They would be provided with abundance of food; so they need not go ashore to hunt. Then we asked, "Are you willing to run the risk, and avail yourselves of this chance to do a glorious act?" Turning to one of the most trusted guides in the country, one of my best Class- Leaders, I said: "Samuel Papanekis, you are to be the guide and leader of this party." He was a son of the old centenarian, and brother of the Reverend Edward Papanekis, now our Missionary at Oxford House Mission. He seemed at first a little startled by the responsibility of the position, and after a moment's thought quietly said: "Will you give us a little time to talk it over?" So we left them to discuss the matter among themselves. When they sent us word that they had their answer ready, we returned, and he said: "Missionary, we have talked it over, and have decided to go to take the supplies to our suffering white brothers and their families. But will you let us have one more Sunday at the church, and will you give us the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper, ere we start upon the dangerous journey?" "Yes," I said, "it will take several days to get your loads and boats ready, and so we will have another blessed day of rest and hallowed worship together." It was a memorable Sabbath. Every man, woman, and child who could come to church, seemed to be there. Some of the women wept as they thought of the risks their husbands, or brothers, or sons were running. Others of them seemed to catch the spirit of the men, and felt proud that those they loved were willing to undertake so brave and noble a work. At the close of the morning service we had the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper. It was very solemn and impressive. As they came forward and partook of the emblems of their dear Lord's dying love, the recollection of His self-sacrifice and disinterested kindness seemed to come very vividly before us all, and there was in many hearts a kind of exultant joy that they were counted worthy to run some risks for the sake of doing good. No foolish boastfulness, or desire to seek for sympathy, characterised their utterances at the afternoon service, at which we met again in a Testimony or Fellowship Meeting. Some made no reference at all to the work before them; others asked for our prayers for them; and others, well taught in the Word of God, with the hallowed influences of the morning sacramental service still resting upon them, thought that they ought to rejoice when there were chances for getting into this spirit, so as to be partakers of Christ's sufferings, or companions in tribulation with such a Friend, so that when His glory should be revealed, they also might rejoice, as He has taught us: "If we suffer with Him," we shall "also be glorified together." Two or three days after this they started on their long, dangerous journey. They had twenty boats well loaded with supplies, each manned by eight Indians, and all under the guidance of Samuel Papanekis, whom they were expected to implicitly obey. They went up the fine river that passes by Norway House, until they entered into Lake Winnipeg. From this place they skirted around the north-western shore of this great lake, until they reached the mouth of the Saskatchewan River. Up this great river they had to row their beats against the current for many hundreds of miles. That summer was an exceedingly hot one, yet for weeks together these gallant fellows tugged away at their heavy oars. For a few short hours of rest during the night they anchored their boats in mid-stream, and then at first blush of morning they continued their journey. Wild beasts were sometimes seen walking on the shores or quenching their thirst in the river. The hunting instincts of the younger Indian boatmen were so strong that they begged to be allowed to fire; but Samuel, ever on the alert, and seeing the danger, always positively refused. When the Sabbaths came they anchored their boats as close together as possible near the middle of the river on some shoal or shallow spot, such as abound in this great river of shifting sand bars. Here they spent their quiet, restful days, having prayers and a couple of religious services each Sunday. Ere they reached the place where they were to deliver their precious cargoes, the river passed through many miles of the plague-stricken country. They could see on the shores the deserted wigwams, in which all the inmates had fallen victims to the fell destroyer, or had, panic- stricken, fled away. Very long seemed that summer, and great indeed was our solicitude, and many were our prayers for these noble men, from whom we did not hear a single word during the whole time of their absence. After being away for about ten weeks, they came back amidst a doxology of thanksgiving and gratitude. All of them were happy and in vigorous health, with the exception of the guide. The strain and anxiety upon him had been too much, and he was never the same man after. The others said, "Samuel seemed to be everywhere, and to watch every movement with almost sleepless vigilance." Realising how great the responsibilities were upon him, he determined, if untiring devotion to his work would enable him to rescue those suffering whites, and then return with his large brigade uncontaminated by the disease, it should be done. He succeeded, but at the price of his own life, for he only came home to linger a while and then to die. His indomitable will-power kept him up until he saw the last boat safely moored in our quiet harbour, and witnessed the loving greetings between his stalwart crews and their happy families. He joined with us all in the blessed thanksgiving service in our overflowing sanctuary, where with glad hearts we sang together: "And are we yet alive, And see each other's face? Glory and praise to Jesus give For His redeeming grace: Preserved by power Divine To full salvation here, Again in Jesu's praise we join, And in His sight appear." Then he began to droop and wither, and in spite of all that we, or the kind Hudson's Bay officials, who were very much attached to him, could do for him, he seemed almost visibly to slip away from us. By-and-by the end drew near. It was a beautiful day, and as he had some difficulty in breathing, at his own request a wigwam was prepared, and he was well wrapped up and gently lifted out of his house and placed upon a bed of balsam boughs covered with robes. He seemed grateful for the change, and appeared a little easier for a time. We talked of Jesus, and heaven, and "the abundant entrance," and "the exceeding great and precious promises." Then he dropped off in a quiet slumber. Soon after, he awoke with a consciousness that the time of his departure had come, and laid himself out to die. Bending over him, I said, "Samuel, this is death that has come for you! Tell me how it is with you." His hearing had partly left him, and so he did not understand me. Speaking more loudly I said, "Samuel, my brother, you are in the Valley of the Shadow of Death; how is it with you?" His eye brightened, and his look told me he had understood my question. He lifted up his thin, emaciated arm, and, seeming to clasp hold of something, he said, "Missionary, I am holding on to God; He is my all of joy and hope and happiness." Then the arm fell nerveless, and my triumphant Indian brother was in the Better Land. Perhaps I cannot find a better place than here to refer to Samuel's widow and children, and an interview I had with them. They moved away, shortly after his death, from his house in the Mission village, and took up their abode with several other families up the river beyond the Fort, several miles from the village. We had visited them and substantially aided them up to the time of their moving away, but for a while I had not met them, except at the services, and so did not know how they were prospering. When the cold winter set in, I arranged with my good Brother Semmens that we would take our dog-trains and go and make pastoral visits among all the Indian families on the outskirts, and find out how they were prospering, temporally and spiritually. It was ever a great joy to them when we visited them, and by our inquiries about their fishing and hunting, and other simple affairs, showed we were interested in these things, and rejoiced with them when they could tell of success, and sympathised with them when they had met with loss or disaster. Then they listened reverently when we read from the blessed Word, and prayed with them in their humble homes. One bitterly cold day towards evening we drove up to a very poor little house. We knocked at the door, and in answer to a cheery "Astum,"--the Indian for "Come in,"--we entered the little abode. Our hearts sank within us at the evidences of the poverty of the inmates. The little building was made of poplar logs, the interstices of which were filled up with moss and clay. The floor was of the native earth, and there was not a piece of furniture in the abode, not a table, chair, or bedstead. In one corner of the room was an earthen fireplace, and, huddled around a poor fire in it, there sat a widow with a large family of children, one of whom was a cripple. We said a few words of kindly greeting to the family, and then, looking round on the destitute home, I said sorrowfully, "Nancy, you seem to be very poor; you don't seem to have anything to make you happy and comfortable." Very quickly came the response,--and it was in a very much more cheery strain than my words had been,-- "I have not got much, but I am not unhappy, Missionary." "You poor creature," I replied, "you don't seem to have anything to make you comfortable." "I have but little," she said quietly. "Have you any venison?" "No!" "Have you any flour?" "No!" "Have you any tea?" "Have you any potatoes?" When this last question of mine was uttered, the poor woman looked up at me, for she was the widow of Samuel Papanekis, and this was her answer: "I have no potatoes, for, don't you remember, at the time of potato planting Samuel took charge of the brigade that went up with provisions to save the poor white people? And Samuel is not here to shoot deer, that I may have venison; and Samuel is not here to catch mink and marten and beaver and other things to exchange for flour and tea." "What have you got, poor woman?" I said with my heart full of sorrow. She replied, "I have got a couple of fish-nets." "What did you do when it was too stormy to visit the nets?" "Sometimes some of the men from the other houses visited them for me, and would bring me the fish. Then we sometimes get some by fishing through the ice." "What about when it was too stormy for any one to go?" She quietly said, "If nothing were left, we go without anything." As I looked at her and her large family of fatherless children, and then thought of her husband's triumphant death, and his glorious transfer to that blest abode, where "they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more," and where "God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes," the contrast between the husband and father in his felicity, and the sorrow of the widow and children in their poverty, so affected me that, to hide my emotion and keep back my tears, I hurried out of the room, following my loving Brother Semmens, who was, if possible, more deeply moved than I was. We had gone into that house to pray, but we could not. There must be tangible sympathy given ere we could look to a higher source. My brother had reached the cariole, which was a few yards away, and I was not far behind, when the word, "Ayumeaookemou," ("Praying master,") arrested my hurrying steps. I turned back, and there, just outside of the door, was Nancy. With a woman's quick intuition to read the feelings of the heart from the face and voice, she had followed me out, and her words, as nearly as I can recall them, were these: "Missionary, I do not want you to feel so badly for me; it is true I am very poor; it is true, since Samuel died, we have often been hungry and have often suffered from the bitter cold; but, Missionary," and her face had no trace of sorrow upon it, "you have heard me say that as Samuel gave his heart to God, so have I given God my heart, and He Who comforted Samuel and helped him, so that he died so happily, is my Saviour; and where Samuel has gone, by-and-by I am going too; and that thought makes me happy all the day long." There came a blessed exultation into my soul, but I could find no answer then. So I hurried on and joined my weeping brother, and shouting, "Marchez!" to our dogs, we were soon rapidly speeding over the icy trail to our Mission home. That night our bed was a blanket thinner, and on our limited supplies there was a heavy drain. I told the Indians who were better off about her straitened condition, and she and hers were made more comfortable. Many of them gave very generously indeed to help her. The grace of liberality abounds largely among these poor Christian Indians, and they will give to the necessities of those who are poorer than themselves until it seems at times as though they had about reached the same level. The triumphant death of Samuel, and then Nancy's brave words, very much encouraged us in our work. We could not but more than rejoice at the Gospel's power, still so consciously manifested to save in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and also to make a humble log-cabin a little heaven below. We pitied her in her poverty, and yet soon after, when we had thought it all over in the light of eternity, we could only rejoice with her, and in our spirits say, "Happy woman! Better live in a log hut without a chair or table or bedstead, without flour or tea or potatoes, entirely dependent upon the nets in the lake for food, if the Lord Jesus is a constant Guest, than in a mansion of a millionaire, surrounded by every luxury, but destitute of His presence." It is a matter of great thankfulness that not only spiritually but temporally thousands of the Indians in different parts of Canada are improving grandly. The accompanying picture (page 209) is from a photograph taken at the Scugog Lake Indian Mission. The fine barn, well filled with wheat, as well as all the surrounding vehicles and agricultural implements, belong to one of the Christian Indians. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. A RACE FOR LIFE IN A BLIZZARD STORM--SAVED BY THE MARVELLOUS INTELLIGENCE OF JACK--"WHERE IS THE OLD MAN, WHOSE HEAD WAS LIKE THE SNOW-DRIFT?" Blizzard storms sometimes assailed us, as on the long winter trails, with our gallant dogs and faithful companions, we wandered over those regions of magnificent distances. To persons who have not actually made the acquaintance of the blizzard storms of the North-Western Territories, or Wild North Land, it is almost impossible to give a satisfactory description. One peculiarity about them, causing them to differ from other storms, is that the wind seems to be ever coming in little whirls or eddies, which keep the air full of snow, and make it almost impossible to tell the direction from which the wind really comes. With it apparently striking you in the face, you turn your back to it, and are amazed at finding that it still faces you. Once, when on Lake Winnipeg, we saw one coming down upon us. Its appearance was that of a dense fog blowing in from the sea. Very few indeed are they who can steer their course correctly in a blizzard storm. Most people, when so unfortunate as to be caught in one, soon get bewildered, and almost blinded by the fine, dry, hard particles of snow which so pitilessly beat upon them, filling eyes, nose, and even ears and mouth, if at all exposed. Once, when crossing Lake Winnipeg, to visit some wild Indians, whom we found on our arrival in the midst of the hideous ceremonies of a dog feast, I got caught in a terrible storm. My men had gone on ahead with all the dogs, to have dinner ready in the camp on the distant shore, leaving me miles behind, tramping along on snow-shoes. Down from the north, with terrific fury, came the gale. I tramped on as rapidly as possible, until I got bewildered. Then I took off one of my snow-shoes, and, fastening it in a hole cut in the ice, I got ready to tramp in a small circle around it to keep from freezing to death, when fortunately I heard the welcome whooping of my Indians, who, seeing my danger, had quickly turned round, and risking their own lives for mine, for they could have reached the woods and shelter, aided by the dogs, had fortunately reached me. There we stopped for hours, until the blizzard had spent its fury, and then on we went. I had a remarkable experience in a blizzard, which I will more fully describe, as our escape was under Providence so much indebted to my wonderful dog Jack. I had started on one of my long winter trips to visit the few little bands of Indians who were struggling for an existence on the Eastern coast of Lake Winnipeg, and who were always glad to welcome the Missionary, and to hear from him of the love of the Great Spirit, and of His Son Jesus Christ. Their country is very wild and rough, very different from the beautiful prairie regions of the North-West. To keep down expenses, which in those Northern Missions are very heavy, I had started out on this long trip with only this young Indian lad as my companion. But as he was good and true, I thought we could succeed, since I had been several years in the country, and had faced many a wintry storm, and slept many nights in the snow. We had with us two splendid trains of dogs. My leader was a lively, cunning Esquimaux dog, as white as snow. His name was Koona, which is the Indian word for "snow"; and he was well named. The other three dogs of my train were my favourites from Ontario. Two of them were gifts from Senator Sanford, of Hamilton; the other was kindly sent to me by Dr Mark, of Ottawa. The other train, driven by Alec, was composed of some sagacious St. Bernards obtained for me by the kindness of Mr Ferrier, of Montreal. The largest and most enduring of the eight was Jack from Hamilton, whose place was second in my train, and who is to be the hero of this adventure. We had left our camp-fire in the woods early in the morning, and, turning our faces towards the north, had hoped that ere the shadows of night had fallen around us, at least sixty miles of the frozen surface of Lake Winnipeg would have been travelled over. For a time we were able to push on very rapidly, keeping the distant points of headlands well in view for our guidance. Lake Winnipeg is very much indented with bays, and in travelling we do not follow the coast line, but strike directly across these bays from point to point. Some of them run back for many miles into the land, and several of them are from ten to thirty miles wide. The dogs get so accustomed to these long trips and to their work, that they require no guide to run on ahead, but will, with wonderful intelligence, push on from point to point with great exactness. On and on we had travelled for hours; the cold was very great, but we could easily jump off from our dog-sleds and run until we felt the glow and warmth of such vigorous exercise. After a while, we noticed that the strong wind which had arisen was filling the air with fine dry snow, and making travelling very difficult and unpleasant. Soon it increased to a gale, and we found ourselves in a real North-West blizzard on stormy Lake Winnipeg, many miles from shore. Perhaps our wisest plan would have been, at the commencement of the storm, to have turned sharply to the east, and got into the shelter of the forest as quickly as possible. But the bay we were crossing was a very deep one, and the headland before us seemed as near as the other end of the bay; and so we thought it best to run the risk and push on. That we might not get separated from each other, I fastened what we call the tail rope of my sled to the collar of the head dog of Alec's train. After Alec and I had travelled on for several hours, no sign of any land appearing, we began to think that the fickle blizzard was playing us one of its tricks, and that we had wandered far out into the lake. We stopped our dogs out there in the blinding, bewildering storm. "Alec!" I shouted, "I am afraid we are lost." "Yes, Missionary," he replied, "we are surely lost." We talked about our position, and both had to confess that we did not really know where we were or which way we ought to go. The result of our deliberation was that we could do no better than trust in the good Providence above us, and in our dogs before us. As it was now after midday, and the vigorous exercise of the last few hours had made us very hungry, we opened our provision bag, and, taking out some frozen food, made a fairly good attempt to satisfy the keen demands of appetite. We missed very much the good cup of hot black tea we should have had if we had been fortunate enough to reach the shore, and find some wood with which to make a fire. After our hasty meal we held a short consultation, in which the fact became more and more evident to us, that our position was a very perilous one, as we were becoming blinded by the driving particles of fine snow that stung our eyeballs and added much to our bewilderment. We found that we did not know east from west, or north from south, and would have to leave the dogs to decide on their own course, and let them go in any direction they pleased. I had a good deal of confidence in my dogs, as I had proved their sagacity. To Jack, the noblest of them all, I looked to lead us out of our difficulty; and he did not disappoint our expectations. I suppose I acted and talked to my dog in a way that some folks would have considered very foolish. When travelling regularly, the dogs are only fed once a day, and that when the day's work is done. However, it was different that day, as in the blinding gale Alec and I tried to eat our dinner. As Jack and the others crowded around us, they were not neglected, and with them we shared the food we had, as there was a great uncertainty whether another meal would ever be required by any one of us. As usual in such emergencies, Jack had come up close to me, and so, while he and Alec and I, and the rest of us, men and dogs, were eating our dinners, I had a talk with him. "Jack, my noble fellow," I said, "do you know that we are lost, and that it is very doubtful whether we shall ever see the Mission House again? The prospect is that the snow will soon be our winding sheet, and that loving eyes will look in vain for our return. The chances are against your ever having the opportunity of stretching yourself out on the wolf rug before the study fire. Rouse up yourself, old dog, for in your intelligence we are going to trust to lead us to a place of safety." The few arrangements necessary for the race were soon made. Alec wrapped himself up as comfortably as possible in his rabbit-skin robe, and I helped him to ensconce himself securely on his dog-sled. I tied a rope from the end of my sled to the collar of his leader dog, so that our trains might not get separated. Then I straightened out the trains, and, wrapping myself up as well as I could on my sled, I shouted "Marchez!" to the dogs. I had as leader dog the intelligent white Esquimaux, "Koona." As I shouted the word for "Go," Koona turned his head and looked at me, as though bewildered, and seemed to be waiting for "Chaw" or "Yee," the words for "right" and "left." As I did not know myself, I shouted to Jack, who was second in the train, "Go on, Jack, whichever way you like, and do the best you can, for I do not know anything about it." As Koona still hesitated, Jack, with all the confidence imaginable, dashed off in a certain direction, and Koona with slackened traces ran beside him, very willing in such an emergency to give him all the honour of leadership. For hours the dogs kept bravely to their work. The storm raged and howled around us, but not for one moment did Jack hesitate or seem to be at fault. Koona had nothing to do but run beside him; but the other two splendid dogs in the traces behind Jack seemed to catch his spirit, and nobly aided him by their untiring efforts and courage. The cold was so intense that I had grave fears that we should freeze to death. We were obliged so to wrap ourselves up that it was impossible with so much on us to run with any comfort, or to keep up with the dogs whilst going at such a rapid rate. Frequently would I shout back to my comrade, "Alec! don't go to sleep. Alec, if you do, you may never wake up until the Judgment morning." Back would come his response, "All right, sir; then I'll try to keep awake." Thus on we travelled through that wintry storm. How cold, how relentless, how bitter were the continuous blasts of the north wind! After a while the shadows of night fell upon us, and we were enshrouded in the darkness. Not a pleasant position was that in which we were situated; but there was no help for it, nor any use in giving way to despondency or despair. A sweet peace filled my soul, and in a blessed restfulness of spirit my heart was kept stayed upon God. While there is life there is hope; and so, with an occasional shout of warning to Alec to keep awake, and a cheering call to the dogs, who required no special urging, so gallantly were they doing their work, we patiently hung on to our sleds and awaited the result. We were now in the gloom of night, dashing along I knew not where, and not even able at times to see the dogs before us. About three hours after dark the dogs quickened their pace into a gallop, and showed by their excitement that they had detected evidences of nearness to the shore and safety, of which as yet I knew nothing. Soon after they dragged us over a large pile of broken ice and snow, the accumulations of ice cut out of the holes in the lake, where the Indian families had for months obtained their supply of water for cooking and other purposes. Turning sharply on the trail towards the shore, our dogs dashed along for a couple of hundred yards more; then they dragged us up a steep bank into the forest, and, after a few minutes more of rapid travelling, we found ourselves in the midst of a little collection of wigwams, and among a band of friendly Indians, who gave us a cordial welcome, and rejoiced with us at our escape from the storm, which was the severest of the year. We had three days of religious services with them, and then went on our way from encampment to encampment. Very glad were the poor people to see us, and with avidity did they receive the word preached. I felt that it was very slow work. My Circuit or Mission-field was larger than all England. I was the only Missionary of any Church in this large field. By canoe or dog-train I could only get around to all my appointments or out-stations twice a year. Six months the poor souls had to wait for the messenger and the message. At one of these Indian encampments on one of these visits I had the following sad experience. Before I closed the first service I asked, "Where is the old man whose head was like the snow-drift?" for I had missed a white-haired old man, who had ever been at all the services, and had from the time of his conversion manifested the greatest anxiety to hear and learn all he could about this great salvation. At first he had opposed me, and was annoyed at my coming among his people. Ultimately, however, he became convinced of the error of his ways, and was an earnest, decided Christian. When I arrived at his village, whether by canoe in summer, or dog-train in winter, I was always received by this venerable old man with great delight. Not satisfied with attending all the services held, and being at hand whenever I taught the Syllabic Characters, that the Indians might be able to read the blessed Word, he used to follow me like my shadow, and listen very attentively to all I had to say. It was rather startling, indeed, when one night, after a hard day of preaching and teaching and counselling, I kneeled down to pray, ere I wrapped myself up in my camp-bed to get a little rest, to hear whispered in quiet tones beside me, "Missionary, pray in Indian, and so loud that I can hear you." In the morning he was there again, and as I bowed to say my quiet morning prayers there came into my ears from this old man the pleading words again, "Missionary, please pray in Indian, and pray out loud, so that I may hear what you say." Is it any wonder that I became very much attached to my old friend with the snow-white hair, who was so hungering and thirsting for the teachings of the Word? Only twice a year could I then visit him and his people. I used to remain a few days at each of these visits, and very busy ones indeed they were. For six months these poor sheep in the wilderness had been without the Gospel, and as soon as I left they would have to get along as well as they could on what they had heard. Now that they had, under the good Spirit's influence, a longing desire to receive the truth, can any one wonder at their anxiety to learn all they could from the Missionary during his short stay among them? This intense desire on their part filled my heart with thankfulness, and amply compensated for all the sufferings and hardships of the long, cold, dangerous journeys. On my arrival at this place, as usual, the Indians had crowded around to welcome me. I was disappointed at not seeing my old friend. So it was that at our first meeting, held as soon as possible after my arrival, I asked the question, "Where is the old man whose head was like the snow- drift?" To my question there was no response, but every head was bowed as in grief and sorrow. Again I asked: "Tell me, what have you done with the old man with the snow-white hair?" Then there was a little whispering among them, and one of them, speaking out softly, said in the Cree language, "Non pimmatissit;" the English of which is, "He is not among the living." The poor Indians, who have not as yet come to understand that death is a conquered foe, never like to use the word; and so, when speaking of those who have gone, they say they are "not among the living." When in this expressive way I learned that my old friend was dead, my heart was filled with sorrow, as I saw also were theirs. After a little pause I said, "Tell me how he died." At first there was a great deal of reluctance to answer this question; but when they saw I was not only anxious but resolved to know all about it, they took me into a wigwam where most of his relatives were, and there a young man, a grandson, got up and told me this pathetic story. He said: "Missionary, you had not been long gone with your canoe last summer before Mismis," (the Indian word for "grandfather"), "got very sick, and after some weeks he seemed to know that he was going to leave us. So he called us all around him, and said a great many things to us. I cannot remember them all, as he spoke many times; but I do remember that he said, `how I wish the Missionary would soon come again to talk to me and comfort me! But he is far away, and my memory is bad, and I have forgotten what he used to say to me. My body is breaking up, and so also is my memory getting bad. Tell him his coming was like the sunlight on the waters; but it was so seldom that he came that all in my mind has got so dark, and my memory is so bad, that I have forgotten all he used to say to me. The good things he used to tell us about the Good Spirit and His Son, and what we ought to do, have slipped away from me. O that he were here to help me! Tell him, as long as I was able; I used to go up to the point of land that runs out into the lake, and watch if I could see his canoe returning. But it came not. Tell him I have, since the winter set in, listened for the sound of the bells on his dog- trains. But I have not heard them. O that he were here to help me! He is far away; so get me my old drum and medicine bag, and let me die as did my fathers. But you, young people, with good memories, who can remember all the Missionary has said to you, listen to his words, and worship the Great Spirit and His Son, as he tells you, and do not do as I am doing!' "Then, as we saw his mind was weak, or he would not have asked for his old things, we got him the old drum, and put it before him where he was sitting upon the ground. We also hung up a medicine bag before him in the wigwam, and he drummed. As he drummed he fell, and as he fell he died. But his last words were to the young people with good memories to be sure and listen to the Missionary, and to give up all their old Indian sinful paganism." When the young man ceased and sat down again, a deep silence fell upon us all, as there we were huddled that cold, stormy day in that little bark tent. An occasional sob from some sorrowing relative was the only sound heard for several minutes. My own heart was deeply affected when they told me these and other things, which I cannot now call up, about the old Indian's death. After a while I broke the silence by saying, "Where have you buried him?" They showed me the place. It was where his wigwam had stood. So terrible is the power of the Frost King in that land in winter, that to dig a grave out in the open places is like cutting through a granite rock. And so in his tent, where burned his fire, thus keeping the ground unfrozen, there they dug his grave and buried him. The wigwam was removed, and soon the fierce storms swept over the place, and the snow fell deeply upon it, and there was nothing to indicate that there, so shortly before, had been a human habitation. When they had pointed out the place where, underneath the snow-drift, rested all that was mortal of my old friend, I lingered until the Indians had sought the shelter of their wigwams from the bitter cold, and then all alone, except with Him Who hears His people's cry, I knelt down in the snow and prayed, or tried to pray. But I could only weep out my sorrow as I thought of this old man's precious soul passing into eternity under such strange circumstances. With his waning strength he exhorted his loved ones to be Christians, and yet he himself was performing some of the foolish and unmeaning rites of paganism, not because he had much faith in them, but because there was no Missionary or teacher to keep in his memory the story of Jesus and His wondrous love! Never before did the wants and woes of the weary, waiting, wailing millions of earth's perishing ones rise up so vividly as I knelt there in the snow. Before me, through my blinding tears, I seemed to see them pass in dense array,--a dark world, to be illumined; an enslaved world, to be set free; a sinful world, to be made holy; a redeemed world, to be saved. In a spirit that perhaps savoured too much of unbelief I cried out, "How long, O Lord, how long? Why do Thy chariot wheels delay?" Saving me from further gloom, came some of the sweet promises of the Word: and so I prayed for their speedy fulfilment. Earnestly did my feeble petitions ascend, that the time would soon come when not only all the poor Indians of the great North-West, but also all the unnumbered millions of earth's inhabitants who are going down from the darkness of paganism and superstition to the darkness of the grave, might soon have faithful teachers to whisper in their ears the story of the Cross, and point them to the world's Redeemer. Making all the visits we had arranged for that trip, we returned home. Months after, when the packet arrived from Manitoba, the sad news, that had so filled the Church with sorrow, of the death of the heroic George McDougall reached us. Out on the wild prairies he had been caught in a blizzard storm. Horse and man seem to have become bewildered, and there the noble Missionary to the Indians on the great plains laid himself down to die, and his frozen body was not found until after fourteen days of diligent search. After my dear wife and I had read the story, and talked and wept about his death, so sad, so mysterious, so inscrutable, she said to me, "Where were you during that week?" The journal was searched, and we were not a little startled at finding that the race for life we have in this chapter described was in all probability on the same day as that on which the Reverend George McDougall perished. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. WORK OUTSIDE THE PULPIT--POLYGAMY AND ITS EVILS--FAMILY RE- ARRANGEMENTS--DANGEROUS WORK AT TIMES--PRACTICAL PASTORAL DUTIES--A FISH SERMON--FIVE MEN WON TO CHRIST. While the blessed work of preaching "the glorious Gospel of the Son of God" was ever recognised as the most important of our duties, and we were permitted to rejoice that, as in Paul's time, still "it pleased God by the foolishness of preaching to save them that believe," yet there was a great deal to be done outside of the pulpit ere these Indians could shake off the fetters of a degrading paganism with its attendant evils. The slavish fear of the old conjurers deterred some from openly avowing themselves as willing to accept the truths of Christianity. Others were polygamists, and were unwilling to comply with the Scriptural requirements. To have several wives is considered a great honour in some of the tribes. For a man to separate from all but one is to expose himself to ridicule from his pagan friends, and also to the danger of incurring the hostility of the relations of the discarded wives. Some of the most perplexing and trying duties of my missionary life have been in connection with this matter of re-organising, on a Christian basis, the families of once heathen polygamists, who, desirous to do what was right, have left the matter entirely in my hands. At first my convictions and views were that the first wife should always be the one to remain with the man, and the others should go away. Like all the other Missionaries in the country, I had to modify these ideas, and decide differently in some peculiar cases. For example, a man came to me who was much impressed by the truth, and desired to be a Christian. I questioned him closely, and found him very sincere and earnest in his resolves. The Spirit was undoubtedly working in his heart and conscience. He told us he had two wives, but was willing to put one away. Which one should go, he said he would leave to the Missionary to decide. His first wife was much the older woman, but she had no children, while the younger wife had quite a family of little ones around her. So poor are they in this cold northern land that it is hard for the best of them at times to get along. Very sad is the condition of the widow, or those women who have no able-bodied men as husbands, fathers, or sons, to hunt and work for them. Worse still is it if they have helpless little children to be cared for. So the decision we came to was, that the wife with the family of little ones should remain with the man, and the one who had no children should leave him. We tried to arrange that a certain quantity of help should be rendered to the wife, or wives, put away by the husband. But we found that there was a certain amount of danger in this, the nature of which will be evident to the reader; and so, while we insisted on the one or more who left receiving as large a share as possible of the man's "worldly goods," we endeavoured to make the separation complete and final. To help those who for conscience sake thus acted was often a very heavy tax upon our limited means. Often the women themselves were the first to insist on a change from the old polygamous style, which, they were quick to see very soon after the Gospel was proclaimed to them, was antagonistic to its teachings. There was one most thrilling case that moved our hearts, and yet caused us to rejoice, for it showed us the depth of the religious convictions which impelled them to have the matter set right, even though one must be cast out and exposed to the ridicule of her heathen friends, and to the loss of a fairly good-natured husband, considering his pagan surroundings. Two women came to our Mission House, and asked to have a talk with my good wife and myself. After talking about different things, at length they told us, with much trepidation, that they had attended our services, and had a great desire in their hearts to become Christians. We found they were the two wives of an Indian whose wigwam had been pitched in our vicinity a few weeks before. These women and others had quietly come to our services at the church, and their hearts and consciences had been touched by the truth. We had had some experiences on these lines, and so with entire strangers we had learned to be a little cautious. In that country, as well as in civilised lands, it is sometimes a dangerous matter to interfere in the domestic affairs of other people. So we questioned them closely, and found that they were resolved to have the matter settled. I asked them if they had spoken to their husband about it, and they answered in the affirmative; also that he had left it to them to settle which should go, as he likewise had begun to think they ought to live as the Christian Indians did. We asked them what they wanted us to do, and they said that they had decided that they would leave the matter to the Missionary and his wife, and whichever we thought ought to leave, would go away, and try to get her own living. They returned to their wigwam, and with the consent of their husband made an equal division of the few things which constituted their possessions, such as nets, traps, blankets, kettles, and axes. Then, accompanied by their children, they came again to our house, and sat down apart from each other, and patiently awaited our decision. My wife and I deeply felt the responsibility of deciding; yet, as it had come to us because of the awakening of their hearts to desire a better life, we could not do otherwise than accept the situation, and do the best we could. We had talked the matter over, and had asked Divine guidance; and so now, when summoned to give our decision, we quickly but kindly said to the woman with five children, "You are to stay with your husband;" and to the other woman, who had four children, we said, "You are not to return to the wigwam, but must be from this hour as an entire stranger to it." The first woman sprang up, her eyes flashing with joy, and gathering her children and property around her she uttered her hasty words of farewell, and was gone. For a few moments the other woman, who had drawn her blanket over her head, remained perfectly still, with the exception of a suppressed sob, which seemed to make the whole body quiver. Soon, with that wonderful will-power which these Indian women, as well as the men, possess, she appeared to have obtained the mastery over herself again, and, uncovering her head, she began to make preparations for leaving. As she turned her large black eyes dimmed with tears towards us, while there was no malice in them, there was a despairing sorrow that pierced us like a knife. She seemed to see the lonely, neglected, contemned, suffering life before her; but she had counted the cost, and had taken the step for conscience' sake, and she would not flinch now. We entered into conversation with her, and it seemed almost cruel that we, who had given a decision that had shut up against her the only home she had, should begin to talk to her about where she would go and what she would do. She told us she did not know where to go or what to do. Her husband had bought her from her father, but he was dead; and as her girlhood home was far away, and she had not been there since her husband took her away, she knew nothing about any of her relatives. But even if she did, and could find some of them, it was very likely they would treat her with contempt, and perhaps persecute her. So she had not the slightest idea as to the future. Need I write that our hearts were full of sorrow, and we saw that this was a case which must have help, no matter how straitened might be our financial circumstances! We had but lately read the story of the little oil in the cruse, and the handful of meal in the barrel; and so this woman and her children must be helped. While Mrs Young fed them and talked kindly to them, I went out and got some of my Christian Indians together, and we talked the matter over, and then took off our coats and went to work, and made her a wigwam for the present, as it was in the pleasant summer-time. A canoe was obtained for her, and her nets were set where white fish could be caught readily. She was an industrious woman, willing to do everything she could; and so, with the help we gave her and the tangible sympathy manifested by the Christian Indians, she took heart and got along very well, and became a good Christian woman. As the result of the looseness of the marriage tie in their old sinful lives, we found many strange complicated tangles, some of which it was impossible to straighten. To deal with some of them would have caused endless difficulty, without any possibility of improving matters. To refuse to interfere gave offence to some, who, I am afraid, were more pharisaical than wise. Here, for example, was one case. A couple had been married years ago. After living together for several years and having three children, the man went off to Red River as a boatman for the Hudson's Bay Company. Delayed there for a time, he married a wife in the Indian settlement, and made that place his home, only returning with his second family about the time I went there. His first wife, a year or two after he left, not hearing from him, married another man, who supposed she was a widow, and they had several bright, interesting children. As the result of the faithful preaching of the Word, these families were converted, and became good Christians. They felt keenly their position, but, after pondering it over and listening to many solutions, I gave it up; and as the two families were living happily, I left them as I had found them. Paganism, not Christianity, was responsible for the difficulty. At Nelson River I was accosted one day by an old man, who said he had listened carefully to what I had said, and wanted to become a Christian and be baptised. I was very much pleased with his talk, but, suspecting him to be a polygamist, I asked him as to the number of his wives. His answer was that he had four. I had a long conversation with him as to our views, and explained to him the teachings of God's Word, and candidly told him that I could not baptize him until he put three of them away. He seemed grieved at my decision, and said that he did want to be a Christian, but he and his wives were getting old, and they had got along fairly well; and now if he went and told them what he would have to do, he was afraid there would be trouble. As I saw the man was really in earnest, and it was evident that the good Spirit was working upon his heart, I encouraged him to make the effort, and I told him everything would work out all right. He went to his large tent, and, getting his large family around him,-- for three of these wives had stalwart sons,--he told them of his desire to become a Christian, and what he would have to do before the Missionary would consent to baptize him. At once there was a "row." The women began to wail, and the sons, who generally treated their mothers with neglect and indifference, now declared, with a good deal of emphasis, that their mothers should not be sent away, and thus degraded in the eyes of the people. From what I afterwards learned, there must have been a rough time. At length one of the sons spoke up and said, "Who is causing us all this trouble?" The answer was, "Why, it is the Missionary, whom we have all heard, and who refuses to baptize our father unless he puts away all of his wives but one." "Let us go for that Missionary," said several of them, and seizing their arms, they came for me. Fortunately for me I was outside of the trading post on the green, and saw them coming, and, not liking their suspicious movements, and imagining the cause, I speedily decided on my course of action. Calling one of my reliable Christian Indians, I went quickly towards them, and, ignoring their angry looks, I began talking to them as though we were the best of friends. Something like the following were my words to them:-- "Men, you have heard me talk to you out of the great Book. You have listened attentively. You are thinking about what I have said to you. I wish we could do something, or find out some way, by which you and your mothers and father could all resolve together to give up the old bad life, and accept the new one, and become Christians together. I have been thinking it over since I had a little talk with your father, and I have a plan that I think will work well." While I went on in this way, they listened attentively; and when I came to mention a plan by which the difficulty could be overcome, the wicked looks began to fade from their eyes, for they were not anxious to kill me if any other solution of the difficulty could be found. They were eager to know what I had to suggest, and listened very attentively when I told them it would not be humiliating to any one. I told them I was pleased to find some young men who were willing to stand up for their mothers, while the great majority treated them worse than they did their dogs. My suggestion was, that the sons of each mother should form a wigwam of their own, and take their own mother with them and care for her. They were good hunters and strong men, and could do well. Then I added, "Let your father remain with the wife who has no children, no strong sons or daughters. Do this, and the Great Spirit will be pleased, and when you are further instructed there will be nothing to prevent you all being baptized and becoming Christians together." They were much pleased with the suggestion, and went away to talk it over. I did not succeed in getting the scheme immediately carried out, but my successor, the devoted and heroic Reverend John Semmens, was so successful in following up the work thus begun, that these Indians, with many scores of others, have become sincere, consistent Christians. Various were the plans adopted by my zealous, devoted wife and myself to help the people up to a better and happier life. In their old ways there were but few efforts made by the women to keep their homes neat and tidy, and their children or themselves clean. They had no encouragements to do anything of the kind. Kicked and cuffed and despised, there was left in them no ambition to do anything more than would save them from the rough treatment of those who considered themselves their lords and masters. The result was, when they became Christians, there was a great deal to learn ere their simple little homes could be kept decently, and in order. Fortunately, with a great many of them there was a desire to learn. A novel plan that we adopted, as one among many that did much good, was occasionally to go and dine with some of them. Our method was something like this. On the Sabbath from the pulpit I would announce that on Monday, if all was well, Mrs Young and I would dine with such a family, mentioning the name. On Tuesday we would dine with some one else, and on Wednesday with some other family, and so on for the week. This was, of course, the first intimation any of these families had received that, without waiting for an invitation, the Missionary and his wife were coming to dine with them. After service they waited to ask us if they could believe their own ears. "Yes, certainly," I replied. "Why, we have nothing to set before you but fish," they would say. "Never mind if you have but little; we will see to the food. All we are anxious for you to do is to have your little house as clean as you can possibly make it, and yourselves and children as clean and nice as possible." In this way we would talk to the half-frightened women, who were at first really alarmed at the prospect of having to entertain us; however, our words comforted them, and they went off delighted. Our plan was generally as follows. I would start off after breakfast and make several pastoral visits, or attend to some other matters, and so arrange my forenoon work that I should be able to reach the Indian home, where that day we had announced to dine, about noon. Mrs Young would have her own train of dogs harnessed up about ten o'clock. In her cariole she would put dishes, tablecloth, and provisions, with everything else requisite for a comfortable dinner considering our limited circumstances. A faithful young Indian acted as her dog-driver, and soon she and her load were at the home of the expectant family, who were all excitement at the coming of the Missionary and his wife. Very clean and tidy looked the little house and family. The floor had been scrubbed and rubbed until it could not be made whiter, and everything else was similarly polished up. As but very few of the houses had tables in those days, the floor was ever used as the substitute. On it the tablecloth was spread, and the dishes and knives and forks were arranged in order, and the dinner prepared. If the family had fish and potatoes, some of them would be cooked; but if not, sufficient was always taken in the cariole. We ever found it best to let them contribute to the dinner if they had abundance of either fish or potatoes. About the time I arrived dinner would be ready, and after cheering words of greeting to all, even to the fat papoose in the board cradle, we sat down, picnic style, on the floor to dinner. It would be called in civilised lands a plain dinner, and so it was; yet it was a feast to them, a banquet to us. Cheery conversation added to our enjoyment, and a very happy hour was thus spent. Then the Bible and hymn-books were brought out, and together we sang and read and talked about the blessed truths of that glorious Book. Then together we kneeled down, and "by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving" made our requests known to God; and to us came the sweet fulfilment, "the peace of God, which passeth all understanding," filled our hearts. I generally hurried off to other duties. Mrs Young directed in the washing of the dishes and in putting them away, and then helped the woman of the house in some things about which she was longing for assistance. Perhaps it was a dress to be cut out for herself, or some garments fitted on some of the girls, or other similar things too intricate or difficult for my obtuse mind to be able to grasp. Thus from house to house we would go, and by our presence and cheery words encourage them to become more industrious and tidy. Those families never forgot these visits. With many of them there was a marked change in their homes, and with many also there was a marked improvement in their religious life. Once, in preaching from the text, "Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in," I tried to describe the blessed Redeemer coming to our hearts and knocking for admittance. I told them, all He wanted was a welcome to come in. As they made their little houses so clean, and gave the Missionary and his wife such a welcome, so the Saviour asked us to drive all sin out, and give Him all the place. "Some of you said, `We cannot entertain the Missionary; we have no food, so there will be no dinner.' But the Missionary and his wife brought abundance, and there was a good dinner. Better far is it when Jesus comes. He spreads out the feast, and He invites us to sit down and feast with Him. O let Him in!" Such talks as these, after practical illustrations, opened many hearts to the Heavenly Guest. So many and importunate had been the pleading calls for visits to different places, to tell the wonderful story of the Great Spirit and his Son, and to teach the people to read His Book, that one year my canoe trip to Oxford House Mission had to be delayed until the summer was nearly ended. But my comrades were splendid fellows, and we started off in good spirits, anticipating a successful visit; and we were not disappointed. We preached several times to the Indians, and baptized a large number of children; some young couples were married, and we had a solemn and blessed time when celebrating the dying of the Lord Jesus. The Sacrament of the Lord's Supper is very much prized by the Indians, and the greatest reverence is always manifested during the service. The fellowship meeting was a very good one, and some of the testimonies given by the men and women, so happily rescued by the Gospel's power, were of great interest. When travelling, if the weather was good, we generally rose with the first blush of morn, and so were often on the way by four o'clock. Sometimes our route was across fine lakes, or along majestic rivers; and then we were in narrow, sluggish streams, that were destitute of beauty or interest. One morning our way was down a large river, on the shores of which the fog had settled, completely hiding us from land. The early morning air was invigorating, and so in unison we were plying our paddles vigorously, and rapidly speeding along. We had seen no signs of human beings for days, and so were surprised and startled when several reports of firearms in quick succession sounded sharp and clear through the fog on our right. Nothing was visible through the gloom, but we quickly hove to, and turned our canoe in the direction from which the _feu-de-joie_ had sounded. As we approached the shore human forms began to appear in ghostly outline, more and more distinct, until they resolved themselves into a company of Indians, who were delighted to see us, and had been on the look-out for days. They had come sixty miles from the interior, and had camped on that point jutting out into the river, for the purpose of having a visit from us as we passed. The fact that they detected us as we were passing was another evidence of the marvellous education, in certain lines, of these Indians. It was very early in the morning; our canoe was some hundreds of yards from the shore; a dense fog hid us completely from each other. All the noise we made was the dip of our paddles in the water. Yet these wide-awake, alert Indians heard that sound, and by the rapid firing of the guns drew us to them. We shared their hospitality, as they had abundance of game. We had service with them, married a young couple, baptized several children, and had a pleasant time. Then on we hurried, since the time of open navigation was drawing to a close, and we did not wish to be caught in the ice, and have to walk perhaps scores of miles with our bedding, provisions, kettles, axes, and other things strapped on our backs. We made the greater part of the return trip all right, had reached Harry Lake early in the forenoon, and were rapidly paddling out of the river which entered into it, when again we heard the report of guns. So anxious were we to get on that we hesitated about stopping. It was now later in the season than often in some other years. Fierce storms had raged, and the ice had formed on the lake and rivers. We were dreading these fierce fall storms, which come down very suddenly, and stir up those northern lakes, so that in a very short time where all was calm and still, great foam-crested waves go rushing madly by. The lake before us, into which we had just entered and which was several miles in diameter, was now as placid as a pond. To cross it now, as in wondrous beauty it spread before us, would be but a pleasure jaunt. The poetry of motion is to be found in the Indian's birch canoe, when the water is calm and the sky is clear. Cold-hearted prudence said, "Go on, and never mind those Indians' signals for you to land." Our better natures said, "They may be in need, and have good reason for asking you to stop. Perhaps you can do them good." So we turned the head of our canoe to the shore, and were soon alongside the rock on which we saw them standing. They were five hunters. Without getting out of the canoe, we asked why they had signalled to us to come ashore. Their answer was one we had often heard before. They were hungry, and wanted help. Finding they had only been a few days away from the Fort, where they had got supplies, I asked how it was that they were so badly off. Their reply was that they had unfortunately left their powder, which they were carrying in a canvas bag, out on the rock a few nights before. While they slept the rain came down upon them and ruined it, and so they could not shoot anything. I quickly said to one of my men, "How much food have we?" He examined our limited supply, and then said there was about one square meal. We found these men were pagan Indians, whom I had met before, and had talked with about becoming Christians; but all I could get from them was the characteristic Indian shrug of the shoulders, and the words, "As our fathers lived, so will we." Our dinner was the last of a bear we had shot a few days before. While it was cooking the storm which we feared began to gather, and ere our dinner was finished the lake looked very different from what it was an hour before. If we had not stopped, we could have easily got across it. As it was now, it would have been madness to have ventured out upon it. So we had to pull up our canoe, and there, as contentedly as possible, wait for the storm to cease. It raged furiously all that day and the next. The third day it began to moderate. What made it worse for us was the scarcity, or rather the entire absence, of food. We were unfortunately storm-bound in about the worst part of that country for game. It was so late in the season that the ducks and geese had gone south, the beaver and musk-rats were in their houses, and we could find nothing. On some of our trips we carried fishing-tackle, but this time we had nothing of the kind. Fortunately we had some tea and sugar. Without breakfast, dinner, or supper, we had to live on as best we could. Before we lay down to sleep there had to be a considerable tightening of the belts, or there would be no sleep at all, so keen were the gnawings of hunger. I found it helpful to sleep to roll up my towel as hard as possible, and then crowd it under my tight belt over the pit of my stomach. Nearly three days without food was no pleasant ordeal even in missionary work. We held several religious services, even though our congregation was a small one. We also found out that it was not at all helpful to piety to try to worship on an empty stomach, and have been ever since in great sympathy with these who would feed the poor first, and then preach to them. The third day one of the Indians, while walking along the shore, found the old bleached shoulder-blade of a bear. With his knife he carved out a rude fish-hook, and, taking the strings of his moccasins, and those of others, he formed a line. A piece of red flannel was used as bait, and a small stone served as a sinker. With this primitive arrangement he began fishing. His method was to stand on a rock and throw the hook out as far as his line would permit, and then draw it in rapidly, like trolling. Strange to say, with this rude appliance he caught a fish. It was a pike weighing six or eight pounds. Very quickly was it scaled, cleaned, and put in the pot. When cooked, about a third of it was put on my tin plate, and placed before me with these words: "Please, Missionary, eat." I looked at the hungry men around me and said, "No, that is not the way." And then I put back the third of the fish with the rest, and, taking out my hunting knife, I counted the company, and then cut the fish into eight pieces, and gave each man his eighth, and took an equal portion myself. It was right that I should thus act, and it seemed to be a little thing to do, but it was a sermon that led those five men to become Christians. As soon as they had finished their portions they lit their pipes, and as they smoked they talked; and as near as I and my men could make out, here is what they said: "We must listen with both ears to that Missionary. He is here without food, suffering from hunger, because he stopped to share with us his last meal. We caught a fish, and when we offered him a large piece he refused it, and divided equally with us all. He has been anxious to do us good and to have us to listen to his words. He has not once scolded us for asking him to stop, although he could have got across the lake before the storm arose, and, as the rest of the way is in the river, he could have gone on home. He has shown himself to be our friend, and we must listen to what he has to say." Thus they went on, and I must confess I paid but little attention to what they were saying. After a few hours more the storm went down, and we gladly embarked that evening in our canoe and pushed on. The next day we reached the Mission village of Rossville, making our last portage at Sea River Falls, near Norway House; and as we saw the fish and venison hanging on the stagings around the houses of the people, my patient fellows cried out, "We should like to laugh at the sight of food, but we are too empty altogether." We paddled the last mile as quickly as we had any other, and kept up our courage until we were home. As I entered the house, a strange faintness came over me, and all the welcome words I could give to my loved ones were, "My dear, we are starving; please get us some food." Then I sank down exhausted. Loving care from one of the best and bravest of wives quickly brought me round again, and I was soon ready to be off on another trip. The long winter passed away, and the welcome summer came at last. We have really very little of spring in that northern land. The transition from winter to summer is very rapid. With the disappearance of the ice from the lakes and rivers came the Indians in their birch canoes, from various quarters where they had spent the winter in trapping the fur- bearing animals. As usual they came to see the Missionary in goodly numbers. Among those who thus honoured us were five big men, who, after a few words of greeting, said, "We hope you have not forgotten the fish; we have not, and we want to have a talk with you." "Fish?" I said. "Why, we have fish twenty-one times a week, boiled, baked, fried, salt, dried,--good, bad, and indifferent. I have seen so many fishes, I cannot think of any one in particular." Then they told me about the long delay by the storm, when I had stopped and fed them, at the time when they had not kept their powder dry; and how, when one of them caught a fish and offered me a good-sized piece, I divided it equally among them. As they brought the incident back to my memory, for there were so many strange adventures occurring in the wild life that this one had partly faded, I said: "Yes, I now remember there did happen something of the kind." Very earnestly spoke up one of them and said: "We have never forgotten it, and all through the moons of the winter we have talked about it and your lessons out of the great Book. And while up to that time we had decided not to be Christians, but to die as did our fathers, we have changed our minds since that time you divided the fish, and we want you to teach us more and more of this good way." They were intensely in earnest and fully decided for Christ. So five more families settled down in the Christian village, and are giving evidence by their lives and conversation that the change wrought in them was real and abiding. Their conversion in this peculiar way was very cheering to us, and it was another lesson to be "instant in season, out of season." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. EXPLORING NEW FIELDS--THE GOSPEL BEFORE TREATIES--BIG TOM'S NOBLE SPIRIT OF SELF-SACRIFICE. In 1873 I received a most urgent request from a deputation of Indians to go and visit a band of their countrymen who lived on the western side of Lake Winnipeg at a place called Jack Head. They were getting unsettled and uneasy in their minds in reference to their lands. Treaties were being made with other tribes, but nothing as yet had been done for them; and as surveyors and other white men had been seen in their country, they were suspicious, and wanted to know what they had better do. So, after many councils among themselves, they decided to send over into the land of the Crees and Salteaux for their Missionary to come and give them advice, in order that they too might make a treaty with the Government of the Queen. I felt much pleased on receiving this deputation; and as it would give me a grand opportunity to preach the Gospel to a people who had not as yet heard it, I consented to go. With two dog-trains, and accompanied by a couple of trusty Indians, we left the Eastern side of the great Lake Winnipeg about sunrise. We dug a hole in the snow at Pigeon Point, and there made a fire of some dry young willows, and enjoyed our breakfast. From that point we struck out in a south-west direction across the great lake. The day, although cold, was a very bright one. The ice was good, and our dogs were magnificent fellows; and so we sped along at a rapid rate. We reached a chain of little islands out in the middle of the lake early in the afternoon. On the shore of one of them we gathered some dry wood, cleared away the snow, made a fire, melted some snow, and made ourselves a good kettle of tea. This, with some pemmican and flat cakes, made us a capital dinner. From this island the western shore of the lake was just visible, over thirty miles away. Towards it we pushed as rapidly as possible, considering that one of our Indians was quite an old man. When within about three miles of the shore, the report of fire-arms reached our ears, telling us that the Indians had observed our coming. Our noble dogs seemed to rejoice at the sound as much as ourselves, and, well knowing that their day's journey of over sixty miles was nearly ended, changed their swinging trot into a gallop; and very soon we were at Jack head, and among its plumed and painted inhabitants, by whom we were received in a most extraordinary manner. At some other places where I have gone as the first Missionary who ever visited them, I have had two or three hundred men, women, and children trying to see who could be the first to kiss me; but here the reception was very different. Night was just falling upon us as we drew near the shore, but there was light enough to observe that the narrow trail, up from the lake into the dark recesses of the forest, along which we must pass with our dog-trains, was lined with men armed with guns. When we were about a hundred yards from them, the foremost ones began firing. This _feu-de-joie_ continued until we had reached them and had dashed through the lines of fire, for they continued loading and firing as rapidly as possible. Our ears were almost deafened with the continuous reports, and our nerves were somewhat tried, as the younger braves especially consider it great fun to fire off their heavy charges of powder as close to their visitors' heads as possible. But a well- singed fur cap was the only evidence of harm having been done. To increase the welcome, they courteously brought out for our special benefit the few English and French words of which they were masters. Some of them were most ludicrously out of place. It did require a good deal of nerve to keep my face straight when a grave and dignified chief, who wished to inquire politely as to my health, for the moment dropped his own language, and in good English said, "Does your mother know you're out?" I found out afterwards that a roguish fur-trader had taught him the expression, as a very polite one to use to distinguished strangers. We quickly unharnessed and fed our faithful dogs. We hung up in the trees our sleds and harness beyond the reach of the wolfish curs, which in large numbers prowled around. If they could get the opportunity, they would make short work of the deer-skin and raw-hide fastenings of the sleds, and the harness would entirely disappear, with perhaps the exception of the buckles. We waited until our big dogs had given a few of the most impudent and saucy of these brutes a good thrashing, so that there was some prospect of peace; and then, feeling that our outside work was attended to, and that the Indians had had time to get arranged in their council room, we went to the door, and were ceremoniously ushered in. The council house was a large square log building of much better construction than I had expected to see. It was without partitions, and was lighted by the brilliant council fire, and a number of fish oil lamps hanging from the walls. At the places of honour were seated the chiefs of the band. Their "thrones of state" were curiously woven mats of rushes made by the Indian women. Their head-dresses were gorgeous masses of feathers, and their costume was very picturesque. Some of them had not yet adopted the pantaloons of civilisation, but wore instead the scant leggings of native manufacture. From the chiefs on either side and extending around the room in circles, were the old men and warriors and hunters, ranged according to their rank and standing. Behind these were the young men and boys. All were seated on the ground, and all were silent, as I entered. The chiefs were fine-looking men, and there was that indescribable _hauteur_ now so rarely seen among this interesting people. Crowded out behind the men and boys, and in many places packed against the walls of the house, were the women and girls. While the men were in many instances well and often brilliantly dressed in their finery, the women and girls were wretchedly clothed, and miserable in appearance. The house was filled, with the exception of a small space reserved at the right hand of the principal chief for the visitors. With a good deal of ceremony we were escorted to our seats. For me they had obtained a little box, on which a fur robe was placed, as they said afterwards, that they had heard that white men cannot sit comfortably on the ground. On this I seated myself next to the chief, and my attendant Indians ranged themselves beside me. During the profound silence that lasted for several minutes after our entrance, I had a good opportunity to grasp the situation. I breathed an earnest prayer to God for the much-needed wisdom, and that I might here preach the Gospel in such a way that it might be understood and accepted by this people, the majority of whom had not as yet heard the glad tidings of salvation. Then I rose up and, addressing the chief, I said: "I have come at your request from across the great Winnipeg, to visit you and to meet you at your council fire. I will preach to you and discuss treaty matters with you, and will help you all I can with the Government. I want to find out your views about giving up your old paganism and becoming Christians. I also want to know how many children you have among you, and if you desire a school for them. So I am here for these reasons." When I sat down, the calumet, the pipe of peace, was gravely lit, and after the chief had puffed away at it, he handed it to me. As I have not as yet acquired the art of smoking, I adopted the plan of taking hold of the long stem, which is over a yard in length, by the middle. The result was that when my hand was near my mouth, the mouthpiece of the pipe was a foot or so behind my head. As previously arranged, one of my obliging Indians was always on hand to do my smoking. After the pipe ceremony was over, the chief began his address of welcome. He said a good many kind things, and told me of their anxieties as to their future and that of their children. The fire-canoe (the steamboat) was rushing through the waters, destroying their fisheries. The white hunters, with their fire guns and steel traps, were fast killing off the game. The surveyor was driving his lines of stakes into the ground, and the white people, more numerous than mosquitoes, were crowding in on the prairies. They had nothing but peace in their hearts, but still he could not help thinking that a treaty ought to be made with them before the fire canoe or the surveyor came. They were powerless themselves to speak before the Queen's representative, the Governor. They had heard of the Missionary's love for the Indian, and so they had sent across the great Winnipeg for him, and their hearts were glad that he had come. With their right hands they had fired off their guns, which all said, "Welcome!" With his left hand he had handed the pipe of peace, which also from the heart again said, "Welcome!" Their hearts were all glad that with their eyes they saw the Missionary among them. Their ears were now open to hear what he had to say about their future, and what he thought the Queen's men would do for them. Then he sat down on his mat, and I rose up and in reply said: "Before I dare talk to you about treaties, and lands, and your future for this life, and that of your children, I must speak about something more important." This seemed to astonish them, and they said: "What has he got to talk about that is more important than the treaty?" "Yes," I answered, "I have something more important than the treaty, and something to say about One greater than the Queen, or the Governor she sends; for I must first talk about our great God, Whom the Queen and we all must love if we would be happy. The Great Spirit, our good Father in heaven, wants to make a treaty with us; and if we will be willing to comply with His conditions, it will be the best treaty ever made, for it will bring us joy and happiness for this life and the life to come." Loud were their words of approval that I should thus speak to them; and so I preached to them, making use of my trusted and careful interpreter, Timothy Bear, who is as thorough a master of the Saulteaux language as he is of the Cree. Considering that it was the first sermon they had ever heard, and that their ideas of our worship were very crude, they behaved remarkably well, seeing they were a crowd of plumed and painted savages, and Saulteaux besides. They kept up a constant smoking through all the service, except when we were singing or at prayer. Men, women, and children were all at it, and it seemed as though they were always at it. Before I got through my sermon I was almost suffocated by the smoke. The cloud, not that for which we had prayed, overwhelmed us, blinded us, and nearly smothered us. It was the cloud of their vile weeds and tobacco. As well as I could I talked to them of God and his love, and of the way of salvation, and the blessings which would come to them if they would cheerfully and heartily accept Him. We then sang the Jubilee hymn,-- "Blow ye the trumpet, blow." This hymn has been translated into their language. The tune we used was "Lennox," and I urged them to help us to sing. I gave out the hymn verse by verse, and said, "Sing as well as you can." Some followed very well, and others, while trying to follow the words, seemed to have substituted for the tune one of their Indian lilts. After the religious service was over, we hastily boiled our kettles, made tea, and had our suppers, for we had travelled far, and were very hungry. The Indians had nothing themselves but tea, fish, and tobacco. I never saw such smokers. Even little unweaned children were adepts in the use of the pipe. After tea the ceremonious speeches were delivered. The head chief was of course the first to speak again. His address was very complimentary. He said he had been gazing all day long across the great lake watching for my coming. Although it was several moons since, I had promised that in this one, if possible, I would be on hand. My coming just at the time I did, showed that I was a man of my word, and could be depended upon. "We feel," he said, "that we Indians are but children in the presence of the whites. Great changes are taking place. The buffalo and deer once so abundant are fast disappearing. Our fathers told us long ago that the buffalo was the special gift of the Great Spirit to the Indian, and that when it disappeared the Indian must go also. But in your words you tell us good things about the Great Spirit, and we are thankful that you have come. We wish you could live among us and thus talk to us." Thus he and others talked for a long time. We went over the business of the approaching treaty, and I told them all I knew about the matter, and assured them that they need have no fear or alarm. The Dominion Government would treat them honourably and fairly. More tobacco was smoked, and extra kettles of tea were made and drunk, and then I was told that as an additional mark of their thankfulness to me for thus coming with these assuring and quieting words, they now wished to give me the tribal ceremony of the greatest welcome, which was only given at rare intervals, and then only when the best of news came to them. The room was quickly rearranged for the ceremony. The crowd in the centre of the room was moved back, much to the discomfort of the women and girls, some of whom were roughly ejected to make room for their tyrants and masters. Then some drums were brought in, and between twenty and thirty of the most active and agile young men, dressed, or rather undressed, in their picturesque way, seated themselves closely around the men who were to act as drummers. The first part of the ceremony was supposed to be a kind of a concert, part musical and part pantomime. To describe it with its monotonous drumming and shrill songs, which they said were words of welcome, is altogether beyond my powers. At certain places in the songs, ten or twenty of the young men would spring up in their places, and without moving their feet from the ground would go through such strong, undulating, graceful motions, and yet all in such perfect unison with each other and with the music, that I was almost fascinated by the strange weird beauty of the scene. Then their programme changed, and rapidly they glided around in simple and intricate movements, but all in perfect time to the songs and drums. Not satisfied with giving me the welcome of their own tribe, they also gave me the still more exciting Sioux welcome, and also that of the wild Crees in the Saskatchewan. Until long after midnight these scenes were being enacted. Then word was passed round that the supply of tobacco devoted to the welcome ceremonies was exhausted, for through all of these scenes the pipes were only out of the mouths of the performers. All the rest of the crowd smoked without apparent cessation. This intimation of the exhaustion of the supply of tobacco abruptly closed the ceremony. Such is their custom. Some more tea was made and drunk by the chiefs. Then the Missionary's hand was shaken, and the people quickly flitted away to their wigwams. A supper, consisting of beautiful fish, called "gold eyes," which are caught by the young Indians in the rapid river at the foot of the Rude Water Slide, was then much enjoyed. One of my faithful Indians brought in my camp bed, and unrolled it near the council fire. I rolled myself up in a blanket and buffalo robe, and there on the ground I soon fell asleep, for I was very weary. At daybreak we arose, and had our breakfast cooked at the council fire. While eating it, many of the Indians crowded in to see us ere we left for our home across Lake Winnipeg. With them we held another religious service. I talked kindly and faithfully to them, and urged them to decide speedily to forsake their old pagan habits and become Christians; telling them that now, as they were making treaties and entering upon a new way of obtaining a living, they should adopt the religion of the great Book. With them we sang a hymn, and then kneeled down and prayed. Devoutly and reverently did they bow with us at the Mercy-seat. When we rose up from our knees, a young man spoke up on behalf of the young people. He said they were glad I had come, and hoped I would come again. Their minds were dark; would I soon come back and bring in the light? I said all I could to encourage them to seek after the great Light, and promised to come again. We harnessed up our dogs, and, in company with my attendant Indians, I started for home. A wild blizzard storm came down upon us from the north when we were far out from land. We toiled on through it as well as we could, although at times unable to see a dozen feet ahead of us. Often we got bewildered by its fury, as it seemed to circle and eddy around us; but Jack was in the foremost train, and so we safely reached the other shore, and did not for many a day cease to think about some of the strange features of this adventurous trip, in which in after years we found much real good had been done. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ As we have been referring to treaties and the excitement there was in the minds of the Indians in reference to the new relationship in which they would stand to the Government, it may be well here to put upon record the noble spirit of one of our Indians, on whom honours were desired to be conferred by his people. When the Dominion Government of Canada took possession of the territories so long held by the Hudson's Bay Company, they began to make arrangements for treaties with all the Indian tribes. Word came out to us at Rossville Mission House, that the Government wished the Indians to elect one of their number as chief, with whom they could make a treaty, and whom they could confer with if difficulties arose in the future. They wished the people to select a wise, judicious man, in whom all confidence could be placed. Naturally the Indians were very much excited at this new order of things, and so there were many councils and much speech-making. A good deal of curiosity was expressed to know what benefits would result, and how much money would be received by each of them. While there was still much uncertainty about these things, it had become well known that the one selected to be chief would fare very well. He would have more money and presents than any other. He would be presented with a silver medal with the face of the "Great Mother," the Queen, upon it, and would be honoured with the personal friendship of the Governor, and with other honours naturally dear to the Indian. After many councils the people came to the almost unanimous conclusion that Big Tom should be their chief. In a full council, with much ceremony, they offered him the position. Instead of seizing the proffered honours with avidity, his face became very grave, and it was evident he was full of suppressed emotion. When he arose, as all supposed, to indicate his acceptance of the position, and to express his thanks, they were very much surprised to hear him quietly say that he could not answer fully now, but desired a day to think it over. So he asked the council to adjourn until the following morning. Of course this request was complied with, and, full of curiosity, the people thronged the building the next day. I had naturally taken a deep interest in the matter, as, next to their spiritual interests, I was anxious to do all I could for their temporal welfare. So I attended many of their meetings. The council was opened in due form, and then Big Tom arose to give his answer. He began quietly and slowly, but warmed up a good deal before he ended. He spoke, in substance, as follows:-- "Long ago, when the Missionaries came and preached to us, for a time we refused to listen to them, and would not become Christians. Then, after a while, many of us who had been in the darkness began to feel in our hearts that what they told us was for our good; and so we accepted of these things, and they have done us good. When I got the assurance in my heart that I was a child of God, and had a soul that should live for ever, I found that in working out its salvation I had something great to live for. To do this was the great object of my life. By-and-by I married, and then, as my family increased and began to grow up around me, I found I had another object for which to live. To help them along in the way to heaven, as well as to work for their comfort here, was my second great work. Then, after a while, the Missionary gave me the charge of a class. I was to meet with them, and we were to talk together about our souls and God's love to us, and to do all we could to help each other on to the better land. To do my duty as the leader was a great and important work. While attending to these duties, I found I had another object for which to live. These three things,--1. My own soul's salvation; 2. The salvation of my family; and 3. To do all I can to help and encourage the members of my class to be true and faithful to Him Who died for us, that we may see him by-and-by,--are the uppermost things in my heart. "I am thankful for your confidence in me in asking me to be your chief. I know it is a great honour, but I see it will have many responsibilities, and that whoever has the position will have to attend to many other things than those which I have my mind set upon. So you must appoint some one else, for with those three things I cannot let anything else interfere. I thank you, my brothers, and love you all." In this strain he went on for a long while, and then sat down. No one thought any the less of the noble Christian man; and David Bundle, who was appointed, ever found in Big Tom a wise and judicious counsellor and friend. I was thrilled by the address and the spirit manifested. How few white men in like circumstances would have had grace and self-denial enough to have acted in a similar manner! CHAPTER NINETEEN. THE MISSION AMONG THE SAULTEAUX ESTABLISHED--NELLY'S DEATH--MISSIONARY ANNIVERSARIES ATTENDED--REVEREND THOMAS CROSBY--TRAVELLING ADVENTURES-- MORE WORKING WITH DOGS--OUR NEW HOME--VISIT FROM A CHIEFTAINESS--CLOSING WORDS. After a great deal of correspondence it was decided that I should begin the work at Beren's River among the Saulteaux Indians who lived there, and in little bands scattered along the eastern shores of that great lake, and in the interior, most of them in extreme poverty and superstitious degradation. A few of them, as the result of acquaintance with our Christian Indians of other places, were groping after the great Light, and trying to lift themselves up socially in life. The Reverend John H Ruttan was appointed to Norway House, the Reverend Orrin German to Oxford House, and I was put down for Beren's River. As it was advisable that I should remain at Norway House until my successor, Brother Ruttan, arrived, and as there was only one opportunity for a long time for Mrs Young and the children to return to Red River, they availed themselves of it, poor and miserable as it was. With loving "farewells" I wished them success on their journey, and saw them off. Sandy Harte, our adopted Indian lad, and I sailed down to the old Norway House, about twenty miles from our home, and there saying "Good-bye," we returned to our lonely home. Mrs Young had with her our three darling children, Eddie, Lilian, and Nelly. All were well and full of the best of spirits as the sail was hoisted, and we saw them glide away before the favouring gale. Precious Nelly we never saw again. So terrible was the heat, and so miserable were the accommodations in that little open boat, without deck or awning or cabin, that the child sickened and died. As we have referred to this sad event in an earlier chapter, we need not dwell upon it here. What the poor mother felt and suffered as, sick herself, she saw her beautiful child attacked by brain fever, and then droop and die amidst surroundings so sad and trying, can be realised by but few. God knows all about it. As mentioned, the venerable Archdeacon Cowley's sympathy did much to raise up Mrs Young's crushed spirits and dry her bitter tears. I remained at Norway House until Brothers Ruttan and German arrived; and then, after having spent a Sabbath with them, and seen Mr Ruttan and his noble young wife cheerfully and hopefully entered upon their blessed work among the people, to whom I had become very much attached, I started off for Beren's River. Sandy Harte, the Nelson River lad, went with me as far as my first camping place, and spent the night with me. We read the sacred Word together, and then, after singing a Hymn, we bowed in prayer. We lay down together, but we had so much to say, that hours passed away ere we slept. Early the next morning we were aroused from our slumbers by the cry of "Fair wind," and so no time must be lost. I was very much surprised to find that during the night some scores of Indians had come on in their canoes from the Mission, although it was many miles away, to shake hands with their Missionary once more, and say a final "Farewell." After a hasty breakfast we assembled on the shore for prayers. We sang in Cree a favourite hymn:-- "Jesus, my All, to heaven is gone, He Whom I fix my hopes upon. His path I see, and I'll pursue The narrow way till Him I view." We closed by singing the Doxology, and then, after prayers, I sadly said "Good-bye," and shook hands again with them all. I found it hard to break away from them. Many of them were in tears, who seldom wept before. Coming to my beloved Sandy last, I put my arm around his neck and kissed him as there he stood, weeping as though his heart would break. With a "God bless you all," I sprang into the boat, which was quickly pushed off from the shore, and then the long journey to the land of the Saulteaux was begun. After some of the usual incidents of travel I reached Beren's River, and was most enthusiastically received by the Indians. The man who had said, "Our eyes were dim from long watching," now said that they were dim with tears of joy that he had lived to see the day when a Missionary of their own lived among them. As I was to leave before the lake froze up, every day was precious. I pitched a canvas tent, and in it lived for several weeks. All assembled once every week-day for religious worship, and then, when that was over, the Missionary and men took off their coats and went to work. The spot for the Mission was decided upon, and then acre after acre of the forest from this place, and also from where each Indian had decided to build, was rapidly being cleared of the forest trees. We held three services every Lord's day, and saw that the school for the children was faithfully kept up. Getting everything in good shape, and leaving Martin Papanekis, a devout and trusty Christian Indian from the Norway House Mission, in charge, I started in a birch canoe, with Big Tom as principal canoe-man, for Red River. Of our adventures and dangers I need not write, although there were several on that long journey in such a frail craft. One complete upset chilled me most thoroughly, as the water was about down to freezing point. At one place, where we tried to push on all night, we were tantalised by some most brilliant "Will-o'-the-wisp" lights, which our experienced Indians thought were decoy signals put out by wicked Indians to bewilder or injure us. Canoe travelling on this great lake is risky business. The storms come up with surprising rapidity, and the waves rise up like those of the ocean. However, we had a good canoe, and Big Tom was in charge; and He Who holds the winds and the waves in His fists was our Father and our Friend. At Red River I called on the Reverend Archdeacon Cowley at his Indian Mission home. Very cordial and sympathetic was he, as I introduced myself, and told him I had come to accept of his kind offer, and seek in some part of the quiet graveyard of his Mission Church a little place where I could bury the body of my darling child. He at once went with me and showed me all kindness and help, as also did Mr Flett and his family, of the Hudson's Bay Company's Service. As we laid away the beautiful child, and the solemn words, "Earth to earth, dust to dust," were uttered, we felt that there was now an additional tie holding us to that country and work. In due time I reached Toronto, and there met the Missionary Secretaries, and obtained from them an outline of the work before me. Here it was my great joy to meet for the first time the Reverend Thomas Crosby, the energetic and successful Missionary from British Columbia, who has been wonderfully owned of God in his glorious work. Uncalled by any Church, but impelled by the good Spirit, shortly after his conversion he made his way to British Columbia at his own expense, and offered himself to one of the Missionaries there as a volunteer teacher among the poor, neglected Indians, who, uncared for by any one, were prowling around the cities and towns of that new Province, living lives of shame and sin. Great indeed was his success. He has also established flourishing Missions at Fort Simpson and elsewhere in the north of that land, and through his labours a blessed work began among the Indians in Alaska. Some of them, hearing wonderful stories about the black-coated man and his mysterious Book, came hundreds of miles, that they might have their curiosity satisfied. They returned with more than they anticipated. They reached the Mission, and from Mr Crosby, and also from some of their own tribes who lived there, they heard the "old, old story" for the first time in their lives. It was indeed wonderful news to them, but they accepted it with a simple faith that was pleasing to God, and brought into their hearts the consciousness of His smile and benediction. Rejoicing in this new-found treasure they returned to their own land, and there they published the glad tidings of God's love, and added the testimony of their own personal experience that they had a new joy in their hearts, the result of their having accepted this Saviour. Great indeed was the excitement among the people. Some mocked, and some opposed and tried to persecute, but many were affected by what their companions had brought them, and believing their testimony entered into their joy. Of course the new converts could give but little instruction; and so, as the work proceeded, it was decided that a deputation must go for the Missionary and bring him into their land. Mr Crosby responded, and went over to Alaska, and spent some time among them. God blessed his labours, and many of the Indians gave up their paganism and became Christians. Convinced that a grand opening was here for Missionary triumph, Mr Crosby wrote to the Methodist Episcopal Mission Rooms, New York, urging the officials there to enter this open door and begin work here. The answer was that it was impossible; that their other fields absorbed all their income, and so there was no prospect of their being able to respond to his appeal. Not to be discouraged very easily, Mr Crosby next wrote to the Presbyterian Board at Philadelphia, and told of these poor sheep in the wilderness; and here, thank God, he met with success, and there was a glad response; and the successful Presbyterian Missions and Indian Schools in that land to-day are the outgrowth of that work. In company with this heroic Brother Crosby, who had so much to tell, I spent several months in attending Missionary Meetings. We had blessed times. Immense crowds came out to hear us, and, if I am not mistaken, the increase in the Missionary income that year was the greatest in its history. In all, we attended eighty-nine Missionary Anniversary Services in different Canadian towns and cities between Sarnia and Quebec. A very happy week was spent with my family at "Oaklands," Toronto, the beautiful residence of the Honourable Senator Macdonald, the Lay Treasurer of our Missionary Society. Of Senator Macdonald's great kindness, and tangible evidences of sympathy, neither few nor slight, if I should here write, I should only be mentioning what scores of Ministers and Missionaries could say had been their own fortunate experiences with this large-hearted philanthropist. Eternity alone will be able to reveal the full measure of what, with a glad heart, he has been constantly and unostentatiously doing for many of Christ's ambassadors, and among the different Churches. As soon as the season for holding Missionary Meetings ended, I returned to my Indian work. I left the Province of Ontario on the 6th of April, and reached Beren's River after twenty-three days of continuous travelling. On the railroads in Minnesota and Dacota we were detained by snowdrifts, which so blocked up our way that we had some very unpleasant experiences. After leaving the railroad I had to travel two hundred and fifty miles in a stage on runners over the snowy prairies. We had some blizzards to encounter, and one night, when we were fortunate enough to have reached one of the stopping places, the storm raged like a hurricane. The house was built of logs, and not well finished, and the snow sifted in through the wide cracks between these logs and on to our beds. My experiences in wintry camps served me a good purpose now, and so pulling up the hood of my overcoat, and then completely covering myself up under the bedclothes, I slept soundly through the raging storm and driving snow. When we were called up to eat a hasty breakfast and resume our journey, I found several inches of snow on the top of my bed, but I had suffered no inconvenience from it. With my travelling companions in the other beds it was very different. The upper storey, in which our beds were placed, was all one room, and so the snow had equally assailed us all. But, not being able to sleep with their heads completely covered up, they had suffered much, and were in anything but an amiable mood when we resumed our journey. At Winnipeg I was cordially welcomed by my beloved Chairman, the Reverend George Young, who had ever taken the deepest interest in my work, and done all he could to add to our comfort and efficiency in its prosecution. Fortunate indeed were we, poor Missionaries in the interior, whether it was north or west, that we had such a man to look after our supplies, and see that we were not cheated or swindled by those who once a year sent them out to the poor toilers in their lonely fields. For years we had no money in our northern Missions. Our plan was, once a year to receive from Winnipeg all that our salary would purchase for us in the shape of supplies that were needed in our own home, and also with which to pay teacher, interpreter, guides, canoe- men, dog-drivers, and others who might be employed in the prosecution of the work. As all the work of purchasing and packing these things depended very much upon the Chairman, fortunate indeed did all of us, who had Dr Young as our Chairman, consider ourselves to be. My dogs and Indians were waiting for me, having come down from the north to meet me, as arranged months before. We purchased our supplies, loaded our sleds, and away we started by dog-train on the last part of the long journey. We had left Toronto in a splendid railroad carriage; we ended the trip of over twenty days' duration with dog sleds. Very quickly did I come back to the wild life of the North after the six months of incessant pleading the cause of the Indians before the large and enthusiastic audiences in our towns and cities. The days of hard and rapid travelling over the frozen surface of Lake Winnipeg,--the bitter cold that often made us shiver in spite of the violent exercise of running,--the intense and almost unbearable pain caused by the reflection of the brilliant rays of the sun upon the snowy waste,--the bed in the hole in the snow with no roof above us but the star-decked vault of heaven,--were all cheerfully endured again and successfully passed through. Very cordial was my welcome by the Saulteaux at my new field. I was very much gratified to find that they had had a successful winter, and that those left in charge had worked faithfully and well. A little log house, twelve by twenty-four feet, had been put up, and in one end of it I was installed as my present home. My apartment was just twelve feet square, but to me it was all-sufficient. It was kitchen, bedroom, dining-room, study, reception-room, and everything else. Two of my grandest dogs, Jack and Cuffy, shared it with me for months, and we had a happy and busy time. With several hard-working Indians, two of them being Big Tom and Martin Papanekis from Norway House, we toiled hard at getting out the timber and logs for our new church, school-house, and parsonage. We had to go a distance of twelve or fourteen miles over the frozen lake ere we reached the large island on which we found timber sufficiently large for our purpose. Here we worked as hard as possible. Often we had to go in miles from the shore to find what we wanted. To make our work more difficult, we found but few large trees growing close together. So, for nearly every large stick of timber, we had to make a new trail through the deep snow to the lake. The snow was from three to four feet deep. The under-brush was thick, and the fallen trees were numerous. Yet under these discouragements we worked. We cut down the trees, measured them, squared them, and got them ready for their places. Then we hitched one end on a strong dog sled, and attached one dog to this heavy load. How four dogs could drag these heavy sticks of timber was indeed surprising. The principal pieces were thirty-six feet long and ten inches square. Yet my gallant St. Bernards and Newfoundlands would take these heavy loads along at a rate that was astounding. We had thirty-two dogs at work, and rapidly did our piles of timber and logs accumulate. Dressed as one of the natives, with them I toiled incessantly for the material upbuilding of the Mission. We had delightful services every Sabbath. Nearly every Indian within some miles of the place attended, and good results were continually cheering our hearts. Although it was so late in the season when I arrived, yet there was not, for weeks after, any sign of the spring, except in the lengthening days and increasingly brilliant sun. For a long time the vast snowy wastes remained crisp and hard. Very glorious was the atmosphere, for there were no fogs, no mists, no damps. The sky seemed always cloudless, the air was always clear. Nearly every morning during those weeks of hard toil we were treated to the strange sights which the beautiful and vivid mirage brought to us. Islands and headlands, scores of miles away, were lifted up from below the horizon, and shown to us as distinctly as though close at hand. With but few exceptions our nights also were very glorious, especially when the Northern Lights, taking this vast Lake Winnipeg as their field of action, held one of their grand carnivals. Generally beginning in the far north, with majestic sweep they came marching on, filling the very heavens with their coloured bars, or flashing, ever-changing, yet always beautiful clouds of brightness and glory. Sometimes they would form a magnificent corona at the zenith, and from its dazzling splendour would shoot out long columns of different coloured lights, which rested upon the far-off frozen shores. Often have I seen a cloud of light flit swiftly across these tinted bars, as if a hand were sweeping the strings of some grand harp. So startling was the resemblance, that there was an instinctive listening for the sound that we used to think ought to come. Sometimes I have suddenly stopped my dogs and men, when we have been travelling amidst these fascinating and almost bewildering glories of the heavens above us, and we have listened for that rustling sound of celestial harmony which some Arctic travellers have affirmed they have heard, and which it seemed to me so evident that we ought to hear. But although for years I have watched and listened, amidst the death stillness of these snowy wastes, no sounds have I ever heard. Amidst all their flashing and changing glories these resplendent beauties ever seemed to me as voiceless as the stars above them. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ When spring arrived, and with its open water came our first boats, we brought out from Red River a quantity of building material and two experienced carpenters. Then actively went on the work of building a Mission House, and also a large school-house, which for a time was to serve as a church also. We called it "the Tabernacle," and for a good while it served its double purpose admirably. Leaving the carpenters and Indians at work, I went into the then small village of Winnipeg for Mrs Young and our two little children, who were now returning from Ontario, where they had remained among friends, until I, who had so long preceded them, should have some kind of a habitation prepared for them in the wilderness. For weeks we had to live in my little twelve-by-twelve log-cabin. It was all right in cold or dry weather, but as its construction was peculiar, it failed us most signally in times of rain and wet. The roof was made of poplar logs, laid up against the roof pole, and then covered very thickly with clay. When this hardened and dried, it was a capital roof against the cold; but when incessant rains softened it, and the mud in great pieces fell through upon bed, or table, or stove, or floor, it was not luxurious or even comfortable living. One morning we found that during the night a mass, weighing over five pounds, had fallen at the feet of our youngest child, as she, unconscious of danger, slept in a little bed near us. However, after a while, we got into our new house, and great were our rejoicings to find ourselves comfortably settled, and ready for undivided attention to the blessed work of evangelisation. While there was a measure of prosperity, yet the Mission did not advance as rapidly as I had hoped it would. My hopes had been that the surplus population at Norway House would have settled there, and that many from the interior directly east would, as they had stated, come out and help to build up the Mission. Opposition in various quarters arose, and the Norway House Crees preferred to go farther south; and finally seventy families preferred that place, and there they have formed a flourishing additional Mission. Thus the work advanced, although not all along the lines which some of us had marked out. With patient endurance my noble wife and I toiled on. There was room for the exercise of the graces of courage, and hope, and faith, and patience; but a measure of success was ever ours, and we saw signs of progress, and had every now and then some clear and remarkable cases of conversion from the vilest degradation and superstition into a clear and conscious assurance of Heaven's favour and smile. One summer there came from the east to visit us a chieftainess with several of her followers. Her husband had been the chief of his people, and when he died she assumed his position, and maintained it well. Her home was several days' journey away in the interior, but she had heard of the Missionary who had come to live among the Saulteaux and teach them out of the great Book. Was not she a Saulteaux, and had not she a right to know of this new way, about which so much was being said? With these thoughts in her mind she came to see us. When she came to the Mission, we saw very quickly that here was an interesting woman. We had several interviews, and Mrs Young and myself did all we could to lead this candid, inquiring mind into the right way. Before she left I gave her a sheet of foolscap paper, and a long lead pencil, and showed her how to keep her reckoning as to the Sabbath day. I had, among many other lessons, described the Sabbath as one day in seven for rest and worship; and she had become very much interested, and promised to try to keep it. As she pushed out in her canoe from our shore, her last importunate request was, that as soon as possible I would visit her and her people in their own land. So many were my engagements that I could not take up this additional one until about the middle of the winter following. When, with a couple of Indian attendants, with our dog-trains, we dashed into her village, great indeed was her joy at seeing us, and very demonstrative was the welcome given. She had put up on a staging outside in the cold a couple of reindeer heads, keeping them there preserved by the frost until I should arrive. Very quickly were they taken down to cook. The hair was singed off, and then they were cut up with an axe into pieces weighing about two pounds each. Soon they were in the pot, boiling for our dinner. I furnished some tea, and while everything was being got ready by a few, the rest of us sat down and talked. They were indeed anxious for instruction in spiritual things. I read and, through my interpreter, explained truth after truth, to which they gave the most earnest attention. Then we stopped a little while, that we might have dinner. As I and my men were the guests of this chieftainess I did not get out my tin plates, and cups, and knives and forks, but sat down beside her in her wigwam with the rest of the people, completing a circle around the big wooden dish, in which the large pieces of cooked reindeer heads had been thrown. I asked a blessing on the food, and then dinner began. The plan was for each person to help himself or herself to a piece of the meat, holding it in the hand, and using hunting knife or teeth, or both together, to get off the pieces and eat them. I am sorry to say my lady friend on the right, this chieftainess, had very dirty-looking hands, and long, strong, brilliant teeth. She took her piece of meat, and, turning it over and over in her hands, began tearing and cutting at it in a way that was not very dainty, but extremely otherwise. After biting off a few mouthfuls, she threw it down on the dirty ground of the wigwam before her, and, inserting one of her greasy hands in the bosom of her dress, she pulled out a large piece of soiled paper, and, unfolding it before me, she began in excited tones to tell me how she had kept the tally of the "praying days," for thus they style the Sabbath. Greatly interested in her story, and in her wild joyous way of describing her efforts to keep her record correct, I stopped eating and looked over her paper, as she talked away. Imagine my great delight to find that through the long months which had passed since I had given her that paper and pencil, she had not once missed her record. This day was Thursday, and thus she had marked it. Her plan had been to make six short marks, and then a longer one for Sunday. "Missionary," she said very earnestly, "sometimes it seemed as though I would fail. There were times when the ducks or geese came very near, and I felt like taking my gun and firing. Then I remembered that it was the praying day, and so I only put down the long mark and rested. I have not set a net, or caught a fish, or fired a gun, on the praying day since I heard about it at your house so far away." Of course I was delighted at all this, and said some kind words of encouragement. Then we resumed our dinner. I had my piece of meat in one hand, and with the knife in the other was endeavouring to cut off the pieces and eat them. The good woman replaced the precious paper and pencil in her bosom, and then picked up her piece of meat from the dirty ground, and, after turning it over and over in her hands, began with her strong teeth to tear off the large mouthfuls. All at once she stopped eating, and, looking intently at my piece, she said, "Your piece is not a very good one, mine is very fine," and before I could protest, or say a word, she quickly exchanged the pieces; and from her portion, which she put in my hand, I had to finish my dinner. As what she did is considered an act of great kindness, of course I would not grieve her by showing any annoyance. So I quietly smothered any little squeamishness that might naturally have arisen, and finished my dinner, and then resumed the religious service. Soon after, she became a decided Christian. The following extracts are from the last letter which I sent to the Mission Rooms, ere, owing to the failure of Mrs Young's health, we left the land of the Saulteaux for work in the Master's Vineyard elsewhere. The Mission had now been fully established, a comfortable parsonage built and well furnished. A large school-house had been erected, which answered also for the religious services until the church should be finished. Many had been our trials and hardships, and there had been a great deal of opposition, much of it from places not expected. But to be enabled to send such tidings from such a place, where I had gone as the first Missionary, and among such a wicked and degraded tribe as were these Saulteaux, so different from the more peaceful Crees, caused my heart to rejoice, that He Who had permitted me to go and sow the seed had also given me the honour of seeing some golden sheaves gathered in for the heavenly garner:-- "Last Sabbath was perhaps the most interesting and encouraging one we have spent on the Mission. Our place of worship was crowded, and many had to remain outside. Some of the old Indians who, in spite of our pleadings, had clung to their paganism, renounced it on that day in a most emphatic manner. Seven of them, after being questioned as to their thorough renunciation of their old superstitions, and as to their present faith in Christ, were then and there baptized. "At the afternoon service several more were baptized; among them an old man, perhaps seventy years of age, with his wife and grandchild. He had never been inside a Christian sanctuary before. He had just arrived from the vast interior eastward of this place, the country I visited under so many difficulties last April. "The old man brought down with him the Bible and hymn-book which I had given him months ago. He stated that although he could not read them very well, yet he kept them close to him by day, and under his pillow by night, and tried to keep in his memory all he had heard of what was written in them, as I had told him. "I have been teaching the school myself for months, as my faithful teacher, Timothy Bear, is poorly. Among the scholars I have none more attentive than the old man and his wife. Seated on the ground with the Reverend James Evans' Syllabic Characters marked out with a pen on a piece of paper in their hands, and the open Bible on the grass before them, they are striving hard to read fluently in their own language the wonderful works of God. "If this old man had presented himself for baptism a little better clothed, we should have been pleased. All he had on was a dirty cotton shirt and a pair of deer-skin leggings. However, as such fashions occur here, his appearance created no remark, but all were deeply moved at his coming forward and so emphatically renouncing his old paganism. "The Sacrament of the Lord's Supper on the same day was also a service of great interest, as several new members, baptized a few months ago, were admitted to the Lord's Table for the first time. In two instances the decided stand for Christ taken by the women has led to the conversion of their husbands. Until lately they were careless, reckless men; but they have now come and declared that they are convinced that the religion of their wives is better than the old, and they desire to have it too. Thus the work goes on; but how slowly! When shall the time arrive when `nations shall be born in a day'? Haste, happy day!" "We are toiling through the darkness, but our eyes behold the light That is mounting up the eastern sky and beating back the night. Soon with joy we'll hail the morning when our Lord will come in might, For Truth is marching on. "He will come in glorious majesty to sweep away all wrong; He will heal the broken-hearted and will make His people strong; He will teach our souls His righteousness, our hearts a glad new song, For Truth is marching on. "He is calling on His people to be faithful, prompt, and brave, To uplift again the fallen, and to help from sin to save, To devote themselves for others, as Himself for them He gave, For Truth is marching on. "Let us fight against the evils with our faces towards the light; God is looking through the darkness, and He watches o'er the fight And His joy will be our recompense, His triumph crown the right, For Truth is marching on." 
18495	----	[Frontispiece: A strange apparition was seen crossing the lake. It appeared to have wings, but it did not fly; and though it possessed a tail, it did not run, but contented itself with moving steadily forward on its long up-turned feet. Over an arm it carried what might have been a trident, and what with its waving tail and great outspreading wings that rose above its horned-like head, it suggested . . . See Chapter VI.] THE DRAMA OF THE FORESTS _Romance and Adventure_ BY ARTHUR HEMING ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR WITH REPRODUCTIONS FROM A SERIES OF HIS PAINTINGS OWNED BY THE ROYAL ONTARIO MUSEUM GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTO DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1921 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN PRINTED AT THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N, Y.. U. S. A. First Edition TO MR. AND MRS. DAVID A. DUNLAP WITH WHOM I SPENT MANY HAPPY SEASONS IN THE GREAT NORTHERN FOREST CONTENTS I. ROMANCE AND ADVENTURE II. IN QUEST OF TREASURE III. OO-KOO-HOO'S EL DORADO IV. OO-KOO-HOO PLAYS THE GAME V. MEETING OF THE WILD MEN VI. WILD ANIMALS AND MEN VII. LIFE AND LOVE RETURN VIII. BUSINESS AND ROMANCE LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS A strange apparition was seen crossing the lake. It appeared to have wings . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ I surmised at once who he was, for one could see by the merest glance Oo-koo-hoo's bill Oo-koo-hoo's calendar Going to the brink, we saw a "York Boat" in the act of shooting the cataract Minutes passed while the rising moon cast golden ripples upon the water The lynx is an expert swimmer and is dangerous to tackle in the water Next morning we found that everything was covered with a heavy blanket of snow The bear circled a little in order to descend. Presently it left the shadow Going to the stage, he took down his five-foot snowshoes As the wolf dashed away, the bounding clog sent the snow flying "There's the York Factory packet from Hudson Bay to Winnipeg" "It was on my father's hunting grounds, and late one afternoon" Oo-koo-hoo could even hear the strange clicking sound After half of May had passed away, and when the spring hunt was over The departure of the Fur Brigade was the one great event of the year INTRODUCTION It was in childhood that the primitive spirit first came whispering to me. It was then that I had my first day-dreams of the Northland--of its forests, its rivers and lakes, its hunters and trappers and traders, its fur-runners and mounted police, its voyageurs and packeteers, its missionaries and Indians and prospectors, its animals, its birds and its fishes, its trees and its flowers, and its seasons. Even in childhood I was for ever wondering . . . what is daily going on in the Great Northern Forest? . . . not just this week, this month, or this season, but what is actually occurring day by day, throughout the cycle of an entire year? It was that thought that fascinated me, and when I grew into boyhood, I began delving into books of northern travel, but I did not find the answer there. With the years this ever-present wonder grew, until it so possessed me that at last it spirited me away from the city, while I was still in my teens, and led me along a path of ever-changing and ever-increasing pleasure, showing me the world, not as men had mauled and marred it, but as the Master of Life had made it, in all its original beauty and splendour. Nor was this all. It led me to observe and ponder over the daily pages of the most profound and yet the most fascinating book that man has ever tried to read; and though, it seemed to me, my feeble attempts to decipher its text were always futile, it has, nevertheless, not only taught me to love Nature with an ever-increasing passion, but it has inspired in me an infinite homage toward the Almighty; for, as Emerson says: "In the woods we return to reason and faith. Then I feel that nothing can befall me in life--no disgrace, no calamity (leaving me my eyes)--which Nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare ground--my head bathed by the blithe air and uplifted into infinite space--all mean egoism vanishes. . . . I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty." So, to make my life-dream come true, to contemplate in all its thrilling action and undying splendour the drama of the forests, I travelled twenty-three times through various parts of the vast northern woods, between Maine and Alaska, and covered thousands upon thousands of miles by canoe, pack-train, snowshoes, _bateau_, dog-train, buck-board, timber-raft, prairie-schooner, lumber-wagon, and "alligator." No one trip ever satisfied me, or afforded me the knowledge or the experience I sought, for traversing a single section of the forest was not unlike making one's way along a single street of a metropolis and then trying to persuade oneself that one knew all about the city's life. So back again I went at all seasons of the year to encamp in that great timber-land that sweeps from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Thus it has taken me thirty-three years to gather the information this volume contains, and my only hope in writing it is that perhaps others may have had the same day-dream, and that in this book they may find a reliable and satisfactory answer to all their wonderings. But making my dream come true--what delight it gave me! What sport and travel it afforded me! What toil and sweat it caused me! What food and rest it brought me! What charming places it led me through! What interesting people it ranged beside me! What romance it unfolded before me! and into what thrilling adventures it plunged me! But before we paddle down the winding wilderness aisle toward the great stage upon which Diana and all her attendant huntsmen and forest creatures may appear, I wish to explain that in compliance with the wishes of the leading actors--who actually lived their parts of this story--fictitious names have been given to the principal characters and to the principal trading posts, lakes, and rivers herein depicted. Furthermore, in order to give the reader a more interesting, complete, and faithful description of the daily and the yearly life of the forest dwellers as I have observed it, I have taken the liberty of weaving together the more interesting facts I have gathered--both first- and second-hand--into one continuous narrative as though it all happened in a single year. And in order to retain all the primitive local colour, the unique costumes, and the fascinating romance of the fur-trade days as I witnessed them in my twenties--though much of the life has already passed away--the scene is set to represent a certain year in the early nineties. ARTHUR HEMING. THE DRAMA OF THE FORESTS I ROMANCE AND ADVENTURE HER FATHER THE FREE TRADER It was September 9, 189-. From sunrise to sunset through mist, sunshine, shower, and shadow we travelled, and the nearer we drew to our first destination, the wilder the country became, the more water-fowl we saw, and the more the river banks were marked with traces of big game. Here signs told us that three caribou had crossed the stream, there muddy water was still trickling into the hoofprint of a moose, and yonder a bear had been fishing. Finally, the day of our arrival dawned, and as I paddled, I spent much of the time dreaming of the adventure before me. As our beautiful birchen craft still sped on her way, the handsome bow parted the shimmering waters, and a passing breeze sent little running waves gurgling along her sides, while the splendour of the autumn sun was reflected on a far-reaching row of dazzling ripples that danced upon the water, making our voyageurs lower their eyes and the trader doze again. There was no other sign of life except an eagle soaring in and out among the fleecy clouds slowly passing overhead. All around was a panorama of enchanting forest. My travelling companion was a "Free Trader," whose name was Spear--a tall, stoop-shouldered man with heavy eyebrows and shaggy, drooping moustache. The way we met was amusing. It happened in a certain frontier town. His first question was as to whether I was single. His second, as to whether my time was my own. Then he slowly looked me over from head to foot. He seemed to be measuring my stature and strength and to be noting the colour of my eyes and hair. Narrowing his vision, he scrutinized me more carefully than before, for now he seemed to be reading my character--if not my soul. Then, smiling, he blurted out: "Come, be my guest for a couple of weeks. Will you?" I laughed. He frowned. But on realizing that my mirth was caused only by surprise, he smiled again and let flow a vivid description of a place he called Spearhead. It was the home of the northern fur trade. It was the centre of a great timber region. It was the heart of a vast fertile belt that was rapidly becoming the greatest of all farming districts. It was built on the fountain head of gigantic water power. It virtually stood over the very vault that contained the richest veins of mineral to be found in the whole Dominion--at least that's what he said--and he also assured me that the Government had realized it, too, for was it not going to hew a provincial highway clean through the forest to Spearhead? Was it not going to build a fleet of steamers to ply upon the lakes and rivers in that section? And was it not going to build a line of railroad to the town itself in order to connect it with the new transcontinental and thus put it in communication with the great commercial centres of the East and the West? In fact, he also impressed upon me that Spearhead was a town created for young men who were not averse to becoming wealthy in whatever line of business they might choose. It seemed that great riches were already there and had but to be lifted. Would I go? But when I explained that although I was single, and quite free, I was not a business man, he became crestfallen, but presently revived enough to exclaim: "Well, what the dickens are you?" "An artist," I replied. "Oh, I see! Well . . . we need an artist very badly. You'll have the field all to yourself in Spearhead. Besides, your pictures of the fur trade and of pioneer life would eventually become historical and bring you no end of wealth. You had better come. Better decide right away, or some other artist chap will get ahead of you." But when I further explained that I was going to spend the winter in the wilderness, that I had already written to the Hudson's Bay Factor at Fort Consolation and that he was expecting me, Spear gloated: "Bully boy!" and slapping me on the shoulder, he chuckled: "Why, my town is just across the lake from Fort Consolation. A mere five-mile paddle, old chap, and remember, I extend to you the freedom of Spearhead in the name of its future mayor. And, man alive, I'm leaving for there to-morrow morning in a big four-fathom birch bark, with four Indian canoe-men. Be my guest. It won't cost you a farthing, and we'll make the trip together." I gladly accepted. The next morning we started. Free Trader Spear was a character, and I afterward learned that he was an Oxford University man, who, having been "ploughed," left for Canada, entered the service of the Hudson's Bay Company, and had finally been moved to Fort Consolation where he served seven years, learned the fur-trade business, and resigned to become a "free trader" as all fur traders are called who carry on business in opposition to "The Great Company." We were eight days upon the trip, but, strange to say, during each day's travel toward Spearhead, his conversation in reference to that thriving town made it appear to grow smaller and smaller, until at last it actually dwindled down to such a point, that, about sunset on the day we were to arrive, he turned to me and casually remarked: "Presently you'll see Fort Consolation and the Indian village beyond. Spearhead is just across the lake, and by the bye, my boy, I forgot to tell you that Spearhead is just my log shack. But it's a nice little place, and you'll like it when you pay us a visit, for I want you to meet my wife." Then our canoe passed a jutting point of land and in a moment the scene was changed--we were no longer on a river, but were now upon a lake, and the wilderness seemed suddenly left behind. AT FORT CONSOLATION On the outer end of a distant point a cluster of poplars shaded a small, clapboarded log house. There, in charge of Fort Consolation, lived the Factor of the Hudson's Bay Company. Beyond a little lawn enclosed by a picket fence stood the large storehouse. The lower floor of this was used as a trading room; the upper story served for a fur loft. Behind were seen a number of shanties, then another large building in which dog-sleds and great birch-bark canoes were stored. Farther away was a long open shed, under which those big canoes were built, then a few small huts where the half-breeds lived. With the exception of the Factor's house, all the buildings were of rough-hewn logs plastered with clay. Around the sweeping bend of the bay was a village of tepees in which the Indian fur hunters and their families spend their midsummer. Crowning a knoll in the rear stood a quaint little church with a small tin spire glistening in the sun, and capped by a cross that spread its tiny arms to heaven. On the hill in the background the time-worn pines swayed their shaggy heads and softly whispered to that, the first gentle touch of civilization in the wilderness. Presently, at irregular intervals, guns were discharged along the shore, beginning at the point nearest the canoe and running round the curve of the bay to the Indian camp, where a brisk fusillade took place. A moment later the Hudson's Bay Company's flag fluttered over Fort Consolation. Plainly, the arrival of our canoe was causing excitement at the Post. Trader Spear laughed aloud: "That's one on old Mackenzie. He's taking my canoe for that of the Hudson's Bay Inspector. He's generally due about this time." From all directions men, women, and children were swarming toward the landing, and when our canoe arrived there must have been fully four hundred Indians present. The first to greet us was Factor Mackenzie--a gruff, bearded Scotsman with a clean-shaven upper lip, gray hair, and piercing gray eyes. When we entered the Factor's house we found it to be a typical wilderness home of an officer of the Hudson's Bay Company; and, therefore, as far unlike the interiors of furtraders' houses as shown upon the stage, movie screen, or in magazine illustration, as it is possible to imagine. Upon the walls we saw neither mounted heads nor skins of wild animals; nor were fur robes spread upon the floors, as one would expect to find after reading the average story of Hudson's Bay life. On the contrary, the well-scrubbed floors were perfectly bare, and the walls were papered from top to bottom with countless illustrations cut from the London _Graphic_ and the _Illustrated London News_. The pictures not only took the place of wall paper, making the house more nearly wind-proof, but also afforded endless amusement to those who had to spend therein the long winter months. The house was furnished sparingly with simple, home-made furniture that had more the appearance of utility than of beauty. At supper time we sat down with Mrs. Mackenzie, the Factor's half-breed wife, who took the head of the table. After the meal we gathered in the living room before an open fire, over the mantelpiece of which there were no guns, no powder horns, nor even a pair of snowshoes; for a fur trader would no more think of hanging his snowshoes there than a city dweller would think of hanging his overshoes over his drawing-room mantel. Upon the mantel shelf, however, stood a few unframed family photographs and some books, while above hung a rustic picture frame, the only frame to be seen in the room; it contained the motto, worked in coloured yarns: "God Bless Our Home." When pipes were lighted and we had drawn closer to the fire, the Factor occupied a quaint, home-made, rough-hewn affair known as the "Factor's chair." On the under side of the seat were inscribed the signatures and dates of accession to that throne of all the factors who had reigned at the Post during the past eighty-seven years. A MIGHTY HUNTER After the two traders had finished "talking musquash"--fur-trade business--they began reminiscing on the more picturesque side of their work, and as I had come to spend the winter with the fur hunters on their hunting grounds, the subject naturally turned to that well-worn topic, the famous Nimrods of the North. It brought forth many an interesting tale, for both my companions were well versed in such lore, and in order to keep up my end I quoted from Warren's book on the Ojibways: "As an illustration of the kind and abundance of animals which then covered the country, it is stated that an Ojibway hunter named No-Ka, the grandfather of Chief White Fisher, killed in one day's hunt, starting from the mouth of Crow Wing River, sixteen elk, four buffalo, five deer, three bear, one lynx, and one porcupine. There was a trader wintering at the time at Crow Wing, and for his winter's supply of meat, No-Ka presented him with the fruits of his day's hunt." My host granted that that was the biggest day's bag he had ever heard of, and Trader Spear, withdrawing his pipe from his mouth, remarked: "No-Ka must have been a great hunter. I would like to have had his trade. But, nevertheless, I have heard of an Indian who might have been a match for him. He, too, was an Ojibway, and his name was Narphim. He lived somewhere out in the Peace River country, and I've heard it stated that he killed, in his lifetime, more than eighty thousand living things. Some bag for one hunter." Since Trader Spear made that interesting remark I have had the pleasure of meeting a factor of the Hudson's Bay Company who knew Narphim from boyhood, and who was a personal friend of his, and who was actually in charge of a number of posts at which the Indian traded. Owing to their friendship for one another, the Factor took such a personal pride in the fame the hunter won, that he compiled, from the books of the Hudson's Bay Company, a complete record of all the fur-bearing animals the Indian killed between the time he began to trade as a hunter at the age of eleven, until his hunting days were ended. Furthermore, in discussing the subject with Narphim they together compiled an approximate list of the number of fish, wild fowl, and rabbits that the hunter must have secured each season, and thus Narphim's record stands as the following figures show. I would tell you the Factor's name but as he has written to me: "For many cogent reasons it is desirable that my name be not mentioned officially in your book," I must refrain. I shall, however, give you the history of Narphim in the Factor's own words: "Narphim's proper name remains unknown as he was one of two children saved when a band of Ojibways were drowned in crossing a large lake that lies S. E. of Cat Lake and Island Lake, and S. E. of Norway House. He was called Narphim--Saved from the Waters. The other child that was rescued was a girl and she was called Neseemis--Our Little Sister. At first Narphim was adopted and lived with a Swampy Cree chief, the celebrated Keteche-ka-paness, who was a great medicine man. When Narphim grew to be eleven years old he became a hunter, and first traded his catch at Island Lake; then as the years went by, at Oxford House; then at Norway House, then at Fort Chepewyan, and then at Fort McMurray. After that he went to Lesser Slave Lake, then on to the Peace River at Dunvegan, then he showed up at Fort St. John, next at Battle River, and finally at Vermilion. "The following is a list of the number of creatures Narphim killed, but of course he also killed a good deal of game that was never recorded in the Company's books, especially those animals whose skins were used for the clothing of the hunter's family. "Bears 585, beaver 1,080, ermines 130, fishers 195, red foxes 362, cross foxes 78, silver and black foxes 6, lynxes 418, martens 1,078, minks 384, muskrats 900, porcupines 19, otters 194, wolves 112, wolverines 24, wood buffaloes 99, moose 396, caribou 196, jumping deer 72, wapiti 156, mountain sheep 60, mountain goats 29; and rabbits, approximately 8,000, wild fowl, approximately 23,800, and fish approximately 36,000. Total 74,573. "Yes, Narphim was a great hunter and a good man," says the Factor in his last letter to me. "He was a fine, active, well-built Indian and a reliable and pleasant companion. In fact, he was one of Nature's gentlemen, whom we shall be, and well may be, proud to meet in the Great Beyond, known as the Happy Hunting Grounds." Thus the evening drifted by. While the names of several of the best hunters had been mentioned as suitable men for me to accompany on their hunting trail, it was suggested that as the men themselves would probably visit the Post in the morning, I should have a chat with them before making my selection. Both Mackenzie and Spear, however, seemed much in favour of my going with an Indian called Oo-koo-hoo. Presently the clock struck ten and we turned in, the Free Trader sharing a big feather bed with me. THEIR SUMMER LIFE After breakfast next morning I strolled about the picturesque point. It was a windless, hazy day. An early frost had already clothed a number of the trees with their gorgeous autumnal mantles, the forerunners of Indian summer, the most glorious season of the Northern year. When I turned down toward the wharf, I found a score of Indians and half-breed trippers unloading freight from a couple of six-fathom birch-bark canoes. Eager men and boys were good-naturedly loading themselves with packs and hurrying away with them to the storehouse, while others were lounging around or applauding the carriers with the heaviest loads. As the packers hurried by, Delaronde, the jovial, swarthy-faced, French-Canadian clerk, note-book in hand, checked the number of pieces. Over by the log huts a group of Indian women were sitting in the shade, talking to Delaronde's Indian wife. All about, and in and out of the Indian lodges, dirty, half-naked children romped together, and savage dogs prowled around seeking what they might devour. The deerskin or canvas covers of most of the tepees were raised a few feet to allow the breeze to pass under. Small groups of women and children squatted or reclined in the shade, smoking and chatting the hours away. Here and there women were cleaning fish, mending nets, weaving mats, making clothes, or standing over steaming kettles. Many of the men had joined the "goods brigade," and their return was hourly expected. Many canoes were resting upon the sandy beach, and many more were lying bottom up beneath the shade of trees. The most important work undertaken by the Indians during the summer is canoe building. As some of the men are more expert at this than others, it often happens that the bulk of the work is done by a few who engage in it as a matter of business. Birch bark for canoe building is taken from the tree early in May. The chosen section, which may run from four to eight feet in length, is first cut at the top and bottom; then a two-inch strip is removed from top to bottom in order to make room for working a chisel-shaped wooden wedge--about two feet long--with which the bark is taken off. Where knots appear great care is exercised that the bark be not torn. To make it easier to pack, the sheet of bark is then rolled up the narrow way, and tied with willow. In this shape, it is transported to the summer camping grounds. Canoes range in size all the way from twelve feet to thirty-six feet in length. The smaller size, being more easily portaged, is used by hunters, and is known as a two-fathom canoe. For family use canoes are usually from two and a half to three and a half fathoms long. Canoes of the largest size, thirty-six feet, are called six-fathom or "North" canoes. With a crew of from eight to twelve, they have a carrying capacity of from three to four tons, and are used by the traders for transporting furs and supplies. Some Indians engage in "voyaging" or "tripping" for the traders--taking out fur packs to the steamboats or railroads, by six-fathom canoe, York boat, or sturgeon-head scow brigades, and bringing in supplies. Others put in part of their time on an occasional hunt for moose or caribou, or in shooting wild fowl. On their return they potter around camp making paddles or snowshoe frames; or they give themselves up to gambling--a vice to which they are rather prone. Sometimes twenty men or more, divided into equal sides, will sit in the form of an oval, with their hair drawn over their faces that their expression may not easily be read, and with their knees covered with blankets. Leaders are chosen on either side, and each team is supplied with twelve small sticks. The game begins by one of the leaders placing his closed hands upon his blanket, and calling upon the other to match him. If the latter is holding his stick in the wrong hand, he loses; and so the game goes on. Two sets of drummers are playing continuously and all the while there is much chanting. In this simple wise they gamble away their belongings, even to their clothing, and, sometimes, their wives. When the wives are at stake, however, they have the privilege of taking a hand in the game. The women, in addition to their regular routine of summer camp duties, occupy themselves with fishing, moccasin making, and berry picking. The girls join their mothers in picking berries, which are plentiful and of great variety--raspberries, strawberries, cranberries, blueberries, gooseberries, swampberries, saskatoonberries, pembinaberries, pheasantberries, bearberries, and snakeberries. They gather also wild celery, the roots of rushes, and the inner bark of the poplar--all which they eat raw. In some parts, too, they gather wild rice. Before their summer holidays are over, they have usually secured a fair stock of dried berries, smoked meats and bladders and casings filled with fish oil or other soft grease, to help out their bill of fare during the winter. The women devote most of their spare moments to bead, hair, porcupine, or silk work which they use for the decoration of their clothing. They make _mos-quil-moots_, or hunting bags, of plaited _babiche_, or deerskin thongs, for the use of the men. The girl's first lesson in sewing is always upon the coarsest work; such as joining skins together for lodge coverings. The threads used are made from the sinews of the deer or the wolf. These sinews are first hung outside to dry a little, and are then split into the finest threads. The thread-maker passes each strand through her mouth to moisten it, then places it upon her bare thigh, and with a quick movement rolls it with the flat of her hand to twist it. Passing it again through her mouth, she ties a knot at one end, points the other, and puts it away to dry. The result is a thread like the finest hair-wire. For colouring moose hair or porcupine quills for fancy work, the women obtain their dyes in the following ways: From the juice of boiled cranberries they derive a magenta dye. From alder bark, boiled, beaten, and strained, they get a dark, slate-coloured blue which is mixed with rabbits' gall to make it adhere. The juice of bearberries gives them a bright red. From gunpowder and water they obtain a fine black, and from coal tar a stain for work of the coarsest kind. They rely chiefly, however, upon the red, blue, green, and yellow ochres found in many parts of the country. These, when applied to the decoration of canoes, they mix with fish oil; but for general purposes the earths are baked and used in the form of powder. From scenes such as I have described the summer traveller obtains his impression of the forest Indians. Too often their life and character are judged by such scenes, as if these truly represented their whole existence. In reality, this is but their holiday season which they are spending upon their tribal summer camping ground. It is only upon their hunting grounds that one may fairly study the Indians; so, presently, we shall follow them there. And when one experiences the wild, free life the Indian lives--hampered by no household goods or other property that he cannot at a moment's notice dump into his canoe and carry with him to the ends of the earth if he chooses--one not only envies him, but ceases to wonder which of the two is the greater philosopher--the white man or the red; for the poor old white man is so overwhelmed with absurd conventions and encumbering property that he can rarely do what his heart dictates. FAMILY HUNTING GROUNDS Don't let us decide just yet, however, whether the Indian derives more pleasure from life than does the white man, at least, not until we return from our voyage of pleasure and investigation; but before we leave Fort Consolation it is well to know that the hunting grounds in possession of the Indian tribes that live in the Great Northern Forest have been for centuries divided and subdivided and allotted, either by bargain or by battle, to the main families of each band. In many cases the same hunting grounds have remained in the undisputed possession of the same families for generations. Family hunting grounds are usually delimited by natural boundaries, such as hills, valleys, rivers, and lakes. The allotments of land generally take the form of wedge-shaped tracts radiating from common centres. From the intersection of these converging boundary lines the common centres become the hubs of the various districts. These district centres mark convenient summer camping grounds for the reunion of families after their arduous labour during the long winter hunting season. The tribal summer camping grounds, therefore, are not only situated on the natural highways of the country--the principal rivers and lakes--but also indicate excellent fishing stations. There, too, the Indians have their burial grounds. Often these camping grounds are the summer headquarters for from three to eight main families; and each main family may contain from five or six to fifty or sixty hunting men. Inter-marriage between families of two districts gives the man the right to hunt on the land of his wife's family as long as he "sits on the brush" with her--is wedded to her--but the children do not inherit that right; it dies with the father. An Indian usually lives upon his own land, but makes frequent excursions to the land of his wife's family. In the past, the side boundaries of hunting grounds have been the cause of many family feuds, and the outer boundaries have furnished the occasion for many tribal wars. The past and the present headquarters camping grounds of the Strong Woods Indians--as the inhabitants of the Great Northern Forest are generally called--lie about one hundred and fifty miles apart. The natural overland highways throughout the country, especially those intersecting the watercourses and now used as the roadbeds for our great transcontinental railways, were not originally discovered by man at all. The credit is due to the big game of the wilderness; for the animals were not only the first to find them, but also the first to use them. The Indian simply followed the animals, and the trader followed the Indian, and the official "explorer" followed the trader, and the engineer followed the "explorer," and the railroad contractor followed the engineer. It was the buffalo, the deer, the bear, and the wolf who were our original transcontinental path-finders, or rather pathmakers. Then, too, the praise bestowed upon the pioneer fur traders for the excellent judgment shown in choosing the sites upon which trading posts have been established throughout Canada, has not been deserved; the credit is really due to the Indians. The fur traders erected their posts or forts upon the tribal camping grounds simply because they found such spots to be the general meeting places of the Indians, and not only situated on the principal highways of the wilderness but accessible from all points of the surrounding country, and, moreover, the very centres of excellent fish and game regions. Thus in Canada many of the ancient tribal camping grounds are now known by the names of trading posts, of progressive frontier towns, or of important cities. Now, as of old, the forest Indians after their winter's hunt return in the early summer to trade their catch of furs, to meet old friends, and to rest and gossip awhile before the turning leaf warns them to secure their next winter's "advances" from the trader, and once more paddle away to their distant hunting grounds. The several zones of the Canadian wilderness are locally known as the Coast Country--the shores of the Arctic Ocean and Hudson Bay; the Barren Grounds--the treeless country between Hudson Bay and the Mackenzie River; the Strong Woods Country--the whole of that enormous belt of heavy timber that spans Canada from east to west; the Border Lands--the tracts of small, scattered timber that lie between the prairies and the northern forests; the Prairie Country; the Mountains; and the Big Lakes. These names have been adopted by the fur traders from the Indians. It is in the Strong Woods Country that most of the fur-bearing animals live. MEETING OO-KOO-HOO About ten o'clock on the morning after our arrival at Fort Consolation, Free Trader Spear left for home with my promise to paddle over and dine at Spearhead next day. At noon Factor Mackenzie informed me that he had received word that Oo-koo-hoo--The Owl--was coming to the Fort that afternoon and that, taking everything into consideration, he thought Oo-koo-hoo's hunting party the best for me to join. It consisted, he said, of Oo-koo-hoo and his wife, his daughter, and his son-in-law, Amik--The Beaver--and Amik's five children. The Factor further added that Oo-koo-hoo was not only one of the greatest hunters, and one of the best canoe-men in that district, but in his youth he had been a great traveller, as he had hunted with other Indian tribes, on Hudson Bay, on the Churchill, the Peace, the Athabasca, and the Slave rivers, and even on the far-away Mackenzie; and was a master at the game. His son-in-law, Amik, was his hunting partner. Though Amik would not be home until to-morrow, Oo-koo-hoo and his wife, their daughter and her children were coming that afternoon to get their "advances," as the party contemplated leaving for their hunting grounds on the second day. That I might look them over while they were getting their supplies in the Indian shop, and if I took a fancy to the old gentleman--who by the way was about sixty years of age--the trader would give me an introduction, and I could then make my arrangements with the hunter himself. So after dinner, when word came that they had landed, I left the living room for the Indian shop. In the old days, in certain parts of the country, when the Indians came to the posts to get their "advances" or to barter their winter's catch of fur, the traders had to exercise constant caution to prevent them from looting the establishments. At some of the posts only a few Indians at a time were allowed within the fort, and even then trading was done through a wicket. But that applied only to the Plains Indians and to some of the natives of the Pacific Coast; for the Strong Woods people were remarkably honest. Even to-day this holds good notwithstanding the fact that they are now so much in contact with white men. Nowadays the Indians in any locality rarely cause trouble, and at the trading posts the business of the Indian shops is conducted in a quiet and orderly way. The traders do most of their bartering with the Indians in the early summer when the hunters return laden with the spoils of their winter's hunt. In the early autumn, when the Indians are about to leave for their hunting grounds, much business is done, but little in the way of barter. At that season the Indians procure their outfit for the winter. Being usually insolvent, owing to the leisurely time spent upon the tribal camping grounds, they receive the necessary supplies on credit. The amount of credit, or "advances," given to each Indian seldom exceeds one third of the value of his average annual catch. That is the white man's way of securing, in advance, the bulk of the Indian's prospective hunt; yet, although a few of them are sometimes slow in settling their debts, they are never a match for the civilized white man. When I entered the trading room I saw that it was furnished with a U-shaped counter paralleling three sides of the room, and with a large box-stove in the middle of the intervening space. On the shelves and racks upon the walls and from hooks in the rafters rested or hung a conglomeration of goods to be offered in trade to the natives. There were copper pails and calico dresses, pain-killer bottles and Hudson's Bay blankets, sow-belly and chocolate drops, castor oil and gun worms, frying-pans and ladies' wire bustles, guns and corsets, axes and ribbons, shirts and hunting-knives, perfumes and bear traps. In a way, the Indian shop resembled a department store except that all the departments were jumbled together in a single room. At one post I visited years ago--that of Abitibi--they had a rather progressive addition in the way of a millinery department. It was contained in a large lidless packing case against the side of which stood a long steering paddle for the clerk's use in stirring about the varied assortment of white women's ancient headgear, should a fastidious Indian woman request to see more than the uppermost layer. Already a number of Indians were being served by the Factor and Delaronde, the clerk, and I had not long to wait before Oo-koo-hoo appeared. I surmised at once who he was, for one could see by the merest glance at his remarkably pleasant yet thoroughly clever face, that he was all his name implied, a wise, dignified old gentleman, who was in the habit of observing much more than he gave tongue to--a rare quality in men--especially white men. Even before I heard him speak I liked Oo-koo-hoo--The Owl. [Illustration: I surmised at once who he was, for one could see by the merest glance at his remarkably pleasant yet thoroughly clever face that he was all his name implied, a wise dignified old gentleman, who was in the habit of observing much more than he gave tongue to--a rare quality in men--especially white men. Even before I heard him speak I liked Oo-koo-hoo--The . . . See Chapter I] But before going any farther, I ought to explain that as I am endeavouring to render a faithful description of forest life, I am going to repeat in the next few paragraphs part of what once appeared in one of my fictitious stories of northern life. I then made use of the matter because it was the truth, and for that very reason I am now going to repeat it; also because this transaction as depicted is typical of what usually happens when the Indians try to secure their advances. Furthermore, I give the dialogue in detail, as perchance some reader may feel as Thoreau did, when he said: "It would be some advantage to live a primitive and frontier life, though in the midst of an outward civilization, if only to learn what are the gross necessaries of life and what methods have been taken to obtain them; or even to look over the old day-books of the merchants, to see what it was that men most commonly bought at the stores, what they stored, that is, what are the grossest groceries." But while the following outfit might be considered the Indian's grossest groceries, the articles are not really necessaries at all for him; for, to go to the extreme, a good woodsman can hunt without even gun, axe, knife, or matches, and can live happily, absolutely independent of our civilization. As the Factor was busy with another Indian when the Chief entered--for Oo-koo-hoo was the chief of the Ojibways of that district--he waited patiently, as he would not deign to do business with a clerk. When he saw the trader free, he greeted: "_Quay, quay, Hugemow_!" (Good day, Master). "Gude day, man Oo-koo-hoo, what can I do for ye the day?" amicably responded the Factor. "Master, it is this way. I am about to leave for my hunting grounds; but this time I am going to spend the winter upon a new part of them, where I have not hunted for years, and where game of all kinds will be plentiful. Therefore, I want you to give me liberal advances so that my hunt will not be hindered." "Pegs, Oo-koo-hoo, ma freen', yon's an auld, auld farrant. But ye're well kenn'd for a leal, honest man; an' sae, I'se no be unco haird upon ye." So saying, the Factor made him a present of a couple of pounds of flour, half a pound of pork, half a pound of sugar, a quarter of a pound of tea, a plug of tobacco, and some matches. The Factor's generosity was prompted largely by his desire to keep the Indian in good humour. After a little friendly chaffing, the Factor promised to give the hunter advances to the extent of one hundred "skins." A "skin," or, as it is often called, a "made beaver," is equivalent to one dollar in the Hudson Bay and the Mackenzie River districts, but only fifty cents in the region of the Athabasca. Perhaps it should be explained here that while Oo-koo-hoo could speak broken English, he always preferred to use his own language when addressing the trader, whom he knew to be quite conversant with Ojibway, and so, throughout this book, I have chosen to render the Indian's speech as though it was translated from Ojibway into English, rather than at any time render it in broken English, as the former is not only easier to read, but is more expressive of the natural quality of the Indian's speech. In olden days some of the chiefs who could not speak English at all were, it is claimed, eloquent orators--far outclassing our greatest statesmen. Oo-koo-hoo, having ascertained the amount of his credit, reckoned that he would use about fifty skins in buying traps and ammunition; the rest he would devote to the purchase of necessaries for himself and his party, as his son-in-law had arranged with him to look after his family's wants in his absence. So the old gentleman now asked for the promised skins. He was handed one hundred marked goose quills representing that number of skins. After checking them over in bunches of ten, he entrusted twenty to his eldest grandson, Ne-geek--The Otter--to be held in reserve for ammunition and tobacco, and ten to his eldest granddaughter, Neykia, with which to purchase an outfit for the rest of the party. For a long time Oo-koo-hoo stood immersed in thought. At last his face brightened. He had reached a decision. For years he had coveted a new muzzle-loading gun, and he felt that the time had now arrived to get it. So he picked out one valued at forty skins and paid for it. Then, taking back the quills his grandson held, he bought twenty skins' worth of powder, caps, shot, and bullets. Then he selected for himself a couple of pairs of trousers, one pair made of moleskin and the other of tweed, costing ten skins; two shirts and a suit of underwear, ten skins; half a dozen assorted traps, ten skins. Finding that he had used up all his quills, he drew on those set aside for his wife and son-in-law's family and bought tobacco, five skins; files, one skin; an axe, two skins; a knife, one skin; matches, one half skin; and candy for his youngest grandchild, one half skin. On looking over his acquisitions he discovered that he must have at least ten skins' worth of twine for nets and snares, five skins' worth of tea, one skin worth of soap, one skin worth of needles and thread, as well as a tin pail and a new frying pan. After a good deal of haggling, the Factor threw him that number of quills, and Oo-koo-hoo's manifest contentment somewhat relieved the trader's anxiety. A moment later, however, Oo-koo-hoo was reminded by his wife, Ojistoh, that there was nothing for her, so she determined to interview the Factor herself. She tried to persuade him to give her twenty skins in trade, and promised to pay for them in the spring with rat and ermine skins, or--should those fail her--with her dog, which was worth fully thirty skins. She had been counting on getting some cotton print for a dress, as well as thread and needles, to say nothing of extra tea, which in all would amount to at least thirty-five or forty skins. When, however, the Factor allowed her only ten skins, her disappointment was keen, and she ended by getting a shawl. Then she left the trading room to pay a visit to the Factor's wife, and confide to her the story of her expectations and of her disappointment so movingly that she would get a cup of tea, a word of sympathy, and perhaps even an old petticoat. In the meantime, Oo-koo-hoo was catching it again. He had forgotten his daughter; so after more haggling the trader agreed to advance her ten skins. Her mind had long been made up. She bought a three-point blanket, a small head shawl, and a piece of cotton print. Then the grandsons crowded round and grumbled because there was nothing for them. By this time the trader was beginning to feel that he had done pretty well for the family already; but he kept up the appearance of bluff good humour, and asked: "Well, Oo-koo-hoo, what wad ye be wantin' for the laddies?" "My grandsons are no bunglers, as you know," said the proud old grandsire. "They can each kill at least twenty skins' worth of fur." "Aye, aye!" rejoined the trader. "I shall e'en gi'e them twenty atween them." In the goodness of his heart he offered the boys some advice as to what they should buy: "Ye'll be wantin' to buy traps, I'm jalousin', an' sure ye'll turn oot to be graun' hunters, Nimrods o' the North that men'll mak' sangs aboot i' the comin' years." He cautioned them to choose wisely, because from henceforth they would be personally responsible for everything they bought, and must pay, "skin for skin" (the motto of the Hudson's Bay Company). The boys listened with gloomy civility, and then purchased an assortment of useless trifles such as ribbons, tobacco, buttons, candy, rings, pomatum, perfume, and Jew's harps. The Factor's patience was now nearly exhausted. He picked up his account book, and strode to the door, and held it open as a hint to the Indians to leave. But they pretended to take no notice of his action. The granddaughters, who had been growing more and more anxious lest they should be forgotten, now began to be voluble in complaint. Oo-koo-hoo called the trader aside and explained the trouble. The Factor realized that he was in a corner, and that if he now refused further supplies he would offend the old chief and drive him to sell his best furs to the opposition trader in revenge. He surrendered, and the girls received ten skins between them. At long last everyone was pleased except the unhappy Factor. Gathering his purchases together, Oo-koo-hoo tied up the powder, shot, tea, and sugar in the legs of the trousers; placed the purchases for his wife, daughter, and granddaughters in the shawl, and the rest of the goods in the blanket. Then he made the discovery that he had neither flour nor grease. He could not start without them. The Factor's blood was now almost at the boiling pitch, but he dared not betray his feelings; for the Indian was ready to take offence at the slightest word, so rich and independent did he feel. Angering him now would simply mean adding to the harvest of the opposition trader. He chewed his lower lip in the effort to smother his disgust, and growled out with an angry grin: "Hoots, mon, ye ha'e gotten ower muckle already. It's fair redeeklus. I jist canna gi'e ye onythin' mair ava!" "Ah, but, master, you have forgotten that I am a great hunter. And that my son-in-law is a great hunter, too. This is but the outfit for a lazy man! Besides, the Great Company is rich, and I am poor. If you will be stingy, I shall not trouble you more." Once again the Factor gave way, and handed out the flour and grease. All filed out, and the Factor turned the key in the door. As he walked toward the house, his spirits began to rise, and he clapped the old Indian on the back good-naturedly. Presently Oo-koo-hoo halted in his tracks. He had forgotten something: he had nothing in case of sickness. "Master, you know my voyage is long; my work is hard; the winter is severe. I am not very strong now: I may fall ill. My wife--she is not very strong--may fall ill also. My son-in-law is not very strong: he may fall ill too. My daughter is not. . . ." "De'il ha'e ye!" roared the Factor, "what is't the noo?" "Never mind, it will do to-morrow," muttered the hunter with an offended air. "As I'm a leevin' sinner, it's noo or it's nivver," insisted the Factor, who had no desire to let the Indian have another day at it. "Come back this verra minnit, an' I'll gi'e ye a wheen poothers an' sic like, that'll keep ye a' hale and hearty, I houp, till ye win hame again." The Factor took him back and gave him some salts, peppermint, pain-killer, and sticking-plaster to offset all the ills that might befall him and his party during the next ten months. Once more they started for the house. The Factor was ready to put up with anything as long as he could get them away from the store. Oo-koo-hoo now told the trader not to charge anything against his wife as he would settle her account himself, and that as Amik would be back in the morning, he, too, would want his advances, and if they had forgotten anything, Amik could get it next day. The Factor scowled again, but it was too late. While the Indians lounged around the kitchen and talked to the Factor's wife and the half-breed servant girl, the Factor went to his office and made out Oo-koo-hoo's bill, which read: Fort Consolation 18 September 189- Dr. Advances to Oo-koo-hoo and family XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX1111--164 M.B. Hudson's Bay Company per Donald Mackenzie, Factor [Illustration: Oo-koo-hoo's bill.] The Indian now told the trader that he wanted him to send the "Fur Runners" to him with supplies in ten weeks' time; and that he must have a "geese-wark," or measure of days, in order to know exactly when the Fur Runners would arrive at his camp. So the Factor made out the following calendar: Fort Consolation 18 September 189- LNE 1111X111111X1 NRU 11111X111111X111111X111111X1111 NVER 11X111111X111111X111111X111111 Hudson's Bay Company per Donald Mackenzie, Factor [Illustration: Oo-koo-hoo's calendar.] The above characters to the left are syllabic--a method of writing taught to the Indians by the missionaries. They spell the words September, October, and November. The 1's represent week days, and the X's Sundays. The calendar begins with the 18th of September, and the crescent marks the 29th of November, the date of the arrival of the Fur Runners. The Indian would keep track of the days by pricking a pin hole every day above the proper figure. Presently the Factor and I were alone for a few moments and he growled: "Whit d'ye think o' the auld de'il?" "Fine, I'll go with him, if he will take me." So I had a talk with the old Indian, and when he learned that I had no intention of killing game, but merely wanted to accompany him and his son-in-law on their hunts, he consented and we came to terms. I was to be ready to start early on the morning of the 20th. Then Oo-koo-hoo turned to the trader and said: "Master, it is getting late and it will be later when I reach my lodge. I am hungry now, and I shall be hungrier still when I get home. I am growing . . ." "Aye, aye, ma birkie," interrupted the Factor, "I un'erstaun' fine." He bestowed upon the confident petitioner a further gratuity of flour, tea, sugar, and tallow, a clay pipe, a plug of tobacco and some matches, so as to save him from having to break in upon his winter supplies before he started upon his journey to the hunting grounds. Oo-koo-hoo solemnly expressed his gratitude: "Master, my heart is pleased. You are my father. I shall now hunt well, and you shall have all my fur." To show his appreciation of the compliment, the Factor gave him an old shirt, and wished him good luck. In the meantime, Oo-koo-hoo's wife had succeeded in obtaining from the Factor's wife old clothes for her grandchildren, needles and thread, and some food. Just as they got ready to go, the younger woman, Amik's wife, remembered that the baby had brought a duck as a present for the Factor's children so they had to give a present in return, worth at least twice as much as the duck. The Factor and his family were by this time sufficiently weary. Right willingly did they go down to the landing to see the Indians off. No sooner had these taken their places in the canoes and paddled a few strokes away than the grandmother remembered that she had a present for the Factor and his wife. All paddled back again, and the Factor and his wife were each presented with a pair of moccasins. No, she would not take anything in return, at least, not just now. To-morrow, perhaps, when they came to say good-bye. "Losh me! I thocht they were aff an' gane," exclaimed the trader as he turned and strode up the beach. I inwardly laughed, for any man--red, white, black, or yellow--who could make such a hard-headed old Scotsman as Donald Mackenzie loosen up, was certainly clever; and the way old Oo-koo-hoo made off with such a lot of supplies proved him more than a match for the trader. THE BEST FUR DISTRICTS While we were at supper a perfect roar of gun shots ran around the bay and on our rushing to the doorway we saw the Inspector's big canoe coming. Up went the flag and more gun shots followed. Then we went down to the landing to meet Inspecting Chief Factor Bell. After supper the newcomer and the Factor and I sat before the fire and discussed the fur trade. I liked to listen to the old trader, but the Inspector, being the greater traveller of the two, covering every year on the rounds of his regular work thousands upon thousands of miles, was the more interesting talker. Presently, when the subject turned to the distribution of the fur-bearing animals, Mr. Bell took a case from his bag and opening it, spread it out before us upon the Factor's desk. It was a map of the Dominion of Canada, on which the names of the principal posts of the Hudson's Bay Company were printed in red. Across it many irregular lines were drawn in different-coloured inks, and upon its margins were many written notes. "This map, as you see," remarked the Inspector, "defines approximately the distribution of the fur-bearing animals of Canada, and I'll wager that you have never seen another like it; for if it were not for the records of the Hudson's Bay Company, no such map could have been compiled. How did I manage it? Well, to begin with, you must understand that the Indians invariably trade their winter's catch of fur at the trading post nearest their hunting grounds; so when the annual returns of all the posts are sent in to the Company's headquarters, those returns accurately define the distribution of the fur-bearing animals for that year. These irregular lines across the map were drawn after an examination of the annual returns from all the posts for the last forty years. Publish it? No, siree, that would never do!" But the Inspector's remarks did not end the subject, as we began discussing the greatest breeding grounds of the various fur-bearers, and Mr. Bell presently continued: "The greatest centre for coloured foxes is near Salt River, which flows into Slave River at Fort Smith. There, too, most of the black foxes and silver foxes are trapped. The great otter and fisher centre is around Trout Lake, Island Lake, Sandy Lake, and God's Lake. Otter taken north of Lake Superior are found to be fully one third larger than those killed in any other region. Black bears and brown bears are most frequently to be met with between Fort Pelly and Portage La Loche. Cumberland House is the centre of the greatest breeding grounds for muskrat, mink, and ermine. Manitoba House is another great district for muskrat. Lynxes are found in greatest numbers in the Iroquois Valley, in the foothills on the eastern side of the Rockies. Coyote skins come chiefly from the district between Calgary and Qu'Appelle for a hundred miles both north and south. Skunks are most plentiful just south of Green Lake; formerly, they lived on the plains, but of late they have moved northward into the woods. Wolverines frequent most the timber country just south of the Barren Grounds, where they are often found travelling in bands. The home of the porcupine lies just north of Isle a la Crosse. Forty years ago the breeding grounds of the beaver were on the eastern side of the Rockies. Nowadays that region is hardly worth considering as a trapping ground for them. They have been steadily migrating eastward along the Churchill River, then by way of Cross Lake, Fort Hope, to Abitibi, thence north-easterly clean across the country to Labrador, where few were to be found twenty-five years ago. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying that beaver were not found in those parts years ago, but what I mean is that the source of the greatest harvest of beaver skins has moved steadily eastward during the last forty years. Strange to say, the finest marten skins secured in Canada are not those of the extreme northern limit, but those taken on the Parsnip River in British Columbia." WANTED, A SON-IN-LAW Next morning I busied myself making a few additions to my outfit for the winter. Then I borrowed a two-and-a-half fathom canoe and paddled across the lake to Spearhead. The town I had heard so much about from the Free Trader was just a little clearing of about three acres on the edge of the forest; in fact, it was really just a stump lot with a small one-and-a-half story log house standing in the middle. Where there was a rise in the field, a small log stable was set half underground, and upon its roof was stacked the winter's supply of hay for a team of horses, a cow, and a heifer. At the front door Mr. and Mrs. Spear welcomed me. My hostess was a prepossessing Canadian woman of fair education, in fact, she had been a stenographer. On entering the house I found the trading room on the right of a tiny hall, on the left was the living room, which was also used to eat in, and the kitchen was, of course, in the rear. After being entertained for ten or fifteen minutes by my host and hostess, I heard light steps descending the stairs, and the next moment I beheld a charming girl. She was their only child. They called her Athabasca, after the beautiful lake of that name. She was sixteen years of age, tall, slender, and graceful, a brunette with large, soft eyes and long, flowing, wavy hair. She wore a simple little print dress that was becomingly short in the skirt, a pair of black stockings, and low, beaded moccasins. I admired her appearance, but regretted her shyness, for she was almost as bashful as I was. She bowed and blushed--so did I--and while her parents talked to me she sat demurely silent on the sofa. Occasionally, I caught from her with pleasant embarrassment a shy but fleeting glance. Presently, dinner was announced by a half-breed maid, and we four took our places at the table, Athabasca opposite me. At first the talk was lively, though only three shared in it. Then, as the third seemed rather more interested in his silent partner, he would from time to time lose the thread of the discourse. By degrees the conversation died down into silence. A few minutes later Mrs. Spear suddenly remarked: "Father . . . don't you think it would be a good thing if you took son-in-law into partnership?" Father leaned back, scratched his head for a while, and then replied: "Yes, Mother, I do, and I'll do it." The silent though beautiful Athabasca, without even raising her eyes from her plate, blushed violently, and needless to say, I blushed, too, but, of course, only out of sympathy. "The horses are too busy, just now, to haul the logs, but of course the young people could have our spare room until I could build them a log shack." "Father, that's a capital idea. So there's no occasion for any delay whatever. Then, when their house is finished, we could spare them a bed, a table, a couple of chairs, and give them a new cooking stove." Athabasca blushed deeper than ever, and studied her plate all the harder, and I began to show interest and prick up my ears, for I wondered who on earth son-in-law could be? I knew perfectly well there was no young white man in all that region, and that even if he lived in the nearest frontier town, it would take him, either by canoe or on snowshoes, at least two weeks to make the round trip to Spearhead, just to call on her. I couldn't fathom it at all. "Besides, Mother, we might give them the heifer, as a starter, for she will be ready to milk in the spring. Then, too, we might give them a few ducks and geese and perhaps a pig." "Excellent idea, Father; besides, I think I could spare enough cutlery, dishes, and cooking utensils to help out for a while." "And I could lend them some blankets from the store," the trader returned. But at that moment Athabasca miscalculated the distance to her mouth and dropped a bit of potato on the floor, and when she stooped to recover it, I caught a glance from the corner of her eye. It was one of those indescribable glances that girls give. I remember it made me perspire all over. Queer, isn't it, the way women sometimes affect one? I would have blushed more deeply, but by that time there was no possible chance of my face becoming any redder, notwithstanding the fact that I was a red-head. Ponder as I would, I couldn't fathom the mystery . . . who Son-in-law could be . . . though I had already begun to think him a lucky fellow--quite one to be envied. Then Mrs. Spear exclaimed, as we rose from the table: "Good! . . . Then that's settled . . . you'll take him into partnership, and I'm glad, for I like him, and I think he'll make an excellent trader." Our getting away from the table rather relieved me, as I was dripping perspiration, and I wanted to fairly mop my face--of course, when they weren't looking. Together they showed me over the establishment: the spare bedroom, the trading shop, the stable, the heifer, the ducks and geese, and even the pig--though it puzzled me why they singled out the very one they intended giving Son-in-law. The silent though beautiful Athabasca followed a few feet behind as we went the rounds, and inspected the wealth that was to be bestowed upon her lover. I was growing more inquisitive than ever as to who Son-in-law might be. Indeed, I felt like asking, but was really too shy, and besides, when I thought it over, I concluded it was none of my business. When the time came for me to return to the Hudson's Bay Post, I shook hands with them all--Athabasca had nice hands and a good grip, too. Her parents gave me a pressing invitation to visit them again for a few days at New Year's, when everyone in the country would be going to the great winter festival that was always held at Fort Consolation. As I paddled away I mused: "By George, Son-in-law is certainly a lucky dog, for Athabasca's a peach . . . but I don't see how in thunder her lover ever gets a chance to call." LEAVING FORT CONSOLATION I was up early next morning and as I wished to see how Oo-koo-hoo and his party would pack up and board their canoes, I walked round the bay to the Indian village. After a hasty breakfast, the women pulled down the lodge coverings of sheets of birch bark and rolling them up placed them upon the _star-chi-gan_--the stage--along with other things which they intended leaving behind. The lodge poles were left standing in readiness for their return next summer, and it wasn't long before all their worldly goods--save their skin tepees and most of their traps, which had been left on their last winter's hunting grounds--were placed aboard their three canoes, and off they paddled to the Post, to say good-bye, while Amik secured his advances. Just think of it, all you housekeepers--no gold plate or silverware to send to the vault, no bric-a-brac to pack, no furniture to cover, no bedding to put away, no rugs or furs or clothes to send to cold storage, no servants to wrangle with or discharge, no plumbers to swear over, no janitors to cuss at, no, not even any housecleaning to do before you depart--just move and nothing more. Just dump a little outfit into a canoe and then paddle away from all your tiresome environment, and travel wherever your heart dictates, and then settle down where not even an exasperating neighbour could find you. What would you give to live such a peaceful life? "As I understand it," says Thoreau, "that was a valid objection urged by Momus against the house which Minerva made, that she had not made it movable, by which means a bad neighbourhood might be avoided; and it may still be urged, for our houses are such unwieldy property that we are often imprisoned rather than housed in them; and the bad neighbourhood to be avoided is our own scurvy selves." On their arrival, Amik at once set about getting his advances. He was a stalwart, athletic-looking man of about thirty-five, but not the equal of his father-in-law in character. Oo-koo-hoo now told the Factor just where he intended to hunt, what fur he expected to get, and how the fur runners could best find his camp. As the price of fur had risen, the Factor told him what price he expected to pay. If, however, the price had dropped, the Factor would not have informed the hunter until his return next year. During the course of the conversation, the old hunter begged the loan of a second-hand gun and some traps for the use of his grandsons; and the Factor granted his request. In the meantime, the women called upon the clergyman and the priest and the nuns to wish them farewell, and incidentally to do a little more begging. As they were not ready to go by noon, the Factor's wife spread a cloth upon the kitchen floor, and placed upon it some food for the party. After lunch they actually made ready to depart, and everybody came down to the landing to see us off. As the children and dogs scrambled aboard the canoes, the older woman remembered that she had not been paid for her gift of moccasins, and so another delay took place while the Factor selected a suitable present. It is always thus. Then, at last, the canoes push off. Amid the waving of hands, the shouting of farewells, and the shedding of a few tears even, the simple natives of the wilderness paddled away over the silent lake en route for their distant hunting grounds. Thither the reader must follow, and there, amid the fastnesses of the Great Northern Forest, he must spend the winter if he would see the Indian at his best. There he is a beggar no longer. There, escaped from the civilization which the white man is ever forcing upon the red--a civilization which rarely fails to make a degenerate of him--he proves his manhood. There, contrary to the popular idea, he will be found to be a diligent and skilful worker and an affectionate husband and father. There, given health and game, no toil and no hardship will hinder him from procuring fur enough to pay off his indebtedness, and to lay up in store twice as much again with which to engage next spring in the delightful battle of wits between white man and red in the Great Company's trading room. II IN QUEST OF TREASURE THE PERFECT FOOL It was an ideal day and the season and the country were in keeping. Soon the trading posts faded from view, and when, after trolling around Fishing Point, we entered White River and went ashore for an early supper, everyone was smiling. I revelled over the prospect of work, freedom, contentment, and beauty before me; and over the thought of leaving behind me the last vestige of the white man's ugly, hypercritical, and oppressive civilization. Was it any wonder I was happy? For me it was but the beginning of a never-to-be-forgotten journey in a land where man can be a man without the aid of money. Yes . . . without money. And that reminds me of a white man I knew who was born and bred in the Great Northern Forest, and who supported and educated a family of twelve, and yet he reached his sixtieth birthday without once having handled or ever having seen money. He was as generous, as refined, and as noble a man as one would desire to know; yet when he visited civilization for the first time--in his sixty-first year--he was reviled because he had a smile for all, he was swindled because he knew no guile, he was robbed because he trusted everyone, and he was arrested because he manifested brotherly love toward his fellow-creatures. Our vaunted civilization! It was the regret of his declining years that circumstances prevented him from leaving the enlightened Christians of the cities, and going back to live in peace among the honest, kindly hearted barbarians of the forest. Soon there were salmon-trout--fried to a golden brown--crisp bannock, and tea for all; then a little re-adjusting of the packs, and we were again at the paddles. Oo-koo-hoo's wife, Ojistoh, along with her second granddaughter and her two grandsons, occupied one of the three-and-a-half fathom canoes; Amik, and his wife, Naudin, with her baby and eldest daughter, occupied the other; and Oo-koo-hoo and I paddled together in the two-and-a-half fathom canoe. One of the five dogs--Oo-koo-hoo's best hunter--travelled with us, while the other four took passage in the other canoes. Although the going was now up stream--the same river by which I had come--we made fair speed until Island Lake stretched before us, when we felt a southwest wind that threatened trouble; but by making a long detour about the bays of the southwestern shore the danger vanished. Arriving at the foot of the portage trail at Bear Rock Rapids, we carried our outfit to a cliff above, which afforded an excellent camping ground; and there arose the smoke of our evening fire. The cloudless sky giving no sign of rain, we contented ourselves with laying mattresses of balsam brush upon which to sleep. While the sunset glow still filled the western sky, we heard a man's voice shouting above the roar of the rapids, and on going to the brink, saw a "York boat" in the act of shooting the cataract. It was one of the boats of "The Goods Brigade" transporting supplies for the northern posts of the Hudson's Bay Company. As the craft measured forty feet in length and was manned by eight men, it was capable of carrying about seventy packs, each weighing about a hundred pounds. But of these boat brigades--more in due season. [Illustration: Going to the brink, saw a "York boat" in the act of shooting the cataract. It was one of the boats of "The Goods Brigade" transporting supplies for the northern posts of the Hudson's Bay Company. As the craft measured forty feet in length and was manned by eight men, it was capable of carrying about seventy packs, each weighing about a hundred pounds. But of these boat brigades . . . See Chapter II.] After supper, when twilight was deepening, and tobacco--in the smoking of which the women conscientiously joined--was freely forthcoming, the subject of conversation turned to woodcraft. Since it fell to Oo-koo-hoo, as the principal hunter, to keep the party supplied with game while en route, I was wondering what he would do in case he saw a bear and went ashore to trail it. Would he himself skin and cut up the bear, or would he want the women to help him? If the latter, what sign or signal would he use so that they might keep in touch with him? But when I questioned Oo-koo-hoo, he replied: "My white son"--for that is what he sometimes called me--"I see you are just like all white men, but if you are observant and listen to those who are wiser than you, you may some day rank almost the equal of an Indian." Afterward, when I became better acquainted with him, I learned that with regard to white men in general, he held the same opinion that all Indians do, and that is, that they are perfect fools. When I agreed with the old gentleman, and assured him he was absolutely right, and that the biggest fool I ever knew was the one who was talking to him, he laughed outright, and replied that now he knew that I was quite different from most white men, and that he believed some day I would be the equal of an Indian. When I first heard his opinion of white men, I regarded him as a pretty sane man, but afterward, when I tried to get him to include not only his brother Indians, but also himself under the same definition, I could not get him to agree with me, therefore I was disappointed in him. He was not the philosopher I had at first taken him to be; for life has taught me that all men are fools--of one kind or another. OO-KOO-HOO'S WOODCRAFT But to return to woodcraft. Emerson says: "Men are naturally hunters and inquisitive of woodcraft, and I suppose that such a gazetteer as wood-cutters and Indians should furnish facts for would take place in the most sumptuous drawing rooms of all the 'Wreaths' and 'Flora's Chaplets' of the bookshops" and believing that to be true, I shall therefore tell you not only how my Indian friends managed to keep their bearings while travelling without a compass, but how, without the aid of writing, they continued to leave various messages for their companions. When I asked Oo-koo-hoo how he would signal, in case he went ashore to trail game--when the other canoes were out of sight behind him--and he should want someone to follow him to help carry back the meat, he replied that he would cut a small bushy-topped sapling and plant it upright in the river near his landing place on the shore. That, he said, would signify that he wished his party to go ashore and camp on the first good camping ground; while, at the same time, it would warn them not to kindle a fire until they had first examined the tracks to make sure whether the smoke would frighten the game. Then someone would follow his trail to render him assistance, providing they saw that he had blazed a tree. If he did not want them to follow him, he would shove two sticks into the ground so that they would slant across the trail in the form of an X, but if he wanted them to follow he would blaze a tree. If he wanted them to hurry, he would blaze the same tree twice. If he wanted them to follow as fast as they could with caution, he would blaze the same tree three times, but if he desired them to abandon all caution and to follow with all speed, he would cut a long blaze and tear it off. Then, again, if he were leaving the game trail to circle his quarry, and if he wished them to follow his tracks instead of those of the game, he would cut a long blaze on one tree and a small one on another tree, which would signify that he had left the game trail at a point between the two trees and that they were to follow his tracks instead of those of the game. But if he wished them to stop and come no farther, he would drop some article of his clothing on the trail. Should, however, the game trail happen to cross a muskeg where there were no trees to blaze, he would place moss upon the bushes to answer instead of blazes, and in case the ground was hard and left an invisible trail, he would cut a stick and shoving the small end into the trail, would slant the butt in the direction he had gone. If traversing water where there were no saplings at hand, and he wished to let his followers know where he had left the water to cross a muskeg, he would try to secure a pole, which he would leave standing in the water, with grass protruding from the split upper end, and the pole slanting to show in which direction he had gone. If, on the arrival at the fork of a river, he wished to let his followers know up which fork he had paddled--say, for instance, if it were the right one--he would shove a long stick into either bank of the left fork in such a way that it would point straight across the channel of the left fork, to signify, as it were, that the channel was blocked. Then, a little farther up the right fork, he would plant a sapling or pole in the water, slanting in the direction he had gone--to prove to the follower that he was now on the right trail. Oo-koo-hoo further explained that if he were about to cross a lake and he wished to let his follower know the exact point upon which he intended to land, he would cut two poles, placing the larger nearest the woods and the smaller nearest the water, both in an upright position and in an exact line with the point to which he was going to head, so that the follower by taking sight from one pole to the other would learn the exact spot on the other shore where he should land--even though it were several miles away. But if he were not sure just where he intended to land, he would cut a willow branch and twist it into the form of a hoop and hang it upon the smaller pole--that would signify that he might land at any point of the surrounding shore of the lake. If he wanted to signal his family to camp at any particular point along his trail, he would leave some article of his clothing and place near it a number of sticks standing in the form of the poles of a lodge, thus suggesting to them that they should erect their tepee upon that spot. If he had wounded big game and expected soon to overtake and kill it, and if he wanted help to carry back the meat, he would blaze a tree and upon that smooth surface would make a sketch, either with knife or charcoal, of the animal he was pursuing. If a full day had elapsed since the placing of crossed sticks over the trail, the follower would abandon all caution and follow at top speed, as he would realize that some misfortune had befallen the hunter. The second man, or follower, however, never blazes trees as he trails the first hunter, but simply breaks off twigs or bends branches in the direction in which he is going, so that should it be necessary that a third man should also follow, he could readily distinguish the difference between the two trails. If a hunter wishes to leave a good trail over a treeless district, he, as far as possible, chooses soft ground and treads upon his heels. When a hunter is trailing an animal, he avoids stepping upon the animal's trail, so that should it be necessary for him to go back and re-trail his quarry, the animal's tracks shall not be obliterated. If, in circling about his quarry, the hunter should happen to cut his own trail, he takes great care to cut it at right angles, so that, should he have to circle several times, he may never be at a loss to know which was his original trail. If the hunter should wish to leave a danger signal behind him, he will take two saplings, one from either side of the trail, and twist them together in such a way that they shall block the passage of the follower, requiring him to pause in order to disentangle them or to pass around them; and if the hunter were to repeat such a signal two or three times, it would signify that the follower should use great caution and circle down wind in order to still-hunt the hunter's trail in exactly the same way he would still-hunt a moose. Then, again, if the hunter should wish to let the follower know the exact time of day he had passed a certain spot, he would draw on the earth or snow a bow with an arrow placed at right angles to the bow, but pointing straight in the direction where the sun had been at that precise moment. THE BEAR'S DEDUCTION Owing to their knowledge of wood-craft some Indians are very clever at deduction. On Great Slave Lake near Fort Rae an Indian cripple, named Simpson's Brother, had joined a party of canoe-men for the purpose of hunting eggs. After paddling toward a group of islands, the party separated, finally landing on different isles. They had agreed, however, to meet at sunset on a certain island and there eat and sleep together. While at work several of the Indians saw Simpson's Brother alone on a little rocky islet, busily engaged in gathering eggs. Toward evening, the party met at their rendezvous and took supper together, but strange to say, Simpson's Brother did not appear. After smoking and talking for a while, some grew anxious about the cripple. The Bear began to fear lest some mishap had befallen him; but The Caribou scoffed at the idea: he was sure that Simpson's Brother was still working and that he would soon return with more eggs than any of them. The Bear, however, thought they ought to search for him, as his canoe might have drifted away. But The Mink replied that if anything like that had happened, the cripple would certainly have fired his gun. "But how could he fire his gun if his canoe had drifted away?" asked The Bear, "for would not his gun be in his canoe?" So they all paddled off to investigate the mystery. On nearing the island, they saw the Brother's canoe adrift. When they overhauled it, sure enough his gun was aboard. They then landed on the little isle where the cripple had been at work and began calling aloud for him. As they received no answer, some of the Indians claimed that he must be asleep. The Bear replied that if he was asleep their shouting would have awakened him and he would have answered, but that now they had best search the island. So they divided into two parties and searched the shore in different directions until they finally met on the other side, then they scattered and examined every nook and corner of the place--but all in vain. Some now contended that the others were mistaken, and that that could not be the island on which the Brother had been working; but The Bear--though he had not seen the cripple there--insisted that it was. They asked him to prove it. "The wind has been blowing steadily from the north," replied The Bear, "the other islands are all south of this one, and you know that we found his canoe adrift south of here and north of all the other islands. That is sufficient proof." Then he added: "The reason Simpson's Brother did not answer is because he is not on the island, but in the water." Again they all clamoured for proof and The Bear answered: "But first I must find where he landed, and the quickest way to find that place is to remember that the wind was blowing too strong for him to land on the north shore, and that the running swells were too strong for him to land on either the east or west sides, therefore he landed on the south side--the sheltered side. Now let us go and see where he drew up his canoe." But one of the others argued that that would be impossible as Simpson's Brother was not such a fool as to act like a white man and drag his canoe over the rocks. The Bear, however, persisted that there would be some sign, at least where the bow touched shore when the cripple got out, and that he, The Bear, would go and find it. But first he would go and examine the nests to learn from which of them the cripple had removed the eggs. Thus they would learn where he had been working; and the finding of the landing place would be made easier. So The Bear set to work. From the empty nests he soon learned where the cripple had been working, and after a careful search he presently found on a big rock a little white spot no larger than a man's finger nail. "There, my friends, is where Simpson's Brother landed, for that white mark is of gum and proves where the bow of the canoe bumped the rock." They then asked The Bear where he thought the cripple was, and pointing, he replied: "If we search long enough we shall find him in the deep water down there; for when Simpson's Brother was getting aboard his canoe, he slipped and in falling struck his head upon the rock; the blow stunned him, and without a struggle he slid into the water, and was drowned." When they had brought their canoes round and had peered into the deep water, true enough, they discovered the body on the bottom of the lake. Securing a long pole, they fastened a gun worm to one end and, reaching down, twisted it into the cripple's clothing and brought the body to the surface. Sadly they placed it in the unfortunate man's canoe, towed the craft and its burden to the other island, and sent to Fort Rae for the priest, Father Roure, to come and perform the burial service. BEASTS WITH HUMAN SOULS Next morning we arose with dawn. After a hearty breakfast of fish--taken from the gill-net that had been set overnight below the rapid--the work of portaging round the rapids was begun and by about ten o'clock was finished. Noon overtook us near the mouth of Caribou River, up which we were to ascend on the first half of our journey to Oo-koo-hoo's hunting grounds. About two o'clock we entered that stream and headed westerly toward a spur of mountains that lay about a week's travel away and through which we had to pass to gain our winter camping ground. An hour later, as Oo-koo-hoo and I preceded the party, paddling up one of the channels caused by a number of large islands dividing the river into mere creeks, we chanced upon a woodland caribou bull, as it stood among the rushes in a marshy bend watching us from a distance of not more than forty yards. As I crouched down to be out of the hunter's way, I heard him say: "I'm sorry, my brother, but we need you for both food and clothing, so turn your eyes away before I fire." The next moment the woods echoed the report of his smooth-bore muzzle-loader--the kind of gun used by about 90 per cent. of the fur hunters of the forest. Why? Because of the simplicity of its ammunition. Such a gun never requires a variety of cumbersome shells for different kinds of game, but with varying charges of powder and shot or ball, is ready for anything from a rat or duck to a bear or moose. Before bleeding the deer, Oo-koo-hoo did a curious thing: with his sharp knife he destroyed the deer's eyes. When I questioned him as to his purpose he replied: "As long as the eyes remain perfect, the spirit remains within the head, and I could not bear to skin the deer with its spirit looking at me." Though Oo-koo-hoo was in many ways a wise old man, he held some beliefs that were past my understanding, and others that, when I tried to analyze them, seemed to be founded on the working of a sensitive conscience. Hearing the report of the gun, the others hurried to the scene. While the deer was being bled the old grandmother caught the blood in a pail--into which she threw a pinch of salt to clot the blood--as she wished to use it for the making of a blood pudding. Then the carcass was loaded aboard Oo-koo-hoo's canoe, rather, indeed, overloading it. Accordingly, I accepted Amik's invitation to board his craft, and at the first good place we all went ashore to clear the ground for the night's camp. There was a porcupine there, and though it moved but slowly away, my friends did not kill it, for they had plenty to eat, and did not want to be bothered with taking care of those dangerous little quills that the women dye and use to such good advantage in their fancy work. As to the Indian method of dressing meat and skins--more anon, when we are finally settled upon the fur trail. That evening, while flames were leaping after ascending sparks, and shadows were dancing behind us among the trees, we lounged about the fire on packs and blankets and discussed the events of the day. When I asked Oo-koo-hoo why he had addressed the deer in such a manner, he replied that it was the proper and regular way to speak to an animal, because every creature in the forest, whether beast, bird, or fish, contained the spirit of some former human being. He further explained that whenever the men of the olden time killed an unusually large animal with an extra fine coat, they did not save the skin to sell to the trader, but burnt the carcass, pelt and all, and in that way they returned the body to the spirit again. Thus they not only paid homage to the spirit, but proved themselves unselfish men. He went on to say that from the time of the Great, Great Long Ago, the Indian had always believed--as he did to-day--that every bull moose contained the spirit of a famous Indian chief, that every caribou bull contained the spirit of a lesser chief, and so on down through the whole of the animal creation. Bears, however, or rather the spirits animating them, possessed the greatest power to render good or evil, and for that reason the hunter usually took the greatest care to address Bruin properly before he slew him. It is no wonder that the Indians still retain such ideas when, as Lord Avebury says: "We do not now, most of us, believe that animals have souls, and yet probably the majority of mankind from Buddha to Wesley and Kingsley have done so." Another thing Oo-koo-hoo told me was that out of respect to the dignified spirit possessed by the bull moose, women were never allowed to eat of the head, nor was a moose head to be placed upon a sled upon which a woman had ever sat; for if that were done, bad luck would follow the hunter to the end of his days. He knew of a hunter who on one occasion had been guilty of that irreverence; afterward, whenever that hunter would see a moose, the moose--instead of trying to escape--would indifferently bark at him, and even follow him back close to camp; and when that hunter would go out again, other moose would do the very same thing. Moreover, the hunter was afraid to kill any moose that acted that way, for he well knew that the animal was simply warning him of some great danger that was surely going to befall him. So, in the end, the hunter fretted himself to death. Therefore every hunter should take great care to burn all the bones of a moose's head and never on any account allow a woman to eat thereof or to feed it to the dogs. In burning the head, the hunter was merely paying the homage due to so noble a creature. Again, a hunter might find that though he had formerly been a good moose hunter, and had always observed every custom, yet he now utterly failed to secure a moose at all. He might come upon plenty of tracks, but the moose would always escape, and prove the efforts of an experienced moose hunter of no more avail than those of a greenhorn. In such a case, there was but one thing to do, and that was to secure the whole skin--head, legs, and all--of a fawn, stuff it into its natural shape, set it up in the woods, wait till the new moon was in the first crescent, and then, just after sundown, engage a young girl to shoot five arrows at it from the regular hunting distance. If she missed, it was proof that the spirit had rejected the girl, and that another would have to be secured to do the shooting. If success were then attained, the hunter might go upon his hunt, well knowing he would soon be rewarded by bringing down a moose. Of course such ideas seem strange to us, but, after all, are we in a position to ridicule the Indians' belief? I think not, if we but recall the weird ideas our ancestors held. The Indian, like the white man, has many superstitions, some ugly, and some beautiful, and of the latter class, I quote one: he believes that the spirits of still-born children or very young infants take flight, when they die, and enter the bodies of birds. A delightful thought--especially for the mother. For as Kingsley says of St. Francis, "perfectly sure that he himself was a spiritual being, he thought it at least possible that birds might be spiritual beings likewise, incarnate like himself in mortal flesh; and saw no degradation to the dignity of human nature in claiming kindred lovingly, with creatures so beautiful, so wonderful, who praised God in the forest, even as angels did in heaven." The forest Indian, however, is not content with merely stating that the spirits of infants enter birds; but he goes on to say that while the spirits of Indian children always enter the beings of the finest singers and the most beautiful of all the birds, the spirits of the children of white people enter the bodies of stupid, ugly birds that just squawk around, and are neither interesting to look at nor pleasant to listen to, but are quarrelsome, and thievish. When I asked Oo-koo-hoo to name a few birds into which the spirits of white children entered, he mentioned, among others, the woodpecker--which the Indians consider to have, proportionately, the longest and sharpest tongue of all birds. That reminds me of the reply I received from one of the characters in this book, when I wrote him, among others, requesting that he grant me permission to make use of his name, in order to add authority to my text. Like others, he begged me to refrain from quoting his name, as he was afraid that the information he had given me might be the cause of the Hudson's Bay Company stopping his pension. I had suggested that he refer the matter to his wife as she, too, figures in this story, and the following is part of his reply: "This being an affair between you and I--I have not consulted my wife. For as you know, the human female tongue is very similar to that of the female woodpecker: unusually long, and much too pointed to be of any use." THE HONESTY OF INDIANS But to return to the Indian's reproach of the white man's dishonesty; when he states that the spirits of white children enter only those birds that are counted great thieves, one cannot wonder at it, for as far as honesty is concerned, a comparison between the forest Indian and the white man brands the latter as a thief. Not only is that the private opinion of all the old fur traders I have met, but I could quote many other authorities; let two, however, suffice: Charles Mair, the author of "Tecumseh," and a member of the Indian Treaty Expedition of 1899, says: "The writer, and doubtless some of his readers, can recall the time when to go to 'Peace River' seemed almost like going to another sphere, where, it was conjectured, life was lived very differently from that of civilized man. And, truly, it was to enter into an unfamiliar state of things; a region in which a primitive people, not without fault or depravities, lived on Nature's food, and throve on her unfailing harvest of fur. A region in which they often left their beaver, silver fox, or marten packs--the envy of Fashion--lying by the dog-trail, or hanging to some sheltering tree, because no one stole, and took their fellow's word without question, because no one lied. A very simple folk indeed, in whose language profanity was unknown, and who had no desire to leave their congenital solitudes for any other spot on earth: solitudes which so charmed the educated minds who brought the white man's religion, or traffic, to their doors, that, like the Lotus-eaters, they, too, felt little craving to depart. Yet they were not regions of sloth or idleness, but of necessary toil; of the laborious chase and the endless activities of aboriginal life: the regions of a people familiar with its fauna and flora--of skilled but unconscious naturalists, who knew no science . . . But theft such as white men practice was a puzzle to these people, amongst whom it was unknown." Another example worth quoting is taken from Sir William Butler's "The Wild North Land": "The 'Moose That Walks' arrived at Hudson's Hope early in the spring. He was sorely in want of gunpowder and shot, for it was the season when the beaver leave their winter houses and when it is easy to shoot them. So he carried his thirty martens' skins to the fort, to barter them for shot, powder, and tobacco. "There was no person at the Hope. The dwelling-house was closed, the store shut up, the man in charge had not yet come up from St. John's; now what was to be done? Inside that wooden house lay piles and piles of all that the 'Moose that Walks' most needed. There was a whole keg of powder; there were bags of shot, and tobacco--there was as much as the Moose could smoke in his whole life. "Through a rent in the parchment window the Moose looked at all those wonderful things, and at the red flannel shirts, and at the four flint guns and the spotted cotton handerchiefs, each worth a sable skin at one end of the fur trade, half a six-pence at the other. There was tea, too--tea, that magic medicine before which life's cares vanished like snow in spring sunshine. "The Moose sat down to think about all these things, but thinking only made matters worse. He was short of ammunition, therefore he had no food, and to think of food when one is very hungry is an unsatisfactory business. It is true that the Moose that Walks had only to walk in through that parchment window and help himself until he was tired. But no, that would not do. "'Ah,' my Christian friend will exclaim, 'Ah, yes, the poor Indian had known the good missionary, and had learnt the lesson of honesty and respect for his neighbour's property.' "Yes; he had learnt the lesson of honesty, but his teacher, my friend, had been other than human. The good missionary had never reached the Hope of Hudson, nor improved the morals of the Moose That Walks. "But let us go on. After waiting two days he determined to set off for St. John's, two full days' travel. He set out, but his heart failed him, and he turned back again. "At last, on the fourth day, he entered the parchment window, leaving outside his comrade, to whom he jealously denied admittance. Then he took from the cask of powder three skins' worth, from the tobacco four skins' worth, from the shot the same; and sticking the requisite number of martens' skins in the powder barrel and the shot bag and the tobacco case, he hung up his remaining skins on a nail to the credit of his account, and departed from this El Dorado, this Bank of England of the Red Man in the wilderness. And when it was all over he went his way, thinking he had done a very reprehensible act, and one by no means to be proud of." If it were necessary further to establish the honesty of the forest Indian, I could add many proofs from my own experience, but one will suffice: Years ago, during my first visit to the Hudson's Bay Post on Lake Temagami, when the only white man living in all that beautiful region was old Malcolm MacLean, a "freeman" of the H. B. Co., who had married an Indian woman and become a trapper, I was invited to be the guest of the half-breed Hudson's Bay trader, Johnnie Turner, and was given a bedroom in his log house. The window of my room on the ground floor was always left wide open, and in fact was never once closed during my stay of a week or more. Inside my room, a foot from the open window, a lidless cigar box was nailed to the wall, yet it contained a heap of bills of varying denominations--ones, fives, and tens, and even twenties; how much in all I don't know for I never had the curiosity to count them--though, at the time, I guessed that there were many hundreds of dollars. It was the trader's bank. Nevertheless, beside that open window was the favourite lounging place of all the Indian trappers and hunters who visited the Post, and during my stay a group of Indians that numbered from three or four to thirty or forty were daily loitering in the shade within a few feet of that open window. Sometimes, when I was in my room, they would even intrude their heads and shoulders through the window and talk to me. Several times I saw them glance at the heap of money, but they no more thought of touching it than I did; yet day or night it could have been taken with the greatest ease, and the thief never discovered--but, of course, there wasn't a thief in all that region. But now that the white man has made Lake Temagami a fashionable summer resort, and the civilized Christians flock there from New York, Toronto, Pittsburgh, and Montreal, how long would the trader's money remain in an open box beside an open window on a dark night? TRACKING UP RAPIDS After breakfast next morning, while ascending Caribou River, we encountered a series of rapids that extended for nearly a quarter of a mile. Here and there, in midstream, rocks protruded above the foaming water, and from their leeward ends flowed eddying currents of back water that from their dark, undulating appearance rather suggested that every boulder possessed a tail. It was always for those long, flowing tails that the canoes were steered in their slow upward struggle from one rock to another; for each tail formed a little harbour in which the canoe could not only make easier headway, but also might hover for a moment while the paddlers caught their breath. Then out again they would creep, and once more the battle would rage and, working with might and main, the paddlers would force the canoe gradually ahead and over into the eddy of another boulder. Sometimes the water would leap over the gunwales and come aboard with a savage hiss. At other times the canoes seemed to become discouraged and, with their heads almost buried beneath the angry, spitting waves, would balk in midstream and not move forward so much as a foot to the minute. It was dangerous work, for if at any time a canoe became inclined across the current, even to the slightest degree, it might be rolled over and over, like a barrel descending an incline. Dangerous work it was, but it was interesting to see how powerfully the Indians propelled their canoes, how skilfully they guided them, and how adroitly even the little children handled their paddles. However, we landed safely at the head of the rapids, and upon going ashore to drain the canoes, partook of a refreshing snack of tea and bannock. Then to the canoes again. The aspect of the river was now very beautiful, beautiful enough to ponder over and to dream, so we took it easy. While pipes were going we gazed, in peace and restfulness, at the reflections, for they were wonderful. After dinner we encountered another rapid, but though it was much shorter than the former, the current ran too strong to attempt the ascent with the aid of only paddles or poles. The northern tripper has the choice between five methods of circumventing "white waters," and his selection depends upon the strength of the current: first, paddling; second, poling; third, wading; fourth, tracking; and fifth, portaging. You are already familiar with the method of paddling, and also with that of portaging, and a description of poling will shortly follow. Wading is resorted to only when the trippers, unprovided with poles, have been defeated in their effort to ascend with no other aid than their paddles. Then they leap overboard and seizing hold of the gunwales drag the craft up the rapids before it can be overcome by the turbulent water, and either driven down stream or capsized. Again, when the trippers encounter, in shallow water, such obstacles as jammed timbers, wading allows them carefully to ease their craft around or over the obstruction. When tracking their six-fathom canoes, or "York boats," or "sturgeon scows," the voyageurs of the north brigades use very long lines, one end of which is attached to the bow of the craft while to the other end is secured a leather harness of breast straps called _otapanapi_ into which each hauler adjusts himself. Thus, while the majority of the crew land upon the shore and, so harnessed, walk off briskly in single file along the river bank, their mates aboard endeavour, with the aid of either paddles, sweeps, or poles, to keep the craft in a safe channel. In the present instance we had to resort to tracking, but it was of a light character, for the canoes were not too heavily loaded, nor was the current too strong for us to make fair headway along the rough, pathless bank of the wild little stream. In each canoe one person remained aboard to hold the bow off shore with a paddle or pole, while the others scrambled along the river bank, either to help haul upon a line, or, in the case of the younger children and the dogs, simply to walk in order to relieve the craft of their weight and also for safety's sake, should the canoe overturn. The greatest danger is for the steersman to lose control and allow the canoe to get out of line with the current, as the least headway in a wrong direction is apt to capsize it. With us all went well until a scream from the children announced that Ah-ging-goos, the second son, had fallen in, and anxiety reigned until the well-drenched Chipmunk partly crawled and was partly hauled ashore; and then laughter echoed in the river valley, for The Chipmunk was at times much given to frisking about and showing off, and this time he got his reward. But before we had ascended half the length of the rapids we encountered the usual troubles that overtake the tracker--those of clearing our lines of trees and bushes, slipping into the muck of small inlets, stumbling over stones, cutting the lines upon sharp rocks, or having them caught by gnarled roots of driftwood. As we approached the last lap of white water the canoes passed through a rocky basin that held a thirty- or forty-yard section of the river in a slack and unruffled pool. While ascending this last section, the last canoe, the one in which the old grandmother was wielding the paddle, broke away from Oo-koo-hoo, the strain severing his well-worn line, and away Grandmother went, racing backward down through the turbulent foam. With her usual presence of mind she exercised such skill in guiding her canoe that it never for a moment swerved out of the true line of the current, and thus she saved herself and all her precious cargo. Then, the moment she struck slack water, she in with her paddle, and out with her pole, stood up in her unsteady craft, bent her powerful old frame, and--her pipe still clenched between her ancient teeth--with all her might and main she actually poled her canoe right up to the very head of the rapids, and came safely ashore. It was thrilling to watch her--for we could render no aid--and when she landed we hailed her with approval for her courage, strength, and skill; but Grandmother was annoyed--her pipe was out. TRAVELLING AT NIGHT While we rested a few minutes, the women espied, in a little springy dell, some unusually fine moss, which they at once began to gather. Indian women dry it and use it in a number of ways, especially for packing about the little naked bodies of their babies when lacing them to their cradle boards. The incident, however, reminds me of what once happened to an Indian woman and her eight-year-old daughter when they were gathering moss about a mile from their camp on the shore of Great Slave Lake. They were working in a muskeg, and the mother, observing a clump of gnarled spruces a little way off, sent her daughter there to see if there were any berries. Instead of fruit the child found a nice round hole that led into a cavern beneath the roots of the trees that stood upon the little knoll; and she called to her mother to come and see it. On kneeling down and peering within, the mother discovered a bear inside, and instantly turning about, hauled up her skirt and sat down in such a way that her figure completely blocked the hole and shut out all light. Then she despatched her child on the run for camp, to tell Father to come immediately with his gun and shoot the bear. To one who is not versed in woodcraft, such an act displays remarkable bravery, but to an Indian woman it meant no such thing, it was merely the outcome of her knowledge of bears, for she well knew that as long as all light was blocked from the hole the bear would lie still. But perhaps you wonder why she pulled up her skirt. To prevent it from being soiled or torn? No, that was not the reason. Again it was her knowledge of bears that prompted her, for she knew that if by any strange chance the bear did move about in the dark, and if he did happen to touch her bare figure--for Indian ladies never wear lingerie--the bear would have been so mystified on encountering a living thing in the dark that he would make never another move until light solved the mystery. However, Father came with a rush, and shot the bear, and the brute was a big one, too. During the rest of the afternoon we found the current quite slack and therefore, making better headway, we gained Caribou Lake about an hour before sundown; and on finding a fair wind beneath a clear sky that promised moonlight, it was decided to sail as far down the lake as the breeze would favour us, and then go ashore upon some neighbouring isle for the balance of the night. So two stout poles were secured and laid across our two large canoes as they rested about a foot apart and parallel to one another. Then, the poles being lashed to the thwarts, a single "four-point" blanket was rigged horizontally to two masts, one standing in each canoe and both guyed with tump-lines, and leaning away from each other in order to spread the improvised sail. Two canoes so rigged cannot only make good headway, but can with safety run before a very strong wind. While Oo-koo-hoo's canoe was kept free, he nevertheless counted on having it towed, as it could then be cast off without a moment's delay in case of our coming unexpectedly upon tempting game. Supper was no sooner over than we were lying lazily in our canoes and, to the music of babbling water and foaming wakes, rushing toward the setting sun. Soon twilight overtook us, and wrapping shadows about us, accompanied us for a while. Next starlight appeared and with myriads of twinkling lanterns showed us our way among the now silhouetted islands. Then the moon uprose and pushed a shiny head through the upper branches of the eastern trees. At first it merely peeped as though to make sure we were not afraid; then it came out boldly in glory and quickly turning our wake into a path of molten gold, began to soar above the forest. For a while I could hear the childish prattle of the children and the crooning of Naudin as she hushed, with swaying body, her baby to her breast. Then even those gentle sounds died away as the little forms snuggled down beneath the blankets among the dogs and bales. Occasionally a loon called to us, or an owl swooped, ghost-like, overhead, and as we passed among pine-crested isles, those weather-beaten old monarchs just stood there, and whispering to one another, shook their heads as we swept by. Then for a few moments a mother moose with her two calves stood knee deep in a water-lily bay, and watched us on our way. But Oo-koo-hoo was now too drowsy to think of anything but sleep. So hour after hour went by while the moon rose higher and higher, and circling round to the westward, began to descend in front of us. POLING UP RAPIDS Out of the east came dawn with a sweep of radiant splendour. Still we sailed westward, ever westward, until the sun rose and through the rising mist showed us that the mouth of Caribou River opened right before us; then, happily, we landed on a little island to breakfast, and to drowse away a couple of hours on mossy beds beneath the shade of wind-blown pines. Besides shooting a few ducks and a beaver, and seeing a distant moose, nothing happened that was eventful enough to deflect my interest from the endless variety of charming scenery that came into view as we swept round bend after bend of that woodland river; at least, not until about four o'clock, when we arrived at the foot of another rapid. This Oo-koo-hoo and Amik examined carefully from the river bank, and decided that it could be ascended by poling. So from green wood we cut suitable poles of about two inches in diameter and from seven to nine feet in length and knifed them carefully to rid them of bark and knots. Then, for this was a shoal rapids, both bowman and sternman stood up, the better to put the full force of their strength and weight into the work; the children, however, merely knelt to the work of wielding their slender poles; but in deep water, or where there were many boulders and consequently greater risk if the canoe were overturned, all would have knelt to do the work. Going bow-on straight for the mid-stream current, we plied our poles to good advantage. Each man remembered, however, to lift his pole only when his mate's had been planted firmly in the river bottom. Then he would fix his own a little farther ahead and throw all his weight and strength upon it, while at the same moment his companion went the same round. Then he would firmly re-fix his pole a little farther up stream, and then once again shoved in unison. Thus foot by foot we crept up stream. It was hard but joyous work, for standing up in a canoe surrounded by a powerful and treacherous current gave us the thrill of adventure. OO-KOO-HOO VISITS BEAVERS All the canoes having mounted the white water, however, in safety, it was decided, though sunset was several hours away, to spend the night at the head of the rapids, as the place afforded an excellent camping ground and besides, the next day was Sunday, a day upon which all good trippers cease to travel. While the canvas tepee, and my tent, too, were being erected, we heard the dogs barking and growling several hundred yards away, so Amik, slipping on his powder horn and bullet pouch, ran to investigate. Presently the report of his gun was added to the din, then silence reigned; and when we went to see what had happened we found that the hunter had shot a two-year-old moose heifer that the dogs had bayed. Then, as was her custom, Granny came with her pail to catch the blood, and to select the entrails she needed to hold it. By supper time the moose had not only been skinned but the carcass dressed, too. After the meal was over, Granny washed the entrails inside and out and then stuffed them with a mixture of blood and oatmeal that she had prepared and seasoned with salt, and hung her home-made sausages high up inside the tepee to let them congeal and also to be out of reach of the dogs. In the meantime, Amik had made two frames, and Naudin and her daughters had stretched and laced into them, not only the moose hide, but the skin of the caribou as well; and when the meat was cut up and hung from the branches of a tree, it was time to sit around the fire and have our evening talk. But Oo-koo-hoo, slipping away in his hunting canoe, paddled up a little creek into a small lake in which he knew a colony of beavers lived. He was gone about an hour and upon his return he told us about it. On gaining the little mere, he, without removing his paddle from the water, propelled his canoe slowly and silently along the shore in the shadow of the overhanging trees, until a large beaver lodge appeared in the rising mist; and then standing up in his canoe--in order to get a better view--he became motionless. Minutes passed while the rising moon cast golden ripples upon the water, and two beavers, rising from below, swam toward and mounted the roof of their island home. Then, while the moonlight faded and glowed, other beavers appeared and swam hither and thither; some hauling old barkless poles, others bringing freshly cut poplar branches, and all busily engaged. A twig snapping behind the hunter, he turned his head, and as he caught a vanishing glimpse of a lynx in a tree, he was instantly startled by a tremendous report and a splashing upheaval of water beside his canoe. A beaver had been swimming there, and on seeing the hunter move, had struck the water with its powerful tail, to warn its mates before it dived. The lynx had been watching the beaver. [Illustration: Minutes passed while the rising moon cast golden ripples upon the water and two beavers, rising from below, swam toward and mounted the roof of their island home. A twig snapping behind the hunter, he turned his head, and as he caught the vanishing glimpse of a lynx in a tree, he was instantly startled by a tremendous report and a splashing upheaval . . . See Chapter II.] "Did you bring back anything?" "No, my son," Oo-koo-hoo replied, "that hunting-ground belongs to an old friend of mine." WOODCRAFT OF TRAILING After a while the subject of woodcraft arose. When I inquired as to how I could best locate the north in case I happened to be travelling on a cloudy day without a compass, the old hunter replied, that though he never used a compass, he found no difficulty in determining the north at any time, as the woods were full of signs. For instance, the branches of trees had a general tendency to be less numerous and shorter on the north side, and the bark on the north side was usually finer in texture and of a smoother surface. Also moss was more often found on the north side of vertical trees. The tops of pine trees usually leant toward the southeast--but that that was not always a sure sign in all localities, as in some places the tree tops were affected by the prevailing winds. The stumps of trees furnished a surer indication. They showed the rings of growth to be greater in thickness on the north side. When trees were shattered by lightning, the cracks more often opened on the south side for lightning generally struck from that direction. Snow was usually deeper on the south side of trees on account of the prevailing northerly winds; and if one dug away the crust from around a tree they would come to fine, granulated snow much sooner on the north side, thus proving where the shadow usually fell. Furthermore, as the snowdrifts always pointed in the direction whither the wind had gone, knowing the direction of the prevailing winds, one had no trouble in locating the north even on the snow-covered surface of a great lake. The old woodman cautioned me that if, while travelling alone upon a big lake, I should be overtaken by a blizzard, in no case should I try to fight it, but stop right in my tracks, take off my snowshoes, dig a hole in the snow, turn my sled over on its side to form a wind-break, crawl into the hole with the dogs, and wait until the storm subsided. If a blizzard came head-on it was useless to try to fight it, for it would easily win; but if the wind were fair and if one were still sure of his bearings, he might drift with the wind, although at heavy risk, as the wind is apt to change its course and the tripper lose his way. There was always one consolation, however, and that was that the greater the storm the sooner it was over. Another thing I should remember when travelling on a lake or over an open country, in a violent snow-storm--I should allow for drifting, much in the same way as one would if travelling by canoe. By that time, however, the women and children had gone to sleep upon their evergreen beds, while we three men continued to converse in whispers over the glow of the fading fire. Next I asked Oo-koo-hoo in which direction men usually turned when lost in the woods--to the right or to the left? He replied that circumstances had much to do with that, for the character of the country affected the man's turning, as it was natural to follow the line of least resistance; also it depended somewhat on the man's build--whether one leg were shorter than the other. But though he had repeatedly experimented, he could not arrive at any definite conclusion. However, when trying blindfolded men on a frozen lake, he noticed that they had a tendency to turn to the south regardless of whether they were facing east or west. And he concluded by remarking that he thought people were very foolish to put so much faith in certain statements, simply because they were twice-told tales. Upon my questioning him as to how a hunter would act, if, for instance, he were trailing a moose, and suspected that he was being followed by enemies, say a pack of wolves, or strange hunters, he informed me that if that happened to him--that if he suspected some enemy were following his trail--he would not stop, nor even look around, but at the first favourable opportunity, when he was sure he couldn't be observed, he would leave the game trail, circle back a mile or so through the woods, and upon cutting his old track would at once learn what was following him. Then if it were worth while he could trail his pursuers and, coming up behind them, could take them unaware. But if all this happened on a lake or in open country, where he could not circle back under cover, he would suddenly turn in his tracks, as though upon a pivot, and without losing the least headway or causing a moment's delay in his pace, he would continue walking, but now in a backward direction, long enough to give himself ample time to scrutinize his distant trail. By manoeuvring thus, he could study his pursuers without arousing their suspicion, for whether they were animals or men, the chances would be--if they were some distance away--that they would never notice that he had turned about, and was now inspecting his own tracks. As regards trailing game, whether large or small, he cautioned me to watch my quarry carefully, and instantly to become rigid at the first sign that the game was about to turn round or raise its head to peer in my direction. More than that, I should not only remain motionless while the animal was gazing toward me, but I should assume at once some form that suggested the character of the surrounding trees or bushes or rocks. For example, among straight-boled, perfectly vertical trees, I should stand upright; among uprooted trees, I should assume the character of an overturned stump, by standing with inclined body, bent legs, and arms and fingers thrust out at such angles as to suggest the roots of a fallen tree. And he added that if I doubted the wisdom of such an act, I should test it at a distance of fifty or a hundred paces, and prove the difficulty of detecting a man who assumed a characteristic landscape pose among trees or rocks. That was years before the World War had brought the word _camouflage_ into general use; for as a matter of fact, the forest Indians had been practising _camouflage_ for centuries and, no doubt, that was one reason why many of the Indians in the Canadian Expeditionary Force did such remarkable work as snipers. INDIANS IN THE WORLD WAR For instance: Sampson Comego destroyed twenty-eight of the enemy. Philip Macdonald killed forty, Johnny Ballantyne fifty-eight. "One of their number, Lance-Corporal Johnson Paudash," as the Department of Indian Affairs states, "received the Military Medal for his distinguished gallantry in saving life under heavy fire and for giving a warning that the enemy were preparing a counter-attack at Hill Seventy; the counter-attack took place twenty-five minutes after Paudash gave the information. It is said that a serious reverse was averted as a result of his action. Like other Indian soldiers, he won a splendid record as a sniper, and is officially credited with having destroyed no less than eighty-eight of the enemy. Another Indian who won fame at the front was Lance-Corporal Norwest; he was one of the foremost snipers in the army and was officially credited with one hundred and fifteen observed hits. He won the Military Medal and bar. Still another, Corporal Francis Pegahmagabow, won the Military Medal and two bars. He distinguished himself signally as a sniper and bears the extraordinary record of having killed three hundred and seventy-eight of the enemy. His Military Medal and two bars were awarded, however, for his distinguished conduct at Mount Sorrell, Amiens, and Passchendaele. At Passchendaele, Corporal Pegahmagabow led his company through an engagement with a single casualty, and subsequently captured three hundred Germans at Mount Sorrell. "The fine record of the Indians in the great war appears in a peculiarly favourable light when it is remembered that their services were absolutely voluntary, as they were specially exempted from the operation of the Military Service Act, and that they were prepared to give their lives for their country without compulsion or even the fear of compulsion." Many military medals were won by the Canadian Indians; Captain A. G. E. Smith of the Grand River Band of the Iroquois having been decorated seven times by the Governments of England, France, and Poland, and many distinguished themselves by great acts upon the battlefield. "Another Indian to be decorated was Dave Kisek. During the heavy fighting around Cambrai he unstrapped a machine gun from his shoulder and advanced about one hundred yards to the German position, where he ran along the top of their trench, doing deadly execution with his machine gun. He, single-handed, took thirty prisoners upon this occasion. This Indian came from the remote regions of the Patricia district. Sergeant Clear Sky was awarded the Military Medal for one of the most gallant and unselfish deeds that is recorded in the annals of the Canadian Expeditionary Force. During a heavy gas attack he noticed a wounded man lying in 'No Man's Land' whose gas mask had been rendered useless. Clear Sky crawled to him through the poisonous fumes, removed his own mask, and placed it on the wounded man, whose life was in consequence saved. Sergeant Clear Sky was himself severely gassed as a result of his heroic action. Joe Thunder was awarded the Military Medal for a feat of arms of an exceptionally dramatic character. He was separated from his platoon and surrounded by six Germans, each of whom he bayoneted. George McLean received the Distinguished Conduct Medal in recognition of the performance of a feat which was an extraordinary one even for the great war. Private McLean, single-handed, destroyed nineteen of the enemy with bombs and captured fourteen." And yet not a single Canadian Indian has claimed that he won the World War--not even Pegahmagabow, who shot three hundred and seventy-eight Germans. APPROACHING GAME But to return to the land of peace. Of course, in attempting to deceive game, one must always guard against approaching down wind, for most animals grow more frantic over the scent than they do over the sight of man. Later on, when I went hunting with Oo-koo-hoo, he used to make me laugh, for at one moment he would be a jolly old Indian gentleman, and just as likely as not the next instant he would be posing as a rotten pine stump that had been violently overturned, and now resembled an object against which a bear might like to rub his back and scratch himself. Often have I proved the value of the old hunter's methods, and I could recite not a few instances of how easy it is to deceive either birds or animals; but I shall mention only one, which happened on the borderline of Alaska. I was running through a grove of heavy timber, where the moss was so deep that my tread made no sound, when suddenly rounding a large boulder, I came upon a black bear less than fourteen paces away. It was sitting upon its haunches, directly in the footpath I was following. As good luck would have it, I saw him first, and for the fun of it, I instantly became an old gray stump--or tried to look like one. Presently the bear's head swung round, and at first he seemed a bit uneasy over the fact that he had not seen that stump before. It appeared to puzzle him, for he even twisted about to get a better view; but after watching me for about five minutes he contentedly turned his head away. A few minutes later, however, he looked again, and becoming reassured, yawned deliberately in my face. But by that time, being troubled with a kink in my back, I had to straighten up. Then, strange to say, as I walked quietly and slowly round him to gain the path ahead, the brute did not even get up off his haunches--but such behaviour on the part of a bear rarely happens. Perhaps you wonder why I didn't shoot the brute. I never carry a gun. For when one is provided with food, one can carry no more useless thing than a gun; so far as protection is concerned, there is no more need to carry a gun in the north woods, than to carry a gun down Broadway; in fact, the wolves of Broadway--especially those of the female species--are much more dangerous to man than the wolves of the Great Northern Forest. SUNDAY IN CAMP Next morning being Sunday, we did not strike camp, and the first thing the women attended to, even while breakfast was under way, was the starting of a fire of damp, rotten wood, which smoked but never blazed, and over which, at a distance of about four feet, they leant the stretched deerskins, hair side up, to dry. Besides those, other frames were made and erected over another slow fire, and here the flakes or slabs of moose flesh were hung to be dried and smoked into what is called jerked meat. The fat, being chopped up and melted in a pail, was then poured into the moose bladder and other entrails to cool and be handy for future use. Of course, it would take several days to dry out the deerskins; so each morning when we were about to travel, the skins were unlaced and rolled up, to be re-stretched and placed over another fire the following evening. Sunday was pleasantly spent, notwithstanding that so many different religious denominations were represented in camp: for while old Ojistoh counted her beads according to the Roman Catholic faith, Amik and Naudin were singing hymns, as the former was an English Churchman and his wife a Presbyterian; but Oo-koo-hoo would join in none of it as he had no faith whatever in the various religions of the white men and so he remained a pagan. Part of the day we spent in pottering about, in doing a little mending here and there, smoking, telling stories, or in strolling through the woods; as both Oo-koo-hoo and Amik were opposed to doing actual work on Sunday. In the afternoon I turned to sketching, and my drawing excited so much interest that Amik tried his hand, and in a crude way his sketches of animals and birds were quite graphic in character. One sketch I made, that of the baby, so pleased Neykia, that I gave it to her, and when she realized my intention she seized it with such eagerness that she crumpled and almost tore the paper; for as the Ojibways have no word to express their thanks, they show their gratitude by the eagerness with which they accept a present. That, however, reminds me of having read in one of the leading American magazines an account of a noted American illustrator's trip into the woods of Quebec. While there he presented a red handkerchief to an Indian girl. The fact that she snatched it from him, and then ran away, was to him--as he stated--a sign that she was willing to comply with any evil intentions he might entertain toward her. Such absolute rot! The polite little maid was merely trying to express her unbounded thanks for his gift. The only thing that interrupted our paddling the following day was our going ashore to portage around a picturesque waterfall where two huge rocks, on the very brink of the cascade, split the river into three. When we had carried up the canoes, we found the children making a great to-do about wasps attacking them; for they had put down their packs beside a wasps' hole; and old Granny, seeing the commotion, had put down her end of the canoe, and with disgust exclaimed: "Oh, my foolish people, always standing around and waiting for old Granny to fix everything!" So saying, she pulled a big bunch of long, dry grass, and lighting it, ran with a blanket over her head, and placed the fire against the wasps' hole; in a moment they ceased their attack and utterly disappeared. We were now nearing the fork of Crane River, that in its three-mile course came from Crane Lake, on the shore of which was Oo-koo-hoo's last winter's camping ground; the men therefore decided that it was best for Amik to push on in the light canoe and get the two deerskin winter tepee coverings, as well as their traps, that had been cached there last spring; and then return to the fork of the river where the family would go into camp and wait for him. NEARING TRIP'S END Transferring most of the cargo to the other canoes, Amik and I provided ourselves with a little snack and started at once for Oo-koo-koo's old camping ground. It appeared about a three-mile paddle to the fork of the river. Nothing save the quacking of ducks rushing by on the wing, the occasional rise of a crane in front of us, the soaring of an eagle overhead, and the rippling wakes left by muskrats as they scurried away, enlivened our hurried trip. We found the leather lodge coverings in good order upon a stage, and securing them along with several bundles of steel traps that hung from trees, we put all aboard and found we had quite a load, for not only were the tepee coverings bulky, each bundle being about two feet thick by four feet long, but they were heavy, too, for each weighed about a hundred pounds. Then, too, the traps were quite a load in themselves. I didn't stop to count them, but it is surprising the number of traps a keen, hard-working hunter employs; and they ranged all the way from small ones for rat and ermine to ponderous ones for bears. Also we gathered up a few odds and ends such as old axes, an iron pot, a couple of slush scoops, a bundle of fish-nets, and a lot of old snowshoes. Crane Lake, like many another northern mere, was a charming little body of water nestling among beautiful hills. After a cup of tea and some bannock, we once more plied our paddles. Now it was down stream and we glided swiftly along, arriving at the confluence of the Crane and Caribou just before twilight and found smiling faces and a good supper awaiting our return. How human some Indians are, much more so than many a cold-blooded white. Next day we wanted to make the Height-of-land portage for our camp. As it meant a long, stiff paddle against a strong current for most of the distance, we were up early, if not bright, and on our way before sunrise. This time, however, no rapids impeded us and we reached the portage on the farther shore of Height-of-land Lake, tired and hungry, but happy over a day's work well done. It was a pretty little lake about two miles long, surrounded by low-lying land in the midst of a range of great rock-bound hills, and its waters had a whimsical fashion of running either east or west according to which way the wind struck it. Thus its waters became divided and, flowing either way, travel afar to their final destinations in oceans thousands of miles apart. But the western outlet, Moose Creek, being too shallow for canoes, a portage of a couple of miles was made the following day, to the fork of an incoming stream that doubles its waters and makes the creek navigable. When we camped that night the hour was late. Then a two-days' run--the second of which we travelled due north--took us into Moose Lake; but not without shooting three rapids, each of which the Indians examined carefully before we undertook the sport that all enjoyed so much. An eastern storm, however, caught us on Moose Lake and not only sent us ashore on an island, but windbound us there for two days while cold showers pelted us. Another day and a half up Bear River, with a portage round Crane Falls, landed us on the western shore of Bear Lake at the mouth of Muskrat Creek--and there we were to spend the winter. There, too, I remembered Thoreau when he said: "As I ran down the hill toward the reddening west, with the rainbow over my shoulder, and some faint tinkling sounds borne to my ear through the cleansed air, from I know not what quarter, my Good Genius seemed to say,--'Go fish and hunt far and wide day by day,--farther and wider,--and rest thee by many brooks and hearth-sides without misgiving. Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth. Rise free from care before the dawn, and seek adventures. Let the noon find thee by other lakes, and the night overtake thee everywhere at home'." And furthermore: "Let not to get a living be thy trade, but thy sport. Enjoy the land, but own it not. Through want of enterprise and faith men are where they are, buying and selling, and spending their lives like serfs." III OO-KOO-HOO'S EL DORADO OUR WINTER CAMP Bear Lake was beautiful. Its shores were fringed here and there with marshy reeds or sandy beaches; and its rivulets, flowing in and out, connected it with other meres in other regions. At dawn moose and caribou came thither to drink; bears roamed its surrounding slopes; lynxes, foxes, fishers, martens, ermines, and minks lived in its bordering woods. Otters, muskrats, and beavers swam its inrushing creeks; wolverines prowled its rocky glens, and nightly concerts of howling wolves echoed along its shores. The eagles and the hawks built their nests in its towering trees, while the cranes fished and the ruffed grouse drummed. Nightly, too, the owls and the loons hooted and laughed at the quacking ducks and the honking geese as they flew swiftly by in the light of the moon. Salmon-trout, whitefish, pike, and pickerel rippled its placid waters, and brook-trout leaped above the shimmering pools of its crystal streams. It was Oo-koo-hoo's happiest hunting ground, and truly it was a hunter's paradise . . . a poet's heaven . . . an artist's home. "What fools we mortals be!"--when we live in the city! The site chosen for the lodges was on one of two points jutting into the lake, separated by the waters of Muskrat Greek. On its northwest side ran a heavily timbered ridge that broke the force of the winter winds from the west and the north, and thus protected Oo-koo-hoo's camp, which stood on the southeast side of the little stream. Such a site in such a region afforded wood, water, fruit, fish, fowl, and game; and, moreover, an enchanting view of the surrounding country. Furthermore, that section of The Owl's game-lands had not been hunted for forty-two moons. Immediately after dinner the men began cutting lodge poles, while the women cleared the tepee sites and levelled the ground. On asking Oo-koo-hoo how many poles would be required for the canvas lodge which he had kindly offered me the use of for the coming winter, he replied: "My son, cut a pole for every moon, and cut them thirteen feet in length, and the base of the tepee, too, should be thirteen feet across." Then looking at me with his small, shrewd, but pleasant eyes, he added: "Thirteen is our lucky number. It always brings good fortune. Besides, most canoes are made of thirteen pieces, and when we kill big game, we always cut the carcasses into thirteen parts. My son, when I have time I shall carve a different symbol upon each of the thirteen poles of your lodge; they shall represent the thirteen moons of the year, and thus they will enable you to keep track of the phase of the season through which you are passing." All the poles were of green pine or spruce. The thin ends of three of the stoutest were lashed together; on being erected, they formed a tripod against which the other poles were leant, while their butts, placed in a circle, were spread an equal distance apart. Over that framework the lodge covering was spread by inserting the end of a pole into the pocket of each of the two windshields, and then hoisting the covering into place. Next the lapping edges, brought together over the doorway, were fastened securely together with wooden pins, while the bottom edge was pegged down all round the lodge with wooden stakes. In the centre of the floor-space six little cut logs were fastened down in the form of a hexagon, and the earth scooped from within the hexagon was banked against the logs to form a permanent and limited fireplace. The surrounding floor space was covered with a layer of fir-brush, then a layer of rushes, and finally, where the beds were to be laid, a heavy mattress of balsam twigs laid, shingle-fashion, one upon another, with their stems down. Thus a springy, comfortable bed was formed, and the lodge perfumed with a delightful forest aroma. Above the fireplace was hung a stage, or framework of light sticks, upon which to dry or smoke the meat. Around the wall on the inner side was hung a canvas curtain that overlapped the floor, and thus protected the lodgers from draught while they were sitting about the fire. The doorway was two feet by five, and was covered with a raw deerskin hung from the top. A stick across the lower edge kept the skin taut. A log at the bottom of the doorway answered for a doorstep and in winter kept out the snow. Now the lodge was ready for occupation. As there are six different ways of building campfires, it should be explained that my friends built theirs according to the Ojibway custom; that is, in the so-called "lodge fashion", by placing the sticks upright, leaning them together, and crossing them over one another in the manner of lodge poles. When the fire was lighted, the windshields formed a perfect draught to carry the smoke up through the permanently open flue in the apex of the structure, and one soon realized that of all tents or dwellings, no healthier abode was ever contrived by man. Indeed, if the stupid, meddlesome agents of civilization had been wise enough to have left the Indians in their tepees, instead of forcing them to live in houses--the ventilation of which was never understood--they would have been spared at least one of civilization's diseases--tuberculosis--and many more tribesmen would have been alive to-day. On entering an Indian tepee one usually finds the first space, on the right of the doorway, occupied by the woodpile; the next, by the wife; the third, by the baby; and the fourth, by the husband. Opposite these, on the other side of the fire, the older children are ranged. To the visitor is allotted the warmest place in the lodge, the place of honour, farthest from and directly opposite the doorway. When the dogs are allowed in the tepee, they know their place to be the first space on the left, between the entrance and the children. While the two leather lodges of the Indians stood close together with stages near at hand upon which to store food and implements out of reach of the dogs and wild animals, my tepee, the canvas one, stood by itself a little farther up the creek. Taking particular pains in making my bed, and settling everything for service and comfort, I turned in that night in a happy mood and fell asleep contemplating the season of adventure before me and the great charm of living in such simplicity. "In the savage state every family owns a shelter as good as the best, and sufficient for its coarser and simpler wants," says Thoreau, "but I think that I speak within bounds when I say that, though birds of the air have their nests, and the foxes their holes, and the savages their wigwams, in modern civilized society not more than one half the families own a shelter. In the large towns and cities, where civilization especially prevails, the number of those who own a shelter is a very small fraction of the whole. The rest pay an annual tax for this outside garment of all, become indispensable summer and winter, which would buy a village of Indian wigwams but now helps to keep them poor as long as they live. . . . But how happens it that he who is said to enjoy these things is so commonly a _poor_ civilized man, while the savage, who has them not, is rich as a savage?" Next morning, while roaming about the point, I discovered two well-worn game trails that, converging together, led directly to the extreme outer end of our point. The tracks were the wild animals' highways through that part of the woods, and were used by them when they desired to make a short cut across that end of the lake by way of a neighbouring island. Worn fairly smooth, and from three to five inches in depth, by from eight to ten inches in width, these tracks were entirely free of grass or moss. In following them a few hundred paces, I could plainly recognize the prints of the moose, the bear, the wolf, and the fox; and a few smaller and lesser impressions with regard to the origin of which I was not so sure. The trails were much like the buffalo trails one used to see upon the plains. To my delight, my lodge door was not more than ten paces from that wild Broadway of the Wilderness. INDIAN POLITENESS After breakfast Oo-koo-hoo suggested that a "lop-stick" should be cut in honour of the white man's visit. Selecting a tall spruce, Amik, with a half-axe in hand, began to ascend it. When he had climbed about three parts of the way up he began to chop off the surrounding branches and continued to do so as he descended, until he was about halfway down, when he desisted and came to earth. The result was a strange-looking tree with a long bare trunk, surmounted by a tuft of branches that could be seen and recognized for miles around. Cutting lop-sticks is an old custom of the forest Indians. Such trees are used to mark portages, camping grounds, meeting places, or dangerous channels where submerged rocks lie in wait for the unsuspecting voyageur. In fact, they are to the Indian what lighthouses are to the mariner. Yet, sometimes they are used to celebrate the beginning of a young man's hunting career, or to mark the grave of a famous hunter. When made to indicate a wilderness rendezvous, the meeting place is commonly used for the purpose of coming in contact with their nearest neighbours or friends, and halting a day or so, while upon their voyage to the post, in order to discuss their affairs--the winter's hunt, the strange tracks they have seen, the strange sounds they have heard, the raiding of their hunting ground, and the like. Always at such meetings a fire is kindled regardless of the season, an ancient custom of their old religion, but used to-day more for the purpose of lighting pipes. Beside the fire a post stripped of its bark is erected, and on it a fire-bag containing tobacco for the use of all hands is hung. Around the fire the women and children spread a carpet of brush, upon which the men sit while conversing. At such meetings one never hears two Indians talk at once--a fine example for white people to heed--nor do they openly contradict one another as the vulgar white man does, for such an offence would be considered, by the savage, rude--and the offender would be regarded as no better than a white man; for they believe themselves to be not only the wisest and the bravest, but the politest people in the world; and when one stops to compare the average Indian with the average white man in North America, one must grant that the savage is right. In relation to their politeness I can go beyond my own observation and quote the experience of Sir Alexander Henry--whom they called Coseagon--while he was held a prisoner. "I could not let all this pass without modestly remarking that his account of the beginning of things was subject to great uncertainty as being trusted to memory only, from woman to woman through so many generations, and might have been greatly altered, whereas the account I gave them was written down by direction of the Great Spirit himself and preserved carefully in a book which was never altered, but had ever remained the same and was undoubtedly the truth. 'Coseagon,' says Canassatego, 'you are yet almost as rude as when you first came among us. When young it seems you were not well taught, you did not learn the civil behaviour of men. We excused you; it was the fault of your instructors. But why have you not more improved since you have long had the opportunity from our example? You see I always believe your stories. That is, I never contradict them. Why do you not believe mine?' Contradiction, or a direct denial of the truth of what another says, is among the Indians deemed extremely rude. Only great superiority, as of a father to a child, or of an old counsellor to some boy, can excuse it. Alaquippy and the other Indians kindly made some apology for me, saying I should be wiser in time, and they concluded with an observation which they thought very polite and respectful toward me, that my stories might be best for the white people, but Indian stories were undoubtedly best for Indians." Furthermore, if we compare the philosophy of the red man and the white, we find that just because the white man has invented a lot of asinine fashions and customs, a lot of unnecessary gear and junk, and feeds himself on unhealthy concoctions that give him indigestion and make his teeth fall out, he flatters himself that he is the wisest man on earth, whereas, all things considered, in my humble opinion, he is the prize fool of the universe--for removing himself so far from nature. And when the female follower of Dame Fashion goes mincing along the cement-paved street in her sharp-toed, French-heeled slippers, on her way to the factory, she flatters herself that she knows better than God how to perfect the human foot; then the All Wise One, in His just wrath, strikes back at her by presenting her with a luxuriant crop of varicose veins, corns, ingrowing nails, fallen arches, and bunions that supply her with suffering in plenty for the rest of her days. Her red sister, on the contrary, in moccasined feet, walks naturally through the forest; and The Master of Life, beholding her becoming humility, rewards her with painless pleasure. But to return to the Indians' meeting places in the wilderness. The important meetings held in the forest are always opened by smoking. No man speaks without first standing up, and his delivery is always slow and in short, clear sentences. In the past there were great orators among the red men as many of the old writers and traders affirm--but again I quote Sir Alexander Henry: "Old Canassatego, a warrior, counsellor, and the chief man of our village, used to come frequently to smoke and talk with me, while I worked at my new business (mending of gun locks), and many of the younger men would come and sit with him, pleased to hear our conversations. As he soon saw I was curious on that head he took a good deal of pains to instruct me in the principles of their eloquence, an art (it may seem strange to say it, but it is strictly true) carried much higher among these savages than is now in any part of Europe, as it is their only polite art, as they practice it from their infancy, as everything of consequence is transacted in councils, and all the force of their government consists in persuasion." Once when questioning Oo-koo-hoo regarding old Indian customs, he informed me that among Indians bowing was a very recent innovation, and that the men of the olden time--the fire-worshippers or sun-worshippers--never deigned to bow to one another: they bowed to none but the Deity. They took not the Great Spirit's name in vain; nor did they mention it save in a whisper, and with bowed head. He regretted that since coming in contact with the irreverent and blaspheming white men, his people had lost much of their old-time godly spirit. TRAPPING EQUIPMENT For the next few days the work done by the men was confined to odd jobs in preparation for the coming winter, and the laying out of their future trapping trails. They built some stages upon which to store the canoes, and others nearer the lodges, upon which to place their guns, sleds, and snowshoes. They cut and shaved axe-handles and helved them. They overhauled traps, and got ready all their trapping gear. It was always interesting to watch Oo-koo-hoo and Amik, even when they were engaged upon the most trivial forest work, for much of it was new to me and it was all so different from the ways of civilization. Then, too, they had taken the boys in hand and were instructing them in relation to the hunter's art. The first thing they did with the traps, after seeing that the old ones were in working order, was to boil both the new ones and the old ones for about half an hour in pots in which was placed either pine, or spruce, or cedar brush. This they did--Oo-koo-hoo explained--to cleanse the old traps and to soften the temper of the new ones, thus lessening the chances of their breaking in zero weather; and also to free both old and new from all man-smell and to perfume them with the natural scent of the forest trees, of which no animal is afraid. The traps they used were the No. 1, "Rat," for muskrats, ermines, and minks; the No. 2, "Mink," for minks, martens, skunks, and foxes; the No. 3, "Fox," for foxes, minks, martens, fishers, wolves, wolverines, skunks, otters, and beavers; the No. 4, "Beaver," for beavers, otters, wolves, wolverines, and fishers; the No. 5, "Otter," for otters, beavers, wolves, wolverines, and small bears; and the "Bear" trap in two sizes--_A_, large, and _B_, small, for all kinds of bears and deer. Traps with teeth they did not use, as they said the teeth injured the fur. Next to the knife, the woodsman uses no more useful implement than the axe. Even with the professional hunter, the gun takes third place to the knife and the axe. As between the two makes of axes--the American and the Canadian--the former appears the best. It is really a good fair-weather axe, but winter work proves the superiority of the Canadian implement. The latter does not chip so readily in cold weather. Furthermore, the eye of the American axe is too small for the soft-wood helve usually made in the northern forest, since in many parts no wood harder than birch is to be had. But to reduce the high temper of the American axe, the hunter can heat the head in fire until it becomes a slight bluish tinge and then dip it in either fish oil or beaver oil. The sizes of axes run: "Trappers," 1 1/2 lbs.; "Voyageurs," 2 1/2 lbs., "Chopping," 3 1/2 lbs., and "Felling," 4 lbs. At last the eventful morning arrived. Now we were to go a-hunting. The trap-setting party was to be composed of four persons: Oo-koo-hoo, the two boys, and myself. Our _ne-mar-win_--provisions--for four, to last a week, consisted of: one pound of tea, eight pounds of dried meat, four pounds of grease, four pounds of dried fish, and a number of small bannocks; the rest of our grub was to be secured by hunting. Of course, while hunting, Oo-koo-hoo always carried his gun loaded--lacking the cap--but it was charged with nothing heavier than powder and shot, so that the hunter might be ready at any moment for small game; yet if he encountered big game, all he had to do was to ram down a ball, slip on a cap, and then be ready to fire at a moose or a bear. SETTING FOX TRAP After the usual affectionate good-bye, and the waving of farewell as we moved in single file into the denser forest, we followed a game trail that wound in and out among the trees and rocks--always along the line of least resistance--and for a while headed westward through the valley of Muskrat Creek. Oo-koo-hoo led the way and, as he walked along, would occasionally turn and, pointing at the trail, whisper: "My white son, see, a moose passed two days ago . . . That's fox--this morning," and when we were overlooking the stream, he remarked: "This is a good place for muskrats, but I'll come for them by canoe." The principal object of the trip was to set fox and marten traps. Hilly timberland of spruce or pine, without much brushwood, is the most likely place for martens; and in fairly open country foxes may be found. The favourite haunt of beavers, otters, fishers, minks, and muskrats is a marshy region containing little lakes and streams; while for lynxes, a willowy valley interspersed with poplars is the usual resort. Coming to an open space along the creek, the wise old Owl concluded from the fox signs he had already seen, and from the condition of the soil on a cut bank, that it was a desirable place in which to set a steel trap for foxes. Laying aside his kit, he put on his trapping mits, to prevent any trace of man-smell being left about the trap, and with the aid of his trowel he dug into the bank a horizontal hole about two feet deep and about a foot in diameter. He wedged the chain-ring of the trap over the small end of a five-foot pole to be used as a clog or drag-anchor in case the fox tried to make away with the trap. The pole was then buried at one side of the hole. Digging a trench from the pole to the back of the hole, he carefully set the trap, laid it in the trench near the back of the hole, so that it rested about half an inch below the surface of the surrounding earth, covered it with thin layers of birch bark (sewed together with _watap_--thin spruce roots) then, sifting earth over it, covered all signs of both trap and chain, and finally, with a crane's wing brushed the sand into natural form. Placing at the back of the hole a duck's head that Ne-geek had shot for the purpose, Oo-koo-hoo scattered a few feathers about. Some of these, as well as the pan of the trap, had been previously daubed with a most stinking concoction called "fox bait"--hereafter called "mixed bait" to prevent confusing this with other baits. It was composed of half a pound of soft grease, half an ounce of aniseed, an eighth of an ounce of asafoetida, six to ten rotten birds' eggs, and the glands taken from a female fox--all thoroughly mixed in a jar and then buried underground to rot it, as well as for safe keeping. The reason for such a concoction is that the cold in winter does not affect the stench of asafoetida; aniseed forms a strong attraction for many kinds of animals; foxes are fond of eggs; and no stronger lure exists for an animal than the smell of the female gland. So powerful is the fetor of this "mixed bait," and so delicious is the merest whiff of it, that it forms not only an irresistible but a long-range allurement for many kinds of fur-bearers. Indeed, so pungent was it, that Oo-koo-hoo carried merely a little of it in a cap-box, and found that a tiny daub was quite sufficient to do his work. The reason for using the two kinds of bait was that while the mixed bait would attract the animal to the trap by its scent, the sight of the duck's head would induce the fox to enter the hole, step upon the unseen trap while reaching to secure its favourite food, and thus be caught by a foreleg. The mention of an animal being caught by a foreleg reminds me of the strange experience that Louison Laferte, a French half-breed, manservant at Fort Rae, once had with a wolf. Louison was quite a wag and at all times loved a joke. One day while visiting one of his trapping paths with his four-dog team he came upon a wolf caught in one of his traps by the foreleg. After stunning the brute, he found that its leg was in no way injured, for it had been in the trap but a short time. Louison, in a sudden fit of frolic humour, unharnessed his Number 3 dog and harnessed in its place the unconscious wolf. When the wild brute came to, and leaped up, the half-breed shouted: "_Ma-a-r-r-che_!" and whipped up his dogs. Off they went, the two leading dogs pulling the wolf along from in front, while the sled-dog nipped him from behind and encouraged him to go ahead. Thus into Fort Rae drove the gay Louison with an untamed timber-wolf in harness actually helping to haul his sled as one of his dog-team. The half-breed kept the wolf for more than a month trying to train it, but it proved so intractable and so vicious that fearing for the children around the Post, eventually he killed it. DOG TRAILING FOX It is generally conceded by the most experienced fur-hunters of the northern forest, that while the wolverine is a crafty brute and difficult to hunt, yet of all forest creatures the coloured fox is the hardest to trap. In hunting the two animals with dogs, however, there is little comparison. The wolverine, being a heavy, short-legged beast, can soon be overhauled in an open country or on a beaten trail by a dog, or in deep snow even by a man on snowshoes; while the chances of a fox being run down by a dog are not so good. Some hunters, however, kill many foxes by running them down with dogs, and for such work they use a light-weight, long-legged dog possessed of both long sight and keen scent. Hunters declare that no animal, not even the wolf, has so much endurance as a good hunting-dog. When a hunting-dog sights a fox on a frozen lake he runs straight for him. The fox, on realizing that he is being pursued, leaps wildly into the air two or three times, and then makes off at tremendous speed--much faster than the dog can run. But in about half a mile the fox, becoming played out, stops to rest a moment and to look around to see if the dog is still following. Then, on seeing the dog still in pursuit, he sets off in another great burst of speed. Meanwhile, the dog has gained on him, and the fox, discovering this, bolts off at a different angle. The dog, however, observing what has happened, takes advantage of his quarry, and cuts the corner and thereby makes another gain. The fox, now more alarmed than ever, makes another turn, and the dog cuts another corner and makes another gain. Thus the race goes on until the fox comes to the conclusion that the dog is sure to get him, loses both heart and wind and finally lies down from sheer exhaustion. The dog rushes at him, seizes him between the forelegs, and with one crunch the hunt is over. It is much the same in the deep snow of the timberland. There the fox will start off with great bounds that sink him deep into the snow and make the scent only the stronger for the dog. Meanwhile, the dog lopes steadily along, though far out of sight. The fox stops to listen and learn if his enemy is still pursuing him. When the dog finally comes into view, the fox changes his course, and the dog cuts the corner, and thus the story ends in the usual way. OTHER WAYS OF TRAPPING As the methods of hunting the wolf, the marten, the lynx, and the wolverine are founded on the various ways of trapping the fox, a full description of how foxes are hunted may be of interest. Then, too, the reader will be enabled to understand more easily, without unnecessary repetition, the modes of trapping other animals. My description, however, will apply only to the hunting of the crafty coloured foxes of the forest, and not to their stupid brethren of the Arctic coasts--the white and the blue foxes. Of course, every Indian tribe believes its own manner of hunting to be the master way, but it is conceded by experienced fur-traders that the Ojibway method is the best. When setting a fox trap in the winter time, the first thing an Ojibway does is to jab into the snow, small end down, and in an upright position, the clog or drag-pole. With his knife he then cuts a hole in the snow exactly the size of the set trap, the plate of which has already been daubed with mixed bait. In this hole the trap is placed in such a position that it rests about half an inch below the surface of the snow. A thin shield of birch bark covers this, and then with a crane's wing the snow is brushed over both trap and chain so that no sign remains. Then in addition to the mixed bait, he plants about the spot food bait, such as bits of rotten fish or duck. Most hunters have a regular system for setting their traps so that they may know exactly where and how they are placed. Usually he sets them east and west, then cutting a notch on a branch--about a foot from the butt--he measures that distance from the trap, and thrusts the branch into the snow in an upright position, as though it were growing naturally. The stick serves not only to mark the trap, but in an open space to furnish the same attraction for a fox as a tree does for a dog; besides, when the hunter is going his rounds, at the sight of the branch he will remember where and how his trap is set, and can read all the signs without going too near. The object of laying the sheet of birch bark over the trap is that when any part of the bark is touched the trap may go off; besides, it forms a hollow space beneath, and thus allows the animal's foot to sink deeper into the trap, to be caught farther up, and to be held more securely. The foregoing is the usual way of setting a fox trap, yet the Wood Crees and the Swampy Crees set their fox traps on mounds of snow about the size of muskrat houses. For that purpose they bank the snow into a mound about eighteen inches high, bury the drag-pole at the bottom, set the trap exactly in the crest of the mound, and, covering up all traces of trap and chain with powdered snow, sprinkle food bait and mixed bait around the bottom of the mound. The approaching fox, catching scent of the mixed bait, follows it up and then eats some of the food bait, which presently gives him the desire to go and sit upon the mound--which is the habit of foxes in such a condition--and thus he is caught. A curious thing once happened to a Dog-rib Indian at Great Slave Lake. One day he found a wolf caught in one of his traps and foolishly allowed his hunting-dog to rush at it. The wolf leaped about so furiously that it broke the trap chain, and ran out upon the lake, too far for the hunter's gun. In pursuit of the wolf, the dog drew too near and was seized and overpowered by the wolf. In order to save his dog the hunter rushed out upon the lake; and when within fair range, dropped upon one knee and fired. Unluckily, the ball struck the trap, smashed it, and set the wolf free; and all the hunter got for his pains was a dead dog and a broken trap--while the wolf went scot free. The Chipewyan and Slave Indians set their traps inside a lodge made of eight or ten poles, seven or eight feet in length, placed together lodge fashion and banked round with a wall of brush to prevent the fox entering except by the doorway. The trap is set in the usual way, just outside the entrance, the chain being fastened to one of the door poles. Instead, however, of being placed on the snow around the trap, the mixed bait is put on a bit of rabbit skin fastened in the centre of the lodge; the idea being that the fox will step on the trap when he endeavours to enter. The Louchieux Indian sets his trap the foregoing way, but in addition he sets a snare in the doorway of the lodge, not so much to catch and hold the fox, as to check him from leaping in without treading on the trap. Oo-koo-hoo told me that whenever a trap set in the usual way had failed to catch a fox, he then tried to take advantage of the cautious and suspicious nature of the animal by casting about on the snow little bits of iron, and re-setting and covering his trap on the crest of some little mound close at hand without any bait whatever. The fox, returning to the spot where he had scented and seen the bait before, would now scent the iron, and becoming puzzled over the mystery would try to solve it by going to the top of the mound to sit down and think it over; and thus he would be caught. Another way to try for a fox that has been nipped in a trap and yet has got away is to take into account the strange fact that the animal will surely come back to investigate the source of the trouble. The hunter re-sets the trap in its old position and in the usual way; then, a short distance off, he builds a little brush tepee, something like a lynx-lodge, which has a base of about four feet, and by means of a snare fastened to a tossing-pole, he hangs a rabbit with its hind feet about six inches above the snow. A mixed-bait stick is placed a little farther back, in order to attract the fox, while another trap is set just below the rabbit. The idea of re-setting the first trap in the old position is to put the fox off his guard when he approaches the dead rabbit hanging in the snare. As, no doubt, he has seen a rabbit hang many times before, and snares so baited he has often robbed. The Indian in his extreme care to avoid communicating man-smell to the rabbit will even remain to leeward of it while he handles it, lest man-scent should blow against the rabbit and adhere to the fur. If that happened, the fox would be so suspicious that he would not go near the rabbit. But to illustrate how stupid the white fox of the Arctic coast is in comparison with the coloured fox of the forest, the following story is worth repeating. It happened near Fort Churchill on the northwest coast of Hudson Bay. The trader at the post had given a certain Eskimo a spoon-bait, or spoon-hook, the first he had ever seen; and as he thought it a very wonderful thing, he always carried it about with him. The next fall, while going along the coast, he saw a pack of white foxes approaching, and having with him neither a trap nor a gun, he thought of his spoon-hook. Tearing a rag off his shirt, he rubbed on it some porpoise oil which he was carrying in a bladder, fastened the rag about the hook, laid it on a log directly in the path of the approaching foxes, and, going to the end of the line, lay down out of sight to watch what would happen. When the foxes drew near, one of them seized the bait, and the Eskimo, jerking the line, caught the fox by the tongue. In that way the native caught six foxes before he returned to the post; but then, as everyone in the Far North knows, white foxes are proverbially stupid creatures. The more expert the hunter, the more pride he takes in his work. Before leaving a trap, he will examine its surroundings carefully and decide from which angle he wishes the animal to approach; then by arranging cut brush in a natural way in the snow he will block all other approaches, and thus compel the unsuspecting fox to carry out his wishes. When a fox springs a trap without being caught, he rarely pauses to eat the bait, but leaps away in fright. The hunter, however, knowing that the fox will soon return, not only leaves the trap as the fox left it, but sets another trap, or even two more, without bait, close to the first, where he thinks the fox will tread when he makes his second visit. If that fails, he will trace the fox's trail to where it passes between thick brush and there he will set a trap in the usual way, but without bait, right in the fox's track. Then he will cut brush and shore up the natural bushes in such a way that, no other opening being left, the fox must return by his own track, and run the chance of being caught. Should that method also fail, the hunter will set another trap in the trail close to the first, in the hope that if one trap does not catch the fox, the next will. Another device is to break a bit of glass into tiny slivers which the hunter mixes with grease and forms into little tablets that he leaves on the snow. If the fox scents them, the chances are that he will swallow each tablet at a single gulp. Presently he will feel a pain in his stomach. At first this will cause him to leap about, but as his sufferings will only increase, he will lie down for an hour or so. When he finally rises to move away, he will feel the pain again. Once more he will lie down, and the chances are that he will remain there until found either dead or alive by the hunter. FASHIONABLE FOOLS If my readers, especially my women readers, should feel regret at the great suffering resulting from fur-hunting, they should recall to mind its chief contributory cause--those devotees of fashionable civilization who mince around during the sweltering days of July and August in furs. The mere thought of them once so filled with wrath a former acting Prime Minister of Canada--Sir George Foster--that he lost his usual flow of suave and classic oratory, and rearing up, roared out in the House of Parliament: "Such women get my goat!" Truly, there is much suffering in the wilderness, especially on account of civilization; but if my readers will be patient enough to wade through these few paragraphs of pain, they may later on find enough novelty, beauty, and charm in the forest to reward them for reading on to the end. But to return to foxes--they are much given to playing dead. Once, while travelling in Athabasca with Caspar Whitney, the noted American writer on Sport and Travel, we came upon a black fox caught in a steel trap. One of our dog-drivers stunned it and covered it with a mound of snow in order to protect its pelt from other animals, so that when the unknown trapper came along he would find his prize in good order. Three days later, when I passed that way, the fox was sitting upon the mound of snow, and was as alive as when first seen. This time, however, my half-breed made sure by first hitting the fox on the snout to stun it, and then gently pressing his moccasined foot over its heart until it was dead--the proper way of killing small fur-bearing animals without either injuring the fur or inflicting unnecessary pain. Colin Campbell, a half-breed at York Factory, once had a different experience. He had been on a visit to an Indian camp with his dog-train and on his way back found a white fox in one of his traps. He stunned it in the usual way and pressed his foot over its heart; and when he was sure it was dead, placed it inside his sled-wrapper and drove home. On arriving at the Fort he unhitched his sled from the dogs, and leaving them harnessed, pulled his sled, still containing its load, into the trading room; where, upon opening the wrapper to remove the load, the fox leaped out and, as the door was closed, bolted in fright straight through the window, carrying the glass with it, and escaped before the dogs could be released from their harness. There are, however, other ways of catching the fox. One is to chop a hole in the ice on a river or lake, fill the hole with water and place in it a "hung" white-fish, in such a position that, when the water freezes, about one third of the fish will protrude above the ice. Then in the usual way, but without bait or sign, set one or two traps near the fish. When the fox arrives, he may succeed in eating the fish's head, but when he tries to dig the rest of the fish out of the ice, he will become too interested to remain cautious, and in shifting his place of stance will soon be taken prisoner. But sometimes a knowing old fox will first dig about in the snow, and on finding the trap, will thereafter be able to eat the fish in safety. Mention of the fish bait recalls what strange things occasionally happen in relation to hunting. A half-breed hunter, named Pierre Geraud, living near Fort Isle a la Crosse, in laying out his trapping trail one winter, had set one of his mink deadfalls in a swamp close to the water-line; and on visiting the trap after the spring flood, found a large pike caught in it. All the signs showed that when the flood had been at its height the fish had been swimming about, and on discovering the bait set for mink had seized it, and in trying to make away with it had set off the trap, the heavy drop-log falling and killing the fish. When I expressed surprise that an animal should have intelligence enough not only to find a buried trap, but to dig it up and then spring it without being caught, Oo-koo-hoo explained that it was not so much a matter of animal intelligence as of man's stupidity; for whenever that happened it did not prove to the animal's credit, but to man's discredit; the careless hunter having simply left enough man-smell on the trap to form a guide that told the animal exactly where the trap lay. Then, the overwhelming curiosity of the fox had compelled it to investigate the mystery by digging it up, and when found, the fox in its usual way would play with the strange object; just as a domestic kitten would do, and so the fox would set off the trap. THE LAST RESORT On my first trips into the forest, whenever I questioned an Indian hunter as to the cause of this or that, the completeness of his graphic explanation always puzzled me; for I could not understand how it was that when he was not an eye-witness, he knew all the details of the affair as well as though the dead animal itself had told him the full story. But when I, too, began to study Nature's book on woodcraft, it amazed me no longer; for then I realized that to those who had studied enough it was easy to read the drama of the forest; especially in the winter, for then Nature never fails to record it, and every story is always published just where it happens. Even to those who have not taken the Indian degree in woodcraft, it is not difficult to read in winter time the annals of animal life in the forest, for then Nature describes with ample detail many an interesting story. In winter time, too, even a blind Indian can follow a trail of which a town-bred man with normal sight could see no trace. If his steel traps fail, the Indian may resort to still another method--the gun trap--regardless of the fact that this may lessen the value of the animal's pelt. A gun, first carefully cleaned and loaded with the exception of the cap, is placed in a nearly horizontal position about two feet above the snow and lashed securely to two posts; the barrel slanting downward to a point about a foot in height and eight feet away. At that precise spot the bait stick is so fixed that when the fox seizes the bait, its head will be directly in line with the gun-barrel. Fastened to the bait by one end will be a thong, the other end of which will be attached to the trigger, and will discharge the gun when the bait is seized. When all is in readiness, the cap is put on the nipple, and a birch-bark shelter arranged to keep the gun-lock free from falling snow. Brush is then placed in the snow in such a way that it will cause the fox to approach from only one direction, and that the one the hunter desires. It is not a good trap, being very uncertain, as whiskey-jacks, ermine, mice, or rabbits may meddle with it, and set it off. It is seldom used except for wolverine. Frequently the value an Indian places upon a certain pelt is determined not according to its quality, but according to the trouble the animal caused him in securing it, and for that reason he will sometimes expect more for a red fox pelt than for the skin of a beautiful black fox. Then, in order to retain the Indian's goodwill, the experienced trader will humour him by giving the price asked, and count on making up his loss in another way. In hunting fur-bearers poison should never be used, since it bleaches the fur and thus reduces its value. Moreover, it is apt to kill in an almost endless chain many forest creatures besides the animal sought, as they may feed on the first victim to the deadly drug. The hunter's last resort in trapping the coloured fox is to set a snare for him. In setting a snare the Chipewyan and northern Indians always use a tossing-pole, while most of the southern and eastern Indians use a spring-pole; the difference being that a tossing-pole is usually made by bending down a small tree--the size of the tree being determined by the size of the game--to the top of which is fastened the snare; or the tossing-pole may be made by cutting a pole for that purpose. The result, however, being that the moment the snare is sprung the tossing-pole flies free, and hauling the game into the air, holds it there out of reach of other animals that might rob the hunter of his prize. A spring-pole is made by setting a springy pole in such a position that when the snare is sprung, the tension is released, and the pole, springing up, hauls the animal against a stationary bar set horizontally above the loop of the snare, and holds the quarry there. Many kinds of animals are caught with snares, and in size they run all the way from rabbits to bears and even to the great bull-moose. HUNTER CAUGHT IN SNARE Snares, steel traps, and deadfalls that are set for large game are dangerous even for man to approach carelessly, and sometimes even the trapper himself has the misfortune to be caught in the very trap he has set for some other animal. Early one winter, in fact, just after the first heavy snowfall, and while some bears were still roaming about, before turning in for their long winter sleep, an Indian hunter--I have forgotten his name--assisted by his son, had just set a powerful snare for bears. Soon after starting for home, the hunter, discovering that he had left his pipe by the trap, told his son to go on to camp, and he would return to recover his treasure. On arriving at the snare, he saw his pipe lying just beyond his reach at the back of the loop, but instead of walking round the brush fence and picking it up from behind, as he should have done, he foolishly put his leg through the snare in order to reach and dislodge his pipe. By some evil chance his foot caught upon the loop; and instantly he was violently jerked, heels over head, into the air, and there hung head downward struggling for his life. He had made the tossing-pole from a strong tree, up which his son had climbed with a line, and by their combined weight they had forced the tree top over and down until they could secure it by setting the snare. The tossing-pole, when the snare went off, sprung up with such force that it not only dislocated the hunter's right leg at the knee, but it threw his knife out of its sheath, and, consequently, he had no means by which he could cut the line, nor could he unfasten it or even climb up--for he was hanging clear of the tree. Presently, however, he began to bleed from the nose and ears; and in his violent effort to struggle free, he noticed that he was swinging from side to side; then it dawned upon him that if he could only increase the radius of his swing he might manage to reach and seize hold of the tree, climb up to slacken the line, unfasten the snare, and set himself free. This, after much violent effort, he finally accomplished; but even when he reached the ground, everything seemed utterly hopeless, for on account of his dislocated leg, he could not walk. So there he lay all night long. During twilight, as fate ordained, the wounded man had a visitor; it was a bear, and no doubt the very bear for which he had set his snare. But the bear, in approaching, did not notice the man until it was almost on top of him, and then it became so frightened that it tore up into a neighbouring tree and there remained for hours. By midnight, however, it came down, and then it was the suffering hunter's turn to become alarmed, for the big brute passed very close to him before it finally walked away. A little after sunrise the hunter's son arrived, but not being able to carry his father, and fearing lest the bear might return before he could secure help, he decided to leave his father there, while he went in search of the bear. Tracking it, he soon came upon it and shot it dead. Back he hastened to camp and, with his mother, returned with a sled and hauled the wounded man home. THE FOX AT HOME The "coloured" foxes, including the red, the cross, the silver, and the black--the latter three being merely colour phases of the former and not separate species, as has frequently been proved, but all four having been found in the same litter--mate in February and March. They pair and remain faithful partners. The father also helps in feeding and caring for the young which are born about fifty days after the mating season. The litter contains from three to ten, and when a few weeks old the young are as playful and as interesting as domestic kittens. The den in which they are born may be a hollow tree, a hollow log, or more often an underground tunnel with several entrances and a storeroom besides the living chamber. The nest is never lined, but left quite bare and is kept clean. Their principal food is derived from mice, birds, fowl, and rabbits; and the parents frequently cache food for both their young and themselves. No wonder they are good providers, for what with their keen sense of scent and their great speed they seldom fail in their hunts. They are fond of open country and have an individual range of very few miles, perhaps ten at the most. In winter they run singly until the mating season; seldom are the tracks of more than two foxes seen together, and their principal enemies are men, wolves, lynxes, and dogs. As the district through which we were passing was rich in fox-signs, Oo-koo-hoo set a number of traps. Such work takes time, and when we reached a well-wooded grove of second-growth birch, poplars, and--along a little creek--willows, we began to think of where we should camp for the night. Besides, the old hunter deemed it an ideal spot in which to set lynx and rabbit snares. So while the boys cut wood for the fire and brush for our beds, and then turned to the cooking of supper, Oo-koo-hoo cut a great mass of birch, poplar, and willow branches and tops, and threw them into piles, not only to attract the rabbits thither, but to afford them a prolonged feast for many weeks, and thus fatten them for his own use; moreover, the gathering of the rabbits would prove a strong attraction for the lynxes of the region. Sometimes, at such a spot, hundreds of rabbits will feed, and in winter time the place may become such a network of runways that if it happens to be a fairly open hillside one can see from half a mile away the shadows of the endless tracks that mark the glistening snow in all directions. During the years of great plenty--which the Indians and traders assert come about every seventh year--the number of rabbits in some sections of the northern forest is almost beyond belief. Then a plague suddenly overtakes them, almost wiping them out of existence, and several years elapse before the disease disappears and they begin to increase again. The plague, of course, is the rabbit's greatest enemy, then follows the lynx, the fox, the wolf, and many other animals and even birds such as the owl and the hawk; but somewhere among that destructive group man plays a prominent part. THE RABBIT AND THE HUNTER The rabbit, or more properly the varying-hare, of the northern forest is also called the snowshoe rabbit, from the fact that nature has provided it with remarkable feet that allow it to run with ease over the deepest and softest snow. It wears a coat that changes colour with the changing seasons: brown in summer and white in winter. Its food is derived principally from the bark of the poplar, the willow, and the birch. In winter time rabbits are found to be fattest when the moon is full, and that is accounted for by the fact that they feed at night, and feed most when the moon is giving light. Besides, on stormy nights, especially between moons, they remain more under cover and feel less inclined to venture out even to secure their needed food. In all the north woods there is no animal that is of more use to man, beast, or bird, than the rabbit, nor is there any animal that is so friendly to all alike; yet no other creature of the wilderness is so preyed upon as the rabbit. But in winter its safety lies not so much in the great speed it possesses as in its snowshoe feet and in its skill in dodging. Rabbits mate in March and April, the usual litter of three or four being born about a month later. The nest is usually on the ground in some sheltered place under brushwood that forms a good protection, and the nest is lined with leaves, grass, or their own cast-off fur. A rabbit snare is made of fine babiche, sinew, cord, or wire, and the loop is hung over a rabbit runway just high enough to catch it round the neck. In its struggles it sets off the spring or tossing-pole, thus usually ending its sufferings. When thus caught the flesh is tender and sweet; but when caught by a leg the flesh is flabby and tasteless, the reason being that when caught by the neck the rabbit is killed almost instantly; but when snared by a leg it hangs struggling in pain for hours before it finally bleeds at the nose and dies, or is frozen to death. When the latter happens, however, the rabbit is usually thrown to a dog or used for trap bait. The reason Oo-koo-hoo set the rabbit snares was not so much for present needs as to provide meals for the hunter while on his future rounds; also to keep on hand a goodly supply of trap bait. Expert hunters, when they have time, prefer to hunt rabbits by calling them. In the rutting season they imitate the love-call of the female, and in other seasons they mimic the cries of the young; in either case, the unsuspecting animals come loping from all directions, and the hunter bowls them over with fine shot. Calling takes much practice, but when the hunter has become an adept, it is the easiest and the quickest way of catching them. In relation to setting snares for rabbits, Mrs. Wm. Cornwallis King, the wife of a well-known Hudson's Bay Company's chief trader, once had an unusual experience. She had set for rabbits a number of snares made of piano wire, and when visiting them one morning she was astonished and delighted, too, to find caught in one of her snares a beautiful silver fox; stranger still, the fox was caught by its tongue. As usual, after investigation, the snow told the whole story in a graphic way. It showed that the fox had been pursuing a rabbit, both going on the full run, and the latter always dodging in the effort to escape from its enemy. Finally, the rabbit had bolted past the snare, and the panting fox, with its tongue hanging out, following close behind, accidentally had touched its wet tongue against the wire, and the frost of many degrees below zero had instantly frozen it there. Then the fox, struggling to get free, had set off the snare, which closing on its tongue had hauled it into the air, where it had hung with just the tip of its tail and its hind toes resting on the snow. When Mrs. King found it, it was dead. That evening, when the fire sank low and we turned in, a pack of timber wolves for fully an hour sang us a most interesting lullaby; such a one, indeed, that it made the goose-flesh run up and down our backs--or rather my back--just as really fine music always does; and to tell the truth, I enjoyed it more than many a human concert I have heard. HUNTING THE LYNX It was cool next morning and cloudy and threatening snow. Five rabbits had been caught during the night, and after breakfast we turned to setting lynx snares. The steel trap is set for the lynx much in the same way as it is for the fox; but for the lynx, a snare is preferable. It is set with or without a tossing-pole, at the entrance of a brush-lodge, the base of which is about five feet wide. The bait used is made by rubbing beaver castorum on a bit of rabbit skin placed in a split stick set vertically in the centre of the lodge. A surer way, however, is to also set a steel trap in front of the lodge door, so that if the lynx does not enter, he may be caught while looking in. The Indians often hunt them with dogs, for, when pursued, the lynx soon takes to a tree and then is easily shot. But the most proficient hunters like to hunt them by calling. They imitate its screech and also its whistle, for the lynx whistles somewhat like a jack-rabbit, though the sound is coarser and louder. Some Indians are very successful in this mode of hunting. Besides being able to whistle, the lynx far surpasses the domestic cat in the range and volume of his evening song; and during the rutting season, at sunrise and sunset, he has a peculiar habit of beating or drumming with his forepaws on the hard snow or earth. No doubt it is a form of challenge, used much in the same way as the drumming of cock-grouse; martens and rabbits do the same. The lynx is a wonderful swimmer and is dangerous to tackle in the water, for he can turn with remarkable agility, and board a canoe in a moment. Of all northern animals he is perhaps the most silent walker, for in the night a band of five or six lynxes may pass close beside one's tent and never be heard, though a single rabbit, passing at the same distance, may make enough noise to awaken a sound sleeper. Though he often behaves like a coward, hunters approach him with care when he is caught in a steel trap, as he can make a great spring and when he chooses, can fight desperately. While in summer he is a poor runner, in winter he is greatly aided by his big feet, which act as snowshoes and help him over the soft snow and the deep drifts. Few animals succeed in killing him, for what with his unusual speed in water and the fact that he can climb a tree with almost the ease of a monkey, his chances of escape are always good. [Illustration: The lynx is a wonderful swimmer and is dangerous to tackle in the water, for he can turn with remarkable agility, and board a canoe in a moment. Of all northern animals he is perhaps the most silent walker. Though he often behaves like a coward, hunters approach him with care when he is caught in a steel trap, as he can make a great spring and when he chooses, can . . . See Chapter III.] Lynxes mate in March, the young being born about three months later, the litter consisting of from one to five. The father assists in the support of the kittens, which are much like those of the domestic cat. The lynx's coat is gray mottled with brown, but in winter it turns a lighter colour; in weight he runs from thirty-five to forty-five pounds. His principal food is derived from rabbits and any other animals he can kill, from beaver down, as well as grouse, ptarmigan, and other birds and fowl; occasionally he will tackle the young of deer, but he never dares to molest man. When his catch is more than sufficient for his present need, he caches the remainder in snow or earth for future use. He is as cleanly as a house cat, and his flesh when cooked resembles a cross between rabbit and veal. MARTEN TRAPPING After setting a number of snares for lynxes we resumed our march, and on rounding the end of a little lake, saw two fresh moose-tracks. Following them up, we finally came to a park-like region, where was very little underbrush, and where most of the trees were pine and spruce--an ideal spot for marten. So Oo-koo-hoo, forgetting all about his moose-tracks, made ready to set some marten traps. For one marten an Indian catches in a steel trap he catches a dozen in wooden deadfalls; but with the white trapper it is different--he relies chiefly on the steel traps. Steel traps are set either in the open or in the tracks of the marten in exactly the same way as for foxes, and either with or without tossing-poles. The largest and best deadfalls used by the Indians are those they set for bears. The city-dwelling author, or illustrator, who has not lived in the wilderness, would never think of depicting an Indian trapper with a big hand-auger hanging from his belt, perhaps no more than he would depict a pirate armed with a big Bible; yet, nevertheless, it is a fact that the Indian trapper nowadays carries an auger much as the old buccaneer carried his cutlass--thrust through his belt. Somehow or other, I never could associate Oo-koo-hoo's big wooden-handled auger with his gun and powder-horn, and all the while I was curious as to what use he was going to make of it. Now I was to have my curiosity satisfied. First he selected an evergreen tree about a foot in diameter--this time it was a pine--and with his axe cut a horizontal notch one to two inches deep; then he blazed the tree six or eight inches down to the notch, in order to form a smooth, flat surface; then he took his big auger and bored down into the tree, at an incline of about twenty degrees, a hole of two inches' diameter and nine inches deep. Allowing at that spot for two feet of snow, he had bored the hole about thirty inches above ground. Then taking two inch-and-a-quarter, thin, sharp-pointed nails he drove them obliquely into the tree just above the hole, so that about three quarters of each protruded into the hole. He did the same with two other nails below the hole, but this time drove them upward until they, too, protruded into the hole. Both sets of nails were driven in about an inch and a quarter apart. The bait used was a duck's head placed at the bottom of the hole. The idea was that when the marten scented the bait, he would crawl into the hole to secure it; but when he tried to withdraw, he would find himself entrapped by the four sharp-pointed nails that, though they allowed him to slip in, now prevented him from backing out as they ran into his flesh, and held him until the hunter, placing two fingers of each hand over the four nail-points, seizing with his teeth the animal's tail, and throwing back his head, would draw his victim out. But such work is rather risky, as the hunter may be bitten before he has a chance to kill the marten. Though it is a very recent mode of trapping--only about thirty-five years old--it is now considered the best of all ways for taking marten, as the traps not only remain set all winter, but they last for years. Later I learned from a chief factor that it was invented by a Saulteaux Indian named Ke-now-keoose, who was at one time employed as a servant of the Hudson's Bay Company, where he learned the use of carpenter's tools--later, when he left the service, he hunted and trapped along the Athabasca, the Slave, and the Mackenzie rivers. Sometimes twenty-five to thirty such traps are set by a hunter in a single day. Mink and ermine are often caught in them, and on one occasion even a wolverine was taken. The wolverine, having scented the bait, followed it up, and while endeavouring to secure the dainty duck's head, thrust his forepaw into the hole and was thus taken prisoner. Oo-koo-hoo took pains to teach the boys everything in relation to trapping, and as soon as he was sure they had mastered the details of setting such traps, he went ahead with his axe to blaze the right trees, while the boys followed with the auger, and in the work of boring the holes and driving the nails took turn and turn about. But after all, the old-fashioned deadfall is more humane than any other way of trapping, as it often ends the animal's suffering at once by killing it outright, instead of holding it a prisoner till it starves or is frozen to death, before the hunter arrives on his usual weekly round of that particular trapping path. Martens mate in February or March, the young being born about three months later, either in a hole in the ground or in a hollow tree; the nest being lined with moss, grass, or leaves, and the litter numbering usually from two to four. The marten is a wonderfully energetic little animal, even more tireless than the squirrel and as great a climber. It is an expert hunter and its food includes birds, fish, chipmunks, birds' eggs, mice, fruit, and rabbits; and it stores its surplus food by burying it. MINK ON THE FUR TRAIL By the time Oo-koo-hoo and his grandsons had set twelve or fifteen traps it was nearing noon, so we had lunch before starting off in search of another rich game region. While on our way that afternoon the old hunter again discovered signs of wolverines and it worried him, for it meant not only the destruction of many of his traps, but also the ruining of the pelts of some of the animals he might catch. Continuing, we soon entered an ideal valley for mink, where two turbulent little crystal streams roared at one another as they sprang together among the rocks and then fell down into dark, eddying pools where, no doubt, trout leaped after flies in due season. The mink is a small animal, about two feet long, including his tail. In colour he is of a dark, rich brown. Though he is not a swift runner and is rather a poor climber, he is an excellent swimmer and is a desperate fighter of great strength. Minks mate in February and March; the female burrowing in a bank, a rocky crevice, or beneath a log or a stump, or perhaps in a hollow tree; the nest is lined with moss, feathers, or grass, and the young are born about forty days after the mating season. The minks' food may be flesh, fish, or fowl and, if overstocked, it is stored for future use. On land, the mink is caught exactly as the fox, the fisher, or the marten is caught, except, of course, that there is a difference in the size of the traps. In water, the steel trap is set just below the surface and rests on the muddy or sandy bottom, where it is half covered with soil as it lies in readiness close to the bank where the mink is in the habit of passing in and out of the stream. Mixed bait is placed on the branches of the near-by bushes. In order, however, to better his chances of catching the mink, the hunter may build a deadfall near the trap, where the animal is in the habit of entering the bush. Then extra bait of rancid fish or duck is used. This mode of water-trapping applies, also, to muskrat, otter, and beaver. The mink, however, is a stupid creature, and it does not require great skill to trap him; but the hunter, nevertheless, must take care when removing him from the trap, for the little brute has the heart of a lion and will tackle anything, regardless of size. We camped that night on the hillside overlooking "Mink Creek" as Oo-koo-hoo called it, and next morning we again set out on our circular way, for on leaving our lodges, we first headed almost due west for about three miles, then we turned south for two more, and gradually working round, we were soon facing east; that course we followed for a day, then on the morrow we worked round toward the north, and finally to the west again, as we neared home. Thus the trapping path was laid in an elliptic form, somewhat suggesting the letter C, with the home camp between the two ends of the letter. Many times during the winter circumstances proved the wisdom of Oo-koo-hoo's plan, especially when the sled became over-loaded with game, and a short cut to camp became desirable. Though no part of his fur path lay more than five miles from the lodges, yet to make the full circuit on showshoes, to examine the traps, and to set some of them, it required a long day, as the path must have covered in a zig-zagging way more than twenty miles. Later on he and Amik laid out two more such trapping paths: one to the north and the other to the east of Bear Lake. The one to the northward was to be especially for bears and wolves as it was a good region for both those animals. At supper time a snow flurry overtook us and whitened the forest. As we sat around the fire that evening, the last evening of our trip, Oo-koo-hoo again began worrying about the presence of wolverines, recalling many of his experiences with those destructive animals. But none of his stories equalled the following, told once by Chief Factor Thompson. MEGUIR AND THE WOLVERINE It happened years ago when an old Dog-rib Indian, called Meguir, was living and hunting in the vicinity of Fort Rae on Great Slave Lake. The Dog-rib and his family of five had been hunting Barren Ground Caribou, and after killing, skinning, and cutting up a number of deer, had built a stage upon which they placed the venison. Moving on and encountering another herd of caribou, they killed again, and cutting up the game, stored it this time in a log cache. Again setting out on the hunt--for they were laying in their supply of deer meat for the winter--they again met with success; but as it was in a district devoid of trees, they simply covered the meat with brush; and while Meguir and his wife set off to haul the first lot of meat to camp, the three grandchildren set to work to haul in the last. On continuing their work the next day the children brought in word that a wolverine, or carcajou, had visited the log cache; so Meguir set off at once to investigate the story. When he arrived, he found the cache torn asunder, and the meat gone. Wolverine tracks were plentiful and mottled the snow in many directions, but on circling, Meguir found a trail that led away, and on following it up, he came upon a quarter of deer. He circled again, trailed another track, found more meat, and after a few hours' work he had recovered most of the venison; but on smelling it, he found that the wolverine, in its usual loathsome way, had defiled the meat. Then, on going to his stage, Meguir found that it, too, had been visited by the wolverine, as the stage had been torn down and the meat defiled. Indignant at the outrage, the old Dog-rib determined to hunt the carcajou and destroy it. But before doing so, he made sure that all his deer meat was hauled to camp and safely stored upon the stages beside his lodge. That night, however, his old wife woke up with a start and hearing the dogs growling, looked out, and discovered a strange animal scrambling down from one of the stages. At once she screamed to her old man to get his gun as fast as The Master of Life would let him, as the wolverine was robbing them again. Half-awake, and that half all excitement, the old man rushed out into the snow with his muzzle-loading flintlock and let drive. Instantly one of his dogs fell over. Roaring with rage, the old Indian re-loaded with all speed, and catching another glimpse of the wolverine in the faint light of the Aurora Borealis, let drive again; but as ill-luck would have it, the gun went off just as another of his dogs made a gallant charge, and once more a dog fell dead--and the wolverine got away! Nothing would now do but that the old man must seek his revenge at the earliest possible moment, so when dawn broke he was already following the trail of the malicious raider. All day he trailed it through the snow, and just before dusk the tracks told him that he was very near his quarry; but rather than run the risk of firing in a poor light, he decided not to despatch the brute until daylight came. According to the northern custom, when he camped that night, he stood his gun and snowshoes in the snow far enough away to prevent their being affected by the heat of the fire. In the morning his snowshoes were gone. Tracks, however, showed that the wolverine had taken them. Again the old man trailed the thief; but without snowshoes, the going was extra hard, and it was afternoon before he stumbled upon one of his snowshoes lying in the snow, and quite near his former camp, as the "Great Mischief Maker" had simply made a big circuit and come back again. But of what use was one snowshoe? So the old hunter continued his search, and late that day found the other--damaged beyond repair. That night, filled with rage and despondency, he returned to his old camp, and as usual placed his gun upright in the snow away from the heat of the fire. In the morning it was gone. New tracks marked the snow and showed where the carcajou had dragged it away. Several hours later the old man found it with its case torn to ribbons, the butt gnawed, and the trigger broken. Tired, hungry, dejected, and enraged, old Meguir sought his last night's camp to make a fire and to rest awhile; but when he got there he found he had lost his fire bag containing his flint and steel--his wherewithal for making fire. Again he went in search, but fresh-falling snow had so obliterated the trail and so hindered his progress, that it was late before he recovered his treasure, and regained his dead fireplace. Yet still the wolverine was at large. But instead of thinking of wreaking his rage upon the wolverine, the poor old Indian was so completely intimidated by the wily brute, so discouraged and so despondent, that he imagined that the whole transaction was the work of some evil spirit. As a result, he not only gave up hunting the wolverine, but he gave up hunting altogether, and he and his family would have starved had not friends come to their rescue and rendered them assistance until his grandsons were old enough to take charge. PREPARING FOR WINTER After our return to the home-camp we experienced several weeks of perfect Indian summer, and its passing was marked by one of the most beautiful natural phenomena I have ever seen. It happened when the deciduous trees were at their height of autumnal glory, and when--as though to add still more to the wonderful scene--three inches of clinging snow having fallen during the night, glittered under the brilliant morning sun. Truly it was a glory to behold--a perfect panorama of rioting greens, yellows, browns, blues, reds, grays, crimsons, purples, in fact, every colour which an artist's palette could carry; and through it all was ever woven a mass of lace-like brilliant white that dazzled the eyes of the beholder. Only once in fifty years have I beheld a scene so enchanting. Next day, however, a strong wind blew wild-looking leaden clouds over the forest, and Autumn, taking fright, threw aside her gorgeous rustling mantle and fled away; while the loons on the lake fairly shrieked with laughter. Meanwhile, the work in preparation for the coming of winter had made good progress. Already the women and children had laid out their own little trapping paths--principally for ermine, rabbits, partridges, muskrats, and skunks, the game found nearest camp; and many another thing had the women attended to. Though they still possessed the sticking-plaster and the painkiller supplied by the trader, they refused to rely on the white man's trivial cure-alls, as they could gather better remedies from their own woods. Their chief reason for buying "painkiller" was that they, like other Indians, relished it as a cocktail on festival occasions; and many a time have I seen a group of Indians--like civilized society people--topping off cocktails (of painkiller) before sitting down to dinner. In case of illness, however, the Indians resort much to bleeding, and this is the mode of operation: a sharp flint is fastened to the split end of a stick, a U-shaped piece of wood is laid over the intended spot, and the thickness of the wood determines the depth of the incision. The flint end of the stick is raised while the other end is held down in such a way as to bend the stick; on releasing the end containing the flint, the stick strikes downward and drives the flint into the flesh to the required depth and no more. The bowl of a pipe is then applied to the cut, and the blood is drawn off through the stem. Young birch roots boiled in a second water make a tea which they sweeten with sugar and use as a laxative. Yellow water-lily roots are boiled until a black sediment forms--somewhat similar to iodine in appearance--and with a feather dipped in this liquid wounds are painted in order to consume proud flesh and to prevent mortification. The upper tips--about four inches long--of juniper trees having been boiled, and the outer bark removed, the inner bark is scraped off and mashed up for poultices. The liquor in which the juniper has been boiled is employed for washing wounds, as it causes the rapid formation of a healing cicatrix. To cure colic, the dried root of the "rat root" is chewed, and the juice swallowed. Among other work that was well under way was the making of the moccasins, known as the "mitten moccasin"--by far the best for snowshoeing, as the seam runs round only the outer side of the foot and leaves no puckering above the toes to cause blistering. True, the mitten moccasin is not of the Ojibway style, but Mrs. Oo-koo-hoo had learned to make it when she and her husband formerly sojourned among the Wood-Crees on the upper Athabasca. Supplying the family with socks was a very easy affair, as these articles were simply rectangular shapes, 12 x 18 inches (for adults) cut from duffle--a woollen material resembling an extra closely woven H.B.C. blanket--and worn wrapped about the foot. Such socks have an advantage over the ordinary kind as they are more easily dried, and they wear much longer, as the sock can be shifted about every time the wearer puts it on, thus warding off the evil day when holes appear. Amik, during the summer, had made a number of snowshoe frames, and now the women were lacing them. They used fine caribou thongs, especially fine for the heel and toe. I have seen snowshoes that white men have strung with cord; but cord is of little use, for cord, or rope, shrinks when wet and stretches when dry, whereas deerskin stretches when wet and shrinks when drying. Of all deerskin, however, that of caribou stretches less when wet than any other; besides, it is much stronger and that is why it makes the best mesh for snowshoes. In lacing a shoe, a wooden needle is used, but the eye, instead of being at one end, is in the centre. Amik had also started work on several hunting sleds of the toboggan type--the only kind used by the natives of the Great Northern Forest. They are made of birch wood and not of birch bark, as a noted American author asserted in one of his books on northern life. A hunting sled is made of two thin boards, split from a birch log by using wooden wedges, and the boards are shaved flat and smooth, first with the aid of a very sharp axe and then with a crooked knife. A hunting sled is ten to twelve inches wide, and commonly eight feet long. The widest part of the sled is at the first cross-bar, then it tapers both ways, an inch less at the tail, and four or five inches less at the end of its gracefully curved prow. That is done to prevent jamming among trees. The two boards are fastened to four cross-bars with deerskin thongs, never with pegs or nails, and the ground-lashing is made fast to the cross-bars. A wrapper of deerskin is provided in which to lash the load. The lashing thong is eighteen to twenty feet in length. Dog-sleds are made much longer, and up to about sixteen inches in width, and are provided with an extra line that trails out behind, by which the driver holds back the sled when going down hill, in order to prevent it from over-running the dogs. A hunting-sled, however, is usually hauled by man by means of a looped strap, or tump-line, with a broad centre which goes over the hunter's shoulders or head, and has its two ends fastened to the first cross-bar below the prow. During the next few days Oo-koo-hoo and Amik had also finished setting their traps, snares, and deadfalls for all the furred creatures of the woods, including wolves and bears. Already the camp had taken on a business-like air, for the big stretching frames for the skins of moose, bear, and caribou had been erected near the lodges; and as the hunters had secured both moose and caribou, the frames were already in use. Trapping had begun in earnest, and though fairly successful--a number of fine skins having been already taken--the hunters were still worried over the wolverines. On one path alone they had found nothing but a fox's foot, and the tails of four martens; besides, several of their traps were missing. In another place, where they had dressed a caribou killed by Oo-koo-hoo, and had left the meat overnight for the women and boys to haul in next day, wolverines had found it and defiled it in their usual way. The women, too, had had their troubles as owls had visited their snares, and robbed them of many a pelt. Worse in some respects than the wolverine is the owl, for while the wolverine leaves a track that one can trail, and either find what is left of the game, or overtake and punish the marauder, the owl leaves no trail at all, and though he frequently eats only the brain or eyes of the game, he has a habit of carrying the game away and dropping it in the distant woods where it is seldom found. So the women took to setting steel traps on the ends of upright poles upon which they judged the owls would alight, as these birds are much given to resting upon the tips of "ram-pikes," and in that way they had caught several. One evening early in November, after a hard day's travel through a big storm of wet, clinging snow, we sat by the fire in Oo-koo-hoo's lodge, and happily commented on the fact that we had got everything in good shape for the coming of winter. Next morning, when we went outside, we found that everything was covered with a heavy blanket of clinging snow, and the streams and the lake beginning to freeze over. We found, also, to our amazement that a big bull-moose had been standing on the bank of Muskrat Creek and watching the smoke rising from our lodges as the fires were lighted at sunrise--just as I have shown in my painting. [Illustration: Next morning we found that everything was covered with a heavy blanket of clinging snow, and the streams and the lake beginning to freeze over. We found, also to our amazement that a big bull-moose had been standing on the bank of Muskrat Creek and watching the smoke rising from our lodges as the fires were lighted at sunrise. After a hurried breakfast, we set out in pursuit of the moose, which we . . . See Chapter III.] After a hurried breakfast, we three men set out in pursuit of the moose which we overtook within a mile, and then there was meat to haul on sleds to our camp. That day the temperature fell rapidly, and by night the little streams were strongly frozen, and around the lake the ice stretched far out from the shore. So we gathered up the canoes and stored them for the winter upside down upon stages made for the purpose; and that night before we turned in we saw, for the first time that season, _Akwutinoowe_--"The Freezing Moon." IV OO-KOO-HOO PLAYS THE GAME TRAILING THE BEAR "My son, a good hunter is never long in doubt; for when he discovers a bear track and follows it for a few hundred paces, he knows whether the track was made by day or by night, whether the bear was large or small, old or young, male or female; whether its coat was in condition or not; whether the beast was merely wandering or travelling with a purpose in view; whether it was frightened or undisturbed; whether going fast or slow; and whether seeking friends or food. Also, the hunter knows which way the wind was blowing when the track was made, he knows whether the bear felt tired or active, and, furthermore, whether or not it wanted to go to bed." I laughed aloud. Instantly the old man's kindly face was clouded with a frown and he exclaimed: "My son . . . that was the laugh of a _monias_ (greenhorn)", and glaring at me, he added: "At first, I thought better of you, but now I am sure that all white men are fools!" Realizing my mistake, I sobered, and suggested that if he would explain I would have a chance to learn the ways of a great hunter. "My son, it is a simple matter to read a track--that is, when one has learned the game. For then one has but to look, remember, and reason, and then the whole story unfolds before your eyes; just as when you open and read what you white men call a book. And some day, my son, if you try hard to learn, you, too, may be able to read the tales of the Strong Woods Country. Now listen to your grandfather and he will explain: under ordinary conditions a deep, clear track implies action; a faint, shallow one, inaction; the length of the stride indicates the speed; if, when travelling slow, hair is found upon the underwood, the animal passed at night, for in daylight a bear is as careful as a lynx to avoid striking things; if the bear is young or middle aged, the claw marks are sharp and clean cut; if it is old, they are blunt and blurred. The tracks of the male, though larger, are not so round as those of the female, and the male's toes are not only longer and spread farther apart, but the underside of his foot is not so hairy as that of his mate. Then, too, as you know, there are other signs by which a tracker tells the sex of his quarry. Now if the bear was travelling with a definite purpose in mind, he would travel straight, or as nearly straight as he could through the woods, and in order to save time, he might even occasionally climb a tree to spy out the lay of the land--as he frequently does. Then, again, if he were feeding, the ground and growth beside his trail would show it; if suddenly startled, he would leave the familiar sign that all large animals usually leave when frightened; and, moreover, it would be left within fifty paces of the place where he took fright. Furthermore, if he were tired and wanted to rest, he would begin circling down wind, so that he could come about close to his back trail, and then lie down, facing down wind, in such a position that he could see anything he could not scent, and scent anything he could not see. Thus if an enemy approached, his eyes would guard his front while his scent would guard his rear. And now, my son, as a bear usually travels up wind, even a _monias_ of a white man could surmise which way the wind was blowing when the track was made. And always remember, my son, that only fools laugh at common sense. But don't get discouraged, keep on trying hard to learn, and then perhaps some day, if you live long enough, you may become almost as wise as an ordinary Indian." The perfect season for hunting the black bear, and in fact all other fur-bearing animals, is between the coming of the snow in late autumn and the going of the snow in early spring, for during that intervening season the coat is in its prime; but as the bear spends much of the winter in hibernation, the hunter must make the best of his two short opportunities; that is, unless he already knows where the bear will "den up," and is counting on killing him in his _o-wazhe_--or as the white hunters and traders call it "wash"--his den. His wash may consist of a hollow tree or a hollow log, a cave, or any suitable shelter formed by an uprooted tree. The finest wash I ever saw was in the woods of Quebec, where, many years ago, three birch saplings had taken root in a huge, hollow pine stump, and where, as time passed, the stump, gradually decaying, had allowed the roots of the fast-growing birches to penetrate through the cracks in the stump to the ground. The roots eventually formed the rafters of a moss- and rotten-wood chinked, water-tight roof to the little cavern in which the old pine stump had once stood and where two winters ago slept a bear. There was but a single entrance between two of the now massive birch roots, and it must have proved a tight squeeze when its tenant last entered. The den was shown to me by a hunter who the spring before had happened that way. While pausing to listen to some distant sound, he had heard a stranger one within ten feet of where he stood. He had heard deep breathing and turning to look down at the roots of the birches, he had discovered a full-grown black bear lying there with its head protruding out of the den. The head was turned toward him and the eyes were fixed upon him with a friendly expression. Without moving a single step the hunter raised his rifle and fired, instantly killing the bear that lay motionless scarcely beyond the muzzle of his gun. THE TRUTH ABOUT BEARS The black bear's coat is all of a glossy black, save just the muzzle, which is light brown. In weight the black bear runs from two hundred to five hundred pounds. Though he is found throughout the Great Northern Forest, he is a comparative stay-at-home, for he seldom roams, even in summer time, more than ten miles from his den, where, if undisturbed, he goes into the same winter quarters, year after year. Consequently, his paths are often clearly defined and well-beaten, for he has the habit of treading repeatedly in his old tracks, and occasionally he blazes his trail by clawing and biting, as high as he can reach, a neighbouring tree. There, too, he frequently leaves other signs--as a dog does at a post. Dog-like, also, other bears that happen along manifest pleasure or rage according to whether the sign has been left by friend or foe. The mating season is in June, though the female rarely bears young except every second year. The young are born in January while the mother is hibernating; and the cubs, usually two in number, are at birth very small, weighing only about ten ounces. The she-bear makes a good mother, for though she shows great affection for her babies, she nevertheless reprimands them, and cuffs them as well, whenever they misbehave or fail to comply with her wishes. The cubs are easily tamed, and being natural little romps, they soon become proficient wrestlers and boxers, and in latter years, show so much agility in the manly art that they strike and parry with amazing power, speed, and skill. When hurt, however, the cubs whimper and cry just like children, and if the little tots are badly wounded, the distress of the mother is pitiful to see, for she moans and sheds tears just as any tender-hearted human mother would. Bear-cubs are droll little mischiefs. Not only do they, when tamed, frequently get into trouble through the pranks they play, but they like to imitate at any risk to themselves the doings of others. As the following example shows: Years ago, near Fort Pelly, on the Assiniboine River, an old Indian killed a she-bear that was followed by two cubs. Though he skinned and cut up the carcass of the mother, he did not touch the whimpering babes, and on going to camp, he sent his wife out with a horse to bring in the meat. When the Indian woman arrived at the spot, she found the two cubs cuddled up against the dressed meat of their mother, and crying as if their poor hearts would break. Their affectionate behaviour so touched the motherly heart of the old woman that, after loading the meat aboard the _travois_--a framework of poles stretched out behind the horse--she picked up the sobbing children and, wrapping them in a blanket to keep them from falling off the _travois_, bestrode her horse, and brought them whimpering into camp. For some time she kept them tethered beside her lodge where she took good care of them, but when they grew larger and seemed well behaved, she released them and allowed them to run and play with the dogs around camp. In the fall it was her habit to take a hand-net and go down to the river to fish. Standing upon a rock and every once in a while casting in her net, she would land a fish on the bank. For several days the cubs watched her with interest, and then one day, it seems, they decided they ought to try and help their foster-mother; so wading in on their hind legs till the water covered their little round tummies, they would stand perfectly still until a fish would swim near. Then they would make a violent lunge for it, and striking lightning-like blows with their paws, they, too, would land a fish upon the bank. Over and over they repeated the manoeuvre, with evident excitement and pleasure. At last, every time the old woman picked up her net to go fishing, these two went along and helped her with her work. So fond of the sport did they become that, presently, they didn't even wait for her to accompany them, but scurried down to the river by themselves and would often have a day's fishing caught and ready for her before she had put in her appearance. But a few months later, when the cubs had grown still larger and stronger, they became so boisterous and mischievous that they not only handled the dogs too roughly, but when the old Indian and his wife left camp at any time, they went on the rampage: chasing the dogs about, ransacking the larder, turning the camp topsy-turvy, and scattering everything in confusion. So the old couple decided that it was now high time to put their skins upon the skin-stretcher in readiness to sell to the fur-trader. The black bear is a good swimmer and an excellent tree climber, and the speed with which he can rush up a hillside is surprising. His diet is a varied one, for he is always ready to eat vegetables, roots, berries, insects, nuts, fish, eggs, meat, fruit, and of course sugar or honey; furthermore, he is a killer of small game--when he is extra-hungry. The black bear has been given so bad a name by uninformed writers and dishonest story-tellers that most people dread to meet him in the woods; whereas, in truth he is usually more frightened at meeting human beings than they are of meeting him--for man is always his greatest and most dangerous enemy. Though I have seen many bears in the bush--seventeen on one trip--they never caused me any anxiety, and at once took flight. But on one of two rare occasions they did not run, perhaps because they were three in number and all full-grown. It happened up on the borderline of Alaska. I was walking alone through the mountains on my way to Stewart, and wishing to cross the Marmot River, I took advantage of a great, permanent snowslide that had been annually added to by avalanches from the snow-capped glaciers. The snowslide not only completely blocked the cañon, but on either side it reached many hundreds of feet up the almost perpendicular mountains, yet in the middle, where it bridged the river, it was no more than two hundred feet high, though it was about two thousand feet in width. Year in and year out that great snow-bridge spanned the little river, and now when I wanted to make use of it, I had no sooner started over than I discovered three bears with the same intention. They, too, had just come out of the woods, and were only forty paces from me--as I afterward measured. We were all going in the same direction, and though we were exactly opposite one another and all walking in a parallel line, no one ran, and for two thousand feet or more, without stick or stone between us, we had a good opportunity to study each other. As usual, I was armed--as I always take care to be--with a penknife and a pocket handkerchief. Occasionally one reads in the daily press shocking stories of the ferocity of bears. What a pity that the truth of these stories cannot always be run to earth! Billy Le Heup, a prospector and guide of northern Ontario, once having occasion to call for his mail in a little backwoods settlement, opened a newspaper and was shocked to learn that a most harrowing affliction had befallen an old friend of his, by name--But I'm sorry I have forgotten it, so let us call him Jones. The paper reported that while several of Jones's children were out berry-picking, a great, black bear had attacked them, and killing the youngest, a little girl, had devoured her entirely, save only one tiny fragment; for when the rescue party went in search of the poor little child they found nothing but her blood-stained right hand. Le Heup was so overcome with sorrow and so filled with indignation that he then and there determined to get together a few trapper friends of his and at once start by canoe for the scene of the tragedy, only a few miles away; there to condole with the poor father, trail the huge brute and wreak vengeance upon the child-eating monster. So Bill, with several of the best bear-hunters in that region, all well armed, set out in haste for the Jones's clearing. When they arrived, Jones was splitting wood outside his shack. The sorrowing trappers, with downcast eyes, moved slowly toward the bereaved father, and Le Heup, appointed spokesman, offered their condolences on the terrible death of his favourite child. Jones was completely dumbfounded. When it was explained to him what a dreadful thing had happened to his child, he swore he had no idea a bear had ever eaten any one of his children; but he was willing to put their story to the proof, so as he had a lot of children, he called them all out of the house to check them over. To the joyful surprise of the visitors, there among them was little Eva--supposed to be eaten, and she even retained her right hand. Thus another newspaper libel upon the poor old black bear--the buffoon of the forest--was shown to be devoid of truth; yet that story was published in the Toronto papers, and, no doubt, was copied all over the United States. But though the black bear is a shy, playful brute, usually ready for flight if danger approaches, the tyro should remember that if wounded or cornered he will readily fight. Furthermore, if one is unlucky enough to get between a bear cub and its mother, and if the cub should cry out as though you were giving it pain, the mother will attack you as readily as any mother would--be she chicken, moose, or woman. THE WAYS OF THE BEAVER A few days later Oo-koo-hoo and Amik set out to hunt beavers--those wonderful amphibious animals of the Northland that display more intelligence, perseverance, prudence, and morality than many a highly civilized human being. In appearance the beaver somewhat resembles a greatly magnified muskrat, save that the beaver's hairless, scaly tail is very broad and flat. The coat of the beaver is brown, and the darker the colour the higher the price it brings. An adult beaver may measure from thirty-five to forty-five inches in length, and weigh anywhere from thirty to sixty pounds. The beaver's home is usually in the form of an island house, built in the waters of a small lake or slowly running stream, to afford protection from prowling enemies, much in the same way that the old feudal lords surrounded the ramparts of their castles with broad moats and flooded the intervening space with a deep canal of water, in order to check the advance of enemy raiders. The surrounding shores of the beaver's castle are nearly always wooded with poplars, as it is upon the bark of that tree that the beaver depends most for his food; though at times, other hardwoods contribute to his feast as well as water-lily roots and other vegetation. The beaver's island-like lodge is a dome-shaped structure that rises from four to seven feet above the water, and measures from ten to thirty feet in diameter on the water-line. It is composed mostly of barkless sticks and poles from one to four inches in diameter, although at times much heavier material is used; and it is tightly chinked with stones and mud and matted vegetation. Frequently, I have watched the building of their lodges. A foundation of water-logged poles and sticks is laid upon the lake or river bottom, next mud and stones are added, then another lot of branches, thus the structure rises in a fairly solid mound until its dome-like top reaches the desired height above the water-line. Then the beavers tunnel their two runways into the centre of the mass from an underwater level on the outside to an over-water level on the inside of the mound. Next, by gnawing away the inside sticks and excavating the inner mass, the inside chamber is formed, measuring anywhere from four to fourteen feet in width, and a little over two feet in height, with its walls finished fairly smooth. Furthermore, the chamber is provided with two floors each of which covers about half the room. While the lower floor rises from three to six inches above the water level, the upper floor rises from four to eight inches above the lower floor. The tunnels open in the lower floor and it is the lower floor or level that is used as a drying place and a dining room. The upper level, covered with a mattress of shredded wood, grass, or moss, forms the living and sleeping half of the chamber. Though in winter time most of their meals are eaten in the house, the green, bark-covered sticks being brought into the chamber through the straightest tunnel, the house is kept quite clean and free of all rubbish or filth. In fact, beavers are better housekeepers than some human beings I have known. A certain amount of ventilation is derived from a few little chinks in the apex of the roof. During the first freezing nights of late fall the beavers plaster the above-water dome of their house with mud which they carry up between their forelegs and chin from the lake bottom, and placing it upon the roof of their house, spread it about in a thick coating, not with their tails, but with their forefeet, where it soon freezes into so solid a mass that it protects the inmates from the attacks of both the severest winter weather and the most savage of four-footed enemies. So strong indeed does the roof then become that even a moose could stand upon it without it giving way. While some writers doubt that beavers plaster the outside of their house with mud, I wish to add that I have not only examined their houses before and after the plastering was done, but on several moonlight nights I have actually sat within forty feet of them and watched them do it. The winter supply of food, being mostly poplar bark, is derived from the branches of green trees which the beavers cut down in the autumn for that very purpose. While engaged in gnawing down trees the beavers usually work in pairs--one cutting while the other rests and also acts as a sentinel to give warning in case an enemy approaches. While cutting down trees they stand or sit in an upright position upon their hind legs and are firmly supported by the tripod formed by the spreading out of their hind feet and tail. They generally choose trees nearest the water on an inclined bank, and usually leaning toward the stream; and while they show no particular skill in felling trees in a certain position, they do display great perseverance, for if it happens, as it sometimes does, that a tree in its descent is checked and eventually held up by its neighbours, the beavers will cut the trunk for the second time, and in some cases even for the third time, in order to bring it down. At night I have frequently sat by the hour at a time, with the brush-screened bow of my canoe within ten feet of a party of beavers, while they were busily engaged in cutting the branches off a tree that they had felled into the water the previous evening. They work quickly, too, for some mornings I have paddled past a big tree lying in the water, which they had dropped the night before and--on returning next day--have found all the branches removed, though some of them would have measured five inches in diameter. But watching beavers work at night is not only interesting, it is easy to do, and I have frequently taken both women and children to share in the sport. Sometimes, right in the heart of the wilderness, I have placed children within fifteen feet of beavers while they were engaged in cutting up a tree. When branches measure from one to three inches in diameter they are usually cut in lengths of from five to ten feet, and the thicker the branch the shorter they cut the lengths. If the cutting is done on land, the butt of the long thinner length is seized by the beaver's teeth and with the weight resting upon the animal's back, is dragged along the ground--over a specially cleared road--and eventually deposited in the water. The shorter lengths, sometimes no longer than a couple of feet, but measuring perhaps six or eight inches in diameter, are rolled along the ground by the beaver pushing the log with the forefeet or shoulder. When the wood is placed in the water, the beaver propels it to its under-water storage place near its lodge, where--the wood being green and heavy--it is easily secured from floating up and away, by placing a little mud over one end or by interlocking the stick with the rest of the pile. The green wood, however, soon becomes waterlogged and gives no further trouble. Thus, when the lake or river is frozen over, the beaver--for it does not hibernate--may live in comfort all winter long in its weather-proof lodge with plenty of food stored beneath the ice and just beyond the watery doorway of its home. HUNTING THE BEAVER The hunters, arriving at a small lake that lay about three miles to the northwest of Rear Lake, crossed it, and turning up a winding creek, followed the little river until they came to a beaver dam which caused the stream to expand into another little lake that flooded far beyond its old water-line. In it was to be seen three beaver lodges. Oo-koo-hoo said the scene was somewhat altered since he had visited it four years before, as the dam had been increased both in height and length, and the pond, increasing, too, had reached out close to many a tree that formerly stood some distance from the water. It was a beautiful little mere containing a few spruce-crowned islands, and surrounded by thickly wooded hills whose bases were well fringed with poplars, birches, willows, and alders--an ideal home for beaver. Among the little islands stood three snow-capped beaver lodges. Here and there wide-spreading, wind-packed carpets of snow covered the ice, while in between big stretches of clear, glassy ice, acting as skylights, lit up the beavers' submarine gardens around their ice-locked homes. The hunters were accompanied by three of their dogs, and before they had time to decide where they should first begin work, the dogs began barking at a point between the west lodge and the bank; so they went over to investigate. Evidently the dogs had spied a beaver, for now, though none was in sight, the canines were rushing back and forth in great excitement over a fairly deep submarine runway or clear passageway, through the shallow, rush-matted water under the ice. Chopping a hole through the ice with his axe, Oo-koo-hoo drove down a couple of crossed poles to block the passageway, and Amik, finding other runways, did likewise at other places. Several of the passageways led to the bank, where, Oo-koo-hoo said, they had what is called "bank lodges"--natural cavities in the river bank to which the beavers had counted on resorting in case their house was raided. In other places, where the snow obscured the view, the Indians knocked on the ice with the backs of their axes, to find and follow the hollow-sounding ice that told of runways below, that other stakes might be driven down. The rapping sound, however, instead of driving the beavers out of their lodge, had a tendency to make them remain at home, for as Oo-koo-hoo explained, cutting ice and working around their homes does not always frighten the beavers. Securing two stouter poles, the hunters now chopped the butts into wedge-shaped chisels, with which they proposed to break open the beavers' lodge. Work was begun about a foot above the level of the snow on the south side, as they explained that the lodge would not only be thinner on that side, but that the sun would make it slightly softer, too--and before much headway was made the dogs, all alert, discovered that several of the beavers had rushed out of their house, but finding the passageways blocked had returned home. Now, strange to say, as soon as the side of the house was broken open and daylight let in, the beavers, becoming curious over the inflowing light that dazzled their eyes, actually came toward the newly made hole to investigate. Then Oo-koo-hoo, with the aid of a crooked stick, suddenly jerked one of the unsuspecting animals out of the hole and Amik knocked it on the head. Thus they secured four large ones, but left a number of smaller ones unharmed, as Oo-koo-hoo never made a practice of taking a whole family. In that house the portion of the chamber used for sleeping quarters was covered with a thick mattress of dry "snake-grass," and the whole interior was remarkably clean. After blocking and patching up the hole and covering the place with snow, the hunters threw water over it until it froze into a solid mass, then they removed the stakes from the runways and left the rest of the beavers in peace. Loading their catch upon their toboggans, all set out for home. BEAVER DAMS AND CANALS Resides erecting their remarkably strong houses there are two other ways in which the beavers display wonderful skill: in the building of their dams and in the excavating of their canals. Their dams are built for the purpose of retarding, raising, and storing water, in order--in summer time--to circumvent their enemies by placing a well-watered moat between their foe and their castle; also to flood a wider area so that the far-reaching waters of their pond may lap close to the roots of many otherwise inaccessible trees and thus enable them to fell and float them to their lodge; and--in winter time--to raise the water high enough to secure their pond from freezing solid and imprisoning them in their lodges where they would starve to death, or if they gnawed their way to freedom, the intense cold of mid-winter would freeze their hairless tails and cause their death; furthermore, should they escape from the weather, they would be at the mercy of all their enemies and would not long survive. A dam, in the beginning, is usually erected in a small way, just to raise and expand the waters of some small creek or even those of a spring; then, as the years go by, it is constantly added to, to increase the depth and expansion of the pond, and thus the dam grows from a small one of a few yards in length to a big one of several hundred feet--sometimes to even four or five hundred feet in length--that may bank up the water four or five feet above the stream just outside the dam, and turn the pond into a great reservoir covering hundreds of acres of land. The dam is more often built of branches laid parallel to the current with their butts pointing up stream, and weighted down with mud and stones; thus layer after layer is added until the structure rises to the desired height and strength. Some dams contain hundreds of tons of material. They are usually built upon a solid bottom, not of rock--though big, stationary boulders often are included in the construction for the extra support they furnish. When thus used, boulders often cause the beavers to divert the line of the dam out of its usual graceful and scientific curve that well withstands the pressure from even a large body of water. The beavers excavate canals--sometimes hundreds of feet in length--to enable them to reach more easily and float home the wood they have cut from freshly felled trees lying far beyond the reaches of their pond. The canals measure from two to three feet in width and a foot to a foot and a half in depth, and are not only surprisingly clean-cut and straight but occasionally they are even provided with locks, or rather little dams, to raise the water from one level to another--generally about a foot at a time--to offset the disadvantage of the wood lying on higher and more distant ground than is reached by the waters of the residential pond. Sometimes their canals are fed by springs, but more often by the drainage of rainwater. The building of many of their dams and canals displays remarkable skill and a fine sense of engineering, together with a spirit of perseverance that is astounding. Is it any wonder that the Indians say that the beavers were once human beings, whom, for the punishment of some misconduct The Master of Life condemned to get down and grovel upon the ground as four-footed animals for the rest of their days. "Yes, my son," replied Oo-koo-hoo, when we were discussing beavers, "they are a very clever and a very wise people, and it would be better for us if we emulated them more than we do, for as you know, they believe in not talking but in working and making good use of the brains The Master of Life has given them, and that is the only way to be really happy in this world. Besides, he is always true to his wife--a fine example to men--furthermore, he is a good provider who looks after his children, and is a decent, clean-living fellow who never goes out of his way to quarrel with any one, but just minds his own business and cuts wood." Could any nation choose a creature more fit for a national emblem? I believe not. For would any wise man compare a useless, screeching eagle, or a useless, roaring lion--each a creature of prey--to a silent, hard-working, and useful beaver who remains true to his wife all his life, who builds a comfortable home for his children, provides them well with food and teaches them . . . not how to kill other creatures . . . but how to work, . . . how to construct strong, comfortable houses, how to build dams to protect, not only their children, but their homes, too, how to chop down trees for food, how to dig canals to float the food home, how to store it for the winter, how to keep the home clean and in good order, how to mind their own business and never seek a quarrel, and, at the same time, how to defend themselves desperately if an enemy attacks them. For his size, the beaver is powerful, so powerful, indeed, that Oo-koo-hoo said: "Remember, my son, the beaver is a very strong animal, he can drag a man after him, and the only way for a hunter to hold him--if he is caught in a trap--is to lift him off his feet." Notwithstanding his great strength, however, he is a peace-loving chap, but when a just occasion arises, you ought to see him fight! BEAVER FIGHTS WOLVERINE One spring while hunting along a river, some years ago, Oo-koo-hoo discovered a beaver at work upon the bank, and wishing to observe him for a while, kept perfectly still. The beaver was cutting poplar sticks to take them through a hole in the ice to the under-water entrance of his near-by home for his family to feed upon. But presently Oo-koo-hoo discovered another moving object; it was a wolverine, and it was stalking the beaver. When it drew near enough to the unsuspecting worker, it made a sudden spring and landed upon his back. A desperate fight ensued. The wolverine was trying to cut the spinal cord at the back of the beaver's neck; but the short, stout neck caused trouble, and before the wolverine had managed it, the beaver, realizing that the only chance for life was to make for the water-hole, lunged toward it, and with the wolverine still on his back, dived in. On being submerged, the wolverine let go and swam around and around in an effort to get out; but the beaver, now in his element, took advantage of the fact, and rising beneath the foe, leaped at it, and with one bite of his powerful, chisel-like teeth, gripped it by the throat, then let go and sank to watch it bleed to death. A little later, the beaver had the satisfaction of seeing old Oo-koo-hoo walk off with the wolverine's skin. No . . . beavers do not believe in divorce . . . and on their wedding day--usually in February--they promise to be true to each other for the rest of their lives, and, moreover, unlike many human beings, they keep their promise. About three months later the husband, seeing his wife is getting ready to welcome new relations, leaves his comfortable home just to be out of the way, and takes up new quarters in a hole in the river bank. While he is there the children--any number from one to six--arrive, and then can be heard much gentle whimpering, just as though human babies were now living in the old homestead. When the beaver children grow older they romp in the water much as puppies do on land. If danger approaches, the first beaver to sense it slaps the surface of the water with his broad, powerful tail, making a noise that resounds through the forest as though a strong man had struck the water a violent blow with the broad side of a paddle blade. Instantly the first beaver's nearest companion signals the danger to others by doing the same; then a second later they plunge out of sight in the water and leave behind nothing but a great sound--as though an elephant had fallen in. When married and settled down, the beaver is very domestic--a great stay-at-home--but when seeking a mate, he travels far and wide, and leaves here and there along the shore scent signals, in the hope of more easily attracting and winning a bride. Beavers are full grown at three years of age, and by that time they have learned how to erect houses, build dams, dig canals, chop down trees, cut up wood, float it home and store it for the winter, and by that time too, they have, no doubt, learned that man is their worst enemy, though the wolverine, wolf, otter, lynx, and fisher are ever ready to pounce upon them whenever a chance offers. USEFULNESS OP BEAVER But I had almost forgotten that I owed the reader an explanation when I said that the beaver was a very useful creature. I was not thinking of the value of his fur, because that is as nothing compared to the great service he has been rendering mankind, not only to-day, but for endless generations. How? By the great work he has been doing during the past hundreds and thousands of years. How? By going into rocky, useless valleys and building the dams that checked the rushing rivers that were constantly robbing much rich soil from the surrounding country and carrying it down and out to sea. And his dams, moreover, not only held up those treacherous highwaymen, but took the loot from them and let it settle in the valleys, where, as years rolled on, it grew and grew into endless great expansions of level meadow lands that now afford much of the most fertile farming soil to be found in North America; and thus the great industry of those silent workers, who lived ages and ages ago, is even to-day benefiting mankind. And thus, too, that great work is being steadily carried on by the living beavers of to-day. Could any country in the world have chosen a more inspiring creature than Canada has chosen for her national symbol? When, on his fall and spring expeditions, Oo-koo-hoo was hunting beavers with the waters free of ice, he placed steel traps in their runways, either just below the surface of the water, or on the bank; and the only bait he used in both cases was the rubbing of castorum on near-by bushes. Also, he built deadfalls much like those he built for bear, but of course much smaller; and again the bait was castorum, but this time it was rubbed on a bit of rabbit skin which was then attached to the bait stick of the deadfall. The deadfalls he built for beavers were nearly always made of dead tamarack--never of green poplar--otherwise the beavers would have pulled them to pieces for the sake of the wood. Further, Oo-koo-hoo told me that in the spring he sometimes broke open beaver dams and set traps near the breaks in order to catch the beavers when they came to repair the damage. Such a mode of trapping was, he said, equally successful whether or not there was ice upon the water. He also told me that he had seen other Indians catch beaver with a net made of No. 10 twine, with a three-and-a-half-inch mesh, but that, though the method worked rather well, he had never tried it. The way of all others, that he liked best, was to hunt them by calling, and the best time for that was during the mornings and evenings of the rutting season. Later in the year, when the ice is gone, and the beaver is swimming, say a foot under water, the hunter can easily follow his course from the appearance of the surface. The same applies to the muskrat, mink, and otter. Muskrats and beavers swim much alike, as they are usually going in search of roots, and, knowing exactly where to find them, they swim straight; but minks and otters swim a zig-zag course for the reason that they are always looking for fish and therefore are constantly turning their heads about; and that rule applies whether their heads are above or below the surface. When a beaver--providing he has not slapped the water with his tail--or an otter dives, an observant hunter can judge fairly well as to where the animal is heading for, by simply noting the twist of the tail, a point that helps the hunter to gauge the place where it may rise. The same applies to whales when they sound, though I found--while whale hunting--that few whalers realized it, and fewer still took advantage of it, for much time was lost while waiting for the whale to rise before the boat could be headed in the right direction. But then the average Indian is much more observant than the average white man. If a beaver is caught in a steel trap, he will do his utmost to plunge into water and remain there even though he should drown, yet his house may not be in that river or pond; but if he is wounded, he will either try to reach his house or take to the woods. When in pursuit of beavers it is advisable to watch for them on moonlight nights about eight or nine o'clock, and it is best to be in a canoe, as then there is less danger of the beaver sinking before he can be removed from the water. The hunter, while waiting for a shot, makes a noise with the handle of his knife against a stick in imitation of a beaver cutting wood--a sound somewhat similar to that of the boring of a large auger. It is astonishing how far, on a still night, beavers will hear such a sound and come to help their friends at work. When Oo-koo-hoo shot beaver he charged his gun with four slugs and fired for the head, as he explained that ordinary shot was too fine and scattered too much, while a single ball was too large. OO-KOO-HOO SHOOTS A BEAR The following morning Oo-koo-hoo and I set out to go the round of the northern trapping trail which for some distance followed the valley of Beaver River, upon the bank of which traps, snares, and deadfalls for bears were set. Along that section of the river there were also traps set for otters, beavers, and muskrats; but the hunting of these amphibious animals was pursued with more diligence in the spring than in the winter. Though we hauled a hunting toboggan, the snow was not yet deep enough for snowshoes, but what a feast of reading the forest afforded us! What tragedies were written in the snow! Here we followed a mink's track as it skirted the river bank that wound in and out among the trees, showing that the mink had leaped here, crouched there, or had been scratching beyond in the snow. Evidently it was in search of food. Presently we noticed another track, that of an ermine. The two trails were converging. Now, apparently, the mink had seen its enemy, and, therefore, in order to get past the ermine and escape trouble, it had increased its speed. At this point the ermine had spied it and had redoubled its speed. Now they had both bounded along with all their might. But as ill-fate would have it, they had met. A violent struggle had ensued. Blood was spattered upon the snow. From the battle-ground only one trail led away. It was that of the ermine. But though the snow was marked by the footprints of only one animal, the trail of two tails plainly showed. It was evident that the ermine had seized its victim by the throat and throwing it over its back, had carried it away. Many other tracks of beasts and birds were printed upon the snow and told in vivid detail stories of life in the winter wilderness. Beaver River was now frozen firmly enough to bear a man, except in a few places where rapid water kept the ice thin or left the stream open; and as we tramped along we examined a number of traps, from two of which we took an otter and a beaver. But the bear and the wolf traps remained undisturbed though we saw a number of wolf tracks near at hand. Turning westward we ascended a slope and came suddenly upon the fresh track of a bear. It was fairly large, and was travelling slowly; merely sauntering along as though looking for a den in which to pass the winter. At once Oo-koo-hoo was all alert. Carefully re-charging his gun with ball, and seeing that his knife and axe were at hand, he left the toboggan behind, lest it make a noise among the trees and alarm the quarry. In less than a quarter of a mile, however, we came upon a sign that the bear had passed but a few minutes before. The hunter paused to suggest that it would better his approach if I were to follow a little farther in the rear; then he noiselessly continued his pursuit. Slowly he moved forward, cautiously avoiding the snapping of a twig or the scraping of underbrush. After peering through the shrubbery ahead or halting a moment to reexamine the track, he would move on again, but with scarcely any perceptible motion of the upper part of his body. When in doubt, he would stand stock-still and try by sight or hearing to get news of the bear. Luckily, there was no wind, so it made little difference which way we turned in following the trail. But just then there happened a disturbing and irritating thing, for a whiskey jack--Canada Jay--took to following us, and chirping about it, too. Crossing a rocky patch on the hillside, the bear came into view as it circled a little in order to descend. Presently it left the shadow of the forest and emerging into sunlight on a snow-covered ledge, turned its head as though it had heard a sound in the rear. It was Oo-koo-hoo speaking: [Illustration: The bear circled a little in order to descend. Presently it left the shadow of the forest and, emerging into sunlight on a snow-covered ledge, turned its head as though it had heard a sound in the rear. It was Oo-koo-hoo speaking: "Turn your head away, my brother . . ." but the report of his gun cut short his sentence, and the bear, leaping forward, disappeared among, . . . See Chapter IV.] "Turn your head away, my brother . . ." but the report of his gun cut short his sentence, and the bear, leaping forward, disappeared among the growth below. Re-loading his gun, the hunter slowly followed, more cautiously than ever, for he saw from the blood upon the snow that the beast was wounded and, therefore, dangerous. As he went he covered every likely place with his gun, lest the bear should be lurking there and rush at him. At last I saw him pause much longer than usual, then move forward again. Finally he turned, and in a satisfied tone exclaimed: "It's dead!" The ball had struck just behind the left shoulder and had entered the heart; and the hunter explained that when he saw his best chance, he spoke to the bear to make it pause in order to better his aim. "And what did you say to him?" "My son, I said: 'Turn your eyes away, my brother, for I am about to kill you.' I never care to fire at a bear without first telling him how sorry I am that I need his coat." Then the skinning began, and by noon we had it finished. Loading the head and part of the meat on the sled, I hauled it, while the hunter rolled up the heavy pelt and packed it upon his back with the aid of a tump-line. Taking our loads back to the river and caching them there, we continued along the trapping trail. A DEADFALL FOR BEAR Soon we came to one of the best deadfalls I had ever seen. It was set for bear, and was of the "log-house" kind, with walls nearly six feet high, and a base that was eight feet long by five feet wide in front, while only two feet in width in the rear. It was built in conjunction with two standing trees that formed the two corner posts retaining the huge drop-log. The front of the big trap was left quite open, save for the drop-log that crossed it obliquely. While the thin end of the log was staked to the ground, the thick end, loaded with a platform, weighted with stones, projected beyond the far side of the trap at a height of about five feet from the ground. It was ready to fall and crush any unlucky creature that might venture in and touch the bait-trigger. Whatever the drop-log might fall upon, it would hold as though in a vise, and if the bear were not already dead when the hunter should arrive, he would take care to shoot the animal in the head before removing the drop-log. Snares are also set for bears, and the best of them are made of twenty strands of _babiche_ twisted into the form of a rope. The loop is set about eighteen inches in diameter, and is attached to either a spring-pole or a tossing-pole--or, more correctly speaking, a tree sufficiently large to raise and support the weight of the bear. Sometimes a guiding-pole is used in connection with a snare. One end is planted in the ground in the centre of the path and the other, slanting up toward the snare, is used as a guide toward the loop, since a bear walking forward would straddle the pole. In a further effort to getting the animal's head in the right place, the hunter smears the upper end of the pole with syrup. Another wooden trap is that of the stump and wedge. It is made by chopping down a tree of not less than half a foot in diameter, so that a stump is left about six feet high. The stump is then split, and a long, tapering wedge, well greased, is driven in, and upon it is smeared a coating of syrup or honey as a bait. The bear will not only try to lick off the bait, but in his eagerness to pull out the wedge and lick it, too, will spring the trap and find a paw caught between the closing stump. Also, the Indians sometimes use a stage from the top of which they shoot the bear at night while he passes on his runway; and to attract the bear they imitate the cry of a cub in distress. Steel traps, too, are set for bears. They are very strong with big double springs and weigh about twenty pounds. They, too, are set on the runway of the bears, and are carefully covered with leaves or moss. No bait is used on the trap, but syrup or honey is spread upon a near-by tree to induce the bear to step in the trap. MARASTY AND THE BEAR But all bear traps are dangerous to mankind and not infrequently a man is caught in one. In 1899 a half-breed hunter by the name of Marasty, who lived near Green Lake, about 150 miles north of Prince Albert, went one late spring day to visit his traps, and in the course of his trip came upon one of his deadfalls set for bear, from which he noticed the bait had been removed, although the trap had not been sprung. Before rebaiting it, however, he built a fire to boil his tea-pail, and sat down to eat his lunch. After refreshment, Marasty, being a lazy man, decided to enter the trap from in front, instead of first opening up the rear and entering from that quarter, as he should have done. He got along all right until he started to back out, when in some way he jarred the trigger, and, just as he was all free of the ground-log save his right arm, down came the ponderous drop-log with its additional weight of platform and stones. It caught him just above the elbow, crushed his arm flat, and held him a prisoner in excruciating pain. The poor wretch nearly swooned. Later, he thought of his knife. He would try to cut the log in two and thus free himself. He knew that, handicapped as he was, though he worked feverishly and incessantly, the task would demand many hours of furious toil. After a while the wind arose and re-kindled his dying fire into life. The sparks flew up and the flames ran over the dry moss toward him. Now there was added the dread of being burnt alive. But he worked his feet violently and succeeded in roughening the ground sufficiently to turn the fire so, that it passed on either side of him, and though it continued beyond the wooden trap, eventually died down. Then he went on with his cutting, but night came on before he had dug into the log more than a few inches. Growing faint, he rested awhile, and later fell asleep. When he awoke, he discovered a full-grown black bear sitting upon its haunches watching him. He shouted to drive the beast away, but, strange to say, the noise did not frighten the bear, for several times it got up and attempted to reach the syrup on the trap. When the captive renewed his shouting and kicking, the bear merely stepped back, sat down, and persisted in maintaining its fearsome watch all night. Nevertheless, the half-breed was afraid to stop shouting, so he kept it up at intervals all night long. When, however, dawn came, the bear went away. At sunrise Marasty renewed his efforts to escape, and though his hand was now blistered and sore, he worked for several hours. Then thirst attacked him; and he dug in the ground, but without avail, in the hope of finding moisture. Again he turned to the cutting of the log, but soon exhaustion weakened his exertions. Night came on again and with it came the bear; but this time he was glad to see the brute, for its presence made him feel less lonely and drove away despair. This time, too, the bear sat around in such a friendly way, that Marasty felt relieved enough to sing some hymns and do a little praying; but when he began to sing a second time, the big black beast lost patience, got up and walked away, much to the regret of the imprisoned hunter. In the morning the now almost lifeless Marasty heard in the distance the voice of his brother calling his name; but though he shouted wildly in answer, no response came, for the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, and defeated his attempt to benefit by the help that was so near. Later, the unhappy man swooned. About noon the brother, finding the sufferer's trail, arrived upon the scene, removed the drop-log, picked up the unconscious man, and carrying him to his canoe, cut away the thwarts and laid him in. After a paddle of fifteen miles to the portage landing, he left the stricken wretch in the canoe, and ran four miles to get help. With other men and two horses he speedily returned, rigged up a stage swung between the horses, and laying Marasty thereon, transported him through the bush to his home. In the meantime, an express had been despatched to Prince Albert to summon a doctor; but the old Indian women could not bear to wait so long for the coming of relief, so filing a big knife into a fine-toothed saw, they cut away the bruised flesh and sawed off the broken bones. They made a clean amputation which they dressed with a poultice made from well-boiled inner bark of juniper, and not only did no mortification set in, but the arm healed nicely; and when the doctor arrived ten days later, he examined the amputation carefully and said that there was nothing for him to do: the old women had done their work so well. Marasty quickly recovered, and next winter he was on the hunting trail again. HOW BEARS ARE HUNTED After spending three days upon the trapping trail we returned to camp; but because our toboggan was loaded with game, and also because we did not return by our outgoing route, the grandmother and the two boys set out to bring in the bear meat and the bear's head. During the feast that followed Oo-koo-hoo addressed the bear's head with superstitious awe and again begged it not to be offended or angry because it had been killed since they needed both its coat and its fat and flesh to help tide them over the winter. In this entreaty Amik did not join--perhaps because he was too civilized. After the meal, the skull was hung upon a branch of a pine that stood near the lodges. It reminded me that once I had seen at an old camping place eleven bear skulls upon a single branch; but the sight of bear skulls upon trees is not uncommon when one is travelling through the Strong Woods Country. That night, when I was sitting beside Oo-koo-hoo, we began talking about bear hunting and he said: "My son, some day you, too, may want to become a great bear-hunter, and when you do go out to hunt alone, don't do as I do, but do as I say, for I am growing old and am sometimes careless about the way I approach game." Puffing away at his pipe, he presently continued: "In trailing bear, the hunter's method of approach, of course, depends entirely upon the information he has gained from the tracks he has discovered. If the hunter sees the bear without being seen, he will approach to within about twenty paces or even ten of the brute before he fires; being, however, always careful to keep some object between him and his quarry. And when he does fire, he should not wait to see the effect, but should immediately run aside for a distance of fifteen or twenty paces, as the first thing a bear does when it is shot is to bite the wound on account of the pain, next it tries to discover who hit it, and remembering from which direction the sound came, it looks up, and seeing the smoke, rushes for it. Then the hunter has his opportunity, for on seeing the beast pass broadside, he fires, and thus stands a good chance of hitting a vital spot. "At a critical moment a good hunter's movements are not only swift but always premeditated. Nor does he ever treat a bear with contempt: from first to last, he is always on guard. He never takes a chance. Even if the bear drops when the hunter fires, he will immediately re-load and advance very slowly lest the brute be feigning death. The hunter advances, with his gun cocked and in readiness, to within perhaps five paces, and then waits to see if his quarry is really dead. If the bear is not dead and sees that the hunter is off his guard, the chances are it will rush at him. But an experienced hunter is not easily fooled, for he knows that if an animal makes a choking sound in its throat, caused by internal bleeding, it is mortally wounded; but if it makes no such sound--watch out!" "My son, no animal is ever instantly killed, for there is always a gradual collapse, or more or less of a movement caused by the contraction of its muscles, before death actually comes; but when an animal feigns death, it is always in too much of a hurry about it, and drops instantly without a final struggle, or any hard breathing--that is the time when one should wait and be careful. "Then again, my son, if a wounded or cornered bear comes suddenly upon a hunter, the beast will not at once rush at him, grab him or bite him, but will instantly draw back, just as the hunter will do; then it will sit up upon its haunches for a moment, as though to think over the situation; that pause, slight as it is, gives the hunter a moment to uncover his gun, cock it, and aim, and fire it at the beast's mouth. In such a situation the hunter prefers to fire at its mouth, because if shot in the heart, the bear can still lunge at the hunter before it falls, but if struck in the mouth, the brute is dazed and stops to rub its face; meanwhile, the hunter has a chance to re-load and try for a shot behind the ear, as that is even more fatal than one in the heart. But if the bear happens to be in a tree, the hunter does not try for either the brain or the heart, because the former is usually out of aim, and the latter is protected by the trunk or limb of the tree; so he shoots at the small of the back for that will paralyze it and cause it to let go hold of the tree, and drop to the ground. The fall will leave very little fight in it, or will finish it altogether. But if hit in the head or even in a paw, the chances are that the bear will jump; and then watch out, for it will either run or fight! "In hunting bears, however, the hunter must remember that he should guard most against scent and sound betraying him, since a bear's sight is not very keen. If the bear happens to be feeding, the hunter may easily approach, provided that the wind is right and he keeps quiet; but if the bear hears the slightest sound or catches a single whiff of scent--away he goes! If, however, the hunter approaches in an open place and the bear, seeing him, sits up to get a better look, the hunter should immediately stand perfectly still, and wait thus until the bear again resumes feeding or moves away. Then the hunter rushes forward, but all the while watches keenly to see when it stops to look again; and at the first sign of that the hunter becomes rigid once more. Such tactics may be successful two or three times but rarely more, so then the hunter had best fire. Now, my son, when you go hunting you will know what to do, and if Amik would only pay attention to what I say, he, too, might become a better hunter, for I have had much experience in hunting both black and grizzly bears." NEYKIA AND HER LOVER As the weeks passed, the children devoted themselves to their winter play and spent most of their days in the open air. Tobogganing was their greatest sport. Often did they invite me to take part in this, and whenever, in descending a slope, a sled-load was upset, it always created hilarious laughter. The younger children, even during the severest part of the winter when it registered forty or more degrees below zero, were always kept comfortably warm, sometimes uncomfortably warm, in the rabbit-skin coats that their mother and their grandmother had made for them. The rabbit skins were cut into thin, spiral strips and twisted, with the hair-side out, about thin thongs, and woven together like a small-meshed fish-net, so that, though the hair overlapped and filled every mesh completely, one's fingers might be passed through the garment anywhere. They also made rabbit-skin blankets in the same way; and of all blankets used in the north woods, none has so many good qualities. A rabbit-skin blanket is less bulky than that of the caribou skin; it is warmer than the famous four-point woollen blanket of the H. B. Co., and not only ventilates better than either of the others, but it is light to carry. It has the drawback, however, that unless it is enclosed in a covering of some light material, the hair gets on everything, for as long as the blanket lasts it sheds rabbit hair. I have tried many kinds of beds, and many kinds of blankets, and sleeping bags, too, even the Eskimo sleeping bag of double skin--hairless sealskin on the outside and hairy caribou skin on the inside--and many a night I have slept out in the snow when it was fifty degrees below zero, and experience has taught me that the rabbit skin blanket is best for winter use in the northern forest. A sleeping bag that is large enough to get into is too large when you are in it; you cannot wrap it around you as you can a blanket, therefore it is not so warm; besides, it is harder to keep a bag free of gathering moisture than a blanket. But to return to the children. It used to amuse me to see the boys returning from their hunts carrying their guns over their shoulders. The contrast in size between the weapons and the bearers of them was so great that by comparison the lads looked like Liliputians, yet with all the dignified air of great hunters they would stalk up to their sisters and hand them their guns and game bags to be disposed of while they slipped off their snowshoes, lighted their pipes, and entered the lodge. By the way, I don't believe I have mentioned that in winter time the guns are never kept in the lodges, but always put under cover on the stages, as the heat of the lodges would cause the guns to sweat and therefore to require constant drying and oiling; and for the same reason, in winter time, when a hunter is camped for the night, he does not place his gun near the open fire, but sets it back against a tree, well out of range of the heat. On one of their rounds of the trapping trails the boys discovered a splendid black fox in one of Oo-koo-hoo's traps, and it was with great pride that the little chaps returned home with the prize. One sunny day, late in November, while tobogganing with the children on the hillside, our sport was interrupted by the approach of a young stranger, an Indian youth of about seventeen. He came tramping along on snowshoes with his little hunting toboggan behind him on which was lashed his caribou robe, his tea-pail, his kit bag, and a haunch of young moose as a present to Amik and his wife. In his hand he carried his gun in a moose-skin case. He was a good-looking young fellow, and wore the regulation cream-coloured H. B. _capote_ with hood and turned-back cuffs of dark blue. He wore no cap, but his hair was fastened back by a broad yellow ribbon that encircled his head. At first I thought he was the advance member of a hunting party, but when I saw the bashful yet persistent way in which he sidled up to Neykia, and when I observed, too, the shy, radiant glance of welcome she gave him, I understood; so also did the children, but the little rogues, instead of leaving the young couple alone, teased their sister aloud, and followed the teasing with boisterous laughter. It was then that I obtained my first impression of the mating of the natives of the northern forest. The sylvan scene reminded me of the mating, too, of the white people of that same region, and I thought again of the beautiful Athabasca. Was it in the same way that her young white man had come so many miles on snowshoes through the winter woods just to call upon her? It set me thinking. Again, I wondered who "Son-in-law" could be? Whence did he come? But, perhaps, after all he was no super-man, or, rather, super-lover, for had not Neykia's beau travelled alone in the dead of winter, over ninety miles, just to see her once again and to speak to her? Shing-wauk--The Little Pine--as the Indians called him, stayed three days, but I did not see much of him, for I left early the following morning on another round of another trapping-path. OO-KOO-HOO AND THE WOLF As a faint gray light crept through the upper branches of the eastern trees and warned the denizens of the winter wilderness of approaching day, the door-skin flapped aside and a tall figure stepped from the cozy fire-lit lodge into the outer sombreness of the silent forest. It was Oo-koo-hoo. His form clad in fox-skin cap, blanket _capote_, and leggings, made a picturesque silhouette of lighter tone against the darker shadows of the woods as he stood for a moment scanning the starry sky. Reëntering the lodge, he partook of the breakfast his wife had cooked for him, then he kissed her and went outside. Going to the stage, he took down his five-foot snowshoes, slipped his moccasined feet into the thongs, and with his gun resting in the hollow of his bemittened hand, and the sled's hauling-line over his shoulder, strode off through the vaulted aisles between the boles of the evergreens; while through a tiny slit in the wall of his moose-skin home two loving eyes watched the stalwart figure vanishing among the trees. [Illustration: Going to the stage, he took down his five-foot snowshoes, slipped his moccasined feet info the thongs, and with his gun resting in the hollow of his bemittened hand, and the sled's hauling-line over his shoulder, strode off through the vaulted aisles between the boles of evergreens; while through a tiny slit in the wall of his moose-skin home two loving eyes watched his stalwart figure vanishing among the . . . See Chapter IV.] Later on, though the sun was already shining, it was still intensely cold. As we went along, Oo-koo-hoo's breath rose like a cloud of white smoke fifteen or twenty feet in the air before it disappeared. Only the faintest whisper of scuffling snowshoes and scrunching snow could be heard; the sound of the occasional snapping of a twig came as a startling report compared with the almost noiseless tread of the hunter. A little cloud of powdery snow rose above the dragging heels of his snowshoes, and, whirling about, covered the back of his leggings with a coating of white. Onward he strode, twisting through the tangled scrub, stooping under a fallen tree, stepping over a snow-capped log, or pacing along a winter-locked stream. When Oo-koo-hoo came to a district overgrown with willows interspersed with poplars, he stopped to examine a snare set for lynx. It had not been disturbed, but a little farther on we saw the form of a dead lynx hanging from a tossing-pole above the trail. The carcass was frozen stiff, and the face still showed the ghastly expression it had worn in its death struggle. The rigid body was taken down and lashed to the sled. Resetting the snare, we continued our way. Farther on, in a hilly country timbered with spruce, where there was not much undergrowth, we came to marten traps. In swampy places, or where there were creeks and small lakes, we examined traps and deadfalls set for mink, muskrat, beaver, fisher, and otter. Where the country was fairly open and marked with rabbit runways we came upon traps set for foxes and wolves. The gray, or timber, wolf is trapped in the same way as the coloured fox, save only that the trap is larger. Though the steel trap is much in vogue among white men and half-breeds, the deadfall, even to this day, is much preferred by the Indian. Though, in the first place, it requires more labour to build, yet it requires less for transportation since the materials are all at hand; and, besides, when once built it lasts for years. Then, again, it is not only cheaper, but it is more deadly than the steel trap, for once the animal is caught, it seldom escapes. With the steel trap it is different, as animals often pull away from the steel jaws or even gnaw off a foot in order to get free. If, however, the hunter's deadfalls and traps have been set in vain, and if the wolf has been causing trouble and the hunter is determined to secure him, he will sit up for him at night in the hope of getting a shot at him. Years ago many wolves were destroyed with poison, but nowadays it has gone out of use--that is, among the fur-hunters of the forest. When a wolf is caught in a trap and he sees a hunter approaching, he will at first lie down, close his eyes, and keep as still as possible to escape notice; but should he find that the hunter is still coming on, say to within twenty paces from him, he will fly into a rage, show his fangs, bristle his hair, and get ready for a spring. The hunter usually takes a green stick about a yard long by two inches thick, and instead of striking a great, swinging blow with both hands, he holds the stick in one hand and strikes a short, quick, though powerful, blow, hitting the brute on the snout close to the eyes. That stuns him, and then the hunter, with either foot or knee, presses over the heart until death ensues. But clubbing the wolf is dangerous work, for the hunter may hit the trap and set the captive free, or it may bite him. So the gun is frequently used, but only to shoot the wolf in the head, as a wound anywhere else would injure the fur. Late in the afternoon, as we were approaching a wolf trap, Oo-koo-hoo, who was leading the way, suddenly stopped and gazed ahead. A large wolf was lying in the snow, evidently pretending to be dead. One of its forepaws was held by the trap, and the hunter drew his axe and moved forward. As we came near, the beast could stand the strain no longer, but rose up with bristling hair, champing fangs, and savage growl. When Oo-koo-hoo had almost reached the deeply marked circle in the snow where the wolf had been struggling to gain its freedom, he paused and said: "My brother, I need your coat, so turn your eyes away while I strike." A momentary calmness came over the beast, but as the hunter raised his axe it suddenly crouched, and with its eyes flashing with rage, sprang for Oo-koo-hoo's throat. Its mighty leap, however, ended three feet short of the mark, for the trap chain grew taut, jerked it down and threw it violently upon its back. Instantly regaining its feet, it dashed away on three legs, and in its effort to escape dragged the clog through the snow. The bounding clog sent the snow flying, and the hunter rushed in pursuit, while the wolf dodged among the trees to escape a blow from Oo-koo-hoo. Then it bolted again, and ran straight for a few yards until the clog caught and held fast. The hunter, pressing on with raised axe, had no time to draw back when the brute sprang for him as it did; luckily, however, his aim was true: the back of the axe descended upon the wolf's head, and it fell dead. This was fortunate for the hunter, as unwarily he had allowed himself so to get between the clog and the beast that the chain almost swung over his snowshoes. If he had missed his aim, no doubt it would have gone hard with him. [Illustration: As the wolf dashed away, the bounding clog sent the snow flying, and the hunter rushed in pursuit, while the wolf dodged among the trees to escape a blow from Oo-koo-hoo. Then it bolted again, and ran straight for a few yards until the clog caught and held fast. The hunter, pressing on with raised axe, had no time to draw back when the brute sprang for him . . . See Chapter IV.] A few slant rays of the sun penetrating the deep gloom of the thick forest and reminding us that day was fast passing, we decided to camp there for the night. So we cut a mattress of brush, made a fire, and refreshed ourselves with supper before we started to skin the wolf. THE WAYS OF A WOLF Talk of wolves prevailed all evening, and Oo-koo-hoo certainly had a store of information upon that subject. In expressing surprise that a wolf had strength enough to jerk about a big drag-log, as though it were merely a small stick, he replied that once when he had killed a full-grown bull-moose and dressed and hung up the meat, he had left for camp with part of his prize, but on returning again to the cache, he had found a wolf moving off with one of the hindquarters. It must have weighed close upon a hundred pounds. But perhaps, if I quote Charles Mair, the strength and endurance of a wolf will be better realized: "In the sketch of 'North-Western America' (1868) Archbishop Tache, of St. Boniface, Manitoba, recounts a remarkable instance of persevering fortitude exhibited by a large, dark wolf caught in a steel trap at Isle a la Crosse many years ago. A month afterward it was killed near Green Lake, ninety miles distant, with the trap and connecting wood-block still attached to one of its hind legs. It had evidently dragged both around in the snow for many a mile, during a period of intense cold, and it is, therefore, not surprising that it was a 'walking skeleton' when finally secured." Though the timber-wolf is a fast traveller, it cannot out-distance the greyhound or wolf hound; but though it is seldom seen in water it is a good swimmer. Its weight may run from seventy-five to one hundred and fifty pounds, and an extra large wolf may stand close to thirty inches at the shoulder, and be over five feet in length. In colour they range from white to nearly black, but the ordinary colour is a light brownish gray. Usually they mate in February, but whether or not for life, it is hard to say. They breed in a hollow log, or tree or stump, or in a hole in the ground, or in a cave. The young are normally born in April, usually six or eight in a litter, and the father helps to care for them. Many of the wolves I have seen were running in pairs, some in families, and the greatest number I have ever seen together was seven. That was in Athabasca in the winter time. The seven were in a playful mood, racing around and jumping over one another; and though all were full-grown, five of them displayed the romping spirits of puppies, and I wondered if they could be but one family. Though my dog-driver and I, with our dog-train, passed within about a hundred paces of them, and though we were all on a sunny lake, they never ceased their play for a single moment, nor did they show in any way that they had seen us. There are several voices of the wilderness that cause some city people alarm and dread, and they are the voices of the owl, the loon, and the timber-wolf. But to me their voices bring a solemn, at times an eerie, charm, that I would gladly go miles to renew. Though much of the wolf-howling has been of little appeal, I have heard wolf concerts that held me spell-bound. On some occasions--but always at night--they lasted without scarcely any intermission for three or four hours. The first part of the programme was usually rendered--according to the sound of their voices--by the youngest of the pack; later the middle-aged seemed to take the stage; but of all the performance, nothing equalled in greatness of volume or in richness of tone the closing numbers, and they were always rendered by what seemed to be some mighty veteran, the patriarch of the pack, for his effort was so thrilling and awe-inspiring that it always sent the gooseflesh rushing up and down my back. Many a time, night after night, beneath the Northern Lights, I have gone out to the edge of a lake to listen to them. When hunting big game, such as deer, wolves assist one another and display a fine sense of the value of team-work in running down their prey. Though the wolf is a shy and cautious animal, he is no coward, as the way he will slash into a pack of dogs goes far to prove. In the North the stories of the wolf's courage are endless; here, for example, is one: "During our residence at Cumberland House in 1820," says Richardson, "a wolf, which had been prowling and was wounded by a musket ball and driven off, returned after it became dark, whilst the blood was still flowing from its wound, and carried off a dog, from amongst fifty others, that howled piteously, but had no courage to unite in an attack on their enemy." Nevertheless, wolves rarely attack man, in fact, only when they are afflicted with rabies or hydrophobia. No doubt everyone has read, at one time or another, harrowing stories of the great timber-wolves of our northern forest forming themselves into huge packs and pursuing people all over the wilderness until there is nothing left of the unfortunate community save a few odds and ends of cheap jewellery. Even our most dignified and reliable newspapers are never loath to publish such thrilling drivel; and their ignorant readers gulp it all down, apparently with a relishing shudder; for the dear public not only loves to be fooled, but actually gloats over that sort of thing, since it is their hereditary belief. When I was a boy, I, too, thrilled over such nonsense, and when I made my first trip into the forest I began to delve for true wolf stories, and I have been delving ever since. So far, after over thirty years of digging, I have actually dug up what I believe to be one authentic story of an unprovoked wolf having actually attacked and killed a man. On several occasions, too, I have had the satisfaction of running to cover some of the wolf stories published in our daily press. I read a few years ago in one of Canada's leading daily papers--and no doubt the same account was copied throughout the United States--a thrilling story of two lumber-jacks in the wilds of Northern Ontario being pursued by a pack of timber-wolves, and the exhausted woodsmen barely escaping with their lives, being forced by the ferocious brutes to spend a whole night in a tree at a time when the thermometer registered -- below zero. I am sorry I have forgotten the exact degree of frost the paper stated, but as a rule it is always close to 70 or 80 degrees below zero when the great four-legged demons of the forest go on the rampage. THE WOLVES AND GREENHORNS Several years later, when I was spending the summer at Shahwandahgooze, in the Laurentian Mountains, I again met Billy Le Heup, the hunter, and one night when we were listening to a wolf concert I mentioned the foregoing newspaper thriller. Billy laughed and acknowledged that he, too, had read it, but not until several weeks after he had had a chance to investigate, first hand, the very same yarn; for he, too, had been trailing wolf stories all his life. It so happened that Le Heup's work had taken him through the timber country north of Lake Temiscamingue. While stopping one day at a lumber camp to have a snack, three men entered the cookery where he was eating. One of them was the foreman, and he was in a perfect rage. He had discharged the other two men, and now he was warning them that if they didn't get something to eat pretty ---- quick and leave the camp in a ---- of a hurry, he would kick them out. Then, just before he slammed the door and disappeared, he roared out at them that not for one moment would he stand for such ---- rot, as their being chased and treed all night by wolves. When quiet was restored and the two men had sat down beside Le Heup at the dining table, he had questioned them and they had told him a graphic story of how they had been chased by a great pack of wolves and how they had managed to escape with their lives by climbing a tree only just in the nick of time; and, moreover, how the ferocious brutes had kept them there all night long, and how, consequently, they had been nearly frozen to death. It was a thrilling story and so full of detail that even "old-timer" Le Heup grew quite interested and congratulated himself on having at last actually heard, first hand, a true story of how Canadian timber-wolves, though unprovoked, had pursued, attacked, and treed two men. Indeed, he was so impressed that he decided to back-track the heroes' trail and count for himself just how many wolves the pack had numbered. So he got the would-be lumber-jacks--for they were greenhorns from the city--to point out for him their incoming trail, which he at once set out to back-track. After a tramp of three or four miles he came to the very tree which from all signs they had climbed and in which they had spent the night. Then desiring to count the wolf tracks in the snow, he looked around, but never a one could he see. Walking away for about a hundred yards he began to circle the tree, but still without success. He circled again with about an eighth of a mile radius, but still no wolf tracks were to be seen. As a last resort he circled once more about a quarter of a mile from the tree, and this time he was rewarded; he found wolf tracks in the snow. There had been three wolves. They had been running full gallop. Moreover, they had been trailing a white-tailed deer; but never once had either deer or wolves paused in their run, nor had they come within a quarter of a mile of the tree in which the greenhorns from the city had spent the night. Of such material are the man-chasing, man-killing wolf stories made. Frequently I have had timber-wolves follow me, sometimes for half an hour or so; on one occasion two of the largest and handsomest timber-wolves I ever saw followed me for over two hours. During that time they travelled all round me, ahead, behind, and on either side; and occasionally they came within sixty or seventy feet of me. Yet never once, by action or expression, did they show any signs other than those which two friendly but very shy dogs might have shown toward me. THE WOLF THAT KILLED A MAN Of course, wolves will attack a man; when they are trapped, wounded, or cornered--just as a muskrat will; but of all the wolf stories I have ever heard, in which wolves killed a man, the following is the only one I have any reason to believe, as it was told me first-hand by a gentleman whose word I honour, and whose unusual knowledge of animal life and northern travel places his story beyond a doubt. One winter's day in the seventies, when Mr. William Cornwallis King was in charge of Fort Rae, one of the Hudson's Bay Company's posts on Great Slave Lake, he was snowshoeing to a number of Indian camps to collect furs, and had under his command several Indians in charge of his dog-trains. On the way they came upon a small party of Dog-rib Indians, who, after a smoke and a chat, informed him that, being in need of meat, one of their party, named Pot-fighter's-father, had set out three days before to hunt caribou; and as he had not returned, they were afraid lest some evil had befallen him. When Mr. King learned that it had been Pot-fighter's-father's intention to return to camp on the evening of the first day, he advised the Indians to set out at once in search of him. After following his tracks for half a day they came suddenly upon the footprints of an unusually large wolf which had turned to trail the hunter. For some miles the brute had evidently followed close beside the trail of Pot-fighter's-father, diverging at times as though seeking cover, and then again stalking its prey in the open. One Indian continued to follow the old man's trail, while another followed that of the wolf. They had not gone far before they discovered that Pot-fighter's-father had come upon a herd of caribou, and a little farther on they found, lying on the snow, a couple of caribou carcasses that he had shot. Strange to say, the animals had not been skinned, nor had their tongues been removed. More remarkable still, the wolf--although passing close to them--had not stopped to feed. Soon they came upon another dead caribou, and this time Pot-fighter's-father had skinned it, and had cut out its tongue; but again the wolf had refused to touch the deer. Continuing their pursuit, they discovered a brush windbreak where the hunter had evidently stopped to camp for the night. Now they noticed that the tracks of the wolf took to cover among the scrub. Approaching the shelter, they read in the snow the signs of a terrible struggle between a man and a wolf. The hunter's gun, snowshoes, and sash containing his knife, rested against the windbreak, and his axe stood in the snow where he had been cutting brush. From the snow the Indians read the story of the long-drawn fight. Here it told how the great wolf had leaped upon the back of the unsuspecting man while he was carrying an armful of brush, and had knocked him down. There it showed that the man had grappled with the brute and rolled it over upon its back. Here the signs showed that the wolf had broken free; there, that the two had grappled again, and in their struggle had rolled over and over. The snow was now strewn with wolf-hair, and dyed with blood. While the dreadful encounter had raged, the battleground had kept steadily shifting nearer the gun. Just a couple of yards away from it lay the frozen body of poor old Pot-fighter's-father. His deerskin clothing was slit to tatters; his scalp was torn away; his fingers were chewed off, but his bloody mouth was filled with hair and flesh of the wolf. After burying the body of old Pot-fighter's-father in a mound of stones, the Indians determined to continue in pursuit of the wolf. Its tracks at last led them to a solitary lodge that stood in the shelter of a thicket of spruce. There the hunters were greeted by an Indian who was living in the tepee with his wife and baby. After having a cup of tea, a smoke, and then a little chat, the hunters enquired about the tracks of the great wolf that had brought them to the lodge. The Indian told them that during the night before last, while he and his wife were asleep with the baby between them, they had been awakened by a great uproar among the dogs. They had no sooner sat up than the dogs had rushed into the tepee followed by an enormous wolf. Leaping up, the hunter had seized his axe and attacked the beast, while his wife had grabbed the baby, wrapped it in a blanket, and rushing outside, had rammed the child out of sight in a snowdrift, and returned to help her husband to fight the brute. The wolf had already killed one of the dogs, and the Indian in his excitement had tripped upon the bedding, fallen, and lost his grip upon his axe. When he rose, he found the wolf between himself and his weapon. His wife, however, had seized a piece of firewood and, being unobserved by the wolf, had used it as a club and dealt the beast so powerful a blow upon the small of the back that it had been seriously weakened and had given the Indian an opportunity to recover his axe, with which at last he had managed to kill the wolf. It was Mr. King's belief, however, that such unusual behaviour of a wolf was caused by distemper, for the brute seemed to display no more fear of man than would a mad dog. And he added that the behaviour of the wolf in question was no more typical of wolves in general than was the behaviour of a mad dog typical of dogs. COMING OF THE FUR-RUNNERS That night, when we returned home, Oo-koo-hoo said to his grandsons: "Ne-geek and Ah-ging-goos, my grandchildren, the fur-runner is coming soon. To-morrow do you both take the dogs and break a two-days' trail on Otter River in order to hasten his coming." Next morning the boys set out to break the trail. When they camped on Otter River on the afternoon of the second day they cached in the river ice some fish for the trader's dogs. They chopped a hole and, after placing the fish in, filled it up with water, which they allowed to freeze, with the tail of a single fish protruding, in order to show the fur-runner what was cached below. To mark the spot, they planted a pole with its butt in the hole, and rigged up a tripod of sticks to support it. At the top of the pole they tied a little bag of tea and a choice piece of meat for the trader. At the bend of the river below, where he would surely pass, they erected another pole with a bunch of fir twigs attached, for the purpose of attracting his attention to their tracks. On their return home they found Oo-koo-hoo and Amik sorting their furs in anticipation of the fur-runner's arrival. Before them lay, among the other skins, the skin of the black fox, and when the boys entered the lodge Oo-koo-hoo addressed the whole family, saying: "Do not mention the black fox to the fur-runner, since I intend keeping it until I go to the Post, in the hope of making a better bargain there. Now sort your skins, and set aside those you wish to give in payment on your debt to the Great Company." During the afternoon of the following day Lawson the fur-runner for the Hudson's Bay Company arrived with his dog-train. He shook hands with Oo-koo-hoo and Amik and the boys, and kissed the women and the girls, as the custom of the traders is. It being late in the day, Oo-koo-hoo decided not to begin trading until next morning. So they spent the evening in spinning yarns around the fire. Shortly after breakfast strange dogs were heard. The boys ran out and saw an unknown man approaching. When the newcomer--a French-Canadian half-breed--had eaten, and had joined the others in a smoke, he gave me a letter from Free Trader Spear. Then Oo-koo-hoo began questioning him: "My brother, you are a stranger in this country; so I have given you fire and food and tobacco in friendship. Tell me now why and from whence you come?" The half-breed replied: "My brother, I come from the Border Lands--where the plains and the forests meet--and my name is Gibeault. I have come to trade regularly with you as I am now working for Free Trader Spear, whose post, as you know, is near Fort Consolation. You will do well to encourage opposition to the Great Company, and thus raise the price of furs." The half-breed then presented the hunters with several plugs of "T & B," some matches, tea, sugar, flour, and a piece of "sow-belly." For some time Oo-koo-hoo sat holding a little fresh-cut tobacco in his hand, until Gibeault, taking notice, asked him why he did not smoke it. "The Great Company always gives me a pipe," replied the hunter. The runner for the free trader, not to be outdone, gave him a pipe. "I suppose," began Oo-koo-hoo, "that your heart is glad to see me." "Yes," replied Gibeault, "and I want to get some of your fur." "That is all very well, but I will see which way you look at me," returned the Indian. "Have you much fur?" asked the half-breed. "I have enough to pay my debt to the Great Company." "Yes, I know, but you will have some left, and I want to do business with you, so bring out your furs and I will treat you right." "That sounds well, but you must remember that though the Great Company charges more, their goods are the best goods, while yours are all cheap rubbish." Thinking the opportunity a favourable one, Gibeault assumed an air of friendly solicitude and said: "The Company has cheated your people so many hundred years that they are now very rich. No wonder they can afford to give you high prices for your furs. Free Trader Spear is a poor but honest man. It is to your great advantage to trade part of your furs with me in order to make it worth his while to send me here every winter. As you know, my presence here compels the Company to pay full value for your furs and so you are the one who reaps the greatest benefit." "That is partly true," answered Oo-koo-hoo, "but I must be loyal to the Company. You are here to-day and away tomorrow; but the Company is here for ever. But I will not be hard on you; I will wait and see how you look at me." For a while the dignified Indian sat puffing at his pipe and gazing at the fire. Every line of his weather-beaten and wrinkled but handsome face was full of sterling character. At times his small eyes twinkled as a flash of cunning crept into them, and a keen sense of humour frequently twitched the corners of his determined mouth. Then he brought out a pack of furs and, handing it to Lawson, said: "This is to pay the Great Company for the advances they gave us last summer." Lawson took the bundle without opening it, as it would not be checked over until he delivered it at Fort Consolation. Resenting the Indian's attitude toward Gibeault he began: "I see, now that there's another trader here, it's easy for you to forget your old friends. The free trader comes and goes. Give him your furs, an' he doesn't care whether you're dead to-morrow. It's not like that with the Great Company. The Company came first among your people, and since then it has been like a father, not only to all your people before you, but to you as well. Whenever your forefathers were smitten with hunger or disease, who looked after them? It wasn't the free trader; it was the Company. Who sells you the best goods? It isn't the free trader; it's the Company. Who gave you your debt last fall and made it possible for you to hunt this winter? It wasn't the free trader; it was the Company. My brother, you have none to thank but the Great Company that you're alive to-day." With a grunt of disapproval Oo-koo-hoo sullenly retorted: "The Priest says it is The Master of Life we have to thank for that. I am sure that the Commissioner of the Great Company is not so great as God. It is true you give us good prices now, but it is also true that you have not given us back the countless sums you stole from our fathers and grandfathers and all our people before them; for did you not wait until the coming of the free traders before you would give us the worth of our skins? No wonder you are great masters; it seems to me that it takes great rogues to become great masters." The angry Lawson, to save a quarrel, bit his moustache, smiled faintly and, presenting the hunter with even more than Gibeault had given, said: "Never mind, my brother, you're a pretty smart man." Without replying, Oo-koo-hoo accepted the present so eagerly that he jerked it out of the trader's hand. That pleased Lawson. Presently the Indian threw down a bear skin, saying: "My brother, this is to see how you look at me." Now the way of the experienced fur-runner is to offer a big price--often an excessive price--for the first skin. He calculates that it puts the Indian in a good humour and in the end gives the trader a chance of getting ahead of the native. That is just what Lawson did, and Gibeault refused to raise the bid. "My brother," said the Indian addressing the latter, "you had better go home if you cannot pay better prices than the Great Company." Gibeault, nettled, outbid his rival for the next skin, and thus it went on, first one and then the other raising the prices higher and higher, much to the delight of the Indians. Oo-koo-hoo had already sold a number of skins for more than their market value before it dawned on the white men that they were playing a losing game. Though glaring savagely at each other, both were ready to capitulate. Lawson, pretending to examine some of Gibeault's goods, stooped and whispered: "We're actin' like fools. If we keep this up our bosses will fire us both." "Let's swap even--you take every other skin at your own figure," returned the French half-breed. "Agreed," said Lawson, straightening up. No longer outbidding one another, they got the next few skins below the market price. But before the traders had made good their loss the Indian gathered up his furs and turning to the fur-runners with a smile, said: "My brothers, as I see that you have agreed to cheat me, I have decided that I and my people will keep all our furs until we go out next spring; so it is now useless for you to remain any longer." Having read the note Gibeault brought me from Free Trader Spear, I hastened to hand the half-breed my reply, accepting Mr. and Mrs. Spear's invitation to be their guest for a few days when everyone would be gathering at Fort Consolation to attend the New Year's dance; and again I wondered if "Son-in-law" would be there. V MEETING OF THE WILD MEN WHO IS SON-IN-LAW? Christmas week had arrived and now we were off for the New Year's dance to be held at Fort Consolation. Instead of travelling round three sides of an oblong as we had done to reach Oo-koo-hoo's hunting ground by canoe, we now, travelling on snowshoes, cut across country, over hill and valley, lake and river, in a southeasterly direction, until we struck Caribou River and then turned toward White River and finally arrived at God's Lake. Our little party included Oo-koo-hoo, his wife Ojistoh, their granddaughter Neykia, and myself. Our domestic outfit was loaded upon two hunting sleds in the hauling of which we all took turns, as well as in relieving each other in the work of track beating. At night we camped in the woods without any shelter save brush windbreaks over the heads of our beds, our couches being made of balsam-twigs laid shingle fashion in the snow. For the sake of warmth Ojistoh and Neykia slept together, while Oo-koo-hoo and I cuddled up close to one another and fitted together like spoons in a cutlery case, for the cold sometimes dipped to forty below. The prisoner of the city, however, may think sleeping under such conditions not only a terrible hardship but a very dangerous thing in the way of catching one's death of cold. I can assure him it is nothing of the kind--when the bed is properly made. And not only does one _never_ catch cold under such conditions, but it is my experience that there is no easier way to get rid of a bad cold than to sleep out in the snow, wrapped in a Hudson's Bay blanket, a caribou robe, or a rabbit-skin quilt, when the thermometer is about fifty below zero. But rather than delay over a description in detail of the mere novelty of winter travel, let us hurry along to our first destination, and visit the Free Trader Mr. Spear and his family, and find out for our own satisfaction whether or not the mysterious "Son-in-law" had recently been courting the charming Athabasca. When we reached God's Lake, for a while we snowshoed down the centre, until at the parting of our ways we said good-bye, for the Indians were heading directly for Fort Consolation. As I neared Spearhead and came in view of its one and only house, the Free Trader's dogs set up a howl, and Mr. Spear came out to greet me and lead me into the sitting room where I was welcomed by his wife and daughter. Now I made a discovery: quartered in a box in the hall behind the front door they had three geese that being quite free to walk up and down the hall, occasionally strolled about for exercise. As good luck would have it, supper was nearly ready, and I had just sufficient time to make use of the tin hand-basin in the kitchen before the tea bell rang. Again, during the first half of the meal we all chatted in a lively strain, all save Athabasca, who, though blushing less than usual, smiled a little more, and murmured an occasional yes or no; all the while looking even more charming. But her composure endured not long, for her mother presently renewed the subject of "Son-in-law": "Father, don't you think it would be a good idea if you took son-in-law into partnership very soon?" "Yes, Mother, I do, because business is rapidly growing, and I'll need help in the spring. Besides, it would give me a chance to do my own fur-running in winter, and in that way I believe I could double, if not treble, our income." Athabasca turned crimson and I followed suit--for being a born blusher myself, and mortally hating it, I could never refrain from sympathizing with others similarly afflicted. "Precisely, Father," replied Mrs. Spear, "that's exactly what I thought. So you see you wouldn't be making any sacrifice whatever, and such an arrangement would prove an advantage all round. Everybody would be the happier for it, and it seems to me to delay the wedding would be a vital mistake." From that moment until we left the table Athabasca concentrated her vision on her plate; and I wondered more than ever who "Son-in-law" could be. Then an idea came to me, and I mused: "We'll surely see him at Fort Consolation." After supper I discovered a new member of the household, a chore-boy, twenty-eight years of age, who had come out from England to learn farming in the Free Trader's stump lot, and who was paying Mr. Spear so many hundred dollars a year for that privilege, and also for the pleasure of daily cleaning out the stable--and the pig pen. When I first saw him, I thought: "Why here, at last, is 'Son-in-law.'" But on second consideration, I knew he was not the lucky man, for it was evident the Spears did not recognize him as their social equal, since they placed him, at meal time, out in the kitchen at the table with their two half-breed maid-servants. That evening, while sitting around the big wood stove, we discussed Shakespeare, Byron, Scott, and even the latest novel that was then in vogue--"Trilby," if I remember right--for the Spears not only subscribed to the _Illustrated London News_ and _Blackwood's_ but they took _Harper's_ and _Scribner's_, too. And by the way, though Athabasca had never been to school, her mother had personally attended to her education. When bedtime arrived, they all peeled off their moccasins and stockings and hung them round the stove to dry, and then pitter-pattered up the cold, bare stairs in their bare feet. I was shown into the spare room and given a candle, and when I bade them good-night and turned to close the door, I discovered that there was no door to close, nor was there even a curtain to screen me from view. The bed, however, was an old-fashioned wooden affair with a big solid footboard, so I concluded that in case of any one passing the doorway, I could crouch behind the foot of the bed. Then, when I blew out my candle, I got a great surprise, for lo and behold! I could see all over the house! I could see "Paw and Maw" getting undressed, Athabasca saying her prayers, and the half-breed maids getting into bed. How did it happen? The cracks between the upright boards of my partition were so wide that I could have shoved my fingers through. As a matter of fact, Mr. Spear explained next day, the lumber being green, rather than nail the boards tightly into place, he had merely stood them up, and waited for them to season. During the night the cold grew intense, and several times I was startled out of my sleep by a frosty report from the ice and snow on the roof that reminded one of the firing of a cannon. In the morning when the geese began screeching in the lower hall, I thought it was time to get up, and was soon in the very act of pulling off a certain garment over my head when one of the half-breed maids--the red-headed one whose hair Mr. Spear had cut off with the horse clippers--intruded herself into my room to see if I were going to be down in time for breakfast, and I had to drop behind the foot of the bed. At breakfast, the first course was oatmeal porridge; the second, "Son-in-law"; the third, fried bacon, toast, and tea; after which we all put on our wraps for our five-mile trip across God's Lake to Fort Consolation. Everyone went, maids, chore-boy, and all, and everyone made the trip on snowshoes--all save the trader's wife, who rode in state, in a carriole, hauled by a tandem train of four dogs. THE NEW YEAR'S DANCE It was a beautiful sunny day and the air was very still; and though the snow was wind-packed and hard, the footing was very tiresome, for the whole surface of the lake was just one endless mass of hard-packed snowdrifts that represented nothing so much as a great, stormy, white-capped sea that had been instantly congealed. And for us it was just up and down, in and out, up and down, in and out, all the way over. These solid white waves, however, proved one thing, and that was the truth of Oo-koo-hoo's woodcraft; for, just as he had previously told me, if we had been suddenly encompassed by a dense fog or a heavy snowstorm, we could never for a moment have strayed from our true course; as all the drifts pointed one way, south-by-southeast, and therefore must have kept us to our proper direction. There were many dogs and sleds, and many Indians and half-breeds, too, about the Fort when we arrived; and as the dogs heralded our approach, the Factor came out to greet us and wish us a Happy New Year. At the door Mrs. Mackenzie, the half-breed wife of the Factor, was waiting with a beaming smile and a hearty welcome for us; and after we had removed our outer wraps, she led us over to the storehouse in which a big room had been cleared, and heated, and decorated to answer as a ballroom and banqueting hall. Tables were being laid for the feast, and Indian mothers and maidens and children, too, were already sitting on the floor around the sides of the room, and with sparkling eyes were watching the work in happy expectation. Around the doorway, both out and in, stood the men--Indians and half-breeds and a few French and English Canadians. Some wore hairy caribou _capotes_, others hairless moose-skin jackets trimmed with otter or beaver fur, others again were-garbed in duffel _capotes_ of various colours with hoods and turned-back cuffs of another hue; but the majority wore _capotes_ made of Hudson's Bay blanket and trimmed with slashed fringes at the shoulders and skirt; while their legs were encased in trousers gartered below the knee, and their feet rested comfortably in moccasins. Though, when snowshoeing, all the men wore hip-high leggings of duffel or blanket, the former sometimes decorated with a broad strip of another colour, the latter were always befringed the whole way down the outer seam; both kinds were gartered at the knee. Such leggings are always removed when entering a lodge or house or when resting beside a campfire--in order to free the legs from the gathered snow and prevent it from thawing and wetting the trousers. The children wore outer garments of either blanket or rabbit skin, while the women gloried in brilliant plaid shawls of two sizes--a small one for the head and a large one for the shoulders. The short cloth skirts of the women and girls were made so that the fullness at the waist, instead of being cut away, was merely puckered into place, and beneath the lower hem of the skirt showed a pair of beaded leggings and a pair of silk-worked moccasins. All the Indians shook hands with us, for in the Canadian Government's treaty with them it is stipulated that: "We expect you to be good friends with everyone, and shake hands with all whom you meet." And I might further add that the Indian--when one meets him in the winter bush--is more polite than the average white man, for he always removes his mitten, and offers one his bare hand. Further, if his hand happens to be dirty, he will spit on it and rub it on his leggings to try and cleanse it before presenting it to you. But when he did that, I could never decide which was the more acceptable condition--before or after. When the Factor entered, he was greeted with a perfect gale of merriment, as it was the ancient custom of the Great Company that he should kiss every woman and girl at the New Year's feast. After that historical ceremony was over--in which Free Trader Spear also had to do his duty--and the laughter had subsided, the principal guests were seated at the Factor's table, the company consisting of the three clergymen, the Spears, myself, the two North-West Mounted Policemen--who had just arrived from the south--and a few native headmen, including my friend Oo-koo-hoo. Though the feast was served in relays, some of the guests who were too hungry to await their turn were served as they sat about the floor. The dishes included the choice of moose, caribou, bear, lynx, beaver, or muskrat. Then a couple of picturesque, shock-haired French Canadians got up on a big box that rested upon a table, and tuning up their fiddles, the dance was soon in full swing. In rapid succession the music changed from the Double Jig to the Reel of Four, the Duck Dance, the Double Reel of Four, the Reel of Eight, and the Red River Jig, till the old log storehouse shook from its foundation right up to its very rafters. The breathless, perspiring, but happy couples kept at it until exhaustion fairly overtook them, and then dropping out now and then, they sat on the floor around the walls till they had rested; and then, with all their might and main, they went at it again. Among other things I noticed that the natives who were smoking were so considerate of their hosts' feelings that they never for a moment forgot themselves enough to soil the freshly scrubbed floor, but always used their upturned fur caps as cuspidors. The children, even the little tots, showed great interest in the dancing of their parents, and so delighted did they become that they would sometimes gather in a group in a corner and try to step in time with the music. Everyone that could dance took a turn--even Oo-koo-hoo and old Granny did the "light fantastic"--and at one time or another all the principal guests were upon the floor; all save--the priest. The scarlet tunics of the corporal and the constable of the Royal North-West Mounted Police as well as the sombre black of the English Church and the Presbyterian clergymen, added much to the whirling colour scheme, as well as to the joy of the occasion. But look where I would I could not find "Son-in-law," and though the blushing Athabasca was often in the dance, it was plain to see her lover was not there, for even the handsome policemen, though they paid her marked attention, gave no sign, either of them, of being the lucky one. In the number of partners, Oo-koo-hoo's granddaughter outshone them all, and, moreover, her lover was present. At every chance Shing-wauk--The Little Pine--was shyly whispering to her and she was looking very happy. Even I rose to the occasion and had for my first partner our host's swarthy wife, a wonderful performer, who, after her husband's retirement from the service of the Hudson's Bay Company, became the most popular dancer in all Winnipeg. Nor must I forget my dance with that merry, muscular, iron-framed lady, Oo-koo-hoo's better half--old Granny--who at first crumpled me up in her gorilla-like embrace, and ended by swinging me clean off my feet, much to the merriment of the Indian maidens. As the afternoon wore on the Rabbit Dance began, and was soon followed by the Hug-Me-Snug, the Drops of Brandy, and the Saskatchewan Circle, and--last but not least--the Kissing Dance. And when the Kissing Dance was encored for the fifth time, the company certainly proclaimed it a Happy New Year. THE BEAUTIFUL ATHABASCA Again at tea time the guests gathered round the festive board; then, a little later, the music once more signalled the dancers to take their places on the floor. Hour after hour it went on. After midnight another supper was served; but still "the band"--consisting of a violin and a concertina--played on, and still the moccasined feet pounded the floor without intermission. At the very height of the fun, when the Free Trader's charming daughter was being whirled about by a scarlet tunic, Mrs. Spear turned to me and beamed: "Doesn't Athabasca look radiantly beautiful?" "Indeed she does!" I blushed. "And what a delightful party this is . . . but there's just one thing lacking . . . to make it perfect." "What's that?" I enquired. "A wedding . . . my dear." Then, after a long pause, during which she seemed to be staring at me--but I didn't dare look--she impatiently tossed her head and exclaimed: "My . . . but some men are deathly slow!" "Indeed they are," I agreed. About four o'clock in the morning the music died down, then, after much hand-shaking, the company dispersed in various directions over the moonlit snow; some to their near-by lodges, some to the log shacks in the now-deserted Indian village, and others to their distant hunting grounds. It must have been nearly five o'clock before the ladies in the Factor's house went upstairs, and the men lay down upon caribou, bear, and buffalo skins on the otherwise bare floor of the living room. It was late next morning when we arose, yet already the policemen had vanished--they had again set out on their long northern patrol. At breakfast Mr. and Mrs. Spear invited me to return and spend the night with them, and as Oo-koo-hoo and his wife wanted to remain a few days to visit some Indian friends, and as the Factor had told me that the north-bound packet with the winter's mail from the railroad was soon due; and as, moreover, the Fur Brigade would be starting south in a few days, and it would travel for part of the way along our homeward trail, I accepted Mr. Mackenzie's invitation to return to Fort Consolation and depart with the Fur Brigade. It was a cold trip across the lake as the thermometer had dropped many degrees and a northwest wind was blowing in our faces. As I had frequently had my nose frozen, it now turned white very quickly, and a half-breed, who was crossing with us, turned round every once in a while and exclaimed to me: "Oh my gud! your nose all froze!" The snow seemed harder than ever, and for long stretches we took off our snowshoes and ran over the drifts, but so wind-packed were they that they received little impression from our feet. Of course, when we arrived at Spearhead, the house was cold and everything in it above the cellar--except the cats and geese--was frozen solid; but it is surprising how quickly those good old-fashioned box stoves will heat a dwelling; for in twenty or thirty minutes those wood-burning stoves were red-hot and the whole house comfortably warm. It's strange, but nevertheless true, that "Son-in-law" was never once mentioned at dinner, but later on, when Athabasca and I were sitting one on either side of the room, Mrs. Spear got up and, getting a picture book, asked: "Mr. Heming, are you fond of pictures? Daughter has a delightful little picture book here that I want her to show you, so now, my dears, both sit over there on the sofa where the light will be better, and look at it together." Moving over to the old horsehair sofa--the pride of all Spearhead and even of Fort Consolation--we sat down together, much closer than I had expected, as some of the springs were broken, thus forming a hollow in the centre of the affair, into which we both slid without warning--just as though it were a trap set for bashful people. Then Mrs. Spear with a sigh, evidently of satisfaction, withdrew from the room, and we were left alone together. With the book spread out upon our knees we looked it over for perhaps---- Well, I am not sure how long, but anyway, when I came to, I saw something just in front of me on the floor. Really, it startled me. For in following it up with my eye I discovered that it was the toe of a moccasin, and the worst of it was that it was being worn by Mrs. Spear. There, for ever so long, she must have been standing and watching us. The worst of that household was that all its members wore moccasins, so you could never hear them coming. That night, when we were sitting around the stove, Mrs. Spear explained to me how she had educated her daughter and added: "But perhaps, after all, if the wedding is not going to take place right away, it might be well to send Daughter to some finishing school for a few months--say in Toronto," and then, after a little pause, and still looking at me, she asked: "To which school would you prefer us to send Athabasca?" When I named the most fashionable girls' school in that city, "Paw and Maw" settled it, there and then, that Daughter would attend it next fall, that is, unless it was decided to celebrate her wedding at an earlier date. Next morning, at breakfast, Mrs. Spear suggested that Athabasca should take me for a drive through the woods and Mr. Spear remarked: "You know, Mr. Heming, we haven't any cutter or any suitable sleigh, and besides, one of the horses is working in the stump lot; but I think I can manage." In a little while he led a horse round to the front door. The animal had a pole attached to either side, the other end of which dragged out behind; across the two poles, just behind the horse's tail, was fastened a rack of cross poles upon which was placed some straw and a buffalo robe. It was really a _travois_, the kind of conveyance used by the Plains Indians. Getting aboard the affair, off we went, the old plug rumbling along in a kind of a trotting walk, while Athabasca held the reins. The morning being a fine sunny one, and the trees being draped and festooned with snow, the scene was so beautiful when we got into the thicker woods that it made one think of fairyland. A couple of fluffy little whiskey jacks followed us all the way there and back, just as though they wanted to see and hear everything that was going on; but those little meddlers of the northwoods must have been disappointed, for both Athabasca and I were not only too shy to talk, but too bashful even to sit upright; in fact, we both leaned so far away from one another that we each hung over our side of the trap, and did nothing but gaze far off into the enchanted wood. We must have been gone nearly two hours when the house again came into view. Yes, I enjoyed it. It was so romantic. But what I couldn't understand was why her parents allowed her to go with me, when they were already counting on "Son-in-law" marrying her. It was certainly a mystery to me. However, that afternoon I left for Fort Consolation. BACK TO FORT CONSOLATION On my way across the lake I noticed that the wind was veering round toward the east and that the temperature was rising. When I arrived in good time for supper Factor Mackenzie seemed relieved, and remarked that the barometer indicated a big storm from the northeast. That night, in front of the big open fire, we talked of the fur trade. Among other books and papers he showed me was a copy of the Company's Deed Poll; not published a century ago, but printed at the time of which I am writing, and thus it read: "To all whom these presents shall come, The Governor and Company of Adventurers of England Trading into Hudson's Bay send greeting. Whereas His Majesty King Charles the Second did, by His Royal Charter, constitute the Governor and Company of Adventurers of England trading into Hudson's Bay in a Body Corporate, with perpetual succession and with power to elect a Governor and Deputy Governor and Committee for the management of their trade and affairs----." From it I learned that the commissioned officers appointed by the Company to carry on their trade in Canada were: a Commissioner, three Inspecting Chief Factors, eight Chief Factors, fifteen Factors, ten Chief Traders, and twenty-one Junior Chief Traders, all of whom on appointment became shareholders in the Company. While the Governor and Committee had their offices in London, the Commissioner was the Canadian head with his offices in Winnipeg, and to assist him an advisory council, composed of Chief Factors and Chief Traders, was occasionally called. The Company's territory was divided into four departments--the Western, the Southern, the Northern, and the Montreal--while each department was again sub-divided into many districts, the total number being thirty-four. The non-commissioned employees at the various posts were: clerks, postmasters, and servants. Besides the regular post servants there were others employed such as: voyageurs, among whom were the guides, canoe-men, boatmen, and scowmen; then, again, there were fur-runners, fort-hunters, and packeteers. In the morning a miserable northeaster was blowing a heavy fall of snow over the country, and the Factor offered to show me the fur-loft where the clerk and a few half-breed men-servants were folding and packing furs. First they were put into a collapsible mould to hold them in the proper form, then when the desired weight of eighty pounds had been reached, they were passed into a powerful home-made fur-press, and after being pressed down into a solid pack, were corded and covered with burlap, and marked ready for shipment. The room in which the men worked was a big loft with endless bundles of skins of many sizes and colours hanging from the rafters, and with long rows of shelves stacked with folded furs, and with huge piles of pelts and opened bales upon the floor. Also there were moose and caribou horns lying about, and bundles of Indian-made snowshoes hanging by wires from the rafters, and in one corner kegs of dried beaver castors. THE WINTER MAIL ARRIVES On the morning of the second day of the storm I happened to be in the Indian shop, where I had gone to see the Factor and the clerk barter for the furs of a recently arrived party of Indian fur-hunters, when presently I was startled by hearing: "_Voyez, voyez, le pacquet_!" shouted by Bateese as he floundered into the trading room without a thought of closing the door, though the drifting snow scurried in after him. Vociferously he called to the others to come and see, and instantly trade was stopped. The Factor, the clerk, and the Indians, rushed to the doorway to obtain a glimpse of the long-expected packet. For two days the storm had raged, and the snow was still blowing in clouds that blotted out the neighbouring forest. "Come awa', Bateese, ye auld fule! Come awa' ben, an steek yon door! Ye dinna see ony packet!" roared the Factor, who could distinguish nothing through the flying snow. "_Bien, m'sieu_, mebbe she not very clear jus' now; but w'en I pass from de Mad Wolf's Hill, w'en de storm she lif' a leetle, I see two men an' dog-train on de lac below de islan's," replied the half-breed fort-hunter, who had returned from a caribou cache, and whose duty it was to keep the fort supplied with meat. "Weel, fetch me the gless, ma mon; fetch me the gless an' aiblins we may catch a glint o' them through this smoorin' snaw; though I doot it's the packet, as ye say." And the Factor stood shading his eyes and gazing anxiously in the direction of the invisible islands. But before the fort-hunter had returned with the telescope, the snowy veil suddenly thinned and revealed the gray figure of a tripper coming up the bank. "_Quay, quay_! Ke-e-e-pling!" sang out one of the Indians. He had recognized the tripper to be Kipling, the famous snowshoe runner. Immediately all save the Factor rushed forward to meet the little half-breed who was in charge of the storm-bound packet, and to welcome him with a fusilade of gunshots. Everyone was happy now, for last year's news of the "_Grand Pays_"--the habitant's significant term for the outer world--had at last arrived. The monotonous routine of the Post was forgotten. To-day the long, dreary silence of the winter would be again broken in upon by hearty feasting, merry music, and joyous dancing in honour of the arrival of the half-yearly mail. All crowded round the voyageur, who, though scarcely more than five feet in height, was famed as a snowshoe runner throughout the wilderness stretching from the Canadian Pacific Railroad to the Arctic Ocean. While they were eagerly plying him with questions, the crack of a dog-whip was heard. Soon the faint tinkling of bells came through the storm. In a moment all the dogs of the settlement were in an uproar, for the packet had arrived. With a final rush the gaunt, travel-worn dogs galloped through the driving snow, and, eager for the shelter of the trading room, bolted pell-mell through the gathering at the doorway, upsetting several spectators before the driver could halt the runaways by falling headlong upon the foregoer's back and flattening him to the floor. All was excitement. Every dog at the post dashed in with bristling hair and clamping jaws to overawe the strangers. Amid the hubbub of shouting men, women, and children, the cracking of whips, and the yelping of dogs, the packet was removed from the overturned sled and hustled into the Factor's office, where it was opened, and the mail quickly overhauled. While the Factor and his clerk were busily writing despatches, a relay of dogs was being harnessed, and two fresh runners were making ready to speed the mail upon its northward way. Before long the Factor's letters were sealed and carefully deposited in the packet box, which was lashed on the tail of the sled, the forepart of which was packed with blankets, flour, tea, and pork for the packeteers, and frozen whitefish for the dogs. Then amid the usual handshaking the word "_Marche_!" was given, and to the tune of cracking whips, whining dogs, and crunching snow, the northern packet glided out upon the lake with the Indian track-beater hurrying far ahead while the half-breed dog-driver loped behind the sled. Thus for over two centuries the Hudson's Bay Company had been sending its mails through the great wilderness of Northern Canada. THE DOG BRIGADE That afternoon five dog-trains arrived from outlying posts. They had come to join the Dog Brigade that was to leave Fort Consolation first thing in the morning on its southern way to the far-off railroad. As I wished to accompany the brigade, I had arranged with Oo-koo-hoo that we should do so, as far as we could without going out of our way, in returning to his hunting grounds. So to bed that night we all went very early, and at four o'clock in the morning we were astir again. Breakfast was soon over, then followed the packing of the sleds, the harnessing of the dogs, the slipping of moccasined feet into snowshoe thongs, the shaking of hands, and the wishing of farewells. Already the tracker, or track-beater, had gone ahead to break the trail. "_M-a-r-r-che_!" (start) shouted the guide--as the head dog-driver is called. Every driver repeated the word; whips cracked; dogs howled, and the brigade moved forward in single file. At the head went the Factor's train of four powerful-looking and handsomely harnessed dogs hauling a decorated carriole in which the Factor rode and behind which trotted a picturesque half-breed driver. Next in order went the teams of the Church of England clergyman and the Roman Catholic priest, both of whom happened to be going out to the railroad. Behind these followed twelve sleds or toboggans, laden with furs, which the Hudson's Bay Company was shipping to its Department Headquarters. When one remembers that black or silver fox skins are frequently sold for over a thousand dollars each, one may surmise the great value of a cargo of furs weighing nearly four thousand pounds, such as the Dog Brigade was hauling. No wonder the Company was using all haste to place those furs on the London market before the then high prices fell. The brigade formed an interesting sight, as the Indians, half-breeds, and white men were garbed most curiously; and in strong contrast to the brilliant colours worn by the members of the brigade, the clergymen trotted along in their sombre black--the priest's cassock flowing to his snowshoes, and his crucifix thrust, daggerlike, in his girdle. The four dogs comprising each of the fur-trains hauled three hundred pounds of fur besides the camp outfit and grub for both driver and dogs--in all, about five hundred pounds to the sled. When the sleighing grew heavy, the drivers used long pushing-poles against the ends of the sleds to help the dogs. TRAVELLING WITH DOG-TRAINS While the march always started in a stately way--the Factor's carriole in advance--it was not long before the trains abandoned their formal order; for whenever one train was delayed through any one of many reasons, the train behind invariably strove to steal ahead so that after a few hours' run the best dogs were usually leading. For several hours we followed the lake and the river, and just before daylight appeared in the southeastern sky the Aurora Borealis vanished from view. Later, a golden glow tipping the tops of the tallest trees, heralded the rising of the sun. Coming out upon a little lake--for we were now short-cutting across the country--we saw that the light over the distant hills had broken into a glorious flood of sunshine. Half over the far-off trees, along the horizon, the sun was shining, and the whole southeastern sky seemed aflame with bands and balls of fire. A vertical ribbon of gradually diminishing lustre, scarcely wider than the sun, was rising into the heavens to meet a vast semi-circle of rainbow beauty arched above the natural sun. Where the strange halo cut the vertical flame and the horizon on either side three mock suns marked the intersection. Above the natural sun and beneath the halo, four other mock suns studded the vertical band of light. It was a wonderful sight and lasted fully twenty minutes--the sky was just as I have shown it in my picture of the York Factory Packet. Now the brigade was halted, in voyageur parlance, "to spell the dogs one smoke," which, being translated, meant that the dogs could rest as long as it took their masters to smoke a pipeful of tobacco. The drivers, conversing in little groups or sitting upon sleds as they puffed at their pipes, watched the beautiful phenomenon, and the talk turned to the many remarkable sun-dogs that they had seen. Presently the mock suns grew dim; the arch faded away; the band lost its colour; the true sun rose above the trees and then, as ashes were knocked from pipes, we resumed our journey. After leaving the lake we entered a muskeg that extended for miles. Its uneven surface was studded with countless grassy hummocks, many of them crowned with willow and alder bushes or gnarled and stunted spruces or jack pines. It made hard hauling for the dogs. From a distance, the closely following trains reminded one of a great serpent passing over the country, that--when it encountered a hummocky section requiring the trains to turn from side to side, and to glide up and down--seemed to be writhing in pain. Near the end of the swamp an open hillside rose before us, and upon its snowy slopes the sun showed thousands of rabbit-runs intersecting one another in a maze of tracks that made one think of a vast gray net cast over the hill. Passing into a "bent-pole" district we encountered an endless number of little spruce trees, the tops of which had become so laden with snow that their slender stems, no longer able to sustain the weight, had bent almost double as they let their white-capped heads rest in the snow upon the ground. Later, we entered a park-like forest where pine trees stood apart with seldom any brushwood between. Fresh marten tracks were noticed in the snow. A little farther on, two timber-wolves were seen slinking along like shadows among the distant trees as they paralleled our trail on the right. The dogs noticed them, too, but they, like their masters, were too busy to pay much attention. The wolves were big handsome creatures with thick fluffy coats that waved like tall grasses in a strong breeze as they bounded along. Coming to a steep hill everyone helped the dogs in their climb. When at last the brigade, puffing and panting, reached the summit, pipes were at once in evidence and then another rest followed. When the descent began, the drivers--most of them having removed their snowshoes that their feet might sink deeper into the snow--seized their trail-lines, and, acting as anchors behind the sleds, allowed themselves to be hauled stiff-legged through the deep snow in their effort to keep the sleds from over-running the dogs. It was exciting work. The men throwing their utmost weight upon the lines sought every obstruction, swerving against trees, bracing against roots, grasping at branches, and floundering through bushes. Often they fell, and occasionally, when they failed to regain their footing, were mercilessly dragged downhill; the heavy sleds, gathering momentum, overtook the fleeing dogs, and their unfortunate masters were ploughed head-first through the snow. At the foot of the steepest incline a tumult arose as men and dogs struggled together in an effort to free themselves from overturned sleds. Above the cursing in French and English--but not in Indian--rose the howling of the dogs as lead-loaded lashes whistled through the frosty air. One wondered how such a tangle could ever be unravelled, but soon all was set straight again. About eight o'clock we had our second breakfast and by twelve we stopped again for the noon-day meal, both of which consisted of bannock, pork, and tea. While we ate, the dogs, still harnessed, lay curled up in the snow. Again the guide shouted "_Ma-r-r-che_!" and again the brigade moved forward. Some of the trains were handsomely harnessed, especially the Factor's. The loin-cloths of the dogs, called _tapis_, were richly embroidered and edged with fringe. Above the collars projected pompons of broken colours and clusters of streaming ribbons, while beneath hung a number of bells. All the dogs were hitched tandem, and every train was made up of four units. Except the dogs of the Factor's train, there were few real "huskies," as Eskimo dogs are called, for most of the brutes were the usual sharp-nosed, heavy-coated mongrels that in the Strong Woods Country go by the name of _giddes_; some, however, had been sired by wolves. The track-beater's snowshoes, which were the largest used by any of the brigade, were Wood Cree "hunting shoes" and measured nearly six feet in length. The other men wore Chipewyan "tripping shoes" about three feet long--the only style of Canadian snowshoes that are made in "rights and lefts." For a number of miles we passed through heavily timbered forest where shafts of sunlight threw patches of brilliant white upon the woodland's winter carpet, and where gentle breezes had played fantastically with the falling snow, for it was heaped in all manner of remarkable forms. Here and there long, soft festoons of white were draped about groups of trees where the living stood interlocked with the dead. Among the branches huge "snow-bosses" were seen, and "snow-mushrooms" of wondrous shape and bulk were perched upon logs and stumps. "Snow-caps" of almost unbelievable size were mounted upon the smallest of trees, the slender trunks of which seemed ready to break at any moment. It was all so strangely picturesque that it suggested an enchanted forest. Early that afternoon we came upon an Indian lodge hiding in the woods, and from within came three little children. It was then fully twenty below zero, yet the little tots, wishing to watch the passing brigade, stood in the most unconcerned way, holding each other by the hand, their merry eyes shining from their wistful faces while their bare legs and feet were buried in the snow. Though they wore nothing but little blanket shirts, what healthy, happy children they appeared to be! Then out upon a lake we swung where the wind-packed snow made easy going. Here the heavy sleds slid along as if loadless, and we broke into a run. On rounding a point we saw a band of woodland caribou trot off the lake and enter the distant forest. By the time we reached the end of the lake, and had taken to the shelter of the trees, dusk was creeping through the eastern woods and the rabbits had come out to play. They were as white as the snow upon which they ran helter-skelter after one another. Forward and backward they bounded across the trail without apparently noticing the dogs. Sometimes they passed within ten feet of us. The woodland seemed to swarm with them, and no wonder, for it was the seventh year, the year of Northland game abundance, when not only rabbits are most numerous, but also all the other dwellers of the wilderness that prey upon them. Already, however, the periodical plague had arrived. When I stopped to adjust a snowshoe thong I counted five dead hares within sight; next year starvation would be stalking the forest creatures. CAMPING IN THE SNOW While the sunset glow was rapidly fading, the brigade halted to make camp for the night. All were to sleep in the open, for dog brigades never carry tents but bivouac on the snow with nothing but a blanket between the sleeper and the Aurora Borealis--though the thermometer may fall to sixty below zero. Some of the men moved off with axes in their hands, and the sound of chopping began to echo through the forest. On every side big dry trees came crashing down. Then the huge "long fires", driving darkness farther away, began to leap and roar. Then, too, could be seen the building of stages on which to place the valuable fur-laden sleds out of reach of the destructive dogs; the gathering of evergreen brush; the unhitching of dogs and the hanging up of their harness in the surrounding trees; the unloading of sleds; the placing of frozen whitefish to thaw for the dogs; the baking of bannocks, the frying of pork, and the infusing of tea. Then, in silence, the men ate ravenously, while the hungry dogs watched them. When pipes had been filled and lighted each driver took his allotment of fish, called his dogs aside, and gave them a couple each. Some of the brutes bolted their food in a few gulps and rushed to seize the share of others, but a few blows from the drivers' whips drove them back. When the dogs had devoured their day's rations--for they are fed only once every twenty-four hours--their masters sought out sheltered spots for them and cut a few branches of brush for their beds. Some of the men cooked a supply of bannock to be eaten the following day. Others hung their moccasins, mittens, and leggings on little sticks before the fires to dry. It was an animated scene. The "long fires" were huge structures, twelve or fifteen feet in length, so that each man might bask in the heat without crowding his neighbour. A number stood with their back to the blaze while the rest sat or lounged on their blankets and, puffing away at their pipes, joined in the conversation that before long became general. Just then the dogs began to blow and then to growl, as a strange Indian strode out of the gloom into the brilliant glare of the fires. "_Wat-che_! _wat-che_?" (What cheer, what cheer?) sang out the men. The stranger replied in Cree, and then began a lively interchange of gossip. The Indian was the track-beater of the south-bound packet from the Far North that was now approaching. All were keenly interested. The cracking of whips and the howling of dogs were heard, and a little later the tinkling of bells. Then came a train of long-legged, handsomely harnessed dogs hauling a highly decorated carriole behind which trotted a strikingly dressed half-breed dog-driver. When the train had drawn abreast of our fire an elderly white man, who proved to be Chief Factor Thompson, of a still more northerly district of the Hudson's Bay Company, got out from beneath the carriole robes, cheerfully returned our greeting, and accepted a seat on the dunnage beside Factor Mackenzie's fire. Two other trains and two other dog-drivers immediately followed the arrival of the Chief Factor, for they were the packeteers in charge of the packet. Now the woods seemed to be full of talking and laughing men and snarling, snapping dogs. Twenty-two men were now crowding round the fires, and seventy-two dogs and eighteen sleds were blocking the spaces between the trees. NORTHERN MAIL SERVICE Chief Factor Thompson was the "real thing," and therefore not at all the kind of Hudson's Bay officer that one ever meets in fiction. For instead of being a big, burly, "red-blooded brute," of the "he-man" type of factor--the kind that springs from nowhere save the wild imaginations of the authors who have never lived in the wilderness . . . he was just a real man . . . just a fine type of Hudson's Bay factor, who was not only brother to both man and beast, but who knew every bird by its flight or song; who loved children with all his heart--flowers, too--and whose kindly spirit often rose in song. Yes, he was just a real man, like some of the men you know--but after all, perhaps he was even finer--for the wilderness does nothing to a man save make him healthier in body and in soul; while the cities are the world's cesspools. He was rather a small, slender man, with fatherly eyes set in an intelligent face that was framed with gray hair and gray beard. After the Chief Factor and his men had been refreshed with bannock, pork, and tea, pipes were filled and lighted and for a time we talked of all sorts of subjects. Later, when we were alone for a little while, I found Mr. Thompson a man richly informed on northern travel, for he had spent his whole life in the service of the Hudson's Bay Company, and at one time or another had been in charge of the principal posts on Hudson Bay, Great Slave Lake, and the Peace, the Churchill, the Athabasca, and the Mackenzie rivers. Among other subjects discussed were dogs and dog-driving; and when I questioned him as to the loading of sleds, he answered: "Usually, in extremely cold weather, the Company allots dogs not more than seventy-five pounds each, but in milder weather they can handily haul a hundred pounds, and toward spring, when sleds slide easily, they often manage more than that." Then dreamily puffing at his pipe he added: "I remember when six dog-trains of four dogs each hauled from Fort Chipewyan on Lake Athabasca to Fort Vermillion on the Peace River loads that averaged six hundred and fifty pounds per sled--not including the grub for the men and dogs and the men's dunnage. Then, again, William Irving with Chief Factor Camsell's dogs brought to Fort Simpson a load of nine hundred pounds. The greatest load hauled by four dogs that I know of was brought to Fort Good Hope by Gaudet. When it arrived it weighed a trifle over one thousand pounds. But Factor Gaudet is one of the best dog-drivers in the country." Then, re-settling himself more comfortably before the fire, he continued: "And while I think of it we have had some pretty fine dogs in the service of the Company. The most famous of all were certainly those belonging to my good friend Chief Factor Wm. Clark. He bred them from Scotch stag hounds and "huskies"--the latter, of course, he procured from the Eskimos. His dogs, however, showed more hound than husky. Their hair was so short that they had to be blanketed at night. Once they made a trip from Oak Point on Lake Manitoba to Winnipeg, starting at four o'clock in the morning, stopping for a second breakfast by the way, and reaching Winnipeg by one o'clock at noon, the distance being sixty miles. They were splendid dogs and great pets of his. They used to love playing tricks and romping with him. Frequently, when nearing a post, they would purposely dump him out of his carriole and leaving him behind, go on to the post, where, of course, on their arrival with the empty sled, they were promptly sent back for Mr. Clark. Understanding the command, they would at once wheel about and, without a driver, return on the full gallop to get their master. When coming upon him they would rush around and bark at him, showing all the while the greatest glee over the trick they had played him. He never used a whip upon them. No snowshoer could be found who was swift enough to break a trail for those dogs and no horse ever overtook them. Once, while going from Oak Point to Winnipeg, Factor Clark's train ran down six wolves, allowing him to shoot the brutes as he rode in his carriole. Another time they overhauled and threw a wolf which Mr. Clark afterward stunned, and then bound its jaws together. When the brute came to, it found itself harnessed in the train in place of one of the dogs, and thus Chief Factor Clark drove a wild timber-wolf into the city of Winnipeg." "They must have been wonderful dogs," remarked Father Jois, "but it's too bad they don't breed such dogs nowadays." "That's so," returned the Chief Factor. "Twenty or thirty years ago at each of the big posts--the district depots--they used to keep from forty to fifty dogs, and at the outposts, from twenty to thirty were always on hand. At each of the district depots a man was engaged as keeper of the dogs and it was his duty to attend to their breeding, training, and feeding." "Speaking of feeding, what do you consider the best food for dogs?" I asked. "By all means pemmican," replied the Chief Factor, "and give each dog a pound a day. The next best rations for dogs come in the following order: two pounds of dried fish, four pounds of fresh deer meat, two rabbits or two ptarmigan, one pound of flour or meal mixed with two ounces of tallow. That reminds me of the way the old half-breed dog-drivers used to do. In such districts as Pelly and Swan River, where fish and other food for dogs was scarce, we had frequently to feed both men and dogs on rations of flour. Some of the half-breeds would leave their ration of flour with their family, and count on eating the dog's ration while on the trip and letting the poor brutes go hungry, just because the dogs belonged to the Company. So we put a stop to that by mixing coal oil with the dog's rations and having them bated into cakes before the trip was begun. Such a mixture made the men sick when they tried to eat it, but the dogs didn't seem to mind it at all." "Then kerosene is not included in the regular rations the Company supplies for its trippers and voyageurs?" I ventured, laughingly. "Hardly, for in the Northland that would be rather an expensive condiment." The old gentleman smiled as he continued: "In outfitting our people for a voyage, we supply what is known as a full ration for a man, a half ration for a woman or a dog, and a quarter ration for a child. For instance, we give a man eight pounds of fresh deer meat per day while we give a woman or a dog only four pounds and a child two pounds. A man's ration of fish is four pounds per day, of pemmican two pounds, of flour or meal two pounds, of rabbits or ptarmigan four of each," said he, as he knocked the ashes from his pipe. I was afraid he was going to turn in, so I quickly asked: "Which is the longest of the Company's packet routes at the present day?" "That of the Mackenzie River packet from Edmonton to Fort Macpherson. In winter it is hauled two thousand and twelve miles by dog-train; and in summer it is carried by the Company's steamers on the Athabasca, the Slave, and the Mackenzie rivers. Next comes the Peace River packet from Edmonton to Hudson's Hope, a distance of over a thousand miles. In summer it goes by steamer, and in winter by dog-train. There's the York Factory packet from Winnipeg to Hudson Bay by way of Norway House, a distance of seven hundred miles. In winter it is hauled by dogs from Selkirk as far as Oxford House, and from there to York Factory by men with toboggans. In summer it is carried by canoe on Hay River and by steamboat on Lake Winnipeg. Then there's the Liard River packet and the Reindeer Lake packet. Each travels about five hundred miles by dogs in winter and by canoe in summer. The Moose Factory packet from Temiscamingue to James Bay goes by canoe in summer, but by men in winter. All mails in and out from Hudson Bay or James Bay to or from the next post in the interior, are hauled by men. Dogs are seldom used on those routes, on account of the depth of the snow and the scarcity of dog feed." [Illustration: "There's the York Factory packet from Hudson Bay to Winnipeg, a distance of seven hundred miles. In winter it is hauled by dogs between Selkirk and Or ford House, but between the latter post and York Factory it is hauled by men with toboggans. All mails in and out from Hudson Bay to or from the next post in the interior are hauled by men. Dogs are seldom used on those routes, on account of . . ." See Chapter V.] Though I well knew that packeteers did not carry firearms, I asked Chief Factor Thompson--just for the sake of getting the truth from him and giving it to the public: "How does the Hudson's Bay Company arm their packeteers?" "Arm them?" the Chief Factor laughed outright, "why, we always provide them with an axe." "Firearms, I mean." "Firearms! Why, they aren't allowed to carry firearms at all. It's against the rules and regulations of the Company. In the first place, packeteers are supplied with plenty of grub for the trip; in the next place, if they had a gun they might go hunting and fooling around with it instead of attending to their business; and, moreover, it doesn't matter whether the mail travels two hundred or two thousand miles, there is no occasion for packeteers to carry firearms, for there are no highwaymen and no animals in this country that would make an offensive attack upon them." And in truth, in all that wild brigade there were no fire-arms save Oo-koo-hoo's old muzzle-loader; but then The Owl was a hunter by profession, and he carried a gun only as a matter of business. Now for the last twenty-five years that is exactly what I have wanted to tell the public. When one reads a story, or sees a play or a moving picture, in which characters bristling with firearms are set forth as veritable representatives of life in the Canadian wilderness, he may rest assured that the work is nothing but a travesty on life in Canada. Any author, any illustrator, any playwright, any scenario writer, any actor or any director who depicts Canadian wilderness life in that way is either an ignoramus or a shameless humbug. And to add strength to my statement I shall quote the experience of a gentleman who was the first City Clerk, Treasurer, Assessor, and Tax Collector of Dawson City--Mr. E. Ward Smith: POLICE AND GUNMEN "The Mounted Police generally received word in advance when any particularly bad character was headed for the Yukon, and in all such cases he was met when he slipped off the boat. I remember particularly one case of the kind, as I happened to be on hand when the American gunman landed. He was a quiet enough looking individual and had no weapons of any kind in sight, but a close scrutiny revealed the fact that he had a particularly evil eye in his sandy-freckled face. One of the Mounties picked him out unerringly and tapped him on the shoulder. "'Gat Gardiner?' he asked. "'No,' said the newcomer. 'My name is Davidson.' "'I happen to know you as Gat Gardiner,' insisted the policeman. 'Got any weapons on you?' "'Leave go of me,' flared the so-called Davidson, all the veneer of civility gone. 'You got nothing on me. Let go, I say!' "'I've got something on you,' declared the policeman, hauling a revolver from the hip pocket of the man. 'Carrying concealed weapons is against the law on this side the line. Back on the boat, you, and don't you dare put foot ashore or I'll have you in jail. You go back the way you came.' "And Gardiner went. I saw him leaning over the rail when the boat started on the return trip and he shook his fist at the policeman on the wharf and emitted a string of vile oaths. But he never came back. "When the notorious 'Soapy' Smith was killed at Skagway, Alaska, his gang of desperadoes was promptly broken up and word came to Dawson that some of them were headed for the Canadian side. They were gathered in as soon as they crossed the line, denuded of weapons, and sent back. Not one of the gang eluded the vigilance of the police. "The law against carrying concealed weapons was a big factor in keeping the peace. Comparatively few men took advantage of their legal right to carry a revolver in sight. I remember seeing an open box in a pawnshop containing the most amazing collection of weapons I had ever set eyes on--revolvers with silver handles, pistols of carved ivory, antiquated breech-loaders, weapons of fantastic design, and, probably, of equally fantastic history, strange implements of death that had come from all climes and bespoke adventures on all the seven seas. "'Where did you get the lot?' I asked the proprietor. "'They all sell their shooting irons. No use for them here. I get 'em for practically nothing. Help yourself if you have any fancy that way. I'll make you a present of anything you want.' "So much for the wild Yukon of the novelists! Instead of lurching into the dance hall and blazing away at the ceiling, picture the 'old-timer', the hardened miner of a hundred camps, planking down his pistols on the counter of the pawnshop and asking 'How much?' That's the truer picture." As part of my boyhood education was derived from the study of American illustrated magazines, I was led by those periodicals to believe that the North American wilderness was inhabited by wild and woolly men bedecked with firearms, and ever since I have been on the lookout for just such characters. Now while I cannot speak for the Western States, I can at least speak for Canada; and I must now admit that, during my thirty-three years of contact with wilderness life, on one occasion--but on one only--I found that there was justification for describing the men of the northern wilderness as carrying firearms for protection. But does not the one exception prove the rule? It happened near Stewart, on the borderline of Alaska, several years ago. I encountered a prospector who wanted to cross Portland Canal from Alaska to Canada, and as I was rowing over, I offered to take him across. When, however, he turned to pick up his pack I caught sight of something that fairly made me burst out laughing; for it was as funny a sight as though I had witnessed it on Piccadilly or Broadway. At first I thought he was a movie actor who, in some unaccountable way, had strayed from Los Angeles and become lost in the northern wilderness before he had had time to remove his ridiculous "make-up"; but a moment later he proved beyond doubt that he was not an actor, for he blushed scarlet when he observed that I was focussing a regular Mutt-and-Jeff dotted-line stare at a revolver that hung from his belt, and he faltered: "But . . . Why the mirth?" "Well, old man," I laughed again, "for over twenty-five years I have been roaming the Canadian wilderness from the borderline of Maine right up here to Alaska, and in all that time--with the exception of the Constables of the North-West Mounted Police--you are the first man, woman, or child, I have seen carrying a revolver. And I swear, old dear, that that's the truth. So now, do you wonder that I laugh?" RECORD TRAVELLING But to return to the Hudson's Bay Company's packet system, I asked Chief Factor Thompson: "Which is the more important, the summer or the winter mail?" "Oh, the winter; for, when inward bound, it bears the Commissioner's instructions to the district chief factors; and, when outward bound, it contains information regarding the results and the progress of the fur-trade, and orders for additional supplies." "How many miles a day do the packeteers average on their winter trips?" "Well," replied the Chief Factor, "I think the rate of speed maintained by our packeteers is remarkable; especially when one considers the roughness of the country, the hardships of winter travel, the fact that the men must make their bread, cook their meals, care for their dogs, and, when on the trail, cannot even quench their thirst without halting to build a fire and melt snow. Yet the packeteers of the Mackenzie River mail cover their two thousand miles on snowshoes at an average rate of twenty-seven and a half miles a day, including all stoppages." "That is certainly splendid travelling. Some of the packeteers, I should judge, have made great records; haven't they?" "Yes, that's true," acknowledged the trader, "the packeteers do make great efforts to break records between posts. But, though they may have succeeded in cutting down the time, their achievement is never mentioned on the way-bill, nor does it affect the time allowed for the completion of the trip; for, though the mail be brought in ahead of time, it is never handed over to the relay until the appointed hour has struck. Otherwise, the whole system would be thrown out of gear. Exceptionally fast runs are not shown upon the way-bills, because they would eventually affect the average time allowed for the trip; and in stormy weather that would be hard upon the packeteers. The time allowed for the transmission of a packet is calculated on a ten-years' average. No excuse for delay, except death, is tolerated. At each post on certain fixed dates relays of men and dogs are kept in readiness to forward the mail without delay. A through way-bill accompanies every packet from point of departure to point of delivery. At each post along the route the time of arrival and the time of departure of the mail must be entered upon the way-bill, as well as the names of the packeteers and of the officers in charge." "I understand that packets contain not only the despatches of the Company, but the private mail of the employees, that of missionaries of all denominations, that of chance 'explorers' or travellers, and even that of opposition fur-traders. Is that a fact?" "Yes, sir, and moreover, no charge is made by the Company." "Do the Company's officers experience much trouble in procuring men to act as packeteers?" "Oh, no; none whatever. As a rule, when men enter the Company's service, they stipulate that they shall be given a place on the packet; for that affords them an opportunity to pay a visit to the next post, and to join in the dance which is always held on the arrival of the mail. Trippers consider themselves greatly honoured on being given charge of a packet; for it means that they are held to be trustworthy, and thoroughly familiar with the topography of the district." "Before the advent of the railroad and the steamboat, which was the longest of the Company's packet routes?" "By all odds that of the Yukon packet. It made the journey from Montreal to Fort Yukon, which was then situated at the junction of the Porcupine and Yukon rivers. It was routed by way of the Ottawa River, Lake Huron, Lake Superior, Lake of the Woods, Lake Winnipeg, the Athabasca River, the Slave River, and the Mackenzie River. It was forwarded in summer by canoe, in winter by dog-train, for the enormous distance of four thousand five hundred miles. And let me tell you, it is to-day, as it was two hundred years ago, the pride of the Company's people that not one packet was ever lost beyond recovery. Packeteers have been drowned, frozen, burned, shot, smothered, and even eaten; but the packet has always reached its destination somehow." BEAR HOLDS UP MAIL A sudden burst of laughter from the men at a neighbouring fire attracted the attention of Chief Factor Thompson, and glancing over, he remarked to me: "Telling yarns, eh! Let's go over and listen." Twelve or fifteen men were crowded round that fire--including Factor Mackenzie, the Rev. Mr. Wilson, Father Jois, and Oo-koo-hoo--and they were now coaxing "Old Billy Brass" to tell the next story. He was a wiry little white man of about sixty who had seen much service in the Hudson's Bay Company. He hesitated. They clamoured again, and he began: "But talkin' 'bout bears reminds me of a little affair I once had on the Peace River," said the old man, glancing slyly from the corner of his eye to see what effect his statement made upon his campfire companions. Billy was sitting cross-legged upon his caribou robe; and, as he turned the browning bannocks before the fire, he continued: "Well, as I was sayin', me an' Old-pot-head's son once had a go with a great big black bear away up on the Peace River. But, don't you forget it, Billy Brass didn't lose the packet." "Come, Billy, tell us all about it," coaxed the Chief Factor, well knowing that if he were once started there would be on his part little need of urging in order to extract from the old tripper all he knew, or could invent to suit the occasion. "Well, gentlemen, if you ain't too sleepy, an' if some o' you boys'll watch the bannock, I don't mind tellin'," replied Billy as he leaned toward the fire, picked up a red-hot coal, and palmed it into his pipe. "But I can't give a funny bear story, the same as you've been tellin', because all my experiences with bears have been mighty serious. However, I'll try and tell you 'bout me an Old-pot-head's son; an' to my mind it's the most serious of 'em all. "As I was sayin', we was in charge of the Peace River packet; an' if it hadn't been for the charm Father La Mille blessed for me at Fort Good Hope, I don't know 's I'd be here to tell about it. "Anyway, me an' Old-pot-head's son was carryin' the packet and headin' for Hudson's Hope. It was the fall packet, an'--as winter was just about due--we was hustlin' 'long for all we was worth, an' jabbin' holes in the river with our paddles as fast as we could, in fear o' the freeze up. "As bad lack would have it, that very night the ice overtook us, an' we had to leave the canoe ashore an' finish the voyage afoot. Lucky for us, we was only about three-days' travel from the Fort, so we leaves our axe an' whatever we don't particular need with the canoe. "Mile after mile we walks along the river bank; an' as we don't have no extra moccasins, our bare skin was soon upon the sand. What with havin' our duds torn by bushes, an' our fallin' in the mud once or twice, and several times a-wadin' creeks, we was a pretty sight when we stops to camp that night. When the sun went down, we was so tired that we just stopped dead in our tracks. We had been packin' our blankets, our grub, an' cookin' gear to say nothin' o' the packet; so, of course, we didn't give much thought to the campin' ground. But after supper I looks round an' sees that we'd made our fire down in a little hollow, an' that the place was bare o' trees 'ception three that stood in a row 'bout four lengths of a three-fathom canoe from our fire. The middle one was a birch with a long bare trunk, an' on each side stood a pine. Now, I want you gentlemen to pay perticler 'tention to just how they stood; for them three trees is goin' to do a mighty lot o' figgerin' in this here story. "As I was sayin', there was two pines with a birch in between, an' all standin' in a row, with the upper branches o' pines runnin' square in among the branches o' the birch. 'Bout half ways between the birch and the east pine, but a trifle off the line, was a pool o' water. Before I turns in for the night, I takes the packet an' sticks it on the end of a long pole, an' shoves it up against the birch tree, for fear o' the fire spreadin' an' burnin' up the mail. "Me an' Old-pot-head's son turns in an' sleeps as sound as any trippers could. Some time in the night I wakes up with a mighty start that almost busts me heart. Somethin' was maulin' me. So, with me head still under the blanket, for I dassn't peep out, I sings out to the Injun an' asks him what in creation he's kickin' me for; an' if he couldn't wake me without killin' me. Old-pot-head's son yells back that he hasn't touched me. Then you bet I was scared; for the thing hauls off agen an' gives me a clout that knocks the wind plum' out o' me. "Just then I heard Old-pot-head's son shout, 'Keep still, Bill, it's a big black bear.' I grabs the edges o' me blanket an' pulls 'em in under me so hard I thinks I've bust it. But the bear keeps on maulin' me, an' givin' me such hard swats that I began to fear it'd cave in me ribs." "But, Billy, why didn't you shoot it?" asked the Reverend Mr. Wilson. "Shoot? Why, your reverence, don't you know, packeteers never carries a gun?" the old man exclaimed with disgust, and then continued his story: "Not content with that, the brute starts to roll me over an' over. An' all the time I'm doin' me best to play dead. Now you needn't laff. I'd like to see any o' youse pretendin' you was dead while a big bear was poundin' you that hard that you begin to believe you ain't shammin'. An' when that ugly brute hauls off an' hits me agen, I decides then an' there that there's no occasion to sham it. But just as soon as I makes up my mind I'm dead, the bear leaves me; an' when I can no longer hear him breathin', I peeps out of a tiny little hole, and sees the big brute maulin' me old friend the Injun. Then I takes another peep roun', an' don't see no escape 'cept by way o' them three trees, so I just jumps up, an' lights out like greased lightnin' for the nearest tree. After me comes the bear gallopin'. I guess that was the quickest runnin' I ever done in all me life. I just managed to climb into the lower branches o' the west pine as the bear struck the trunk below me. "When I stops for breath in the upper branches, I sees the old bear canterin' back agen to have another go with me pardner. "Just as soon as I was safe, the whole performance struck me as bein' pretty funny, an' I couldn't help roarin' out and a-laffin' when I saw the beast maulin' Old-pot-head's son, an' him tryin' for all he was worth to play dead. "Thinks I, I'll make me old friend laff. So I starts in to guy him, an' he begins to snicker, an' that makes the bear mad, an' he begins to roll the Injun. Then, you bet, I couldn't make him laff no more; for, what with shammin' dead, an' bein' frightened to death into the bargain, I don't think there was much laff left in him. "You know how bears will act when they sometimes comes across a handy log? Well, that's just what the beast was doin' with Old-pot-head's son--it was rollin' him over an' over. The very next second it rolls his feet into the fire. Down the tree I slid, like snow down a mountain, an' stood at the foot of it an' pelted the bear with stones. The Injun's blanket began to smoke. It was no laffin' matter, for I knowed if I didn't drive the brute off in a jiffy Old-pot-head's son would be a comin' out of his trance mighty sudden an' that meant a catch-as-catch-can with a great, big, crazy black bear. "As good luck would have it, the next time I threw a stone, it landed on the tip of the bear's snout, an' with a snarl he comes for me. I waits as long as I dares, then up the tree I skips, with the brute follerin' me. About half ways up I thinks I hears a human bein' laffin' in the east pine. So I looks over, an' sure enuff, I sees me old pardner settin' on a limb an' fairly roarin'. All the same, I was feelin' mighty squeemish, for the bear was comin' up lickety splinter after me. "Just then I spies a good stout branch that reaches out close against a big limb of the birch, an' I crawls over. As the bear follers me, I slides down the trunk o' the birch, an' lights out for the east pine where me pardner was doin' the laffin'. On its way down the bear rammed itself right smack against the mail-bag; and when the beast struck ground, it smelt the man smell on the packet, an' began to gnaw it. "Now me an' Old-pot-head's son knowed well enuff we had to save the mail-sack, so I slips down the east pine a ways, an' breaks off dead branches, an' pelts them at the bear while the Injun crosses over into the top o' the west pine. Then we both at once slides down as low as we dares, an' I begins to lamm the brute with a shower o' sticks. Up the tree it comes for me, while me pardner slips down, grabs the mail-sack, an' sails up the west pine again. "That was a mighty clever move, thinks I, but a bag is an orkad thing to portage when you're meanderin' up an' down a tree with a bear after you. But the tump-line was on it, just as we carried it the day before, so it wasn't as bad as it might 'a' been. "Well, when I went up the east pine, the bear follered, an', as there wasn't any too much room between me an' the bear, I crosses over into the birch an' slides down its slippery trunk as tho' it was greased. I hits the ground a little harder than I wanted to, but didn't waste no time in lightin' out for the west pine, where the Injun was restin'; an' all the time the bear was tryin' to grab me coat-tails. "It was just a case of up to the west pine, cross over and down the birch; then up the east pine, cross over an' down the birch; then up the west pine, cross over an' down the birch, till we got so dizzy we could a hardly keep from fallin'. If you could just 'a' seen the way we tore roun' through them trees, I'll bet you would 'a' done a heap o' laffin'. "The bear was mighty spry in goin' up, but when it came to goin' down he'd just do the drop-an'-clutch, drop-an'-clutch act. That's just where me an' me pardner had the advantage on the brute; for we just swung our arms an' legs roun' that birch an' did the drop act, too; but, somehow, we hadn't time to do the clutch, so our coat-tails got badly crushed every time we landed. "It was a kind of go-as-you-please until about the tenth roun', when I accidentally drops the mail-bag on the bear's head, an' that makes him boilin' mad; so he lights out after us as tho' he had swallered a hornet's nest. "Then away we goes up an' down, up an' down, an' roun' an' roun' that perpendicular race track, until we made such a blur in the scen'ry that any fool with half an eye an' standin' half a mile away could 'a' seen a great big figger eight layin' on its side in the middle o' the landscape. We took turns at carryin' the packet, but sometimes I noticed Old-pot-head's son was havin' a good deal of trouble with it. It didn't seem to bother him much when he was climbin' up; for he just swung it on his back with the loop o' the tump-line over his head, an' so he had his hands free. But it was when he was comin' down the slippery birch that the weight of the bag made him rather more rapid than he wanted to be; an' so, when he an' the bag struck groun', they nearly always bounced apart; an' if the Injun failed to get his feet in time to ketch the sack on the first bounce, I ketched it on the second bounce as I glode by. So between the two of us we managed to hang on to the packet. "By-an'-by, we was gettin' terribly tuckered out. It was a good thing for us that the bear was gettin' winded an' dizzy as well; because, at about the sixty-seventh roun', the brute had no sooner gone down the birch than he bounded up agen just when Old-pot-head's son was a-climbin' thro' the upper branches o' the birch. So he slips over into the top o' the east pine, while I stays in the top o' the west pine, an' the bear sits down in a upper crotch o' the birch. "Well, we puts in a good many heats of anywhere from twenty-five to seventy-five laps roun' that track by the time daylight comes, an' sunrise finds us all ketching our wind in the upper branches. I noticed that whenever the brute wanted to stop the whirligig it always climbed up the birch just in time to separate me an' me pardner; an' there we would sit, me in the west pine, me pardner in the east pine, an' the black brute right in between. "About breakfast time me an' the Injun was feelin' mighty hungry. There we sat cussin' our luck an' castin' longin' glances down at the grub bag. By the time I'd caught me wind a great idea strikes me. Durin' the next heat I would rush out. So I sings out my intentions to me pardner; an' he says he thinks we can do it. So while he was carryin' Her Majesty's mail I was to try an' grab the grub bag. "We got ready, an' dropped down them pines so fast that we both hits groun' before the bear knows what's doin'. Then I leaves that tree like as if all the animals in the woods was after me. I got on so much speed that by the time I grabs the grub bag I was goin' so fast that I couldn't turn roun' without slackin' down. That's where I loses a terrible amount o' time, an' I was beginnin' to think it was all up with me. By the time I got headed roun' agen for the tree, I sees that the bear is comin' down with his back to me. When he hits groun' he sees the Injun dancin' roun' the foot o' the west pine; so he makes for the redskin, an' chases him up while I climbs the east pine. "Then we all went roun' an' roun' for maybe fifty laps, an' the way we wore the bark off them trees an' trod down the grass between 'em was a caution. By-an'-by the bear gets so dizzy that he bucks up the birch agen, an' sure enuff that stops the performance. "I didn't need any breakfast bell to remind me to open the grub bag. I just reaches in an' pulls out some busted bannock an' throws a chunk over to Old-pot-head's son, an' without even sayin' grace, we starts in. Every little while I'd toss another chunk of bread over to me pardner an' just out o' sheer spite I'd chuck it so that it would go sailin' thro' the air right in front o' the bear's snout. That makes him mad. So he tried to catch the stuff as it flies by; but I just puts on a little more curve, an' that makes him madder still, an' he ups an' comes for me. "Then we all knocks off breakfast an' goes for another canter. But it don't do no good, 'ceptin' that we all gets puffed out agen. After a bit, the bear stops to ketch his breath, an' then me an' me pardner goes on with our breakfast. "With the bear exercisin' us the way he did, we had to take our breakfast in a good many courses. That makes it so long drawn out that we gets mighty thirsty. The Injun asks me if the cups is in the grub bag. I puts me han' in an' feels, but they ain't there. Then I remembers that we left them down by the fire. We didn't either of us care to risk snakin' a cup, so I tells me pardner that the next time we goes roun' we'd best try an' grab a handful o' water. We didn't have long to wait, for the bear soon gets another move on; an' then away we all goes sailin' roun' agen. Every time me an' the Injun canters past the pool, we just makes a sudden dip an' grabs up a handful o' water an' throws it in. "It took so much exercise to get so little water that I thought I'd die of thirst while I was tryin' to drink me fill. When the bear caught on to what we was doin', it just made him madder an' madder; an' he lights out after us at such a breathless clip that we had to fairly gallop up them pines, an' slide down the birch faster than ever. It wasn't long before nearly every button was wore off, an' our clothes was so ripped up an' torn down that I'd blush every time I'd ketch the bear lookin' at me. An' every time we ran 'long the groun' from one tree to another, me an' me pardner had to use both hands on our garments in order to keep up our--er--respectability. However, the bear didn't have the laff on us altogether, for he had gone up an' down them trees so often an' so fast that he had worn all the hair off his stomach. "After a while we all gets tuckered out agen; an' while we rests in the trees me an' me pardner talks about the weather, lettin' on that there ain't no bear anywheres nigh. So the time passed. As we didn't recollect just how much grub we had at the start, or how much water there was in the pool first off, we couldn't for the life of us reckon just how long we'd been there. Neither me nor Old-pot-head's son would care to take our oaths whether we'd been there a night an' half a day, or half a dozen nights an' days; the night time an' the day time was so mixed up together that we hadn't time to separate 'em. We were sure, tho', that our grub was givin' out, the water was dryin' up, an' death was gettin' good an' ready for us. "We was in such a terrible tight place that I begins to think o' takin' off me shirt an' flyin' it from the top o' the tallest pine as a signal o' distress; for we was worse off than if we'd been shipwrecked. Talk about bein' cast adrift on a raft! Why, it wasn't in it with bein' fixed the way we was. We just stayed in one spot with no chance of ever driftin' to'rds help. As long as the bear kept tab on us there wasn't no sign of our ever gettin' a wink o' sleep. And more, besides starvin' to death, we had to face bein' frozen; for our clothes was all wore off, an' winter was comin' on mighty fast. "At last, when me an' Old-pot-head's son had about given up hope, an' was just pickin' out which would be the easiest death, what should we see but somethin' bobbin' in an' out among the bushes. Say, it was another bear! When it comes a little closer, we makes out it was a little lady bear. No sooner does our old stern-chaser spy her than he slides down to the groun', an' risin' up on his hind legs, throws out his chest, an' cocks his eye at her, for all the world like a man when he sees a pretty girl comin' his way. But when her dainty little ladyship ketches sight of his bald-headed stomach, she just tosses up her nose with disgust, an' wheels roun' an' makes for the tall timbers with our affectionate friend limpin' the best he can after her. "An' that's the last we sees o' the bear that tried to hold up the Company's packet." After the laughter had died down, Chief Factor Thompson yawned: "Well, gentlemen, it's getting on. I must be turning in or my men will be late in getting under way in the morning." GOD AND THE WILD MEN Drowsiness had indeed overtaken the camp. But now I must digress a moment to tell you something that the public--at least the public that has derived its knowledge of northern wilderness life from fiction--may find it hard to believe. And this is what I want to say: that every one in that whole brigade of wild men of the wilderness, from the lowest dog-driver right up to the Chief Factor--when each had fixed his bed in readiness for the night--knelt down, and with bowed head, said his evening prayer to The Master of Life. Moreover, the fact that two clergymen were present had nothing whatever to do with it, for the "barbarians" of the forest would have done just the same had no priest been there--just as I have seen them do scores and scores of times. In fact, in some sections of the forest the native wilderness man--red, white, or half-breed--who does not, is not the rule, but the exception. Then, too--unless one's ears are closed to such sounds--one may occasionally hear the voyageurs of the "North canoe" and the "York boat" brigades, while straining on the tracking line, singing, among other hymns: Onward, Christian soldiers, Marching as to war, With the Cross of Jesus, Going on before. And, furthermore, I wonder if the fiction-reading public will believe that the majority of the men in the fur brigades always partake of the holy sacrament before departing upon their voyages? Nevertheless, it is the truth--though of course truth does not agree with the orgies of gun-play that spring from the weird imaginations of the stay-at-home authors, who, in their wild fancy, people the wilderness with characters from the putrescence of civilization. It is time these authors were enlightened, for a man, native to the wilderness, is a better man . . . more honest, more chivalrous, more generous, and--at heart, though he talks less about it--more God-respecting . . . than the man born in the city. That is something the public should never forget; for if the public remembers that, then the authors of wilderness stories will soon have to change their discordant tune. Yes, it is true, every one of those wild men said his evening prayer and then, with his blanket wrapped about him, lay down upon his thick, springy mattress of fir-brush, with his feet toward the fire, and slumbered as only a decent, hard-working man can. Out among the dancing shadows that flitted among the snow-mantled bushes and heavily laden trees a hundred and fifty eyes glared in the brooding darkness--as though all the wolves in the forest were gathering there. Later, when the sound of heavy breathing was heard round the fires, a fierce, wolfish-looking dog, bolder than the rest, left its snowy bed to hunt for more sheltered quarters. There was a whine, a snarl, then the sound of clashing teeth. In a moment every dog leaped up with bristling hair. Instantly bedlam reigned. Over seventy dogs waged the wildest kind of war and the distant woods reechoed the horrible din. A dozen blanketed mounds rose up, and many long lashes whistled through the air. The seething mass broke away and flew howling and yelping into outer darkness followed by a roar of curses--but only in civilized tongues. Presently all was still again. The men lay down, and the dogs, one by one, came slinking back to their resting places. But in a couple of hours one of the half-frozen brutes silently rose up, cautiously stepped among the sleeping men, and lay couched close to a smouldering fire. Another followed and then another until most of the dogs had left their beds. Growing bolder, a couple of the beasts fought for a warmer spot. In their tussle they sprawled over one of the men, but a few lusty blows from a handy frying-pan restored calm. As the night wore on some of the dogs, not contented with sleeping beside the men, curled up on top of their unconscious masters. Then for hours nothing but the heavy breathing and snoring in camp and the howling of distant wolves was heard. Slumber had at last overtaken the wild men of the wilderness--who always made it a rule to kneel down every night, and ask God to bless their little children at home. Now, though time still sped on, silence possessed the forest--until: "Hurrah, _mes bons hommes_! _Levey, levey, levey_! Up, up up, up, up!" ending in a shrill yell from the guide startled the drowsy crew. It was three o'clock in the morning. Had it not been for the brilliancy of the Northern Lights all would have been in darkness. An obscure form bent over an ash-bed and fumbled something. A tiny blaze appeared and rapidly grew until the surrounding forest was aflare. Over the fires frying-pans sizzled, while tea-pails heaped with snow began to steam. A hurried breakfast followed. The sleds were packed. The dogs, still curled up in the snow, pretended to be asleep. "Caesar! Tigre! Cabri! Whiskey! Tête Noire! Pilot! Michinass! Coffee! Bull! Brandie! Caribou!" shouted the men. A few of the dogs answered to their names and came to harness while some holding back were tugged forward by the scruff of the neck. Others were still in hiding. The men searched among the mounds and bushes. Every now and then the crack of a whip and the yelp of a dog announced the finding of a truant. Two trackers on large snowshoes had already gone ahead to break the trail. It was easy to follow their tracks though the woods were still in darkness and remained so for several hours. At dawn Oo-koo-hoo and our little outfit parted company with the Dog Brigade. Already the packet was many miles ahead. As I turned on my western way, I thought of the work of these postmen of the wilderness, of the hardships they endured, and the perils they braved; and the Chief Factor's assertion that no packet had ever been lost beyond recovery, recalled to mind other stories that were worth remembering: For instance, a canoe express was descending the Mackenzie River; the canoe was smashed in an ice jam, and the packeteers were drowned. A few weeks later passing Indians caught sight of a stick bobbing in the surface of the stream. Though the water was deep and the current was running at the rate of three miles an hour, the stick remained in the same place. So the Indians paddled over to investigate. They found that to the floating stick was fastened a long thong, which on being pulled up brought the missing packet to light. Again, while making camp near the Athabasca River, the packeteers had slung the packet in a tree, the usual place for it while in camp. During the night their fire spread and burned up the whole equipment except the tree, which, being green, received little more than a scorching. The packet was unharmed. On Great Slave Lake during a fierce snowstorm the packeteers became separated from their dogs, and were frozen to death. But the packet was recovered. In one autumn two packeteers journeying from George's River Post to Ungava Post drew up their canoe on a sandy beach, and camped beneath a high, overhanging bank. During the night the bank gave way and buried them as they slept. When the ice formed, the trader at Ungava sent out two men to search for the missing packet. They found the canoe on the beach; and from the appearance of the bank, conjectured what had happened. Next spring the landslide was dug into, and the packeteers were found both lying under the same blanket, their heads resting upon the packet. VI WILD ANIMALS AND MEN WOLVERINE AND HUNTER One evening, while sitting before the fire in Oo-koo-hoo's lodge, we heard sounds that told us that Amik had returned, and presently he entered the tepee, full of wrath over the havoc a wolverine had wrought along his trapping path. The pelts of more dead game had been ruined; deadfalls had been broken; and even some of his steel traps had been carried away. There and then Oo-koo-hoo decided that he would drop all other work and hunt the marauder. For its size--being about three feet in length and from twelve to eighteen inches high--the wolverine is an amazingly powerful creature. In appearance it somewhat resembles a small brown bear. Though it is not a fast traveller its home range may cover anywhere from five to fifty miles. It feeds upon all sorts of small game, and has been known to kill even deer. It mates about the end of March, dens in any convenient earthen hole or rocky crevice or cave that may afford suitable shelter; and it makes its bed of dry leaves, grass, or moss. The young, which number from three to five, are born in June. Whenever necessary, the mother strives desperately to protect her young, and is so formidable a fighter that even though the hunter may be armed with a gun, he runs considerable risk of being injured by the brute. It has been known to take possession of the carcass even of a caribou and to stand off the hunter who had just shot it. Also, it has been known to drive a wolf, and even a bear, away from their quarry. The superstitious Indian not only believes that the wolverine is possessed of the devil--for it is the most destructive animal in the northern world--but he considers it also to be endowed with great intelligence. The wily Indian, however, knowing the animal's habit of trying to destroy what it cannot carry away, takes advantage of that very fact and hunts it accordingly. All that has been said in relation to trapping the fox applies also to _le Carcajou_--_i.e._, the wolverine--save that the trap chain should be doubled, and everything else made stronger and heavier in proportion to the wolverine's greater size and strength. That evening Oo-koo-hoo talked much of wolverines. "My son, no other animal surpasses it in devilish cunning. For it is not content to merely spring a trap, but it will carry it away--more often for a short distance, but sometimes for miles--and hide or bury it. Later on the wolverine may visit it again, carry it still farther away and bury it once more. The wolverine has good teeth for cutting wood, and will sometimes free a trap from its clog by gnawing the pole in two. My son, I have even known a wolverine go to the trouble of digging a hole in which to bury a trap of mine; but just in order to fool me, the beast has filled up the hole again, carried the trap to another place, and there finally buried it. But as a good hunter is very observant, he is seldom fooled that way, for the wolverine, having very short legs, has difficulty in keeping both the chain and the trap from leaving tell-tale marks in the snow. "Yes, my son, the wolverine is a very knowing brute, and if he thinks he may be trailed, he will sometimes--without the slightest sign of premeditation--jump sideways over a bush, a log, or a rock, in order to begin, out of sight of any trailer, a new trail; or he may make a great spring to gain a tree, and ascend it without even leaving the evidence of freshly fallen bark. Then, too, he may climb from tree to tree, by way of the interlocking branches, for a distance of a hundred paces or more, all the while carrying the trap with him. Then, descending to the ground, he may travel for a considerable distance before eventually burying the trap. I have known him even leave a trap in a tree, but in that case it was not done from design, for signs proved that the chain had been caught upon a branch." "How many wolverines," I asked, "do you suppose are causing all the trouble on your and Amik's trapping paths?" "Only one, my son, for even one wolverine can destroy traps and game for twenty or thirty miles around; and the reason the brute is so persistent in following a hunter's fur path is that it usually affords the wolverine an abundance of food. Then, when the hunter finds the brute is bent on steady mischief, it is time for him to turn from all other work and hunt the thief. If at first steel traps fail, he may build special deadfalls, often only as decoys round which to set, unseen, more steel traps in wait for the marauder. "If a hunter still fails, he may sit up all night in wait for the robber, knowing that the more stormy the night, the better his chance of shooting the brute. Sometimes, too, I have found a wolverine so hard to catch that I have resorted to setting traps in the ashes of my dead fires, or beneath the brush I have used for my bed, while camping upon my trapping path." Then he added with a twinkle about his eye and a shake of his finger: "But, my son, I have another way and I am going to try it before the moon grows much older." I asked him to explain, but he only laughed knowingly, so I turned the subject by asking: "Does an animal ever eat the bait after it is caught?" "No, my son, no animal ever does that, not even if it be starving, but it may eat snow to quench its thirst. Animals, however, do not often starve to death when caught in traps, but if the weather be very severe, they may freeze in a single night. If, however, the beast is still alive when the hunter arrives, the prisoner will in most cases feign death in the hope of getting free. That is true of most animals, and, furthermore, it will feign death even when other animals approach; but then, more often, its purpose is to secure the advantage of making a sudden or surprise attack." An Indian named Larzie, who was engaged to hunt meat for the priests at Fort Resolution, once came upon a wolverine in one of his traps that had done that very thing and won the battle, too. The snow, the trap, and the carcass of a wolf, silently told Larzie every detail of the fight. The wolverine, having been caught by the left hind leg, had attempted by many means to escape, even trying to remove the nuts from the steel trap with its teeth, as well as trying to break the steel chain, and gnaw in two the wooden clog to which the trap was fastened. But before accomplishing this, the wolverine had spied a pack of five wolves approaching. In an effort to save its life the wolverine worked itself down low in the snow and there lay, feigning death. The cautious wolves, on sighting the wolverine, began circling about, each time drawing a little nearer. Still suspicious, they sat down to watch the wolverine for a while. Then they circled again, sat down once more, and perhaps did a little howling, too. Then they circled again, each time coming closer, until at last, feeling quite sure the wolverine was dead, one of the wolves, in a careless way, ventured too near. No doubt it was then that the wolverine, peeping through his almost closed eyelids, had seen his chance--that the nearest wolf was now not only within reach, but off guard, too--for the snow gave evidence of a sudden spring. The wolverine had landed upon the back of the wolf, clung on with his powerful forelegs, and not only ripped away at the wolf's belly with the long, sharp claws of his free hind foot, but with his terrible jaws had seized the wolf by the neck and chewed away at the spinal cord. Then, no doubt, the other wolves, seeing their comrade overpowered and done to death, had turned away and left the scene of battle. Later, Larzie had arrived, and after killing the wolverine and skinning both the conqueror and the conquered, had lighted his pipe and leisurely read every detail of the story in that morning's issue of the forest publication called _The Snow_. Next morning, when I turned out before breakfast, I found that Oo-koo-hoo had left camp before daylight; and half the afternoon passed before he returned. That evening he explained that during the previous night, the thought of the wolverine having haunted him and spoilt his rest, he had decided on a certain plan, risen before dawn, and started upon the trail. Now he was full of the subject, and without my asking, described what he had done. Securing a number of fish hooks--trout size--he had wired them together, enclosed them in the centre of a ball of grease which he had placed inside an old canvas bag, and fastened there with the aid of wires attached to the hooks. Then, carrying the bag to where he found fairly fresh wolverine signs, he had dropped it upon the trail as though it had accidentally fallen there. The wolverine, he explained, would probably at first attempt to carry away the bag, but on scenting the grease it would paw the bag about; then, upon discovering the opening, it would thrust its head inside, seize the ball of grease in its mouth, and start to pull it out. "If that should happen," commented Oo-koo-hoo, "the wolverine would never leave that spot alive; it would just lie there and wait for me to come and knock it on the head." But now at last--as later events proved--Oo-koo-hoo, the great hunter, had encountered his match. Now it was no longer an unequal contest, for now two could play at cunning--especially when both were masters at the game. Three times The Owl visited his latest wolverine trap, only to learn that twice the brute had inspected it and spurned it, for its tracks proved that caution had kept the animal more than five feet away. Later, as the winter wore on, the subject of wolverines was rarely mentioned as it did not add to the cheerfulness of Oo-koo-hoo's otherwise happy mood. THE BEST FOOT-GEAR About a week later, with a few days' outfit loaded upon our sled, Oo-koo-hoo and I were heading first for the Moose Hills where we were to hunt moose, and if successful, to cache the meat where Granny and the boys could find it; then continuing farther north we were to call upon The Owl's sister to deliver her a present from the children of Oo-koo-hoo. In the meantime, Amik had gone upon one of his trapping paths, and the boys were off to a swampy region to examine deadfalls set for mink and fisher. The boys had taken the dogs with them. It was a fine, cold, sunny morning when Oo-koo-hoo and I set out upon our hunt, and with every breath we seemed to be drinking aerial champagne that made us fairly tingle with the joy of living--for such is the northern air in winter time. As we snowshoed along I felt thankful for the excellent socks with which the old hunter had provided me. On the last hunt my snowshoe thongs had blistered my feet, but now, thanks to Oo-koo-hoo, I was shod with the most perfect footgear for winter travel I have ever known--a natural sock that was both blister- and cold-proof. I had never heard of it before, but The Owl assured me that it had been long in fashion among the Indians. On each foot I was now wearing next my bare skin a rabbit pelt--minus legs and ears--put on, hair side out, while the skin was still green and damp, and then allowed to dry and shape itself to the foot. Over the rabbit pelts I wore my regular woollen socks, duffel neaps, and caribou-skin mitten moccasins. The pelts had been removed from the rabbits by simply cutting them between the hind legs, and then peeling them off inside out. With the inside of the skin next the foot blisters never form, nor does the hair wear off and ball up under the foot in such a way that it may hurt the wearer. Though the rabbit pelt is very tender and tears easily, it can be worn for five or six days of hard travel. For warmth and comfort it is unexcelled. Early that afternoon we came upon many lynx tracks, evidently there had been a "pass of lynxes" as the hunters call it, for lynxes have a way of gathering in bands of about four to eight and passing through the forest. Oo-koo-hoo stated that they migrated in that way from one region to another, covering many miles in search of game, especially during the years when the rabbit plague causes a great shortage of food; and had he known of their presence in time, he would have cut big heaps of poplar, birch, and willow branches to attract the rabbits, and thus furnish more food for the lynxes. Hoping, however, that he was not too late, he set what few snares he had; nevertheless, he regretted that the boys had gone off with the dogs, for, if they had not, he would have tried to trail and tree the lynxes. The boys had taken the dogs because they wanted them to haul their sled. It was, however, against the advice of their grandfather, for he had admonished them that only white men and half-breeds would use dogs to haul a sled on a trapping path; that a good hunter would never do such a foolish thing, and for many reasons: the traps--being usually set close to the path--were apt to be either set off or destroyed by the swinging sled; besides, the dogs' tracks would obliterate the tracks of game; also the dogs might be caught in the traps; furthermore, the smell of dogs always inspired fear in animals, again, the noise of driving dogs frightened the game away. So, according to Oo-koo-hoo, the wise hunter either packs his load upon his back, or, by himself, hauls it upon his sled. But one must remember that The Owl was an Ojibway and that those Indians as well as the Saulteaux Indians prefer to haul their own sleds on the hunting trail and to keep their dogs solely for trailing game; though all other Indians of the Strong Woods use their dogs for hauling sleds. One advantage of the Ojibway custom is that hunting dogs--when running loose--never have to be fed. Amik, however, being a rather shiftless fellow, often spoilt his boys as much as the average white father spoils his, for he never thrashed them, though they frequently deserved it, and having given in to them on many previous occasions, he had now let them take the dogs. But speaking of parents' treatment of children, even an old she-bear could give many a civilized father or mother pointers on how to bring up children, for even among animals and birds one frequently finds a model parent. According to the verdict of the old fur-traders, the best trapper is the uncivilized Indian. Though, apparently, he does not derive the same amount of sport from his work as the white man does, he never shirks his work and always takes great pains to prepare for and perfect the setting of his traps. Though he is slow, he is, nevertheless, sure and deadly in his work. Oo-koo-hoo assured me that the secret of successful hunting was intelligence, caution, and patience. During December and January, or according to the Indians, Yeyekoopewe Pesim--"The Rime Moon," and Kakisapowatukinum--"The Moon When Everything Is Brittle," there is always a lull in the trapping, for the reason that then the days are shorter and the weather colder, and on that account and also on account of the fact that the sun and winds of March have not arrived to harden the deep soft snow, the forest creatures prefer to remain more at home. APPROACHING MOOSE In approaching the Moose Hills we saw many moose tracks, but they were old, the freshest having been made two days before. The age of these the hunter was able to determine from the amount of newly fallen snow in the track, as well as from other conditions; for he well remembered how much snow had fallen each day for the last week or two, when and which way the wind had blown, and when the sun was strong and the cold severe. Now selecting a two-day-old trail as the best for us to follow, he decided to camp for the night, and we spent the interval between supper and bedtime discussing not only the hunting of moose, but also their range and habits. The extreme range of a moose covers from five to fifteen miles. More often it is confined to a much smaller area that merely includes the low-lying river and lake valleys that afford him the choicest of summer food--the pineapple-like roots of waterlilies--and also affords him protection from flies while he is wading and delving for those very roots; and the higher lands among the hills, where he spends the winter in the denser forest. But it is in midsummer that we can study the moose with greatest ease, for then he spends the sunrises and sunsets wading among the lily pads, and if we are careful to observe the direction of the wind to guard against being scented, and also careful to cease paddling or any other motion before the big brute looks at us, we may, with the greatest ease and safety, propel our canoe to within from a hundred yards to fifty or forty feet of the great beast as he stands looking at us with raised head and dilating nostrils trying to catch our scent. If he catches it, he suddenly tosses his ponderous head, drops back slightly on his hind legs as he swings round, and is off with a grunt. Nevertheless, he--or she--will pause long enough to leave the sign that all deer leave upon the ground when suddenly startled by--to them--the dreadful smell of human beings. Or if it happens to be moonlight and the moose is a bit mystified by the steady, but silent, scentless, and motionless approach of our canoe, he may at first stand gazing at us, then grunt at us, then back out of the water up on to the bank and there stand, not fifty feet away, towering above us--for he may measure from six to seven feet at the shoulder and weigh three quarters of a ton--shaking his great antlers and grunting, or perhaps, more properly speaking, _barking_ at us while he stamps his big fore hoofs until he shakes the very river bank. How children love to take part in such sport! How they thrill over such an experience! Many a time I have taken them right up to even the largest of bulls until the little tots could look into the very eyes of the greatest of all living deer. What fine little hunters, too, they made, never speaking, not even in a whisper; never moving--save only their eyelids. In fact, I have been so close to wild moose that on one occasion I could have spanked a huge bull with my paddle. He was standing belly-deep in the river with his head under water, and so close did my canoe glide past him that I had to turn it to prevent it from running in between his hind legs. It was the sound of turning aside the canoe that brought his head up, and when he beheld the cause, he lunged forward and trotted away leaving a great wake of surging foam behind him. His head, crowned with massive antlers, was a ponderous affair. His body was as large as that of a Shire stallion and his back just as flat, while his legs were very much longer. He was the largest moose I have ever seen--and yet, by leaning slightly toward him, I could have spanked him with my paddle! One such experience with a great, wild animal, is more adventuresome, more thrilling and more satisfactory, than the shooting of a hundred such creatures. It is more than the sport of kings--it is the sport of men of common sense. On another occasion, at Shahwandahgooze, in Quebec, in broad daylight, I paddled a friend of mine right in between three bulls and a cow, and there we rested with moose on three sides of us. They were standing in a semicircle and no one of them was more than fifty paces away. They were unusually fine specimens and had the bulls been triplets they could not have been more alike even to the detail of their antlers. The cow paid little attention to us and went on feeding while the bulls, with heads held much higher than usual, stood as though in perfect pose for some sculptor. There wasn't a breath of wind and the wondrous spell must have lasted from eight to ten minutes; then a faint zephyr came and carried our tell-tale scent to them and they wheeled round and trotted away. Yet the head hunter from the city, who usually stands off at long range and fires at the first sight of game, will argue that killing is the greatest sport; when in truth it requires greater courage and greater skill to approach, unarmed, so close to game that one may touch it with a fish pole, and the reward is a much greater and a more satisfactory thrill than the head hunter ever gets from lying off at long range with a high-powered rifle and utterly destroying life. Furthermore, think of how much better one can study natural history by observing live animals in action, rather than motionless ones in death! An artist, in his effort to render a perfect portrait of a human being, never murders his sitter, as the so-called "sportsman-naturalist" does. It seems to me that if sportsmen were more active, more skilful, and more courageous, they would give up slaughtering animals and birds for the sake of the unbounded pleasure and adventure of observing wild game at closer quarters; but in truth, long experience has taught me that the average hunter from the city is something of a coward--never daring to walk alone in the forest without his trusty, life-destroying machines. But if those same hunters would only take a little more interest in nature, pluck up a little more courage, and remember that the wild animals of the northern forest are less vicious--when unmolested--than are many of the tame animals of civilization, how much more sane they would be. Remember, it is much safer to approach the great bulls of the forest than it is to approach the smaller bulls of the farmers' fields. Likewise, when tramping along the rural road one runs a much greater chance of being bitten by the farmer's dog, than one does, when travelling through the forest, of being bitten by a wolf. Then, too, it is just the same of men, for the men of the cities are much more quarrelsome, dishonest, and evil-minded than are those of the wilderness, and that, no doubt, accounts for the endless slandering of the wilderness dwellers by fiction writers who live in towns, for those authors--never having lived in the wilderness--form their judgment of life, either as they have experienced it in cities or as they imagine it to be in the wilderness. THE OUTLAW AND NEW YORKER Now, in order to confirm my statement, I shall go to the very extreme and quote what Al Jennings, the notorious outlaw, says upon this very subject. The quotation is taken from Jennings' reminiscences of his prison days, when he and the late lamented William Sydney Porter--the afterward famous author O. Henry--formed such a strong friendship. In the following dialogue Jennings is in New York City visiting Porter--whom he calls "Bill"--and Porter is speaking: "I have accepted an invitation for you, Colonel." He was in one of his gently sparkling moods. "Get into your armor asinorum, for we fare forth to make contest with tinsel and gauze. In other words, we mingle with the proletariat. We go to see Margaret Anglin and Henry Miller in that superb and realistic Western libel, 'The Great Divide.'" After the play the great actress, Porter, and I, and one or two others were to have supper at the Breslin Hotel. I think Porter took me there that he might sit back and enjoy my unabashed criticisms to the young lady's face. "I feel greatly disappointed in you, Mr. Porter," Margaret Anglin said to Bill as we took our places at the table. "In what have I failed?" "You promised to bring your Western friend--that terrible Mr. Jennings--to criticize the play." "Well, I have introduced him." He waved his hand down toward me. Miss Anglin looked me over with the trace of a smile in her eye. "Pardon me," she said, "but I can hardly associate you with the lovely things they say of you. Did you like the play?" I told her I didn't. It was unreal. No man of the West would shake dice for a lady in distress. The situation was unheard of and could only occur in the imagination of a fat-headed Easterner who had never set his feet beyond the Hudson. Miss Anglin laughed merrily. "New York is wild over it; New York doesn't know any better." Porter sat back, an expansive smile spreading a light in his gray eyes. "I am inclined to agree with our friend," he offered. "The West is unacquainted with Manhattan chivalry." That is the truth in a sentence; and while O. Henry and Jennings have spoken for the West, may I add my own experience of wilderness men and say that the North, also, is unacquainted with Manhattan chivalry. LAW AND ORDER ENFORCED Furthermore, while upon this subject, I wish to add to my own protest against the novelists' wild dreams of outlawry in the Canadian wilderness, a quotation from E. Ward Smith's "Chronicles of the Klondyke." Mr. Smith--as you no doubt remember--was the first city clerk, treasurer, assessor, and tax collector of Dawson City; and this is what he says: "I want to say at the very outset that the Yukon was, in my opinion at least, one of the most orderly corners of the earth. Even in the early days of the boom, when miners and adventurers of all nationalities poured in, the scales of justice were held firmly and rigidly. The spell of the Mounted Police hung over the snow-bound land and checked the evil-doer. It may sound ridiculous when I assert that the Yukon--that gathering spot of so much of the scum of the earth--was better policed than Winnipeg, or Toronto, or Halifax; but, nevertheless, I believe it to be a fact. "Of course, crimes were committed, some of which were never solved. Doubtless, also many deeds of violence occurred whose authors never came to light. But, on the whole, life and property were surprisingly secure. One day I visited the cabin of my friend Lippy, who made a million or so upon El Dorado. The door was partly open, so, on receiving no response to my knock, I walked in. The cabin was empty. On the table was a five-gallon pail heaped high with glittering nuggets of gold! I glanced around the place. On the shelves and rafters, on chairs and under bunks, were cans filled with gold. There was a snug fortune in sight. Any one could have slipped in and stolen the lot. I took Lippy to task about it when he came in. He did not seem at all concerned, however. "Pshaw," he said, "I always have quite a lot of gold about. But no one would steal it. I've never lost anything." But as the Yukon and New York are a long way from where Oo-koo-hoo was hunting, let us return to his Moose Hills. THE WAYS OF THE MOOSE Moose mate in September and October, and during this period great battles between bulls frequently occur before the victor walks off with his hard-won spouse. The young--either one or two, but generally two after the mother's first experience--are born in May, in some secluded spot, and the calves soon begin to follow their mother about, and they follow her, too, into their second year. Horns begin to grow on the young bull before he is a year old, but they are mere knobs until he is a year and a half old, when spikes form; by the third year he is supplied with antlers. The perfect antlers of a big bull sometimes measure seventy inches across, yet every winter--in January or February--the horns are shed. During the mating season moose are frequently hunted by the method known as "calling." The hunter, with the aid of a birch-bark megaphone, imitates the long-drawn call of the cow, to attract the bull. Then, when a bull answers with his guttural grunt of Oo-ah, Oo-ah, the Indian imitates that sound, too, to give the first bull the impression that a second is approaching, and thus provokes the first to hurry forward within range of the hunter's gun. But when the rutting season is over, the hunting is done by snaring or stalking or trailing. The moose derives its winter food principally from browsing upon hardwood twigs, and when the deep snows of midwinter arrive, he is generally to be found in a "yard" where such growth is most abundant. A moose yard is usually composed of a series of gutters from one foot to eighteen inches wide, intersecting one another at any distance from ten to fifty feet or more apart, and each gutter being punctured about every three feet with a post hole in which the moose steps as it walks. The space between the tracks is generally nothing but deep, soft snow, anywhere from three to five feet in depth. Beside the moose tracks that Oo-koo-hoo and I had seen that day was much silver birch and red willow, and from the signs of freshly cropped twigs we knew that the moose were not unusually tall, and we knew, too, from the fact that the tracks were sharply defined as well as from their ordinary size and that they were not deeply impressed in the snow, that the moose were those of about three years old. THE OWL TRACKS MOOSE That night, as Oo-koo-hoo was in a talkative mood, he told me much about the hunting of moose, as we sat before our snow-encircled fire in the still, silent, sombre woods. "We hunters usually take moose by shooting or snaring them, and the first thing to do is to find a track, and if it is old, follow it up until new signs appear. And now, my son, as you may some day want to hunt moose on your own account, I shall tell you how to trail them and what to do when you find them. Listen to my words and remember: As soon as you find a fresh track, look toward the sun to learn the time of day; for if it is between eight and nine on a winter morning the moose will be feeding, as it seldom lies down until between ten and three. If feeding, the track will zig-zag about, and for a time head mainly up wind, until its feeding is nearly done, then if the wind is from the right, the moose will turn to the left and circle down wind and finally come about close to its old trail where it will lie down to rest. So when you find a zig-zagging track about which the brush has been browsed, and when the wind comes from the right of the trail, you, too, should circle to the left, but instead of circling down wind as the moose has done, or is now doing, you circle up wind until you either approach the danger point where the wind may carry your scent to the moose, or otherwise, until you cut the moose's track. In either case you should now retrace your steps for some distance and then begin a new circle, and this time, a smaller one. If you now find a new trail, but still no sign that the moose has turned up wind, or is about to do so, you retrace your steps and begin a still smaller circle, then when you strike the trail again, you can judge fairly well--without even getting a sight of it--the exact position of your quarry. Then is the time to take off your snowshoes and approach with greater care then ever; but remember, always keep to leeward of the track and always look up wind. Should you now come to an open space, watch carefully any clumps of trees or bushes; if passing through heavy timber, watch for an opening, and if there should be fallen timber there, scan it most carefully where the dead trees lie, for there, too, your game may be lying. Remember, my son, if you approach a moose directly he will either see or scent you, and in circling, you must understand that only the skill of the hunter in reading the signs can successfully determine the size of the circle--sometimes it may cover a quarter of a mile. "Then, too, my son, the seasons play a part in hunting. In winter, a moose, of course, does not go to water, but eats snow to slake its thirst. But whenever there is open water, a moose will go to drink about sunrise; in the fly season, however, all rules are broken, as the brute then goes to water night or day, to get rid of the pests, and it will even remain submerged with nothing above the surface--save its nose. In stormy weather look for moose among heavy timber, and in fair weather search the open feeding places. But in bad weather, though the hunter gains one advantage, the moose gains another; for while many twigs and sticks are apt to be broken by the high wind and thus the sound of the hunter's approach is less likely to be heard, the eddying currents of air are then more apt to carry the hunter's scent to the moose regardless of the fact that his approach may be faultless. "Also, my son, you must be careful not to disturb the little tell-tale creatures of the woods or success that seems so near may vanish in a moment; for a raven may fly overhead, and spying you, circle about--just as the pigeons used to do--and then crying out may warn the moose of your presence. Or you may flush a partridge; or a squirrel, taking fright, may rush up a tree and begin chattering about you; or a rabbit may go drumming into a thicket, and the moose, reading these signs of alarm, will surely look about to learn the cause. "But, my son, should you spy a moose lying down, it is rather risky to fire at it in that position, as it is then hard to hit a vital spot. The better way is to stand with cocked gun covering the game, and then break a twig--not too sharply though, or you may scare away your quarry. Watch its ears: if they flop back and forward, it has heard nothing, but if both ears point in your direction, keep still and be ready, for it has heard you, and now with one great spring it may disappear into a thicket. Instead of breaking a twig, some hunters prefer to whistle like a startled rabbit while other hunters prefer to speak to the moose in a gentle voice, always taking care to use none but kindly words, such as for instance: 'Oh, my lazy brother, I see you are sleeping long this morning.' "For we Indians never speak harshly to so good an animal, nor do we ever use bad words, as bad words always bring bad luck to the hunter. "In winter, my son, a moose makes much noise in walking and feeding, for then he often breaks off the tops of little trees--though some of the trunks may be as thick as a man's arm. The moose breaks down trees of such a size by placing his big shoulder against it, and curving his powerful neck round it, and then bending it over with his massive head. Then, too, he often rides down small trees, such as birch or poplars, just by straddling his fore legs about them and using his chest to force them over. "In shooting a moose, remember the best spot is just behind the shoulder, and while the next best is in the kidneys, the head is not a good shot for a smooth-bore gun, for bone often deflects a round ball. A good hunter always tries to get a clear view of his quarry, for even a twig may deflect his bullet. And remember, too, my son, that as a rule, when coming upon a fresh track, it is wiser to back-track it than to follow it up at once, as back-tracking will provide the hunter with about all the information he may require, as the back trail will tell him if the game was travelling fast or slow, whether it was fleeing in fright or feeding; and if feeding, whether it was feeding quietly or in haste; and if in haste, the twigs would be torn off instead of being clean cut. Sometimes a good hunter will back-track a trail several miles in order to assure the success of his hunt. "My son, if a moose is badly frightened by man-smell it may at first go off on the gallop and then settle down to a steady trot for four or five miles before it stops to listen--but not to feed. Then, turning its head this way and that, and even trembling with excitement, as it throws its snout into the air, to test if danger is still following, it may then start off again on another long trot, but all the time it will, as much as possible, avoid open places. Later it may attempt to feed by tearing off twigs as it hurries along, and then at last it will circle to leeward and finally rest not far from its old trail. Under such conditions, the distance a moose travels depends largely upon the depth of the snow. Two or three feet of snow will not hamper it much, but when the depth is four feet, or when the moose's belly begins to drag in the snow, the brute will not travel far. An old bull will not run as far as a young one, and a cow will not travel as far as a bull; but when tired out a moose sleeps soundly, so soundly, indeed, that a hunter can easily approach as close as he pleases. But don't forget, my son, that a good hunter never runs a moose--at least, not unless he is starving--as running a moose spoils the meat. "Sometimes, my son, a hunter may use a dog to trail a moose, but it is dangerous work for the dog, as the moose may turn at bay and strike at the dog with any one of its chisel-like hoofs or may even seize the dog by the back in its mouth, carry it for a little way, then throw it into the air and when it falls trample it to death. So, my son, when hunting moose in that way, it is best to have two dogs or more, as then one dog may attack while another is being pursued. But I warn you, if you are in pursuit of a moose and if he turns at bay for the first time . . . look out . . . for then he will surely attack you; if, however, he turns at bay through sheer exhaustion or from over-whelming pain, he will not always fight; but under the first condition, the hunter is a fool if he approaches within ten paces of a bayed moose." "THE OWL" MAKES A KILL Rising early next morning we made a very small fire to cook our breakfast and were ready to start as soon as dawn came to light us on our way. Oo-koo-hoo took great care in loading his gun as he expected to come upon moose at any time. He placed a patch of cotton about the ball before ramming it in, and made sure that the powder showed in the nipple before putting on the percussion cap. And as he took his fire-steel and whetted a keener edge upon his knife, a smile of hunter's contentment overspread his face, because he well knew how soon he was to use the blade. That morning he did not light his pipe as usual because, as he explained, he wanted to have his wits about him; furthermore, he did not wish to add to the strength of his man-smell; and whispering to me he added with a smile: "My son, when I smell some men, especially some white men, I never blame the animals of the Strong Woods for taking fright and running away." And that reminds me that while we white people consider the negro the standard-bearer of the most offensive of all human body smells, the Indian always unhesitatingly awards the palm to the white man, and sometimes even the Indian children and babies, when they get an unadulterated whiff from a white man, will take such fright that it is hard for their mothers to console them--a fact that has often made me wonder what the poor little tots would do if they scented one of those highly painted and perfumed "ladies" that parade up and down Piccadilly, Fifth Avenue, or Yonge Street? After following the trail for about fifteen minutes, we came to where the moose had been lying down, and the hunter whispered: "My son, I am glad I did not smoke, but I am sorry that we camped so near." Then he added as he pointed to the impression of a moose's body in the snow: "A moose seldom lies twice in the same place in the snow, as the old bed would be frozen and hard as well as dirty." But as we had not made much noise, nor cut any big wood to make a fire, he was hopeful that our chances were still good; and at sunrise he concluded that it was time we should leave our sled behind and begin to track our quarry more cautiously. From then on there was to be no talking--not even in a whisper. Soon we came upon yesterday's tracks, then farther on we saw where the moose had circled before lying down again for the night, with their eyes guarding their front while their scent guarded their rear. At last we came upon still fresher signs that told that the moose might be within a hundred paces or less. At a signal from the old hunter I imitated him by slipping off my snowshoes, and standing them upon end in the snow, and Oo-koo-hoo leading the way, began to circle to our right as a gentle wind was coming on our left. Now our progress was indeed slow, and also perfectly noiseless. It seemed to take an age to make a semicircle of a couple of hundred paces. Again we came upon the tracks of the moose. The signs were now fresher than ever. Retracing our own tracks for a little way we started on another circle, but this time, a smaller one, for we were now very near the moose. Silent ages passed, then we heard the swishing of a pulled branch as it flew back into place; a few steps nearer we progressed; then we heard the munching sound of a large animal's jaws. Oo-koo-hoo rose slightly from his stooped position, peered through the branches of a dense spruce thicket, crouched again, turned aside for perhaps twenty paces . . . looked up again . . . raised his gun and saying in a gentle voice: "My brother, I need . . ." he fired. Instantly there was a great commotion beyond the thicket, one sound running off among the trees, while the other, the greater sound, first made a brittle crash, then a ponderous thud as of a large object falling among the dead under-branches. The hunter now straightened up and with his teeth pulled the plug from his powder horn, poured a charge into his gun, spat a bullet from his mouth into the barrel, struck the butt violently upon the palm of his left hand, then slipping a cap upon the nipple, moved cautiously forward as he whispered: "Its neck must be broken." Soon we saw what had happened. One moose was lying dead, the ball had struck it in the neck; it was a three-year-old cow--the one Oo-koo-hoo had selected--while the other, a bull, had left nothing but its tracks. Presently The Owl re-loaded his gun with greater care, then we returned for our snowshoes and to recover our toboggan before we started to skin the carcass. On the way Oo-koo-hoo talked of moose hunting, and I questioned him as to why he had turned aside for the last time, just before he fired, and he answered: "My son, I did it so that in case I should miss, the report of my gun would come from the right direction to drive the moose toward home and also toward our sled; and in case, too, that I hit the moose and only wounded it, the brute would run toward our sled and not take us farther away from it. Also, my son, if I had merely wounded the beast, but had seen from the way it flinched that it had been struck in a vital spot, I would not have followed immediately, but would have sat down and had a smoke, so as not to further disturb the wounded animal before it had time to bleed to death. Besides, a mere glance at the trail would tell me whether or not I had mortally wounded the moose--whether the brute was hit high or low, and whether the blood was dark or light. If hit high, the blood would be upon the branches as well as upon the snow; if the blood was black it would mean that an artery had been severed and that the moose was mortally wounded. If the latter had happened, then would be the time for me to get out my pipe and have a smoke." SKINNING ANIMALS As we were to be busy for the rest of the day, we made a suitable camp and started a fire and by that time the moose had stiffened enough for proper handling while removing the skin. As usual the hunter's first act was to cut the eyes, then to cut off the head, which he at once skinned and, removing the tongue, hung the head beside the fire to cook while we went on with our work. But while we propped up the moose and got it into good position, three whiskey jacks (Canada Jays) came, as they always seem to come at the first sign of smoke, to pay us a visit and partake of the feast. They are fluffy, heavily feathered little birds of gray, with wings and tail of darker hue, and with a white spot on their forehead. They are not unlike the blue jay in their calls and shrieks, though they have some notes of their own that are of a quieter, softer tone. They are friendly little beggars that will at times come so near that they may occasionally be caught in one's hand; but while one likes to have them about for the sake of their companionship, they will, uninvited, take a share of anything that is good to eat. They are the most familiar birds to be seen in the winter forest, and they have a remarkable way of laying their eggs and nesting in the month of March when the weather may register from twenty to forty below zero. In the forest there are several different ways of skinning animals: one is called "case skinning" and another is called "split skinning." To case skin an animal such as ermine, fox, fisher, lynx, marten, mink, otter, muskrat, rabbit, or skunk, the skin is cut down the inner side of each hind leg until the two cuts meet just under the tail, and then the pelt is peeled off by turning it inside out. To split skin an animal such as wood-buffalo, moose, wapiti, caribou, deer, bear, beaver, wolf, or wolverine, the skin is cut down the belly from throat to tail and also on the inside of each leg to the centre cut, and then the pelt is peeled off both ways toward the back. All split skins are stretched on rectangular frames--all save beaver skins which are stretched on oval frames. All case skins are stretched over wedge-shaped boards of various sizes--all save muskrat skins which are more often stretched over a hooped frame or a looped stick. So, of course, our moose pelt was "split skinned," but there is still another way to skin an animal that is too large for one man to turn over, and that is--in case the animal is lying on its belly--to split the skin down the back and then peel it off both ways toward the belly. If the skin is to be used as a robe, the hair is left on, and the animal's brains are rubbed into the inner side of the pelt, after the fat has been removed, and then the skin is left to dry. That softens the pelt; but traders prefer skins to be sun-dried or cold-dried. If the skin is to be used as leather, the hair is cut off with a knife, and a deer's shin-bone is used as a dressing tool in scraping off the fat; both sides of the skin are dressed to remove the outer surface. It is easier to dress a skin in winter than in summer, but summer-made leather wears better, for the reason that the roots of the hair run all through a summer skin; whereas in winter the roots show only on the outer side; that is why a fur-trader--when looking only at the inner side--can tell whether a skin has been taken in winter or summer. In dressing leather the inner side is rubbed well with brains which are then allowed to soak in for three or four days; then the skin is soaked in a vessel filled with water--but not in a river--for about two days more; then it is stretched again and let dry, then scraped with a bone, shell, or steel scraper--if it is a moose skin, only on one side, but if it is a caribou skin, on both sides. The object of scraping is to further soften the skin. After that, it is taken off the stretcher and rubbed together between the hands and pulled between two people. Then it is stretched again and smoked over a slow fire that does not blaze. Woodsmen hunt moose for food and clothing. Townsmen hunt moose for the satisfaction of killing. But should the townsman fail in his hunt, he may hire a native "Head Hunter" to secure a head for him; and that reminds me of one night during the early winter, when a strange apparition was seen crossing the lake. It appeared to have wings, but it did not fly, and though it possessed a tail, it did not run, but contented itself with moving steadily forward on its long, up-turned feet. Over an arm it carried what might have been a trident, and what with its waving tail and great outspreading wings that rose above its horned-like head, it suggested that nothing less than Old Beelzebub himself had come from his flaming region beyond to cool himself on the snow-covered lake. But in reality it was just Oo-koo-hoo returning with a fine pair of moose horns upon his back, and which he counted on turning over to the trader for some city sportsman who would readily palm it off as a trophy that had fallen to his unerring aim, and which he had brought down, too, with but a single shot . . . of $25. While at work I recalled how Oo-koo-hoo had surmised, before he had examined the carcass, that he had broken the moose's neck with his ball, and on questioning him as to how he knew, he replied: "My son, if an animal is hit in the neck and the neck is broken, the beast will collapse right where it is; but if hit in the heart, it will lunge forward; if hit in the nose, it will rear up; if hit in the spine, it will leap into the air. Yes, my son, I have seen a great bull buffalo leap lynx-like, into the air, when it was struck in the spine." Knowing that the hunter had wanted to procure more than one moose I asked him why he had not at once pursued the other? And he explained: "For two reasons, my son: first, because I don't want a bull, I want the tenderer meat and the softer skin of a cow; and secondly, even if I had wanted him, I would not have pursued him at once as that would cause him to run. If a moose is pursued on the run, it overheats, and that spoils the meat, because the moose is naturally a rather inactive animal that lives on a small range and travels very little; but it is quite different with the caribou, for the caribou is naturally an active animal, a great traveller, that wanders far for its food, and to pursue it on the run only improves the flavour and the texture of its meat." OLD-TIME HUNTING After supper, as we sat in the comfortable glow of the fire, we talked much of old-time hunting, for in certain parts of the Great Northern Forest many of the ancient methods are practised to-day. Fire is often made by friction; many hunters still use the bow and arrow, while others use the flintlock gun; frequently, too, they rely upon their spears; bone knives and awls as well as stone axes are still applied to work; fish nets are yet woven from the inner bark of cedar; and still to-day wooden baskets and birch-bark rogans are used for the purpose of heating water and boiling food. Notwithstanding our far over-rated civilization the natives in some sections are dressed to-day in clothing entirely derived from the forest. One of the most ancient methods of hunting and one which is still in vogue in some remote localities is the "drive." Two famous places for drive hunting in olden days were Point Carcajou on Peace River, and the Grand Detour on Great Slave River. The former driving ground was about thirty miles long by about three miles across, while the latter was about fifteen miles long by about three miles across. The mode of hunting was for a party of Indians to spread out through the woods, and all, at an appointed time, to move forward toward a certain point, and thus drive the game before them, until the animals, on coming out into the open at the other end, were attacked by men in ambush. At those driving grounds in the right season--even if a drive of only a few miles were made--the Indians could count on securing two or three bears, three or four moose, and twelve or fifteen caribou. But in later years, a number of the drivers having been accidentally shot from ambush, the practice has been discontinued in those localities. THE BEAR IN HIS WASH It is not an uncommon occurrence for a hunter, when travelling through the winter woods, to discover the place where a bear is hibernating; the secret being given away by the condensed breath of the brute forming hoar frost about the imperfectly blocked entrance to the wash. The Indians' hunting dogs are experts at finding such hidden treasure, and when they do locate such a claim, they do their best to acquaint their master of the fact. One day when Oo-koo-hoo was snowshoeing across a beaver meadow, his dogs, having gained the wooded slope beyond, began racing about as though they had scented game and were trying to connect a broken trail. So The Owl got out his pipe and sat down to have a smoke while his dogs were busily engaged. Presently they centred on a certain spot, and Oo-koo-hoo, going over, discovered the tell-tale hoar frost. Twisting out of his snowshoes--for an Indian never has to touch his hands to them when he puts them on or takes them off--he used one of them for a shovel, and digging away the snow, he came upon a bear's wash. It was quite a cave and dark inside, and as the dogs refused to enter, the hunter crawled into the entrance and reaching in as far as he could with his hand, felt the forms of two bears. Making sure of the exact position of the head of one of them, he then shoved his gun in until the muzzle was close to the ear of one of the bears and then he fired. The explosion aroused the other bear and as it crawled out Oo-koo-hoo killed it with his axe. The latter was a brown bear while the former was a black. When a bear in his den shows fight and threatens danger, the hunter may wedge two crossed poles against the opening of the wash, leaving only enough space for the brute to squeeze through and thus prevent it from making a sudden rush. Then when the bear does try to come out, the hunter, standing over the opening, kills it with the back of his axe. Sometimes a second hole is dug in order to prod the beast with a pole to make it leave its den. The white hunter frequently uses fire to smoke a bear out, but not infrequently he succeeds in ruining the coat by singeing the hair. It requires more skill, however, to find a bear's wash than it does to kill him in his den. The Indians hunt for bear washes in the vicinity of good fishing grounds or in a district where berries have been plentiful. One winter when I happened to be spending a few days at Brunswick House an old Indian woman came to call upon the Hudson's Bay trader's wife, and, while she was having afternoon tea, she casually remarked that while on her way to the Post she had espied a bear wash. Digging down into its den with one of her snowshoes, she had killed the brute with her axe, and if the other guests would care to see her prize, it was lying on her sled, just outside the door. What a contrast to the way the Wild West movie actors would have done the deadly work with the aid of all their absurd artillery! Nevertheless, that kindly spoken, smiling-faced, motherly old lady, did the deed with nothing but her little axe. But while the men of the wilderness laugh over the serious drivel of most fiction writers who make a specialty of northern tales, nothing is so supremely ludicrous as the attempts made by the average movie director to depict northern life in Canada. Never have I seen a photoplay that truthfully illustrated northern Canadian life. THE WOLVERINE AND GILL NET Next day we again set out on a moose trail, but, as ill luck followed us in the way of a heavy snowstorm, we gave up the chase and continued on our way. It was hard going and we stopped often. Once we halted to rest beside a number of otter tracks. Otters leave a surprisingly big trail for animals of their size. A good imitation could be made of an otter's trail by pressing down into the snow, in a horizontal position, a long, irregular stove pipe of the usual size. The reason the otter's trail is so formed, is that the animal, when travelling through deep snow, progresses on its belly and propels itself principally by its hind legs, especially when going down hill. When making a hillside descent an otter prefers to use an old, well-worn track and glides down it with the ease and grace of a toboggan on its slide. It was the sight of the otter's trail that set Oo-koo-hoo thinking of his younger days. "Years ago, my son, I very nearly killed a man. It happened at just such a place as this: a little lake with a patch of open water above a spring. It was on my father's hunting grounds, and late one afternoon, after passing through heavy timber, I came out upon its shore, and there I discovered two men robbing one of my otter traps. One man was holding up the otter by the tail and laughingly commenting on his gain, while the other was resetting the trap beneath the ice. I raised my gun and was about to fire, when it occurred to me that, after all, a man's life was worth more than an otter's skin; so I let them go, and left it to the Redcoats (Mounted Police) to settle with them. I knew them both. They were half-breeds from near Montreal, and were well learned in the ways of the whites." [Illustration: It was on my father's hunting grounds, and late one afternoon, after passing through heavy timber, I came out upon its shore, and there I discovered two men robbing one of my traps. One man was holding up the otter by the tail and laughingly commenting on his gain, while the other was resetting the trap beneath the ice. I raised my gun and was about to fire, when . . . See Chapter VI.] But before setting out on our way--I forgot to tell you--we cached our moose meat in a tree as was previously agreed upon with old Granny, who, with the boys, was to come and take it home; and in order to prevent wolverines from stealing or spoiling the meat, the hunter wrapped round the trunk of the tree an old bag to which were fastened many fish hooks, all with their barbs pointing downward and ready to impale any creature that tried to climb the tree. Needless to say, as that tree stood alone, no wolverine touched that meat. That day we covered about twenty miles, and by the afternoon of the second day we had arrived at the lake on the far shore of which lived Oo-koo-hoo's sister, Ko-ko-hay--The Perfect Woman--with her daughter and her son-in-law and four granddaughters. As we drew near the camp we found the women about a mile from shore fishing through the ice for salmon trout. There were a number of holes--each of which was marked by a spruce bough set upright in the snow--and the fishing was being done with hook and line. The hook dangling below the ice about a third of the water's depth, was held in position by a branch line to which was attached a suitable sinker. The trout they had caught ran from ten to thirty pounds each--as near as I could judge--and as the women had already gained a good haul, they loaded their catch upon their sled and returned home with us. Gill nets are also used in the winter time. They are strung under the ice beneath a series of holes by means of which the net is passed under the ice with the aid of a pole. The lines being then secured at either end, the net can be readily drawn back and forth for the purpose of emptying and resetting. Of course, floats and sinkers are used to spread the net and keep it in proper position. In some localities--where the water is muddy--the nets are occasionally boiled with willow bark to keep them from being destroyed by worms. Gill nets, however, are frequently injured by animals, not only amphibious ones such as beaver and otter, but even by such animals as wolverines. Some years ago, a Yellowknife Indian hunting near Fort Resolution had an experience of that kind. He having set a gill net beneath the ice, failed to visit it for several days. When, however, he did arrive, he saw that it had been tampered with, and found no difficulty in reading the story in the snow. A wolverine, happening by on a mild day when the fishing holes were open, began sniffing about one of the poles to which the end lines of the net were secured; then scenting the smell of fish, he began chewing the pole; and incidentally his sharp teeth severed the cords that held the net. Then, for the want of something better to do, he went to the other end, to which were attached the lines of the other end of the net. Again scenting fish, he began to chew the second pole, but this time finding it give way, he hauled it out of the hole; and with the pole came part of the net; and with the net came a few fish. In trying to free the fish from the tangled mesh, he hauled out more net which contained more fish; then, in an effort to feast royally, he ended by hauling out the whole net. The following day the Indian arrived and reading the story in the snow, set a trap for the robber. Again the wolverine came, but so did the hunter, and much to his delight found the wolverine caught in the trap. Such an incident, indeed, is not rare, for the same thing has happened in other parts of the forest. "THE PERFECT WOMAN" The Perfect Woman's daughter was married to a half-breed by the name of Tastowich and the four granddaughters were nice-looking girls ranging in age from fourteen to twenty. Though very shy, they were bubbling over with quiet fun and I enjoyed my visit. That evening, among other subjects, we discussed the various hunting caps worn by Indian big-game hunters, and The Perfect Woman offered to make me one if I could supply her with the needed material; but when she saw that I had nothing but a double "four-point" Hudson's Bay blanket, she offered to make me a complete suit from that article and to lend me, for the rest of the winter, a rabbit-skin quilt to take the place of the blanket. I accepted her kindly offer, but of course paid her for both the work and the quilt. So the older women set to work with nothing more modern in the way of tools than a pair of scissors, a thimble, and a needle and thread; and by bed time I was well rigged in Indian fashion, for the hunting trail. The cap they made me was the same as Amik wears in my picture of the lynx hunter. The suit consisted of a coat and hip-high leggings, and though I have worn that suit on many a winter trip, and though it is now over twenty-five years old, I have never had to repair their excellent hand-sewing. When the work was finished the father and the mother crawled into a double bunk that was surrounded by a curtain; Ko-ko-hay wound herself up in a blanket and lay down upon the floor, and Oo-koo-hoo did likewise, yet there were two bunks still unoccupied. But I was informed that I was to occupy the single one, while the four girls were to sleep in the big double one. As I had not had my clothes off for several days and as I was counting on the pleasure of sleeping in my night-shirt, I planned to sit up late enough to make my wish come true, though I knew that the intended occupants of those two bunks would have to rely solely upon darkness to form a screen, as neither bunk was provided with a curtain. After a little while, however, it began to dawn upon me that the girls were counting on doing the same thing, for they made no move to leave the open fire. But the Sand Man finally made them capitulate. At last, rising from their seats, they piled a lot of fresh wood upon the fire, then climbing into their big bunk, they took off their shawls and hanging them from the rafters, draped them completely about their bed. Now my opportunity had arrived, and though the fire was filling the one-room log house with a blaze of light, I made haste to discard my clothes--for now the older people were all sound asleep. In a few moments I was in the very act of slipping on the coveted garment when I heard a peal of merriment behind me. On looking round I discovered that the shawls had vanished from around the bunk and four merry young ladies, all in a row, were peering at me from beneath their blankets and fairly shaking their bed with laughter. INDIANS AND CIVILIZATION Tastowich's home was built entirely of wood, deerskin, and clay. The house was of logs, the glassless windows were of deerskin parchment, the door-lock and the door-hinges were of wood, the latch string was of deerskin, the fireplace and the chimney were of clay, the roof thatch was of bark. The abode was clean, serviceable, and warm; and yet it was a house that could have been built thousands of years ago. But consider, for instance, Oo-koo-hoo's comfortable lodge; a similar dwelling, no doubt, could have been erected a million years ago; and thus, even in our time, the pre-historic still hovers on the outskirts of our flimsy civilization. A civilization that billions of human beings for millions of years have been struggling violently to gain; and now after all that eternal striving since the beginning of time--what has been the great outstanding gain--as the Indian sees it? "Baldness and starched underwear for men, high-heeled shoes and corsets for women, and for both--spectacles and false teeth." Is it any wonder the red man laughs? But some of you will doubt that the Indian laughs, and more of you will even doubt whether the red man possesses a sense of humour. A few days ago my Toronto oculist--you see I have been justly rewarded for hovering around civilization--and I were discussing Indians. The doctor quoted his experience with them. Some years before he had taken a trip into the forest where he had met an old Indian chief whose wife had had her eye injured by accident. The doctor told the old man if ever he contemplated taking his wife to Toronto, to let the doctor know of their coming, and he would see what he could do to repair the injury. A year or so later a letter arrived from the very same Indian reservation. Though it was hard to read, the doctor made out that the Indian intended to bring his wife to Toronto so that the oculist could fulfil his promise; but as luck would have it, the doctor had not only forgotten the Indian's name, but he had great difficulty in reading the signature. After much study, however, he decided that the old Indian had signed his name as "Chief Squirrel" so thus the doctor addressed his reply. A couple of weeks later the postman arrived with a letter he was rather loath to leave at the doctor's house. The oculist, however, on seeing that it was addressed to his own number on Bloor Street West, and that the name was preceded by the title of Doctor, believed that it was intended for him. On opening it he found it was from the old Indian whom he had addressed as "Chief Squirrel." Now, however, he realized he had made a mistake in giving the red man such a name, for another glance at the outside of the envelope not only proved that the Indian was indignant, but that he also possessed a sense of humour, for "Chief Squirrel" had, in return, addressed the noted oculist as "Doctor Chipmunk." While spending a couple of days at Tastowich's house the subject of hunting was never long omitted from the general conversation; and upon learning from the half-breed that caribou were plentiful about a day's travel to the westward, nothing would do but Oo-koo-hoo must take that route on his return home; though of course it meant many more miles to cover. The excursion, however, was inviting, as a good trail could be followed all the way to the caribou country, as the Tastowichs had been hauling deer meat from that region. By the evening of the first day, as good fortune would have it, we baited among many signs of caribou, and not only were fresh caribou tracks to be seen, but also those of wolves, for the latter were trailing the deer. The incident reminded Oo-koo-hoo of a former experience which he told as we sat by the fire. WOLVES RUNNING CABIBOU "It happened years ago. For weeks, my son, I had had ill luck and my family were starving. For days I had hunted first one kind of game and then another, but always without success. Then, as a last resort, I started after caribou, though I well knew that I should have to travel a long distance before falling in with them. But in the end I was rewarded. The going was bad, mostly through a dense growth of small black spruce, where the trees stood so close together that I had difficulty in hauling my sled, being compelled, at times, to turn on edge, not only my toboggan, but also my snowshoes, in order to pass between. After several hours' hard work the forest grew more open and, about noon of the third day, I discovered a band of caribou quietly sunning themselves on a large muskeg. "Some were feeding, others were lying down, fawns were scampering about in play, and young bulls were thrusting at each other with their prong-like horns. There were over a hundred in all. I watched them for some time before I was discovered by seven young bulls, and as they were nearest me, they stopped in their play, left the others, and came down wind to investigate the strange two-legged creature that also wore a caribou skin. "With heads held high and expanded nostrils quivering in readiness to catch scent of danger, they came on very slowly yet not without a great deal of high stepping and of prancing, with a sort of rhythmical dancing motion. Every now and then they threw their heads down, then up, and then held them rigid again. They were brave enough to come within sixty or seventy paces and even a little closer. But as ill luck ordained, while I was waiting for a better chance to bring down one of them with my old flint-lock, they caught scent of me, and suddenly falling back--almost upon their haunches--as though they had been struck upon the head, they wheeled round, then fled in alarm to the main body. Then, as caribou usually do, the whole band began leaping three or four feet into the air--much as they sometimes do when hit by a bullet. Then, too, with tails up they swept away at full gallop and, entering the forest beyond, were lost to view. "It was a great disappointment, my son, and I became so disheartened that I made but a poor attempt to trail them that day. That evening, when I lay down to rest upon the edge of a muskeg, the moon was already shining; and by midnight the cold was so intense that the frost-bitten trees went off with such bangs that I was startled out of my slumber. It was then that I discovered a pack of eight wolves silently romping about in the snow of the muskeg--just like a lot of young dogs. Their antics interested me and it was some time before I fell asleep again. "In the morning, though a heavy rime (frozen mist) was falling and though it was so thick that it obliterated the surrounding forest, I set out again in search of game tracks, and having crossed the muskeg, not only found the tracks of many caribou, but learned, too, that the eight wolves were now trailing the deer in earnest. "About half way between sunrise and midday I came upon a lake, and there I discovered not only the same herd of caribou and the same wolves, but the deer were running at full speed with the wolves in full chase behind them. My son, it was a fascinating sight. The caribou were going at full gallop, covering twenty feet or more at a bound, and all running at exactly the same speed, none trying to outstrip the others, for the fawns, does, and bucks were all compactly bunched together. It was as exciting and as interesting a sight as one may see in the Strong Woods. Though the wolves did not seem to be putting forth their utmost speed, they nevertheless took care to cut every corner, and thus they managed to keep close behind, while their long, regular lope foretold their eventually overhauling their quarry. "Protected by a gentle southwest wind and a thick screen of underbrush, I watched the chase. Three times the deer circled the lake, which was about half a mile in length. For safety's sake the caribou carefully avoided entering the woods, even rounding every point rather than cut across among the trees. On the fourth round I saw that the wolves had set their minds upon running down a single deer, for as they now suddenly burst forward at their top speed, the herd, splitting apart, allowed the wolves to pass through their ranks. A few moments later an unfortunate doe, emerging in front, galloped frantically ahead with the wolves in hot pursuit; while the rest of the herd slowed down to a trot, then to a walk, and finally halted to rest in perfect indifference as to their companion's fate. "Round and round the lake the frightened creature sped, with the determined wolves behind her. Presently, however, the wolves one by one turned aside, and lay down to rest, until only two continued the pursuit. But as the deer came round the lake again several of the now-refreshed wolves again entered the chase, thus they relieved one another. The ill-fated doe, in a vain hope of throwing aside her pursuers, twice rushed into the very centre of the caribou herd; but it was of no avail, for, as the wolves relentlessly followed her, the other deer wildly scattered away to a safer distance, where, however, they soon came together again, and stood watching their enemies running down their doomed comrade. Now first one wolf and then another took the lead; closer and closer they pressed upon the exhausted doe whose shortening stride told that her strength was fast ebbing away. "My son, perhaps you wonder why I did not use my gun? I was out of range, and, moreover, while I was afraid that if I ventured out of the woods I might frighten the game away, I knew I had but to wait a little while and then I should be sure of at least one deer without even firing my gun. I did not have to wait long. With a few tremendous leaps the leading wolf seized the doe by the base of the throat and throwing her, heels over head, brought her down. "Realizing that I must act at once, I rushed out upon the lake, but in my haste I fell and broke the stock off my gun--just behind the hammer. But as I still had my axe, I picked up the broken gun, and charged in among the wolves that now began to back away, though not without much snarling, glaring of angry eyes, and champing of powerful jaws. As one remained too near, I let drive at it with a charge from my almost useless gun; and though I missed my aim, the report relieved me of any further trouble. Cutting up the deer, I feasted upon it for several hours, then loaded my sled and hurried home with the meat for my starving family." There are three principal species of Canadian caribou: the smallest living on the Barren Grounds and taking their name from that region; the largest frequenting the Rocky Mountains west of the Mackenzie River and known as Woodland or Mountain caribou; and the intermediate size inhabiting the Great Northern Forest and called Woodland caribou. In comparison with moose, wapiti, and other deer of North America, the Woodland caribou ranks third in size. In colour its coat is of a grayish brown with a white neck and belly. In winter the heavy growth of neck hair really amounts to a mane. Of the three breeds, the Woodland caribou have the smallest horns, the Barren Ground the slenderest, while the Mountain caribou have the most massive. Record antlers range from fifty- to sixty-inch beams, with a forty- to fifty-inch spread, and possessing from sixty to seventy points. The does are usually provided with small horns, and in that way they are distinct from all other Canadian deer. On account of its wide-spreading and concave hoofs the Woodland caribou does not have to "yard" as other deer do in winter time, for thus provided with natural snowshoes, the caribou can pass over the deepest snow with little trouble. Also, throughout the year it is an extensive traveller, and as its food is found everywhere within its wide range, its wanderings are determined chiefly by the wind. Indeed, so great a traveller is it that, when thoroughly alarmed, it may cover from fifty to a hundred miles before settling down again. Rivers and lakes do not hinder its roaming for it is a powerful and a willing swimmer. The mating takes place in October and the calves are born in June. The following morning while at breakfast Oo-koo-hoo discoursed upon the game we were about to hunt: "My son, everything that applies to hunting the moose, applies to hunting the caribou, except that the hunter never tries to 'call' the caribou. But now I recollect that there is one thing about moose hunting that I forgot to tell you and it applies also to hunting the caribou. In some localities barriers are still in use, but nowadays they seldom make new ones. In the old days whole tribes used to take part in barrier hunting and sometimes the barriers would stretch for fifteen or twenty miles and were usually made from one part of the river to another, and thus they marked off the woods enclosed in a river's bend. Barriers are made by felling trees in a line; or, in an open place, or upon a river or lake, placing a line of little trees in the snow about ten paces apart. Small evergreens with the butts no thicker than a man's thumb were often used; yet an artificial line of such brush was enough to turn moose or caribou and cause them to move forward in a certain direction where the hunters were hiding. Even big clumps of moss, placed upon trees, will produce the same effect. Frequently, too, snares for deer are set in suitable places along the barrier, and while the snares are made of babiche the loops are kept open with blades of grass. "There is still another thing I forgot to tell you about moose hunting--my son, I must be growing old when I forget so much. While my Indian cousins in the East use birch-bark horns for calling moose, my other cousins in the Far North never do, yet they call moose, too, but in a different way. They use the shoulder blade of a deer. Thus, when a bull is approaching, the hunter stands behind a tree and rubs the shoulder blade upon the trunk or strikes it against the branches of a neighbouring bush, as it then makes a sound not unlike a bull thrashing his horns about. Such a sound makes a bull believe that another is approaching and ready to fight him for the possession of the cow, and he prepares to charge his enemy. At such a moment the hunter throws the shoulder blade into some bushes that may be standing a little way off, and the enraged bull, hearing this last sound, charges directly for the spot. Then, as the brute passes broadside, the hunter fires. "But, my son, to return to caribou hunting, you probably know that those deer are very fond of open places during sunny weather in winter time, such places as, for instance, rivers and small lakes where the wind will not be strong. There they will spend most of the day resting or playing together in big bands of perhaps fifty or more. Sometimes, however, when a high wind springs up, they have a curious custom of all racing round in a circle at high speed. It is a charming sight to watch them at such sport. Most of their feeding is done right after sunrise and just before sunset, and at night they always resort to the woods. "Then, too, when caribou go out upon a lake they have a habit of lying down beside the big ridges that rise three or four feet above the rest of the surface, where the ice has been split apart and then jammed together again with such power that the edges are forced upward. They lie down there to avoid the wind while resting in the sun. There the hunter sometimes digs a trench in the snow and lies in wait for the unsuspecting deer. When he shoots one, he immediately skins it, but takes care to leave the head attached to the skin; then ramming a pole into the head at the neck, he drapes the skin over the pole and getting down on all fours places the skin over his back and pretends to be a caribou. Thus he will approach the band, and should he tire of crawling along on his hands and knees he will even lie down to rest in sight of the deer, but he always takes care to keep down wind. In such a guise it is not hard to come within gun-range of the band. "A very good thing to carry when hunting deer in the woods is a bunch of tips of deer horns, each about four inches long and all suspended from the back of the hunter's belt; as the horn tips will then tinkle together at every movement of the hunter, and make a sound as though the horns of a distant band of closely marching caribou were striking together. In that way, my son, it is easier to approach, and when you are ready to fire, look carefully for a large, white, fat doe, and then let drive at her; for bands of deer are never led by bulls, but always by does and usually by a barren one. If you shoot the leader first, the chances are the band will stand waiting for one of their number to lead the way. Remember, too, that deer are never so frightened at seeing or hearing you as they are at scenting you, for the merest whiff of man-smell will drive them away. When they first scent you they will take two or three jumps into the air with their heads held high, their nostrils extended, and their eyes peering about; then swinging round, they will gallop off and later settle down into a great high-stepping, distance-covering trot that will carry them many miles away before they halt. There is still another good way to hunt caribou on a lake and that is to put on a wolf skin and approach on all fours, but it is not so successful as when the hunter wears a caribou skin." TRAILING IN THE SNOW Breakfast over, we slipped on our snowshoes and set out to follow a mass of tracks that led southward. It was easy going on a beaten trail, a blind man could have followed it; and that reminds me of something I have failed to tell you about winter trailing in the Northland. In winter, the men of the Northland don't trail human beings by scent, they trail them by sight or sometimes by touch. Sight trailing, of course, you understand. Trailing by touch, however, when not understood by the spectator, seems a marvellous performance. For instance, when a husky dog, the leader of a sled-train, will come out of the forest and with his head held high, and without a moment's hesitation, trot across a lake that may be three or four miles wide, upon the surface of which the wind and drifting snow have left absolutely no visible sign of a trail, and when that dog will cross that great unbroken expanse and enter the woods on the far shore exactly where the trail appears in sight again, though no stick or stone or any other visible thing marks the spot--it does seem a marvellous feat. But it is done, not by sight, sound, or scent, but by touch--the feel of the foot. In winter time man, too, follows a trail in the same way, notwithstanding that he is generally handicapped by a pair of snowshoes. Some unseen trails are not hard to follow--even a blind man could follow them. It is done this way: Suppose you come to a creek that you want to cross, yet you can see no way of doing it, for there is nothing in sight--neither log nor bridge--spanning the river. But suppose someone tells you that, though the water is so muddy that you cannot see an inch into it, there is a flat log spanning the creek about six inches below the surface, and that if you feel about with your foot you can find it. Then, of course, you would make your way across by walking on the unseen log, yet knowing all the time that if you made a misstep you would plunge into the stream. You would do it by the feel of the foot. It is just the same in following an unseen trail in the snow--it lies hard-packed beneath the surface, just as the log lay unseen in the river. What a pity it is that the writers of northern tales so rarely understand the life they have made a specialty of depicting. But to return to the caribou we were trailing, and also to make a long hunt short--for you now know most of the interesting points in the sport--I must tell you that we spent a full day and a night before we came up with them. And that night, too, a heavy fall of snow added to our trouble, but it made the forest more beautiful than ever. It was after sunrise when we picked up fresh tracks. A heavy rime was falling, but though it screened all distant things, we espied five caribou that were still lingering on a lake, over which the main band had passed. They were east of us and were heading for the north side of a long, narrow island. As soon as they passed behind it, Oo-koo-hoo hurried across the intervening space, and ran along the southern shore to head them off. The eastern end of the island dwindled into a long point and it was there that The Owl hoped to get a shot. Sure enough he did, for he arrived there ahead of the deer. Though he had lost sight of them, he knew they were nearing him, for he could hear the crunching sound of their hoofs in the frosty snow, and later he could even hear that strange clicking sound caused by the muscular action of the hoofs in walking--a sound peculiar to caribou. [Illustration: Oo-koo-hoo could even hear the strange clicking sound, caused by the muscular action of the hoofs in walking--a sound peculiar to caribou. He cautiously went down on one knee and there waited with his gun cocked and in position. Now antlered heads appeared beyond the openings between the snow-mantled trees. The hunter, taking aim, addressed them: "My brothers, I need your . . ." Then the violent report of his gun shattered the . . . See Chapter VI.] Oo-koo-hoo cautiously went down on one knee and there waited with his gun cocked and in position. The air was scarcely moving. Now antlered heads appeared beyond the openings between the snow-mantled trees. The hunter, taking aim, addressed them: "My brothers, I need your . . ." Then the violent report of his gun shattered the stillness, and the leader, a doe, lunged forward a few paces, staggered upon trembling legs, and then sank down into the brilliantly sunny snow. But before Oo-koo-hoo could re-load for a second shot the rest of the little band passed out of range, and, with their high-stepping, hackney action, soon passed out of sight. So, later on, with our sled again heavily loaded, and with packs of meat upon our backs, we set out for home. THE MAN WHO HIBERNATED Next morning, soon after sunrise, while I was breaking trail across a lake, I espied a log house in a little clearing beside a large beaver meadow. As it was about the time we usually stopped for our second breakfast, I turned in the direction of the lonely abode. It was a small, well-built house, and with the exception of the spaces at the two windows and the door, was entirely enclosed by neatly stacked firewood suitable for a stove. Beyond, half built in the rising ground, stood a little log stable, and near it a few cattle were eating from haystacks. Going up to the shack, I knocked upon the door, and as a voice bade me enter I slipped off my snowshoes, pulled the latch string, and walked in. Entering from the dazzling sunlight made the room at first seem in darkness. Presently, however, I regained my sight, and then beheld the interior of a comfortable little home--the extreme of neatness and order; and then I saw a human form lying beneath the blankets of a bunk in a far corner. Later I noticed that two black eyes beneath a shock of black hair were smiling a welcome. "Good morning," I greeted. "May I use your stove to cook breakfast?" "No, sir," replied the figure, then it sat up in bed, and I saw that it was a white man. "I'll do the cooking myself, for you're to be my guest." "Thanks," I returned, "I'm travelling with an Indian and I don't wish to trouble you; but if I may use your stove I'll be much obliged." "If I have what you haven't got," my host smiled, "will you dine with me?" "All right," I agreed. "Potatoes," he exclaimed. "Good," I laughed. "Then sit down, please, and rest while I do the cooking." Oo-koo-hoo now came in and at the host's bidding, filled his pipe from a tobacco pouch upon the table. The accent of the stranger suggested that he was an English gentleman, and it seemed strange, indeed, to discover so refined and educated a man living apparently alone and without any special occupation in the very heart of the Great Northern Forest. Curiosity seized me. Then I wondered--was this the man? . . . could he be "Son-in-law"? But I refrained from questioning him. So I talked about the woods and the weather, while Oo-koo-hoo brought in a haunch of venison from his sled and presented it to the stranger. But with my host's every action and word the mystery grew. The stove, which was fireless, stood beside the bed, and reaching for the griddle-lifter, my host removed the lids; then picking up a stick of pine kindling from behind the stove, he whittled some shavings and placed them in the fire-box; and on top of this he laid kindling and birch firewood. Then he replaced the lids, struck a match, and while the fire began to roar, filled the kettle from a keg of water that stood behind the stove, and mind you, he did it without getting out of bed. Next, he leant over the side of the bunk, opened a little trap door in the floor, reached down into his little box-like cellar, and hauled up a bag containing potatoes, which he then put in a pot to boil, in their skins. From the wall he took a long stick with a crook upon the end, and reaching out, hooked the crook round the leg and drew the table toward him. Reaching up to one of the three shelves above his bunk, he took down the necessary dishes and cutlery to set the breakfast table for us three. While the potatoes were boiling he took from another shelf--the one upon which he kept a few well-chosen books--a photograph album and suggested that I look it over while he broiled the venison steak and infused the tea. When I opened the album and saw its contents, it not only further excited my curiosity regarding the personal history of my host, but it thrilled me with interest, for never before or since have I seen an album that contained photographs of a finer-looking or more distinguished lot of people. Its pages contained photographs of Lord This, General That, Admiral What's-his-name, and also the Bishop of I've-forgotten and many a Sir and Lady, too, as well as the beautiful Countess of Can't-remember. Breakfast was served. The potatoes were a treat, the steak was excellent, the tea was good, and there we three sat and ate a hearty meal, for not only did we relish the food, but the company, the wit, and the laughter, too. But all the while my healthy, jovial, handsome host remained in bed. I studied the blankets that covered his legs--apparently there was nothing wrong with that part of him. I could not fathom the mystery. It completely nonplussed me. I glanced round the room; there were many photographs upon the walls, among them Cambridge "eights" and "fours"; and sure enough, there he was, rowing in those very crews; and in the football and tennis pictures he also appeared as one of the best of them all. And how neat and clean was his one-room house! Everything was in order. A water keg behind the stove to keep the water from freezing. A big barrel by the door in which to turn snow into water. A woodpile across the end of the room--enough to outlast any blizzard. Then when I glanced at him again, I noticed a crested signet ring upon his left little finger. Breakfast over, smoking began, and as he washed the dishes, I wiped them--but still I pondered. Then, at last, I grew brave. I would risk it. I would ask him: "Why do you stay in bed?" First he responded with a burst of laughter, then with the question: "Why, what's the use of getting up?" and next with the statement: "I stay in bed all winter . . . or nearly so. It's the only thing to do. I used to get up, and go for my mail occasionally . . . at least, I did a few years ago, but too many times I walked the forty miles to the Hudson's Bay Company's Flying Post at Elbow Creek only to find no letters for me . . . so I chucked it all. Then, too, the first few winters I was here I used to do a little shooting, but I get all the game I want from the Indians now, so I have chucked the shooting, too. Now the only thing that gets me out of bed, or takes me out of doors, is to watch which way the wind blows. Two winters ago, when I was away from here a week, the wind blew steadily from the north for five days or more, and my cattle ate so far into the south sides of the hay stacks that two of the stacks fell over on them and in that way I lost five head--they were smothered." Oo-koo-hoo, knocking the ashes from his pipe, began to tie his coat; apparently, he thought it was time we were going. I opened the album again, and glanced through it once more as I sat upon the edge of my strange host's bunk. I stopped my turning when I came to a photograph of a charming gentlewoman whose hair was done in an old-fashioned way so becoming to her character and beauty. She must have been twenty-three. He, then, was nearing forty. I thought his hand lingered a little upon the page. And when I commented on her beauty, I fancied his voice tremored slightly--anyway his pipe went out. But Oo-koo-hoo, getting up, broke the silence. I invited my still-unknown host to pay me a visit. We shook hands heartily, and as I turned to close the door, I noticed that he had lain down again, and had covered up his head. As a pleasant parting salutation--a cheering one as I thought--I exclaimed: "Perfectly stunning! . . . the most beautiful lot of women I have ever seen!" And then from beneath the bed clothes came-- "Y-e-s . . . _the blighters_!" VII LIFE AND LOVE RETURN HYMEN COMES WITH SPRING "My son, it is ever thus, when spring is on the way," smiled Oo-koo-hoo, as Granny entered with glee and displayed a new deerskin work-bag, containing needles, thread, thimble, and scissors; a present from Shing-wauk--The Little Pine--Neykia's lover. "Now that Spring and Love are going to hunt together," further remarked the Indian, "the snow will run away, and the ice begin to tremble when it hears the home-coming birds singing among the trees. Ah, my son, it reminds me of the days of my youth," sighed The Owl, "when I, too, was a lover." "Tell me," I coaxed. "It was many years ago, at the New Year's dance at Fort Perseverance that I first met Ojistoh. She was thirteen then, and as beautiful as she was young. . . . No; I shall never forget those days . . . When she spoke her voice was as gentle as the whispering south wind, and when she ran she passed among the trees as silently and as swiftly as a vanishing dream; but now," added Oo-koo-hoo, with a sly, teasing glance at his wife, "but now look at her, my son . . . She is nothing but a bundle of old wrinkled leather, that makes a noise like a she-wolf that has no mate, and when she waddles about she goes thudding around on the split end of her body--like a rabbit with frozen feet." But Granny, saying never a word, seized the wooden fire-poker, and dealt her lord and master such a vigorous blow across the shoulders that she slew his chuckle of laughter the moment it was born. Then, as the dust settled, silence reigned. A little later, as Granny put more wood upon the fire, she turned to me with twinkling eyes and said: "My son, if you could have seen the old loon when he was courting me, it would have filled your heart with laughter. It is true he was always a loon, for in those days Oo-koo-hoo, the great hunter, was even afraid of his own shadow, for he never dared call upon me in daylight, and even when he came sneaking round at night he always took good care that it was at a time when my father was away from home. Furthermore, he always chose a stormy evening when the snow would be drifting and thus cover his trail; and worse still, when he came to court me he always wore women's snowshoes; because, my son, he had not courage enough to come as a man." This sally, however, only made Oo-koo-hoo smile the more as he puffed away at his brier. "Did he always bring your grandmother a present?" I enquired. "No, my son, not always, he was too stingy," replied the old woman, "but he did once in a while, I must grant him that." "What was it?" "Oh, just a few coils of tripe." But Granny, of course, was joking, that was why she did not explain that deer tripe filled with blood was as great a delicacy as a suitor could offer his prospective grandmother-in-law; for among certain forest tribes, it is the custom that a marriageable daughter leaves the lodge of her parents and takes up her abode with her grandmother--that is, if the old lady is living within reasonable distance. Shing-wauk--The Little Pine--had come that day, and had been invited to sleep in Amik's tepee; yet he spent the greater part of his time sitting with Neykia in her grandmother's lodge. As there are no cozy corners in a tepee, it is the Ojibway custom for a lover to converse with his sweetheart under cover of a blanket which screens the lovers from the gaze of the other occupants of the lodge. Early in the evening the blanket always hung in a dignified way, as though draped over a couple of posts set a few feet apart. Later, however, the posts frequently lost their balance and swayed about in such a way as to come dangerously near colliding. Then, if the old grandmother did not speak or make a stir, the blanket would sometimes show that one support had given away. Accordingly, the old woman was able to judge by the general contour of the blanket just how the courtship was progressing, and being a foxy old dame she occasionally pretended to snore just to see what might happen. One night, however, Granny's snoring was no longer pretense, and when she woke up from her nap, she found that both supports of the blanket were in immediate danger of collapsing. Seizing the stick with which she used to poke the fire, she leaped up and belaboured the blanket so severely that it lost no time in recovering its proper form. Kissa Pesim (The Old Moon)--February, and Mikesewe Pesim (The Eagle Moon)--March, had flown and now Niske Pesim, (The Goose Moon)--April, had arrived; and with it had come the advance guard of a few of those numerous legions of migratory birds and fowls that are merely winter visitors to the United States, Mexico, and South America; while Canada is their real home--the place where they were born. Next would follow Ayeke Pesim (the Frog Moon) of May, when love would be in full play; then a little later would come Wawe Pesim (The Egg Moon) otherwise June, when the lovers would be living together--or nesting. Yes, truly, the long-tarrying but wonderous Goose Moon had at last arrived, and at last, too, the spring hunt was on. It was now a joyous season accompanied with charming music rendered by the feathered creatures. Overhead the geese where honking, out upon the lake the loons were calling, near the shore the ducks were quacking, while all through the woods the smaller birds were singing. Now, even among the shadows, the snow was slinking away; while the river ice, plunging along with a roar, ran down to the lake where it rested quietly in a space of open water. Now, too, it so happened that day, that Neykia, she of woodland grace and beauty, was strolling in the sunshine with her Little Pine; while on every side the trees were shaking their heads and it seemed gossiping about the hunting plans of that reckless little elfin hunter, Hymen, who was hurrying overland and shooting his joyous arrows in every direction, till the very air felt charged with the whisperings of countless lovers. It made me think of the shy but radiant Athabasca, and I wondered--was her lover with her now? THE SPRING HUNT The Indians divide their annual hunt for fur into three distinct hunting seasons: the fall hunt--from autumn until Christmas; the winter hunt--from New Year's Day until Easter; and the spring hunt--from Easter until the hunters depart for their tribal summer camping ground. At the end of each hunting season--if the fur-runners have not traded with the hunters and if the hunter is not too far away from the post--he usually loads upon his sled the result of his fall hunt and hauls it to the Post during Christmas week; likewise he hauls to the Post the catch of his winter hunt about Easter time; while the gain from his spring hunt is loaded aboard his canoe and taken to the Post the latter part of May. Easter time, or the end of the winter hunt, marks the closing of the hunting season for all land animals except bear; and the renewing of the hunting season for bear, beaver, otter, mink, and muskrat, all water animals save the first. Meanwhile, the canoes had been overhauled: freshly patched, stitched, and gummed, their thwarts strengthened, their ribs adjusted, and their bottoms greased. A few days later, loading some traps and kit--among which was the hunter's bow and quiver of arrows--aboard his small canoe, Oo-koo-hoo and I set out at sunrise and paddling around the western end of Bear Lake, entered Bear River. It was a cold but delightful morning, and the effect of the sun shining through the rising mist was extremely beautiful. We were going otter- and muskrat-hunting; and as we descended that charming little stream and wound about amid its marshy flats and birch- and poplar-clad slopes, every once in a while ducks startled us by suddenly whirring out of the mist. Then, when long light lines of rippling water showed in the misty screen we knew that they were nothing but the wakes of swimming muskrats; and soon we glided into a colony of them; but for the time being they were not at home--the still-rising spring freshet had driven them from their flooded houses. The muskrat's little island lodge among the rushes is erected upon a foundation of mud and reeds that rises about two feet before it protrudes above the surface of the water. The building material, taken from round the base, by its removal helps to form a deep-water moat that answers as a further protection to the muskrat's home. Upon that foundation the house is built by piling upon it more reeds and mud. Then the tunnels are cut through the pile from about the centre of the over-water level down and out at one side of the under-water foundation, while upon the top more reeds and mud are placed to form the dome-shaped roof, after which the chamber inside is cleared. The apex of the roof rises about three feet above the water. In some localities, however, muskrats live in dens excavated in the banks of rivers or ponds. To these dens several under-water runways lead. Muskrats feed principally on the roots and stalks of many kinds of sub-aqueous plants. In winter time, when their pond is frozen over, and when they have to travel far under water to find their food, they sometimes make a point of keeping several water-holes open, so that after securing their food, they may rise at a convenient hole and eat their meal without having to make long trips to their house for the purpose. In order to keep the water-hole from freezing, they build a little house of reeds and mud over it. Sometimes, too, they store food in their lodges, especially the bulbous roots of certain plants. Muskrats, like beavers, use their tails for signalling danger, and when alarm causes them to dive they make a great noise, out of all proportion to their size. Thus the greenhorn from the city is apt to take the muskrat's nightly plunges for the sound of deer leaping into water; and just in the same way does the sleepless tenderfoot mistake the thudding footfalls of the midnight rabbit for those of moose or caribou running round his tent. Muskrats are fairly sociable and help one another in their work. They mate in April and their young are born about a month later. The Indians claim that they pair like the beaver, and that the father helps to take care of the children. The young number from three to eight. When they are full grown their coats are dark brown. In length muskrats measure about eighteen inches, while in weight they run from a pound and a half to two pounds. Except in autumn, their range is exceedingly small, though at that season they wander much farther away from their homes. If danger threatens they are always ready to fight, and they prove to be desperate fighters, too. While slow on land, they are swift in water; and such excellent divers are they that in that way they sometimes escape their greatest enemy--the mink; though wolves, fishers, foxes, otters, as well as birds of prey and Indians are always glad to have a muskrat for dinner. But to return to our muskrat hunt: Oo-koo-hoo, stringing his bow and adjusting an arrow, let drive at one of the little animals as it sat upon some drift-wood. The blunt-headed shaft just skimmed its back and sank into the mud beyond; the next arrow, however, bowled the muskrat over; and in an hour's time The Owl had eleven in his canoe. When I questioned him as to why he used such an ancient weapon, he explained that a bow was much better than a gun, as it did not frighten the other muskrats away, also it did not injure the pelt in the way shot would do, and, moreover, it was much more economical. Occasionally Oo-koo-hoo would imitate the call of the muskrats; sometimes to arrest their attention, but more often to entice them within easy range of his arrows. If he killed them outright while they were swimming, they sank like stones; but when only wounded, they usually swam round on the surface for a while. Once, however, a wounded one dived, and, seizing hold of a reed, held on with its teeth in order to escape its pursuer; Oo-koo-hoo, nevertheless, eventually landed it in his canoe. In setting steel traps for them the hunter placed the traps either in the water or on the bank at a spot where they were in the habit of going ashore, and to decoy them to that landing Oo-koo-hoo rubbed castoreum on the branches of the surrounding bushes--just in the same way as he did for mink or otter. Another way he had of setting traps was to cut a hole in the side of a muskrat's house, so that he could thrust in his arm and feel for the entrance to the tunnel, then he would set a trap there and close up the hole. One day when he was passing a muskrat house that he had previously opened for that purpose and closed again, he discovered that the hole was again open. Thinking that the newly added mud had merely fallen out, he thrust his arm into the hole to reach for the trap, when without the slightest warning some animal seized him by the finger. It was a mink that had been raiding the house; and in the excitement that followed, the brute escaped. The hunter, however, made little of his injury; chewing up a quid of tobacco, he placed it over the wound and bound it securely with a rag torn from the tail of his shirt. Oo-koo-hoo explained that in winter time, when there was little snow, he often speared muskrats through the ice. The spear point is usually made of quarter-inch iron wire and attached to a seven-foot shaft. Much of the spearing he did at the rats' feeding and airing places--those little dome-shaped affairs made of reeds and mud that cover their water-holes. The hunter, enabled by the clearness of the ice, followed their runways and traced them to where the little fellows often sat inside their shelters. Knowing that the south side of the shelter is the thinnest side, The Owl would drive in his spear and impale the little dweller. HUNTING THE OTTER That afternoon Oo-koo-hoo set a number of traps for otter. When placed on land otter traps are set as for fox, though of course of a larger size, and the same statement applies to deadfalls; while the bait used for both kinds of otter traps is the same as that used for mink. The otter is an unusually playful, graceful, active, and powerful animal; but when caught in a trap becomes exceedingly vicious, and the hunter must take care lest he be severely bitten. Oo-koo-hoo told me that on one occasion, when he was hunting otters, he lost his favourite dog. The dog was holding an otter prisoner in a rocky pocket where the water was shallow, and the otter, waiting to attack the dog when off guard, at last got its chance, seized its adversary by the throat, and that was the end of the dog. The otter is not only easily tamed, but makes a charming pet, as many a trader has proved; and it is one of the few animals that actually indulge in a sport or game for the sheer sake of the thrill it affords. Thus the otter is much given to the Canadian sports of tobogganing and "shooting the chute," but it does it without sled or canoe; and at all seasons of the year it may be seen sharing its favourite slide--sometimes fifty or a hundred feet in length--with its companions. If in summer, the descent is made on a grassy or clayey slope down which the animals swiftly glide, and plunge headlong into deep water. If the sport takes place on a clay bank, the wet coats of the otters soon make the slide so slippery that the descent is made at thrilling speed. But in winter time the sport becomes general, as then the snow forms a more convenient and easier surface down which to slide. The otter, though not a fast traveller upon land, is a master swimmer, and not only does it pursue and overtake the speckled trout, but also the swift and agile salmon. Otters den in the river or lake bank and provide an underwater entrance to their home. They mate in February and the young--never more than five, but more often two--are born in April; and though their food includes flesh and fowl--muskrats, frogs, and young ducks--it is principally composed of fish. Though slow on land an otter often travels considerable distances, especially in winter time, when it goes roaming in search of open water. If pursued it has a protective way of diving into and crawling swiftly beneath the surface of the snow, in such a way that though its pursuer may run fast, he more often loses his quarry; I know, because I have experienced it. The otter not only has its thick, oily, dark-brown fur to keep it warm, but also a thick layer of fat between its skin and body; and thus, seal-like, it seems to enjoy in comfort the coldest of winter water. Otters measure three or four feet in length and in weight run from fifteen to thirty pounds. The Indians of the Strong Woods are very superstitious in relation to the otter. They not only refuse to eat the flesh, but they don't like to take the carcass home, always preferring to skin it where it is caught. Even then they dislike to place the skin in their hunting bag, but will drag it behind them on the snow. Also, Indian women refuse to skin an otter, as they have a superstition that it would prevent them from becoming mothers. One afternoon, when Oo-koo-hoo and I were sitting on a high rock overlooking the rapids on Bear River, he espied an otter ascending the turbulent waters by walking on the river bottom. We watched the animal for some time. It was an interesting sight, as it was evidently hunting for fish that might be resting in the backwaters behind the boulders. Every time it would ascend the rapids it would rise to the surface and then quietly float down stream in the sluggish, eddying shore currents where the bushes overhung the bank. Then it would again dive and again make the ascent by crawling up the river bottom. "My son, watch him closely, for if he catches a fish you will see that he always seizes it either by the head or tail, rarely by the middle, as the fish would then squirm and shake so violently that the otter would not like it. Sometimes, too, an otter will lie in wait on a rock at the head of a rapid, and when a fish tries to ascend to the upper reach of the river by leaping out of the water and thus avoiding the swift current, the otter will leap, too, and seize the fish in mid-air. It is a thrilling sight to see him do it." The snow was going so rapidly and the water running so freely that Oo-koo-hoo felt sure the bears had now all left their dens, otherwise water might be trickling into their winter beds. So, for the next few days, the hunter was busily engaged in setting traps for bears, beavers, otters, minks, and muskrats; and thus the spring hunt went steadily on while the Goose Moon waned and then disappeared, and in its place the Frog Moon shone. LITTLE PINE'S LOVE SONG One sunny morning, while I was strolling along the beach, I heard the sound of distant drumming, and presently a youthful voice broke into song. It was The Little Pine singing to his sweetheart. Now it was Maytime in the Northland. Tender grasses were thrusting their tiny blades from under last year's leaves and here and there the woodland's pale-green carpet was enriched with masses of varying colours where wild flowers were bursting into bloom. Yet the increasing power of the sun had failed to destroy every trace of winter--for occasional patches of snow were to be seen clinging to the shady sides of the steepest hills and small ice floes were still floating in the lake below. But as summer comes swiftly in the Great Northern Forest, spring loses no time in lingering by the way. Already the restless south wind was singing softly to the "Loneland" of the glorious days to come. The forest and all her creatures, hearing the song of spring time, were astir with joyous life. Among the whispering trees the bees were humming, the squirrels chattering, and many kinds of birds were making love to one another. No wonder Shing-wauk--The Little Pine--sang his love song, too, for was not his heart aflame with the spring time of life? Perched high among the branches of a pine the youth was relieving the monotony of his drumming by occasionally chanting. At the foot of the thickly wooded hillside upon which the pine stood the indolent waters of Muskrat Creek meandered toward Bear Lake. On the bank near the river's mouth stood the lodges, but neither Oo-koo-hoo nor Amik seemed to be at home; and the rest of the family may have been absent, too, for the dogs were mounting guard. Again the boy beat his drum; louder and louder he sang his love song until his soft rich voice broke into a wail. Presently the door-skin of Granny's lodge was gently pushed aside, and Neykia stepped indolently forth. Shading her eyes with her hand, the girl gazed at the hillside, but failed to discern her lover in the tree top. She listened awhile and then, upon hearing once more the love song above the beating of the drum, yielded to the dictates of her heart and began to climb the hill. Little Pine saw her coming, ceased his drumming, and slid down to hide behind the tree trunk. A faintly marked woodland path led close by, and along it the maiden was advancing. As she came abreast of the tree the youth, in fun, gave a shout, and the maid--evidently pretending bashful alarm--took to flight. Though fleet of foot, she suffered him to overtake her soon and catch her by the arm, and hold her while she feigned to struggle desperately for freedom. That won, she turned away with a laugh, sat down upon a bank of wild flowers, and with shyly averted face, began plucking them. Little Pine sat down beside her. A moment later she sprang up and with merry laughter ran into the denser forest, and there, with her lover swiftly following her, disappeared from view. At sunset that evening Oo-koo-hoo and his wife sat smoking beside their fire; and when the hermit thrush was singing, the whippoorwill whippoorwilling, the owl oo-koo-hooing, the fox barking, the bull frog whoo-wonking, the gander honking, the otter whistling, the drake quacking, the squirrel chattering, the cock grouse drumming, and the wolf howling--each to his own chosen mate, the hunter turned to me and smiled: "Do you hear Shing-wauk singing?" I listened more attentively to the many mingling love songs of the forest dwellers, and sure enough, away off along the shore, I could hear Little Pine singing to his sweetheart. It was charming. THE LOVE DANCE "My son," sighed Oo-koo-hoo, "it reminds me of the days when I, too, was a boy and when Ojistoh was a girl, away back among the many springs of long ago." "Yes, Nar-pim," smiled Granny--for an Indian woman never calls her husband by his name, but always addresses him as Nar-pim, which means "my man." "Yes, Nar-pim, don't you remember when I heard that drumming away off among the trees, and when I, girl-like, pretended I did not know what it meant, but you, saying never a word and taking me by the hand, led me to the very spot where that handsome little lover was beating his drum and making love to so many sweethearts?" "Yes, I remember it well, when I took little Ojistoh, my sweetheart, by the hand and we hurried to find the little drummer." Then, turning to me, the hunter continued: "My son, one never forgets the days of his youth, and well can I recall picking our way in and out among the trees and undergrowth, tiptoeing here and there lest our moccasined feet should break a fallen twig and alarm the drummer or the dancers. For it was the love dance we were going to see. As the drumming sound increased in volume, our caution increased, too. Soon we deemed it prudent to go down upon our hands and knees and thus be more surely screened by the underbrush as we stealthily approached. Creeping on toward the sound, slowly and with infinite precaution, we discovered that we were not the only ones going to the dance: the whirring of wings frequently rustled overhead as ruffed grouse skimmed past us in rapid flight. "Once, my son, we felt the wind from a hawk's wing swooping low from bush to bush, as though endeavouring to arrive unheralded. Twice we caught sight of a fox silently and craftily stealing along. Once we saw a lynx--a soft gray shadow--slinking through the undergrowth ahead. It seemed as if all the Strong Woods dwellers were going to the love dance, too, and, I remember, Ojistoh began to feel afraid. But," smiled Oo-koo-hoo, "she was devoured with curiosity; and, besides, was not her young lover with her? Why need she fear? "When we came to the foot of a ridge the drumming sounded very near. With utmost wariness we crawled from bush to bush, pausing every now and then, and crouching low. Then, judging the way still clear, we crawled forward, and finally gained the top of the ridge. With thumping hearts we rested a moment in a crouching posture, for we had at last arrived upon the scene. Slowly and breathlessly raising our heads, we peered through the leafy screen and beheld the love dance in full swing. "And there, my son, on a clear sandy opening in the wood, twenty or thirty partridge hens were dancing in a semicircle, in the centre of which, perched upon a rotten log, a beautiful cock partridge drummed. He was standing with his small head thrust forward upon a finely arched neck which was circled by a handsome outstanding black ruff, fully as wide as his body. His extended wings grazed his perch, while his superb tail spread out horizontally. "'Chun--chun--chun--chun--chun-nnnnnnnnnnnnnnn,' he hissed slowly at first, but with steadily increasing rapidity. His bill was open; his bright eyes were gleaming; his wings were beating at such a rate that the forest resounded with the prolonged roll of his drumming. Again and again he shrilled his love call, and again and again he beat his wondrous accompaniment. Every little while the whirring of swiftly moving wings was heard overhead as other hens flew down to join in the love dance. To and fro strutted the cock bird in all his pride of beauty--his wings trailing upon the log, his neck arched more haughtily than ever, his ruff rising above his head, and his handsome fan-like tail extended higher still. "Meanwhile, my son, the hens, too, were strutting up and down, and in and out among their rivals; some, with wings brushing upon the ground; others, with a single wing spread out, against which they frequently kicked the nearest foot as they circled round each other. A continuous hissing was kept up, along with a shaking of heads from side to side, a ceremonious bowing, and a striking of bills upon the ground. But--though the cock was doing his best to dazzle them with the display of his charms--the hens appeared unconscious of his presence and indifferent to his advances. "There Ojistoh and I were gazing in silent admiration at the scene before us, when--without the slightest warning, and as though dropped from the sky--another cock landed in the midst of the dancers. Immediately the cock of the dance rushed at the intruder and fiercely attacked him. "But the newcomer was ready. My son, you should have seen them. Bills and wings clashed together. In a moment feathers were flying and blood was running. But the hens never paused in their love dance. Again and again the feathered fighters dashed at each other, only to drop apart. Then, facing each other with drooping wings, ruffled plumes, extended necks, lowered heads, and gaping bills, they would gasp for breath. A moment later they would spring into the air and strike viciously at each other with bill and wing, then separate again. The sand was soon strewn with feathers and sprinkled with blood, yet the belligerents kept renewing the deadly conflict. Unconcernedly, all the while, the stupid hens tripped to and fro in the evolutions of their love dance. "Already the intruder's scalp was torn; the left wing of the cock of the dance was broken; and both were bleeding copiously. It was a great fight, my son, and the end was near. At the next rush the intruder knocked the cock of the dance down, and leaping upon him, drove his bill into his skull, killing him. "After a brief rest to recover breath, the victor jumped over his late rival's body, took a short leap into the air, gave a back kick of contempt, flew up on the log, and looked round as though seeking for female applause. But the hens, with apparently never a thought of him, still kept up their dancing. Presently he, too, sounded his love call and drummed his accompaniment. Then, strutting up and down, he inspected the dancers. When he had made up his mind as to which was the belle of the dance, he made a rush for her. "But, my son, at that very moment a lynx sprang through the air, seized him by the neck, and bounded off with him among the bushes. In the confusion that followed, the hens flew away and I, seizing Ojistoh, kissed her. Startled, she leaped up, and with laughter ran away, but in hot pursuit I followed her." THE WAYS OF THE FEMALE "Ah, my son," commented Granny with a smile and a shake of her head as she drew her pipe from her mouth, "Nar-pim has always been like that . . . but he was worse in the days of his youth . . . fancy him taking a little girl to see the love dance . . . the old rabbit!" "The old rabbit . . . indeed?" Oo-koo-hoo questioned. "Why, it was just the other way round. It was you who wanted me to take you there; it was your hypocritical pretence of innocence that made me do it; and though, as you said, I took your hand, it was you who was always leading the way." Then was renewed the ancient and never-settled question as to who was at fault, the old Adam or the old Eve; but as Granny usually got the better of it by adding the last word, Oo-koo-hoo turned to me in disgust and grunted: "Listen to her . . . why, my son, it has always been the female that did the courting . . . all down through the Great, Great Long Ago, it has ever been thus . . . and so it is to-day. Look at the cow of the moose, the doe of the deer, the she of the lynx, the female of the wolf, the she of the bear, the goose, the duck, the hen, and the female of the rabbit. What do they do when they want a mate? . . . They bellow and run, they meow and bow, they howl and prance, they twitter and dance . . . just as women have always done. And when the male comes, what does the female do? She pretends indifference, she feigns innocence, she runs away, and stops to listen, _afraid lest she has run too far_; and then, if he does not follow, she comes deceitfully back again and pretends not even to see him. Remember, my son, that though the female always runs away, she never runs so fast that she couldn't run faster; and it makes no difference whether the female has wings or fins, flippers or feet, it is all the same . . . the female always does the courting." No doubt, had they ever met, Oo-koo-hoo and George Bernard Shaw would have become fast friends; for George, too, insists on the very same thing. But does not the average man, from his great store of conceit, draw the flattering inference that it is he and he alone who does the courting, and that his success is entirely due to his wonderful display of physical and mental charm; while the average woman looks in her mirror and laughs in her sleeve--less gown. Though for some time silence filled the tepee and the dogs were asleep beside the door, the pipes still glowed; and Oo-koo-hoo, stirring the fire, mused aloud: "But, perhaps, my son, you wonder why the hen partridges dance that way and why the cock drums his accompaniment?" "It does seem strange," I replied. "But not, my son, if you know their history. It is an old, old story, and it began away back in the Great, Great, Long Ago, even before it was the custom of our people to marry. It happened this way: Once there was an old chief who used oftentimes to go away alone into the woods and mount upon a high rock and sing his hunting songs and beat his drum. Since he was much in favour, many women would come and listen to his songs; also, they would dance before him--to attract his attention. "Now it came to pass on a certain day that a young chief of another tribe happened by chance upon that way. Hearing the drumming, he resolved to find out what it was about. Deep into the heart of the wood he followed the sound and came upon an open glade wherein were many women dancing before a huge boulder. Wondering, with great admiration, the young chief gazed upon their graceful movements and comely figures, and determined to rush in and capture the most beautiful of them. Turning thought into act, he bounded in among the dancers, and, to his amazement, discovered the old chief, who, at sight of him, dropped his drum, grasped his war club, and leaping down from his rocky eminence, rushed upon the young interloper in a frenzy of jealous fury. The women made no outcry; for, like the female moose or caribou, they love the victor. So to the accompaniment of the men's hard breathing and the clashing of their war clubs, they went unconcernedly on with their love dance. In the end the young chief slew the older one, and departed in triumph with the women. But, my son, when the Master of Life learned what had happened, he was exceeding wroth; insomuch that he turned the young chief and the women into partridges. That is why the partridges dance the love dance even to this day." HUNTING WILD FOWL Next morning, while Oo-koo-hoo was examining a muskrat lodge from his canoe, he heard a sudden "honk, honk," and looking up he espied two Canada geese flying low and straight toward us; seizing his gun, he up with it and let drive at one of the geese as it was passing beyond him, and brought it down. He concluded that they had just arrived from the south and were seeking a place to feed. Later, we encountered at close range several more and the hunter secured another. As they were the first geese he had killed that season, he did not allow the women to touch them, but according to the Indian custom, dressed and cooked them himself; also, at supper time, he gave all the flesh to the rest of us, and saved for himself nothing but the part from which the eggs came. Further, he cautioned us not to laugh or talk while eating the geese, otherwise their spirits would be offended and he would have ill-luck for the rest of the season. And when the meal was finished he collected all the bones and tossed them into the centre of the fire, so that they would be properly consumed instead of allowing the dogs to eat them; and thus he warded off misfortune. As we sat by the fire that night Oo-koo-hoo busied himself making decoys for geese, by chopping blocks of dry pine into rough images of their bodies, and fashioning their necks and heads from bent willow sticks; as well as roughly staining the completed models to represent the plumage. And while he worked he talked of the coming of the birds in spring. "My son, the first birds to arrive are the eagles; next, the snow-birds and the barking crows (ravens); then the big gray (Canada) geese, and the larger ducks; then the smaller kinds of geese and the smaller kinds of ducks; and then the robins, blackbirds, and gulls. Then, as likely as not, a few days later, what is called a 'goose winter'--a heavy, wet snowstorm followed by colder weather--may come along and try to drive the birds all back again; but before the bad weather completes its useless work a timely south wind may arrive, and with the aid of a milder spell, will utterly destroy the 'goose winter'. Then, after that, the sky soon becomes mottled with flying birds of many kinds: gray geese, laughing geese, waveys, and white geese, as well as great flocks of ducks of many kinds; also mud-hens, sawbills, waders, plovers, curlew, pelicans, swans, and cranes, both white and gray. Then another great flight of little birds as well as loons. And last of all may come the little husky geese that travel farther north to breed their young than do those of any other kind." The next day the hunters built a "goose stand" on the sandy beach of Willow Point by making a screen about six feet long by three feet high of willow branches; and, as the ground was wet and cold, a brush mattress was laid behind the screen upon which the hunters could sit while watching for geese. The site was a good one, as Willow Point jutted into the lake near a big marsh on its south side. Beyond the screen they set their decoys, some in the water and others on the sand, but all heading up wind. When they shot their first geese, the hunters cut off the wings and necks together with the heads and fastened them in a natural way upon the decoys. Oo-koo-hoo told me that when one wished to secure geese, he should be in readiness to take his position behind the stand before the first sign of morning sun. Furthermore, he told me that geese were usually looking for open water and sandy beaches from eight to nine o'clock; from ten to twelve they preferred the marshes in order to feed upon goose grass and goose weed, as well as upon the roots and seeds of other aquatic plants. Then from noon to four o'clock they sought the lakes to preen themselves; while from four to six they returned to the sandy beaches and then resorted to the marshes in which to spend the night. That was the usual procedure for from ten to fifteen days, then away they went to their more northern breeding grounds where they spent midsummer. Seeing a hawk soaring overhead, Oo-koo-hoo said it reminded him of a hawk that once bothered him by repeatedly swooping down among his dead-duck decoys, and each time he had to rush from his blind to drive the hawk away or it would have carried away one of his dead ducks; and being short of ammunition, he did not care to waste a shot. But he ended the trouble by taking up all his dead ducks save one. Then he removed the pointed iron from his muskrat spear, and ramming the butt of the iron into the sand, left it standing up beside the duck as though it had been a reed. The next time the hawk swooped down, he let it drive with full force at the dead duck, and thus impale itself on the muskrat spear. But one day, after the geese had passed on their northward journey, Oo-koo-hoo began making other decoys of a different nature, and when I questioned him, he replied that he was going to kill a few loons with his bow and arrow, as Granny wished to use the skins of their necks to make a work-bag for the Factor's wife at Fort Consolation. After shaping the decoys, he mixed together gunpowder, charcoal, and grease with which to paint the decoys black--save where he left spots of the light-coloured wood to represent the white markings of those beautiful birds. When the decoys were eventually anchored in the bay they bobbed about on the rippling water quite true to life and they even took an occasional dive, when the anchor thong ran taut. OO-KOO-HOO'S COURTING After supper, when we were talking about old customs, I questioned Oo-koo-hoo as to how the Indians married before it was the custom to go to the Post to get the clergyman to perform that rite; and in reply he said: "My son, Ojistoh and I were married both ways, so I don't think I can do better than to tell you how our own marriage took place. It was this way, my son: one night, when old Noo-koom, Ojistoh's grandmother, became convinced that we lovers had sat under the blanket long enough, she decided that it was time we sat upon the brush together, or were married. Accordingly, she talked the matter over with Ojistoh's parents. They agreed with her, and Ojistoh's father said: 'It is well that Oo-koo-hoo and Ojistoh should be married according to the custom of our people, but it is also well that we should retain the friendship of the priest and the nuns. On our return to Fort Perseverance, therefore, the children must be married in the face of the Church; but I charge you all not to let any one at the Post know that Oo-koo-hoo and Ojistoh have already been married after the custom of our people. It is well that we should live according to the ways of our forefathers, and it is also well that we should seem to adopt the ways of the white man. Now call Ojistoh, and let me hear what she has to say.' "When Ojistoh came in, her father told her that I was a good boy; that I would certainly make a successful hunter; and that, if she would sit upon the brush with me, they would give her plenty of marrow grease for her hair and some porcupine quills for her moccasins. They might even buy her some ribbon, beads, and silk thread for fancy work. Furthermore, they said I would be given enough moose skins to make a lodge covering. "Ojistoh chewed meditatively upon the large piece of spruce gum in her mouth, while she listened with averted eyes and drooping head. But old Noo-koom, evidently supposing Ojistoh to be in doubt, interposed: 'You must sit upon the brush with him, because I have promised that you would. Did we not eat the fat and the blood, and use the firewood he left at our door?' "The remembrance, no doubt, of all that dainty eating decided Ojistoh, and she gave her word that she would sit upon the brush with me if they would promise to buy her a bottle of perfume when they returned to Fort Perseverance. When Ojistoh left the lodge, her father said to me: "'Listen, my boy, Noo-koom tells me that you have been sitting under the blanket with my daughter Ojistoh. She is a good girl and will make you happy; for she can make good moccasins.' "'Yes,' I replied, 'I know the girl and I want her.' "'To-morrow, then,' said her father, 'you must sit upon the brush with her. I will tell the women to prepare the feast.' "Next morning Ojistoh sat waiting in her lodge for me to come. Already she wore the badge of womanhood, for not having a new dress she had simply reversed her old one and buttoned it up in front instead of the back. For it is the custom of Ojibway girls to button their dresses behind and for married women to button theirs in front. "My son, you should have seen me that morning, for I was bedecked in all my finery, and upon entering Noo-koom's lodge, I seized Ojistoh by the hair of her head, and dragged her out. Her struggles to escape from me were quite edifying in their propriety. Her shrieks were heartrending--or rather, they would have been had they not alternated with delighted giggles. By that time the wedding march had begun; for as we struggling lovers led the way, the children, bubbling with laughter, followed; and the old people brought up the rear of the joyous procession. We, the happy couple, tussled with each other until we reached a spot in the bush where I had cleared a space and laid a carpet of balsam brush beside a fire. There I deposited her. With a final shriek she accepted the new conditions, and at once set about her matrimonial duties, while the others returned to their lodges to put the finishing touches to the wedding breakfast. "Oh, yes, my son, those were happy days," continued the hunter. "There, beside a great fire in the open, was laid a carpet of brush, in the centre of which a blanket was spread, and upon it the feast. There were rabbits, partridges, and fish roasted upon sticks. In a pot, boiled fresh moose and caribou meat; in another, simmered lynx entrails, bear fat, and moose steak. In a third, stewed ducks and geese. In a fourth, bubbled choice pieces of beaver, muskrat, lynx, and skunk. Besides, there were caribou tongues, beaver tails, bear meat, and foxes' entrails roasted upon the coals. Strong tea in plenty, fresh birch syrup, forest-made cranberry wine, a large chunk of dried Saskatoon berries served with bear's grease, frozen cranberries, and a little bannock made of flour, water, and grease, completed the fare. "Then, too, Ojistoh sat beside me and ate out of my dish. She even used my pipe for an after-dinner smoke. Then, after an interval of rest, dancing began, by the dancers circling the fire to the measured beat of a drum. Round and round we moved in silence. Then, breaking into a chant, we men faced the women, and from time to time solemnly revolved. But the women never turned their backs upon the fire. It was rather slow, monotonous measure, only relieved by the women and children throwing feathers at one another. Between each dance the company partook of refreshments, and so the festivity proceeded until daylight. Next morning Ojistoh's father gave us some wholesome advice and then we set up housekeeping on our own account, and, as you see, have continued it even to this day; haven't we, my little Ojistoh?" smiled the old hunter at his wife. NATURE'S SANCTUARIES One Sunday morning, when spring was all a-dance to the wondrous wild music of the woods, I sat in the warmth of the sun and thought of my Creator. Later, I learned that Oo-koo-hoo and Amik were also thinking of Him; for in the wilderness one often thinks of The Master of Life. That morning I thought, too, of the tolling of village church bells and of cathedral chimes, and I contrasted those metallic sounds with the beautiful singing of the birds of the forest; also I contrasted the difference of a Sunday in the city with a Sunday in the wilderness; and my soul rested in supreme contentment. Yet the ignorant city dwellers think of the wilderness as "God-forsaken." Hunt the world over, and could one find any more holy places than some of Nature's sanctuaries? I have found many, but I shall recall but one, a certain grove on the Alaskan border. It was in one of the wildest of all wild regions of the northern world. "God-forsaken" . . . indeed? In truth, it seemed to be the very home of God. There, between the bases of two towering perpendicular ranges of mountains, mantled by endless snows and capped by eternal ice, lay the wildest of all box-cañons: one end of which was blocked by a barrier of snow hundreds of feet high and thousands of feet thick--the work of countless avalanches; while the other end was blocked by a barrier of eternal ice thousands of feet in width and millions of tons in weight--a living and growing glacier. And there, away down at the very bottom of that wild gorge, beside a roaring, leaping little river of seething foam, grew a beautiful grove of trees; and never a time did I enter there but what I thought of it as holy ground--far more holy than any cathedral I have ever known . . . for there, in that grove, one seemed to stand in the presence of God. There, in that grove, the great reddish-brown boles of Sitka spruces--four and five feet in diameter--towered up like many huge architectural columns as they supported the ruggedly beamed and evergreen ceiling that domed far overhead. High above an altar-like mass of rock, completely mantled with gorgeously coloured mosses, an opening shone in the gray-green wall, and through it filtered long slanting beams of sunlight, as though coming through a leaded, sky-blue, stained-glass window of some wonderful cathedral. While upon the grove's mossy floor stood, row upon row, a mass of luxuriant ferns that almost covered the velvet carpet, and seemed to form endless seats in readiness for the coming of some congregation. But on only one occasion did I ever see a worshipper there. Weary from the weight of a heavy pack--seventy-five pounds of dynamite--I had paused to rest a moment in that wonderful place which so few human beings had ever discovered; where, too, on passing through, it was always my custom to remove my hat--just as any one would do on entering a church. There that day, as I stood gazing at the glorious sunbeams as they filtered through the great chancel window, I listened to the enchanting music of the feathered choir high overhead, that seemed to be singing to the accompaniment of one of Nature's most powerful organs--the roaring river--that thundered aloud, as, with all its force, it wildly rolled huge boulders down its rocky bed. Then, lowering my eyes, I discovered the one and only worshipper I ever saw there. He was standing near a side aisle in the shadow of an alcove, and he, too, was gazing up at those radiant sunbeams and listening to the choir; moreover, notwithstanding that he was a big brown bear, he appeared too devout even to notice me--perhaps because he, too, felt the holy presence of "The Great Mystery" . . . our God. Yes, my friend, it is my belief that if there is any place on earth that is "God-forsaken," it is not to be found in even the wildest part of the wildest wilderness, but in that cesspool called a city. GOING TO THE POST After half of May had passed away, and when the spring hunt was over, Oo-koo-hoo and Amik, poling up the turbulent little streams, and following as closely as possible the routes of their fur trails, went the round of their trapping paths, removed their snares, sprung their deadfalls, and gathering their steel traps loaded them aboard their canoes. That work completed, packing began in readiness for the postward journey; there, as usual, they would spend their well-earned holidays with pleasure upon their tribal summer camping grounds. [Illustration: After half of May had passed away, and when the spring hunt was over, Oo-koo-hoo and Amik, poling up the turbulent little streams, and following as closely as possible the routes of their fur trails, went the round of their trapping paths, removed their snares, sprung their deadfalls, and gathering their steel traps loaded them aboard their canoes. That work completed, packing began in readiness for the . . . See Chapter VII.] So, when all was in readiness, the deerskin lodge coverings were taken down, rolled up, and stored out of harm's way upon a stage. Then, with hearts light with happiness and canoes heavy with the wealth of the forest, we paddled away with pleasant memories of our forest home, and looked forward to our arrival at Fort Consolation. Soon after entering Bear River the canoes were turned toward the western bank and halted at a point near one of their old camping grounds. Then Naudin--Amik's wife--left the others, and took her way among the trees to an opening in the wood. There stood two little wooden crosses that marked the graves of two of her children--one a still-born girl and the other a boy who had died at the age of three. Upon the boy's grave she placed some food and a little bow and some arrows, and bowed low over it and wept aloud. But at the grave of her still-born child she forgot her grief and smiled with joy as she placed upon the mound a handful of fresh flowers, a few pretty feathers, and some handsome furs. Sitting there in the warm sunshine, she closed her eyes--as she told me afterward--and fancied she heard the little maid dancing among the rustling leaves and singing to her. Like all Indian women of the Strong Woods, she believed that her still-born child would never grow larger or older; that it would never leave her; that it would always love her, though she lived to be a great-grandmother; that when sorrow and pain bowed her low this little maid would laugh and dance and talk and sing to her, and thus change her grief into joy. That is why an Indian mother puts pretty things upon the grave of her still-born child, and that is why she never mourns over it. As our journey progressed those enemies of comfort and pleasure, the black flies, appeared, and at sunrise and sunset caused much annoyance, especially among the children. Then, too, at night if the breeze subsided, mosquitoes swarmed from the leeward side of bushes and drove slumber away. One afternoon, while resting, we observed signs of beaver and Oo-koo-hoo, being reminded of an incident he once witnessed, related it to me: "Once, my son, while paddling alone, I rounded the bend of a river, and hearing a splash just beyond the turn, silently propelled my canoe beneath a screen of overhanging branches. After waiting and watching awhile, I saw an otter fishing in the stream. A moment later I beheld a beaver--evidently a female--swimming just beyond the otter, and pursued by two other beavers--evidently males. The males, perceiving the otter swimming in the direction of the female, probably came to the conclusion that he was about to pay his court to her, for they suddenly swerved from their course and attacked the innocent otter. He dived to escape his assailants, and they dived after him. When he rose for breath, they came up, too, and made after him; so he dived again. Evidently, they were trying to wind their quarry, for whenever he came up for breath they endeavoured to reach him before he got it. In a short time they had so exhausted him that he refused to dive again before he gained his breath. He made for the shore. The beavers rushed after him, overtook him, and just as he gained the bank, ripped his throat open. Then I shot one of the beavers and tossed it into my canoe along with the otter." The journey to the Post was a delight all the way--save when the flies were busy. One night those almost invisible little torments, the sand flies, caused us--or rather me--much misery until Granny built such a large fire that it attracted the attention of the little brutes, and into it they all dived, or apparently did--just as she said they would--for in less than half an hour not a single sand fly remained. On our way to God's Lake we had considerable sport in the way of shooting white-water. One morning we landed at the head of a portage, and, as the rapid was not a dangerous one, Oo-koo-hoo and Amik determined to run it, but first went ashore to examine the channel. On their return Oo-koo-hoo instructed the others to follow his lead about four canoe-lengths apart, so that in case of mishap they could help each other. Down the canoes plunged one after the other. The children wielded their little paddles, screaming with delight as they swiftly glided through the foaming spray past shores still lined here and there with walls of ice. As the canoes rounded a sharp bend in the rapid Oo-koo-hoo descried a black bear walking on the ice that overhung the eastern bank. The animal seemed as much surprised as any of us, and, instead of making off, rose upon its haunches and gazed in amazement at the passing canoes. But as we swept by there was no thought of firing guns. The sight of the bear reminded Oo-koo-hoo of an experience some friends of his once had with a black bear; and when we reached slack water he told it to me. The friends in question were a mother and her daughter, and late one afternoon they were returning from berry picking. As they rounded a bend in the river the daughter in the bow suddenly stopped paddling, and--without turning her face toward her mother in the stern--excitedly whispered: "_Muskwa_! _Muskwa_!" Then as the older woman caught sight of a dark object fifty paces away, she uttered a few hurried commands. Both fell to paddling with all their might. With straining backs, stiffened arms, and bending blades, they fairly lifted the canoe at every stroke; and the waters gave a tearing sound as the slashing blades sent little whirlpools far behind. Their hearts were fired with the spirit of the chase, and--though their only weapons were their skinning knives--they felt no fear. On they raced to head the bear, who was swimming desperately to gain the shore. They overhauled him. He turned at bay. The daughter soused a blanket in the water and threw it over his head. The mother in the stern reached over as the canoe glided by, seized him by an ear as he struggled blindly beneath the smothering mantle, and drove her knife into his throat. A broad circle of crimson coloured the water round the blanket. The canoe was quickly brought about; the mother slipped a noose over his head, and in triumph they towed the carcass to their camp. On the last morning of our trip there was a flutter of pleasant excitement among our little party; and by the time the sun appeared and breakfast was over, everybody was laughing and talking, for we had made such progress that we expected to reach Fort Consolation by ten o'clock that forenoon. Quickly we loaded the canoes again, and away we paddled. In a few hours the beautiful expanse of God's Lake appeared before us. When we sighted the old fort, a joyous shout rang out; paddles were waved overhead, and tears of joy rose to the eyes of the women--and of some of the men. Going ashore, we quickly made our toilets, donning our very finest in order to make a good appearance on our arrival at the Fort--as is the custom of the Northland. Bear's grease was employed with lavish profusion, even Oo-koo-hoo and Amik and the boys using it on their hair; while the women and girls greased and wove their tresses into a single elongated braid which hung down behind. The men put on their fancy silk-worked moccasins; tied silk handkerchiefs about their necks--the reverse of cow-boy fashion--and beaded garters around their legs; while the women placed many brass rings upon their fingers, bright plaid shawls about their shoulders, gay silk handkerchiefs over their heads, and beaded leggings upon their legs. How I regretted I had not brought along my top-hat--that idiotic symbol of civilization--for if I could have worn it on that occasion, the Indians at Fort Consolation would have been so filled with merriment that they would have in all probability remembered me for many a year as the one white man with a sense of humour. For in truth, it is just as Ohiyesa (Charles A. Eastman) the full-blooded Sioux, says in his book on Indian Boyhood: "There is scarcely anything so exasperating to me as the idea that the natives of this country have no sense of humour and no faculty for mirth. This phase of their character is well understood by those whose fortune or misfortune it has been to live among them day in and day out at their homes. I don't believe I ever heard a real hearty laugh away from the Indians' fireside. I have often spent an entire evening in laughing with them until I could laugh no more." CONTEST OF WITS When we arrived at Fort Consolation, Oo-koo-hoo and his party were greeted by a swarm of their copper-coloured friends, among whom were The Little Pine and his father, mother, and sister. Making his way through the press, The Owl strode toward the trading room to shake hands with Factor Mackenzie; but the trader, hearing of Oo-koo-hoo's arrival, hastened from his house to welcome the famous hunter; and The Owl greeted him with: "_Quay, quay, Hu-ge-mow_" (good day, Master). On their way to the Indian shop they passed the canoe shed, where skilled hands were finishing two handsome six-fathom canoes for the use of the Fur Brigade; and they stopped to examine them. The building of a six-fathom or "North" canoe generally takes place under a shed erected for the purpose, where there is a clear, level space and plenty of working room. Two principal stakes are driven at a distance apart of thirty-six feet, the length of the craft to be. These are connected by two rows of smaller stakes diverging and converging so as to form the shape of the canoe. The smaller stakes are five feet apart at the centre. Pieces of birch bark are soaked in water for a day and no more, sewn together with wat-tap--the roots of cedar or spruce gathered in spring--placed between the stakes with the outer side down, and then made fast. The well-soaked ribs are then put in place and as soon as they are loaded with stones the bark assumes its proper form. The gunwales, into which the ends of the ribs are mortised, are bound into position with _wat-tap_. The thwarts are next adjusted. The stones and stakes are then removed; the seams are covered with a mixture of one part grease to nine parts spruce gum; the craft is tested, and is then held in readiness for its maiden voyage. On entering the Indian shop or trading room, Oo-koo-hoo was ready to talk about anything under the sun save business, as he wanted to force the Trader to solicit his patronage; but as the Factor was trying to make the hunter do the same thing, they parted company a little later without having mentioned the word "trade." No wonder the Indians are glad to return to their tribal summer camping grounds; for it is there that they rest and play and spend their summer holidays. It is there, too, that the young people enjoy the most favourable opportunity for doing their courting; as every event--such as the departure or the return of the Fur Brigade--calls for a festival of dancing which not infrequently lasts for several days. Also, in many other ways, the boys and girls have chances of becoming acquainted. Since young hunters often claim their sweethearts during the winter, many "marriages" take place after the Indian fashion. On their return to the Post, however, the young couples are generally married over again, and this time after the white man's custom--"in the face of the Church." The way the young people "keep company" at the summer camping grounds presents no feature of special interest. It is during the winter season in the forest many miles beyond the Post that the old customs have full sway. The re-marrying the young couples "in the face of the Church" frequently demands extreme vigilance, for in the confusion of the matrimonial busy season when the Indians first come in the little papoose is apt to be christened--unless the clergyman is very careful--before the parents have had time to arrange for their church wedding. Meanwhile, the women having erected the canvas lodge and put in order one of their last-year's birch-bark wigwams, called upon the Factor's wife and presented her with a handsome work-bag made of beautifully marked skins from the necks of the loons Oo-koo-hoo had shot with his bow and arrow for that purpose. After leaving the Indian shop, the hunter returned to his camp to talk matters over with Amik and the women. He told them that he intended selling most of his furs to the Company, but that he thought it wise to stay away from the Factor until next day. But as Granny, being a Roman Catholic, wanted to have Father Jois marry Neykia and The Little Pine, she suggested that Oo-koo-hoo go and call upon the priest at once. Notwithstanding that her mother was a Presbyterian, Neykia had joined the Roman Catholic Church and when asked why she had done so, she said it was because she thought the candles looked so pretty burning on the altar. Though The Owl was not in the least interested in any one of the white man's many religions, nor in the priest, the clergyman, or the minister of the three different denominations represented at the Post, he now called upon the priest as his wife wished him to. During the course of their conversation the priest said: "My son, that was a beautiful silver fox you sold the Company three years ago. I, myself, would have paid you well for it." "Would you look as well upon a black fox?" asked Oo-koo-hoo in surprise, as it is an unwritten law of the country that missionaries are not to carry on trade with the Indians. "Yes. Have you one?" questioned the priest. "I have never seen a finer," replied the hunter. "But do either of the traders know you have it?" asked the priest. "No," answered Oo-koo-hoo, with a shake of his head. Later, when the priest saw the skin, he was delighted with it, and a bargain was soon made. Oo-koo-hoo was to get one hundred "skins" for the black fox, and he was told to call next day. But after returning to camp, he grew impatient and went back to the priest to demand his pay. The priest said he would give him a tent and a rifle worth more than fifty skins and that he would say ten masses for him and his family, which would be a very generous equivalent for the other fifty skins. But Oo-koo-hoo, suddenly flaring up, began to storm at the priest, and demanded the black fox back. But the priest sternly motioned for silence with upraised hand, and whispered: "This is God's House. There must be no noise or anger here." And without another word he withdrew to get the rifle and the tent. When he returned with an old tent and a second-hand rifle, Oo-koo-hoo would not deign to touch them. Without more ado, he turned on his heel and walked away. On reaching camp, the old hunter learned from the children that the women had gone to pay a visit to the nuns; so he followed them, and, without even speaking to the Sisters, ordered the women to come home. On the way he eased his wrath by telling them that never again would he buy prayers or masses from the priest with black fox skins, and that if they ever wanted masses, he would pay for them with nothing but the skins of skunks. He did not see why he had to pay for masses, anyway, when Free Trader Spear had made them a standing offer of all the prayers they wanted free of charge, provided that he, Oo-koo-hoo, would trade with him. He added that he had half a mind to accept Spear's offer, just to spite the priest. So after meditating for a while upon his steadfast belief that any fool of an Indian is better than a white man, and that the only good white men are the dead ones, he got into his canoe and paddled across the lake to interview the opposition trader. When he told Spear what a splendid black fox he had, and how the priest had already offered him a hundred skins for it, the Free Trader said: "I'll give you a hundred and ten for it," and the old reprobate added, "and I'll throw into the bargain half-a-dozen prayers for the women." The offer was at once accepted. On handing over the goods to Oo-koo-hoo, the trader asked where the black fox was, and was told that it was in keeping of the priest. So without delay Mr. Spear paddled back with The Owl to get the skin. When the priest learned how the hunter had stolen a march on him, he was righteously indignant; but he dared not complain, since he was not supposed to deal in furs. There was nothing to do but hand over the magnificent skin to the Free Trader although he knew right well that in London or Paris it would bring twenty times the price paid for it. Next day old Granny came crying to Oo-koo-hoo and complaining that the priest had refused to officiate at the wedding on the day agreed upon. The nuns had told her that his refusal was due to his determination to discipline The Owl for his rudeness and irreverence. That seemed to worry the hunter considerably, for, though he cared nothing for the priest's benediction, he did want the wedding to come off upon the day appointed. It touched his pride to be balked in his plans. He had already invited all the Indians at the Post to the ceremony. Great preparations were being made. If the wedding were put off even a single day, everybody would be curious to know why; and sooner or later it would be known that he had had to bow to the will of the priest. The thought rankled. So he went to the Factor and told him the whole affair. "Ma brither," said the Factor, "we are auld freens; it is weel that we shud staun' thegither. If ye will trade a' yir furs wi' me this day, I'll get the meenister o' the Presybyterian Kirk tae mairry yir gran'dochter. He'll be gled eneuch tae gi'e Father Jois a dour by mairryin' twa o' his fowk. Sell me yir furs, an' I'll warrant ye ye'll hae the laff on Father Jois." MISSIONARIES AND INDIANS That settled it. Factor Mackenzie got all the furs Oo-koo-hoo and his family possessed. The Factor and the hunter were now the best of friends, and they even went so far as to exchange presents--and that's going some . . . for a Scotsman. Should the foregoing amuse the Protestant reader, the following may be of interest to the Roman Catholic. One winter, while halting at a certain Hudson's Bay post, I met a Protestant clergyman, who having spent a number of years as a missionary among the natives on the coast of Hudson Bay excited my interest as to his work among the Indians. That night, after supper, I questioned him as to his spiritual work among the "barbarians" of the forest, and in the presence of the Hudson's Bay trader, he turned to me and, with the air of being intensely bored by the subject, he replied: "Mr. Heming . . . the only interest I ever take in the Indian . . . is when I bury him." But while I have cited two types of clergymen I have known--the name of the priest being, of course, fictitious--merely to point out the kind of missionaries that should never be sent among the Indians, I not only wish to state that they are very much the exception to the rule, but I also want to make known my unbounded respect and admiration for that host of splendid men--and women--of all denominations, who have devoted their lives to the spiritual welfare of the people of the wilderness, and some of whom have already left behind them hallowed names of imperishable memory. But the lot of the missionary among the Indians is not altogether a joyous one. In his distant and isolated outpost there are privations to endure and hardships to suffer. Frequently, too, it happens that he is placed in a position exceedingly embarrassing to a man of gentle breeding and kindly spirit. A well-known Canadian priest was being entertained by an Indian family. The hospitable old grandmother undertook to prepare a meal for him. Determined to set before the "black-robe" a really dainty dish--something after the fashion of a Hamburg steak--and possessing no machine for mincing the meat, she simply chewed it up nice and fine in her own mouth. After cooking it to a turn, she set it before her honoured guest, and was at a loss to understand why the good man had so suddenly lost his appetite. But there is often a brighter and also a graver side to the missionary's life among the red men. Incidents occur which appeal irresistibly to his sense of humour. One Sunday afternoon a certain noted bishop of the English Church in Canada, who had spent most of his life as a missionary in the far Northwest, was discoursing at considerable length to a band of Dog-rib Indians camped at the mouth of Hay River on Great Slave Lake. His Lordship dwelt earnestly upon the virtue of brotherly love, and enlarged upon the beauty of the Divine saying--"It is more blessed to give than to receive." After the service an old Indian walked up to the preacher, piously repeated the sacred text, and intimated that he was prepared to become the humble instrument for bringing upon his reverence the promised blessing. To that end he was willing to receive his lordship's hat. The good bishop was taken aback. Realizing, however, that there was nothing else for him to do, he took off his hat and bestowed it with commendable cheerfulness upon his new disciple. Another red man, jealous of his brother who was now parading in all the splendour of the bishop's hat, claimed upon the same ground the prelate's gaiters, and received them. The two Indians, envious each of the other's acquisition, began to discuss with growing anger the comparative value of the articles. Unable to arrive at an agreement, they resolved to put up the hat and gaiters as a stake and gamble for them. The impressive head-gear and antique gaiters of an Anglican bishop never appeared to greater advantage than they did upon the old Indian, the winner of the game, when he proudly strutted before his dusky, admiring brethren, displaying on head and bare legs the Episcopal insignia, and having for his only other garment an old shirt whose dingy tail fluttered coyly in the summer breeze. NEYKIA'S WEDDING At ten o'clock, on the morning of Neykia's wedding, a motley mass of natives clothed in many colours crowded about the little church, which, for lack of space, they could not enter. Presently the crowd surged back from the door and formed on either side of the path, leaving an opening down the centre. A tall half-breed with a shock of wavy black hair stepped from the doorway, raised his violin, and adjusting it into position, struck up a lively tune to the accompaniment of the wailing of a broken concertina played by another half-breed who preceded the newly married couple. Neykia wore a silk handkerchief over her head, a light-coloured cotton waist open at the throat, a silk sash over one shoulder, and a short skirt revealing beaded leggings and moccasins. Behind the bride and groom walked Oo-koo-hoo and the fathers of the bridal couple, then the mothers and the rest of the relations, while the clergy and the other guests brought up the rear. As the little procession moved along, the men, lined up on either side of the path, crossed their guns over the heads of the wedding party, and discharged a _feu de joie_. On reaching a certain log-house the procession broke up. The older people went in to partake of the wedding breakfast, while the bride and groom went over to one of the warehouses and amused themselves dancing with their young friends until they were summoned to the second table of the marriage feast. Everybody at the Post had contributed something toward either the feast or the dance. Out of respect for Oo-koo-hoo the Factor had furnished a liberal stock of groceries and had, in addition, granted the free use of the buildings. The clerk had sent in a quantity of candies and tobacco. The priest had given potatoes; the clergyman had supplied a copy of the Bible in syllabic characters; and the minister had given the silver-plated wedding ring. The nuns had presented a supply of skim-milk and butter. Mr. Spear provided jam, pickles, and coal-oil for the lamps. The Mounted Police contributed two dollars to pay for the "band"--the fiddle and the concertina--and ammunition enough for the _feu de joie_. The friends and relations had given a plentiful store of fresh, dried, and pounded fish; and had also furnished a lavish supply of moose, caribou, and bear meat; as well as dainty bits of beaver, lynx, muskrat, and skunk. The bridal party having dined, they and their elders opened the ball officially. The first dance was--as it always is--the Double Jig, then followed in regular order the same dances as those of the New Year's feast. After a frolic of several hours' duration some of the dancers grew weary and returned to the banquet room for refreshments. And thus for three days and three nights the festivities continued. THE WEDDING SPEECHES During a lull in the dancing on the afternoon of the wedding day Little Pine's sister went up to him and said: "Brother, may I kiss you? Are you ashamed?" He answered: "No." She kissed him, took his wife's hand, placed it in his with her own over both, and addressed the young wife: "As you have taken my place, do to him as I have done; listen to him, work for him, and, if need be, die for him." Then she lowered her head and began to cry. Ne-Geek, The Otter, Neykia's oldest brother, then went up to Little Pine and asked: "Are you man enough to work for her, to feed her, and to protect her?" "Yes," replied the new-made husband. The Otter put the husband's hand on his sister's hand, and--looking him straight in the eyes . . . shook his clenched fist at him and said in a threatening tone . . . "Beware!" In the midst of one of the dances Oo-koo-hoo walked up to the "band" and knocked up the fiddle to command silence. Pulling his _capote_ tightly about him, he assumed a dignified attitude, slowly looked round the room to see that he had the attention of all present, and began to address the assemblage: "The step which Shing-wauk has taken is a very serious one. Now he will have to think for two. Now he must supply the wants of two. Now he will realize what trouble is. But the One who made us . . . The Great Mystery . . . The Master of Life . . . made us right. The man has his work to do, and the woman has hers. The man must hunt and kill animals, and the woman must skin and dress them. The man must always stand by her and she by him. The two together are strong . . . and there is no need of outside assistance. Remember . . . my grandchildren . . . you are starting out together that way . . ." To illustrate his meaning, he held up two fingers parallel, and added: "If your tracks fork . . . they will soon be as far apart as sunrise is from sunset . . . and you will find many ready to come in between. Carry on in the way you have begun . . . for that is the way you should end. And remember . . . if your tracks once fork . . . they will never come together again . . . my grandchildren . . . I have spoken." After Little Pine's father, as well as several of the guests, had made their remarks, Naudin, Neykia's mother, rose to address her daughter. Overcome with nervousness, she pulled her shawl so far over her face as to leave only a tiny peep-hole through which to look. Hesitatingly she began: "My daughter, you never knew what trouble is, now you will know. You never knew what hard work is, now you will soon learn. Never let your husband want for anything. Never allow another woman to do anything for him; if you do . . . you are lost. When you have children, my daughter, and they grow up, your sons will always be sons to you, even though they be gray-headed. But with your daughters it will not be so; when they marry, they will be lost to you. Once married, they are gone for ever." She stepped up to her daughter, kissed her, and sank to the floor, weeping copiously. Then Amik rose to speak. He beckoned to his daughter. She advanced and knelt down, holding the fringe of his legging while he addressed her: "Neykia, my daughter, you have taken this man. Be good to him, work for him, live for him, and if need be, die for him. Kiss me, Neykia, my daughter; kiss me for the last time." She kissed him, and he added: "You have kissed me for the last time: henceforth never kiss any man but your husband." Raising his hand with untutored dignity, he pronounced the words: "Remember . . . I have spoken." VIII BUSINESS AND ROMANCE FAREWELL ATHABASCA Though Wawe Pesim (The Egg Moon), or June, had already brought summer to the Great Northern Forest, the beautiful Athabasca still waited in vain. Son-in-law had not yet appeared. After all--was he but a fond parents' dream? I wondered. Soon the picturesque and romantic Fur Brigade would be sweeping southward on its voyage from the last entrenchments of the Red Gods to the newest outposts of civilization--a civilization that has debauched, infected, plundered, and murdered the red man ever since its first onset upon the eastern shores of North America. If you don't believe this, read history, especially the history of the American fur trade. Meanwhile, canoes laden with furs and in charge of Hudson's Bay traders or clerks from outlying "Flying Posts" had arrived; and among the voyageurs was that amusing character, Old Billy Brass. A little later, too, Chief Factor Thompson arrived from the North. Now in the fur loft many hands were busily engaged in sorting, folding, and packing in collapsible moulds--that determined the size and shape of the fur packs--a great variety of skins. Also they were energetically weighing, cording, and covering the fur packs with burlap--leaving two ears of that material at each end to facilitate handling them, as each pack weighed eighty pounds. A fur pack of one hundred pounds--for the weight varies according to the difficulty of transportation in certain regions--contains on an average fourteen bear, sixty otter, seventy beaver, one hundred and ten fox skins, or six hundred muskrat skins. A pack of assorted furs contains about eighty skins and the most valuable ones are placed in the centre. During the next few days the great "North" or six-fathom canoes--made of birch bark and capable of carrying from three to four tons of freight in addition to their crews of from eight to twelve men--were brought out of the canoe house, and together with the two new ones, had their bows and sterns painted white in readiness for their finishing touch of decoration in the way of some symbol of the fur trade. As the principal Indian canoemen, who were to join the Fur Brigade, were already familiar with my ability as an artist, they waited upon the Factor and requested him to solicit my help in the final decorating of those beautiful canoes. So it came to pass that on the bow of one a leaping otter appeared and on the bows of others, a rearing bear, a flying goose, a rampant caribou, a galloping fox, a leaping lynx, a rampant moose, and on still another the coat-of-arms of the Hudson's Bay Company. Each in turn had its admirers, but Oo-koo-hoo, who was to have charge of all the voyageurs, sidled up to Factor Mackenzie and whispered that if Hu-ge-mow--Master--would let him take his choice of the canoes, he would not only give the Factor a dollar in return for the privilege, but he would promise to keep that particular canoe at the very head of the whole brigade, and never once allow another canoe to pass it during the voyage. The Factor was not only interested in the Indian's appreciation of art, as well as amused over the idea that he would accept a bribe of a dollar, but he was curious to know which canoe the Indian most favoured. It was the one that displayed the Great Company's coat-of-arms; so Oo-koo-hoo, the famous white-water-man, not only won his choice and retained his dollar, but furthermore, he and his crew actually did keep the bow of that canoe ahead of all others--no matter where or when the other crews contested for the honour of leading the Fur Brigade. The next morning, at sunrise, the Fur Brigade was to take its departure. Now it was time I visited Spearhead, to thank my friends, the Free Trader and his family, for all their kindness to me, and to bid them farewell; so I borrowed a small canoe and paddled across the lake. When I arrived they invited me to dine with them. At the table that day there was less talking--everyone seemed to be in a thoughtful mood. The windows and doors were open and the baggy mosquito netting sagged away from the hot sun as the cool breeze whispered through its close-knit mesh. Outside, I could see the heifer and her mother lying in the shade of a tree on the far side of the stump-lot, and near the doorway the ducks and geese were sauntering about the grass and every now and then making sudden little rushes--as though they were trying to catch something. There, too, in the pathway, the chickens were scratching about and ruffling their feathers in little dust holes--as though they were trying to get rid of something. An unexpected grunt at the doorway attracted my attention and I saw a pig leering at me from the corners of its half-closed eyes--the very same pig the Free Trader and his wife had chosen to add to their daughter's wedding dowry--then it gave a familiar little nod, as though it recognized me; and I fancied, too, that its ugly chops broke into an insolent smile. What was it thinking about? . . . Was it Son-in-law? I wondered. I glanced at Athabasca. How beautiful she looked! The reflected sunlight in the room cast a delightful sheen over her lustrous brown hair, and seemed to enhance the beauty of her charmingly sun-browned skin, that added so much to the whiteness of her even teeth, and to the brilliancy of her soft brown eyes. In a dreamy way she was looking far out through the window and away off toward the distant hills. She, too, set me wondering; was she thinking of Son-in-law? At that moment, however, the pig gave another impatient grunt which startled Athabasca and caused her to look directly at me. I blushed scarlet, then; so did she--but, of course, only out of sympathy. "Yes, we'll send her to that finishing school in Toronto," her mother mused, while Free Trader Spear scratched his head once more, and three house flies lazily sat on the sugar bowl and hummed a vulgar tune. After dinner Mr. Spear invited me into the trading room to see some of the furs he had secured. Among them were four silver fox skins as well as the black one he had bought from Oo-koo-hoo. They were indeed fine skins. It was now time for me to take my departure, so I returned to the living room, but found no one there. Presently, however, Mrs. Spear entered, and though she sat down opposite me, she never once looked my way. She seemed agitated about something. Clasping her fingers together, she twirled her thumbs about one another, then she twirled them back the other way; later she took to tapping her moccasined toe upon the bare floor, I wondered what was coming. I couldn't make it out. For all the while she was looking at a certain crack in the floor. Once more she renewed the twirling action of her thumbs, and even increased the action of her toe upon the floor. What did it all mean? Had I done anything to displease her? No; I could think of nothing of the sort, so I felt a little easier. Suddenly, however, she glanced up and, looking straight at me, began: "Mr. Heming . . . we have only one child . . . and we love her dearly . . ." But the pause that followed was so long drawn out that I began to lose interest, especially as the flies were once more humming the same old tune. A little later, however, I was almost startled when Mrs. Spear exclaimed: "But I'll lend you a photograph of Athabasca for six weeks!" Thereupon Mrs. Spear left her chair and going upstairs presently returned with a photograph wrapped in a silk handkerchief; and as at that very moment the Free Trader and his daughter entered the room, I, without comment, slipped the photograph into my inside pocket, and wished them all good-bye; though they insisted upon walking down to the landing to wave me farewell on my way to Fort Consolation. MUSTERING THE FUR BRIGADE Next morning, soon after dawn, the church bells were ringing and everyone was up and astir; and presently all were on their way to one or another of the little log chapels on the hill; where, a little later, they saw the stalwart men of the Fur Brigade kneeling before the altar as they partook of the holy sacrament before starting upon their voyage to the frontier of civilization. Strange, isn't it, that the writers of northern novels never depict a scene like that? Probably because they have never been inside a northern church. Next, breakfasts were hurriedly eaten, then the voyageurs assembled upon the beach placed those big, beautifully formed, six-fathom canoes upon the water, and paddled them to the landing. Then Chief Factor Thompson and Factor Mackenzie joined the throng; and that veteran voyageur, Oo-koo-hoo, who was to command the Fur Brigade, touched his hat and conversed with the officers. A few moments later the old guide waved his swarthy men into line. From them he chose the bowmen, calling each by name, and motioning them to rank beside him; then, in turn, each bowman selected a man for his crew; until, for each of the eight canoes, eight men were chosen. Then work began. Some went off with tump-line in hand to the warehouse, ascended the massive stairs, and entered the fur loft. Tiers of empty shelves circled the room, where the furs were stored during the winter; but upon the floor were stacked packs of valuable pelts--the harvest of the fur trade. The old-fashioned scales, the collapsible mould, and the giant fur press told of the work that had been done. Every pack weighed eighty pounds. Loading up, they rapidly carried the fur to the landing. In the storeroom the voyageurs gathered up the "tripping" kit of paddles, tents, axes, tarpaulins, sponges; and a box for each crew containing frying-pans, tea pails, tin plates, and tea-dishes. In the trading room the crews were supplied with provisions of flour, pork, and tea, at the rate of three pounds a day for each man. They were also given tobacco. Most of the voyageurs received "advances" from the clerk in the way of clothing, knives, pipes, and things deemed essential for the voyage. Birch bark, spruce roots, and gum were supplied for repairing the canoes. All was now in readiness. The loading of freight began, and when each canoe had received its allotted cargo the voyageurs indulged in much handshaking with their friends, a little quiet talking and affectionate kissing with their families and sweethearts. Then, paddle in hand, they boarded their canoes and took their places. In manning a six-fathom canoe the bowman is always the most important; the steersman comes next in rank, while the others are called "midmen." DEPARTURE OF THE FUR BRIGADE Factor Mackenzie and his senior officer, sitting in the guide's or chief voyageur's canoe, which, of course, was Oo-koo-hoo's, gave the word; and all together the paddle blades dipped, the water swirled, and on the gunwales the paddle handles thudded as the canoes heaved away. The going and coming of the Fur Brigade was the one great event of the year to those nomadic people who stood watching and waving to the fast-vanishing flotilla. Were they not bidding farewell to fathers, husbands, brothers, sons, or lovers, chosen as the best men from their village? Had they not lent a hand in the winning of the treasure that was floating away? If only the pelts in those packs could speak, what tales they would unfold! As I looked back the animated picture of the little settlement wherein we figured but a moment before gradually faded into distance. The wild-looking assembly was blotted from the shore. But still above the rapidly dwindling buildings waved the flag of the oldest chartered trading association in the world--the Hudson's Bay Company. Between eleven and twelve o'clock the brigade went ashore for a "snack." The canoes were snubbed to overhanging trees, and upon a rocky flat the fires burned. Hurriedly drinking the hot tea, the men seized pieces of frying pork and, placing them upon their broken bannock, ravenously devoured both as they returned to the canoes. No time was lost. Away we went again. Then the brigade would paddle incessantly for about two hours; then they would "spell", and paddles were laid aside "one smoke." As the way slackened the steersmen bunched the canoes. The soft, rich voices of the crews blended as they quietly chatted and joked and laughed together. [Illustration: The departure of the Fur Brigade was the one great event of the year. In manning six-fathom canoes the bowman are always the most important; the steersman coming next in rank, while the others are called "midmen." The brigade would paddle incessantly for about two hours; then they would "spell", and paddles were laid aside "one smoke." The soft, rich voices of the crews blended as they quietly chatted and joked and . . . See Chapter VIII.] Later, a stern wind came along. Nearing an island, some of the men went ashore and cut a mast and sprit-sail boom for each canoe. They lashed the masts to the thwarts with tump-lines, and rigged the tarpaulins, used to cover the packs, into sails. Again the paddles were shipped, save those of the steersmen; and the crews lounged about, either smoking or drowsing. The men were weary. Last night they had danced both hard and long, with dusky maids--as all true voyageurs do on the eve of their departure. To voyageurs stern winds are blessings. Mile after mile the wild flotilla swept along. Sunshine danced upon the rippling waves that gurgled and lapped as the bows overreached them. Rugged islands of moss-covered rock and evergreen trees rose on every side. The wind favoured us for about five miles, then shifted. Reluctantly the sails were let down, and masts and booms tossed overboard. At four o'clock the brigade landed on a pretty island, and a hurried afternoon tea was taken; after which we again paddled on, and at sundown halted to pitch camp for the night. CAMP OF THE FUR BRIGADE The canoes--held off shore so as not to damage them by touching the beach--were unloaded by men wading in the water. The fur packs were neatly piled and covered with tarpaulins. Then the canoes were lifted off the water, and carried ashore, and turned upside-down for the night. Tents were erected and campfires lit. Upon a thick carpet of evergreen brush the blankets were spread in the tents. The tired men sat in the smoke at the fires and ate their suppers round which black flies and mosquitoes hovered. Canadian voyageurs, being well used to both fasting and feasting, display great appetites when savoury food is plentiful, and though I have seen much feasting and heard astonishing tales of great eating, I feel I cannot do better than quote the following, as told by Charles Mair, one of the co-authors of that reliable book "Through the Mackenzie Basin": "I have already hinted at those masterpieces of voracity for which the region is renowned; yet the undoubted facts related around our campfires, and otherwise, a few of which follow, almost beggar belief. Mr. Young, of our party, an old Hudson's Bay officer, knew of sixteen trackers who, in a few days, consumed eight bears, two moose, two bags of pemmican, two sacks of flour, and three sacks of potatoes. Bishop Grouard vouched for four men eating a reindeer at a sitting. Our friend, Mr. d'Eschambault, once gave Oskinnegu,--'The Young Man'--six pounds of pemmican. He ate it all at a meal, washing it down with a gallon of tea, and then complained that he had not had enough. Sir George Simpson states that at Athabasca Lake, in 1820, he was one of a party of twelve who ate twenty-two geese and three ducks at a single meal. But, as he says, they had been three whole days without food. The Saskatchewan folk, however, known of old as the Gens de Blaireaux--'The People of the Badger Holes'--were not behind their congeners. That man of weight and might, our old friend Chief Factor Belanger, once served out to thirteen men a sack of pemmican weighing ninety pounds. It was enough for three days; but there and then they sat down and consumed it all at a single meal, not, it must be added, without some subsequent and just pangs of indigestion. Mr. B., having occasion to pass the place of eating, and finding the sack of pemmican, as he supposed, in his path, gave it a kick; but, to his amazement, it bounded aloft several feet, and then lit. It was empty! When it is remembered that in the old buffalo days the daily ration per head at the Company's prairie posts was eight pounds of fresh meat, which was all eaten, its equivalent being two pounds of pemmican, the enormity of this Gargantuan feast may be imagined. But we ourselves were not bad hands at the trencher. In fact, we were always hungry. So I do not reproduce the foregoing facts as a reproach, but rather as a meagre tribute to the prowess of the great of old--the men of unbounded stomach!" And yet, strange as it may seem, fat men are seldom seen in the northern wilderness. That is something movie directors should remember. Pemmican, though little used nowadays, was formerly the mainstay of the voyageurs. It was made of the flesh of buffalo, musk-ox, moose, caribou, wapiti, beaver, rabbit, or ptarmigan; and for ordinary use was composed of 66 per cent. of dried meat pounded fine to 34 per cent. of hard fat boiled and strained. A finer quality of pemmican for officers or travellers was composed of 60 per cent. of dried meat pounded extra fine and sifted; 33 per cent. of grease taken from marrow bones boiled and strained; 5 per cent. of dried Saskatoon berries; 2 per cent. of dried choke cherries, and sugar according to taste. The pounded meat was placed in a large wooden trough and, being spread out, hot grease was poured over it and then stirred until thoroughly mixed with the meat. Then, after first letting it cool somewhat, the whole was packed into leather bags, and, with the aid of wooden mallets, driven down into a solid mass, when the bags were sewn up and flattened out and left to cool; during the cooling precaution was taken to turn the bags every five minutes to prevent the grease settling too much to one side. Pemmican was packed 50, 80, or 100 lb. in a bag--according to the difficulty of transporting it through the country in which it was to be used. The best pemmican was made from buffalo meat, and 2 lb. of buffalo pemmican was considered equal to 2 1/2 lb. of moose or 3 lb. of caribou pemmican. Later, a cool sunset breeze from over the water blew the little tormentors away, and then it was that those swarthy men enjoyed their rest. After supper some made bannock batter in the mouths of flour-sacks, adding water, salt, and baking powder. This they worked into balls and spread out in sizzling pans arranged obliquely before the fire with a bed of coals at the back of each. It was an enlivening scene. Great roaring fires sent glowing sparks high into the still night air, lighting up the trees with their intense glare, and casting weird shadows upon the surrounding tents and bushes. Picturesque, wild-looking men laughed, talked, and gesticulated at one another. A few with _capotes_ off were sitting close to the fires, and flipping into the air the browning flap-jacks that were to be eaten the following day. Others, with hoods over their heads, lolled back from the fire smoking their pipes--and by the way, novelists and movie directors and actors should know that the natives of the northern wilderness, both white and red, do not smoke cigarettes; they smoke pipes and nothing else. Some held their moccasins before the fire to dry, or arranged their blankets for turning in. Others slipped away under cover of darkness to rub pork rinds on the bottom of their canoes, for there was much rivalry as to the speed of the crews. Still more beautiful grows the scene, when the June moon rises above the trees and tips with flickering light the running waves. Sauntering from one crew's fire to another, I listened for a while to the talking and laughing of the voyageurs, but hearing no thrilling tales or even a humorous story by that noted romancer Old Billy Brass, I went over and sat down at the officers' fire, where Chief Factor Thompson was discussing old days and ways with his brother trader. THE LONGEST BRIGADE ROUTES After a little while I asked: "What was the longest route of the old-time canoe and boat brigades?" "There were several very long ones," replied Mr. Thompson, "for instance, the one from Montreal to Vancouver, a distance of about three thousand miles; also the one from York Factory on Hudson Bay to the Queen Charlotte Islands, and another from York Factory to the Mackenzie River posts. Some of the portages on the main highway of canoe travel were rather long, for instance, the one at Portage La Loche was twelve miles in length and over it everything had to be carried on man back. "In winter time, travel was by way of snowshoes, dog-sled, or jumper. A jumper is a low, short, strong sleigh set upon heavy wooden runners and hauled by ox, horse, men, or dogs. The freight load per dog--as you know--is a hundred pounds; per man, one to two hundred pounds; per horse, four to six hundred pounds; and per ox, five to seven hundred pounds. In summer there were the canoe, York boat, sturgeon-head scow, and Red River cart brigades. A six-fathom canoe carries from twenty to thirty packages; a York boat, seventy-five packages; a Sturgeon-head scow, one hundred packages; and a Red River cart, six hundred pounds. The carts were made entirely of wood and leather and were hauled by horse or ox. With every brigade went the wife of one of the voyageurs to attend to the mending of the voyageurs' clothing and to look after the comfort of the officer in charge. But the voyageurs always had to do their own cooking and washing. "In the old days, too, much of their food had to be procured from the country through which they travelled and therefore they relied upon buffalo, moose, wapiti, deer, bear, beaver, rabbit, fish, and water-fowl to keep them in plenty." Then for a while the Factors sat smoking in silence. The moon had mounted higher and was now out of sight behind the tops of the neighbouring trees, but its reflection was brilliantly rippled upon the water. At one of the fires a French half-breed was singing in a rich barytone one of the old _chansons_ that were so much in vogue among the voyageurs of by-gone days--_� la Claire Fontaine_. After an encore, silence again held sway, until around another fire hearty laughter began to play. "The boys over there must be yarning again," remarked, the Chief Factor, as he pointed with his pipe, "let's go over, and listen awhile." BILLY BRASS TELLS ANOTHER STORY It was Oo-koo-hoo's fire and among his men was seated that ever-welcome member of another crew--Old Billy Brass. Evidently he had just finished telling one of his mirth-provoking stories, as the men were good-naturedly questioning him about it; for, as we sat down, he continued: "Yes, sir, it's true; fire attraks 'em. Why, I've knowed 'em come from miles round when they catched a glimpse of it, an' as long as there's danger o' white bears bein' round you'll never again find Old Billy Brass tryin' to sleep beside a big fire. No, sir, not even if His Royal Highness the Commissioner or His Lordship the Bishop gives the word." Then he sat there slowly drawing upon his pipe with apparently no intention of adding a single word to what he had already said. Lest something interesting should be lost, I ventured: "Was it the Bishop or the Commissioner that made the trouble?" "No, sir, neither; 'twas the Archdeacon," replied the old man as he withdrew his pipe and rubbed his smarting eyes clear of the smoke from the blazing logs. Taking a few short draws at the tobacco, he continued: "There was three of us, me an' Archdeacon Lofty an' Captain Hawser, who was commandin' one of the Company's boats that was a-goin' to winter in Hudson Bay. It happened in September. The three of us was hoofin' it along the great barren shore o' the bay. In some places the shore was that flat that every time the tide came in she flooded 'bout all the country we could see, an' we had a devil of a time tryin' to keep clear o' the mud. We had a few dogs along to help pack our beddin', but, nevertheless, it was hard work; for we was carryin' most of our outfit on our backs. "One evenin' just before sundown we stumbled upon a lot o' driftwood scattered all about the flats. As so much wood was lyin' around handy, we decided to spend the night on a little knoll that rose above high-water mark. For the last few days we had seen so little wood that any of our fires could 'a' been built in a hat. But that night the sight o' so much wood fairly set the Archdeacon crazy with delight, an' nothin' would do but we must have a great roarin' fire to sleep by. I would have enjoyed a good warmin' as well as any one, but I was mighty leary about havin' a big fire. So I cautioned the Archdeacon not to use much wood as there was likely to be bears about, an' that no matter how far off they was, if they saw that fire they would make for it--even if they was five or six miles out on the ice floes. He wouldn't listen to me. The Captain backed him up, an' they both set to an' built a fire as big as a tepee. "We was pretty well tuckered out from the day's walkin'. So after supper we dried our moccasins an' was about to turn in early when--lo an' behold!--the Archdeacon got up an' piled more wood upon the fire. That made me mad; for unless he was huntin' for trouble he couldn't 'a' done a thing more foolish, an' I says somethin' to that effect. He comes back at me as though I was afraid o' me own shadder, an' says: 'Billy Brass, I'm s'prised that a man like you doesn't put more faith in prayin' an' trustin' hisself in the hands o' the Almighty.' "I was so hot over the foolishness of havin' such a big fire that I ups an' says: "'That may be all right for you, sir, but I prefer to use my wits first, an' trust in Providence afterwards.' "Nothin' more was said, an' we all turns in. I didn't like the idea of every one goin' to sleep with a fire so big that it was showin' itself for miles aroun', so I kep' myself awake. I wasn't exactly thinkin' that somethin' really serious was goin' to happen, but I was just wishin' it would, just to teach the Archdeacon a lesson. As time went on I must 'a' done a little dozin'; for when I looks up at the Dipper again, I learns from its angle with the North Star that it was already after midnight. An'--would you believe it?--that fire was still blazin' away nearly as big as ever. The heat seemed to make me drowsy, for I began to doze once more. All at once I heard the dogs blowin' so hard----" "Blowing?" "Yes, that's right; they were blowin'; for geddies don't bark like other dogs when they're frightened. Well, as I was sayin', they were blowin' so hard that my hair nearly stood on end. Like a shot I throws off me blanket an' jumps to me feet, for I knowed what was comin'. The Captain an' the Archdeacon heard them, too, an' we all grabbed at once for the only gun, a single-barrelled muzzle-loader. "As ill luck would have it, the Archdeacon was nearest to that gun an' grabbed it, an' by the time we was straightened up we sees a great big white bear rushin' at us. Quick as thought the Archdeacon points the gun at the bear an' pulls the trigger, but the hammer only snaps upon the bare nipple; for the cap had tumbled off in the scramble. There was no time for re-cappin'; so, bein' the nearest to the chargin' bear, the Archdeacon just drops the old gun an' runs for dear life around that fire with me an' the Captin followin' close behind him. "When I seen the way the Archdeacon an' the Captin went a sailin' round that fire, it fairly took me breath away; for somehow I never had any idea that them two old cripples had so much speed left in 'em. An' you can bet it kep' me unusually busy bringin' up the rear; an', anyway, the feelin' that the bear was for ever snappin' at me coat-tails kep' me from takin' things too easy. "Well, we tore round an' round an' round that fire so dang many times that we was not only rapidly losin' our wind but we was beginnin' to get dizzy into the bargain. All the time we could hear the great beast thunderin' after us, yet we daren't slacken our pace; no, sir, not even enough to take a single glance behind just to see which was gainin'. It was a sure case of life or death, but principally death; an' you can depend on it we wasn't takin' any chances. "Me an' the Captin was crowdin' so close upon the Archdeacon's heels that in his terror lest we should pass him by he ups an' sets the pace at such a tremendous speed that the whole three of us actually catches up to the bear . . . without the brute's knowin' it. If it hadn't been for the Archdeacon steppin' on the sole of the bear's upturned left hind foot as the hungry beast was gallopin' round the fire . . . we'd have been runnin' a good deal longer. "Well, sir, if you had just seen how foolish that bear looked when he discovered that we was chasin' him instead of him chasin' us, you'd have died laughin'. Why, he was the most bewildered an' crest-fallen animal I ever did see. But he soon regained his wits an'--evidently calculatin' that his only salvation layed in his overhaulin' us--lit out at a saprisin' gait in a grand effort to leave us far enough behind for him to catch up to us. But it didn't work; for by that time we had all got our second wind an' he soon realized that we was determined not to be overhauled from the rear. So he set to ponderin' what was really the best thing for him to do; an' then he did it. "You must understand that we was so close upon his heels that there wasn't room for him to stop an' turn around without us all fallin' on top of him. So what do you think the cunnin' brute did? Why, he just hauled off an' kicked out behind with his right hind foot, an' hit the Archdeacon a smashin' blow square on his stomach, an' knocked him bang against the Captin an' the Captin against me, an' me against the dogs; an' we all went down in a heap beside the fire. "Well, sir, that old brute had put so much glad an' earnest energy into its kick that it knocked the wind plum out of every one of us, an' for the next few seconds there was a mess of arms an' legs an' tails frantically tryin' to disentangle themselves. But, as good luck would have it, I went down upon the gun. As I rose to my feet, I slipped a cap on the nipple just as the bear comes chargin' around the fire facing us. I ups an' lets him have it full in the mouth. The shot nearly stunned him. While he was clawin' the pain in his face I had time to re-load, an' lets him have it behind the ear, an' he drops dead without a whimper. "Then--would you believe it?--the Archdeacon goes up to the shaggy carcass, puts his foot on the bear's head, an' stands there lookin' for all the world like British Columbia discoverin' America, an' says: "'There, now, Billy Brass, I hope you have learned a lesson. Next time you will know where to place your trust.' "Well, sir, the way he was lettin' on that he had saved the whole outfit made me mad. So I ups an' says: "'Yes, sir, an' if I hadn't put me trust in me gun, there would have been another Archdeacon in heaven.'" THE TRUTH ABOUT WOODSMEN It was now growing late. For a while the smiling Indians, half-breeds, and white men smoked in silence; then one after another, each knocked the ashes from his pipe, arose, stretched himself, and sauntered off to his bed, whether in a tent, under a canoe, or in the open. Walking down to the water's edge I watched the moonlight for a while, then passed quietly from one smouldering fire to another. Some of the men were still talking together in low tones so as not to disturb those who were already seeking slumber, while others were arranging their bedding; and still others were devoutly kneeling in prayer to The Master of Life. Thus during the four seasons of the year I had lived with and observed the men of the northern wilderness; and not only had I learned to like and respect them, but to admire their generosity and honesty, their simplicity and skill, their gentleness and prowess; and, above all, to honour their spiritual attitude toward this world and the next. How different they were from the city dwellers' conception of them! But still you may want further proof. You may want first-hand knowledge of those northern men. You may want to study their minds and to look into their hearts. Then may I ask you to read the following letter, written a few years ago by an old Canadian woodsman--Mr. A. B. Carleton--who was born and bred in the northern wilderness. Then you may become better acquainted with at least one of the men I have been trying to picture to you. "I was born in the heart of the northern forest, and in my wanderings my steps have ever gone most willingly back toward the pine-covered hills and the grassy glades that slope down to cool, deep waters. The wanderlust has carried me far, but the lakes and waterfalls, the bluffs and the bays of the great northern No-Man's Land are my home, and with _Mukwa_ the bear, _Mah-en-gin_ the wolf, _Wash-gish_ the red deer, and _Ah-Meek_ the beaver, I have much consorted and have found their company quite to my liking. "But the fates have so dealt with me that for two years I have not been able to see the smile of Springtime breaking forth upon the rugged face of my northern No-Man's Land. I have had glimpses of it, merely, among crowded houses, out of hospital windows. Still, my mind is native to the forest, and my thoughts and fancies, breaking captivity, go back, like the free wild things they are, on bright days of springtime to the wild land where the change of season means what it never can mean in the town. "What does Spring mean to you town folk, anyway? I will tell you. It means lighter clothing, dust instead of sleet, the transfer of your patronage from fuel man to ice man, a few days of slushy streets and baseball instead of hockey. "What does it mean to the man of the woods? That I will try to tell you. It means that the deep snow which has mantled hill and valley for five months has melted into brooks and rivulets which are plunging and splashing away to find the ocean from whence they came. It means that the thick ice which throughout the long winter has imprisoned the waters of the lakes, is now broken, and the waves, incited by the south wind, are wreaking vengeance by beating it upon the rocks of the northern shore, until, subdued and melted, it returns to be a mere part of the waves again. Instead of the hungry winter howl of the wolf or the whining snarl of the sneaking lynx the air is now filled with happier sounds: ducks are quacking; geese are honking; waveys are cackling as they fly northward; squirrels among the spruce trees chatter noisily; on sandy ridges woodchucks whistle excitedly; back deep in the birch thicket partridges are drumming, and all the woodland is musical with the song of birds. "The trees, through whose bare branches the wind all winter has whistled and shrieked, are now sending forth leaves of tender green and the voice of the wind caressing them is softened to a tone as musical as the song of birds. Flowers are springing up, not in the rigid rows or precise squares of a mechanically inclined horticulturist, but surprising one by elbowing themselves out of the narrowest crevices, or peeping bashfully out from behind fallen trees, or clinging almost upside down to the side of an overhanging cliff. "My camp on Rainy Lake faces the south and in front is a little stunted black ash tree, so dwarfed, gnarled, twisted, and homely that it is almost pretty. I refrained from cutting it down because of its attractive deformity. In the springtime, a few years ago, a pair of robins chose it as their nesting place. One bright Sunday morning, as the nest was in course of construction, I was sitting in my doorway watching the pair. The brisk little husband was hurrying toward the nest with a bit of moss; but the mild sun, the crisp air, the sweet breathing earth, the gently whispering trees seemed to make him so very happy he could not but tell of it. Alighting on a twig he dropped the moss, opened his beak, and poured forth in song the joy his little body could no longer contain. That is the joy of a northern No-Man's Land in the month of May. "We are so happy in our woodland home that we wish everyone might share it with us. But perhaps some would not enjoy what we enjoy, or see what we see, and some are prevented from coming by the duties of other callings, and each must follow the pathway his feet are most fitted to tread. For myself, I only want my little log cabin with the wild vines climbing over its walls and clinging to the mud-chinked crevices, where I can hear the song of wild birds mingled with the sleepy hum of bees moving from blossom to blossom about the doorway; where I can see the timid red deer, as, peeping out of the brush, it hesitates between the fear of man and the temptation of the white clover growing in front of my home, and where I can watch the endless procession of waves following each other up the bay. Give me the necessity of working for my daily bread so that I will not feel as though I were a useless cumbrance upon the earth; allow me an opportunity now and then of doing a kindly act, even if it be no more than restoring to the shelter of its mother's breast a fledgling that has fallen from its nest in a tree top. If I may have these I will be happy, and happier still if I could know that when the time comes for me to travel the trail, the sands of which show no imprint of returning footsteps, that I might be put to rest on the southern slope of the ridge beside my camp, where the sunshine chases the shadows around the birch tree, where the murmur of the waves comes in rhythm to the robin's song, and where the red deer play on moonlight nights. Neither will I fear the snows of winter that come drifting over the bay, driven by the wind that whines through the naked tree tops, nor the howl of the hungry wolf, for what had no terror for me in life need not have afterward. And if the lessons that I learned at my mother's knee be true; if there be that within me that lives on, I am sure that it will be happier in its eternal home if it may look back and know that the body which it had tried to guide through its earthly career was having its long rest in the spot it loved best." Did you ever meet a character like that in northern fiction? No, of course not; how could you? . . . When the books were written by city-dwelling men. Then, too, is not any production of the creative arts--a poem, a story, a play, a painting, or a statue--but a reflection of the composer's soul? So . . . when you read a book filled with inhuman characters, you have taken the measure of the man who wrote it, you have seen a reflection of the author's soul. Furthermore, when people exclaim: "What's the matter with the movies?" The answer is: Nothing . . . save that the screens too often reflect the degenerate souls of the movie directors. But the Indian--how he has been slandered for centuries! When in reality it is just as Warren, the Historian of the Ojibways, proclaimed: "There was consequently less theft and lying, more devotion to the Great Spirit, more obedience to their parents, and more chastity in man and woman, than exists at the present day, since their baneful intercourse with the white race." And Hearne, the northern traveller, ended a similar contention--more than a hundred years ago--by saying: "It being well known that those who have the least intercourse with white men are by far the happiest." That night, as I turned in, I had occasion to look through my kit bag, and there I found, wrapped in a silk handkerchief, the photograph--lent to me for six weeks--of the charming Athabasca. Being alone in my tent, I carefully unfolded its wrapper, and drawing the candle a little nearer, I gazed at her beautiful face. Again I wondered about Son-in-law. . . . A RACE FOR THE PORTAGE At three o'clock next morning the camp was astir. In the half light of early day, and while breakfast was being prepared, the men "gummed" afresh the big canoes. Whittling handles to dry pinesticks, they split the butts half way down, and placed that end in the fire. After a little burning, the stick opened like a fork; and, placing it over the broken seam, the voyageur blew upon the crotch, thus melting the hardened "gum"; then, spitting upon his palm, he rounded it off and smoothed it down. By the time breakfast was ready the tents were again stowed away in the canoes along with the valuable cargoes of furs. Paddling up the mist-enshrouded river the canoes rounded a bend. There the eddying of muddy water told that a moose had just left a water-lily bed. The leaves of the forest hid his fleeing form; but on the soft bank the water slowly trickled into his deep hoof-prints, so late was his departure. The tracks of bear and deer continuously marked the shores, for the woods were full of game. From the rushes startled ducks rose up and whirred away. How varied was the scenery. Island-dotted lakes, timber-covered mountains, winding streams and marshy places; bold rocky gorges and mighty cataracts; dense forests of spruce, tamarack, poplar, birch, and pine--a region well worthy to be the home of either Nimrod or Diana. Later in the day, when all the canoes were ranged side by side, their gracefully curved bows came in line; dip, swirl, thud; dip, swirl, thud, sounded all the paddles together. The time was faultless. Then it was that the picturesque brigade appeared in wild perfection. Nearing a portage, spontaneously a race began for the best landing place. Like contending chargers, forward they bounded at every stroke. Vigorously the voyageurs plied their paddles. Stiffening their arms and curving their backs, they bent the blades. Every muscle was strained. The sharp bows cleaved the lumpy water, sending it gurgling to the paddles that slashed it, and whirled it aside. On they went. Now Oo-koo-hoo's canoe was gaining. As that brightly painted craft gradually forged ahead, its swiftly running wake crept steadily along the sides of the other canoes. Presently the wavelets were sounding "whiff, whiff, whiff," as the white bows crushed them down. Then at last his canoe broke free and lunged away, leaving all the brigade to follow in its broadening trail. The pace was too exhausting; the canoes strung out; but still the narrow blades slashed away, for the portage was at hand. With dangerous speed the first canoe rushed abreast of the landing, and just as one expected disaster the bowman gave the word. Instantly the crew, with their utmost strength, backed water. As the canoe came to a standstill the voyageurs rolled their paddle-handles along the gunwales, twirling the dripping blades and enveloping the canoe in a veil of whirling spray. Then, jumping into the shallow water, they lined up and quickly passed the packs ashore. The moment the cargo was transferred to the bank, the crew lifted the great canoe off the water and turned it bottom up, while four of them placed their heads beneath and rested the gunwales upon their _capote_-bepadded shoulders. As they carried it off, one was reminded of some immense antediluvian reptile crawling slowly over the portage trail. There was now much excitement. Other crews had arrived, and were rapidly unloading. As the landing was over-crowded the portaging began. Each man tied the thin, tapering ends of his tump-line--a fifteen-foot leather strap with a broad centre--about a pack, swung it upon his back, and, bending forward, rested its broad loop over his head. Upon the first his companion placed two more packs; then, stooping beneath the weight of 240 pounds, the packers at a jog-trot set off uphill and down, over rugged rocks and fallen timber, through fern-covered marsh and dense underbrush. Coming to an opening in the wood at the far end of the portage, they quickly tossed their burdens aside, and back again they ran. Nowhere could one see more willing workers. You heard no swearing or grumbling about the exceedingly hard task before them. On the contrary, every man vied with the rest as to which could carry the greatest load and most swiftly cross the portage. Rivalry sped the work along. Shirts and trousers reeked with perspiration. The voyageurs puffed and panted as they went by, and no wonder--the portage was three quarters of a mile in length. Then away we went again, and up, up, up, we mounted day by day, toward the height-of-land, where a long portage over low-lying marshy ground brought us to the place where our descent began; then for days we ran with the current until it entered a larger river, and soon we found that endless rapids interrupted our work, and down many of them the canoes were run. The Hudson's Bay Company, however, never allows its men to shoot rapids with fur-laden canoes; so it was on that wild stretch of our trip that the skill of the voyageur was tested most. FIGHTING WITH DEATH At the head of one of the great rapids Oo-koo-hoo, seeing that I mated well with one of his crew, invited me to take a paddle and help them through. Tossing in an extra paddle for each canoeman we stepped aboard, and with a gentle shove the current caught the light canoe and carried us out to mid-stream. Long before we sighted white water the roar of the cataract was humming in our ears. We midmen sat upon dunnage sacks and braced our moccasined feet against the ribbing. Presently the bowman stood up and scanned the river. Dark, ominous water raced ahead for a hundred yards then disappeared, leaving nothing but a great surging mass of white that leaped high and dropped out of sight in the apparently forsaken river-bed. Then the steersman stood up, too, and Indian words passed between them. Every moment we were gaining impetus, and always heading for the highest crest of foam. Waiting for the word to paddle was even worse than waiting for the starter's gun in a sculling race. At last it came, just as we were twenty-five yards from the end of dark water. With a wild shout from the bowman we drove our paddles home. The great canoe trembled a little at first, as our work was somewhat ragged, but a moment later we settled into an even stroke and swept buoyantly among the tossing billows. Now before us ran a strange wild river of seething white, lashing among great, gray-capped, dark greenish boulders that blocked the way. High rocky banks standing close together squeezed the mighty river into a tumult of fury. Swiftly we glide down the racing torrent and plunge through the boiling waters. Sharp rocks rear above the flying spray while others are barely covered by the foaming flood. It is dangerous work. We midmen paddle hard to force the canoe ahead of the current. The steersman in bow and stern ply and bend their great seven-foot paddles. The bowman with eyes alert keenly watches the whirling waters and signs of hidden rocks below. The roar of seething waters drowns the bowman's orders. The steersman closely watches and follows every move his companion makes. Down we go, riding upon the very back of the river; for here the water forms a great ridge, rising four or five feet above the waterline on either shore. To swerve to either side means sure destruction. With terrific speed we reach the brink of a violent descent. For a moment the canoe pauses, steadies herself, then dips her head as the stern upheaves, and down we plunge among more rocks than ever. Right in our path the angry stream is waging battle with a hoary bowlder that disputes the way. With all its might and fury the frantic river hisses and roars and lashes it. Yet it never moves--it only frowns destruction upon all that dares approach it. How the bowman is working! See his paddle bend! With lightning movements he jabs his great paddle deep into the water and close under the left side of the bow; then with a mighty heave he lifts her head around. The great canoe swings as though upon a pivot; for is not the steersman doing exactly the very opposite at this precise moment? We sheer off. But the next instant the paddles are working on the opposite sides, for the bowman sees signs of a water-covered rock not three yards from the very bow. With a wild lunge he strives to lift the bow around; but the paddle snaps like a rotten twig. Instantly he grabs for another, and a grating sound runs the length of the heaving bottom. The next moment he is working the new paddle. A little water is coming in but she is running true. The rocks now grow fewer, but still there is another pitch ahead. Again the bow dips as we rush down the incline. Spray rises in clouds that drench us to the skin as we plunge through the "great swell" and then shoot out among a multitude of tumbling billows that threaten to engulf us. The canoe rides upon the backs of the "white horses" and we rise and fall, rise and fall, as they fight beneath us. At last we leave their wild arena, and, entering calmer water, paddle away to the end of the portage trail. One morning, soon after sunrise, the brigade came to the end of its journey as it rounded a point and headed for a smoking steamboat that rested upon a shimmering lake; and so entirely did the rising mist envelop the craft that it suggested the silhouette of a distant mountain in volcanic eruption. Then the canoes, each in turn, lay alongside the steamer; the fur packs were loaded aboard, and thence by steamboat and railroad they continued their journey to Montreal; where together with the "returns" from many another of the Hudson's Bay Company's thirty-four districts, they were reshipped in ocean-going craft for England where eventually they were sold by auction in London. A hundred years ago as many as ten brigades, each numbering twenty six-fathom canoes, sometimes swept along those northern highways and awoke those wild solitudes with the rollicking songs and laughter of fifteen or sixteen hundred voyageurs; but alas for those wonderfully picturesque days of bygone times! The steamboats and the railroads have driven them away. In my youth, however, I was fortunate enough to have travelled with the last of those once-famous fur brigades; and also to have learned from personal experience the daily life of the northern woods--the drama of the forests--of which in my still earlier youth I had had so many day-dreams; and now if in describing and depicting it to you I have succeeded in imparting at least a fraction of the pleasure it gave me to witness it, I am well repaid. But perhaps you are wondering about the beautiful Athabasca? ATHABASCA AND SON-IN-LAW Some years later, while on my second visit to Fort Consolation, I not only found a flourishing town of some four or five thousand inhabitants built on Free Trader Spear's original freehold, but in the handsome brick City Hall--standing in the original stump-lot--I met the old Free Trader himself, now holding office as the Mayor of Spearhead City. Not only had he become wealthy--rumour said he was already a millionaire--but he had taken another man into partnership, for now over his big brick storehouse read a huge sign in golden letters "SPEAR AND . . ." For like all day-dreams--if only dreamed often enough--the ever-present dream of the Free Trader and his wife had really come true. It was then that I learned that soon after my departure Prince Charming had come up out of the East, fallen in love with the beautiful Athabasca, become the actual Son-in-law, had been taken into partnership by her father, and together the lucky groom and his blushing bride had moved into their newly built log cabin, furnished with the long-promised bed, table, and chairs, the cooking stove, blankets, crockery, cutlery, and cooking utensils. Round about their simple little home a heifer, a pig, and some ducks and geese stood guard while their beautiful mistress lived happy ever after--at least she did until prosperity inveigled her into a grand new brick mansion; and then, of course, her troubles began, because happiness always prefers a cabin to a castle. THE END 
6988	----	HISTORY OF THE OTTAWA AND CHIPPEWA INDIANS OF MICHIGAN; A GRAMMAR OF THEIR LANGUAGE, AND PERSONAL AND FAMILY HISTORY OF THE AUTHOR, BY ANDREW J. BLACKBIRD, LATE U.S. INTERPRETER, HARBOR SPRINGS, EMMET CO., MICH. INTRODUCTION Andrew J. Blackbird, the author of this little book, is an educated Indian, son of the Ottawa Chief. His Indian name is Mack-aw-de-be-nessy (Black Hawk), but he generally goes by the name of "Blackbird," taken from the interpretation of the French "L'Oiseau noir." Mr. Blackbird's wife is an educated and intelligent white woman of English descent, and they have four children. He is a friend of the white people, as well as of his own people. Brought up as an Indian, with no opportunity for learning during his boyhood, when he came to think for himself, he started out blindly for an education, without any means but his brains and his hands. He was loyal to the Government during the rebellion in the United States, for which cause he met much opposition by designing white people, who had full sway among the Indians, and who tried to mislead them and cause them to be disloyal; and he broke up one or two rebellious councils amongst his people during the progress of the rebellion. When Hon. D. C. Leach, of Traverse City, Mich., was Indian Agent, Mr. Blackbird was appointed United States Interpreter and continued in this office with other subsequent Agents of the Department for many years. Before he was fairly out of this office, he was appointed postmaster of Little Traverse, now Harbor Springs, Mich., and faithfully discharged his duties as such for over eleven years with but very little salary. He has also for several years looked after the soldiers' claims for widows and orphans, both for the whites as well as for his own people, in many instances without the least compensation, not even his stamps and paper paid. He is now decrepit with old age and failing health, and unable to perform hard manual labor. We therefore recommend this work of Mr. A. J. Blackbird as interesting and reliable. JAMES L. MORRICE, Treasurer of Emmet County. C. P. NEWKIRK, Principal Harbor Springs Public Schools. CHARLES R. WRIGHT, Ex-President Harbor Springs. CHARLES W. INGALLS, Notary Public for Emmet Co. ALBERT L. HATHAWAY, County Clerk, Emmet County. WM. H. LEE, Probate Clerk and Abstractor of Titles. ARCH. D. METZ, Deputy Register of Deeds. WILLARD P. GIBSON, Pastor Presbyterian Church. WILLIAM H. MILLER, U.S.A. PREFACE. I deem it not improper to present the history of the last race of Indians now existing in the State of Michigan, called the Ottawa and Chippewa Nations of Indians. There were many other tribes of Indians in this region prior to the occupancy of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians of this State, who have long ago gone out of existence. Not a page of their history is on record; but only an allusion to them in our traditions. I have herewith recorded the earliest history of the Ottawa tribe of Indians in particular, according to their traditions. I have related where they formerly lived, the names of their leaders, and what tribes they contended with before and after they came to Michigan, and how they came to be the inhabitants of this State. Also the earliest history of the Island of Mackinac, and why it is called "Michilimackinac"--which name has never been correctly translated by white historians, but which is here given according to our knowledge of this matter long before we came in contact with white races. I have also recorded some of the most important legends, which resemble the Bible history; particularly the legends with regard to the great flood, which has been in our language for many centuries, and the legend of the great fish which swallowed the prophet Ne-naw-bo-zhoo, who came out again alive, which might be considered as corresponding to the story of Jonah in the Sacred History. Beside my own personal and our family history, I have also, quite extensively, translated our language into English and added many other items which might be interesting to all who may wish to inquire into our history and language. ANDREW J. BLACKBIRD. ACKNOWLEDGMENT. The Ypsilanti Auxiliary of the Women's National Indian Association, by whose efforts this book is published, take this opportunity to express earnest thanks to those who have aided in this work. Most generous donations of money from friends of Indians and equally valuable liberality from publishers and papermakers have made possible the preservation of this most rare and important history. This is the only instance where a native Indian has recorded the story of his people and given a grammar of their language; thus producing a work whose immense value, as an account of a race and a language already passing into oblivion, will become even more inestimable with the lapse of time. Ypsilanti, Mich., Oct., 1887. CHAPTER I. History of the Ottawa of Michigan--Preliminary Remarks in Regard to Other Histories, Concerning the Massacre of the Old British Fort on the Straits of Mackinac--British Promise to the Ottawas--Ravages of Small Pox--First Recollection of the Country of Arbor-Croche and Its Definition--Uprightness and Former Character of the Indians. I have seen a number of writings by different men who attempted to give an account of the Indians who formerly occupied the Straits of Mackinac and Mackinac Island, (that historic little island which stands at the entrance of the strait,) also giving an account of the Indians who lived and are yet living in Michigan, scattered through the counties of Emmet, Cheboygan, Charlevoix, Antrim, Grand Traverse, and in the region of Thunder Bay, on the west shore of Lake Huron. But I see no very correct account of the Ottawa and Chippewa tribes of Indians, according to our knowledge of ourselves, past and present. Many points are far from being credible. They are either misstated by persons who were not versed in the traditions of these Indians, or exaggerated. An instance of this is found in the history of the life of Pontiac (pronounced Bwon-diac), the Odjebwe (or Chippewa) chief of St. Clair, the instigator of the massacre of the old fort on the Straits of Mackinac, written by a noted historian. In his account of the massacre, he says there was at this time no known surviving Ottawa Chief living on the south side of the Straits. This point of the history is incorrect, as there were several Ottawa chiefs living on the south side of the Straits at this particular time, who took no part in this massacre, but took by force the few survivors of this great, disastrous catastrophe, and protected them for a while and afterwards took them to Montreal, presenting them to the British Government; at the same time praying that their brother Odjebwes should not be retaliated upon on account of their rash act against the British people, but that they might be pardoned, as this terrible tragedy was committed through mistake, and through the evil counsel of one of their leaders by the name of Bwondiac (known in history as Pontiac). They told the British Government that their brother Odjebwes were few in number, while the British were in great numbers and daily increasing from an unknown part of the world across the ocean. They said, "Oh, my father, you are like the trees of the forest, and if one of the forest trees should be wounded with a hatchet, in a few years its wound will be entirely healed. Now, my father, compare with this: this is what my brother Odjebwe did to some of your children on the Straits of Mackinac, whose survivors we now bring back and present to your arms. O my father, have mercy upon my brothers and pardon them; for with your long arms and many, but a few strokes of retaliation would cause our brother to be entirely annihilated from the face of the earth!" According to our understanding in our traditions, that was the time the British Government made such extraordinary promises to the Ottawa tribe of Indians, at the same time thanking them for their humane action upon those British remnants of the massacre. She promised them that her long arms will perpetually extend around them from generation to generation, or so long as there should be rolling sun. They should receive gifts from her sovereign in shape of goods, provisions, firearms, ammunition, and intoxicating liquors! Her sovereign's beneficent arm should be even extended unto the dogs belonging to the Ottawa tribe of Indians. And what place soever she should meet them, she would freely unfasten the faucet which contains her living water--whisky, which she will also cause to run perpetually and freely unto the Ottawas as the fountain of perpetual spring! And furthermore: she said, "I am as many as the stars in the heavens; and when you get up in the morning, look to the east; you will see that the sun, as it will peep through the earth, will be as red as my coat, to remind you why I am likened unto the sun, and my promises will be as perpetual as the rolling sun!" Ego-me-nay--Corn-hanger--was the head counselor and speaker of the Ottawa tribe of Indians at that time, and, according to our knowledge, Ego-me-nay was the leading one who went with those survivors of the massacre, and he was the man who made the speech before the august assembly in the British council hall at Montreal at that time. Ne-saw- key--Down-the-hill--the head chief of the Ottawa Nation, did not go with the party, but sent his message, and instructed their counselor in what manner he should appear before the British Government. My father was a little boy at that time, and my grandfather and my great- grandfather were both living then, and both held the first royal rank among the Ottawas. My grandfather was then a sub-chief and my great- grandfather was a war chief, whose name was Pun-go-wish: And several other chiefs of the tribe I could mention who existed at that time, but this is ample evidence that the historian was mistaken in asserting that there was no known Ottawa chief existing at the time of the massacre. However it was a notable fact that by this time the Ottawas were greatly reduced in numbers from what they were in former times, on account of the small-pox which they brought from Montreal during the French war with Great Britain. This small pox was sold to them shut up in a tin box, with the strict injunction not to open the box on their way homeward, but only when they should reach their country; and that this box contained something that would do them great good, and their people! The foolish people believed really there was something in the box supernatural, that would do them great good. Accordingly, after they reached home they opened the box; but behold there was another tin box inside, smaller. They took it cut and opened the second box, and behold, still there was another box inside of the second box, smaller yet. So they kept on this way till they came to a very small box, which was not more than an inch long; and when they opened the last one they found nothing but mouldy particles in this last little box! They wondered very much what it was, and a great many closely inspected to try to find out what it meant. But alas, alas! pretty soon burst out a terrible sickness among them. The great Indian doctors themselves were taken sick and died. The tradition says it was indeed awful and terrible. Every one taken with it was sure to die. Lodge after lodge was totally vacated--nothing but the dead bodies lying here and there in their lodges--entire families being swept off with the ravages of this terrible disease. The whole coast of Arbor Croche, or Waw-gaw-naw- ke-zee, where their principal village was situated, on the west shore of the peninsula near the Straits, which is said to have been a continuous village some fifteen or sixteen miles long and extending from what is now called Cross Village to Seven-Mile Point (that is, seven miles from Little Traverse, now Harbor Springs), was entirely depopulated and laid waste. It is generally believed among the Indians of Arbor Croche that this wholesale murder of the Ottawas by this terrible disease sent by the British people, was actuated through hatred, and expressly to kill off the Ottawas and Chippewas because they were friends of the French Government or French King, whom they called "Their Great Father." The reason that to-day we see no full- grown trees standing along the coast of Arbor Croche, a mile or more in width along the shore, is because the trees were entirely cleared away for this famous long village, which existed before the small-pox raged among the Ottawas. In my first recollection of the country of Arbor Croche, which is sixty years ago, there was nothing but small shrubbery here and there in small patches, such as wild cherry trees, but the most of it was grassy plain; and such an abundance of wild strawberries, raspberries and blackberries that they fairly perfumed the air of the whole coast with fragrant scent of ripe fruit. The wild pigeons and every variety of feathered songsters filled all the groves, warbling their songs joyfully and feasting upon these wild fruits of nature; and in these waters the fishes were so plentiful that as you lift up the anchor- stone of your net in the morning, your net would be so loaded with delicious whitefish as to fairly float with all its weight of the sinkers. As you look towards the course of your net, you see the fins of the fishes sticking out of the water in every way. Then I never knew my people to want for anything to eat or to wear, as we always had plenty of wild meat and plenty of fish, corn, vegetables, and wild fruits. I thought (and yet I may be mistaken) that my people were very happy in those days, at least I was as happy myself as a lark, or as the brown thrush that sat daily on the uppermost branches of the stubby growth of a basswood tree which stood near by upon the hill where we often played under its shade, lodging our little arrows among the thick branches of the tree and then shooting them down again for sport. [Footnote: The word Arbor Croche is derived from two French words: Arbre, a tree; and Croche, something very crooked or hook-like. The tradition says when the Ottawas first came to that part of the country a great pine tree stood very near the shore where Middle Village now is, whose top was very crooked, almost hook-like. Therefore the Ottawas called the place "Waw-gaw-naw-ke-zee"--meaning the crooked top of the tree. But by and by the whole coast from Little Traverse to Tehin-gaw- beng, now Cross Village, became denominated as Waw-gaw-naw-ke-zee.] Early in the morning as the sun peeped from the east, as I would yet be lying close to my mother's bosom, this brown thrush would begin his warbling songs perched upon the uppermost branches of the basswood tree that stood close to our lodge. I would then say to myself, as I listened to him, "here comes again my little orator," and I used to try to understand what he had to say; and sometimes thought I understood some of its utterances as follows: "Good morning, good morning! arise, arise! shoot, shoot! come along, come along!" etc., every word repeated twice. Even then, and so young as I was, I used to think that little bird had a language which God or the Great Spirit had given him, and every bird of the forest understood what he had to say, and that he was appointed to preach to other birds, to tell them to be happy, to be thankful for the blessings they enjoy among the summer green branches of the forest, and the plenty of wild fruits to eat. The larger boys used to amuse themselves by playing a ball called Paw-kaw-do-way, foot- racing, wrestling, bow-arrow shooting, and trying to beat one another shooting the greatest number of chipmunks and squirrels in a day, etc. I never heard any boy or any grown person utter any bad language, even if they were out of patience with anything. Swearing or profanity was never heard among the Ottawa and Chippewa tribes of Indians, and not even found in their language. Scarcely any drunkenness, only once in a great while the old folks used to have a kind of short spree, particularly when there was any special occasion of a great feast going on. But all the young folks did not drink intoxicating liquors as a beverage in those days. And we always rested in perfect safety at night in our dwellings, and the doorways of our lodges had no fastenings to them, but simply a frail mat or a blanket was hung over our doorways which might be easily pushed or thrown one side without any noise if theft or any other mischief was intended. But we were not afraid for any such thing to happen us, because we knew that every child of the forest was observing and living under the precepts which their forefathers taught them, and the children were taught almost daily by their parents from infancy unto manhood and womanhood, or until they were separated from their families. These precepts or moral commandments by which the Ottawa and Chippewa nations of Indians were governed in their primitive state, were almost the same as the ten commandments which the God Almighty himself delivered to Moses on Mount Sinai on tables of stone. Very few of these divine precepts are not found among the precepts of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians, except with regard to the Sabbath day to keep it holy; almost every other commandment can be found, only there are more, as there were about twenty of these "uncivilized" precepts. They also believed, in their primitive state, that the eye of this Great Being is the sun by day, and by night the moon and stars, and, therefore, that God or the Great Spirit sees all things everywhere, night and day, and it would be impossible to hide our actions, either good or bad, from the eye of this Great Being. Even the very threshold or crevice of your wigwam will be a witness against you, if you should commit any criminal action when no human eye could observe your criminal doings, but surely your criminal actions will be revealed in some future time to your disgrace and shame. These were continual inculcations to the children by their parents, and in every feast and council, by the "Instructors of the Precepts" to the people or to the audience of the council. For these reasons the Ottawas and Chippewas in their primitive state were strictly honest and upright in their dealings with their fellow-beings. Their word of promise was as good as a promissory note, even better, as these notes sometimes are neglected and not performed according to their promises; but the Indian promise was very sure and punctual, although, as they had no timepieces, they measured their time by the sun. If an Indian promised to execute a certain obligation at such time, at so many days, and at such height of the sun, when that time comes he would be there punctually to fulfill this obligation. This was formerly the character of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians of Michigan. But now, our living is altogether different, as we are continually suffering under great anxiety and perplexity, and continually being robbed and cheated in various ways. Our houses have been forcibly entered for thieving purposes and murder; people have been knocked down and robbed; great safes have been blown open with powder in our little town and their contents carried away, and even children of the Caucasian race are heard cursing and blaspheming the name of their Great Creator, upon whose pleasure we depended for our existence. According to my recollection of the mode of living in our village, so soon as darkness came in the evening, the young boys and girls were not allowed to be out of their lodges. Every one of them must be called in to his own lodge for the rest of the night. And this rule of the Indians in their wild state was implicitly observed. Ottawa and Chippewa Indians were not what we would call entirely infidels and idolaters; for they believed that there is a Supreme Ruler of the Universe, the Creator of all things, the Great Spirit, to which they offer worship and sacrifices in a certain form. It was customary among them, every spring of the year, to gather all the cast off garments that had been worn during the winter and rear them up on a long pole while they were having festivals and jubilees to the Great Spirit. The object of doing this was that the Great Spirit might look down from heaven and have compassion on his red children. Only this, that they foolishly believe that there are certain deities all over the lands who to a certain extent govern or preside over certain places, as a deity who presides over this river, over this lake, or this mountain, or island, or country, and they were careful not to express anything which might displease such deities; but that they were not supreme rulers, only to a certain extent they had power over the land where they presided. These deities were supposed to be governed by the Great Spirit above. CHAPTER II. Cases of Murders Among the Ottawas and Chippewas Exceedingly Scarce --Ceding the Grand Traverse Region to the Chippewas on Account of Murder--Immorality Among the Ottawas not Common--Marriage in Former Times. The murders in cold blood among the Ottawa and Chippewa nations of Indians in their primitive state were exceedingly few, at least there was only one account in our old tradition where a murder had been committed, a young Ottawa having stabbed a young Chippewa while in dispute over their nets when they were fishing for herrings on the Straits of Mackinac. This nearly caused a terrible bloody war between the two powerful tribes of Indians (as they were numerous then) so closely related. The tradition says they had council after council upon this subject, and many speeches were delivered on both sides. The Chippewas proposed war to settle the question of murder, while the Ottawas proposed compromise and restitution for the murder. Finally the Ottawas succeeded in settling the difficulty by ceding part of their country to the Chippewa nation, which is now known and distinguished as the Grand Traverse Region. A strip of land which I believe to have extended from a point near Sleeping Bear, down to the eastern shore of the Grand Traverse Bay, some thirty or forty miles wide, thence between two parallel lines running southeasterly until they strike the head waters of Muskegon River, which empties into Lake Michigan not very far below Grand Haven. They were also allowed access to all the rivers and streams in the Lower Peninsula of Michigan, to trap the beavers, minks, otters and muskrats. The Indians used their furs in former times for garments and blankets. This is the reason that to this day the Odjebwes (Chippewas) are found in that section of the country. It may be said, this is not true; it is a mistake. We have known several cases of murders among the Ottawas and Chippewas. I admit it to be true, that there have been cases of murders among the Ottawas and Chippewas since the white people knew them. But these cases of murders occurred some time after they came in contact with the white races in their country; but I am speaking now of the primitive condition of Indians, particularly of the Ottawas and Chippewas, and I believe most of those cases of murders were brought on through the bad influence of white men, by introducing into the tribes this great destroyer of mankind, soul and body, intoxicating liquors! Yet, during sixty years of my existence among the Ottawas and Chippewas, I have never witnessed one case of murder of this kind, but I heard there were a few cases in other parts of the country, when in their fury from the influence of intoxicating liquors. There was one case of sober murder happened about fifty years ago at Arbor Croche, where one young man disposed of his lover by killing, which no Indian ever knew the actual cause of. He was arrested and committed to the Council and tried according to the Indian style; and after a long council, or trial, it was determined the murderer should be banished from the tribe. Therefore, he was banished. Also, about this time, one case of sober murder transpired among the Chippewas of Sault Ste. Marie, committed by one of the young Chippewas whose name was Wau-bau-ne-me-kee (White-thunder), who might have been released if he had been properly tried and impartial judgment exercised over the case, but we believe it was not. This Indian killed a white man, when he was perfectly sober, by stabbing. He was arrested, of course, and tried and sentenced to be hung at the Island of Mackinac. I distinctly remember the time. This poor Indian was very happy when he was about to be hung on the gallows. He told the people that he was very happy to die, for he felt that he was innocent. He did not deny killing the man, but he thought he was justifiable in the sight of the Great Spirit, as such wicked monsters ought to be killed from off the earth; as this white man came to the Indian's wigwam in the dead of night, and dragged the mother of his children from his very bosom for licentious purpose. He remonstrated, but his remonstrances were not heeded, as this ruffian was encouraged by others who stood around his wigwam, and ready to fall upon this poor Indian and help their fellow-ruffian; and he therefore stabbed the principal party, in defence of his beloved wife, for which cause the white man died. If an Indian should go to the white man's house and commit that crime, he would be killed; and what man is there who would say that is too bad, this Indian to be killed in that manner? But every man will say amen, only he ought to have been tortured before he was killed; and let the man who killed this bad and wicked Indian be rewarded! This is what would be the result if the Indian would have done the same thing as this white man did. The Ottawas and Chippewas were quite virtuous in their primitive state, as there were no illegitimate children reported in our old traditions. But very lately this evil came to exist among the Ottawas--so lately that the second case among the Ottawas of Arbor Croche is yet living. And from that time this evil came to be quite frequent, for immorality has been introduced among these people by evil white persons who bring their vices into the tribes. In the former times or before the Indians were christianized, when a young man came to be a fit age to get married, he did not trouble himself about what girl he should have for his wife; but the parents of the young man did this part of the business When the parents thought best that their son should be separated from their family by marriage, it was their business to decide what woman their son should have as his wife; and after selecting some particular girl among their neigbors, they would take up quite large package of presents and then go to the parents of the girl and demand the daughter for their son's wife at the same time delivering the presents to the parents of the girl. If the old folks say yes, then they would fetch the girl right along to their son and tell him, We have brought this girl as your wife so long as you live; now take her, cherish her, and be kind to her so long as you live. The young man and girl did not dare to say aught against it, as it was the law and custom amongst their people, but all they had to do was to take each other as man and wife. This was all the rules and ceremony of getting married in former times among the Ottawas and Chippewas of Michigan: they must not marry their cousins nor second cousins. CHAPTER III. Earliest Possible Known History of Mackinac Island--Its Historical Definition--Who Resided at the Island--Massacre at the Island by Senecas--Where the Ottawas were Living at That Time--Only Two Escape the Massacre--What Became of Them--The Legends of the Two Who Escaped --Occupants of the Island Afterwards--Who Killed Warrior Tecumseh? Again, most every historian, or annalist so-called, who writes about the Island of Mackinac and the Straits and vicinity, tells us that the definition or the meaning of the word "Michilimackinac" in the Ottawa and Chippewa language, is "large turtle," derived from the word Mi-she- mi-ki-nock in the Chippewa language. That is, "Mi-she" as one of the adnominals or adjectives in the Ottawa and Chippewa languages, which would signify tremendous in size; and "Mikinock" is the name of mud turtle--meaning, therefore, "monstrous large turtle," as the historians would have it. But we consider this to be a clear error. Whereever those annalists, or those who write about the Island of Mackinac, obtain their information as to the definition of the word Michilimackinac, I don't know, when our tradition is so direct and so clear with regard to the historical definition of that word, and is far from being derived from the word "Michimikinock," as the historians have told us. Our tradition says that when the Island was first discovered by the Ottawas, which was some time before America was known as an existing country by the white man, there was a small independent tribe, a remnant race of Indians who occupied this island, who became confederated with the Ottawas when the Ottawas were living at Manitoulin, formerly called Ottawa Island, which is situated north of Lake Huron. The Ottawas thought a good deal of this unfortunate race of people, as they were kind of interesting sort of people; but, unfortunately, they had most powerful enemies, who every now and then would come among them to make war with them. Their enemies were of the Iroquois of New York. Therefore, once in the dead of the winter while the Ottawas were having a great jubilee and war dances at their island, now Manitoulin, on account of the great conquest over the We-ne-be-goes of Wisconsin, of which I will speak more fully in subsequent chapters, during which time the Senecas of New York, of the Iroquois family of Indians, came upon the remnant race and fought them, and almost entirely annihilated them. But two escaped to tell the story, who effected their escape by flight and by hiding in one of the natural caves at the island, and therefore that was the end of this race. And according to our understanding and traditions the tribal name of those disastrous people was "Mi-shi-ne-macki naw-go," which is still existing to this day as a monument of their former existence; for the Ottawas and Chippewas named this little island "Mi-shi-ne-macki-nong" for memorial sake of those their former confederates, which word is the locative case of the Indian noun "Michinemackinawgo." Therefore, we contend, this is properly where the name Michilimackinac is originated. This is the earliest possible history of this little Island, as I have related, according to the Ottawa traditions; and from that time forward there have been many changes in its history, as other tribes of Indians took possession of the island, such as the Hurons and Chippewas; and still later by the whites--French, English, and Americans; and numbers of battles have been fought from time to time there, by both Indians and whites, of which I need not relate as other historians have already given us the accounts of them. But only this I would relate, because I have never yet seen the account of it: It is related in our traditions that at the time when the Chippewas occupied the island they ceded it to the United States Government, but reserved a strip of land all around the island as far as a stone throw from its water's edge as their encampment grounds when they might come to the island to trade or for other business. Perhaps the reader would like to know what became of those two persons who escaped from the lamented tribe Michinemackinawgoes. I will here give it just as it is related in our traditions, although this may be considered, at this age, as a fictitious story; but every Ottawa and Chippewa to this day believes it to be positively so. It is related that the two persons escaped were two young people, male and female, and they were lovers. After everything got quieted down, they fixed their snow-shoes inverted and crossed the lake on the ice, as snow was quite deep on the ice, and they went towards the north shore of Lake Huron. The object of inverting their snow-shoes was that in case any person should happen to come across their track on the ice, their track would appear as if going towards the island. They became so disgusted with human nature, it is related, that they shunned every mortal being, and just lived by themselves, selecting the wildest part of the country. Therefore, the Ottawas and Chippewas called them "Paw-gwa- tchaw-nish-naw-boy." The last time they were seen by the Ottawas, they had ten children--all boys, and all living and well. And every Ottawa and Chippewa believes to this day that they are still in existence and roaming in the wildest part of the land, but as supernatural beings --that is, they can be seen or unseen, just as they see fit to be; and sometimes they simply manifested themselves as being present by throwing a club or a stone at a person walking in a solitude, or by striking a dog belonging to the person walking; and sometimes by throwing a club at the lodge, night or day, or hearing their footsteps walking around the wigwam when the Indians would be camping out in an unsettled part of the country, and the dogs would bark, just as they would bark at any strange person approaching the door. And sometimes they would be tracked on snow by hunters, and if followed on their track, however recently passed, they never could be overtaken. Sometimes when an Indian would be hunting or walking in solitude, he would suddenly be seized with an unearthly fright, terribly awe stricken, apprehending some great evil. He feels very peculiar sensation from head to foot--the hair of his head standing and feeling stiff like a porcupine quill. He feels almost benumbed with fright, and yet he does not know what it is; and looking in every direction to see something, but nothing to be seen which might cause sensation of terror. Collecting himself, he would then say, "Pshaw! its nothing here to be afraid of. It's nobody else but Paw-gwa-tchaw-nish-naw-boy is approaching me. Perhaps he wanted something of me." They would then leave something on their tracks--tobacco, powder, or something else. Once in a great while they would appear, and approach the person to talk with him, and in this case, it is said, they would always begin with the sad story of their great catastrophe at the Island of Mackinac. And whoever would be so fortunate as to meet and see them and to talk with them, such person would always become a prophet to his people, either Ottawa or Chippewa. Therefore, Ottawas and Chippewas called these supernatural beings "Paw-gwa-tchaw-nish-naw-boy," which is, strictly, "Wild roaming supernatural being." Pine river country, in Charlevoix County, Michigan, when this country was all wild, especially near Pine Lake, was once considered as the most famous resort of these kind of unnatural beings. I was once conversing with one of the first white settlers of that portion of the country, who settled near to the place now called Boyne City, at the extreme end of the east arm of Pine Lake. In the conversation he told me that many times they had been frightened, particularly during the nights, by hearing what sounded like human footsteps around outside of their cabin; and their dog would be terrified, crouching at the doorway, snarling and growling, and sometimes fearfully barking. When daylight came, the old man would go out in order to discover what it was or if he could track anything around his cabin, but he never could discover a track of any kind. These remarkable, mischievous, audible, fanciful, appalling apprehensions were of very frequent occurrence before any other inhabitants or settlers came near to his place; but now, they do not have such apprehensions since many settlers came. That massacre of Mishinimackinawgoes by Seneca Indians of New York happened probably more than five or six hundred years ago. I could say much more which would be contradictory of other writers of the history of the Indians in this country. Even in the history of the United States I think there are some mistakes concerning the accounts of the Indians, particularly the accounts of our brave Tecumseh, as it is claimed that he was killed by a soldier named Johnson, upon whom they conferred the honor of having disposed of the dreaded Tecumseh. Even pictured out as being coming up with his tomahawk to strike a man who was on horseback, but being instantly shot dead with the pistol. Now I have repeatedly heard our oldest Indians, both male and female, who were present at the defeat of the British and Indians, all tell a unanimous story, saying that they came to a clearing or opening spot, and it was there where Tecumseh ordered his warriors to rally and fight the Americans once more, and in this very spot one of the American musket balls took effect in Tecumseh's leg so as to break the bone of his leg, that he could not stand up. He was sitting on the ground when he told his warriors to flee as well as they could, and furthermore said, "One of my leg is shot off! But leave me one or two guns loaded; I am going to have a last shot. Be quick and go!" That was the last word spoken by Tecumseh. As they look back, they saw the soldiers thick as swarm of bees around where Tecumseh was sitting on the ground with his broken leg, and so they did not see him any more; and, therefore, we always believe that the Indians or Americans know not who made the fatal shot on Tecumseh's leg, or what the soldiers did with him when they came up to him as he was sitting on the ground. CHAPTER IV. The Author's Reasons for Recording the History of His People, and Their Language--History of His Nationality--A Sketch of His Father's History --How the Indians Were Treated in Manitoba Country One Hundred Years Ago--His Father's Banishment to Die on a Lonely Island by the White Traders--Second Misfortune of the Ottawas on Account of the Shawanee Prophet--The Earthquake. The Indian tribes are continnually diminishing on the face of this continent. Some have already passed entirely out of existence and are forgotten, who once inhabited this part of the country; such as the Mawsh-ko-desh, Urons, Ossaw-gees--who formerly occupied Saw-gi-naw bay; and the Odaw gaw-mees, whose principal habitation was about the vicinity of Detroit River. They are entirely vanished into nothingness. Not a single page of their history can be found on record in the history of this country, or hardly an allusion to their existence. My own race, once a very numerous, powerful and warlike tribe of Indians, who proudly trod upon this soil, is also near the end of existence. In a few more generations they will be so intermingled with the Caucasian race as to be hardly distinguished as descended from the Indian nations, and their language will be lost. I myself was brought up in a pure Indian style, and lived in a wigwam, and have partaken of every kind of the wild jubilees of my people, and was once considered one of the best "Pipe" dancers of the tribe. But when nearly grown up, I was invited by a traveling Protestant Missionary, whose name was Alvin Coe, to go home with him to the State of Ohio, with the assurance that he would give me a good education like the white man, and the idea struck me that I could be really educated and be able to converse with the white people. And although at that time (in the fall of 1840) I missed the opportunity, the idea was never after off of my mind. So some time afterwards I started out voluntarily to obtain an education; and I had nearly succeeded in completing my professional studies when I called away to come home and look after my aged father, in 1850. And now I have four children, but not one of them can speak the Indian language. And every one of the little Indian urchins who are now running about in our town can speak to each other quite fluently in the English language; but I am very sorry to add that they have also learned profanity like the white children. For these reasons it seems desirable that the history of my people should not be lost, like that of other tribes who previously existed in this country, and who have left no record of their ancient legends and their traditions. Before proceeding to record the history of the Ottawas of the State of Michigan, to whom I am immediately connected in their common interests and their future destinies, I propose to rehearse in a summary manner my nationality and family history. Our tradition says that long ago, when the Ottawa tribes of Indians used to go on a warpath either towards the south or towards the west, even as far as to the Rocky Mountains, on one of these expeditions towards the Rocky Mountains my remote ancestors were captured and brought to this country as prisoners of war. But they were afterwards adopted as children of the Ottawas, and intermarried with the nation in which they were captives. Subsequently these captives' posterity became so famous among the Ottawas on account of their exploits and bravery on the warpath and being great hunters that they became closely connected with the royal families, and were considered as the best counselors, best chieftains and best warriors among the Ottawas. Thus I am not regularly descended from the Ottawa nations of Indians, but I am descended, as tradition says, from the tribe in the far west known as the Underground race of people. They were so called on account of making their habitations in the ground by making holes large enough for dwelling purposes. It is related that they even made caves in the ground in which to keep their horses every night to prevent them from being stolen by other tribes who were their enemies. It is also related that they were quite an intelligent class of people. By cultivating the soil they raised corn and other vegetables to aid in sustaining life beside hunting and fishing. They were entirely independent, having their own government and language, and possessing their own national emblem which distinguished them as distinct and separate from all other tribes. This symbolical ensign of my ancestors was represented by a species of small hawk, which the Ottawas called the "Pe-pe-gwen." So we were sometimes called in this country in which we live the "Pe-pe-gwen tribe," instead of the "Undergrounds." And it was customary among the Ottawas, that if any one of our number, a descendant of the Undergrounds, should commit any punishable crime, all the Pe-pe-gwen tribe or descendants of the Undergrounds would be called together in a grand council and requested to make restitution for the crime or to punish the guilty one, according to the final decision of the council. There were several great chieftains of the Undergrounds among the Ottawas who were living within my time, and some are here mentioned who were most known by the American people, particularly during the war with Great Britain in 1812. Most of these chieftains were my own uncles. One was called Late Wing, who took a very active part for the cause of the United States in the war of 1812, and he was a great friend to Governor Lewis Cass of Michigan. Wing was pensioned for life for his good services to the United States. He was one of my father's own brothers. Shaw-be-nee was an uncle of mine on my mother's side, who also served bravely for the United States in the war of 1812. He traveled free all over the United States during his lifetime. This privilege was granted to him by the Government of the United States for his patriotism and bravery. He died in the State of Illinois about twenty years ago from this writing, and a monument was raised for him by the people in that State. Wa-ke-zoo was another great chieftain who died before my time in the country of Manitoba, out north. He was also one of my father's brothers. It is related that he was also a prophet and a great magician. My own dear father was one of the head chiefs at Arbor Croche, now called Middle Village or Good Heart, which latter name was given at my suggestion by the Postoffice Department at Washington. My father died in June, 1861. His Indian name was Macka-de-pe-nessy, [Footnote: This name is written variously, the letters d, b, t, and p, being considered identical in the Ottawa language.--Ed.] which means Black Hawk; but somehow it has been mistranslated into Blackbird, so we now go by this latter name. My father was a very brave man. He has led his warriors several times on the warpath, and he was noted as one who was most daring and adventurous in his younger days. He stayed about twenty years in the country of Manitoba with his brother Wa-ke-zoo, among other tribes of Indians and white fur-traders in that section of the country. Many times he has grappled with and narrowly escaped from the grizzly bear and treacherous buffalo which were then very numerous in that portion of the country. This was about one hundred years ago. He has seen there things that would be almost incredible at this present age: liquor sold to the Indians measured with a woman's thimble, a thimbleful for one dollar; one wooden coarse comb for two beaver skins; a double handful of salt for one beaver skin--and so on in proportion in everything else; the poor Indian had to give pile upon pile of beaver skins, which might be worth two or three hundred dollars, for a few yards of flimsy cloth. Englishmen and Frenchman who went there expressly to traffic with the Indians, generally started from Quebec and Montreal, leaving their families at home; but so soon as they reached this wild country, they would take Indian wives. When they left the country, they would leave their Indian wives and children there to shift for themselves. Consequently there are in this region thousands of half breeds, most beautiful men and beautiful women, but they are as savage as the rest of the Indians. No white man there ever told these poor Indians anything about Christianity, but only added unto them their degradations and robbed them. My father was once there left to perish on a lonely island by the fur traders, not because he had done any crime, but simply from inhuman cruelty and disregard of Indians by these white men. He was traveling with these traders from place to place in a long bark canoe, which was the only means of conveyance on the water in those days. It appears that there were two parties, and two of these long bark canoes were going in the same direction, one of which my father was paddling for them. He was not hired, but simply had joined them in his travels. But these two parties were thrown into a great quarrel about who should have my father to paddle their canoe. Therefore they landed on this little island expressly to fight amongst themselves; and after fighting long and desperately, they left my poor father on this little island to die, for they concluded that neither of them should take him into their canoe. He was left to die! What must be the feelings of this poor Indian, to whom life was as sweet as to any human creature? What revenge should he take upon those traders? He had a gun, which he leveled at them as they started off in their canoes. His fingers were on the trigger, when suddenly a thought flashed across his mind-- "Perhaps the Great Spirit will be displeased." So he dropped his gun, and raised a fervent prayer to the Almighty Ruler for deliverance from this awful situation. After being several days on this little island, when almost dying from starvation, fortunately deliverance came. He spied a small canoe with two persons in it within hail. They came and took him off from his dying situation. It was an Indian woman with her little son who happened to travel in that direction who saved my father's life. From this time hence my father lost all confidence in white men, whatever the position or profession of the white man might be, whether a priest, preacher, lawyer, doctor, merchant, or common white man. He told us to beware of them, as they all were after one great object, namely, to grasp the world's wealth. And in order to obtain this, they would lie, steal, rob, or murder, if it need be; therefore he instructed us to beware how the white man would approach us with very smooth tongue, while his heart is full of deceit and far from intending to do us any good. He left Manitoba country about 1800, or about the time when the Shawanee prophet, "Waw-wo-yaw-ge-she-maw," who was one of Tecumseh's own brothers, sent his emissaries to preach to the Ottawas and Chippewas in the Lower and Upper Peninsulas of Michigan, who advised the Ottawas and Chippewas to confess their sins and avow their wrongs and go west, and there to worship the Great Spirit according to the old style as their forefathers did, [Footnote: The worship of the Great Spirit consisted mostly in songs and dancing accompanied with an Indian drum, which has a very deep and solemn sound, alnot very large, about a foot in diameter. I used to think that the sound of it must reach to the heaven where the Great Spirit is.] and to abandon everything else which the white man had introduced into the tribes of Indians, to abandon even the mode of making fire, which was by flint and steel, and to start their fires by friction between the two pieces of dry wood as their forefathers made their fires before the white people came to this country, and to eat no flesh of domestic animals, but to eat nothing but wild game, and use their skins for their wearing apparel and robes as the Great Spirit designed them to be when He created them. He taught them that the Great Spirit was angry with them because they conformed to the habits of the white man, and that if they did not believe and practice the old habits, the Great Spirit would shake the earth as an evidence that he tells them the truth. A great many Ottawas believed and went far west accordingly. And it happened about this time the earth did quake in Michigan; I think, if I am not mistaken, the earth shook twice within a year, which is recorded in the annals of this country. At the earthquake many Indians were frightened, and consequently many more believed and went west; but nearly all of them died out there because the climate did not agree with them. Saw-gaw- kee--Growing-plant--was the head chief of the Ottawa nation of Indians at that time, and was one of the believers who went with the parties out west, and he also died there. [Footnote: This Chief Saw-gaw-kee was Ne-saw-wa-quat's father, the last head chief of Little Traverse. Ne- saw-wa-quat was the only child remaining alive of the whole family of Saw-gaw-kee. Therefore the child was brought back to this country and was the last head chief of Little Traverse, now Harbor Springs.] This is the second time that the Ottawas were terribly reduced in numbers in the country of Arbor Croche. CHAPTER V. The Author's Father Appointed Speaker for the Ottawas and Chippewas-- The Only Ottawa Who was Friendly to Education--Making Alphabet--Acting as School Teacher--Moving Disposition of the Ottawas--Mode of Traveling--Tradition of William Blackbird Being Fed by Angelic Beings in the Wilderness--His being Put into Mission School by His Father-- Studying to be a Priest--His Assassination in the City of Rome, Italy, Almost the Day When He was to be Ordained--Memorial Poem--The Author's Remarks on the Death of His Brother. After my father's return to Arbor Croche, he became quite an orator, and consequently he was appointed as the head speaker in the council of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians. He continued to hold this office until his frame was beginning to totter with age, his memory became disconnected and inactive, and he therefore gave up his office to his own messenger, whose name was Joseph As-saw-gon, who died during the late rebellion in the United States while Hon. D. C. Leach, of Traverse City, was the Michigan Indian Agent. As-saw-gon was indeed quite an orator, considering his scanty opportunities. He had no education at all, but was naturally gifted as an orator. He was quite logical and allegorical in his manner of speaking. I have heard several white people remark, who had listened to his speeches through the imperfect interpreters, that he was as good a speaker as any orator who had been thoroughly educated. My father was the only man who was friendly to education. When I was a little boy, I remember distinctly his making his own alphabet, which he called "Paw-pa-pe-po." With this he learned how to read and write; and afterwards he taught other Indians to read and write according to his alphabet. He taught no children, but only the grown persons. Our wigwam, which was about sixty or seventy feet long, where we lived in the summer time, was like a regular school-house, with my father as teacher of the school, and they had merry times in it. Many Indians came there to learn his Paw-pa-pe-po, and some of them were very easy to learn, while others found learning extremely difficult. We were ten of us children in the family, six boys and four girls. I was the youngest of all who were living at that time. The eldest boy was one of the greatest hunters among the Ottawas. His name was Pung-o- wish, named after our great-grandfather, but he was afterwards called Peter by the Catholic missionaries when he was baptised into the Catholic religion. One of my brothers who was five or six years younger than my eldest brother was a remarkably interesting boy. His name was Pe-taw-wan-e-quot, though he was afterwards called William. He was quick to learn Paw-pa-pe-po, and very curious and interesting questions he would often ask of his father, which would greatly puzzle the old man to answer. All the Indians of Arbor Croche used only to stay there during the summer time, to plant their corn, potatoes, and other vegetables. As soon as their crops were put away in the ground, [Footnote: The mode of securing their corn was first to dry the ears by fire. When perfectly dry, they would then beat them with a flail and pick all the cobs out. The grain was then winnowed and put into sacks. These were put in the ground in a large cylinder made out of elm bark, set in deep in the ground and made very dry, filling this cylinder full and then covering it to stay there for winter and summer use.] they would start all together towards the south, going to different points, some going as far as Chicago expressly to trap the muskrats, beavers, and many other kinds of furs, and others to the St. Joe River, Black River, Grand River, or Muskegon River, there to trap and hunt all winter, and make sugar in the spring. After sugar making they would come back again to Waw-gaw-naw-ke-zee, or Arbor Croche, to spend the summer and to raise their crops again as before. In navigating Lake Michigan they used long bark canoes in which they carried their whole families and enough provisions to last them all winter. These canoes were made very light, out of white birch bark, and with a fair wind they could skip very lightly on the waters, going very fast, and could stand a very heavy sea. In one day they could sail quite a long distance along the coast of Lake Michigan. When night overtook them they would land and make wigwams with light poles of cedar which they always carried in their canoes. These wigwams were covered with mats made for that purpose out of prepared marsh reeds or flags sewed together, which made very good shelter from rain and wind, and were very warm after making fires inside of them. They had another kind of mat to spread on the ground to sit and sleep on. These mats are quite beautifully made out of different colors, and closely woven, of well prepared bull-rushes. [Footnote: To prepare these bull-rushes for mats, they are cut when very green, and then they go through the process of steaming, after bleaching by the sun; they are colored before they are woven. They are generally made about six or eight feet long and about four feet wide.] After breakfast in the morning they are off again in the big canoes. My father's favorite winter quarters were somewhere above Big Rapids on Muskegon River. He hunted and trapped there all winter and made sugar. A very mysterious event happened to my brother William while my folks were making sugar there. One beautiful morning after the snow had entirely disappeared in the woods, my brother William, then at the age of about eight or nine years, was shooting around with his little bow and arrows among the sugar trees, but that day he never came home. At sundown, our parents were beginning to feel very uneasy about their little boy, and yet they thought he must have gone to some neighboring sugar bush, as there were quite a number of families also making sugar in the vicinity. Early in the morning, my father went to all the neighboring sugar camps, but William was nowhere to be found. So at once a search was instituted. Men and boys were out in search for the boy, calling and shooting their guns far and near, but not a trace of him anywhere could be found. Our parents were almost distracted with anxiety and fear about their boy, and they continued the search three days in vain. On the fourth day, one of our cousins, whose name was Oge-maw-we-ne-ne, came to a very deep gully between two hills. He went up to the top of the highest hill in order to be heard a long distance. When he reached the top, he began to halloo as loud as he could, calling the child by name, Pe-taw-on-e-quot. At the end of his shouting he thought he heard some one responding to his call, "Wau?" This word is one of the interrogatives in the Indian language, and is equivalent to "what" in the English language. He listened a few minutes, and again he called as before, and again heard distinctly the same response, "Wau?" It came from above, right over his head, and as he looked upwards he saw the boy, almost at the top of a tree, standing on a small limb in a very dangerous situation. He said, "Hello, what are you doing up there? Can't you come down?" "Yes, I can," was the answer; "I came up here to find out where I am, and which way is our sugar camp." "Come down, then; I will show you which way is your home." After he came down from the tree, our cousin offered him food, but the child would not touch a morsel, saying that, he was not hungry as he had eaten only a little while ago. "Ah, you have been fed then. Who fed you? We have been looking for you now over three days." The boy replied, "I had every thing that I wanted to eat in the great festival of the Wa-me-te-go-zhe-wog." which is "the white people." "Where are they now?" asked our cousin. "That is just what I would like to know, too," said the boy; "I had just come out of their nice house between the two hills, and as I looked back after I came out of their door I saw no more of their house, and heard no more of them nor their music." Our cousin again questioned the boy, "How did you come to find these Wa-me-te-go-zhe-wog here?" And little William replied, "Those Wa-me-te- go-zhe-wog came to our sugar camp and invited me to go with them, but I thought it was very close by. I thought we walked only just a few steps to come to their door." Our cousin believed it was some supernatural event and hastened to take the boy to his anxious parents. Again and again little William told the same story when interrogated by any person, and it is firmly believed by all our family and friends that he was cherished and fed three days in succession by angelic beings. When he was about twelve or thirteen years of age the Protestant Mission School started at Mackinac Island, and my father thought best to put him to that school. After being there less than a year, he was going around with his teachers, acting as interpreter among the Indian camps at the Island of Mackinac. I was perfectly astonished to see how quick he had acquired the English language. After the mission broke up at the island, about the time the Catholic mission was established at Little Traverse, William came home and stayed with us for about two years, when he was again taken by Bishop Reese with his little sister, a very lovely girl, whom the white people call Auntie Margaret, or Queen of the Ottawas. They were taken down to Cincinnati, Ohio, where they were put into higher schools, and there my brother attained the highest degree of education, or graduation as it is called. From thence he was taken across the ocean to the city of Rome, Italy, to study for the priesthood, leaving his little sister in Cincinnati. It is related that he was a very eloquent and powerful orator, and was considered a very promising man by the people of the city of Rome, and received great attention from the noble families, on account of his wisdom and talent and his being a native American; and yet he had a much lighter complexion than his cousin Aug Hamlin, who was also taken over there and represented as half French. While he was at Rome, the proposition arose in this country to buy out the Michigan Indians by the Government of the United States, and he wrote to his people at Arbor Croche and to Little Traverse on this very subject, advising them not to sell out nor make any contract with the United States Government, but to hold on until he could return to America, when he would endeavor to aid them in making out the contract or treaty with the United States. Never to give up, not even if they should be threatened with annihilation or to be driven away at the point of the bayonet from their native soil. I wish I could produce some of this correspondence, but only one letter from him can now be found, which is here given: ROME, April 17, 1833 MY DEAR SISTER: It is a long time since I wrote you a few lines. I would write oftener if the time would permit, but I have very few leisure moments. However, as we have a holiday to-day, I determine to write a line or two. I have to attend to my studies from morning till sunset. I thank you very much for your kind letter which I received some time ago by politeness of Rev. Mr. Seajean. My dearest sister, you may have felt lost after I left you; you must consider who loves you with all the affection of parents. What can we return to those who have done us much good, but humble prayers for them that the Almighty may reward them for the benefit they have done in this poor mortal world. I was very happy when informed by Father Mullen that you had received six premiums at the examination; nothing else would more impress my heart than to hear of the success of your scholastic studies. I entreat you, dearest sister, to learn what is good and to despise the evil, and offer your prayers to the Almighty God and rely on Him alone, and by His blessing you may continue to improve your time well. You can have no idea how the people here are devoted to the Virgin Mary. At every corner of the streets there is the image of her, and some of these have lights burning day and night. I think of you very often: perhaps I shall never have the pleasure of seeing you again. I have been unwell ever since I came to this country. However, I am yet able to attend my school and studies. I hope I will not be worse, so that I may be unable to follow my intention. There are really fine things to be seen in Rome. On the feast of SS. Sebastian and Fabian we visited the Catacombs, two or three miles out of the city, where is a church dedicated to those saints, which I have already mentioned in previous letters. Perhaps our countrymen would not believe that there was such a place as that place which I saw myself with my own naked eyes. We entered in with lights and saw the scene before us. As soon as we entered we saw coffins on the top of each other, in one of which we saw some of the remains. The cave runs in every direction, sometimes is ascended by steps, and sometimes runs deeper, and one would be very easily lost in it. There are some large places and a chapel; I am told by the students that the chapel is where Pope Gregory was accustomed to say mass. I assure you it would excite any human heart to behold the place where the ancient Christians were concealed under the earth from the persecution of the anti-christians. Indeed they were concealed by the power of God. They sought Jesus and Him alone they loved. It is the custom of the College of the Propaganda, on the feast of Epiphany each year, that the students should deliver a discourse in their own respective languages. This year there were thirty-one different languages delivered by the students, so you may judge what kind of a college this is. At present it is quite full; there are ninety-three, of which thirteen are from the United States. On Easter Sunday the Holy Father celebrated mass in the church of St. Peter. It is very seldom that his holiness is seen personally celebrating mass in public except on great festivals. The church was crowded with spectators, both citizens of Rome and foreigners. On the front part of the church there was an elevated place beautifully ornamented. After the solemn ceremonies the Holy Father went up and gave his paternal benediction to the people. There is a large square before St. Peter's, and it was crowded so that it was impossible to kneel down to receive the benediction. This week we are quite merry; we seem to employ our minds on the merriment which is always displayed amongst us on such occasions. Our secretary is now Cardinal, and to-morrow he will be crowned with the dignity of the Cardinal. Our college has been illuminated these two evenings. The congregational halls of the Propaganda were opened on this occasion. The new Cardinal then received all the compliments of the Cardinals, Bishops, Prelates, Ambassadors, Princes, and other distinguished dignities. There are two large beautiful rooms, in one of which the new Cardinal was seated and received all those who came to pay him compliments. The visitors all came through the same passage, and there was a man posted in each room who received them and cried out to others that such man was coming, and so on through all those that were placed for the purpose, and one called the Cardinal gentleman introduced them to the new Cardinal. If there were such a thing in America it would be quite a novelty. It is time for me to close, and I hope you will write me sometimes. My respects to the Sisters and Father Mullen. Farewell, dear sister; pray for your Superior and for me. I remain your most affectionate brother, WILLIAM MACCATEBINESSI. After his death, some one at Cincinnati wrote the following, to be repeated before a large audience in that city by his little sister Margaret, who was there at school. The poetry was impressively recited and listened to by many people with wet eyes. This gifted child of nature died June 25, 1833. The morning breaks; see how the glorious sun, Slow wheeling from the east, new lustre sheds O'er the soft clime of Italy. The flower That kept its perfume in the dewy night, Now breathes it forth again. Hill, vale and grove, Clad in rich verdure, bloom, and from the rocks The joyous waters leap. O! meet it is That thou, imperial Rome, should lift thy head, Decked with the triple crown, where cloudless skies And lands rejoicing in the summer sun, Rich blessings yield. But there is grief to-day. A voice is heard within thy marble walls, A voice lamenting for the youthful dead; For o'er the relics of her forest boy The mother of dead Empires weeps. And lo! Clad in white robes the long procession moves; Youths throng around the bier, and high in front, Star of our hope, the glorious cross is reared, Triumphant sign. The low, sweet voice of prayer, Flowing spontaneous from the spirit's depths, Pours its rich tones; and now the requiem swells, Now dies upon the ear. But there is one [Footnote: His cousin Hamlin.] Who stands beside my brother's grave, and tho' no tear Dims his dark eye, yet does his spirit weep. With beating heart he gazes on the spot Where his young comrade shall forever rest. For they together left their forest home, Led by Father Reese, who to their fathers preached Glad tiding of great joy; the holy man my brother, Who sleeps beneath the soil the Father Reese's labors blessed. How must the spirit mourn, the bosom heave, Of that lone Indian boy! No tongue can speak The accents of his tribe, and as he bends In melancholy mood above the dead, Imagination clothes his tearful thoughts In rude but plaintive cadences. Soft be my brother's sleep! At nature's call the cypress here shall wave, The wailing winds lament above the grave, The dewy night shall weep. And he thou leavest forlorn, Oh, he shall come to shade my brother's grave with moss, To plant what thou didst love--the mystic cross, To hope, to pray, to mourn. No marble here shall rise; But o'er thy grave he'll teach the forest tree To lift its glorious head and point to thee, Rejoicing in the skies. And when it feels the breeze, I'll think thy spirit wakes that gentle sound Such as our fathers thought when all around Shook the old forest leaves. Dost thou forget the hour, my brother, When first we heard the Christian's hope revealed, When fearless warriors felt their bosoms yield Beneath Almighty power? Then truths came o'er us fast, Whilst on the mound the missionary stood And thro' the list'ning silence of the wood His words like spirits passed. And oh, hadst thou been spared, We two had gone to bless our fathers' land, To spread rich stores around, and hand in hand Each holy labor shared. But here the relics of my brother lie, Where nature's flowers shall bloom o'er nature's child, Where ruins stretch, and classic art has piled Her monuments on high. Sleep on, my brother, sleep peaceful here The traveler from thy land will claim this spot, And give to thee what kingly tombs have not-- The tribute of a tear with me, my brother. He died almost the very day when he was to be ordained a priest. He received a long visit from his cousin Hamlin that evening, and they sat late in the night, talking on various subjects, and particularly on American matters and his ordination. My brother was perfectly well and robust at that time, and full of lively spirits. He told his cousin that night, that if he ever set his foot again on American soil, his people, the Ottawas and Chippewas of Michigan, should always remain where they were. The United States would never be able to compel them to go west of the Mississippi, for he knew the way to prevent them from being driven off from their native land. He also told his cousin that as soon as he was ordained and relieved from Rome, he would at once start for America, and go right straight to Washington to see the President of the United States, in order to hold conference with him on the subject of his people and their lands. There was a great preparation for the occasion of his ordination. A great ceremony was to be in St. Peter's Church, because a native American Indian, son of the chief of the Ottawa tribe of Indians, a prince of the forests of Michigan, was to be ordained a priest, which had never before happened since the discovery of the Aborigines in America. In the morning, at the breakfast table, my brother William did not appear, and every one was surprised not to see him at the table. After breakfast, a messenger was sent to his room. He soon returned with the shocking news that he was dead. Then the authorities of the college arose and rushed to the scene, and there they found him on the floor, lying in his own blood. When Hamlin, his cousin heard of it, he too rushed to the room; and after his cousin's body was taken out, wrapped up in a cloth, he went in, and saw at once enough to tell him that it was the work of the assassin. When the news reached to Little Traverse, now Harbor Springs, all the country of Arbor Croche was enveloped in deep mourning, and a great lamentation took place among the Ottawas and Chippewas in this country with the expression, "All our hope is gone." Many people came to our dwelling to learn full particulars of my brother's death, and to console and mourn with his father in his great bereavement. No motive for the assassination has ever been developed, and it remains to this day a mystery. It was related that there was no known enemy in the institution previous to his death; but he was much thought of and beloved by every one in the college. It was an honor to be with him and to converse with him, as it is related that his conversation was always most noble and instructive. It was even considered a great honor to sit by him at the tables; as it is related that the students of the college used to have a strife amongst themselves who should be the first to sit by him. There were several American students at Rome at that time, and it was claimed by the Italians that my brother's death came through some of the American students from a secret plot originating in this country to remove this Indian youth who had attained the highest pinnacle of science and who had become their equal in wisdom, and in all the important questions of the day, both in temporal and spiritual matters. He was slain, it has been said, because it was found out that he was counseling his people on the subject of their lands and their treaties with the Government of the United States. His death deprived the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians of a wise counselor and adviser, one of their own native countrymen; but it seems that it would be impossible for the American people in this Christian land to make such a wicked conspiracy against this poor son of the forest who had become as wise as any of them and a great statesman for his country. Yet it might be possible, for we have learned that we cannot always trust the American people as to their integrity and stability in well doing with us. It is said the stains of my brother's blood can be seen to this day in Rome, as the room has been kept as a memorial, and is shown to travelers from this country. His statue in full size can also be seen there, which is said to be a perfect image of him. His trunk containing his books and clothing was sent from Rome to this country, and it came all right until it reached Detroit. There it was lost, or exchanged for another, which was sent to Little Traverse. It was sent back with a request to forward the right one, but that was the end of it, and no explanation was ever received. Soon after the death of my brother William, my sister Margaret left Cincinnati, Ohio, and came to Detroit, Mich., where she was employed as teacher of the orphan children at a Catholic institution. She left Detroit about 1835, and came to Little Traverse, where she at once began lo teach the Indian children for the Catholic mission. She has ever since been very useful to her people, but is now a decrepit old lady and sometimes goes by the name of Aunty Margaret, or Queen of the Ottawas. She is constantly employed in making Indian curiosities-- wearing out her fingers and eyes to make her living and keep her home. Like many others of her race, she has been made the victim of fraud and extortion. Some years ago a white man came to the Indian country and committed many crimes, for some of which he is now in prison. Soon after he came here, this wicked man pretended he was gored by an ox-- although there were no marks of violence--which he claimed belonged to Mr. Boyd, Aunty Margaret's husband, and he therefore sued Mr. Boyd for damages for several hundred dollars; and although the ox which he claimed had injured him did not belong to Mr. Boyd, and there was no eye witness in the case, yet he obtained judgment for damages against him, and a mortgage had to be given on the land which the Government had given her. The Indian's oath and evidence are not regarded in this country, and he stands a very poor chance before the law. Although they are citizens of the State, they are continually being taken advantage of by the attorneys of the land; they are continually being robbed and cheated out of their property, and they can obtain no protection nor redress whatever. Before Mr. Hamlin, my cousin, left Italy, he was asked by the authorities if William had any younger brother in America of a fit age to attend school. He told the authorities that the deceased had one brother just the right age to begin school--that was myself. Then there was an order for me to be sent to Rome to take the place of my brother; but when my father heard of it, he said, "No; they have killed one of my sons after they have educated him, and they will kill another." Hamlin came home soon after my brother's death, and some time after the Treaty of 1836 he was appointed U.S. Interpreter and continued to hold this office until 1861, at which time I succeeded him. CHAPTER VI. Account of the Indians' Roving Disposition, Their Feasts and Their Customs--Saluting Arbor Croche Every Spring of the Year--How the Catholic Religion was Introduced Among the Ottawas--The Missions-- Signing of the Treaty, March 8, 1836. I will again return to my narrative respecting how the Ottawas used to live and travel to and fro in the State of Michigan, and how they came to join the Catholic religion at Arbor Croche. Early in the spring we used to come down this beautiful stream of water (Muskegon River) in our long bark canoes, loaded with sugar, furs, deer skins, prepared venison for summer use, bear's oil, and bear meat prepared in oil, deer tallow, and sometimes a lot of honey, etc. On reaching the mouth of this river we halted for five or six days, when all the other Indians gathered, as was customary, expressly to feast for the dead. All the Indians and children used to go around among the camps and salute one another with the words, "Ne-baw-baw-tche-baw-yew," that is to say, "I am or we are going around as spirits," feasting and throwing food into the fire--as they believe the spirits of the dead take the victuals and eat as they are consumed in the fire. After the feast of the dead, we would all start for Arbor Croche, our summer resort, to plant our corn and other vegetables. At the crossing of Little Traverse Bay at the point called "Ki-tche-ossening," that is to say, "on the big rock," all the Indians waited until all the canoes arrived, after which they would all start together in crossing the bay. When about half way across they would begin to salute Arbor Croche by shooting with guns, holding them close to the water in order that the sound might reach to each side of the bay, to be heard by those few who always made their winter quarters around Little Traverse Bay. Arriving at Arbor Croche, where our big wigwam would be waiting for us--of which I have spoken in previous chapters--the very first thing my parents would do would be to go and examine their stores of corn and beans. After all the Indians arrived and had settled down, they would again have a prolonged merriment and another feasting of the dead and peace offerings. Grand medicine dances, fire dances, and many other jubilant performances my people would have before they would go to work again to plant their corn. I distinctly remember the time, and I have seen my brothers and myself dancing around the fires in our great wigwam, which had two fireplaces inside of it. About in 1824, there was an Indian came from Montreal whose name was Andowish, and who formerly belonged to Arbor Croche. He was among the Stockbridge Indians somewhere near Montreal, and this tribe speak a dialect of the Ottawa and Chippewa languages, and most of them by this time had joined the Catholic church. So Andowish, by their influence, also joined the Catholic religion out there with the Stockbridge Indians. Coming back to Arbor Croche, where he formerly belonged, he began to teach some of his own relatives the faith of the Catholic religion, which some of them were very ready to receive, but he could not baptize them. Therefore, parties of Indians went to Mackinac Island, headed by the principal chief of the Seven Mile Point band of Indians, whose name was A-paw-kau-se-gun, to see some of their half- breed relations at the island, relating to them how they felt with regard to Christianity, and asking advice as to what they should do in the matter. These half-breed relatives promised they would do all they could to cause the priest to come up to Arbor Croche and baptize all those Indians who felt disposed to receive the religion. Therefore in 1825 Rev. Father Baden, an old priest, came up with his interpreters and landed at Seven Mile Point, and baptized quite a number of grown folks, and a great many children were taken into the Catholic religion. At this time, I was also baptized by Rev. Father Baden; I was small, but I distinctly remember having the water poured over my head and putting some salt in my mouth, and changing my name from Pe-ness-wi- qua-am to Amable. The mission was then established at Seven Mile Point, where a church was built with poles and covered with cedar bark. This was the very way that the first religion was introduced among the Ottawas, although everybody supposes that some white people or missionary societies brought the Christian religion among the Ottawa tribes of Indians at Arbor Croche. My uncle, Au-se-go-nock, had before this joined the Catholic religion. He was living at that time at Drummond's Island with the British people, where all the Ottawas and Chippewas used to go every summer to receive presents from the British Government. And when he learned that his people had joined the Catholic faith, he left his home at Drummond's Island and came to Arbor Croche expressly to act as missionary in the absence of the priest. Every Sunday he preached to his people and taught them how to pray to God and to the Virgin Mary and all the saints and angels in heaven. At that time printed books containing prayers and hymns in the Stockbridge Indian language, which is a dialect of the Ottawa and Chippewa languages, were brought from Montreal, and could be quite intelligently understood by the Ottawas. By this time many Indians began to be stationary; they did not go south, as heretofore, but remained and made their winter quarters at Arbor Croche. About 1827, after several councils, it was determined to remove the Mission from Seven Mile Point to Little Traverse, and a French priest whose name was Dejan arrived expressly to remain there and carry on the new mission established at Little Traverse. A log church was built at the new mission, which stood very near where the present church is now standing, and a log school house was built just where the Star Hotel now stands, and also a log house for the priest to live in, which is standing to this day nearest the church, but it has been covered with siding boards since. In the fall of 1827, my father left his subjects at Arbor Croche proper, now Middle Village, in charge of his brother, Kaw-me-no-te-a, which means Good-heart, as he was persuaded by other chiefs to come and establish himself where the mission was and send his children to school. There were only three Indian log houses at that time in Little Traverse, one belonging to my uncle, Au-se-ge-nock, one for Joseph Au-saw-gon, my father's messenger, and another to Peter Sho- min. But we and all other Indians lived in wigwams, and all the Indians were dressed in Indian style. Rev. Mr. Dejan brought with him one Frenchman from Detroit named Joseph Letorenue as school teacher, and two girls from Mackinac Island as domestic servants, and an old nun, whose real name I never learned, and knew only as "Sister." She was exceedingly kind to Indian children and we all liked her very much. The log school house was used as a dwelling as well as a school house, as all the boys and girls who attended school were kept there continually, same as boarding school. The larger boys and girls were taught household duties and to cook for the scholars. The children were kept quite clean. The French teacher took very great pains to teach them good manners, and they were taught no other but the French language. In the spring of the year each family of Indians contributed one large mocok [Footnote: A kind of box made of birch bark.] of sugar which weighed from eighty to one hundred pounds, which Priest Dejan would empty into barrels, and then go down to Detroit with it to buy dry goods, returning with cloth with which to clothe his Indian children. Rev. Mr. Dejan did not say mass on week days, only on Sundays. He visited the Indians a good deal during the week days, purposely to instruct them in the manners and customs of the white man, ordering things generally how to be done, and how the women should do towards their domestic callings, not to work out of doors, and to take good care of what belonged to their household. Mr. Dejan was a great friend of Col. Boyd, Indian Agent at Mackinac, and in the second year of the school, Mr. Boyd's two sons, James and George, wintered with the priest at the mission, and were very great friends to the Indians. In two years schooling the children progressed very much, both in reading the French language, and in learning the manners and customs of the white man. But, alas, this was carried on only two years. There was some trouble between Rev. Mr. Dejan and Bishop Reese of Detroit, consequently Mr. Dejan was removed from the mission, and Rev. Mr. Baraga was put in instead in the year 1830. He promised to do the same as his predecessor in regard to carrying on the Indian school at Little Traverse; but he did not. He did not give as good care to the children as his predecessor, and he did not teach them anything but Indian and the catechism. He, however, made and published a prayer book in the Ottawa language and a short Bible History. Before two years the boarding school was out of existence at Little Traverse, and Mr. Baraga went away to Lake Superior, where some time afterwards he was made Bishop. After he was in the Lake Superior country he published some more books, such as Odjebwe dictionary and Odjebwe grammar, which were very hard to understand to one unacquainted with the Indian language, and he also made a new catechism. Father Simon succeeded Mr. Baraga, and did about the same thing with regard to educating the Indian youths, as did also Father Pierce after Simon, and many others from time to time up to this day. The Indians were very strict in their religion at this time. They did not allow any drunkenness in their village, nor allow any one to bring intoxicating liquors within the Harbor. If any person, white or Indian, brought any liquor into the Harbor, by the barrel or in small quantities, and it came to the knowledge of the old chief, Au-paw-ko- si-gan, who was the war chief, but was acting as principal chief at Little Traverse, he would call out his men to go and search for the liquor, and if found he would order him men to spill the whisky on the ground by knocking the head of a barrel with an ax, telling them not to bring any more whisky into the Harbor, or wherever the Ottawas are, along the coast of Arbor Croche. This was the end of it, there being no law suit for the whisky. They used to observe many holidays, particularly Christmas, New Years and Corpus Christi. At the New Year's eve, every one of the Indians used to go around visiting the principal men of the tribe, shooting their guns close to their doors after screaming three times, "Happy New Year," then bang, bang, altogether, blowing their tin horns and beating their drums, etc. Early on the New Year's morning, they would go around among their neighbors expressly to shake hands one with another, with the words of salutation, "Bozhoo," children and all. This practice was kept up for a long time, or until the white people came and intermingled with the tribes. I thought my people were very happy in those days, when they were all by themselves and possessed a wide spread of land, and no one to quarrel with them as to where they should make their gardens, or take timber, or make sugar. And fishes of all kinds were so plentiful in the Harbor. A hook anywheres in the bay, and at any time of the year, would catch Mackinaw trout, many as one would want. And if a net were set anywheres in the harbor on shallow water, in the morning it would be loaded with fishes of all kinds. Truly this was a beautiful location for the mission. Every big council of the Indians was transacted in the village of Little Traverse. I will mention one or two more things which it might be interesting to my readers to know. Up to 1835 and some time afterwards, there was a very large double cedar tree, which appeared to have been stuck together while they were growing, but were two separate trees of the same size and height growing very close together, standing very near the edge of the water, and leaning very much towards the bay, almost like a staircase projecting far out into the bay. Under the roots of these trees issued a perpetual spring of water, which is now called Mr. Carlow's Spring, near the present depot. In the fall of 1835, I was clear at the top of those trees, with my little chums, watching our people as they were about going off in a long bark canoe, and, as we understood, they were going to Washington to see the Great Father, the President of the United States, to tell him to have mercy on the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians in Michigan, not to take all the land away from them. I saw some of our old Indian women weeping as they watched our principal men going off in the canoe. I suppose they were feeling bad on account of not knowing their future destinies respecting their possession of the land. After they all got in the canoe, just as they were going to start, they all took off their hats, crossed themselves and repeated the Lord's prayer; at the end of the prayer, they crossed themselves again, and then away they went towards the Harbor Point. We watched them until they disappeared in rounding the point. March 28th, 1836, a treaty was signed at Washington, not with the free will of the Indians, but by compulsion. That same year we received the first annuity at Mackinac Island, our trading post, $10 cash per head, beside dry goods and provisions. There was a stipulation expressed in the 7th clause of the 4th article of said treaty, that there was to be given to the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians of Michigan $150,000 worth of dry goods until all was paid out. There is said to have been paid out on the first payment in 1836, about $10,000, which would then leave a balance of $140,000. At this time the Ottawas and Chippewas held a big council and concluded to ask the Government for cash instead of dry goods; because they saw that there was a great deal of waste in distributing the goods among them, as there were lots of remnants, and much of it left after distribution which they never knew what became of. Therefore their belief respecting it was that the Government officials had appropriated to themselves some of these dry goods and given away freely to their white friends and relatives. After conclusion of the council, they came before the Indian agent, Hon. H. Schoolcraft, and presented their views and their request in this matter. He told them that he could not give them any conclusive reply upon this subject, but that he would make known their wishes to their Great Father at Washington, and would inform them thereafter. That was the last of it. In the next payment there were neither goods nor money instead, as they requested, and no reply ever came to this day. It was also stipulated that at the expiration of twenty-one years, $20,000 was to be given to the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians, that is, one year after the expiration of the payment of their annuities. And where are those lawful promises gone to now? Alas! when we inquire of them to the head department they refer us to the third article of the Treaty of 1855, where it is worded, "That the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians hereby release and discharge the United States from all liability on account of former treaty stipulations, either land or money," etc. But this part of the stipulation was never explained to them at the Council of Detroit, as they would never have consented to it, and would not have signed the contract. We did not know anything about it, but some time after we saw it with our own eyes, printed in the pamphlet form of the contract, where our names had been already subscribed to it. Then it was too late to make any remedy in the matter. CHAPTER VII. More Personal History--Suffering and Trials in Early Life--Missing the Opportunity to Go to School--Learning Trade as a Blacksmith--A New Start to Seek for Education--Arriving at Cleveland, O., to Find His Old Friend, Rev. Alvin Coe--Visit with Rev. Samuel Bissell, of Twinsburg, O., Principal of the Twinsburg Institute--Attending School--Returning Home--Advocating Citizenship for His People--Delegated to Detroit and to the State Legislature--His Pleasant Visit with State Authorities-- Again Delegated as Councilor to the New Treaty, 1855. The first winter we lived at Little Traverse as a permanent home was in the year 1828, and in the following spring my own dear mother died very suddenly, as she was burned while they were making sugar in the woods. She was burned so badly that she only lived four days after. I was small, but I was old enough to know and mourn for my dear mother. I felt as though I had lost everything dear to me and every friend; there was no one that I could place such confidence in, not even my own father. So my father's household was broken up: we were pretty well scattered after that. He could not very well keep us together; being the least one in the family, I became a perfect wild rover. At last I left Little Traverse when about 13 or 14 years age. I went to Green Bay, Wis., with the expectation of living with an older sister who had married a Scotchman named Gibson and had gone there to make a home somewhere in Green Bay. I found them, but I did not stay with them long. I left them and went to live with a farmer close by whose name was Sylvester. From this place I was persuaded by another man to go with him on the fishing ground, to a place called Sturgeon Bay, Wis. From there I sailed with Mr. Robert Campbell. Mr. Campbell was a good man and Christian. His father had a nice farm at Bay Settlement, near Green Bay, Wis., where also my sister settled down. I sailed with him one summer. We came to Mackinac Island in the fall of 1840, and there I met my father and all my relations, and great many Indians as they were about receiving their annual payment from the Government. So I left the vessel and hired out in the store to act as clerk during the payment time. After all the Indians had gone away from the island, I was still working in the store and thought to make my winter quarters there, but did not. One day I met my father's old friend, the Rev. Mr. Alvin Coe, the traveling missionary of whom I have already spoken as having asked me to go with him to the State of Ohio where I might have an opportunity to go to school and be educated like the white man. I told him I will go with him, provided he will take an interest to watch over me, that no one would abuse me out there after getting into the strange country. He faithfully promised that he would do all this, and would also do all he could to help me along to obtain my education. He said he was going that night and I must be on hand when the boat arrived; but I failed to tell him my stopping place. So when the boat arrived I was too sound asleep to hear it. Poor old man! I was told that he felt disappointed to have to go with, out me. As I woke in the morning I inquired if any boat had arrived during the night. I was told there was. I was also told there was an old man who seemed to be very anxious, and was looking for me all over the crowd on the dock, but he could not find me there. When the boat was pushing out he jumped on board and then turned to the crowd, saying, "Tell my little boy, Jackson, son of the old chief Macka-de-be-nessy, of Arbor Croche, that I have gone on this boat." Thus I was left, and missed the opportunity when I might have been educated while I was yet much younger. A few days afterwards, as I walked out from the store one evening, I met two young men in the street, one of whom I frequently saw during the payment time, but the other was entirely a stranger to me. He was a most noble-looking and tall young man, but, behold, he spoke perfectly and freely the Indian language, saying to me, "My boy, would you be willing to take us to that vessel out there?" at the same time pointing to a vessel which was already outside of the harbor, sails up, but in a perfectly dead calm, as there was not a breath of wind. I told them I would, provided I could get the boat to get there; in which he replied that they will do all that part of the business, but they wanted some one to bring the boat back. As I was walking with another mate of mine, I ask him to go with me to take these folks on board. The next thing we were on the way towards the vessel. As we went along this noble young man said to me, "My boy, would you like to come with us to Grand Traverse?" I replied, "I would like to see Grand Traverse, but am not prepared to go just now." "Would you not like to learn the blacksmith trade? This man is a government blacksmith in Grand Traverse," referring to his companion, "and he needs an assistant in the business. We will give you position as an assistant and a salary of $240 yearly, or $20 per month." I replied, "I will go, for I would be very glad to find a chance to learn a trade and at the same time to get my living." Therefore I also got on board, and my friend had to come back alone with the boat we borrowed. This was the same vessel that I had sailed on that season. We arrived at the place now called "The Old Mission," where there was a nice harbor. [Footnote: The Mission was already established by this time, 1840, conducted by the Presbyterian Board of missions. Rev. P. Dougherty, who was indeed a true Christian, and good to Indians, was a preacher for the Mission. Daniel Rod, the half-breed from St. Clair River, Mich., was his interpreter. Mr. Bradley acted as teacher, who afterwards proved himself unworthy for the position, which produced a bad effect among the Indians. The Mission is now out of existence.] This young man, whose name I now learned was John M. Johnstone, of Sault Ste. Marie, the brother-in-law of Henry Schoolcraft, our Indian agent, said when we arrived, "You have no commission yet to work in the shop; you will therefore have to go back to Mackinac with this letter which you will take to Indian agent yourself and nobody else. Then come back at the first opportunity if he tells you to come." So I had to return to Mackinac on the same vessel with which we went away. At Mackinac I received my commission without any trouble. On arriving at Grand Traverse the Indians were having a big council which was concocted, I was told, by the brother of my benefactor, who was trading there among the Indians. They were getting up remonstrances and petitioning the Government against my appointment, setting forth as reason of their complaint that I did not belong to that tribe of Indians, and was therefore not entitled to the position, and they would rather have one of their own boys belonging to the tribe put to this trade. But my friend Johnstone told me "not to mind anything, but go about my business. The blacksmith shop had been established here for more than two years, and they should have thought of putting their boy in the shop long before this." So accordingly I continued working and minding my own business for five years, when I quit of my own accord. There were no white people there at that time, only such as were employed by the Government, and the missionaries and teachers, and the Indians were very happy in those days. I have told my readers in the previous chapters of this little book, that from the time I was invited by our most estimable friend, Rev. Alvin Coe, to go with him to the State of Ohio in order to receive an education, "that it was never blotted out of my mind," and therefore the very day I quit the blacksmith shop at Grand Traverse, I turned my face toward the State of Ohio, for that object alone. I came to Little Traverse to bid a good-by to my father and relations late in October, 1845. I did not even stay half a day at Little Traverse. I started for Arbor Croche the same day I bid the last farewell to my folks, in order to obtain an opportunity there to get to Mackinac Island, from which I intended to take my passage for Cleveland. Arriving at Arbor Croche, which is fourteen miles from Little Traverse, I met an orphan boy, Paul Naw-o-ga-de by name, a distant relative, and proposed to pay his passage to Cleveland. The brother of this little boy had a boat of his own, and offered to take us to Mackinac Island, and I was vary glad of the opportunity. So the next day we started for Mackinac, not knowing what would become of us if my little means were exhausted and we should be unsuccessful in finding our old friend, Mr. Alvin Coe. The day we arrived at Mackinac we took passage for Cleveland. Arriving there we were scared at seeing so many people coming to us who wanted us to get into their cabs to take us to some hotel which might cost us two or three dollars a day. We went to Farmer's Hotel. In the evening the landlady was somewhat curious to know where we hailed from and where we were going to. I told her we came from Michigan, but we did not know yet where we should go to. I asked her if she ever knew or heard of a minister named Alvin Coe. "What,"--she seemed to be very much surprised--"Mr. Alvin Coe the traveling missionary?" I said, "Yes, the same." "Why, that is my own uncle. What is it about him?" "O, nothing; only I would like to know where he lives, and how far." I was equally surprised to think that we happened to meet one of his relatives, and thought at this moment, God must be with us in our undertaking. "You know my uncle, then," she said. I said, "Yes; he is my particular friend, and I am going to look for him." Of course, she told us the name of the town in which he lived, and how far and which road to take to get there. It also happened that there was one gentleman at Farmer's Hotel, who had been out west and came on the same boat on which we came, and he was going the next day in that direction on foot, and said he would guide us as far as he would go, which would be about twenty miles, and there was thirty miles to go after that. So the next day we started. Arriving late in the afternoon at the outskirts of the little village called Twinsburg, our white companion told us this is the place where he intended to stop for a while, and said, "You better stop with me for the night, and after supper you could visit the institution in the village and see the principal of the school here; you might possibly get a chance to attend that school, as you say that was your object in coming to this part of the country." I was very much surprised, as he had not said one word about it as we came along on the road. After supper, I went as he directed. As I approached the seminary I saw a good many boys playing on the square of the village, and I went and stood close by. Very soon one of the young men came up to me, saying, "Are you going to attend our school here?" I told him, "No, sir; I am going thirty miles further to attend some school there." "This is the best school that I know of anywhere about this country," he said. I asked him if he would introduce me to the proprietor of the school. "Most cheerfully," said he; "will you please to tell me what place you came from, and your name." "I came from Michigan, and my name is Blackbird." "All right, I will go with you." So we came to the professor's room, and he introduced me. "Well, Mr. Blackbird, do you wish to attend our school?" I said, "I do not know, sir, how that might be, as I have not much means to pay my way, but I am seeking for a man who invited me to come to come to Ohio some five years ago, and promised that he would help me all he could for my education. His name is Alvin Coe, a traveling missionary, my father's old friend." "We have two Indian boys here attending school, and I think you will not be very lonesome if you should conclude to stay with us." "What are their names?" I asked. "One is Francis Petoskey, and the other is Paul Ka-gwe-tosong." I said, "I know them both; I came from the same place they did, but I did not know they were here, I only knew they were attending school somewhere among the whites." "Can you do any kind of work?" "I am a blacksmith by trade, sir, and besides I can do most every other kind of work." He said, "If you conclude to stay, I will try to aid you in finding a place where you could work to pay for your lodging and board; and in the meantime we will cause Mr. Alvin Coe to come and see you, and if he sees fit to take you away he can do so, provided you would be willing to go with him." I told him I would stay, if I found a place to work to pay for my board, and provided that I could make some arrangement for the little companion who came with me. After considering a few moments, he proposed to take my little companion to his boarding house until a better arrangment could be made. This was the end of my conversation with this noble hearted professor and proprietor of this Institution, whose name was Rev. Samuel Bissell, of Twinsburg, Ohio. In the morning, after breakfast, I went back to the village and found arrangments were already made for both of us, and all we had to do was just to shift our quarters. I came to live with a young blacksmith in the village and work two hours in the morning and two hours in the evening, and many times I finished my hours at sunrise. Some time during the winter, my friend Mr. Alvin Coe came and took me off, with the understanding, however, that if I did not like the school where he was, I was to come back to Twinsburg. So in about two weeks I came back to the old institution, as I did not like the place. At last Dr. Brainsmade, of Newark, New Jersey, took a deep interest in my welfare and education, and he proposed to aid me and take me through the medical college. Therefore I quit working my hours in the shop and boarded at the institution, attending solely to my studies for over four years. I have already told my readers in previous chapters how bad I felt when I had to return to Michigan. After I came home I did everything towards the welfare and happiness of my people, beside attending to my aged father, as I found my people to be very different then from what they were, as they were beginning to have a free use of intoxicating liquors. I immediately caused the pledge to be signed in every village of the Indians, in which I was quite successful, as almost everyone pledged themselves never again to touch intoxicating drinks. I also advocated the right of citizenship for my people in the State of Michigan, although we were repeatedly told by our white neighbors that we could not very well be adopted as citizens of the State as long as we were receiving annuities from the general government on account of our former treaties. My object of promulgating this cause was, I thought it would be the only salvation of my people from being sent off to the west of the Mississippi, where perhaps, more than one-half would have died before they could be acclimated to the country to which they would be driven. I have suffered very great hardships for this cause, as I had to walk from Little Traverse through the dense forest, and almost the entire length of the southern peninsula of Michigan, in order to reach the authorities of the State to hold conference with them upon the subject of the citizenship of the Ottawas and Chippewas, and walked on snow-shoes in the middle of winter in company with one of our young chieftains from Cross Village. [Footnote: Mr. Wardsworth also accompanied us from Elk Rapids, on his way to Detroit to obtain a commission as surveyor on some part of the Grand Traverse region.] We were subjected to great exposure with only a camp fire for several days in the month of February. After crossing Houghton Lake, which is the head waters of the Muskegon river, that evening we swallowed the last morsel of food, and actually we traveled and camped out with empty stomachs for two days and a half before we came to any inhabited place. At last we struck the Te-ti-pe- wa-say (Tittabawassee), one of the principal branches of Saginaw river, and following down that stream on the ice we came to an Indian camp which stood by the river side, and also saw many human foot-prints on the ice, but the camp was deserted and we found nothing to eat. We left the place and once more followed the river, and after walking about half a mile we came to another Indian camp, and saw blue smoke coming out of it. As we came up to the camp we found nothing but women and children (all the men were out hunting). They gave us food, and we went on our journey the next day. We went to Detroit to see Judge Wing to obtain his legal opinion on the subject of the citizenship of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians of Michigan. We had a very pleasant visit with him, and he gave us as his legal opinion of this matter, that he did not think that it would debar us from being citizens of the State, because the Government owed us a little money on account of our former treaties, provided we should renounce our allegiance to our chiefs and recognize no other chief authority than the President of the United States; and that we would not be required to have any writ of naturalization as we are already naturalized by being American born. After a pleasant visit with Hon. Judge Wing, we next turned our faces to the State Legislature and Governor. In this also we thought we were very successful, for the Governor received us very kindly and gave us much good counsel on the subject of citizenship, giving us some instructions as to how we should live under the rule of the State if we should become the children of the same. He talked to us as though he was talking to his own son who had just come from a far country and asked his father's permission to stay in the household. After a pleasant visit with the Governor, and seeing some of the members of the State Legislature, receiving full assurance that our undertaking and object would be well looked after, we retraced our steps back to Little Traverse, to report the result of our visit. After that, not many Indians believed these flying reports gotten up by our white neighbors. In that year, the clause was put in the revised statutes of the State of Michigan, that every male person of Indian descent in Michigan not members of any tribe shall be entitled to vote. In the year 1855, I was again delegated to attend the council of Detroit for the treaty of 1855, and in that council I made several speeches before the Hon. Commissioner of Indian Affairs, Mr. Manypenny, of Washington, on the subject of our educational fund, $8000 per annum, which had been expended for the education of the Indian youths for the last nineteen years, and which was to be continued ten years longer. This sum had never been used directly for any scholars, but it was stated that it was given to the religious societies which had missions among the Michigan Indians. In that council I advocated that the said fund be retained in the hands of the general Government for the benefit of those Indian youths who really intended to be educated and who went among the whites or in civilized communities to be educated, and if it need be, to be used for the collegiate education of those Indian youths, but let the children at home be educated at home by taxation, and giving fully my reasons in advancing such proposition. The Hon. Commissioner was much taken up with my remarks on this subject, I being the youngest member, and told the older members of the council that he would like to hear some of them on this subject. "The young man who has been making remarks on this matter has a very good idea with regard to your educational funds; now let us hear farther remarks on this subject by some other members of the council." But not one Indian stirred. And again and again the next day, I tried to urge this matter to the Hon. Commissioner and the Indians to cooperate with me, but they would not, because my people were so ignorant they did not know the value of education, or else they misunderstood the whole subject. On the third day, as I was about getting up to make further remarks upon this subject, one of the old members, who was the most unworthy of all the company, as he got very drunk the day we arrived in Detroit and was locked up in jail as disorderly two or three days, arose and said to the Commissioner that I was not authorized by any of the council to get up here and make such remarks. "We did not come here to talk about education, but came expressly to form a treaty." Then burst into a great laughter all the spectators of the council and some of the members too. I was told afterwards that it was a put up job to prevent any change by the persons who had been handling for years this Indian educational fund, as there were a number of them in the council hall. Thus was lost one of the most noble objects which ought to have been first looked after. After the council dispersed and came home, I sat down and wrote a long article, giving the full history of the past in regard to this matter; how our educational fund, $8000 per annum, had been handled and conducted for nearly twenty years, and yet not one Indian youth could spell the simplest word in the English language, and these writings I had published in the Detroit Tribune for public inspection. CHAPTER VIII. Becoming Protestant--Persecutions--Second Attempt to go to School-- Trials With Indian Agent--Governor Lewis Cass--Struggle During Education--Getting Married--Coming Home--Government Interpreter and Postmaster. The next five years were passed among my people, doing a little of everything, laboring, teaching, and interpreting sermons among the Protestant missions--for there were by this time two Protestant missions established among the Ottawas of Arbor Croche, one at Bear River, now Petoskey, and another at Middle Village or Arbor Croche proper, where I acted as an assistant teacher and interpreter. I met much opposition from the Catholic community, because I had already become a Protestant and left the Romish church, not by any personal persuasion, however, but by terrible conviction on reading the word of God--"That there is no mediator between God and man but one, which is Christ Jesus, who was crucified for the remission of sins." One Sunday, some friend persuaded me to come to the church, but when the priest saw me he came and forcibly ejected me out of the room. The same priest left the Indian country soon afterwards, and it seems he went to England, and just before he died he wrote to my sister a very touching epistle, in which he said nothing about himself or any one in Little Traverse, but from the beginning to the end of the letter he expressed himself full of sorrow for what he had done to me when in this country among the Indians, and asking of me forgivness for his wrongs towards me. Soon after the council of Detroit, I became very discontented, for I felt that I ought to have gone through with my medical studies, or go to some college and receive a degree and then go and study some profession. But where is the means to take me through for completing my education? was the question every day. So, after one payment of the treaty of 1855, late in the fall of 1856, I went up to Mr. Gilbert, who was then Indian agent, and made known to him my intention, and asked him if he would aid me towards completing my education, by arranging for me to receive the benefit of our educational fund, which was set apart at the last council for the education of the Indians in this State. But he would not. He bluffed me off by saying he was sorry I had voted the "black republican ticket," at the general election, which took place that fall of 1856. This was the first time that the Indians ever voted on general election. Mr. Gilbert was at North Port, Grand Traverse, on election day, managing the Indian votes there, and he sent a young man to Little Traverse to manage the voting there and sit as one of the Board at the Little Traverse election. He sent the message to Indians to vote no other ticket but the democratic ticket. At this election there were only two republican votes in Little Traverse, one of which was cast by myself. As I was depositing my ballot, this young man was so furiously enraged at me he fairly gnashed his teeth, at which I was very much surprised, and from my companion they tried to take away the ticket. Then they tried to make him exchange his ticket, but he refused. We went out quickly, as we did not wish to stay in this excitement. At that time I felt almost sorry for my people, the Indians, for ever being citizens of the State, as I thought they were much happier without these elections. After payment of our annuities, as the vessel was about starting off to take the Indian agent to Mackinac, they had already hoisted the sails, although there was not much wind, and I thought, this was the last chance to get to Mackinac. As I looked toward the vessel I wept, for I felt terribly downcast. As they were going very slowly toward the harbor point, I asked one of the Indian youngsters to take me and my trunk in a canoe to the vessel out there. I had now determined to go, in defiance of every opposition, to seek my education. [Footnote: Indians are now forbidden to leave their reservations without permission from the agent, so no ambitious and determined youth can now escape from the Indian Bureau machine.--ED.] I hurried to our house with the boy, to get my trunk and bid good bye to my aged father, and told him I was going again to some school outside, and if God permitted I hoped to return again to Little Traverse. All my father said was, "Well, my son, if you think it is best, go." And away we went. We overtook the vessel somewhere opposite Little Portage, and as I came aboard the agent's face turned red. He said, "Are you going?" I said, "Yes sir, I am going." So nothing more was said. The greater part of the night was spent by the agent and the captain gambling with cards, by which the agent lost considerable money. We arrived the next day at Mackinac, and again I approached the Indian agent with request if he could possibly arrange for me to have the benefit of our Indian educational fund, set apart for that purpose at the council of Detroit, 1855; and again he brought up the subject of my voting. Then I was beginning to feel out of humor, and I spoke rather abruptly to him, saying, "Well, sir, I now see clearly that you don't care about doing anything for my welfare because I voted for the republican party. But politics have nothing to do with my education; for the Government of the United States owes us that amount of money, not politics. I was one of the councilors when that treaty was made, and I will see some other men about this matter, sir." His face turned all purple, and as I was turning about to keep away from him, he called me back, saying, "Mr. Blackbird, how far do you intend to go to get your education?" I said, "I intend to go to Ann Arbor University, sir." "Well, I will do this much for you: I will pay your fare to Detroit. I am going by way of Chicago, but you can go down by the next boat, which will be here soon from Chicago." I thanked him, and he handed me money enough to pay my fare to Detroit. So I reached Detroit, and went to Dr. Stuben's house and inquired my way to Governor Cass' residence; and when I knocked at the door, behold it was he himself came to the door. I shook hands with him and said, "My friend, I would like to speak to you a few moments." "Is it for business?" he asked. "Yes sir, it is." "Well, my boy, I will listen to what you have to say." I therefore began, saying, "Well, my friend, I come from Arbor Croche. I am the nephew of your old friend, 'Warrior Wing,' am seeking for education, but I have no means; and I come to see you expressly to acquaint you with my object, and to ask you the favor of interceding for me to the Government to see if they could possibly do something towards defraying my expenses in this object. That is all I have to say." The old man raised his spectacles and said, "Why, why! your object is a very good one. I was well acquainted with your uncle in the frontier of Michigan during the war of 1812. Have you seen and told the Indian agent of this matter?" "Yes sir, I have asked him twice, but he would not do anything for me." "Why, why! it seems to me there is ample provision for your people for that object, and has been for the last twenty years. What is the matter with him?" I said, "I don't know, sir." "Well, well; I am going to Washington in a few days, and shall see the Indian Commissioner about this matter, and will write to you from there on the subject. I know they can do something toward defraying your expenses. Where do you intend to go?" I said, "I don't know, yet, sir, but I thought of going to the University at Ann Arbor." "Is it possible? are you prepared to enter such a college?" I told him I thought I was. "Well, sir, I think you had better go to Ypsilanti State Normal School instead of Ann Arbor: it is one of the best colleges in the State." This was the first time I ever heard of that school, and it sounded quite big to me; so I told him that I would gladly attend that school, provided I had means to do so. "Well, then, it is settled. You shall go to Ypsilanti, and I will direct my letter to Ypsilanti when I write to you; and now mind nobody, but just go about your business." After thanking him for his good counsel I shook hands with the old man and left. The next day was a terrible snow storm, but, however, I started out for Ypsilanti, which is only about thirty miles from Detroit. Of course, as I was totally a stranger in the place, I put up at a hotel, although my means were getting very short. The next day I went about to find out all about the institution, cost of tuition, and private board, etc., and saw some of the professors of the institution, but I did not dare to make any arrangements for a steady boarding place and begin school for fear Governor Cass should fail of getting help from the Goverment. Therefore, instead of beginning to go to school, I went and hired out on a farm about three miles from the city, and continued to work there for about three weeks before I heard from Governor Cass. At last the old farmer brought a package of letters from the post-office, one of which was post marked at Washington, D. C., and another from Detroit. I fairly trembled as I opened the one which I thought was from Governor Cass, as between doubt and hope, but my fears were suddenly changed into gladness, and quickly as possible I settled with the farmer, and away I went towards the city, singing as I went along. By intercession of Governor Cass, it was proposed to pay my whole expenses--board, clothes, books, tuition, etc. The other letter was from the Indian Agent, calling me to come down to Detroit, as he had already received some instructions from the Commissioner of Indian Affairs to look after me and to arrange the matters of my schooling at Ypsilanti State Normal School. O, how I did hate to have to meet the Indian Agent again on this subject; to stand before him, and to have him think that I had overcome him, and succeeded in spite of his opposition to my desire. O, how I wished this matter could have been arranged without his assistance. However, I started out for Detroit the same evening I received these communications, and went to the agent. He never even said, "How do you do?" but immediately began, saying, "Well, sir, how much do you think that it will cost for your schooling at Ypsilanti?" "I don't know, sir," I responded. "Well, who knows? I think you ought to know, as you have been there," he said, in a gruff voice. "I have not been to school at all, sir," I said, "but have been working on a farm up to this morning." "Working on a farm, eh? I thought you came here on purpose to attend school?" "I did, sir; but you know I was very short of means, so I had to do something to keep me alive." "Can't you tell me the cost for your board per week?" "The private board is from $3.50 to $4 per week, sir, as according to accommodation." "How much for books and clothing?" "I don't know, sir; but I think I have enough clothing for at least one year." In the morning I went back to Ypsilanti, and with the aid of the professors of the institution I got a good boarding place. I attended this institution almost two years and a half, when I could not hold out any longer, as my allowance for support from the Government was so scanty it did not pay for all my necessary expenses. I have always attributed this small allowance to the Indian Agent who was so much against me. I tried to board myself and to live on bread and water; and therefore hired a room which cost me 75 cents a week, and bought bread from the bakeries, which cost me about 50 cents a week, and once in a while I had fire-wood as I did not keep much fire. I stood it pretty well for three months, but I could not stand it any longer. I was very much reduced in flesh, and on the least exertion I would be trembling, and I began to be discouraged in the prosecution of my studies. By this time I was in the D class, but class F was the graduating class in that institution, which I was exceedingly anxious to attain; but I imagined that I was beginning to be sick on account of so much privation, or that I would starve to death before I could be graduated, and therefore I was forced to abandon my studies and leave the institution. As I did not have any money to pay my passage homeward, I wept about working and occasionally lecturing on the subject of the Indians of Michigan, and at last I had enough means to return home and try to live once more according to the means and strength of my education. September 4th, 1858, I was joined in wedlock to the young lady who is still my beloved wife, and now we have four active children for whom I ever feel much anxiety that they might be educated and brought up in a Christian manner. Soon after I came to my country my father died at a great age. The first year we lived in Little Traverse we struggled quite hard to get along, but in another year I was appointed U. S. Interpreter by the Hon. D. C. Leach, U. S. Indian Agent for Mackinac Indian Agency, to whom I ever feel largely indebted, and I continued to hold this situation under several of his successors in office. During the Rebellion I was loyal to the Government, and opposed the bad white men who were then living in the Indian country, who tried to mislead my people as to the question of the war, to cause them to be disloyal. After the war was over, I was appointed as an auxiliary prosecutor of the Indian soldier claims, as quite a number of our people also helped to put down this rebellion, and many were killed and wounded. But most of this kind of business I performed without reward. Before I was fairly out as Interpreter, I was appointed with a very small salary as postmaster at Little Traverse, now Harbor Springs, where I discharged my duties faithfully and honestly for eleven years. But the ingress of the white population in this Indian country increased much from 1872-73 and onward. The office was beginning to be a paying one, and I was beginning to think that I was getting over the bridge, when others wanted the office, my opponents being the most prominent persons. Petitions were forwarded to Washington to have me removed, although no one ever had any occasion to complain of having lost his money or letter through this office during my administration. At last, the third assistant postmaster general at Washington wrote me a kind of private letter, stating that the main ground of the complaint was, that my office was too small and inconvenient for the public, and advising me to try and please the public as well as I could. And consequently I took what little money I had saved and built a comfortable office, but before the building was thoroughly completed I was removed. This left me penniless in this cold world, to battle on and to struggle for my existence; and from that time hence I have not held any office, nor do I care to. I only wish I could do a little more for the welfare of my fellow-beings before I depart for another world, as I am now nearly seventy years old, and will soon pass away. I wish my readers to remember that the above history of my existence is only a short outline. If time and means permitted, many more interesting things might be related. CHAPTER IX. Some of the Legends of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians Respecting the Great Flood of the World--A Person Swallowed Up Alive Like a Prophet Jonah. Before proceeding with the history of the Ottawas and Chippewas some of their most important and peculiar legends will be given. They have a tradition of a great flood, as is recorded it the Bible History, and many other tribes of Indians who speak dialect of the Ottawa and Chippewa languages have the same story. The legends say it was caused, not by a rain, but by the great Ne-naw-bo-zhoo, who was the most remarkable, wonderful, and supernatural being that ever trod upon the earth. He could transfigure himself into the shape of all animals and live with them for a great length of time. He has done much mischief and also many benefits to the inhabitants of the earth whom he called "his nephews;" and he shaped almost everything, teaching his nephews what materials they should take for their future utensils. This mischievous Ne-naw-bo-zhoo spoiled the sugar trees by diluting their sap with water. The legends say, that once upon a time the sugar trees did produce sap at certain season of the year which was almost like a pure syrup; but when this mischievous Ne-naw-bo-zhoo had tasted it, he said to himself, "Ah, that is too cheap. It will not do. My nephews will obtain this sugar too easily in the future time and the sugar will be worthless." And therefore he diluted the sap until he could not taste any sweetness therein. Then he said, "Now my nephews will have to labor hard to make the sugar out of this sap, and the sugar will be much more valuable to them in the future time." In former times the heart of every tree contained fat from which all inhabitants of the earth obtained delicious oil to eat; but this mischievous Ne-naw-bo- zhoo, in his supernatural way, pushed his staff into the heart of every tree; and this is the reason why the heart of every tree has a different color. There was no great ark in which to float during the great flood, but when Ne-naw-bo-zhoo could not find any more dry land to run to when he was pursued with mountains of water, he said, "let there be a great canoe." So there was a great canoe which he entered with his animals and floated. As to the origin of Ne-naw-bo-zhoo, the legend says, that once upon a time there lived a maiden with her grandmother, who was a very dutiful and obedient child, observing every precept which was taught her by her grandmother, and she spent much time fasting; during which time she had wonderful dreams which she related to her grandmother every morning during her fast days. She very often had a vision of holding conversation with some deities and finally she was assured in a vision, that her children would be terrible and would redeem all the inhabitants of the earth from their various calamities; and accordingly, she bore two sons. The first born was like any other human child, but the last one was a monster which caused the death of its mother, and, although shaped like a human being, as soon as born ran off in the wilderness and was never again seen by any person; but the first child was nourished and reared by the grandmother. When this child grew to be playful and talkative by the side of its grandmother, he was so strange that very often she would say to him, "Your actions are like a Ne-naw-bo-zhoo." Then the child would reply, "I am the great Ne-naw-bo-zhoo on this earth." The meaning of this word in the Algonquin language is "a clown" and therefore he meant that he was the great "clown" of the world. When Ne-naw-bo-zhoo became a man he was a great prophet for his nephews and an expert hunter. His hunting dog was a great black wolf. When he learned from his grandmother, that his mother was dead and that his brother was a monster with a body like flint stone which caused her death, Ne-naw-bo-zhoo was in a great rage after hearing the story and he determined to seek for this evil being and slay him. Then he immediately prepared for a long journey, and trimmed his ponderous war club nicely and prepared to be in a great battle. So off he went with his great black wolf on the war path. As he passed through the forest, for a trial of his strength and the strength of his war club, he simply made motions with it toward one of the tallest pines of the forest and the gigantic tree came down all into slivers. "Ah," said Ne-naw- bo-zhoo, "who could stand against my strength and the strength of my war club." After many days journey going into every nook and loop hole of the earth, he succeeded at last in having a glimpse of the object of his search. Ne-naw-bo-zhoo ran to overtake him, and chased him all over the world; and every now and then he would be close enough to reach him with his war-club and to strike at him, but he would only break a piece of the monster's stony body, which was like a mountain of hard flintstone. So the legend says that whenever we find a pile of hard flints lying on the face of the earth, there is where Ne-naw-bo-zhoo overtook his brother monster and struck him with his tremendous war-club. At last he vanquished him on the east shore of Grand Traverse Bay, Michigan, near the place now called Antrim City, but formerly by the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians, it was called "Pe-wa-na-go-ing," meaning "Flinty Point," so called because there were great rocks of flint lying near the edge of the lake shore. And so the Ottawas and Chippewas say it is there where the old carcass of the monster is now lying--the brother of the great Ne-naw-bo-zhoo. After that he traveled over almost every part of this continent sometimes in the shape of an animal and then again in human shape. There is an impression of human foot tracks on a very smooth rock some where along the Ottawa river in Canada, and also a round hole about as large and deep as a common brass kettle on this flat rock near where the track is and every Ottawa and Chippewa calls these "Ne-naw-bo-zhoo's track" and "Ne-naw-bo-zhoo's kettle where he dropped it when chasing his brother," and then they would drop a piece of tobacco in the kettle as a sacrifice, at the same time praying for luck and a prosperous journey to Montreal and back again to Michigan, their native home, when passing this place. Now the cause of the great flood was this: The god of the deep was exceedingly jealous about Ne-naw-bo-zhoo's hunting dog (the great black wolf) and therefore, he killed it and made a feast with it and invited many guests, which were represented as sea-serpents, water-tigers, and every kind of monster of the deep, and they had a great feast. When Ne- naw-bo-zhoo found out what had become of his hunting dog, he was furiously enraged, and determined to kill this god of the deep. There was a certain place where he was accustomed to come on the shore with his hosts, particularly on very fine days, to sun themselves and enjoy the pleasure of being on a dry land. Ne-naw-bo-zhoo knew this lovely spot very well. So right away he strung up his bow and trimmed his arrows nicely, and went there to watch, transforming himself into a black stump, near where these water gods usually lay down to enjoy themselves. And therefore, one very fine day the sea-serpents and water-tigers were very anxious to come on shore as usual and asked their master to accompany them, but he replied: "I fear the great Ne- naw-bo-zhoo might be lurking about there, and he will kill me because I have killed and eaten up his black wolf." But he at last told them to go on shore and examine the place and report if it was all clear; but they found nothing unusual about the place except the old black stump, which they never before observed to be there. Therefore, they went back to their master and reported that nothing was there to be afraid of except the old black stump which they never noticed before. "Go again," said their master "and closely examine the stump; peradventure, it was he transfigured into the shape of the stump." So again they came ashore and one of the water-tigers climbed upon it, inserting his long, sharp claws as he went up, but he saw nothing strange. So, also the sea- serpent went up to it and coiled himself around the stump so tight that Ne-naw-bo-zhoo nearly screamed with pain. At last the serpent uncoiled himself and they went back to their master and reported to him that it was nothing but an old stump. So the god of the sea concluded to come ashore with all his hosts, slowly and cautiously looking in every direction as he was still afraid that Ne-naw-bo-zhoo might be lurking around there and watching. Soon they were dozing upon the hot sand of the beach, then Ne-naw-bo-zhoo unmasked himself and fixed one of his best arrows into his bow and shot the god of the deep right through the heart. Then all the host started to pursue the slayer of their master. Ne-naw-bo-zhoo fled for his life; but he was pursued by the host with mountains of water. He ran all over the earth, still pursued with the mountains of water. So when he could not find any more dry land to run to he commanded a great canoe to be formed in which he and the animals who were fleeing before the water, were saved. After they floated, Ne- naw-bo-zhoo wondered very much how deep was the water. Therefore, he ordered one of the beavers to go down to the bottom of the deep and bring up some earth if he could, as evidence that he did go to the bottom. So the beaver obeyed, and he went down, but the water was so deep the beaver died before he reached the bottom, and therefore, he came up floating as a dead beaver. Ne-naw-bo-zhoo drew him up into his canoe and resuscitated the beaver by blowing into his nostrils. So he waited a little while longer, and afterwards he ordered the muskrat to go down; but the muskrat did not like the idea, for he had seen the beaver coming up lifeless. So he had to flatter him a little in order to induce him to go down, by telling him, "Now, muskrat, I know that thou art one of the best divers of all the animal creation; will you please go down and ascertain the depth of the water, and bring up some earth in your little paws, if you can, with which I shall try to make another world? Now go my little brother,"--the legend says that he called all the animal creation his little brothers,--"for we cannot always live on the waters." At last the muskrat obeyed. He went down, and descended clear to the bottom of the water, and grabbed the earth and returned. But the water was yet so deep that before he reached the surface of the water, he expired. As Ne-naw-bo-zhoo drew him up into his great canoe to resuscitate him, he observed the muskrat still grasping something in his little paws, and behold, it was a piece of earth. Then Ne-naw-bo-zhoo knew that the muskrat went clear to the bottom of the deep. He took this piece of earth and fixed it into a small parcel; which he fastened to the neck of the raven which was with him. Now, with this parcel, Ne-naw-bo-zhoo told the raven to fly to and fro all over the face of the waters; then the waters began to recede very fast, and soon the earth came back to its natural shape, just as it was before. Again this same Ne-naw-bo-zhoo was once swallowed by a fish, and after being carried about in the midst of the deep, he came out again and lived as well as ever, like the Prophet Jonah. This Ottawa and Chippewa legend is, that once upon a time there was a great fish that resided in a certain lake, and as the people passed through this lake in their canoes, this great fish was accustomed to come after those crossing the lake and if he overtook them he would swallow them up, canoe and all, like swallowing a little clam in its shell. So Ne-naw-bo-zhoo said to himself, "This great fish will eat up all my nephews. Now I must somehow dispose of him." And he went to the lake in his canoe expressly to look for the fish, singing daring songs as he went along. After he came in the midst of it, there he stopped, but kept on singing the following words: "Mishe-la-me-gwe Pe-le-wi-ko-lishim, Pe-la-wi-ko- lishim"--daring the fish to come and swallow him up. So at last the great fish, Mishi-la-me-gwe, did come and swallow the great Ne-naw-bo- zhoo. But this was just what he wanted. After being swallowed, he was able to dispose of this big fish, for with his weapons he caused the fish such pain that he ran on the shore and died. After which, Ne-naw- bo-zhoo came out like the Prophet Jonah, and he went home and sat down to smoke his pipe, perfectly satisfied that he had saved many people by disposing of this great fish. These are some of the legends told among the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians, as related in their own language, which are in some things quite similar to the records of the Bible. CHAPTER X. Traditions of the Ottawas Regarding Their Early History--Their Wars and Their Confederations With Other Tribes of Indians. Very many centuries ago, before the discovery of the American continent by the white people, the traditions of the Ottawas say they lived along the banks of one of the largest tributaries of the St. Lawrence, now known as the Ottawa river. The Ottawas spread over the country around the head waters of this stream, subduing all other tribes of Indians which they happened to encounter, except the Chippewas and Stockbridge Indians. They have been always friendly and closely related with these tribes, and consequently no war-club was ever raised by either of these against the other. Their language is of the same root, as they could quite intelligently understand each other. Their manners and customs in every way correspond. Their legends, particularly respecting the flood, and their belief in the Supreme Being, the great creator of all things --Ketchi-mat-ne-do--is very much the same; also their belief in the evil spirit, whose habitation was under the earth. To this deity they offered sacrifices as well as to the other gods or deities. These offerings were called in those days peace-offerings and down-offerings. They never sacrificed flesh of animals to the evil spirit. Their offering to this deity was parched corn pounded, then cooked into hominy; this was sacrificed to the evil spirit, not because they loved him, but to appease his wrath. Although the Chippewas speak almost the same language as the Ottawas and Stockbridge Indians, yet they seem to belong to another family of Indians, as they are much taller than the Ottawas and Stockbridges, and broader across the shoulders--having a full chest, very erect and striding firmly in their walking. They were much more numerous than the Ottawa Indians. They extended from lower Canada north-westward up to Manitoba county. There are three kinds of Chippewas, each kind having a different dialect. The Chippewas in Canada, around the Straits of Mackinaw, the islands in Lake Michigan, Sault Ste. Marie, and west of Lake Superior, are much more enlightened and intelligent, and these, we called common Chippewas; but those on the plains further north or northwest of Lake Superior, "the wild Chippewas;" and those on the north side of Lake Superior going toward Hudson Bay; we called "the Backwoodsmen." This latter race lived entirely by hunting and fishing and endured very great hardships sometimes, particularly, when there was scarcity of game. The Chippewas were very brave people on the war path, and their principal foes were Sioux Indians on the plains. These were called in the Ottawa language "Naw-do-wa-see," and in the Chippewa "Au-bwan." The plurals are "Naw-do-wa-see-wog" and "Au-bwan-og." The "Naw-do-wa-see-wog" are deadly enemies of the Ottawas and Chippewas, and they are the most careless of their lives, for they taught their children from infancy not to fear death. But the Ottawas were, however, considered as the most ancient tribe of Indians and were called by the other tribe "their big brother." Although they are a smaller race, in stature, then many other tribes, they were known as the most wise and sagacious people. Every tribe belonging to all the Algonquin family of Indians looked up to the Ottawas for good counsel; and they were as brave as the Chippewas and very expert on the warpath. Every tribe of Indians has a different coat of arms, or symbolical sign by which they are known to one another. The emblem of the Ottawas is a moose; of the Chippewas, a sea gull; of the Backswoodsmen, a rabbit; that of the underground tribe, to which I belong, is a species of hawk; and that of the Seneca tribe of Indians is a crotch of a tree. The Ottawa Indians are very nearly extinct in the state of Michigan as there are only two or three families in the state, whose national emblem is a moose, showing them to be descended from pure Ottawa blood; but those who represented themselves as the Ottawas in this state are descendants from various tribes of Indians, even some are Senecas, of the Iroquois family--formerly deadly enemies of the Ottawas. The cause of this mixture is by intermarriage, and by prisoners of war in former times. The first man who signed the treaty of 1886, one of the Chippewas of the Grand River Indians, whose name was "Mixinene," was a descendant of the Backwoodsmen, whose emblem was a rabbit. Therefore, all the rest of those Chippewas who went to Washington to form a treaty with the Government felt displeased about this matter and tried to ignore the signature of Mixinene, because they thought that the first signature should have been made by a pure Ottawa or a pure Chippewa, because they had the first right to the land of Michigan. But the "Backwoodsmen," they considered, had no claim nor title to this land which they ceded to the Government of the United States. But the Government did not know the difference, however,--all she wanted was the land. So all the Chiefs of the Ottawas and Chippewas signed this said treaty, not with free will, but by compulsion. The tradition gives no reason why the Ottawas continually moved towards the northwest at this early period; but it is, however, supposed that it was on account of their deadly enemies, the Iroquois of New York, as they were continually at war with the six nations of Indians. Quite often, the Iroquois would attack them, but the tradition says that in almost every battle the Ottawas would come out victorious over the Iroquois. The Ottawas too, in retaliation, would go to the Iroquois country to scalp some of the Iroquois; then have their jubilees over these scalps by feasting and dancing around them. At this stage of their existence they were an exceedingly fierce and warlike people, not only contending with these tribes, but also with many others out west and south, even to the Chocktaw and Cherokee country and to the Flatheads, Sioux Indians and the Underground race of people out west. As the Ottawas continued moving up on this beautiful stream of water, they at last came to a large lake, the head waters of the river. The surrounding scenery of the lake was most surprisingly beautiful. They immediately named this lake Ke-tchi-ne-bissing, which name it bears to this day. Here the Ottawas concluded to stop and occupy the surrounding country. Therefore, they pitched their tents and formed a great village. They continued to reside around the lake for untold ages. And here too they had many hard battles with the Iroquois; but the Iroquois were not able to conquer them or drive them from the country. But at last the Ottawas became discontented with the place. They concluded that the place was haunted by some presiding deity who was not favorable to them. They probably obtained this idea through having sometimes great disasters in war with the Iroquois at this place. I will here relate an incident which happened to the Ottawas at about this time, and which was the origin of their belief that the deity of the place was unfavorable to them. It may be considered as purely fictitious, but every Ottawa and Chippewa to this day believes it to have actually occurred. A woman went down to the beach of lake Ke-tchi-ne-bissing to wash some of her clothing, taking along her infant child, which was tied up on a board, according to the fashion of the Indians. When she reached the beach, she set her child down very near the edge of the water that it might watch its mother while at work. Her wigwam stood not far from the lake, and in a few moments she ran to it for something. On her return to the spot she was terribly surprised not to find her child where she had left it but a few minutes before. She ran frantically through the village, crying and screaming, and saying that some one had stolen her baby. A few days after this, two lovers sat upon the top of the highest hillock which stood back of the village. While they were talking very much love to each other, they heard an infant crying bitterly, in the ground directly under them. Every one who heard the report said at once that it must be the same baby who was mysteriously missing on the beach a few days before. The next day all the magicians were called together and requested to divine this mystery. Some went and put themselves into the state of clairvoyance, which was a very common practice among the Ottawas and Chippewas within my time, and is still practiced to-day where there is no Christianity predominating among the Indians. Other magicians built themselves lodges in which to call their favorite spirits in order to commune with them. This, which we might call Spiritualism, was practiced among the Indians much as among the whites at the present day. The form of these lodges was like a tower in circular form built with long poles set deep in the ground ten or twelve feet high, then covered tight all around with canvass or skins of animals, except the top is left open. Now the magician or the performer comes with the little flat magician's rattle like a tamborine. They always build a fire close to the lodge so that the attendants and spectators could light their pipes, as they generally smoke much during the performance. The magician sits by the fire also, and begins to talk to the people, telling them that he could call up various spirits, even the spirit of those who are yet living in the world, and that they should hear them and ask them any questions they wish. After which he begins to sing a peculiar song which scarcely any one could understand. Then he either goes into the lodge by crawling under, or sits out side with the rest of the audience, and simply throws something of his wear in the lodge--his blanket or his robe or coat. And immediately the lodge begins to tremble, appearing to be full of wind. Then voices of various kinds are heard from top to bottom, some speaking in unknown tongues, and when the spectators ask any questions they would receive replies sometimes with unknown tongues, but among the spirits there is always a special interpreter to make known what other spirits says. After the magicians had finished their incantations, one of them, whom they thought greatest of all, went down to the beach to the place where the child had been missing. The water was very deep there along the beach quite close to the shore. He plunged in the lake and was gone under water for a long time. At last he came up and reported that he had discovered a doorway under deep water for a passage which seemed to lead toward the top of the hill. He believed through this passage the child was conveyed to the top of the hill by some evil monster, and all the rest of the magicians agreed with this opinion. Therefore, they returned to their village to hold another council and they concluded to dig down wherever the magicians would direct and try to find the passage. They found the passage after making a very deep hole which to this day is said to be yet visible at Ke-tchi-ne-bissing. While they were digging, two supernatural monsters ran out of the place; and at last at the top of the hill they found a cavern where the dead form of the child was discovered. CHAPTER XI. The Ottawas Moving Again Towards the Setting Sun--Coming to Manitoulin, or Ottawa Island--The Names of Their Leaders--The Wenebago Warriors Coming to Ottawa Island in a Hostile Manner, Headed by O-saw-wah-ne-me- kee, "The Yellow Thunder"--Death of Kaw-be-naw, one of the Greatest Prophets and Warriors of the Ottawas--Massacre in the Country of Waw- gaw-na-ke-zhe, or Arbor Croche, Emmet County, Michigan. Soon after the loss of the child, the Ottawas abandoned the country and again moved toward the setting sun until they came to Lake Huron. Here they discovered a great island which is now called Manitoulin, but formerly, the Ottawa Island. Here the Ottawas remained for many more centuries. Here too, was born one of the greatest warriors and prophets that the Ottawas ever had, whose name was Kaw-be-naw. This word is accented on the last syllable,--its definition is--"He would be brought out." There are many curious and interesting adventures related of this great warrior and prophet, a record of which would require a large book. But I will here give one of the last acts of his life. It is related that he became tired of living and killing so many people. He desired to die; but he could not. It is also related that the We-ne-be- go tribe of Indians had also one man who was almost equal in power to Kaw-be-naw whose name was "O-saw-wa-ne-me-kee"--the "Yellow Thunder." Having heard the fame of Kaw-be-naw, he was very anxious to meet him on the warpath, that he might have an opportunity to contend with him in battle. And consequently he formed a most enormous expedition to the Island with his numerous warriors expressly to meet Kaw-be-naw. But Kaw-be-naw knowing everything that was going on in the Wenebago country, told his people to prepare for a great war, for numerous Wenebagoes were coming to the Island headed with O-saw-wah-ne-me-kee in a very hostile manner. At last O-saw-wah-ne-me-kee landed with his warriors on the Island, and marched towards the largest village of the Ottawas, which was situated in the interior of the Island where there was a lake. So Kaw-be-naw starts with his wife, pretending that he was going after cedar bark, but his real object was to meet the Wenebagoes on their march toward the village. When he saw the Wenebagoes coming, he told his wife to run home quickly and tell nobody what she had seen, and he alone went to meet them. When they saw him he did not try to get away, so they easily captured him. Of course the Wenebagoes knew not that he was the very man they were seeking. They asked him many questions as to the condition of the Ottawas, how many there were in the village, and whether Kaw-be-naw was at home or not. He told them the Ottawas were in good condition to fight, but Kaw-be-naw was not at home just then, but would probably be home by to-morrow or day after, as he was gone only to get cedar bark somewhere. The Wenebagoes made a deep pit in the ground and after tieing Kaw-be-naw they threw him in the pit and covered him with heavy stones and dirt and then marched on. When they came in view of the village they halted. They concluded that they would not make the attack until morning. Kaw-be-naw, after lying awhile in the pit, magically released himself and went home, and told his people that the Wenebagoes were very close at hand; and by to- morrow there would be a great battle, so every man must be well prepared. The village was in terrible anxiety that night, the women and children were all gathered in one place and the warriors in another, and the village was well guarded. Early in the morning the war cry was heard, and every warrior went forward to meet the Wenebagoes, but Kaw- be-naw remained in his lodge while his warriors were fighting. The old O-saw-wah-ne-me-kee was nearly naked and frightfully painted from head to foot, so that he looked more like a demon than a human being. Of course he did not know who might be Kaw-be-naw among the Ottawas, therefore he sang out, saying, "Where is your great Kaw-be-naw? I should like to meet him in this battle." So one of the warriors replied, "Don't you know that you have buried our great Kaw-be-naw in the pit yesterday?" "Thanks to the Great Spirit for delivering the Ottawas into my hands," said old O-saw-wah-ne-me-kee triumphantly. Just then, Kaw-be-naw came out of his lodge in full uniform of black bear skins, with his ponderous war club in his hand, and mocked his antagonist by saying, "Thanks to the Great Spirit, here I am; and now meet me all you want." Kaw-be-naw looked so grand and noble, and was such an extraordinary personage that O-saw-wah-ne-me-kee did not know what to do with himself, whether to yield or to fight. But remembering his previous threats, he made out to face him. However Kaw-be-naw did not take long to dispose of him; O-saw-wah-ne-me-kee was soon slain. When the Wenebagoes saw that their great warrior was no more, they immediately raised a flag of truce, and requested that they might acknowledge themselves as conquered and depart in peace. During the affray with O-saw-wah-ne-me-kee, Kaw-be-naw received a little scratch on his nose which drew a few drops of his blood, and therefore when he saw a flag of truce he disarmed himself and went to the Wenebagoes, saying, "O, you have killed me." The Wenebagoes said, "How and where?" "Don't you see the blood on my nose?" "Pshaw, that is only a scratch," said the Wenebagoes. "Well, that very thing will cause me to die." The Wenebagoes tried to send him away, but he would not leave them. At last they took him prisoner. They tied him with small strong cord which every warrior generally carries in case of capture. As they journeyed towards their home one fine day, they began to council about him, saying, "This man will never die. When we get him into our country, he will make a terrible slaughter among our women and children. We better dispose of him before we reach home." So they concluded to sink him into deep water. Therefore they tied a big stone about his neck and put him overboard. They went on rejoicing and traveled all day in their canoes, thinking that they had disposed of the greatest man in the world and were very much elated at the idea; forgetting how he had once escaped after being buried in a deep pit. When evening came, they encamped for the night. While they were preparing their food, they saw a man coming along on the beach toward them who appeared to them like Kaw-be-naw. The Wenebagoes were in terrible consternation. Soon he came up to them, and behold it was he. Then the Wenebagoes were in great terror. But as he came up to them he spoke very pleasently, saying, "Ho, what a pleasant journey we have had to-day. Well, children, have you any meat? I am getting quite hungry after traveling all day." Of course they had to treat him as well as they could, and Kaw-be-naw came into the midst of them. That night the Wenebagoes lay awake all night, and they thought every moment they would be slaughtered by Kaw-be-naw in revenge for trying to drown him. In the morning after breakfast as they were preparing to go Kaw-be-naw spoke to them saying, "Children, if you want to kill me, I will tell you how. You must take all the flesh from off my body by cutting it piece by piece with your knives, and leave no flesh upon my bones; for this is the only way that I can be killed." The Wenebagoes were terribly frightened as they thought that so soon as any one would touch him he would kill every Wenebago. So they held a council to determine what they should do. But the majority were in favor of performing this dreadful act, as Kaw-be-naw ordered, for he desired to die. When they came back, Kaw-be-naw persisted that they should begin, and assured them that he would never resist. At last, one of the bravest Wenebagoes went up to him and cut a piece of his flesh. Kaw-be-naw never stirred but simply smiled and said, "That is the way you must do. What are you afraid of? Come all ye who have sharp knives." Pretty soon they were all around him taking his flesh piece after piece. When it was all done he said, "It is finished; now I shall surely die. But as recompense for my flesh and life a great battle will be made against you by my successor, and as many of your best young men shall fall in this battle as pieces have been cut from my flesh." At the end of this sentence, he fell backwards and died. Thus ended the career of the great Kaw-be-naw, the Ottawa warrior and prophet. "Shaw-ko-we-sy" was the successor of Kaw-be-naw and was almost equal in power to his predecessor. It is related that in the following year, he went to the Wenebago country with his numerous warriors and killed many Wenebagoes, as many as Kaw-be-naw predicted, and returned late in the fall to their Island with many of the Wenebagoes' scalps. While they were having jubilees, festivities, and war dances over these scalps of the Wenebagoes, in the dead of winter, the tribe of Michilimacki- nawgoes, the remnant race of Indians who resided at the Island now called Mackinac, whose fate has been given in a previous chapter, were destroyed. This is the time, according to the Ottawa traditions, that the Iroquois of New York came upon this race of people and almost entirely annihilated them, and the Ottawas and Chippewas called this Island Michilimackinong in order to perpetuate the name of these unfortunate Indians. There were also a small tribe of Indians, beside the Chippewas, that resided on the north side of the strait whose principal village, was situated at the place now called St. Ignace, but the Ottawas and Chippewas call this place to this day "Naw-do-we-que-yah-mi-shen-ing," which is a compound name from "Naw-do-we," the name of the tribe who resided there, and "Na-yah-me-shen," point of land in water. And afterwards part of the Ottawas came over from their Island and resided with them, during the days of old Saw-ge-maw, who was one of the great warriors and leaders of the Ottawas. But afterwards Saw-ge-maw quarreled with them and broke up the confederacy and drove them off. Here, too, at about this time, part of the Ottawas left the country in anger because they were cheated out of one of the great feasts they were having on some particular occasion. Those went far west and joined the Sho-sho-nee tribe of Indians, whose country lies on the side of the Rocky Mountains, and consequently the Ottawa language is quite extensively spoken among that tribe of Indians to this day. The south side of the straits, which now constitutes Emmet, Cheboygan and Charlevoix counties, our tradition says, was exceedingly thickly populated by another race of Indians, whom the Ottawas called Mush-co- desh, which means, "the Prairie tribe." They were so called on account of being great cultivators of the soil, and making the woodland into prairie as they abandoned their old worn out gardens which formed grassy plains. It is related, this tribe was quite peaceable, and were never known to go on a warpath. The Ottawas of Manitoulin had joined hands with them as their confederates. They called each other "brothers." But on one of the western war trips of the great Saw-ge- maw, who existed about the time America was first discovered by white men, he met with great disaster, as many of his warriors were killed; so on returning homeward with his remaining survivors, they crossed Little Traverse Bay in a canoe and approached the shores of Arbor Croche at the place now called Seven Mile Point, where there was a large village of Mush-co-desh. Saw-ge-maw said to his few warriors, "Let us take our sad news to our relations the Mush-co-desh." So as they approached the shore they began to make an unearthly wailing noise, according to the custom of the Ottawas, which was called the death song of the warriors. When the Mush-co-desh heard them they said to one another, "Hark, the Ottawas are crying. They have been marauding among some tribes in the west; but this time they have been worsted-- good enough for them. See, they are coming ashore. Let us not permit them to land." So instead of preparing to join in their mourning, as would have been proper, they rashly determined to express their disapproval of the marauding expeditions and their contempt for those who engaged in them. Before Saw-ge-maw had fairly touched the beach, parties of Mush-co-desh ran down to the shore with balls of ashes wrapped up in forest leaves and with these they pelted Saw-ge-maw and his party as they came ashore. This treatment dreadfully provoked Saw- ge-maw, and the insult was such as could only be wiped out with blood. He told his warriors to pull homeward as quickly as possible. "We will come back here in a few days; we will not have to go so far again to look for our enemies." Arriving at Manitoulin Island, he immediately prepared for a great war. After they were completely equipped, they came back to the southern peninsula of Michigan, stealthily and carefully landing at the most uninhabited part of the shore. They then marched to one of the largest villages of Mush-co-desh, which was situated between Cross Village and Little Traverse, in a beautiful valley in the northern part of the township now called Friendship. Arriving late in the afternoon within view of the village, the Ottawas hid in ambush. One of the old women of the Mush-co-desh was going through the bushes looking for young basswood bark from which to manufacture twine or cord. She came right where the Ottawas were lying in ambush. She was terribly surprised, but the Ottawas persuaded her not to reveal their presence by telling her they would give her a young man as her husband, pointing to one of the best looking young warriors there. They told her, early in the morning they were going to fall upon the village and kill every one of the Mush-co-desh, but when she heard the war-whoop she must run to them and she should not be killed but be protected. The foolish woman believed and kept the secret. Early in the morning the war cry was heard, and she ran to the Ottawas to be protected, but she was the first one to be slain. It was indeed a terrible calamity for the Mush-co-desh. At the begining of the noise of massacre, the chief of the Mush-co-desh ran forward and screamed loud as he could, saying, "O! My father, Saw-ge-maw, what is the cause of your coming upon us so suddenly with death, as we have never wronged your race?" "Have you already forgotten" said Saw-ge-maw triumphantly, "that you have greatly insulted me on your borders? You have pelted me with ashes when I was lamenting over the loss of my braves." When the Mush-co-desh saw they could not prevail on Saw-ge-maw, nor could withstand an adversary so formidable and such well prepared warriors, they endeavored to flee, but they were overtaken and slaughtered. Only the swift-footed young men escaped, taking the sad message to other villages of Mush-co-desh, and as fast as the news reached them they fled with their women and children toward the south along the shore of Lake Michigan, and continued to fly, although they were not pursued by the Ottawas, till they reached the St. Joseph River, and there they stopped, and formed a union village, and began to cultivate the soil again. The tradition says this was the greatest slaughter or massacre the Ottawas ever committed. The inhabitants of this village were probably from forty to fifty thousand. There were many other villages of Mush- co-desh of minor importance everywhere scattered through the northern part of the southern peninsula of Michigan. Where this doomed village was situated is yet to this day distinctly visible, as there are some little openings and trails not overgrown by the forest. Soon after this the Ottawas abandoned their island and came over and took possession of the country of the Mush-co-desh. Most of them settled at the place now called Magulpin's Point, where the present lighthouse is situated, near old Mackinac. At the time the French settled in Montreal, Au-tche-a, one of the Ottawa prophets, told his people there were some strange persons living in this continent, who were far superior to any other inhabitants upon the earth. So Au-tche-a determined to search for these wonderful people and he persuaded five of his neighbors to accompany him in his undertaking. They started out, but they went a very roundabout way, and it was a long time before they came to the Ottawa river; then floating down they came out on the St. Lawrence. They were gone for more than a year. When they came where the white men were, they first saw a vessel or ship anchored in the middle of the St. Lawrence, which they thought was a monster waiting to devour them as they came along. But as they neared it they saw some people on the back of the monster. So Au-tche-a and his party were taken on board, and his little frail canoe was hoisted into the ship. They found some Stockbridge Indians there also, who spoke a dialect of their language. After exchanging all they had, and learning how to handle firearms, they started back again to the straits of Mackinac. The tradition says, they arrived at their village on an exceedingly calm day, and the water was in perfect stillness in the straits. The Indians saw the canoe coming towards the shore of the village, when suddenly a puff of smoke was seen and a terrific clash of sound followed immediately. All the inhabitants were panic stricken, and thought it was something supernatural approaching the shore. But again and again they witnessed the same thing, as it came nearer and nearer. At last they recognized the great prophet Au-tche-a and his party coming back from his long trip, having found his "Manitou" that he was looking after. The reader may imagine how it was, when Au-tche-a landed and exhibited his strange articles--his gun with its belongings, his axes, his knives, his new mode of making fire, his cooking utensils, his clothing and his blankets. It was no small curiosity to the aborigines. The Ottawas gradually extended their settlements towards the south, along the shore of Lake Michigan. The word Michigan is an Indian name, which we pronounce Mi-chi-gum, and simply means "monstrous lake." My own ancestors, the Undergrounds, settled at Detroit, and they considered this was the extent of their possessions. But the greatest part of the Ottawas settled at Arbor Croche, which I have already related as being a continuous village some fifteen miles long. But in the forest of this country were not many deer, and consequently when the winter approached most of the Indians went south to hunt, returning again in the spring loaded with dry meat. The Mush-co-desh were not long in safety in the southern part of the state. Intercourse had been opened between the French and the Ottawas and Chippewas on the straits of Mackinac and being supplied with firearms and axes by the French people, it occurred to the Ottawas that these impliments would be effective in battle. Anxious to put them to the test, they resolved to try them on their old enemies, the Mush-co- desh, who had not yet seen the white man and were unacquainted with firearms. Accordingly an expedition was fitted out. As the Ottawas approached the village of their enemies, each carrying a gun, the Mush- co-desh thought they were nothing but clubs, so came out with their bows and arrows, anticipating an easy victory. But they soon found out that they were mistaken. As the Ottawas came up they suddenly halted, not near enough to be reached by any arrows of Mush-co-desh, but the Ottawas began to fire away with their guns. Poor Mush-co-desh; they suffered more than ever in this second crushing defeat. The Ottawas left only one family of Mush-co-desh at this time and these went west somewhere to find a new home. My father and my uncles in their younger days while they were making a tour out west, happened to come across the descendants of this nearly anihilated tribe of Indians. They had grown to nine lodges only at that time, and they visited them in a friendly manner. The old warriors wept as they were conversing with them on their terrible calamities and misfortunes and their being once powerful allies and closely related; for these few still remembered the past, and what had become of their ancestors. After the Ottawas took complete possession of the southern peninsula of Michigan, they fought some more tribes of Indians, subdued them, and compelled them to form confederation with them as their allies. Such as Po-to-wa-to-mies, Mano-me-mis, O-daw-gaw-mies, Urons and Assawgies, who formerly occupied Saw-ge-naw-bay. Therefore the word Saginaw is derived from the name Os-saw-gees, who formerly lived there. They have been always closely united with the Chippewas and very often they went together on the warpath, except at one time they nearly fought on account of a murder, as has been herein related. Also the Shaw-wa-nee tribe of Indians were always closely related to them. But the Ottawa nation of Indians are always considered as the oldest and most expert on the warpath and wise councilors; and consequently every tribe of Indians far and near, even as far as the Manitoba country, out north, deposited their pipe of peace with the head chief of the Ottawa nation as a pledge of continual peace and friendship. Every pipe of peace contained a short friendly address which must be committed to memory by every speaker in the council of the Ottawas. If there was ever any outbreak among these tribes who deposited their pipe of peace with the head chief of the Ottawa nation, a general council would be called by the chiefs of the Ottawas, and the pipe of peace belonging to the tribe who caused the trouble would be lighted up, and the short address contained in the pipe would be repeated in the council by one of the speakers. When the cause of the outbreak or trouble was ascertained, then reconciliation must be had, and friendly relation must be restored, in which case they almost invariably succeeded in making some kind of reasonable settlement. This was the custom of all these people; and this is what formerly constituted the great Algonquin family of Indians. There are many theories as to the origin of the Indian race in America, but nothing but speculation can be given on this subject. But we believe there must have been people living in this country before those tribes who were driven out by the Ottawas and Chippewas, who were much more advanced in art and in civilization, for many evidences of their work have been discovered. About two hundred and fifty years ago, We- me-gen-de-bay, one of our noted chiefs, discovered while hunting in the wilderness a great copper kettle, which was partly in the ground. The roots of trees had grown around it and over it, and when it was taken up it appeared as if it had never been used, but seemed to be just as it came from the maker, as there was yet a round bright spot in the center of the bottom of it. This kettle was large enough to cook a whole deer or bear in it. For a long time the Indians kept it as a sacred relic. They did not keep it near their premises, but securely hidden in a place most unfrequented by any human being. They did not use it for anything except for great feasts. Their idea with regard to this kettle was that it was made by some deity who presided over the country where it was found, and that the copper mine must be very close by where the kettle was discovered. One peculiarity of its manufacture was that it had no iron rim around it, nor bail for hanging while in use, as kettles are usually made, but the edge of the upper part was much thicker than the rest and was turned out square about three- fourths of an inch, as if made to rest on some support while in use. When the Indians came to be civilized in Grand Traverse country, they began to use this "Mani-tou-au-kick," as they called it, in common to boil the sugar sap in it, instead of cooking bear for the feast. And while I was yet in the government blacksmith shop at the Old Mission in Grand Traverse, they brought this magical kettle to our shop with an order to put an iron rim and bail on it so that it could be hanged in boiling sugar, and I did the work of fixing the kettle according to the order. From this evidence of working in metals and from the many other relics of former occupants, it is evident that this country has been inhabited for many ages, but whether by descendants of the Jews or of other Eastern races there is no way for us to determine. CHAPTER XII. The Present Condition of the Indians of this State. Some histories have been written by white men of events since the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians came in contact with white people in this part of the country, but here is given the history of this race of Indians before that time. This account of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians is of as much interest to every inquirer into the histories of nations, as that of any other people; and all philanthropic people, and those who are endeavoring to enlighten and Christianize the Indians, will feel deeply interested in becoming acquainted with the past history as well as the present condition of these once numerous and warlike people. There are now but comparatively few living in the State of Michigan, trying to become civilized and to imitate their white neighbors in agricultural industries and other civilized labors. The greater part of them are being Christianized and are members of various Christian churches of the country, erecting houses of worship with their own hands in which to worship the true God in spirit and in truth. A few of them are becoming native preachers and expounders of the Gospel. A treaty was concluded in the city of Washington in the year 1836, to which my people--the Ottawas and Chippewas--were unwilling parties, but they were compelled to sign blindly and ignorant of the true spirit of the treaty and the true import of some of its conditions. They thought when signing the treaty that they were securing reservations of lands in different localities as permanent homes for themselves and their children in the future; but before six months had elapsed from the time of signing this treaty, or soon after it had been put in pamphlet form so that all persons could read it and know its terms, they were told by their white neighbors that their reservations of land would expire in five years, instead of being perpetual, as they believed. At the end of this time, they would be compelled to leave their homes, and if they should refuse they would be driven at the point of the bayonet into a strange land, where, as is almost always the case, more than one-half would die before they could be acclimated. At this most startling intelligence more than half of my people fled into Canada; fled to the protection of the British government; fled, many of them, even before receiving a single copper of the promised annuities; fled to a latitude like that in which they had been accustomed to live. The balance of them determined to remain and await whatever the consequences might be, and receive the annuities which they were promised for twenty years. But fortunately their expulsion from the State was suddenly stayed, in the years 1850 and '51. By the kindness of the people of the State of Michigan, they were adopted as citizens and made equal in rights with their white neighbors. Their voice was to be recognized in the ballot box in every election; and I thought, this is what ought to be, for the same God who created the white man created the red man of the forest, and therefore they are equally entitled to the benefits of civilization, education and Christianity. At that time I was one of the principal ones who advocated this cause, for I had already received a partial education, and in my understanding of this matter, I thought that was the only salvation of my people from being sent off to the west of the Mississippi. In laboring for the object, I suffered very great hardship and many struggles, but was at last successful. But in order that my people can enjoy every privilege of civilisation, they must be thoroughly educated; they must become acquainted with the arts and sciences, as well as the white man. Soon as the Indian youths receive an education, they should be allowed to have some employment among the whites, in order to encourage them in the pursuit of civilization and to exercise their ability according to the means and extent of their education, instead of being a class of persons continually persecuted and cheated and robbed of their little possessions. They should have been educated amongst the civilized communities in order to learn the manners and customs of the white people. If this method could have been pursued in the first instance, the aborigines of this country would have secured all the advantages of civilization, education and Christianity. This was my plan and my proposition at the council of Detroit, in the treaty of 1855, as there was quite a large sum of money set apart and appropriated by the Government for the education of Indian youth of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians of Michigan, and I made the proposition at this council that the sum for that purpose be retained in the hands of the Government solely to pay for the education of those Indian youths who should be educated in a civilized community, instead of committing this sum of money to the hands of the preachers and teachers in the missions among the Ottawas and Chippewas. If my plan could have been adopted, even as late as thirty-two years ago, we should have had, by this time, many well-educated Indians in this State, and probably some good farmers, and perhaps some noted professors of sciences would have been developed, and consequently happiness, blessings and prosperity would have been everywhere among the aborigines of the State of Michigan. CHAPTER XIII. The Lamentation of the Overflowing Heart of the Red Man of the Forest. Hark! What is that I hear, So mournfully ringing in my ear, Like a death song of warriors, For those who fell by their brave sires? Is this the wail now sounding For my unhappy future? O my destiny, my destiny! How sinks my heart, as I behold my inheritance all in ruins and desolation. Yes, desolation; the land the Great Spirit has given us in which to live, to roam, to hunt, and build our council fires, is no more to behold. Where once so many brave Algonquins and the daughters of the forest danced with joy, danced with gratitude to the Great Spirit for their homes, they are no more seen. Our forests are gone, and our game is destroyed. Hills, groves and dales once clad in rich mantle of verdure are stripped. Where is this promised land which the Great Spirit had given to his red children as the perpetual inheritance of their posterity from generation to generation? Ah, the pale-faces who have left their fathers' land, far beyond the ocean, have now come and dispossessed us of our heritage with cruel deceit and force of arms. Still are they rolling on, and rolling on, like a mighty spray from the deep ocean, overwhelming the habitations of nature's children. Is it for the deeds of Pocahontas, of Massasoit, of Logan, and hosts of others who have met and welcomed the white men in their frail cabin doors when they were few in numbers, cold and hungry? Is it for this that we have been plundered, and expelled at the point of the bayonet from the hallowed graves of our brothers and sires? O, my father, thou hast taught me from my infancy to love this land of my birth; thou hast even taught me to say that "it is the gift of the Great Spirit," when yet my beloved mother clasped me close to her peaceful breast while she sang of the warlike deeds of the great Algonquins. O, my father, our happiest days are o'er, and never again shall we enjoy our forest home. The eagle's eye could not even discover where once stood thy wigwam and thy peaceful council fire. Ah, once it was the happy land, and all the charms were there which made every Indian heart swell with thanks to the Great Spirit for their happy homes. Melodious music was heard in every grove, sung by the wild birds of the forest, who mingled their notes sweetly with the wild chant of my beloved sisters at eve. They sang the song of lullaby to the pawpose of the red man whilst swinging in the cradle from the shady trees, wafted gracefully to and fro by the restless wind. The beautiful old basswood tree bending so gracefully stood there, and the brown thrush sang with her musical voice. That tree was planted there by the Great Spirit for me to sport under, when I could scarcely bend my little bow. Ah, I watched that tree from childhood to manhood, and it was the dearest spot to me in this wide world. Many happy youthful days have I spent under this beautiful shady tree. But alas, alas, the white man's ax has been there! The tree that my good spirit had planted for me, where once the pretty brown thrush daily sat with her musical voice, is cut down by the ruthless hands of the white man. 'Tis gone; gone forever and mingled with the dust. Oh, my happy little bird, thy warbling songs have ceased, and thy voice shall never again be heard on that beautiful shady tree. My charming bird, how oft thou hast aroused me from my slumber at early morn with thy melodious song. Ah, could we but once more return to our forest glade and tread as formerly upon the soil with proud and happy heart! On the hills with bended bow, while nature's flowers bloomed all around the habitation of nature's child, our brothers once abounded, free as the mountain air, and their glad shouts resounded from vale to vale, as they chased o'er the hills the mountain roe and followed in the otter's track. Oh return, return! Ah, never again shall this time return. It is gone, and gone forever like a spirit passed. The red man will never live happy nor die happy here any more. 'Tis passed, 'tis done. The bow and quiver with which I have shot many thousands of game is useless to me now, for the game is destroyed. When the white man took every foot of my inheritance, he thought to him I should be the slave. Ah, never, never! I would sooner plunge the dagger into my beating heart, and follow the footsteps of my forefathers, than be slave to the white man. MACK-E-TE-BE-NESSY. CHAPTER XIV. The Twenty-one Precepts or Moral Commandments of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians, by Which They Were Governed in Their Primitive State, Before They Came in Contact With White Races in Their Country--The Ten Commandments, The Creed, and The Lord's Prayer in the Ottawa Language as Translated by the Author. 1st. Thou shalt fear the Great Creator, who is the over ruler of all things. 2d. Thou shalt not commit any crime, either by night or by day, or in a covered place: for the Great Spirit is looking upon thee always, and thy crime shall be manifested in time, thou knowest not when, which shall be to thy disgrace and shame. 3d. Look up to the skies often, by day and by night, and see the son, moon and stars which shineth in the firmament, and think that the Great Spirit is looking upon thee continually. 4th. Thou shalt not mimic or mock the thunders of the cloud, for they were specially created to water the earth and to keep down all the evil monsters that are under the earth, which would eat up and devour the inhabitants of the earth if they were set at liberty. 5th. Thou shalt not mimic or mock any mountains or rivers, or any prominent formation of the earth, for it is the habitation of some deity or spirit of the earth, and thy life shall be continually in hazard if thou shouldst provoke the anger of these deities. 6th. Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land. 7th. Honor the gray-head persons, that thy head may also be like unto theirs. 8th. Thou shalt not mimic or ridicule the cripple, the lame, or deformed, for thou shall be crippled thyself like unto them if them shouldst provoke the Great Spirit. 9th. Hold thy peace, and answer not back, when thy father or thy mother or any aged person should chastise thee for thy wrong. 10th. Thou shalt never tell a falsehood to thy parents, nor to thy neighbors, but be always upright in thy words and in thy dealings with thy neighbors. 11th. Thou shalt not steal anything from thy neighbor, nor covet anything that is his. 12th. Thou shalt always feed the hungry and the stranger. 13th. Thou shalt keep away from licentiousness and all other lascivious habits, nor utter indecent language before thy neighbor and the stranger. 14th. Thou shalt not commit murder while thou art in dispute with thy neighbor, unless it be whilst on the warpath. 15th. Thou shalt chastise thy children with the rod whilst they are in thy power. 16th. Thou shalt disfigure thy face with charcoals, and fast at least ten days or more of each year, whilst thou are yet young, or before thou reachest twenty, that thou mayest dream of thy future destiny. 17th. Thou shalt immerse thy body into the lake or river at least ten days in succession in the early part of the spring of the year, that thy body may be strong and swift of foot to chase the game and on the warpath. 18th. At certain times with thy wife or thy daughters, thou shalt clean out thy fireplaces and make thyself a new fire with thy fire-sticks for the sake of thyself and for the sake of thy children's health. 19th. Thou shalt not eat with thy wife and daughters at such time, of food cooked on a new fire, but they shall be provided with a separate kettle and cook their victuals therein with an old fire and out of their wigwam, until the time is passed, then thou shalt eat with them. [Footnote: See Dr. Bondinot's work, "The Star in the West," pp. 216 and 225.] 20th. Thou shalt not be lazy, nor be a vagabond of the earth, to be hated by all men. 21st. Thou shalt be brave, and not fear any death. If thou shouldst observe all these commandments, when thou diest thy spirit shall go straightway to that happy land where all the good spirits are, and shall there continually dance with the beating of the drum of Tchi-baw-yaw-booz, the head spirit in the spirit land. But if thou shouldst not observe them, thy spirit shall be a vagabond of the earth always, and go hungry, and will never be able to find this road, "Tchi-bay-kon," in which all the good spirits travel. THE TEN COMMANDMENTS. 1st. Pay-zhe-go ke-zhe-maw-nito me-so-de kay-go kaw-ge-zhe-tod; ke-gaw- pay-zhe-go gwaw-nawdji-aw ane-go-ko-day-a-you ke-gaw-pay-zhe-go saw-ge- aw. 2d. Kaw-we aw-nesh ke-zhe-maw-nito ke-gaw-wo-we nossi. 3d. Au-nwe-be-we-ne-ge-zhe-got ke-gaw-kwaw-nawdji-ton. 4th. Kouss kanie ke-gaw-she ke-gaw-me-naw-tene-mawg ke-nwezh tchi-we- pe-maw-deze-yan aw-zhon-daw aw-king. 5th. Ke-go au-we-yaw me-saw-wa-ne-maw-gay. 6th. Ke-go nau-nawe e-nau-de-se-kay. 7th. Ke-go ke-mou-de-kay. 8th. Ke-go kawie ke-no-wish-ke-kay tche-baw-taw-maw-de-baw au-we-ya. 9th. Ke-go mes-sau-we-naw-mau-we-ye-gay ke-dji-pe-maw-de-si o-we-de- gay-maw-gaw-non. 10th. Ke-go kauie au-we-yaw mes-saw-wendau mau-we-ye-gay ke-go andaw- nedji. THE CREED. Men da-bwe-taw-waw Pa-zhe-go maw-nito we-osse-mind, me-zo-day ke-go nay-taw-we-tod, kaw-ge-zhe-tod wau-kwee aw-ke kanie. Men day-bwe-taw- we-mon kaice ogwisson paw-ye-zhe-go-nedjin Jesus Krist te-bay-ne-me- nong. We-ne-zhe-she-nedjin maw-niton o-ge-aw-neshe-naw-bay-we-egoun, Mari-yon kaw-gaw-ge we-nedjin oge-ne-ge-egoun. Ke-go-daw-ge-to me-gwaw o-ge-maw-wit Ponce Pila-tawn, ke-baw-daw-kaw-ko-wou tche-baw-yaw-te- gong, ke-ne-bon ke-naw-gwo-wau kauie au-naw-maw-kaw-mig ke-e-zhaw, waw- ne-so-ke-zhe-te-nig Ke-au-be-tchi-baw. Waw-kwing ke-e-zhaw, naw-maw- daw-be o-day-baw-ne-we-kaw-ning ke-zle-maw-niton way-osse me-medjin me- zo-day ke-go nay tau-we-to-nedjin me-dawst waw-de-be ke-be-ondji-bawd, tche-be-te-baw-ko-nod pay-maw-de-ze-nedjin, nay-bo-nedjin kauie. Men day-bwe-taw-waw Way-ne-zhe-shed maw-nito, men day-bwe-tawn kitche-two kaw-to-lic au-naw-me-a-we-gaw-mig, kay-tchi-two-wendaw-go-ze-djig o-we- do-ko-daw-de-we-ne-wau paw-taw-do-wene kawss-au-maw-gay-win aw-bedji- baw-win ezhe-owe-yossing kaw-go-ne pe-maw-de-se-win. Aw-pe-lege. THE LORD'S PRAYER. Nossinaw wau-kwing e-be-you au-pe-gwish ke-tchi-twaw-wend-oming ke-daw- no-zo-win, au-pe-gish pe-daw-gwe-she-no-maw-gok ke-do-gimaw-o-win, ena- daw-mon au-pe-gish ezhe-wa-bawk, ti-bish-wau-kwing mego kauie au-king. Me-zhe-she-nong nongo au-gi-zhe-gawk nin baw-kwe-zhe-gaw-ne-me-naw menik e-you-yong en-daw-so ke-zhe-gok. Po-ne-ge-tay-taw-we-shi-nong kauie kaw-nish ki-e-nange te-bish-kon ezhe-pone-ge-day-taw-wou-ge-dwaw kaw-neshke-e-yo-mendjig, ke-go kauie ezhe-we-zhe-she-kong-gay kaw-gwe ti-bandji-gay-we-ning, au-tchi-tchaw-yo-ing dansh etaw eni-naw-maw-we- she-nong maw-tchaw-go-e-wish. Ken maw-ke-daw-yon o-ge-maw-owen, mawsh- kaw-we-se-win kauie pe-she-gain-daw-go-se-win, kaw-ge-gay-kow-mig au- pe-nay dash kau-e-go kaw-ge-nig. Amen. GRAMMAR OF THE OTTAWA AND CHIPPEWA LANGUAGE. NOUNS. Common nouns in the Ottawa and Chippewa language are divided into two classes, animate and inanimate. Animate nouns are those which signify living objects or objects supposed to have life, as persons, animals and plants. Inanimate nouns signify objects without life. A third form of nouns is derived from these two classes, called diminutive nouns. These are formed by the termination "ens" or "na" placed upon other nouns. The plural of animate nouns is usually formed by adding the syllable "wog" to the singular; if the word ends in a vowel, only the letter "g" is added; and sometimes the syllables "yog," "ag," or "og." All words are pronounced with accent on the last syllable. Sing. Pl. Eng. Pe-nay, Pe-nay-wog, Partridge. Aw-dje-djawk, Aw-dje-djaw-wog, Crane. Waw-mawsh-kay-she, Waw-mawsh-kay-she-wog, Deer. Waw-goosh, Waw-goosh-og, Fox. Pezhe-kee, Pezhe-kee-wog, Cattle. Pezhe-keens, (dim.) Pezhe-keens-og, Calf. Aw-ni-moush, Aw-ni-moush-og, Dog. Aw-ni-mouns, (dim.), Aw-ni-mouns-og, Puppy. The plural of inanimate nouns usually terminates in an, en, on, or n. Sing. Pl. Eng. We-ok-won, We-ok-won-an, Hat. Wig-wom, Wig-wom-an, House. Mo-ke-sin, Mo-ke-sin-an, Shoe. Maw-kok, Maw-kok-on, Box. Maw-kok-ons, (dim.), Maw-kok-on-son, Small box. Tchi-mawn, Tchi-mawn-an, Boat. Tchi-maw-nes, (dim.), Tchi maw-nes-on, Small boat. Nouns have three cases, nominative, locative and objective. The locative case denotes the relation usually expressed in English by the use of a preposition, or by the genitive, dative and ablative in Latin. Nom. Aw-kick, Kettle. Loc. Aw-kick-ong, In the kettle. Obj. E-naw-bin aw-kick-ong, Do look in the kettle. This relation can be expressed by the word "pin-je," as "Pin-je aw- kick,"--in the kettle; "E-naw-bin pin-je aw-kick,"--do look in the kettle; but this form is seldom used. It is employed only for great emphasis or formality. The locative termination is "ong," "eng," or "ing." The objective case is like the nominative when the subject is in the 1st or 2d person, but when the subject is in the 3d person the object takes the termination "won." Example of locative and objective cases: Chicago is derived from she- gog-ong, the locative case of the Ottawa word she-gog, meaning skunk; nominative, she-gog; locative, she-gog-ong; objective, she-gog or she- gog-won. Locative case-- She-gog-ong ne-de-zhaw, I am going to Chicago. She-gog-ong ne-do-je-baw, I come from Chicago. She-gog-ong e-zhawn, Go to Chicago. Objective case-- 1st p.--She-gog ne-ne-saw, I kill the skunk. 2d p.--She-gog ke-ne-saw, You kill the skunk. 3d p.--She-gog-won o-ne-sawn, He kills the skunk. Gender is distinguished by the word "quay," either prefixed or added to nouns, to indicate the feminine. Aw-ne-ne, pl. wog; Man. Aw-quay, pl. wog; Woman. Aw-nish-naw-bay; Indian man. Aw-nesh-naw-bay-quay; I. woman. Osh-kee-naw-way; Young man. Osh-kee-ne-ge-quay; Y. woman. Que-we-zayns, pl. og; Boy. Quay-zayns, pl. og; Girl. Aw-yaw-bay-pe-zhe-kee; Bull. Quay-pe-zhe-kee; Cow. Proper names always form the feminine by adding "quay." Ce-naw-day; Irishman. Ce-naw-day-quay; Irishwoman. Some genders are irregular. Aw-ke-wa-zee; Old man. Me-de-mo-gay; Old woman. Aw-be-non-tchi, an infant, has no distinction of gender. Os-see-maw, pl. g; Father. O-gaw-shi-maw, pl. g; Mother. Me-kaw-ne-see-maw; Brother. O-me-say-e-maw; Sister. O-me-shaw-mes-se-maw; Gr.father. O-kee-mes-se-maw; Grandmother. O-me-shaw-way-e-maw; Uncle. O-nou-shay-e-maw; Aunt. We-taw-wis-see-maw; Male cousin. We-ne-mo-shay-e-maw; Fem. cous. Diminutive nouns take the same modifications as the nouns from which they are derived. Verbs and adjectives are modified to agree with the animate or inanimate nouns to which they belong, as will be illustrated hereafter. PRONOUNS. Personal pronouns have no distinction of gender in the third person singular. A peculiarity of this language is the two forms for the first person plural. These two forms for pronouns, and for verbs in all moods and tenses, are like each other except in the first syllable. In one form the first syllable is always "Ke," and in the other "Ne." The form commencing with Ke is used only when speaking to one person, and that commencing with Ne, which might be called the multiple form, is used whenever more than one person is addressed, even though no word may appear in the sentence indicating how many. This is an idiosyncracy which perhaps would never have been developed, certainly would not be perpetuated, in any except an unwritten language. It is of no effect except in a language always colloquial. The multiple form will be given in this grammar as the first person plural, and, whether indicated or not, the other may be understood as being the same with the change of the first syllable from Ne to Ke. PERSONAL PRONOUNS. Sing. Pl. 1st. p.--Neen or nin, I, ( Ne-naw-wind, (mult.), We. ( Ke-naw-wind,) We. 2d p.--Keen or kin, Thou or you, Ke-naw-waw, You. 3d p.--Ween or win, He or she, We-naw-waw, They. When these personal pronouns are connected with other words, or when they become subjects or objects of verbs, the first syllable only is used, or pronounced. In the third person of verbs the pronoun is entirely omitted. Sing. Pl. Ne wob, I see, Ne wob-me, We see. Ke wob, You see, Ke wob-em, You see. Wo-be, He or she sees, Wo-be-wog, They see. The whole pronoun is sometimes used when the emphatic or intensive form is desired, as, Sing.--Neen-ne wob, I myself see. Keen-ke wob, You yourself see. Ween wo-be, He himself, or she herself sees. Pl.--Ne-naw-wind ne-wob-me, We ourselves see. Ke-naw-waw ke-wob-em, You yourself see. We-naw-waw wo-be-wog, They themselves see. POSSESSIVE PRONOUNS.. Ne-daw-yo-em, Mine, Ne-daw-yo-em-e-naw, Ours. Ke-daw-yo-em, Thine, Ke-daw-yo-em-e-waw, Yours. O-daw-yo-em, His or hers, O-daw-yo-em-e-waw, Theirs. Emphatic form--nin ne-daw-yo-em, etc., throughout all the different persons. When these possessive pronouns are used with nouns, nearly all the syllables are omitted, except the first, which is added to the noun in the plural; as-- Sing. Pl. Ne we-ok-won, My hat, Ne we-ok-won-e-naw, Our hat. Ke we-ok-won, Your hat, Ke we-ok-won-e-waw, Your hat. O we ok-won, His hat, O we-ok-won-e-waw, Their hat. The emphatic form, "my own hat," is made by prefixing the personal pronouns, as-- Sing. Pl. Neen ne we-ok-won, Ne-naw-wind ne we-ok-won-e-naw, Keen ke we-ok-won, Ke-naw-waw ke we-ok-won-e-waw, Ween o we-ok-won, We-naw-waw o we-ok-won-e-waw. THE IMPERSONAL PRONOUN. The impersonal pronoun "maw-got," plural "maw-got-on," may be represented by the English impersonal or neuter pronoun It, but it has a wider significance. The inanimate subject of a verb is also represented by maw-got or maw-got-on. Wa-po-tchin-ga maw-got, or wa-po- tchin-ga-sa maw-got, it strikes; plural, wa-po-tchin-ga maw-got-on, or wa-po-tchin-ga-sa maw-got-on, they strike. Au-no-ke maw-got, It works. Pe-me-say maw-got, It walks. Ne-bo-we maw-got, It stands. Wo-be maw-got, It sees. Pe-me-baw-to maw-got, It runs. Au-nish, interrogative pronoun what; au-naw-tchi, relative pronoun what; e-we, relative pronoun that. ADJECTIVES. Adjectives take two forms, to agree with the animate or inanimate nouns to which they belong. Comparison of adjectives is made by other words: O-ne-zhe-she (inanimate o-ne-zhe-shin), good; Maw-maw-me (or ne-go-ne) o-ne-zhe (or -shin), better; Au-pe-tchi o-ne-zhe-she (or -shin), best. A fourth degree is sometimes used: Maw-mo-me o-ne-zhe-she (or -shin), very best. The words "Me-no" and "Maw-tchi" or "Mau-tchi," do not change when used with other words, and they are the most common adjectives in the Ottawa and Chippewa languages; they are used as adverbs, as well as adjectives. "Me-no," is equivalent to good, right, and well; and "Man-tchi," is equivalent to bad, wicked, evil; as Me-no au-ne-ne, good man; Me-no au- quay, good woman; Me-no au-way-sin, good animal; Me-no au-ky, good land; Me-no waw-bo-yon, good blanket; Me-no e-zhe-wa-be-sy, good behavior, or kind; Me-no au-no-ky, he works well, or doing good business; Me-no pe-maw-de-sy, he is well; Me-no au-yaw, he is getting well, or convalescent from sickness; Me-no au-no-kaw-so-win, good utensil, or handy instrument; Me-no wau-gaw-quat, good ax; Me-no ke- zhi-gut, good day, or pleasant weather; Me-no au-no-kaw-tchi-gon, good goods, or nice goods; Me-no e-zhe-wa-be-sy, he or she is kind or good; Me-no maw-tchaw maw-got, it goes well, etc. The word "Mau-tchi" is equally useful; as, Mau-tchi an-ne-ne, bad man; Mau-tchi au-quay, bad woman; Mau-tchi e-zhe-wa-be-sy, bad behavior, or wicked person; Mau-tchi mau-ne-to, evil spirit, or the devil; Mau-tchi ke-ge-to, wicked language, or profanity; Mau-tchi wau-gaw-quat, bad ax; Mau-tchi ke-zhwa, vulgar speaker; Man-tchi no-din, bad wind; Mau-tchi au-naw-quot, bad cloud; Mau-tchi ke-zhe-got, bad day, or rough weather; Mau-tchi wig-wom, bad house, or wicked house; Mau-tchi au-no-ke-win, bad business, etc. Another adjective equally comprehensive is Kwaw-notch: Kwaw-notch au- ne-ne, well-behaved man; Kwaw-notch au-quay, pretty woman; Kwaw-notch au-no-ke-win, good business; Kwaw-notch au-no-kaw-tchi-gon, nice goods; Kwaw-notchi-won, pretty or nice (inanimate); Kwaw-notchi-we, pretty (animate); Au-pe-tchi kwaw-notchi-we au-quay, very pretty woman. The following illustrate the changes of form in adjectives for animate and inanimate: Animate. Inanimate. Me-no-e-zhe-wa-be-sy, Me-no-e-zhe-wa-bawt, Kind, mild. Ke-no-sy, Ke-nwa, Long, tall. Ke-zhe-we-sy, Ke-zhe-waw, Hard. Mush-kaw-we-sy, Mush-kaw-waw, Strong. Ke-zhe-kaw, or ke-zhe-be-so, Ke-zhe-be-ta, Swift, fleet. Ko-se-gwan-ny, Ko-se-gwan, Heavy. Maw-tchi-e-zhe-wa-be-sy, Maw-tchi-e-zhe-wa-bot, Bad. Ma-tchaw-yaw-au-wish, Ma-tchaw-yaw-e-wish, Wicked. We-saw-ge-sy, We-saw-gun, Bitter. Wish-ko-be-sy, Wish-ko-bun, Sweet. Sou-ge-sy, Sou-gun, Tough. Se-we-sy, Se-won, Sour. Maw-kaw-te-we-sy, Maw-kaw-te-waw Black. Ozaw-we-sy, Ozaw-waw, Yellow. Ozhaw-wash-ko-sy, Ozhaw-wash-kwaw, Green. Mis-ko-sy, Mis-kwa, Red We-bin-go-sy, We-bin-gwaw, Blue. O-zaw won-so O-zaw won-day, Yellow color. Maw-kaw-te won-so Maw-kaw-te won-day Black color. Maw-kaw-te-au-ne-ne, black man Maw-kaw-te-mo-kok, Black box. Mis-ko au-ne, red man Mis-ko wau-bo-yon, Red blanket. It will be observed that the last one or two syllables of the adjective are dropped when in connection with a noun. VERBS. Ottawa and Chippewa verbs are changed in their conjugations, to indicate-- 1st. Whether their subjects are animate, or inanimate; 2d. Whether their objects are animate, or inanimate; 3d. Whether they are transitive, or intransitive; 4th. Whether they are active, or passive, or reflective; 5th. Whether the expression is common, or emphatic. They also express by their forms all of the distinctions of mood and tense, person and number, found in the English, and form their participles, and are changed into verbal or participial nouns; and these modifications are for, the most part regular in form. I. Verbs with inanimate subjects correspond to English impersonal or neuter verbs, but are much more extensively used. They are usually formed by adding the impersonal pronoun, maw-got--it; as, Animate Subject. Inanimate Subject Sing-Au-nou-kee, he works. Au-nou-ke-maw-got, it works. Ke-au-nou-ke, he worked. Ke-an-non-ke-maw-got, it worked. Au-non-ke-wog, they work. Au-nou-ke-maw-go-toun, things work Ke-au-nou-ke-wog, they worked. Ke-an-nou-ke-maw-go-toun, things worked. Standing trees, as well as all living creatures and personified things, are regarded as animate. II, III. The distinctions for animate and inanimate objects, and for transitive and intransitive, are illustrated by the following: Singular--I kill, Thou killest, etc. Intransitive. Transitive. Pers. Animate Object Inanimate Object. 1 Ne-ne-taw-gay Ne-ne-saw Ne-ne-ton 2 Ke-ne-taw-gay Ke-ne-saw Ke-ne-toun 3 Ne-taw-gay O-ne-sawn, or son O-ne-toun Plural--We kill, You kill, etc. 1 Ne-ne-taw-gay-me Ne-ne-saw-naw Ne-ne-tou-naw 2 Ke-ne-taw-gaym Ke-ne-saw-waw Ke-ne-tou-naw-waw 3 Ne-taw-gay-wog O-ne-saw-wawn or won O-ne-tou-naw-waw Singular--I see, Thou seest, etc. 1 Ne-waub Ne-waub-maw Ne-waub-don, or dawn 2 Ke-waub Ke-waub-maw Ke-waub-don, or dawn 3 Wau-be O-waub-mon or mawn O-waub-don, or dawn Plural--We see, You see, etc. 1 Ne-waub-me Ne-waub-maw-naw Ne-waub-daw-naw 2 Ke-wau-bem Ke-waub-maw-waw Ke-waub-daw-naw-wan 3 Wau-be-wog O-Waub-naw-won O-waub-daw-naw-wan IV. What is denominated the reflective form of the verb, is where the subject and the object are the same person or thing; as, in English, He hates himself. The passive and reflective forms are illustrated in the verb, To See, thus: Passive. Reflective. Ne-wob-me-go, I am seen. Ne-wau-baw-dis, I see myself. Ke-wob-me-go, thou art seen. Ke-wau-baw-dis, thou seest thyself. Wob-maw, he is seen. Wau-baw-de-so, he sees himself. Ne-wob-me-go-me, we are seen, Ne-wau-baw-de-so-me, we see ourselves Ko-wob-me-gom, you are seen. Ke-wan-baw-de-som, you see yourselves Wob-maw-wag, they are seen. Wau-baw-de-so-wag, they see themselves V. The emphatic form repeats the first part of the pronoun; as, Ne- waub, I see; Nin-ne-waub, I do see (literally, I myself see). Intransitive. Common Form--I eat, etc. Emphatic Form--I do eat, etc. 1 Ne-we-sin Nin-ne-we-sin 2 Ke-we-sin Kin-ke-we-sin 3 We-se-ne Win-we-we-sin Transitive--Animate Object 1 Ne-daw-mwaw Nin-ne-daw-mwaw 2 Ke-daw-mwaw Kin-ke-daw-mwaw 3 O-daw-mwaw Win-o-daw-mwaw Transitive--Inanimate Object. 1 Ne-me-djin Nin-ne-me-djin 2 Ke-me-djin Kin-ke-me-djin 3 O-me-djin Win-o-me-djin The object is frequently placed before the verb--always when in answer to a question. Thus, the answer to the question, What is he eating? would be, Ke-goon-yan o-daw-mwawn--Fish he is eating. Nouns are formed from verbs by adding "win"; as, waub, to see, wau-be- win, sight; paw-pe, to laugh, paw-pe-win, laughter; au-no-ke, to work, au-no-ke-win, labor. NOTE.--A verb susceptible of both the transitive and intransitive office, and of both animate and inanimate subjects, as for instance, the verb To Blow, may have no less than fifteen forms for the indicative present third person singular. The intransitive may be both animate and inanimate as to subject, and the former both common and emphatic; the transitive would have the same, multiplied by animate and inanimate objects; and the passive and reflective would each have inanimate, and common and emphatic animate--fifteen. Double these for the plural, and we have thirty forms; and that multiplied by the sixteen tenses of the indicative, potential and subjunctive moods gives 480 forms of third person. The first and second persons have the same, minus the inanimate subject, or 20 each for each tense, making 640 more, or 1120 all together in those three moods. The imperative singular and plural, and the infinitive present and past, and the participles, add 25. Then there is the additional form for the first person plural treated under "Pronouns," running through all the sixteen tenses, common and emphatic, animate and inanimate and intransitive, 96 more--making the astonishing number of 1241 forms of a single verb!-- EDITOR. _Conjugation of the Verb To Be._ INDICATIVE MOOD. Pers. Singular. Plural. Present Tense--I am, etc. 1 Ne-daw-yaw Ne-daw-yaw-me 2 Ke-daw-yaw Ke-daw-yaw-me 3 Aw-yaw Aw-yaw-waug or wog Imperfect Tense--I was, etc. 1 Ne-ge-au-yaw Ne-ge-au-yaw-me 2 Ke-ge-au-yaw Ke-ge-au-yawm 3 Ke-au-yaw Ke-au-yaw-wog Perfect Tense--I have been, etc. 1 Au-zhe-gwaw ne-ge-au-yaw Au-zhe-gwaw ne-ge-au-yaw-me 2 Au-zhe-gwaw ke-ge-au-yaw Au-zhe-gwaw ke-ge-au-yawm 3 Au-zhe-gwaw ke-au-yaw Au-zhe-gwaw ke-au-yaw-wog Pluperfect Tense--I had been, etc. 1 Ne-ge-au-yaw-naw-baw Ne-ge-au-me-naw-baw 2 Ke-ge-au-yaw-naw-baw Ke-ge-au-me-naw-baw 3 Ke-au-yaw-baw Ke-au-yaw-baw-neg Future Tense--I shall or will be, etc. 1 Ne-gaw-au-yaw Ne-gaw-au-yaw-me 2 Ke-gaw-au-yaw Ke-gaw-au-yawm 3 Taw-au-yaw Taw-au-yaw-wag POTENTIAL MOOD. Present Tense--I may or can be, etc. 1 Ko-maw ne-taw-au-yaw Ko-maw ne-taw-au-yaw-me 2 Ko-maw ke-taw-au-yaw Ko-maw ke-taw-au-yawm 3 Ko-maw tau-yaw Ko-maw taw-au-yo-wog Imperfect Tense--I might be, etc. 1 Ko-maw ne-ge-au-yaw Ko-maw ne-ge-au-yaw-me 2 Ko-maw ke-ge-au-yaw Ko-maw ke-ge-au-yom 3 Ko-maw ke-au-yaw Ko-maw ke-au-yaw-wog Perfect Tense--I may have been, etc. 1 Au-zhe-gwau ne-tau-ge-au-yaw Au-zhe-gwau ne-tau-ge-au-yaw-me 2 Au-zhe-gwau ke-tau-ge-au-yaw Au-zhe-gwau ke-tau-ge-au-yawm 3 Au-zhe-gwan tau-ge-au-yaw Au-zhe-gwau tau-ge-au-yaw-og Pluperfect Tense--I might have been, etc. 1 Ko-maw au-yaw-yom-baw Ko maw au-yaw-wong-ge-baw 2 Ko-maw ke-au-yaw-yom-baw Ko-maw au-yaw-ye-go-baw 3 Ko-maw au-yaw-go-baw-nay Ko-maw au-yaw-wo-go-baw-nay SUBJUNCTIVE MOOD. Present Tense--If I be, etc. 1 Tchish-pin au-yaw-yaw Tchish-pin au-yaw-wong 2 Tchish-pin au-yaw-yon Tchish-pin au-yaw-yeg 3 Tchish-pin au-yawd Tchish-pin au-yaw-wod Imperfect Tense--If I were, etc, 1 Tchish-pin ke-au-yaw-yaw Tchish-pin ke-au-yaw-wong 2 Tchish-pin ke-au-yaw-yon Tchish-pin ke-au-yaw-yeg 3 Tchish-pin ke-au-yawd Tchish-pin ke-au-yaw-wod Perfect Tense--If I have been, etc. 1 Tchish-pin au-zhe-gaw ke-au-yaw-yaw 2 Tchish-pin au-zhe-gaw ke-au-yaw-yon 3 Tchish-pin au-zhe-gwa ke-au-yawd Tchish-pin au-zhe-gwa ke-aw-yaw-wog Tchish-pin au-zhe-gwa ke-au-yaw-yeg Tchish-pin au-zhe-gwa ke-au-yaw-wod [The syllable "gwa" is often omitted, merely saying, "au-zhe."]. Pluperfect Tense--If I had been, etc. 1 Au-zhe ke-au-yaw-yaw-baw Au-zhe ke-au-yaw-wong-o-baw 2 Au-zhe ke-au-yaw-yawm-baw Au-zhe ke-au-yaw-ye-go-baw 3 Au-zhe ke-au-yaw-paw Au-zhe ke-au-yaw-wau-paw Future Tense--If I shall or will be, etc. 1 Tchish-pin we-au-yaw-yaw Tchish-pin we-au-yaw-wong 2 Tchish-pin we-au-yaw-yon Tchish-pin we-au-yaw-yeg 3 Tchish-pin we-au-yawd Tchish-pin we-au-yaw-wod IMPERATIVE MOOD--Be thou, Do you be. 2 Au-yawm Au-yawg INFINITIVE MOOD--To be, To have been. Present--Tchi-au-yong Perfect--Au-zhe tchi-ke-au-yong PARTICIPLES--Being, Been, Having been. Au-zhaw-yong Tchi-ge-au-yong Au-zhe-gwaw tchi-ge-au-yong _Synopsis of the Verb To See._ I see, Ne-wob. I saw, Ne-ge-wob. I have seen, Au-zhe-gwaw ne-ge-wob. I had seen, Ne-ge-wob-naw-baw I shall see, Ne-gaw-wob. I shall have seen, Au-zhe-ge-wob. I may see, Ko-maw ne-taw-wob. I might see, Ko-maw ne-ge-wob. I may-have seen, Au-zhe-gwaw ne-taw-ge-wob. I might have seen, Ko-maw wob-yawm-baw. If I see, Tchish-pin wob-yon. If I saw, Tchish-pin ke-wob-yon-baw. If I have seen, Tchish-pin au-zhe-gwa wob-yon. If I had seen, Tchish-pin ke-wob yon-baw. If I shall see, Tchish-pin we-wob-yon. If I shall have seen, Tchish-pin we-wob-yon-baw. See thou, Wob-ben. To see, Tchi-wob-bing. To have seen, Tchi-ge-wob-bing. Seeing, Au-wob-bing. Having seen, Au-zhe-gwaw au-ge-wob-biog. Having been seen, Au-ge-wob-bing-e-baw. I am seen, Ne-wob-me-go. I was seen, Ne-ge-wob-me-go; I have been seen, Au-zhe ne-ge-wob-me-go. I had been seen, Ne-ge-wob-me-go-naw-baw. I shall be seen, Ne-gaw-wob-me-go. I shall have been seen, She-gwa-we-wob-me-go-yon. I may be seen, Ko-maw wob-me-go-yon. I might be seen, Ko-maw ke-wob-me-go-yon. I may have been seen, Ko-maw au-zhe ke-wob-me-go-yon. I might have been seen, Ko-maw au-zhe ke-wob-me-go-yon-baw. If I be seen, Tchish-pin wob-em-go-yon. If I have been seen, Tchish-pin au-zhe ke-wob-me-go-yon. If I had been seen, Tchish-pin ke-wob-me-go-yon-baw. If I shall be seen, Tchish-pin we-wob-me-go-yon. If I shall have been seen, Tchish-pin she-gwa-we-wob-me-go-yon. I see myself, Ne-wau-baw-dis. I saw myself, Ne-ge-wau-baw-dis. I shall see myself, Ne-gaw-wau-baw-dis. I may see myself, Ko-maw ne-daw-wau-baw-dis. See thyself, Wau-baw-de-son. To see thyself, Tchi-wob-on-di-song. MINOR PARTS OF SPEECH. Adverbs: When, au-pe, au-ne-nish; where, au-ne-pe, au-ne-zhaw; there, e-wo-te, au-zhe-we. [The significance of the double forms is not clear; and comparison, as with Adjectives, seems to be by different words.-- ED.] Prepositions are few, and are oftener embraced in the form of the verb, as in the Latin. The most important are, pin-je, in; tchish-pin, or kish-pin, if. Po-taw-wen pin-je ke-zhap ke-ze-gun, make some fire in the stove; Tchish-pin maw-tchawt, if he go away. Or the same may be expressed, Po-taw-wen ke-zhap ke-ze-gun-ing ("ing" forming locative ease, with the preposition implied); and, Maw-yaw-tchaw-gwen (the latter form of verb expressing subjunctive mood). The employment of the preposition makes the expression more emphatic. The most important Conjunctions are, haw-yea, gaw-ya, ka-ie, and; and ke-maw, or. [Three forms of "and" doubtless due to imperfect orthography.] Interjections embrace, yaw! exclamation of danger; au-to-yo! surprise; a-te-way! disappointment; taw-wot-to! disgust; ke-yo-o! disgust (used only by females). There is no Article; but the words, mendaw, that, and maw-baw, this, are often used before nouns as specifying terms, and are always emphatic. E-we is common for that, directed to things at a distance. A peculiarity, of uncertain significance, is the termination, sh, or esh, employed in connection with the possessive case. It does not change the interpretation, and is perhaps an expression of familiarity, or intimate relationship. Illustration: Ne-gwiss, my son; Ne-gwisa-esh, my son. Ne-daw-niss, my daughter; Ne-daw-niss-esh, my daughter. Ne-dib, my head; Ne-dib-awsh, my head. Ne-wau-bo-yon, my blanket; Ne-wau bo-yon-esh, my blanket. Ne-gwiss-og, my sons; Ne-gwiss-es-shog, my sons. Ne-daw-niss-og, my daughters; Ne-daw-niss-es-shog, my daughters. One, Pa-zhig. Ten, Me-toss-we. Two, Nezh. Twenty, Nezh-to-naw. Three, Ness-we. Thirty, Ne-se-me-to-naw. Four, Ne-win. Forty, Ne-me-to-naw. Five, Naw-non. Fifty, Naw-ne-me-to-naw. Six, Ne-go-twos-we. Sixty, Ne-go-twa-se-me-to-naw. Seven, Nezh-was-we. Seventy, Nezh-wo-se-me-to-naw. Eight, Nish-shwas-we. Eighty, Nish-wo-se-me-to-naw. Nine, Shong-swe. Ninety, Shong-gaw-se-me-to-naw. One hundred, Go-twok. Father, Os-se-maw, pl. g. Mother, O-gaw-shi-maw, pl. g. Brother, We-kaw-ne-se-maw. Sister, O-me-say-e-maw. Grandfather, O-me-shaw-mes-e-maw. Grandmother, O-ko-mes-se-maw. Cousin, male, We-taw-wis-e-maw. Cousin, female, We-ne-mo-shay-e-maw. Uncle, O-me-shaw-may-e-maw. Aunt, O-nou-shay-e-maw. Boy, Que-we-zayns, pl. og. Girl, Quay-zayns, pl. og. Man, Au-ne-ne, pl. wog. Woman, Au-quay, pl. wog. Old man, Au-ke-wa-ze, pl. yog. Old woman, Me-de-mo-yay, pl. yog. Ae, yes. Kau, no. Nau-go, now. Ka-ge-te, truly so. Kau-win, no (emphatic). Au-zhon-daw, here. Pe-nau! hark! Ka-go, don't. E-wo-te, there. Pa-kau, stop. Kaw-ga-go, none. Ne-gon, before. Aush-kwe-yong, behind. Ne-se-wo-yaw-ing, between. Pe-tchi-naw-go, yesterday. Wau-bung, to-morrow. Pe-tchi-nog, just now. Wau-e-baw, soon. Au-no-maw-yaw, lately. Way-wib, quickly. Au-gaw-won, hardly. Naw-a-gotch, slowly. Au-pe-tchi, very. O-je-daw, purposely. Kay-gaw, almost. Saw-kou, for example. Mou-zhawg, always. Me-naw-gay-kaw! to be sure! Ne-sawb, alike. Kaw-maw-me-daw, can't. Pin-dig, inside. Pin-di-gayn, come in. We-yaw, The Body. Pe-nay-shen, Bird. (Pl. yog) O-dib, Head. Wing-ge-zee, Eagle. O-te-gwan, Face. Pe-nay-se, Hawk. O-don, Mouth. Mong, Loon. Osh-ke-zheg, Eye. Me-zhe-say, Turkey. O-no-wau-e, Cheek. She-sheb, Duck. (P. og; others an.) Otch-awsh, Nose. Kaw-yawshk, Gull. O-daw-me-kon, Jaw. Tchin-dees, Bluejay. O-da-naw-naw, Tongue. May-may, Woodcock. We-bid, Tooth. Pe-nay, Partridge. We-ne-zes, Hair. Au-dje-djawk, Crane. O-kaw-tig, Forehead. O-me-me, Pigeon. O-maw-maw, Eyebrow. Au-pe-tchi, Robin. Kaw-gaw-ge, Palate. Awn-dayg, Crow. (P. og; others an.) O-kaw-gun, Neck. Au-nawk, Thrasher. O-do-daw-gun, Throat. Paw-paw-say, Woodpecker. O pe-kwawn, Back. Ke-wo-nee, Prairie hen. O-pe-gay-gun, Rib. Maw-kwa, Bear. O-me-gawt, Stomach. Mooz, Moose. O-naw-gish, Bowel. Me-shay-wog, Elk. Osh-kawt, Belly. Maw-in-gawn, Wolf. O-kwan, Liver. Au-mick, Beaver. O-kun, Bone. Maw-boos, Rabbit. O-nenj, Hand. Pe-zhen, Lynx. O-neek, Arm. Au-ni-moosh, Dog. O-dos-kwon, Elbow. Au-ni-mouns, Puppy. O-kawd, Leg. Au-zhawshk, Muskrat. O-ge-dig, Knee. Wau-goosh, Fox. (P. og; others an.) O bwom, Thigh. Shaw-gway-she, Mink. O-zeet, Foot. A-se-bou, Raccoon. O-don-dim, Heel. Me-she-be-zhe, Panther. (eg; others wog, og, g.) O-ge-tchi-zeet, Big toe. She-gos-se, Weasel. O-ge-tchi-nenj, Thumb. Au-saw-naw-go, Squirrel. Ke-gon, Fish. Maw-ne-tons, insect. (Pl. yog) Ke-gons (dim.), minnow. O-jee, house fly. (Pl. sog) Naw-me-gons, trout. Me-ze-zawk, horse fly. Maw-zhaw-me-gons, brook trout. Au-mon, bumblebee. Maw-may, sturgeon. Au-moans (dim.), bee, hornet. O-gaw, pickerel. May-may-gwan, butterfly. (Pl. yog) She-gwaw-meg, dog fish. Au-kou-jeah, louse. Au-saw-way, perch. Paw-big, flea. O-kay-yaw-wis, herring. O-ze-gog, woodtick. Au-she-gun, black bass. A-naw-go, ant. Au-de-kaw-meg, whitefish. A-a-big, spider. Ke-no-zhay, pike. Saw-ge-may, mosquito. Paw-zhe-toua, sheep head. Mo-say, cut worm. (Pl. yog) Maw-maw-bin, sucker. O-quay, maggot. Paw-gawn, nut; (dim. paw-gaw-nays, hazelnut or other small nut) Au-zhaw-way-mish, pl. eg; beech tree. Au-zhaw-way-min, pl. on; beech nut. Me-te-gwaw-bawk, pl. og; hickory tree. Me-gwaw-baw-ko paw-gon, pl. on; hickory nut. Paw-gaw-naw-ko paw-gon, pl. on; walnut. Me-she-me-naw-gaw-wosh, pl. eg; apple tree. Me-she-min, pl. og; apple. Shaw-bo-me-naw-gaw-wosh, pl. eg; gooseberry bush. Shaw-bo-min, pl. og; gooseberry. Paw-gay-saw-ne-mish, pl. eg; plum tree. Paw-gay-son, pl. og; plum. Aw-nib, pl. eg; elm. Aw-doup, pl. eg; willow. Shin-gwawk, pl. wog; pine. Ke-zhek, pl. og; cedar. Au-bo-yawk, pl. wog; ash. We-aaw-gawk, pl. og; black ash. Me-daw-min, pl. og; corn. O-zaw-o-min, pl. og; yellow corn. Mis-kou-min, pl. og; red raspberry. Wau-be-mis-kou-min, pl. og; white raspberry. Wau-kaw-tay-mis-kou-min, pl. eg; black raspberry. AU-KEE; the world, the earth, land, country, soil. Pay-maw-te-se-jeg au-king, the people of the world. Taw-naw-ke-win, country or native land. Ke-taw-kee-me-naw, our country. Maw-kaw-te au-kee, black earth or soil. Me-daw-keem, my land. Au-ke-won, soiled; also applied to rich land. Ne-besh, water; ne-be-kaw, wet land. Wau-bawsh-ko-kee, marsh land. An-ke-kaw-daw-go-kee, tamarack swamp. Ke-zhe-ke-kee, cedar swamp. Au-tay yaw-ko-kee, swamp, swampy land. Shen-gwaw-ko-kee, pine land. Ne-gaw-we-kee, sand; ne-gaw-we-kaw, sandy. Kong-ke-tchi-gaw-me, the ocean. Ke-tchi-au-gaw-ming, across the ocean. Se-be (pl. won), river; se-be-wens (dim). (pl. an.) brook. Ke-te-gawn (pl. on), farm; ke-te-gaw-nes (dim.), garden. Ke-te-gay we-ne-ne, (pl. wog), farmer. Ke-zes, sun; te-bik-ke-zes, moon; au-nong (pl. wog), star. Ke-zhe-gut, day; te-be-kut, night. Ne-bin, summer; pe-boon, winter. Ne-be-nong, last summer; me-no-pe-boon, pleasant winter. Tau-gwan-gee, fall; me-nou-kaw-me, spring. Au-won-se-me-nou-kaw-ming, year ago last spring. Maw-tchi taw-gwan-ge, bad or unpleasant fall. No-din, wind; no-wau-yaw, the air. No-de-naw-ne-mot, windy. To-ke-sin, calm; ne-tche-wod, stormy. Au-pe-tchi ne-tche-wod, very stormy. Wig-wom, house; wig-wom-an, houses. Au-sin wig-worn, stone house. Au-naw-me-a-we-gaw-mig, a church. Te-baw-ko-we-ga we-gaw-mig, a court house. Me-no-say, handy. Me-no-sayg, that which is handy. Au-no-ke, work. A-no-ket, he that is working. Wo-be, he sees. Wau-yaw-bet, he that sees. Pe-mo-say, he walks. Pe-mo-sayt, he that is walking. Pe-me-bot-to, he runs. Pe-me-bot-tot, he that runs. Get him, nawzh. Get it, naw-din. Help him, naw-daw-maw. Help it, naw-daw-maw-don. Call him, naw-doum. Ask for it, naw-don-don. Go to him, naw-zhe-kow. Go to it, naw-zhe-kon. Meet him, naw-kwesh-kow. Meet it, naw-kwesh-kon. Ne-dje-mon, my boat. Ne-dje-may, I paddle. Ne-dje-bawm, my soul. Ne-do-ge-mom, my master. Ne-gwes, my son. Ne-daw-nes, my daughter. Ne-taw-wes, my cousin. Ne-kaw-nes, my brother. Ne-daw-kim, my land. Ne-ne-tehaw-nes, my child. He sleeps, ne-baw. He is dead, ne-bou. He is sleepy, au-kon-gwa-she. He died, ke-ne-bou. He is white, wau-besh-ke-zee. He is afraid, sa-ge-ze. He is lonely, aush-ken-dom. He is lazy, ke-te-mesk-ke. He is killed, nes-saw. He is well, me-no-pe-maw-de-ze. Ne-tawn, first. Ne-tawn ke-taw-gwe-shin, he came first. Ne-gon, before. Ne-gon-ne, he goes before. Au-ko-zee, sick. Au-ko-zi-we-gaw-mig, hospital. Au-gaw-saw, small. O-gaw-sawg o-naw-gun pe-ton, bring small Au-gaw-won, scarcely. Au-gaw-won ne-wob, I scarcely see. Once, ne-go-ting. Only once, ne-go-ting a-taw. Not there, ne-go-tchi. Look elsewhere, ne-go-tchi ne-naw-bin. Change, mesh-kwot. He is elsewhere, ne-go-tchi e-zhaw. Full, mosh-ken. It is elsewhere, ne-go-tchi au-tay. Fill it, mosh-ke-naw-don. Change it, mes-kwo-to-non. Saw-kon, go out. Pe-saw-kon, come out. Maw-tchawn, go away. Pe-maw-tchawn, come away. Pe-to, to bring. Pe-ton, fetch it. Ash-kom, more and more. Nos, my father. Ash-kom so-ge-po, more and more snow. Kos, your father. Ash-kom ke-me-wau, more and more rain. O-sawn, his father. Ash-kom ke-zhaw-tay, hotter and hotter. Ne-gaw-she, my mother. Ash-kom ke-se-naw, colder and colder. Ke-gaw-she, your mother. E-ke-to, saying. E-ke-ton, say it. E-ke-to, he says. Ke-e-ke-to, he said. Kay-go mon-daw e-ke-to-kay, do not say that. E-wau, he says [the same as e-ke-to, but used only in third person and cannot be conjugated]. E-naw-bin, look; e-naw-bin au-zhon-daw, look here. A-zhawd, going; au-ne-pe a-zhawd? where did he go? E-wo-te, there; me-saw e-wo-te au-daw-yon, there is your home. Au-zhe-me, there; au-zhe-me au-ton, set it there. Au-ne-me-kee, thunder; au-ne-me-ke-kaw, it thundered. Awsh-kon-tay, fire; awsh-kon-tay o-zhe-ton, make some fire. On-je-gaw, leaked; on-je-gaw tchi-mon, the boat leaked. Kaw-ke-naw, all; kaw-ke-naw ke-ge-way-wog, all gone home. Ke-wen, go home. [This verb always implies home, but the emphatic expression is ke-wen en-daw-yawn.] Son-gon (inanimate), son-ge-ze (animate), tough. Se-gwan, spring; se-gwa-nong, last spring (Chippewa dialect). Me-gwetch, thanks; me-gwe-tchi-me-au, he is thanked. Taw-kwo, short; on-sawm taw-kwo, too short. Ke-me-no-pe-maw-tis naw? Are you well? Ae, ne-me-no-pe-maw-tis. Yes, I am well. Ke-taw-kos naw? Are you sick? Kau-win ne-taw-ko-si-sy. No, I am not sick. Au-ne-pish kos e-zhat? Where did your father go? O-day-naw-wing ezhaw. He is gone to town. Ke-ge-we-sin naw? Have you eaten? Ae, ne-ge-aush-kwaw-we-sin. Yes, I have done eating. Ke-baw-kaw-tay naw? Are you hungry? Kaw-win, ne-baw-kaw-tay-sy. No, I am not hungry. Pe-mo-say-win, walking (noun); ne-pe-mo-say, I walk. Aum-bay paw-baw-mo-say-taw, let us go walking. Ne-ge-paw-baw-mo-say, I have been walking. Ne-ge-paw-baw-mish-kaw, I have been boat riding. Aum-bay paw-baw-mish-kaw-daw, let us go boat riding. Maw-tchawn, go on, or go away. Maw-tchawn we-wib, go on quickly. Ke-maw-tchaw-wog, they have gone. Aum-bay maw-tchaw-taw, let us go. Wan-saw e-zhaw, he is gone far away. We-kau-de-win, a feast; we-koum, I invite him (to a feast). We-kau-maw-wog, they are invited (to a feast). Maw-zhe-aw, overpowered; maw-zhe-twaw, victorious. Mou-dje-ge-ze-win, or, me-naw-wo-ze-win, rejoicing. Mou-dje-ge-ze, or, me-naw-wo-ze, he rejoices. Au-no-maw-yaw ke-daw-gwe-shin, he came lately. Au-pe-tchi ke-zhaw-tay, it is very hot Ke-tchi no-din, it is blowing hard. Paw-ze-gwin we-wib, get up quickly. Me-no e-naw-kaw-me-got, good news. Me-no e-naw-kaw-me-got naw? Is it good news? She-kaw-gong ne-de-zhaw-me, we are going to Chicago. She-kaw-gong on-je-baw, he came from Chicago Saw-naw-got, difficult to overcome. Saw-naw-ge-ze, he is in difficulty. Saw-naw-ge-ze-wog, they are in difficulty. Sa-ge-ze, he is frightened; sa-ge-ze-win, fright. Ke-gus-kaw-naw-baw-gwe naw? Are you thirsty? Au-pe-tchi ne-gus-kaw-naw-gwe. I am very thirsty. Me-naw au-we, give him drink. Ke-bish me-naw, give him water to drink. O-daw-kim o-ge-au-taw-wen, he sold his land. O-da paw-gaw-awn, the heart beats. O-da me-tchaw-ne, he has a big heart Ke-ne-se-to-tom naw? Do you understand? Ke-ne-se-to-tow naw? Do you understand me? Kau-win, ke-ne-se to-tos-no. No, I do not understand you. Ke-no-dom naw? Do you hear? Ae, ne-no-doin. Yes, I hear. Ke-pe-sen-dom naw? Do you listen? Ke-maw-ne-say naw? Are you chopping? Maw-tchi e-naw-kaw-me-got naw? Is it bad news? We-go-nash wau-au-yaw mon? What do you want? Au-nish au-pe-daw-taw-gwe-she non? When did you come? Au-ne-pesh a-zhaw yon? Where are you going? Au-ne-pesh wen-dje-baw yon? Where are you from? Au-ne-dosh wau-e-ke-to yon? What shall you say? Au-nish mon-daw e-naw-gen deg? What is the price? Maw-ne-say, he chops; ma-ne-sayt, he that chops. Ne-bwa-kaw, wise; ne-bwa-kawt, he that is wise. Na-bwa-kaw-tchig, they that are wise. Wa-zhe-tou-tchig awsh-kou-te, they that make fire. O-zhe-tou aush-ko-tay pin-je ke-zhaw-be-ke-se-gun, Make fire in the stove. Wen-daw-mow way-naw-paw-nod au-zhon-daw, Tell him the cheap place is here. Wen-daw-mow e-naw-kaw-me-gok, tell him the news. Taw-bes-kaw-be. Taw-be-e-shaw au-zhon-daw. He will come back. He will come here. On-je-baw. Wow-kwing on-je-baw. Coming from. He comes from heaven. Nau-go, now; nau-go a-ge-zhe-gok, to-day. Te-besh-kou, same, even; ta-te-besh-kon, even with the other. To-dawn mon-daw e-ne-taw, do that as I tell you. Pe-sen-dow, listen to him; pe-sen-do-we-shin, listen to me. Me-saw-wett-dje-gay. Me-saw-me-dje-gay-win. He covets. Coveting. E-zhaw-yon gaw-ya ne-ne-gaw e-zhaw. If you will go and also I will go. O-je-daw ne-ge-to-tem tchi-baw-ping. Purposely I did it to make laughter. Kaw-win ke-taw-gawsh-ke-to-se tchi-gaw-ke-so-taw-wod mau-ni-to, you cannot hide from God. Maw-no-a-na-dong taw-e-zhe-tchi-gay, let him do what he thinks. A-naw-bid. E-naw-bin a-naw-bid. In the way he looks. Do look in the way he looks. Au-nish a-zhe-wa-bawk mon-daw? What is the matter with that? Au-nish a-zhe-we-be-sit au-we? What is the matter with him? Au-nish a-naw-tchi-moo-tawk? What did he tell you? E-zhaw. Au-ne-pish kaw-e-zhawd? He went. Where did he go? E-zhaw-wog. Harbor Springs ke-e-zhaw-wog. They went. They went to Harbor Springs. Ne-daw-yaw-naw e-naw-ko-ne-ga-win. We have a rule, or, a law. O-we-o-kwon o-ge-au-taw-son. His hat he pawned. Ne-be-me-baw-to-naw-baw au-pe pen-ge-she-naw. I was running when I fell. NOTE.--Except some condensation and arrangement in the grammar, this work is printed almost verbatim as written by the author.--EDITOR. 
6983	----	MISSIONARY WORK AMONG THE OJEBWAY INDIANS. BY THE REV. EDWARD F. WILSON. CONTENTS. CHAP. INTRODUCTION. I. HOW IT CAME ABOUT THAT I WENT TO CANADA. II. FIRST MISSIONARY EXPERIENCES. III. OUR ARRIVAL AT SARNIA. IV. KETTLE POINT. V. INDIAN NAMES GIVEN. VI. CHRISTMAS ON THE RESERVE. VII. MISSION WORK AT SARNIA. VIII. THE BISHOP'S VISIT. IX. FIRST VISIT TO GARDEN RIVER. X. BAPTISM OF PAGAN INDIANS. XI. THE RED RIVER EXPEDITION. XII. CHANGES IN PROSPECT. XIII. ROUGHING IT. XIV. CHIEF LITTLE PINE. XV. OUR FIRST WINTER IN ALGOMA. XVI. CHIEF BUHKWUJJENENE'S MISSION. XVII. AN INDIAN CHIEF IN ENGLAND. XVIII. A TRIAL OF FAITH. XIX. LEARNING TO KNOW MY PEOPLE. XX. A WEDDING AND A DEATH. XXI. THE OPENING OF THE FIRST SHINGWAUK HOME. XXII. FIRE! FIRE! XXIII. AFTER THE FIRE. XXIV. PROSPECTS OF RE-BUILDING. XXV. LAYING THE FOUNDATION STONE. XXVI. A TRIP TO BATCHENWAUNING. XXVII. THE WINTER OF 1874-5. XXVIII. THE NEW SHINGWAUK HOME. XXIX. RUNAWAY BOYS. XXX. CHARLIE AND BEN. XXXI. A TRIP UP LAKE SUPERIOR. XXXII. COASTING AND CAMPING. XXXIII. UP THE NEEPIGON RIVER. XXXIV. THIRTY YEARS WAITING FOR A MISSIONARY. XXXV. THE PAGAN BOY--NINGWINNENA. XXXVI. BAPTIZED--BURIED. XXXVII. THE WAWANOSH HOME. XXXVIII. A SAD WINTER. XXXIX. WILLIAM SAHGUCHEWAY. XL. OUR INDIAN HOMES. XLI. A POW-WOW AT GARDEN RIVER. XLII. GLAD TIDINGS FROM NEEPIGON. PREFACE. A few words addressed by the Bishop of Algoma to the Provincial Synod may form a suitable preface to this little book, which aspires to no literary pretensions, but is just a simple and unvarnished narrative of Missionary experience among the Red Indians of Lake Superior, in the Algoma Diocese. "The invaluable Institutions at Sault Ste. Marie still continue their blessed work of educating and Christianizing the rising generation of Ojebways. Founded in a spirit of faith, hope, and charity,--carrying out a sound system of education, and in the past 'approved of God' by many signs and tokens, the friends of these two 'Homes' may still rally round them with unshaken confidence. Their history, like that of the Christian Church itself, has been marked by not a few fluctuations, but their record has been one of permanent and undoubted usefulness. "Only a person deeply interested and directly engaged in the work, as the Rev. E. F. Wilson is, can understand the force of the difficulties to be encountered from the ineradicable scepticism of Indian parents as to the disinterestedness of our intentions with regard to their children; the tendency of the children to rebel against the necessary restraints imposed on their liberty; the reluctance of parents to leave their children in the 'Home' for a period sufficiently long for the formation of permanent habits of industry, and fixed principles of right; the constitutional unhealthiness of Indian children, terminating, as it has here in a few cases, in death; the all but impossibility of obtaining helpers for subordinate positions, such as teacher or servant, who regard the question of the evangelization of the Indian from any higher stand-point than the financial. "Against this formidable array of obstacles Mr. Wilson has not only struggled, but struggled successfully, till now these two Institutions, over which he has watched with all the jealous vigilance of a mother watching her first-born child, stand on a basis of acknowledged success, as two centres for the diffusion of Gospel light and blessing among the children of a people who have been long 'sitting in darkness, and the shadow of death.' During the past year sundry improvements have been made in the Shingwauk Home, which will largely increase the comfort of the occupants. The most notable event, however, to be recorded in this connection is the completion and consecration of the 'Bishop Fauquier Memorial Chapel,' a beautiful and truly ecclesiastical structure, designed, in even its minutest details, by Mr. Wilson, and erected by means of funds sent mainly from England, in response to his earnest appeals for some enduring and useful memorial of the life and labours of the late revered Bishop of this diocese. Long may it stand, as a hallowed centre for the diffusion of Gospel light among hundreds yet unborn, of the Indian tribes he loved so well." MISSIONARY WORK AMONG THE OJEBWAY INDIANS. INTRODUCTORY. The largest freshwater lake in the world is Lake Superior, through the centre of which runs the boundary line between the United States of America and the Dominion of Canada. The Indians call it the "Ojebway Kecheguramee," that is--literally translated--the Great water of the Ojebways, or as they are often called the Chippeways. The Ojebways are an extensive Indian tribe spreading over a large part of Canada, the Northern States, and the North West; specimens of their language and customs appear in Longfellow's song of Hiawatha. Lake Superior may be regarded as the centre of their ancient possessions. Along its northern shores, and back into the interior they still roam in wild freedom, hunting, and fishing, and paddling their birch-bark canoes;--but in more civilized places, they are confined to reserved lands set apart for them by the Dominion Government, and many of them now gain their living by farming or by working for the neighbouring white people. The Ojebway Indians are now just in that transition stage in which they particularly require a helping hand to lift them up to a respectable position in life, and to afford them the means of gaining their livelihood as a civilised Christian people. As one of their own Chiefs has said, "the time is passed for my people to live by hunting and fishing as our forefathers used to do; if we are to continue to exist at all we must learn to gain our living in the same way as the white people." It is with the view of making the wants of these poor people known, and of increasing the interest in a work which amid many difficulties, has for the past ten years been carried on among them, that these pages are written. The writer will tell what have been his experiences with the Indians since he first came to settle among them as a Missionary, and will describe how God in His providence gradually opened the way for him, how dangers were met, and difficulties overcome, and how in the end two Institutions for the Christian training and civilization of Indian children were brought into existence; the one called the _Shinywauk Home_, with accommodation for about seventy Indian boys, and the other called the _Wavanosh Home_ with room for about thirty Indian girls,--both of them built, and now in active operation, at Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, at the south-eastern extremity of Lake Superior. CHAPTER I. HOW IT CAME ABOUT THAT I WENT TO CANADA. All things are wonderfully ordered for us by God. Such has been my experience for a long time past. If only we will wait and watch, the way will open for us. Where shall I begin with my history as a Missionary? When I was a child, it was my mother's hope and wish that I should bear the glad tidings of the Gospel to distant lands. She was a Missionary in heart herself, and it was her earnest desire that one of her boys would grow up to devote himself to that most blessed work. However there seemed little likelihood of her wishes being fulfilled. I disliked the idea of going to Oxford as my brothers had done. A wild free life away from the restraints of civilization was my idea of happiness, and after studying agriculture for a year or two in England, I bade farewell to my native shores and started for Canada. Then God took me in hand. I had been only three days in the country when He put it into my heart to become a Missionary. The impulse came suddenly, irresistibly. In a few days it was all settled. Farming was given up, and I entered upon my course as a theological student. That same summer I spent a month or six weeks on an Indian Reserve, and became, as people would say, infatuated with the Indians. For this and other reasons, I preferred remaining in Canada that I might study for the ministry, to returning to England; and whenever opportunity allowed, I paid a visit to some Indian Reserve, or went on an exploring tour up the great lakes. After rather more than two years' preparation, I returned to England, and in December, 1867, was ordained deacon at the Chapel Royal, by the Bishop of London, Dr. Tait, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury. Shortly after this, it was arranged that I should go out again to Canada as a Missionary to the Ojebway Indians, under the auspices of the Church Missionary Society, the Rev. Henry Venn being then Hon. Secretary, and on July 1, 1868, accompanied by my wife and an old faithful servant named Jane, we started for Canada. My wife, accustomed to the refinement and comforts of a beautiful old rectory home in Gloucestershire, knew not whither she was going--she had never been out of England before, and all was new and strange to her. Indeed, I for my part was going out also, "not knowing whither I went." Whether our lot would be cast in one of the older and more civilised dioceses of Canada, or whether we should find a home on the very outskirts of civilization, I knew not. My instructions from the Church Missionary Society Committee, were simply to go first to London, Ont., where the late Bishop of Huron (Dr. Cronyn) then lived, and from thence to travel around and select what might seem to be the best spot to make the centre for a new mission. We had thought of Cape Croker on the Georgian Bay, and we had thought of Michipicoten, on Lake Superior,-- but nothing could be settled until after our arrival in Canada, and as for my wife she was content to go with me wherever I went. We had a splendid view of icebergs on the eighth day of our voyage. It was a clear, keen morning reminding one of Christmas time, the sailors were washing the decks and all looked merry and bright, and around on all sides were icebergs of every size and shape, some looking like great sea monsters bobbing up and down on the water, others as if a large extent of Dover Cliff were floating past. Twenty-seven we counted at one time, and during the morning fully 150 must have passed us. "Ah," said an old sailor, "if one of them had touched us, this ship wouldn't be here." Then came the excitement of whales, spouting in the deep, and at 10 a.m., on July 10th, the rocky coast of Belle Isle was in sight. When we landed at Quebec, the heat was intense, the glass standing at 99 deg. in the shade. My wife's first experiences of Canada are described in a letter home, dated from London, Ont., July 22nd, '68. "At 4 p.m. we left Quebec and started by boat for Montreal. The boats for the lakes and river are simply splendid,--such large handsome saloons and everything very nice, except that we had only one small towel between us and very little water. After leaving Montreal we had to go through a succession of locks which was slow work and made us feel the heat very much. On Wednesday it was a little cooler, and we were able to enjoy the most lovely scenery I had ever beheld, 'the thousand isles,'--that alone is quite worth coming out for. From Hamilton we took train to London. No one can remember such a summer before, for the last three weeks the glass has been standing at between 103 deg. and 99 deg. except in the evening, when we think it cold if it goes down to 80 deg. The boarding-house we are in is cool and clean and quite English-like about a mile from the so-called town." Almost immediately after settling in at our London boarding-house I started on my first Missionary tour, the object being to choose a spot suitable for the centre of our Mission. CHAPTER II. FIRST MISSIONARY EXPERIENCES. My first service among the Indians was held in a little log-house on the Indian Reserve, at Sarnia (south of Lake Huron), on Sunday, July 26th. Twenty-two Indians of the Ojebway tribe were present. They all seemed most anxious to have a Church of England Mission established in their midst, as many of them, inclusive of their venerable old chief, Wawanosh, were already members of the Church, and had been from time to time visited by a Missionary. I promised to visit them again on my return from other Indian settlements and see what could be done. The following day, Monday, I took train to Toronto, and thence to Collingwood, from which place I intended to branch off to Owen Sound and visit the Cape Croker and Saugeen Indians. I had with me as interpreter a young Indian named Andrew Jacobs, his Indian name being Wagimah-wishkung, and for short I called him Wagimah. At Owen Sound we met with some Cape Croker Indians, and engaged their boat and two men to take us the following day to their settlement, about forty miles up the Lake Shore. Soon after four the next morning we were up and dressed, and an hour later were on our way. It was fine, but rather foggy, and the sun scarcely visible through the mist. Not a breath of wind was stirring, so we had to keep to our oars, sometimes one and sometimes another rowing. At noon we reached Commodore Point, and put in for about an hour, spending our time in eating raspberries, which were growing in the greatest profusion, and bathing in the bay. Then on we pushed again, past Griffith's Island, White Cloud Island, and King's Point, and arrived at length, after a voyage of eight hours, at Cape Croker. We found that there were about 350 Ojebway Indians in the place, the majority of whom were Roman Catholics or Methodists: they had good houses, some log, but mostly neat little frame weather-boarded buildings; the land, however, was much neglected, very little attempt being made at farming. A Church of England service was conducted on Sundays by an Indian Catechist named Angus. The Chief's name was Tabegwun. On the day after our arrival I held a meeting with the Indians, and explained to them my object in coming to visit them, and began by reading the Scriptures, and preaching to them, and baptizing one or two children. They gave me the names of twenty-six persons who professed to belong to the Church of England, and were desirous of having a Mission established among them. During our stay we were guests at Mr. Angus's house, a clean, respectable dwelling, and were regaled with venison and huckleberry pie. The next Indian Reserve that we visited was Saugeen. To reach this place we had to return by boat to Owen Sound, and then go across country in a westerly direction to the shores of Lake Huron. The journey was accomplished by "buggy." We started at 4 a.m. on the morning of July 31st, and stopped to have our breakfast on the roadside about 7 o'clock, sitting one at each end of a log facing each other, our plates and cups in front of us. We reached the Indian village at 8.30 a.m., and went to the house of the chief whose name was Madwayosh. Only his wife was at home, but we learnt all that we wanted from her. There were about 250 Ojebway Indians on this Reserve, and nearly all Methodists. They had a resident Methodist Missionary and a place of worship in course of erection. I at once came to the conclusion that it would be unsuitable for us to attempt any Mission work in this place; and when we bade adieu to Mrs. Madwayosh we drove on to the Sauble Reserve, five miles further. A most dreadful road it was the whole way. We had both to get down and lead the horse more than half the distance, and then our traps were in the most imminent danger of jumping out as the buggy went jolting and rolling on over huge boulders and logs and stumps. It took us over two hours to reach the place, and when we got there, rain was coming down in torrents. We inquired for Waubesee's house, he being a member of the Church, and after some trouble we at length found it, but it lay back at a distance from the road, with only a trail leading to it, so we had to take the horse out of the buggy and lead him after us. The little house, made entirely of bark, stood in the most picturesque spot, surrounded by lofty pines. Near the house was a calf shed, into which we tried to squeeze our horse, but he would not go, so we had to take him to a stable about a mile off. Waubesee and his family received us very warmly. They said there used to be a great many Church people among them, but no missionary had been to see them for many years, and now all who had belonged to the Church were either gone away into the States, or had joined the Methodists. Waubesee, his wife, children, and grandchildren, numbered eighteen in all, and he said that the whole number of Indians on the Reserve was about 250. He seemed to be an intelligent man, and got out his Ojebway prayer-book and Testament to show us. Before we left, the family and a few others were called together, and we had reading and prayer, and I gave them a short address, Wagimah acting as my interpreter. We now had to drive to Southampton, a distance of eight miles, and it was 6.30 p.m. when we reached it. My interpreter left me here to return to his home by the way we had come, and I took steamboat to Goderich, and from thence by train to London, where I rejoined my wife. My next trip was to Brantford, and my wife accompanied me. We started on the 5th of August, and on our arrival there, were hospitably entertained at the Rev. Mr. Nelles' house. From there I went to visit the Indians on the New Credit Reserve, a considerable distance off. I called on Chief Sawyer, a tall, fine man, with a sensible-looking face. He said there were about 300 Ojebway Indians on the Reserve, and that many of them were most desirous of having a Church of England teacher. The result of all these visits was, that after much earnest prayer for Divine guidance, we finally decided upon making Sarnia our headquarters, and on the 8th of August I paid a second visit to the Indians there, and told them that I had decided to come and live amongst them. We expected there would be a little difficulty at first, as the Methodists were already in the field, and might oppose our coming; but as the Chief and quite a large number of the people were already professed members of the Church, having been frequently visited by the Rev. Mr. Chase, the native minister at Muncy Town, it seemed only fair that their oft-repeated petition to the Bishop of Huron should be attended to, and that a Church of England Mission should be established among them. On the 11th of August a Council was held, at which some fifty Indians attended. They sat about indiscriminately on benches, some smoking their pipes, others chewing tobacco. In a few plain words I told them, how it was my own earnest desire to devote myself as a Missionary to the Indians, and how I had been sent by a great Society in England to search out and teach the Ojebway Indians of the western part of Canada. I had already, I said, visited the Indians of Cape Croker, Saugeen, Sauble, and the Grand River, and had now made up my mind to make Sarnia my head-quarters, and to build a church in their midst. We would not, I said, put up a large expensive one,--we would begin with a small rough one, and see how we got on,--an Indian had already promised us land, and now I wanted all Indians whose hearts were in the work to lend us a helping hand and aid in erecting the church; it should be a small log building, and cost not more than 200 dollars. Mr. Chase was also present, and spoke very nicely after I had finished. After the council was over I proposed to Mr. Chase and a few other Indians that we should kneel down and ask God's blessing, and so we knelt down and laid our case before God and asked Him to guide and direct us, and to incline the hearts of the Indians to favour our undertaking. Next morning I returned to London, and on the 15th we moved down to Sarnia, and took up our abode temporarily at Mrs. Walker's boarding-house. CHAPTER III. OUR ARRIVAL AT SARNIA. Mrs. Walker's boarding-house was a frame, white-painted house situate in the town of Sarnia, a little way back from the main street. The Indian Reserve almost adjoined the town, so that a quarter of an hour's walk would take us on to their land. In front of the town and flowing down past the Indian Reserve is the broad river St. Clair, connecting Lake Huron with Lake Erie, its banks on the Canadian side dotted over with the boats and fishing nets of the Indians. I at once invested in a horse and buggy, and also engaged Wagimah as my interpreter. I could already read the service in Indian, but required an interpreter's aid for conversing with the people and preaching. Our Sunday services were held in a vacant log hut, in which we had a little desk rigged up and some forms arranged as seats. On my first Sunday among them I baptized two children, an infant in arms named Jacob Gray, and a child of four or five named Thomas Winter. Both of these boys some nine or ten years afterwards became pupils at the Shingwauk Home. Our great object now was to build a log church and also a Mission house for our own use with as little delay as possible. There was a quaint old Indian, or rather half-breed, for he was partly French, with whom I had some conversation in regard to our proposed operations. "Well, Mr. Leviere," I said to him one day, "what do you think the Indians will be willing to do? Will they cut down the trees,--square and haul the logs?" "I have been thinking about it a good deal," he replied. "You want a church forty feet long; this will take a great many logs, not much black ash now in the bush. I don't think, Sir, you will find enough trees. Why not build a frame church? If you build frame, Indians get out logs, fit the frame one day, raise building next day, board it next day, get done quick; not cost much money, cost perhaps $100, not much money." "Now, supposing we were to do this, what would the Indians be willing to give? Would they work without pay? I want the white people to see that the Indians are really in earnest; I should like to point to our church and say, 'The Indians built this church without pay, because it was their wish to build a house to God.' Do you think the Indians are ready to do this? Are you ready to give a helping hand yourself?" "Oh, indeed, Sir, yes! I mean to work, and keep on working till it is finished; I think there are many who will do so too, perhaps ten or fifteen altogether; we shall want no pay, only provisions." Our chief source of discouragement at this time was the opposition of the Methodist party, who were considerably in the majority on the Reserve. As Indian land is held in common by all the members of the band, we were at one time in fear that we might be prevented from building. A petition was sent to Government, and correspondence entered into with the Indian Department, and in the end we were permitted to take possession of one acre of land on the lot of a Church Indian named Antoine Rodd. The opposition, however, was very bitter and rather depressing, and our opponents went so far as to threaten to deprive the old Chief, Wawanosh, of his chieftainship. On the other hand, we had every encouragement from the conduct of our own Indians. The opposition that they met with only seemed to make them more determined to stand by us and assist in the establishment of the Mission. Directly the land question was settled, three or four of them started back in the bush with their axes, to fell the trees and hew and square the timbers for the frame-work of the church, and I heard that the old Chief had been to the Indian Agent's office and borrowed ten dollars of the Annuity-money to pay a professed hewer, as none of themselves were good hands at such work. This, I told them, was more than I expected of them; if they would give their labour, that was all that I asked; but no, they would not be dissuaded; they were quite determined, they said, to raise the frame-work unaided, and they would much rather themselves pay for any labour they might have to employ. The "Raising" took place on the 22nd of September. About fifty Indians were present, and all took part more or less in the work. In the afternoon two teams arrived from the town with a large party of ladies and gentlemen, well supplied with baskets of provisions for a feast, which they had kindly arranged to give the Indians at the conclusion of their work. The roughly extemporised tables looked most inviting when all was spread out, and two or three of the Indian women were most active and clever in getting everything ready. When the feast was over the Indians gathered in a circle, and I expressed to them my pleasure that we had got thus far with our work, and told them that I hoped we should soon now, with God's blessing, have our little church open and ready for service. Joseph Wawanosh on behalf of his father, the old Chief, then expressed his gratitude that a Missionary had at length come among them, and that a church was in course of erection. After this we concluded with a short service in the Ojebway language. It was very encouraging to me to find that our cause was being taken up in England; a little circular had been printed and distributed, and by the middle of October L64 had been contributed towards the erection of our Mission buildings. In the meantime I was holding service regularly every Sunday in the vacant log cottage with an average attendance of from twenty to thirty Indians, and during the week I visited a good deal among the people, my interpreter usually accompanying me. I had prepared a little pocket companion containing passages of Scripture, copied from the Ojebway Testament, sentences of familiar conversation, and Indian prayers and collects. With the help of this little book I was able to make myself understood by the Indians, and soon became almost independent of an interpreter. I had a plan of the Indian Reserve, and usually steered my way through the bush with my compass, taking little notice of the rough corduroy tracks and Indian trails which never seemed to lead to the right place. One of these expeditions I will briefly describe: I wanted to find old Widow Kwakegwah's house, which lay about two miles back through the bush in a south-easterly direction. Wagimah was with me and, leaving the river road, we plunged back at once into the bush without either path or track, and steered our way by my compass. Sometimes it lay through a thick growth of young saplings, which bent aside as we pushed our way through; sometimes over a mass of decaying logs and upheaved roots; sometimes through long grass and swamp up to our knees; occasionally we came to a fallen tree, which we had to clamber over or under. Once or twice we came upon a little log hut standing in the midst of a small clearing, sometimes empty with door bolted, at other times showing signs of occupation. Into one of these we entered; it was a tiny log shanty, with a patch of Indian corn and potatoes enclosed by a snake fence. We pushed open the door, a fire was burning on the hearth, and in a corner was a blanket enveloping something that might be human. I told Wagimah to touch it, he did so, and the bundle moved, part of the blanket wriggled back and a woman's face appeared. She said she was sick, and that no one had been to visit her. We staid and had a little conversation, and then as it was getting late, hurried on to Widow Kwakegwah's. The old woman, who had a very pleasant, honest-looking face, gave us quite a hearty reception. I got her to tell me the number of her children and grandchildren, and then taking up her Ojebway Testament read a few verses from St. John iii, and spoke a few words which Wagimah interpreted, after which we knelt for prayer. After this we visited Peter Gray, with his wife and family of eight children, they lived in a small log hut, and there was no glass in the windows. It was now five p.m. and we started on our two miles' trudge back to Antoine Rodds' house, where I had left my buggy, and then drove back to the town. CHAPTER IV. KETTLE POINT. Besides the four hundred Indians on the Sarnia Reserve, there were about one hundred more living at Kettle Point, thirty miles distant, on the eastern shore of Lake Huron. I had not been long settled at Sarnia, when, in company with my interpreter. I started on a first visit to these people. I will describe the journey. Taking the railway as far as Forest, we had to walk on a distance of eight or nine miles. Neither of us knew the country, but a couple of Indians, whom we happened to fall in with, showed us the way. It was nearly two o'clock when we reached David Sahpah's house. We found the Indians most hospitable; some of them were Methodists, some still pagans, and others members of the Church. They were most desirous of having a Church Mission established among them, as there was no school for their children and no regular services held. Not a single individual, man, woman, or child, could read or write. They were very anxious to have a school-house built and a schoolmaster sent to teach them, indeed some of them had already got out logs with the view of building a school. The Chief's name was Ahbettuhwahnuhgund (Half a Cloud), a fine, broad-shouldered, intelligent-looking man, but still a pagan, although he had had several of his children baptized in the Church. There was also a large family named Shaukeens, all of whom were pagans, and several others. They seemed, however, to have advanced more in their farming operations than the Sarnia Indians. The Chief had a capital house with several rooms in it, an orchard full of apples and cherries, and well-cultivated fields. In the evening we had service at David Sahpah's house, and then I spoke to the Indians and proposed that we should at once commence a fortnightly school among them, myself and my interpreter taking it alternately. There was an empty log-house which they said we could use, and they all seemed pleased at the proposal, and said that they would send their children to be taught. We had to start at 3.30 a.m. next morning to catch the early train for Sarnia. It was a clear starlight night when we emerged from the hospitable shelter of an Indian's log-house and started on our pilgrimage through the bush. There was no moon, and we had some difficulty in groping our way. Wagimah went first, and slowly and cautiously we proceeded, carrying our wraps and satchels with us. However, with all our care, we had soon lost our way, and found ourselves stumbling along over a potato patch, without having the least idea where we were. For nearly an hour we were wandering about, when at length we came once more upon a beaten track; but whether it was the right one or not we could not tell. However we followed it, and almost before we were aware we found ourselves out of the bush and standing on a broad clay road, and at length we arrived at Forest Station in good time for the cars to Sarnia. After this we visited Kettle Point every fortnight, and many were the amusing incidents connected with those trips. Sometimes I drove the whole distance in my own trap, at other times took train to Forest or Widder, and some of the Indians would meet me with a waggon or sleigh, as the case might be, at the Station. It was on the 9th of September that we commenced our school in the vacant log-house. We began with A, B, C, as no one yet knew anything. There were eleven children and five adults present. I was amused in the evening to see a game of draughts going on, on a log outside the Chief's house; the draught-board was a flat part of the log with squares carved out on its surface, the black men were squares of pumpkin rind with green side up, the white men the same with the green side down. That night we slept at Adam Sahpah's house. Our sleeping places on these Kettle Point expeditions were various. One bitterly cold night in the late autumn, I remember, passing in a little boarded shanty used as a workshop. We were nearly perished in the morning, and were glad to get inside David Sahpah's comfortable log-house; a huge fire was blazing on the hearth, and the Indian women all busy, some with their pots and frying-pans, boiling potatoes and baking cakes, others dressing and cleaning the children. Mrs. Ahbettuhwahnuhgund gave me a chair, and down I sat by the blazing fire and gazed with a feeling of happy contentment into the yellow flames. The scene was certainly a novel one. In a dark corner by the chimney sat a dirty old couple on the couch where they had been passing the night; they were visitors from Muncey Town, and were staying a few nights only at Kettle Point. The old woman lighted up her pipe, and whiffed away with her eyes half shut; after enjoying it for about twenty minutes or so, her old husband thought she had had enough, and taking it from her put it in his own mouth and had his whiff. When he had done, he restored it again to his wife. Underneath another old bedstead were a couple of large dogs, which occasionally let their voices be heard in a dispute; some of the stones on one side of the fire-place had broken away, making a little window through which the dogs could reach the fire, and it was amusing to see how they put their noses and paws through the opening and warmed themselves just like human beings. Down in another corner sat an antiquated old woman enveloped in a blanket, and in vain endeavouring to comfort a little fat boy of about ten months who was crying, as only children know how to cry, for his mother. Finding that she could not content the baby, she at length got up, and taking off her blanket, put one end of it round the baby's shoulders, tucked the ends under its arms, and then with one sweep placed baby and blanket together on her back, and with one or two pulls once more got the blanket wrapped completely round her, and the little fat boy snugly ensconced between her shoulders; then she marched off to give him an airing. The bigger children were set to clean themselves, a tin bowl of water and a towel being given them in turns. I was wondering whether my turn would come, when Mrs. Ahbettuhwahnuhgund, having once more filled the bowl, addressed me with the words, "Maund'uhpe," which in polite English would mean, "Here you are!" "Ah, meegwach, ahpecte"--"thank you kindly"--said I, and forthwith began my ablutions, while the children stood around me in wonderment. One night I slept with a pig. It was a vacant room in the Chief's new house. After our services were over and we had had supper, Mrs. Ahbettuhwahnuhgund took a clean blanket on her shoulder and a lantern in her hand, and calling me to follow led me to the apartment. There was a bedstead with a mattress on it in a corner, and on two chairs in the middle of the room lay a pig which had been killed the day before. Early next morning, before I was fully awake, the door opened, and Mrs. Ahbettuhwahnuhgund appeared with a knife in her hand. What could she want at this hour in the morning? I opened one eye to see. Her back was turned to me, and I could not distinguish what she was doing, but I heard a slicing and cutting and wheezing. Then the good lady turned round, and closing the eye I had opened I did not venture to look out again till the door was shut, and Mrs. Ahbettuhwahnuhgund departed; then I peeped out from my rug--poor piggy was minus one leg! Next time I saw the missing limb it was steaming on the breakfast table! I must not make this chapter longer. By-and-bye I shall tell of the baptism of the Chief and several other of the pagan Indians of this place. Suffice it to say now that our little school kept nicely together, and services were held either by myself or my interpreter every fortnight. In a little more than a year's time we had the satisfaction of seeing both a school-church and a master's residence erected, and a catechist placed in charge of the station. CHAPTER V. INDIAN NAMES GIVEN. It is a custom with the Indians to bestow Indian names upon missionaries and others who come to work among them, in order to make them, as it were, one with themselves. We had not been many months resident in Sarnia before we received an invitation from the pagan Chief at Kettle Point, to come to a grand feast which the Indians were preparing in our honour at that place, and to receive Indian names by which we should be incorporated into the Ojebway tribe. It was one of the coldest of winter days when we started, the glass very low, a high wind, and the snow whirling through the air in blinding clouds. We went by train to Forest, and there Ahbettuhwahnuhgund met us with his sleigh. It was just a common box sleigh with two seats, and the bottom filled with straw, and two horses to pull us. We were all bundled up in rugs and blankets and wraps; the Chief, who was driving, had his head completely smothered up in a bright blue shawl belonging to his wife, and wrapped so many times round that he was as wide at the top of his eyes as at his shoulders. The only one of the party who appeared careless about the cold was an Indian named Garehees, who had come with us from Sarnia, and he sat with his feet hanging over the side of the sleigh; however, when we asked him how it was that he did not feel the cold, he replied with a grin, "Moccasins no cold,--white man boot cold,--ice!--two pair socks under moccasins me--big blanket too!" In about an hour and a half we arrived at the Chief's house; it was the first time my wife had been to Kettle Point, and she was very much pleased to make acquaintance with the Indians of whom she had often heard, and who had sent her presents of apples and cherries from their orchards. She had brought with her a few small gifts for the children, with which they were much delighted. A little boy named Isaac had a sugar-dog given to him; he soon had its nose in close quarters with his mouth, and the people laughed to see it disappearing. Indians are nearly always very much behind time in their arrangements; they do not appear yet to understand the value of time-- whether in their councils, their daily work, their feasts, or their attendance at church, they are generally behind the appointed hour. If a council is called to commence at noon, three or four Indians will have perhaps assembled at that hour; others straggle in as the day wears on; they sit or lie about, smoking their pipes, chewing tobacco, and talking; and it will probably be three o'clock before the council actually commences. The Indian feast of to-day was no exception to the rule. It was appointed to take place at noon, but hour after hour sped by, and it was nearly four p.m. when they at length commenced. On entering the room where the feast was laid out, we found two seats arranged for us at the end of the apartment beneath an ornamented canopy decked with cedar boughs, and we were requested to sit down. Then the Chief and Shaukeens (both pagans) stood up, and the Chief made a brief oration to the people, which John Jacobs, a young native, then studying for the ministry at Huron College, interpreted for us. The Chief expressed his pleasure in receiving us among them, and his desire that we should become as one of them by receiving Ojebway names; and then, taking me by the hand, he continued: "The name that I have selected for you is one which we greatly respect and hold in fond remembrance; for it was the name of an old and respected Chief of our tribe who lived many years ago and whose name we wish to have retained; and seeing you are a missionary to the Ojebway Indians, it is the wish of my tribe as well as myself that you should be called after our late respected Chief; so your name hereafter is 'Puhgukahbun' (Clear Day-light)." The moment my name was given, "Heugh! Heugh!" sounded from all sides, that being the Indian mode of expressing approval when anything is said or done. Mrs. Wilson then rose and received her name in the same manner. The Chief, addressing her, said: "It is with great pleasure that I bestow also on you, the wife of the missionary, an Ojebway name. The name I am about to give you was the name of one of our sisters who has long since passed away from our midst, and it is our wish that her name should be retained among us. Your name therefore is 'Nahwegeezhegooqua' (Lady of the Sky). "Heugh! Heugh! Heugh!" again sounded through the room, and then the Indians one and all pressed forward to have a shake of the hand with their new brother and sister. We almost had our hands shaken off, and from all sides came the cry, "Boozhoo, Boozhoo, Puhgukahbun; Boozhoo, Nahwegeezhegooqua, Boozhoo, Boozhoo!" As soon as order was restored, the feast began. I had the seat of honour next to the Chief, and Mrs. Wilson sat next to me. The table was well covered with eatables--venison, cakes, pork, Indian bread, preserves, all in the greatest abundance. About thirty persons sat down to the first table the others waiting with true Indian patience for their turn to come; and a long time it was coming, for as soon as the first set had finished, an intermission was made for music and speechifying. Several very pretty songs were sung by the Indian choir, some in English and some in Indian. After the feast was over and the tables cleared, I was asked to address the people, and Wagimah interpreted for me. I told them briefly hew much pleased I was to receive an Ojebway name, and thus become one of their number, and how Mrs. Wilson and myself would now feel that we could shake hands with them and regard them as our brothers and sisters. God, I said, had greatly prospered our work since I came among them. We had already our church completed and our Mission-house nearly so at Sarnia; the great Society in England had contributed five hundred dollars towards the erection of these buildings, and our friends in England about five hundred dollars more; so that there would be no debt. As soon as we had money enough I hoped that with their help we should be able also to build a little church and teacher's house for them here at Kettle Point, and send a catechist to reside among them and teach their children. It was late in the evening when we bade good-bye and drove back to Forest, where we remained for the night and the next morning returned to Sarnia. On our arrival I found a letter awaiting me from the Secretary of the Church Missionary Society, authorizing me to place a catechist in charge of the Kettle Point Mission. CHAPTER VI. CHRISTMAS ON THE RESERVE. We were anxious as soon as possible to have both church and Mission- house built on the Sarnia Reserve, so that we might move down among the Indians and dwell in their midst. When therefore the matter of the land was settled, and one acre of Antoine Rodd's farm had been given over for the use of our Mission, we began preparations for the erection of the two buildings. For the building of the church, I wished the Indians to give as much in the way of labour and help as possible, so as to show their earnestness in the cause; but for the erection of the Mission-house, we had to depend largely on contributions from our friends in England. However, the Church Missionary Society made us a grant of L100, and friends helped liberally, so that we had no lack of funds, and by the time the two buildings were completed and fenced round with a board fence, all was paid for. We moved into our new house on the 29th of January, 1869, just six months after our arrival in Canada. It was a nice little frame cottage, with a large room or hall in the centre, study and bed-room on one side, and sitting-room and bed-room on the other; and at the back, connected by a covered passage, were the kitchen and pantry, with servants' bed-room over. We were close to the river, and from our front windows could see in summer-time all the shipping passing to and fro, which made it quite lively. We were sorry not to get into our Mission-house before Christmas, but this was impossible. Our little church, however, was opened for service two days after Christmas Day, and was beautifully decorated for the occasion. I must go back a little, and tell how it all happened. I had bought some pews from an old Scotch church in the town which was going to be pulled down, and one day early in December we got them carried down to our little church building, and the Indians assisted me in putting them up; there were ten on each side, and as they would seat five each we had room for a congregation of just a hundred persons. On Christmas Day, thirty-four people assembled in the log-house, which had been beautifully decorated by the Indian women with cedar branches for the occasion. After service I took the opportunity to say something to them about the arrangements in the new church. Among other things I suggested that they should sit together in families instead of the men on one side and the women on the other, as had been their custom. The proposal was well received and caused some amusement Shesheet said humorously that he would consider it a great privilege to be allowed to sit by his wife. Just as we were coming away the old Chief's wife, Mrs. Chief as we used to call her, came running after Mrs. Wilson with a parcel, and pushed it into her hand, saying, in her broken English, "Christmas, Christmas!" It proved to be a prettily worked sweet-grass basket, and the old lady giggled and laughed joyfully as Mrs. Wilson expressed her surprise and pleasure at the present. Two clergymen besides myself assisted in the services at the opening of the church, which on that occasion was crammed with about a hundred and fifty people. One of the most interesting features was just at the close of the service, when an Indian named Buckwheat, from the neighbouring mission of Walpole Island, came forward, and, after giving a short address expressing the sympathy that was felt by the Walpole Islanders for the Indians of this newly-formed Church mission, proceeded to loosen a belt from his waist, and to take from it a little carefully wrapped up packet, which he brought forward and presented as the offering of his brethren towards the erection of our church and Mission-house. It contained nine dollars. The next day was the children's treat and Christmas tree. It was held in the hall of the new house, although we had not yet moved in. It was amusing to watch the faces of the children as they gazed upon the unusual sight of a Christmas tree lighted up with tapers. Not even the older people had ever seen one before. There were thirty-one children present, and there was some little gift for each of them. During the evening we taught them to scramble for nuts and candies. It was absurd to see them, at first all standing in mute astonishment and wondering at my ruthless waste in throwing away such excellent sweatmeats all over the floor; however, they soon learned how to perform their part of the game, and began scrambling for the good things as eagerly as any English children. The Indians, although to all appearance so grave and stoical, have a fund of quiet wit and humour about them, and are even sometimes quite boisterous in their merriment. Joseph Wawanosh, the Chief's eldest son, was a particularly quiet grave-looking man, and yet there was often a merry twinkle in his eye, and sometimes he would come out with some funny remark in his quaint broken English. He was our churchwarden, and had a great weakness for making up large fires in the church, to which my wife strongly objected, and they waged a chronic war on the subject. Joseph, when spoken to used to pretend to shiver, and say he felt particularly cold. One day Mrs. Wilson said to him, "How soon is your wife coming home?" "Oh, about two weeks," he replied. "Why, you will be starved before then; you have no one to cook for you." "Ah, no, I guess not," replied Joe; "Indian never starve in bush." "Why not?" asked Mrs. Wilson. "Oh," said Joe, shaking his head humorously; "lots of squirrels." Old Antoine Rodd, or Shesheet, as he was more generally called, was a huge portly man, and was often very comical in his remarks, his good-natured face beaming with fun. One day Mrs. Wilson nearly slipped into a large puddle while threading her way along the ill-kept road, "What would you have done if I had been drowned?" she asked jokingly, as the old man helped her out of her difficulty. "Oh, I would, have dragged it!" he said. We, were very glad when at length we moved into our new house, and we soon had plenty of our Indian friends to visit us. Widow Kwakegwah brought a black and white cat as a present for my wife. She threw the cat into the kitchen in front of her, and then followed laughing. It was amusing to watch the cat making a survey of the whole house with true Indian curiosity. The Indians did not generally venture beyond the kitchen part without invitation; in that part, however, they made themselves quite at home, and Jane was somewhat taken aback when Joe Wawanosh told her he was going up to see her room. Mrs. Chief also went up, and was delighted with Jane's trunks. She said she would come again another day to see what was in them! CHAPTER VII. MISSION WORK AT SARNIA. After settling in at our new home on the Sarnia Reserve, a great part of my time was taken up in exploring through the Bush and visiting the Indians in their houses. We found one very piteous case of a poor woman in the last stage of consumption. The poor creature was worn to a skeleton lying on a most miserable looking bed with nothing to cover her but a ragged strip of black funereal-looking cloth. Although so very ill, she was able to answer the questions that Wagimah put to her, and when I offered to read the Bible to her she seemed very glad. She listened most attentively while I read in Ojebway the eighteenth chapter of St. Luke, and told her of the love of Christ in coming to save sinners. Then we knelt, and I offered two prayers for the sick copied into my pocket-companion from the Indian prayer-book. We visited the poor creature several times again, and once Mrs. Wilson accompanied me and brought with her some blanc-mange or jelly which she had made. She was much touched at the sight of the poor creature's utter destitution. We were amused as we went along to see a pair of babies' boots hanging on the branch of a tree, evidently placed there by some honest Indian who had chanced to find them on the road. This is what the Indians generally do if they find anything that has been lost,--they hang it up in a conspicuous place, so that the owner may find it again if he comes by the same way. I had been told of a poor widow who was very ill and living with her three children in a destitute condition. Jane went with me to find her out, and we took, a supply of medicine and food with us. After wending our way along a narrow foot-track in the snow, which twisted about among the tall black trees, we came in sight of what looked like a heap of dirty boards and branches of trees piled together, but the blue smoke curling from the top told that it was a human habitation. It was the first time Jane had seen an Indian wigwam, and she was horrified to think that people could live in such a hovel. We drew aside the dirty cloth which covered the entrance and crept in. Two dogs saluted us with snarls, but were soon quieted, and crouching along by the smoky sides of the cabin we shook hands with the poor woman and her daughter (a girl of about fifteen), and then gazed round for something to sit upon;-- however, there was nothing but the earthen floor, so down we sat. The little wigwam was just wide enough for a person of ordinary height to lie down in, and in the centre was the fire, so that it may well be imagined that there was not much room to turn round. On one side of the fire lay the poor woman, doubled up in a dirty blanket, for she had not been able to straighten herself for nearly two years, and was quite unable to sit up; another blanket was fastened up against the side of the place to shelter her from the wind. On the other side of the fire crouched the daughter, listening to what I said about administering the medicines. A little boy with bright eyes and a stock of uncombed black hair was also crouching over the fire. This was Willie, the youngest of the family, now about five years old, and little did I think then how much I should have to do with that boy in his after life. Sitting down by the poor woman, I uncovered my basket and displayed my medicines, and explained to the daughter how the mixture was to be taken twice a day, and the liniment to be rubbed on the affected parts. Jane then changed places with me and applied some of the liniment, and the poor creature immediately felt some relief and began talking about it to her daughter. These poor people seemed to be entirely dependent on the kindness of their neighbours; it was old Shesheet who first told me about them, and I understood that he used often to send them food or firewood. When I visited her on another cold day in October, accompanied by my wife, we found her coiled up in her rags moaning with pain, and only a few dying embers to keep her warm. Little Willie was coiled up asleep in a sheepskin. While we stood, Willie roused up out of his nest, and came to see what was going on; his sister, however, motioned him to go back, and, like a discontented little puppy, he made a low sort of whine, and buried himself again, head and all, in his sheepskin. We went back to the Mission-house and brought some tea for the poor woman, which she drank eagerly, and we provided her also with a candle stuck in a bottle and some firewood, but she never smiled, or said thank you. Her feelings as well as her features seemed to have become hardened with constant pain and suffering. However, we were agreeably surprised one day when she presented my wife with four tiny baskets, tastefully made, and a smile for once actually played on her lips. Some time after she was taken into a house by some friendly Indians, and kindly cared for, the result of which was that she became gradually better. Very soon after our arrival at Sarnia we had proposed to the Indian women that they should meet together once a week for needlework and reading, but the scheme was not carried into effect until we had settled in our new house on the Reserve. The first meeting was held in our hall in the summer of 1869. On the hall-table were spread out all the articles of clothing sent to us from England, and we had on view patterns of prints, flannels, &c., from one of the dry goods stores in the town, the prices being affixed, and discount allowed at ten per cent. As soon as all were assembled I explained to them that the object in meeting together was that they might provide clothing for themselves and their children at as cheap a rate as possible, and at the same time might have an opportunity for friendly talk and instruction. The plan would be for them to engage in needlework for an hour and a half, during part of which time I would read to them a story, which, my interpreter had translated into Indian, and after that we would have scripture reading, singing, and prayer to close the meeting. After all who wished to become members of the meeting had given me their names, they were invited to inspect the patterns and select the material with which they wished to make a beginning. We found the plan answer very well, and soon our "Mothers' Meeting" was thoroughly established. But it was not always that everything went on so harmoniously and peacefully. Unhappily there was a considerable amount of whiskey- drinking among the men, and sometimes drunken fights would occur in close proximity to the house. A son of Antoine Rodd's was particularly vicious when under the influence of liquor; once he frightened us all by making a murderous attack on his father with his tomahawk and gun, and the old man had to escape back into the Bush for his life. Another time the wife of this same man came rushing into our house with her infant on her breast and another daughter following,--her drunken husband running after and threatening to kill them. We dragged them in and shut and locked all the doors, and soon the man was pounding away and trying to get in. The two women in great alarm locked themselves up in the pantry and remained all night under our protection. The saddest occurrence of all was when a man named Winter was actually killed by his own son while in a state of intoxication. We did what we could to try and stem the tide of drunkenness by forming a Temperance Society, which a large number of the Indians joined; but a more effectual check has of late years been put upon the terrible practice by the action of the Dominion Government; it is now against law for a white man either to give or sell liquor to an Indian on any pretence, and the penalty is very heavy. I must finish this chapter with an account of an Indian funeral. The daughter of one of our Indians, named Kwakejewun, had fallen sick and died--died, as we hoped, trusting in her Saviour. As is usual among the Indians, a large number of people gathered together to show their sympathy with the bereaved parents, and to follow the body to the grave. The coffin was first brought into the church. I read the usual service, and a hymn was sung very sweetly and plaintively. Then we proceeded to the cemetery, nearly a mile distant. The snow was deep on the ground and sparkling in the sunlight. I drove in my cutter and headed the long funeral procession. A sad and picturesque sight it was; from eighty to a hundred people in all, some in sleighs, some ploding through the snow on foot,--aged women in their white blankets, mothers with their children, some of them in bright scarlet shawls, boys and girls, all in their Sunday attire. Through the silent forest we wended our way till we came at length to the wild little cemetery with its rude snake fence encircling it. The coffin was taken from the sleigh and carefully lowered into the grave; then the men took off their hats and we sang another hymn. It sounded very sweet in that wild desolate spot, and the poor mother stood enveloped in a blanket at the head of the open grave, and, with her eyes fixed on her daughter's coffin, joined in the singing. Then I read the remainder of the service, and, having shaken hands with the poor father and mother, returned home. The mother grasped my hand warmly, and met me with a happy smile. She believed, I think, that her child was safe with the Saviour. CHAPTER VIII. THE BISHOP'S VISIT. We were now well settled into our Indian home at Sarnia and my work was clearly defined. The Sarnia Reserve was our head-quarters. Here there were some 400 Indians, and at Kettle Point, thirty miles away, were about 100 more. The out-stations were to be New Credit, Saugeen, and Cape Croker, which places together contained about 1150 Indians. The idea was to place a catechist at each of these distant settlements, and for me to visit them twice or three times in the year. With the view of providing catechists suitable for the work I was authorized by the Church Missionary Society to receive and educate some young men; and within a few months after we had taken up our residence on the Reserve I commenced to teach two young Indians, named Wilson Jacobs and William Henry, with the view of their becoming catechists. The great event of the summer was a visit we received from the Bishop of Huron and Mrs. Cronyn. The fact that twenty-five persons were confirmed, and that forty-five came forward afterwards to receive the Holy Communion, will show that our work among these poor Indians had already made some progress. Among the candidates for confirmation was poor old Quasind, who came up bare-footed, a great-grandfather, and, I suppose, about ninety years of age. In the evening our own child, Archibald Edward, was christened during the time of Divine service by the Bishop. The following day we had appointed to have a gathering of Indians, a sort of social party, to meet the Bishop. When morning broke, however, rain was pouring in torrents, and a picnic on the grass became altogether out of the question. So, after early dinner, our hall was cleared, and the business of cutting up bread-and-butter and cake and preparing the tea began. Two or three Indian women had made their appearance, and were soon hard at work with merry faces and busy hands. About 6 p.m. the Indians began to arrive, and by half-past seven sixty had collected. Tea being ready, we called in as many as we could pack into our hall; others sat in the passage or on cordwood piles outside; then each had a cup and saucer given him, and baskets full of bread-and- butter, buns, and cake, and tea were carried round, and all ate their fill. The hall table was covered with books, illustrated magazines, maps, &c., and as soon as the Indians had finished tea they took up these and amused themselves with the pictures. There was a draught-board also, which engrossed the attention of some of the young men, many of them being very clever in playing the game. An old Indian, generally known as "the Doctor," caused great merriment by singing one or two old Indian songs in that peculiar tone of voice which only an Indian can command. The great event of the evening was the conferring of an Indian name on our little boy, only a few months old. The task was delegated to old Shesheet. The old man came forward with his usual radiant face, and after a few prefatory remarks, expressing his great pleasure in meeting the Bishop and Mrs. Cronyn, he took "the pale-faced babe" into his arms and conferred upon it the name of "Tecumseh," a great warrior who many years ago fell in battle fighting under the British flag. After I had thanked the Indians for making my little boy one of themselves, the Bishop rose and gave a very nice address, which Wagimah interpreted. He told them how anxious he had been to see these, his Indian brothers and sisters, ever since he had heard of their becoming members of the Church of their great mother the Queen. He was very pleased indeed to see them, and so was his "squaw," who had come with him, and he wished them every prosperity and happiness and the blessing of God on the Mission. Before parting we sang a hymn, and then closed with prayer and the blessing. The Bishop and Mrs. Cronyn stood up at the end of the hall and shook hands with the Indians one by one as they passed out. In accordance with the instructions I had received from the C.M.S., I made arrangements as soon as practicable for placing a catechist in charge of the Kettle Point Mission, and about this time gave up employing an interpreter, as his services would be no longer needed, and I had now a good stock of sermons written in Indian which I could use at my Sunday services. Before long, John Jacobs, the young native student already mentioned, and who, after satisfactorily passing his course at the Theological College, was ordained in July 1869, took up his abode at Kettle Point as my assistant Missionary. Besides preaching on the Sunday, he taught school during the week, so that his time was well occupied. It was just about this time that I had a severe attack of fever, which for the time quite prostrated me, and my medical adviser ordered me to go away for a few weeks' rest and change of air. So Mr. Jacobs came to take my place at Sarnia and with two of his sisters occupied the Mission-house during our absence. After spending a week with friends in Toronto, we thought we would explore a more northern region, and visit Mr. Chance's Mission at Garden River, which we had often beard of, so we took train to Collingwood, and were soon on our way up the lakes in the beautiful steamboat _Chicora_. Thus was God gradually opening the way for us, and preparing for us a larger and more important sphere of work. It was on this visit to Garden River that I first felt drawn in spirit towards the Indians of the Lake Superior region, that there first entered into my mind the idea of an institution for training the young Indians, and that I first made the acquaintance of the old Indian chief, Augustin Shingwauk. CHAPTER IX. FIRST VISIT TO GARDEN RIVER. We met with a hearty welcome from Mr. and Mrs. Chance, though we had never seen them before. Their church and Mission-house and little log school-house were picturesquely situated on rising ground quite close to the river. The Mission-house, which occupied the centre of the three buildings, was constructed of logs clapboarded over and whitewashed. It had a verandah in front, over the trellis work of which hops grew in profusion, and clambered upwards to the roof. In front of the house was a neat little garden, with two or three fir-trees, some lilac bushes, and well-filled flower-beds. There was quite a profusion of roses, which, even at this late season of the year, scented the air deliciously. Outside the garden fence with its green gate, was a field of Indian corn which sloped down almost to the water's edge. The view from the steps of the verandah was very pretty; one could see the broad deep St Maria River, nearly a mile wide, and long lines of sailing vessels towed by small tugs, occasionally passing and repassing on their way from the upper to the lower lakes. Across the river were the well-wooded hills of Sugar Island, with here and there a settler's shanty and clearing. To the left hand could still be seen the broad river winding its course down toward Lake George, the smaller stream, called Garden River, joining it a short distance below. Then behind, the scene was equally, if not more grand--high rocky hills scantily clad with fir and birch-trees. We felt that we were now indeed in the land of the Indian, far away from civilization; no railways, no telegraphs, no omnibuses or street cars, no hotels or shops for many hundred miles. There was something very attractive and fascinating about this first visit to the wilds of Algoma. We were entertained royally. Peaches, cream, and preserved fruits were among the dainties which covered the table. Where all the good things came from was a matter of wonder to us. The meat, however, consisting of a hind quarter of mutton, had, we found, come with us on the boat, and it just lasted out our four days' visit. We were told extraordinary stories about the difficulty of procuring the necessaries of life, and the manner of overcoming difficulties. Until quite lately the steamboats in their passage up the lakes had never deigned to stop at Garden River; now, however, through Mr. Chance's exertions, a dock had been made and a Post-office erected; and about once in ten days a steam vessel would stop to leave or receive the mails. Mr. and Mrs. Chance were Postmaster and Post-mistress, and we had many a joke with them on the subject. Their fresh meat was always procured from the steamboats. Before this new arrangement was made, the steward on the boat used to tie the meat to a log of wood, and haul it overboard opposite the Mission-house, and Mr. Chance had to go out in his boat to pick it up. They had a capital large sail boat, with two sails, called _The Missionary_. It had lately been presented to the Mission by the Cathedral Sunday School, Toronto. It was very interesting to meet with the Indians of this locality. Many of them were tall, fine- looking men; notably so Augustin Shingwauk and Buhkwujjenene, both of them Chiefs, and very intelligent-looking men. Augustin was at this time about 60 years of age, and his brother Buhkwujjenene eight or ten years his junior. They could trace their ancestry back for four generations. Their father's name was Shingwaukoons (Little Pine), and he appears, from all accounts, to have been a very intelligent Chief. The father of Shingwaukoons was partly French, but his mother, Ogemahqua (Queen), was pure Indian, and daughter of a Chief named Shingahbawuhsin, and this Chief again was son of a Chief named Tuhgwahna, all of them residents of the Sault Ste. Marie district. The Indians of Garden River were not nearly so far advanced in civilization as those of Sarnia; very little was done in the way of cultivating the soil, and very few of them could speak any English. They, however, seemed to evince great interest in religion, the services were well attended, the responses in the Indian tongue well made, and the singing hearty. I must relate one sad incident that occurred during our short visit. It was a beautiful Sunday towards the end of September; we had had service in the white frame church, and very attentive and orderly had the congregation been while Mr. Chance read the service and interpreted my preaching. I had been speaking on the subject of "Eternal Life"-- "This is life eternal, that they might know Thee, the only True God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent." Very wrapt was the attention as I endeavoured to unfold before my simple hearers the great and wondrous subject of eternal life. Had they--sitting there before me--anything to do with this eternal life? Perhaps their thoughts day by day were on the things of this world--their fishing, their hunting, their basket- making, or planting or digging potatoes. Did they ever think that they had souls to be saved; that before another Sunday came round these things which now took up their time and thoughts might have passed away for ever, and they themselves have entered upon the eternal state? If they were true Christians, they would then be meeting with God, beholding Him face to face; they would be with the holy angels, with Jesus. But if not prepared, where would they be? A great gulf would be between them and heaven--a great impassable gulf; they would be with the lost! Before another Sunday came round this great and wonderful change might take place. Were they prepared? Among my hearers were two women; one on the left hand side of the church was a newly-married young woman wearing a scarlet shawl and a hat with flowers. She could not have been more than twenty. The other, who was her mother, sat on the opposite side; an old woman--a widow-- wrapped in a black shawl. The husband of the young woman was in the gallery overhead. Service was over, and we had wended our way back to the parsonage, followed by several Indians, men and women with their babes, who had come to shake hands or to ask for "muskeke" (medicine). All at once we heard a shout from the garden, and a girl came rushing up, crying: "Quick! help! there are people drowning." We all ran off with great haste to the shore, the Indian women wailing in their own peculiar way, some burying their heads in their shawls and sobbing with grief. Quite a little fleet of boats and canoes were already off to the rescue; six or seven in all. We could not at first make out where was the scene of the disaster, but soon it became only too apparent. There, far out in the very centre of the broad river, being carried away by the current, were four or five specks, the heads of people struggling to save themselves. The boats were still a long distance from them, and breathlessly we watched as they made their way onward. Two, three of the specks had disappeared; only two were now visible. "How many were in the boat?" was anxiously asked. "Oh, there must have been eight or nine;" and only two now above water. It was sickening to think of. The wailing cries of the women on the shore increased each moment, and great was the suspense as the foremost boat drew with all speed towards the poor drowning creatures. I waited to see the two who were afloat pulled into the boats, and then hurried up to the house to see if all needful preparations had been made. Mrs. Chance had got everything ready; a good bright fire, blankets, and brandy. When I went back to the shore, the poor half-drowned creatures had just landed. Shaking and shivering they were lifted out of the boat and supported up to the house. Four had been saved: two men--and two women. One was still missing, the young wife who had worn the hat and flowers! The children who were supposed to have gone, it was found on inquiry had been providentially left behind. As soon as we could get the poor creatures up to the house, we set to work to revive them. One of the men, the husband of her who had not yet been found, was on the point of giving in when the boat reached him, and in a moment more would probably have sunk. He was perfectly cold when we brought him in, and being in a consumptive state at the time of his immersion, we much feared that he would not survive the shock. The poor old woman's heart seemed almost broken at the loss of her daughter, and she sat wailing in the kitchen the whole afternoon. The house was of course crowded with Indians who came in to help or sympathize. From those who went to the rescue we learned that the poor woman who was drowned had her hand above the water when the boat came up, but she sank before the people could seize it. Her hat was afterwards found about two miles below the place where she sank. In the evening the poor old woman described how the accident had happened. She said the boat was small and rather too heavily-laden. Just as they got to the middle of the river, a breeze sprang up, and the waves began coming over the side. One of the men jumped into the water to lighten it, but it was of no use. The boat filled, and in a few moments they were all struggling in the water. The poor old creature described how she sank to a great depth, and then rose again; how she prayed to Kezha-Musnedoo (the Good Spirit) to save her; how she sank again; and then, while under the water, saw the dark shadow of the boat coming over her; how again she rose to the surface and was saved. We met again for service in the evening, and Mr. Chance preached very solemnly to a large congregation from the words, "Prepare to meet thy God." A day or two after this we left the Garden River Mission and returned to Sarnia. CHAPTER X. BAPTISM OF PAGANS. There were not many genuine Pagans either at Sarnia or at Kettle Point. Pagan practices had fallen altogether into disuse. There were some Indians living who had been "medicine men," but we never heard that they practised their charms. Still there were several families who held aloof from Christianity. When spoken to about being baptized, their reply was that they thought the Christian Indians behaved worse than the Pagan Indians, and they were afraid that if they were baptized they would become as bad. It was sad that such a thing could be said, and sadder still that there should be any truth about it. Of course the mere fact of the Indians being brought into contact with white people would lead them into temptations from which, in their wild wandering state, they had been comparatively free. It has been said even by white travellers that they have found the pagan Indiana of the North more honest and trustworthy than those in a semi-civilized and nominally Christian state. The Indian when he mixes with the Whites soon learns their bad habits, but is more slow to learn what is holy and good. There were several families at Kettle Point who at the time when we established our Mission were still nominally Pagan. Chief among them were Ahbettuhwahnuhgund and his sister, and Shaukeens, with his wife and family. Ahbettuhwahnuhgund's wife had been baptized, and so also had his two eldest children. One of the first religious rites that I was asked to perform when I began to visit Kettle Point was to receive into the Christian fold the Chief's little boy and aged sister; and at the same time the wife of Shaukeens, who had had several rather dangerous attacks of illness, was baptized. We called the little boy Cornelius, and Mrs. Shaukeens received the name of Tabitha. It was strange how superstitious the Indians continued to be even after their acceptance of Christianity. They seemed never to lose altogether their faith in witchcraft, especially in that form by which it was believed that certain persons had power to cause sickness or misfortune to others. They seemed also to have a firm belief in dreams. Once I was visiting at a poor miserable little shanty on the Sarnia Reserve, and found an old man and his son both lying very sick. The poor creatures were in a wretched condition, the hovel they were in consisting merely of strips of bark and old boards outside and inside hung with rags and tatters and old cloths of every description. The only person to tend them was an old woman--wife, I suppose, of the elder man--who was crouching over the fire smoking her pipe. When we came in, the sick man was gnawing a duck bone, some one having shot him a wild duck. He said it was the first time he had eaten anything for several days; his son was too ill to eat anything. The old man told Wagimah that he had seen me before, a night or two ago in a dream. I had made a garden, and divided it into four parts, and one of these parts was very miserable and wretched. I was walking through this miserable part one day, when I found this poor man. He was very sick indeed, and I took him up and brought him into another part of the garden which was very beautiful, and told him that he might stay there and work, and be happy for ever. Such was his dream. I repeated some verses of Scripture to the poor creature, and then we knelt and prayed. I heard afterwards that the people around believed the old man to be bewitched; some evilly-disposed "medicine man," they said, had brought this sickness upon him by his enchantments. It was a very interesting occasion, when the whole of Shaukeens' family, consisting of seven children, were brought to me for baptism. At 2 p.m. the horn was blown, and the people began to come together to our little temporary school-house. About twenty-eight assembled, and we began service with a hymn; then I read the evening prayers from my Ojebway prayer-book, and at the close of the lesson began the baptismal service. David Sahpah, his wife, and Adam stood sponsors for the children. The names given to them were Stephen, Emma, Sutton, Esther, Alice, Talfourd, and Wesley. Before their baptism, they had no names, and I had to register them in my book as No. 1 boy, No. 2 girl, and so on. It was curious to notice how Pagans attending our services never made any change in their position as the service proceeded. This time the mother, who had been baptized about two months before, kneeled, or stood, or sat with the other people; but the father and children sat quietly on their seats. After the service the children joined in the devotions, and the father only remained sitting. The Chief Ahbettuhwahnuhgund for a long time refused to be baptized, although I very often had conversations with him on the subject, and I felt that in his heart he fully believed the great truths of Christianity. It was partly, perhaps, pride that kept him back, and partly that he was waiting, as he said, to see the Church of England Mission firmly established at Kettle Point. In the first week of January, 1870, our new school-church and master's house at Kettle Point were opened for use. Very pretty they looked as we approached; three flags were flying, and there were crowds of Indians around. Mr. Jacobs, who was now settled in charge of the Mission, met us on the steps of the little church, and accompanied us in. It was most tastefully decorated, and fitted up with a reading-desk on each side, dark-stained communion rails, and crimson coverings. Forty-five persons assembled at the opening service, and just filled the seats. It was a cause of much satisfaction to the Indians to have their little church, which they had worked so hard to build; at length completed. They had themselves supplied all the saw-logs out of which the lumber was made, and had put up the framework, so that it had been but a very small expense to the Mission. Shortly after this I received word from the Chief that he was anxious to be baptized. His answer to my questions were very simple and childlike, and I had every reason to hope that he was sincere in his desire to be a Christian. "Many of these things that you tell me," he said, "are new to me. I hear them now for the first time; nevertheless, I believe them. I believe all that the Christian's book teaches; I cannot but believe it. No man could have written that book. I receive it all as true, and I trust that I may gradually learn all that there is to be learnt about the Christian religion." I gave him the name of Isaac, that being a name by which he had been commonly known among the white people for some time past. It was very interesting to kneel with that newly-baptized Indian Chief, and hear him for the first time pronounce those sacred words, "Wayoosemegooyun Kezhegoong ayahyun"--"Thou who art our Father, in heaven who art." The Chief, his wife, his sister, and his children were all now Christians, and could unite together in prayer and praise and Christian worship. CHAPTER XI. THE RED RIVER EXPEDITION. The year 1870 was memorable in Europe for the great war between France and Germany, followed by the loss of the Pope's temporal power, and the establishment of secular government in Rome. Here in Canada the excitement of the day was the Red River rebellion, to quell which a military expedition was despatched under the command of General (then Colonel) Wolseley. I had arranged to make a Missionary tour to Lake Superior during the summer, and it so happened that I fell in with the troops on their way up the lake and did service for them as chaplain while they were encamped at Thunder Bay. It was a busy scene in the dock at Collingwood just prior to starting. There were about a hundred Iroquois Indians who had been engaged as guides and boatmen, and these were to precede the expedition and arrange for the portaging and crossing the rivers before the arrival of the troops. The steamship _Chicora_ was moored to the dock, the whole vessel from stem to stern being heavily laded down, and there was considerable delay before we started, but at length the ropes were let go, the planks drawn in, and we were off. This was the _Chicora's_ first trip of the season, and large crowds gathered about the docks at the various places where we stopped on our way up the lakes, the general expectation evidently being that the troops would be on board. The disappointment was great when it was found that we had only an advanced guard of Indian Voyageurs with us. One old lady, accosting one of the passengers, in her enthusiasm exclaimed, "Have ye got the army on board?" Above Manitoulin Island the channel becomes very narrow and is sprinkled with little rocky islets clad scantily with fir and birch trees. On one was living an old grey haired man in charge of a lighthouse; he had been there the whole winter shut in by ice and snow, and was so full of delight at witnessing "the first boat of the season" that he saluted us by firing his gun, to which we responded by a grunting whistle. At last we reached Garden River, and stepping on shore, I was soon exchanging hearty greetings with Mr. and Mrs. Chance. The _Chicora_ was detained four hours at this place, as all the boats for the expedition were to be taken off before they proceeded further and to be rowed by the Indians to Sault Ste. Marie, a distance of twelve miles. It was necessary to do this because the only way for the _Chicora_ to get into Lake Superior was through a canal on the American side of the river, and if the boats were left on board they might be regarded by the American Government as munitions of war and so be refused passage. So the Indians were to take charge of the boats and pole them up the rapids, while the _Chicora_ expected to go innocently through the locks as a boat of peace. However the plan did not answer; the _Chicora_ even though divested of her boats, was refused passage, and having unloaded everything on the Canadian side was obliged to return whence she came. Then a road had to be cut along the Canadian shore, the red-wheeled waggons brought into use, and everything conveyed a distance of some three miles to a point above the rapids, where a dock was constructed and another Canadian vessel, the _Algoma_ employed to carry the things on to Thunder Bay on the shore of Lake Superior. As there was likely under these circumstances to be considerable delay before I could continue my journey, I passed my leisure time under the hospitable roof of Mr. and Mrs. Chance, and was glad of the opportunity to renew my acquaintance with the Indians whom we had met last fall. I had hoped that Mr. Chance would have been able to accompany me on my expedition up the Lake; indeed it had been his own wish to do so, and in that case we should have taken his own boat _The Missionary_ and a crew of Indians, and so have been independent of the steamboats. Circumstances however occurred to prevent the carrying out of this plan, and in the end I started alone by steamboat, with my tent, camp- bed, a good stock of books, provisions, &c., and a Garden River Indian named James as my attendant. Col. Wolseley and his staff and a large detachment of troops were on board the steamboat, and on arrival at Thunder Bay, about 300 miles distant from Sault Ste. Marie, we found a scene of the greatest activity and excitement. The troops, about 1200 in number, were encamped on a wild bare spot with only a few rough shanties and houses, about three miles from the Hudson Bay Company Post, Fort William. The Bush had been burnt over, and it was a most desolate, uninviting looking place, although the distant scenery around was grand. There was considerable difficulty in disembarking, as the water near the shore was shallow and there was no dock, so everything had to be taken from the steamboat to the land in a flat scow hauled to and fro by a rope. We pitched our tent on the shore, close to the soldiers' camp, other tents of explorers and travellers being close around us. From this point the troops were to start on their journey to Winnipeg. First, forty miles of road had to be constructed, and boats and everything had to be carried on waggons till the first water in the chain of lakes and rivers was reached. This had to be done for the whole of the 700 miles to Winnipeg; wherever possible the troops went by boat, and where there was no water on the route, a road had to be constructed and the waggons used. It was no easy task that Colonel Wolseley had before him in this wild, uninhabited and rocky country. Very soon after my arrival at Thunder Bay I began to look about for Indians, that being the primary object of my visit. I found quite a large settlement of them at Fort William, but was disappointed to discover that they were all Roman Catholics. The Jesuits, it appeared, had been among them for more than a century. They had a priest resident among them, an old man, I was told, gentlemanly, courteous, and generally beloved and respected both by Indians and Whites; they had also a little church decorated with flowers and images. However, I managed to draw a few people around me, and scarcely a day passed but I had Indian visitors to my tent. The Indian Chief, whose name was Mungedenah, did not seem to be at all bigoted in his religion. Pointing to the sky, he said, "I know there is only one God, and I do not think Christians ought to be divided." He seemed most anxious to have an Ojebway Testament. I told him that the Garden River Indians could nearly all read the Testament for themselves. Tears came into his eyes and he said he wished indeed it could be the same with them. When he rose to leave, he thanked me, and pointing up to heaven said God would bless me. After the visit of their Chief the Indians got quite friendly, and used often to come and see me in my tent. One of them remarked once that he thought there must be a great many white people in the world, to judge by the large number that had come together that summer in such a short space of time. Some of the poor creatures were evidently afraid of being reported to their priest when they came to visit me; they generally squatted at the entrance of the tent, and appeared to be keeping a watch all the time, so that it was very seldom that I had an opportunity of reading to them. Perhaps the most interesting incident that occurred was an interview that I had with some wild pagan Indians from the Interior. Some one put his head in at my tent door, and said, "Have you seen the Indian Chief from Rainy Lake?" "No," I replied, "where is he to be found? I should like very much to see him." Indeed I was most anxious to meet some Indian from that quarter, as I had heard that there was a large settlement there of some thousand Ojebway Indians all in the darkness of paganism. I was directed to a store where the Chief had gone in, and immediately went in search of him. There he stood, a fine, upright, muscular man, with sharp set features, and a fierce forbidding eye; long shaggy black hair straggled down his back, a mink-skin turban graced his forehead, into which were stuck four white eagle feathers, and behind it hung an otter skin appendage like a great bag, and covered with little pieces of bone or metal, which rattled as he walked. I addressed the Chief in Indian, and he turned and shook hands with me, and after a little conversation he agreed to accompany me to my tent, where I prepared a meal for him. He was very ready to converse, and told me that his name was "Makuhda-uhsin" (Black Stone), that he had arrived at Midday, that he was accompanied by four other men, two boys, and a woman, that they had come by canoe, and had camped six nights on the way. Koojeching, he said, was the place where they had come from, and there he had left a thousand warriors. While he was talking, the rest of the party arrived, seeking their Chief. They all squatted down, and I had to feed them all, and then give them tobacco for a smoke. They were all wild-looking creatures, their countenances as thoroughly unchristianlike as could be conceived. As soon as their hunger was satiated, and they had filled their pipes, they were rising to go, but I asked them to remain as I had a few words still to say to them. I then told them briefly who I was, where I had come from, and my object in coming to Thunder Bay. I had heard, I said, that they were all pagans at Koojeching. I was very sorry for it, and very anxious that they should embrace Christianity. A change came upon their faces as I spoke; they shuffled uneasily, eyed me suspiciously, and were evidently impatient to get away. They probably thought that I had got them into my tent with the idea of using some enchantments or exercising some witchcraft upon them. I did not understand all they said, but James told me afterward that they were all very angry. They said they were all pagans, and intended to remain so. When I asked whether, if I were to visit them some day, they would listen to me, and if they would like me to come to see them and tell them about God, Black Stone replied, "Come if you will, but as for my people they will never become Christians" I heard afterwards that a Jesuit priest once visited their settlement, and after he had left the small-pox broke out. In then superstitious ignorance, they attributed the disease to the priest's visit, and so determined never to accept Christianity. I had arranged to visit the Lake Neepigon Indians on my way back down the Lake, and took my passage on board a steamboat which was to call at Red Rock at the mouth of the Neepigon River. But my purposes were frustrated; the steamboats were under the direction of the military authorities orders were changed at the last moment, and instead of Red Rock I found myself at Michipicotun. At this place there is a Hudson Bay Company Post and a small settlement of Indians. The approach to the Post is very picturesque, the river being bordered by high-wooded banks, and the clean-looking white-washed buildings of the Company presented a striking contrast to the wild scenery around as we approached, rowing up the river in one of the ship's boats. We pitched our tent in a cleared spot just across the river, opposite to the Post and near to some Indian wigwams. During our stay, which lasted about ten days, I visited every day among the people, and at nightfall we would meet together in one of their wigwams for reading the Scripture and prayer. The name of the Chief was Tootoomenaun; he lived like the rest of his people in a simple wigwam made of a circle of sticks sloping to a point, and covered with birch-bark; and there, with his family and his dogs, he lay by the fire and smoked his pipe, while I read or talked to them, the smoke circulating about our heads and then finding its escape among the blackened pole-ends at the apex of the little domicile. Another Chief from the neighbouring settlement of Batcheewanig, about 90 miles distant, was on a visit, and I had many a long talk with these two red- skinned brethren. They said they had had no minister to visit them, either Jesuit or Protestant, since the previous summer, and they seemed very anxious to be taught, and listened very attentively when I read or expounded the Scriptures. Finding the people all so anxious to learn, I opened a little day-school in the Chief's wigwam. I had a box for my seat, and the young people squatted round on mats. There was an attendance of eleven scholars. Two of the young men I found already knew the alphabet, so I set them on to commence the first book while the others were kept busy with the A, B, C. They were sharp at learning, and nearly all of them, with the exception of one or two of the youngest children, knew the capital letters and figures from 1 to 10 by the time the two hours of study were over. This school teaching was continued every day until the steamboat arrived which was to take us the remainder of our homeward voyage to the Sault. It is interesting to me to recall this, my first missionary visit to Lake Superior. Certainly it did not seem that much was accomplished during my tour, and I was a little disappointed that there was not a larger number of pagan Indians among whom I might look forward to establish Missions in the future. Still I had gained, at any rate, some insight into the condition of the people; there were the obdurate pagans from Rainy Lake, Blackstone, whom I was destined to meet again at a future day, the Thunder Bay Indians all seemingly under Jesuit influence; then these more accessible Red men of Michipicotun and Batcheewanig. Some Pic River Indians also I had chanced to meet on my travels, and had some conversation with. The Neepigon Indians I was sorry to miss seeing. I was obliged to leave them for another time, together with the people belonging to several other settlements on the North shore. Altogether, the result of my trips to Garden River and to Lake Superior was that I felt inwardly drawn to come and labour among the people of these more Northern regions in preference to remaining among the semi-civilized Indians of Sarnia. How the way would open I could not at that time foresee, or how soon it might be my lot to move into these wilder regions I could not tell. It was merely an unshaped thought, the beginning of a desire created in my breast. CHAPTER XII. CHANGES IN PROSPECT. It was at the end of June that I arrived at Sarnia. Very glad was I to be at home again after my long, rough journey, and very glad too was my wife to see me, for it was but seldom that we had had an opportunity of writing to one another during my absence. In the autumn our second child was born--a boy--to whom the Indians gave the name of Suhyahquahdung (proclaimer), and shortly after this we gave up our cottage on the Indian Reserve to Mr. Jacobs, and moved to a larger house in the town, where we should have room to take two or three Indian pupils as boarders. This seemed to be a judicious step, as of all things it appeared to be the most important, to commence preparing young men who might afterwards act as catechists and school teachers among their people. And so Mr. Jacobs, who had recently married, settled in at the Mission- house as Pastor of the Sarnia Indians, and an Indian from Walpole Island was appointed to take his place as catechist at Kettle Point. Our readers will not have forgotten poor Shegaugooqua, the poor decrepid bed-ridden creature whom we found in such a pitiable condition in an old wigwam back in the Bush. They will remember also the mention we made of her little five-year-old boy, with his shock of rough, black uncombed hair, and his bright intelligent eyes. This little boy, Willie by name, we now took in hand. I arranged that the catechist who had been appointed to the Kettle Point Mission should take two little boys into his family, and train them up to a Christian and useful life. One of them was to be Willie, and the other a grandchild of the unfortunate man who was murdered--Tommy Winter. So, a few days before Joshua Greenbird was expected, we brought Willie and Tommy to our house in Sarnia to prepare them for entering upon their new life. The first thing was to divest them of their dirty rags, and give them each a thorough good scrubbing; then they were put into two new little suits of grey cloth which my wife and I had each taken a share in making with the sewing machine. Thus, clean and neat, these two little fellows of six years old were shipped off to their new home. Walpole Island, where Joshua the catechist was coming from, was some 40 miles south of Sarnia, and Kettle Point was 30 miles or more to the north, the road lying direct through the town; and as Joshua had arranged to drive in a waggon the whole way with his family and baggage, he made our house his stopping-place on the road, and we gave him and his wife and four children all a lodging for the night; then in the morning they started on again, taking Willie and Tommy with them. For the first week or two the two little boys were quite happy and contented in their new home, and went regularly to school with the other children who lived at Kettle Point; but after a time they got home-sick, and then they did what Indian boys often do when first taken in hand and put under restrictions--they ran away. However, they did not get far on their thirty mile journey homeward before they were accosted by a farmer who was driving along in his waggon. Willie, always ready with his tongue, and already knowing a little English, called to the former, "Say, you going Sarnia?" The farmer immediately guessed what was in the wind, and cried, "Yes, come along, boys; jump in." So in they jumped; but were somewhat mortified--poor little fellows--to find themselves, half an hour later, back again at the catechist's house. The lesson was a good one for them, and from that day forward they had the impression deeply printed on their minds that farmers were everywhere on the watch for them, ready to bring them home if they tried to run away. It was during this winter (1870-71) that we began making plans for building a church for the Sarnia Indians. The little building that we had put up on our first arrival had never been intended as a permanent church; so now that the Mission was fairly established and was beginning to show good signs of prospering, it seemed to be only right that a more substantial building should be erected for the purpose of Divine worship, and that the little frame building should be kept simply for a school. The first thing was to trundle the old building out of the way; so a "bee" was called, and a number of the Indians assembled, and with levers and rollers, and after working hard for a couple of days, the school was twisted round and removed to the far corner of the lot. Then the foundations were dug for the new church. It was decided that it should be a brick building, with a spire, to cost about 1500 dollars. Mr. Jacobs, my assistant, busied himself in the matter, and together we managed to raise the requisite funds; and early in the spring building operations were commenced. However, it was not my destiny to be the pastor of this little brick church among the Sarnia Indians. God was calling me to other work. It so happened that, in the providence of God, the Garden River Mission just at this time fell vacant. The Rev. Mr. Chance, who had laboured there so faithfully for the past 18 years, was called away to another sphere in a more southerly district. Great were the lamentations of the poor Garden River Indians when he left. Both he and his wife had become much endeared to the people. Mrs. Chance was the schoolmistress and doctor, and what would the poor children and the poor sick people do without her? and what would they do without their Missionary who had laboured so long and so faithfully among them: who had baptized their children, and united their young people in marriage, and buried their dead, and preached to them the glad tidings of the Gospel, and visited them, and sympathized with them, and helped them in their homes? Mr. Chance's children had all been born and brought up at Garden River; Indian nurses had attended them and cared for them during their infant days; the Indian women had learned to look upon them almost as their own; and one dear little girl--Alice--had died after a short illness, and was buried in the Indian Cemetery. It was a terrible wrench for these poor Indians one and all to be separated from their Missionary and his family. And the worst feature of all was that there seemed to be considerable fear lest the Mission might be given up altogether. The New England Company, under whose auspices Mr. Chance had worked, had determined on withdrawing from that portion of the field; and unless some other Society saw fit to take them up, there seemed but little prospect that the work among them would be continued. All these things weighed with me, and I earnestly sought the guidance of Almighty God in prayer, content to follow His will and to be led by His hand. As Mr. Chance intended to leave Garden River early in the spring, and it was a part of my duty to make extended tours among the scattered Indians, and minister to their spiritual wants, I decided on making another trip northward as soon as possible after navigation opened. My wife accompanied me, and we took an Indian boy with us, named Aleck Bird, as cook and general servant. CHAPTER XIII. ROUGHING IT. We expected that when we got to Garden River we should find an empty house, and have to do everything for ourselves; so we came well provided with a supply of flour, salt meat, etc., etc. Quite a crowd of Indians came running down to the dock when we landed, and all were eager to shake hands, crying, "Boozhoo, boozhoo," the Indian mode of address. Then one seized a bundle, another a portmanteau, and, all laden with our baggage and supplies, accompanied us up to the Mission-house. Chief Buhkwujjenene was most warm in his greetings. "Would that you could always remain with us!" he exclaimed. On arriving at the little white- washed Parsonage, we were very glad to find that, although Mr. Chance had been gone for more than a week, Mrs. Chance and two of the children were still there; the furniture also had not been removed. Mrs. Chance taught me to bake bread before she left, which was very useful, as I still often have to make camp bread. After a few days we were left alone with our boy Aleck. It was a primitive style of living, but we both enjoyed it immensely. The Indians were all so pleased to have us with them, and the attendance at services both on Sundays and Wednesday evenings, was very satisfactory. There was something quite enchanting about our little log cottage, with the hops clambering up the verandah, the garden-beds full of flowers, the broad river in front of our windows, and the little sail-boat moored to the dock, which we could use at our will and pleasure. Then there were plenty of fish in the river, which the Indians brought to us, and an accommodating old duck laid an egg every morning just beside the door-step. Aleck was a capital boy; always cheery and ready, and would do anything he was asked to do. During our month's stay we only had fresh meat twice--once when a bear was killed, and again when we killed our drake. Among other duties of a new and peculiar kind, that of Post-master devolved upon me. The position was not an enviable one, and it took up a good deal of time; but it was convenient to get the mail without having to send twelve miles to Sault Ste. Marie for it. One day the boat arrived at the dock while we were at Church, and I had to set the people on singing a hymn while I ran down to change the mail. Another day an Indian came shouting at my window at 6 o'clock in the morning that the _Chicora_ was just coming in. Half awake and half asleep I turned out of bed, seized the Post-office key, and in frantic haste rushed down to get my mail ready. My wife sent Aleck running after me with my boots, which I had forgotten in my hurry! I was by this time able to preach to the Indians in their own tongue. On the first Sunday after our arrival we had an attendance of thirty-two persons at the Holy Communion, and among them were a good many young men. The offertory collection amounted to just one pound English money. The first week in July we went on a little camping expedition to Echo River, where the Indians were making their birch-bark troughs ready for the next year's sugar-making. It was a fine bright morning when we started, and we went in _The Missionary_, with Aleck and two other Indian boys to row us. Echo River is a deep, narrow stream, scarcely a stone's throw wide, with the thick foliage of many and various trees overhanging its banks. The only sounds which broke the stillness were the notes of birds and the croaking of the bull-frog, mingled with the measured splash of the oars. At length, after about two hours' pull, we reached a little creek, and the Indian boys told us that their encampment was a short distance up it. It seemed scarcely possible to take the boat in, for the stream was very narrow, and nearly choked up with floating saw-logs. However, we pushed along with poles, and succeeded at length in reaching our destination. A good many of our people ran down and welcomed us heartily to their camp. It must have been strange to them, I suppose, to see a lady in so wild and out-of- the-way a spot. A little clearing was cut with the axes, on which our tent was to be placed, and a path cut up to it from the creek; poles and tentpins were then made, and in a very short time our dwelling was ready for our reception. Meanwhile the fight with the lords of the Bush had commenced. While we were rowing we had not been much troubled with the mosquitoes, but now that we had invaded their dominions, they evidently regarded us as their lawful prey, and commenced the attack in good earnest. My wife, with a very serious face, drew on my large mackintosh coat, and sitting down on a heap of blankets, hid her hands, having first guarded her head and face with a thick veil. I filled the frying- pan with hot ashes, and covering them with green leaves, carried it in. The place was soon full of smoke, and after a vigorous whiffing I succeeded in making it habitable. Now we began to breathe a little more freely. Later in the afternoon we ventured on a short walk to see our neighbours. There were several wigwams all belonging to our own people. They were not conical, but had, generally, rounded roofs, over which were placed large sheets of birch-bark and Indian matting. The people were very busy at work, the men drawing out saw-logs with two or three yoke of oxen; the women very busy with the birch-bark or basket-making. We found the Chief's wife sitting in a very airy apartment, there being nothing over her head but a few twisted sticks, on which the bark had not yet been laid. When we returned to our tent we found that good Aleck had already got the kettle boiling, and we made a capital supper off fried fish and potatoes. All was very comfortable. The Indians had put a thick layer of maple branches for a floor; on these were laid first a couple of Indian reed mats, and then our scarlet rugs and table cloth. After supper I sent Aleck to ask the Indians to come together for some singing. A great many collected, and we sang the "Te Deum" and several hymns in Ojebway. Then we sat round the camp fire, which blazed up cheerily and gave light enough for us to see our books. I was pleased to find how many of the people had their Ojebway prayer-books and testaments with them, carefully wrapped up in a pocket handkerchief. Each little knot of people lighted a small smouldering mosquito fire in the midst, so that smoke was rising on all sides. About ten o'clock I concluded with prayer; the people shook hands and departed. Rain was beginning to fall heavily. This and the clanging of cow-bells close outside the tent, and the music of mosquitoes trying to make their entrance through the net suspended over us, drove sleep from our eyelids. In the morning we had other enemies in the shape of minute sand-flies, smaller than a pin's head, which attacked us fiercely. It was no easy matter to light the fire in the morning in the drenching rain. One of the good people came up with an iron pot full of potatoes, which he hung over the fire to be cooked for our breakfast. When it ceased raining I went out to visit some of the people, and then we prepared to start homeward. We had only one Indian to help Aleck at the oars, and a head-wind to row against, so that it was late when we reached home; but, notwithstanding these drawbacks, we had enjoyed our trip. The time for leaving Garden River was now drawing near, and the American steamer _St. Paul_ was daily expected to pass. It would not stop at Garden River, but we should have to run out to it in our boat, so Aleck took up his position on the ridge of the roof to keep a look-out, and the first appearance of smoke round the point would be the signal for the boat to be got ready. I had frequently requested the stewards on the boats to bring me fresh meat from Collingwood on their up-trip. They at length complied with my request, and just the day before we expected to leave came a big joint of thirteen pounds--the first we had seen since we came up. So we had beef for breakfast, beef for dinner, and beef for tea, and beef between times in the vain hope of getting through it. At last we called in our Indian friends and neighbours to partake, and they cleared off nearly all the food in the house. Evening came, and our boat had not arrived. The next day was Sunday. Morning service was over, and the Indians, remembering the good feast of yesterday, came sniffing round, thinking to get another. We had a very spare luncheon, and we had to tell the Indians that we were quite out of victuals. Then we sent Aleck to the Jesuit priest to ask him if he would kindly send us a little butter and milk. In the evening the good man came down himself, and expressed the greatest distress at our laughable condition. He was a German by birth, but spoke English very well. "I think I have a leetle cock," he said, "and I will give him to you, and if you have some rice, you may make some soup; that will be better than to starve." We thanked him warmly, and Aleck went and brought the "leetle cock," and an Indian gave us a pint of huckleberries, and we scraped the flour-barrel and made a huckleberry pie, and so had quite a feast. On Monday morning the steamboat arrived, and we bade adieu to our Indian friends, and returned to Sarnia. CHAPTER XIV. CHIEF LITTLE PINE. Chief Little Pine (Augustin Shingwauk) was following his work in the lonely bush, his heart was sad at the thought of the black-coat (missionary) leaving them. Suddenly a thought entered his mind, it was as though an arrow had struck his breast; "I will go with him,--I will journey with this black-coat where he is going. I will see the great black-coat (the Bishop of Toronto) myself, and ask that Mr. Wilson may come and be our teacher, and I will ask him also to send more teachers to the shores of the great Ojebway Lake, for why indeed are my poor brethren left so long in ignorance and darkness with no one to instruct them? Is it that Christ loves us less than His white children? Or is it that the Church is sleeping? Perhaps I may arouse them, perhaps I may stir them up to send us more help, so that the Gospel may be preached to my poor pagan brethren. So I resolved to go. I only told just my wife and a few friends of my intention. I felt that the Great Spirit had called me to go, and even though I was poor and had but a few dollars in my pocket, still I knew that the great God in heaven, to whom forty years ago I yielded myself up, would not let me want. I felt sure that He would provide for my necessities. So when the raspberry moon had already risen, and was now fifteen days old (July 15), and the black-coat and his wife stepped on board the great fire-ship, I stepped on also. I had not told him as yet what was my object in going and at first he left me to myself, thinking, I suppose, that I was going on my own business. I was a stranger on board; no one knew me, and no one seemed to care for me. "When we arrived at Ahmejewunoong (Sarnia), the fire-waggons (railway cars) were almost ready to start; so I still had to fast, and not until we had started on our way to Pahkatequayaug (London), did the black-coat know that I had been all that time without food. Then he was very sorry indeed, and from that time began to take great care of me, and I told him plainly what was my object in coming. It is not necessary for me to say anything about London. The black-coats met together in council to elect the great black-coat Chief (Bishop Hellmuth), and I went to the big church to see them all. But I had nothing particular to say to them, for their great black-coat had nothing to do with my people. I was impatient to get on to Toronto to see the chief black-coat who has authority to send teachers to my people on the great Ojebway Lake. We arrived in Toronto on the sixth day of the week when the raspberry moon was twenty-two days old. I was glad to see the great city again, for I had seen it first many years ago, when it was but a papoose, and had but a few houses and streets. We went to the place where the black-coats who have authority over missions meet, and I opened my heart to them and divulged its secrets. I said that at Garden River we were well content, for we had had the Gospel preached to us now for forty winters, and I felt our religious wants had been well attended to; but when I considered how great and how powerful is the English nation, how rapid their advance, and how great their success in every work to which they put their hands, I wondered often in my mind, and my people wondered too, why the Christian religion should have halted so long at Garden River, just at the entrance to the great Lake of the Ojebways; and how it was that forty winters had passed away and yet religion still slept, and the poor Indians of the great Ojebway Lake pleaded in vain for teachers to be sent to them. I said that we Indians know our great mother, the Queen of the English nation, is strong, and we cannot keep back her power any more than we can stop the rising sun. She is strong, her people are great and strong, but _my_ people are weak. Why do you not help us? It is not good. I told the black-coats I hoped that before I died I should see a big teaching wigwam built at Garden River, where children from the great Ojebway Lake would be received, and clothed, and fed, and taught how to read and how to write, and also how to farm and build houses, and make clothing, so that by-and-bye they might go back and teach their own people. The black-coats listened to what I said, and they replied their wish was the same as mine. Afterwards I saw the Bishop of Toronto (Strachan), and he said that it was his own wish that Mr. Wilson should become our Missionary. My heart rejoiced more and more, and I felt now that the great object of my journey was accomplished, and I could return again to my people. But they did not wish me to go home yet. It was to be arranged that the white people should meet together to hear me speak on the third day of the following week. "Many were the thoughts that filled my mind at that time, as I walked along the streets of Toronto, and looked at the fine buildings and stores full of wonderful and expensive things. 'How rich and powerful is the English nation! I thought. 'Why is it that their religion does not go on and increase faster?' When I entered the place where the speaking paper (newspaper) is made and saw the great machines by which it is done, and by which the papers are folded, I thought, 'Ah, that is how it is with the English nation, every day they get more wise, every day they find out something new. The Great Spirit blesses them and teaches them all these things because they are Christians, and follow the true religion. Would that my people were enlightened and blessed in the same way!' "The next day was the day of prayer, and I went to the big wigwam where the children assemble to be taught. I stood up and spoke to them, and told them how much I desired that my children should be taught in the same way, and have such a beautiful wigwam to assemble in, where they might hear about God and His Son Jesus Christ. It rejoiced my heart to hear them sing. After this I entered the great house of prayer (the cathedral). I was in Toronto when the first one was there. Since that time it had been burnt down and rebuilt, and then all burnt down again, and yet now it stands here larger and grander than before. 'The white people,' I said to myself, 'have plenty of money; if they knew how poor my people are, surely they would give more of their money to build a house for us where our children may be taught.' I could not understand the words of the service, but my heart was full of thoughts of God, and I thought how good a thing it was to be a Christian, and I rejoiced that I had heard of the love of Christ, who died for His red children, as well as for the pale faces, for He is not ashamed, we know now, to call us brothers. During the few days we remained in Toronto I was out nearly all the time with Mr. Wilson, collecting money at the people's wigwams. I am an old man of seventy winters, and I cannot walk about as much as I could when I was young; so he got a waggon, and we drove from house to house. I thought some of the people were very good. One woman gave us ten dollars, but many of them gave us very little, and some would not give us anything at all. "When we reached St. Catharine's Mr. Wilson and myself went from wigwam to wigwam, asking for money to help the Indians on the great Chippeway Lake. In the evening the white people met together in the teaching wigwam, and there were so many of them that they had no more room to sit, and I spoke to them and told them the thoughts of my heart. This time I spoke more boldly than I had done before. I told them that as an Indian chief I had a right to speak on behalf of my poor people, for the land the white men now held was the land of my fathers; and now that the white man was powerful, and the Indian was weak, the Indian had a right to look to him for help and support. As I closed my speech I looked around last of all upon the children; for I wished my eyes last of all to rest upon these white children who had received the benefit of education and Christian instruction; and I gave them my beaver-skin to keep in their school, so that they might always remember my visit and think upon my words. "On the second day of the week, early in the morning, we entered the fire-waggon to go to the river of the Mohawks. I was greatly rejoiced to see Mr. Chance once more, and also his wife and children. I remained with them three days. "When the day came for me to leave, the black-coat, Chance, took me in his waggon to the place where the fire-waggons start, and sent a wire- message to Mr. Wilson to be ready to meet me when I arrived. "I sat in the fire-waggon, and smoked my pipe, and rejoiced in my mind that my work was now over, and I should soon return to my people. For many hours I travelled, and the sun had already sunk in the west, and I thought I must be nearly arrived at Ahmujewunoong, when the fire-waggon chief came to look at my little paper; and then he looked at me and shook his head, and I understood I had come the wrong way. Presently the fire-waggon stood still, and the chief beckoned me to get out, and he pointed to the west, and made signs by which I understood that I must now wait for the fire-waggons going towards the sun-rising, and in them return part of the way back. By-and-bye the fire-waggons approached, coming from where the sun had set; and a man told me to get in. It was midnight when I reached Pahkatequayang (London), and they let me go into the wire-house and lie down to sleep. I slept well all night, and early in the morning a man beckoned to me that the fire-waggons were ready to start for Sarnia, and showed me which way to go. "Thus I at length got back to Sarnia, and was glad to lie down and rest in Mr. Wilson's wigwam; and now I am waiting for the fire-ship to come, and as soon as it comes I shall go on board and return straight home to my people. "The black-coat, Wilson, has asked me to let him write down all this that I have told him, so that it may be made into a book and read by everybody. And I hope that by-and-bye all the white people will see this book, and that their hearts will be warmed towards the poor ignorant Indians who live on the shores of the Great Ojebway Lake. "We have collected three hundred dollars, but three hundred dollars is not enough to make religion increase. If we had but the worth of one of those big wigwams, of which I saw so many in Toronto, I think it would be enough to build a teaching wigwam at Garden River, and enough to send teachers also to the shores of the Great Ojebway Lake. I must have something done for my people before I die; and if I cannot get what I feel we ought to have from the Great Chiefs of this country, I am determined to go to the far distant land across the sea, and talk to the son of our Great Mother, the Prince of Wales, who became my friend during his visit to Canada, and gave me my medal, and who, I believe, will still befriend me if I tell him what my people need." CHAPTER XV. OUR FIRST WINTER IN ALGOMA. Shortly after making this tour with Chief Little Pine, arrangements were made for our finally leaving Sarnia and removing our head-quarters to the Indian Mission at Garden River; the Committee of the Church Missionary Society agreed to the change as an experiment, and undertook to support the Mission for one year; but the withdrawal of the New England Company and the fact of so many of the Indians having already been converted by the Roman Catholics, made them a little doubtful as to whether it would be a suitable spot for establishing one of their Missions permanently. Before leaving Sarnia we had the satisfaction of seeing the little brick church on the Reserve completed and opened for use. This, together with the Kettle Point Mission, was now handed over to the charge of the native pastor, the Rev. John Jacobs. I must mention one little incident that happened at this time. It was in the evening, and I had called to see Mr. Jacobs. He met me with his usual geniality, and we sat conversing for some time. Near the sofa was a large clothes-basket with a blanket over it. By-and-bye some little faint cries came from the neighbourhood of the basket. "What have you got there, Kesheg?" I asked. Mr. Jacobs was a little confused, and laughingly muttered something about an "arrival." The blanket was removed, and there lay two little mortals nestled together, one fair like his English mother, and the other dark like her father. The Indians afterwards gave them Indian names--"River Prince" and "River Princess." It was the end of September when we left Sarnia. A little girl had been added to our family three weeks before. We had great difficulty in getting servants to go to so wild and out of the way a place as Sault Ste. Marie and Garden River were conceived to be. After many fruitless endeavours we were obliged to give it up, and took no one with us except our faithful Jane as nurse. There were no Canadian boats at that time running from Sarnia, so we had to take passage on an American vessel. We went well supplied with provisions sufficient to last us through the winter, and had all our furniture with us, besides horse, buggy, sleigh, and two cows. At that time there was but one clergyman in all the Algoma district, and he was located on the Manitoulin Island, 150 miles east of the point to which we were bound. To the west and north our nearest clerical neighbours would be the Missionaries of Hudson Bay and Rupert's Land, 500 or 600 miles away. It had been arranged that we should spend the winter at Sault Ste. Marie, a village of 300 or 400 people, twelve miles above the Garden River Mission, and a house had been engaged there for us to live in; the Church people at Sault Ste. Marie were anxious that we should do this,--a little stone church, St. Luke's, had just been built, and they, of course, were desirous to have regular services held; and I expected every Sunday to hold one service at Garden River, besides visiting the Indians during the week. It was late on Saturday night, about 10 p.m., when we reached Sault Ste. Marie. The captain had kindly promised to put us off on the Canadian side, but it being so late and dark, and the channel not a safe one, he was unable to do so, and we were hurried off, boxes, tables, cows, horse, and all on the American dock. This placed us in a dilemma. Ten o'clock, Saturday night, and ourselves and our things all in the wrong place,--the right, place being a mile and a-half across the water. The first thing to do under the circumstances was to take my family up to the hotel, after which I returned to the dock, and fortunately found a friend in need, Mr. Church, the owner of a sawmill on Sugar Island, a short distance below Garden River. He most obligingly undertook to put all my things across to the Canadian side for me. His men set to work with a will--several of them were Garden River Indians--and in a little time all was packed on board his scow, and we were steaming across the Ste. Marie River. Fortune, however, seemed to be against us,--we were about one-third of the way across when one of the cows who was tethered to a parlour stove jumped overboard, taking the stove along with her. Happily the rope broke, the stove sank, and the cow swam. A boat was put off, the cow taken in tow, and rowed back to the American side. However, in due time she was once more safely got on board and made fast, and in a little while we had reached our destination, and everything was landed at the Canadian dock. It was about one o'clock in the morning when I arrived there, and I went up to the empty Mission-house which we had occupied in the spring, and found a bed on which to snatch a few hours' rest. On Sunday morning the Indians came round, all delighted, to see me again. After holding service in the church, I engaged two young Indians, and getting into _The Missionary_, we started for Sault Ste. Marie, as I was to have service there in the evening. During the next day or two we were moving our furniture, &c. into this house which we had rented for the winter. It was roomy enough, but close to the river, and intolerably damp; so after a week or two of great discomfort we resolved on changing our quarters, and one fine morning, almost before light, saw _The Missionary_ and another boat, loaded with our household effects, and running before a stiff breeze to Garden River. The Indians were delighted at the change, and all welcomed us warmly; but now fresh difficulties arose: the little log parsonage was so cramped and small that we had nowhere to bestow our goods, and a considerable proportion of them had to be stowed away in the stable until two additional rooms could be built. It was rather late in the year for building operations, the winter being just about to commence; nevertheless we managed to secure the services of a couple of workmen, and in a little time a "balloon frame" was run up and two new rooms added to the house. A terrible winter it was--one of the worst winters that had been known-- the glass being sometimes from 30 to 40 below zero, and the snow very deep. One great snowdrift completely blocked the east end of the parsonage--it was about fifteen feet deep. The lower room was entirely dark, and we had to make a tunnel through the snow bank to let in the light. Some mornings it was so cold that we could not sit to the breakfast-table, but had all to huddle round the stove with our plates on our laps, and the empty cups that had been used when put back on the table froze to the saucers. Bread, butter, meat, everything, was frozen solid, and we began to realize what an Algoma winter was. But, apart from these discomforts, we had a very pleasant winter with our Indian friends; the services at the church were well attended, and there were generally upwards of thirty at the Holy Communion. At Christmas time we had a great feast; nearly a hundred of the people came, and after partaking of the good things, we gave them a magic lantern exhibition, which pleased them greatly. Then we always had service in the schoolhouse every Wednesday evening, at which there was an exceedingly good attendance; and on Friday evenings we held a cottage lecture, sometimes at one house, sometimes at another. Perhaps the most discouraging thing was the day-school. It is so hard to induce the Indians to send their children regularly to school. There may be thirty names on the register, but the average attendance is probably not more than nine or ten, possibly at times twelve to fifteen. It seems to be the same everywhere. The old people do not sufficiently realize the advantages of education themselves, and so seem to care little whether their children are in their place at class or roving about the bush with a bow and arrow. The Indians are great people for medicine. I had a good stock of it, and they were constantly coming to me with their ailments. They make medicines themselves from roots and herbs, but prefer generally to get the White man's physic. There was an old white-haired woman, an aunt of the chief's, who used to come stumping along with a thick stick, and caused some consternation in our nursery; she never knocked at the door--Indians rarely do--but would come in and sit herself down in the middle of the floor, the children scampering away to hide. She was a good-natured old creature, and of course would do no harm, but she frightened the children nevertheless. We had one rather narrow escape while driving on the ice. It was on Christmas Day; I had been taking Morning Service at Sault Ste. Marie, and was driving back to Garden River with my wife and a young lady who was coming to stay with us; the wind was blowing, and the glass was in the neighbourhood of zero. All went well till we were within four miles of home; we had just passed a log cottage on the shore, and were striking out to cross a bay; we fancied we heard a shout behind us, but it was too cold to stop and look back; however it would have been better if we had done so, for a few moments more and our horse was plunging in the water, the rotten ice having given way beneath his feet. As quick as thought we all hurried out at the back of the sleigh and made for the solid ice. There were two or three inches of water on the ice, and our feet got wet, but otherwise we were safe from danger. In the meantime some Indians had seen us from the shore, and came running to us with a rope and some rails. It was twenty minutes before the poor horse was extricated; he was down in the water up to his neck, his eyes looked glassy, and I was afraid the poor thing was dying. However the Indians evidently knew what to do, they got the end of a rail under him as a lever to raise him up, and put a noose round his neck; then, having first loosened the harness, they pulled with a will, and in a few moments had him out of the hole kicking on the ice; they then gave him a good rubbing, and soon he made a plunge and was on his legs again, trembling and shaking; one of the young fellows took him off for a sharp trot to restore the circulation, then the sleigh was fixed up, and after a delay of about an hour we were enabled to continue our journey. During the winter our mail was brought by men on snow-shoes with a dog train; they had to travel about 150 miles to a distant station, where they were met by other couriers, who exchanged bags with them and took them the remainder of the distance. The men go along at a jogging pace, and at night camp out in the snow. CHAPTER XVI. CHIEF BUHKWUJJENENE'S MISSION. It was sugar-making time, and Buhkwujjenene was at work three miles back in the bush collecting the sap from the maple-trees, and, with the assistance of his wife and a large family of daughters, boiling it down in huge black kettles to transform it into maple-sugar. It was rather a labour getting out there, and I had to take my snow-shoes. About two miles back from where our parsonage stood is a long range of low, rocky hills, about 300 feet high, nearly parallel with the course of the river, and for the most part bare and naked, only sprinkled with a few ragged balsams, pine, and birch. It was April, and the snow was gone from the exposed parts of the hill, but beyond, in the valley where sugar-making was going on, it was still a couple of feet deep. Wandering along through the bush, the first sign of your approach to a sugar-camp is generally the sound of an axe or the barking of a dog; these help to direct your steps; then, in a little while you see snow- shoe tracks, and then--here are the little birch-bark troughs, one or two to each maple-tree, and a slip of wood stuck in the tree about two feet from the ground, which serves as a spout to convey the sap from the tree to the trough. It does not run fast, about a drop in every three or four seconds, or sometimes much slower than that; however the little trough gets full in time, and then the Indians come round and pour it into birch-bark pails and carry it to the camp to be boiled. The sap is very nice when you are thirsty--slightly sweet and very cold, as the nights must be frosty during sugar-making time, and there is generally a little ice in each trough. Cold frosty nights and clear sunshiny days is what the Indians like for their sugar-making. As soon as the weather gets too warm the sap becomes bitter and is no longer of any use. Well, after my walk of course I took a draught of sap from the first trough I found, and then wended my way on to Buhkwujjenene's camp. The sugar camp is made of poles about four inches thick, laid horizontally for walls, and fitted into each other at the corners, the crevices being filled with moss. The walls are only about four feet high, and they enclose a space about ten or twelve feet square; the roof is also made of poles placed like rafters and covered over with sheets of birch-bark, an opening being left the whole length of the ridge for the escape of the smoke. In the centre of the earthen floor is the fire, over which are suspended five or six large sugar-kettles, holding perhaps twenty or thirty gallons each, and into these the sap is poured as it is brought in from the trees. Along the inside of the wigwam on either side of the fire is a raised floor of boards or sticks, covered with fir branches, on which the Indians recline by day or sleep at night. The door is generally an old blanket hung over the opening. In just such a camp as this I found Chief Buhkwujjenene, for though chief of his band he yet has to hunt and fish and make sugar for his living, the same as the rest of his people. "Ah-ah-ah boo-zhoo boo-zhoo!"--That's the way we Indians greet one another. Very warm and hearty, is it not? There they all were, busy over their big pots--Isabel and Susette and Therese and Liquette, and the old mother, who is very stout and comfortable-looking. I told Buhkwujjenene that I wanted to have a little talk with him, so as soon as I had some maple syrup, and my pockets filled with sugar cakes to take home to the children, he came with me out of the wigwam, and we sat down on a log together for a pow-wow. Of course he lighted his pipe the first thing, for Indians can't talk without smoking. I told him I had been thinking that I would cross the great salt water to the land of the pale-faces, and try to collect some money to build the big teaching wigwam that we had been talking about, and I suggested the idea of taking him with me, if he would like to go. I said his brother "Little Pine" had already done a good work by addressing meetings in Canada and thus giving a start to the scheme, and now it would be for him, the other chief, to carry the work on and help to raise funds sufficient to erect the institution. Buhkwujjenene listened attentively while I spoke, and then, laying his pipe down, replied as follows: "It is true I have often thought that I would like to visit the great country across the great salt water, and I have sometimes thought that the day would come for me to do so; still, I am getting advanced in years now. I am no longer young as I used to be. I am not always well, and it is a long way to go. Nevertheless I am willing to accompany you if the Great Spirit wills it. I committed myself to the hands of the Great Spirit when I became a Christian forty years ago. If it is His will that I should go, I will go; if it is not His will I will stay here." A few days after this the Indians held a council in the school-house, when it was definitely arranged that Buhkwujjenene should accompany me to England, and the Indians agreed to sell an ox, which belonged to them in common, to assist in defraying his expenses. The party who were to make the trip across the Atlantic consisted of Mrs. Wilson, our little boy Archie (whom the Indians call Tecumseh, after the celebrated chief who fought under Sir Isaac Brock in 1812), Chief Buhkwujjenene, and myself. We started on a bright Monday morning towards the middle of May, the first part of our journey being accomplished in the steam-boat _Waubuno,_ which took us as far as Collingwood, a distance of 300 miles. From Collingwood we took train about 100 miles to Toronto, where we staid a few days; then from Toronto we took train _via_ Niagara and Buffalo to New York. Our train arrived a few hours only before the steamship _The India_ was to start. So far Chief Buhkwujjenene had seen nothing more than he had seen before in his life, for he had already on more than one occasion travelled through Canada. Now however that he was embarked on an ocean steamer, all would, for the next few months, be new to him. One of his first experiences was the qualms of sea-sickness, and I verily believe he thought he was going to die. However, as with the white man so with the Indian, a few days on the salt water set him all right, and strength, spirits and appetite returned. One evening on deck he told me a dream he had had shortly before I proposed for him to accompany me. "I thought I was working outside my house," he said, "when I heard the note of a loon. (The loon is a favourite bird among the Indians, and they regard it with superstitious reverence.) The sound came from the Western sky, and I gazed in that direction to try if I could see the bird. In another moment I heard the sweep of its wings over my head, and there it flew sailing majestically along and drawing after it an airy phantom ship with three masts; it sailed away off east, still uttering its monotonous note till it was lost to view. Thus my dream has come true," he said, "for this is the three-masted vessel that I saw in my dream, and the loon is dragging us along!" At length the north coast of Ireland came in sight, and then the Scotch coast, and finally we came to anchor in the harbour at Greenock. It was late in the evening, about 8 p.m., when we arrived, and we heard that there was a through train to London at 8.30, so we made a great effort to catch it; we succeeded in boarding the train at the very last moment, and were off by the night mail to London. The next morning there appeared the following interesting, though not very truthful, notice in the _Glasgow Herald:_--"An interesting stranger has arrived in this country, and it may possibly turn out that the 'Coming Man' has come at last. His name, we understand, is Chief Buhkwujjenene, which signifies 'a man of the Desert,' and he landed in Greenock from the Anchor Line steamer _India_. The man was dressed in the full costume of the Chippewa tribe, to which he belongs, namely, skins, feathers, &c. He is described as being tall and handsome, with a frank but thoughtful face, and appeared to be about thirty years of age. It is understood that this chief, who proceeded immediately per mail train to London, has been converted to Christianity, and has been brought over to England under the auspices of the Church of England Missionary Society, in order that he may be instructed in Christian truth, fitting him to return as a native teacher and preacher among his tribe in the backwoods of America. A more appropriate lodging for 'a man of the Desert' cannot be found in the whole world than Leicester Square; though whether he would receive much Christian truth in that locality is another question. If he would send for his tribe, and encamp there permanently, a picturesque effect might be produced at a very trifling outlay." We travelled all night, and were due at Euston Square the following day. Early the next morning we sent on the following telegram to announce our arrival to our unexpecting friends:--"Myself, wife, Archie, and Indian chief have arrived; shall reach Euston at 3 p.m." This was the first intimation that our friends had of the certainty of our paying them a visit, as we had come away by the first boat down on the opening of navigation, and our letters sent by dog-sleigh a week or two before that were still on the road. Still less had they any expectation of an introduction to one of the natives of our wild backwoods. Our train steamed into Euston Square punctual to the time after its long run of 400 miles. And now familiar sights met our eyes after a four years' absence from our native land; there were the cabs and the running porters and the dense crowd of people filling the station; and there--still more familiar sight--was my father's carriage and the well- known figure of our coachman on the box. Then came hearty shakes of the hand from my father and brother who had come to meet us, and Chief Buhkwujjenene, who seemed quite lost, poor man, among the excitement and bustle, was introduced and shook hands with the venerable English Black-coat. It was strange the affection that Buhkwujjenene conceived for my brother from the first; he misunderstood his name (Arthur), and thinking it to be Otter, always called him _Neegig._ Upon my father he conferred the name of _Pashegonabe,_ the great eagle, and one of my sisters he was pleased to call _Wabausenooqua,_ which title he explained to mean a little spot cleared by the wind; though for what reason he gave this name we could never quite make out. _Neegig_ and he became great friends; they had one thing in common, and that was a love for tobacco, and in the summer evenings after dinner the young white man and his grown companion would recline on rustic seats in the garden, and smoke pipe after pipe, the red man mixing his "baccy" with some savoury bark from his native land which he produced from the depths of his martin-skin tobacco-pouch. They could not understand each other's speech, but by dint of signs and a few broken words of English occasionally introduced by the Chief, they managed to carry on some conversation. Quite a sensation was caused not only in the house but in the neighbourhood by the new-comer's arrival. It was strange to see him sitting in his blanket coat in an easy chair beneath the gas-lights in the drawing-room, strange to see him conducting a lady in to dinner and sitting at table awaiting the arrival and removal of the various courses, strange to see him walking the streets with his medals on his breast, his skunk skin and leggings and feather in his hat, or riding in the same attire on the top of an omnibus; and yet amid it all he bore himself with such perfect grace and self-possession that every one admired and wondered at him. People thought he had a very pleasant expression and agreeable manner, and they were astonished at his politeness and the cool self-possessed way in which he accepted the many new experiences which kept crowding upon him. A photographer in the neighbourhood soon heard of his arrival and asked him to sit for his portrait. Several likenesses were taken--representing him as a Christian Chief in his ordinary dress; and as a Chief of former days in feathers and Indian costume. As he could scarcely speak a word of English I was obliged to be tied rather closely to him as interpreter, and assist him in receiving visitors, numbers of whom came almost daily. We also had a visiting-card prepared for him on which was inscribed Chief Buhkwujjenene, Garden River, Canada. At morning and evening prayers and in church on Sundays he was most devotional, and whenever the Lord's prayer was repeated he joined audibly in the Indian tongue--"_Wayoosemegooyun keezhegoong ayahyun, tah keche- ahpeetandahgwud kedezhenekausoowin_" &c. CHAPTER XVII. AN INDIAN CHIEF IN ENGLAND. We were not long in setting the Chief to work. It was Friday when we arrived, and on the following Thursday our first meeting was held in Bishop Wilson's Memorial Hall, Islington. Notice was given of the meeting in church on the intervening Sunday, the Chief occupying a seat in one of the pews, and a circular was also issued headed:-- "A RED INDIAN CHIEF'S VISIT TO ENGLAND." The result was an overflowing meeting. The vicar occupied the chair and a number of clergy were on the platform. Chief Buhkwujjenene seeming to be just as much at his ease as if he were addressing a council of his own people, stood forth and in simple eloquent terms told his story, myself interpreting for him every time he paused. "My brothers and sisters," he began, "I salute you. I have come all the way across the great salt water to see you, and it does my heart good to see so many pale faces gathered together before me." He then recounted what had led him to take the journey. It had not been his own wish, but he felt that God had led him to do so; God had preserved him amid the dangers of the ocean, and he trusted that God would prosper the cause for which he came to plead. "Many years ago," he said, "I and my people were in a very different state to what we are now: we had no teaching, no churches, no missionaries, our medicine men taught us to believe in good and bad spirits and to depend on dreams. I, when a boy, was obliged by my father to blacken my face and fast for many days together, and while doing this it was believed that whatever I dreamed would come true. But now we Indians at Garden River are no longer heathen, we have all now accepted Christianity and we have our church and our missionary. The desire of my heart is to see our religion spread among the other Indians; we want more Missionaries to be sent to us, and greater efforts made to extend the blessings of the Gospel. We want our children to be taught to follow civilized trades as the white people do. We feel that the time is past for the Indians to live by hunting and fishing as our forefathers used to do. We wish to give up our old habits and adopt the customs of the pale faces. In order to accomplish this we propose that a big teaching wigwam should be built at Garden River where our sons may be taught to carpenter and make boots and other such things as are useful, and where our daughters may learn needlework and knitting and spinning. This is the desire of my heart, this is the cause for which I have come to plead. We Indians are too poor to help ourselves, and so we look to you white people who now occupy our hunting grounds to help us. We know that our great Mother Queen Victoria, loves her Indian subjects; often have we fought for her and we are ready to fight her battles again. We have readily given up our hunting grounds to you, and all that we ask of you is that you will help us in improving ourselves and in educating our children." After this the Chief put on his Indian dress and sang a war song. Much interest was stirred up by his address and the collection which was made after the meeting amounted to upwards of L11. The following Sunday the Holy Communion was administered at the old parish church of St. Mary's, and among those who knelt at the rails to receive the sacred emblems of our Lord's passion and death, was the Indian Chief Buhkwujjenene. I repeated the words to him in his own tongue as I administered the bread and wine. The following day we visited the Rev. Henry Venn, the venerable Secretary of the Church Missionary Society. He received us most kindly, and for his own part he hoped that the Committee, whom we were to meet on the morrow, would agree to continue their support of the mission at Garden River, and to assist us in our proposed scheme for the advancement and civilization of the Indians; he feared, however, we might have some difficulty in the matter, on account of our proposed plans not being strictly in accordance with the main object of the Society, which is to carry the Gospel to the heathen. Among the earliest plans made for the edification and amusement of the Chief was a visit to the Zoological Gardens at Regent's Park. Among the birds the Chief quickly recognized the Canadian thrush, and doffed his hat with evident pleasure at the rencontre. We went the regular rounds, as every one does, through the monkey-house, through the parrot-house, down through the tunnel and alongside the canal to the house of the reptiles, then back to where the elephants and giraffes are kept. The hippopotamus was on land so we saw him well; the giraffes walked round and round and bowed their necks to the visitors as they always do; the elephant obeyed his keeper, stood up on his hind legs, elevated his trunk, trumpeted and consumed biscuits. Then we saw the lions and tigers fed. The Chief had a ride on one of the camels, and looked very picturesque in his white blanket coat, though scarcely oriental enough in his appearance to produce a natural effect. Another day we had an interview with his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. It was not brought about in the way such things are generally accomplished, but still it did very well. The occasion was the opening of the Bethnal Green Museum. We had gallery tickets for the Chief and myself. It was an imposing display. The centre of the hall was occupied by all the great grandees in brilliant dress including natives of many a foreign clime. The arrival of Royalty was signalized by a clarion blast which thrilled through one's veins and set one on the tiptoe of expectation. The Royal party entered, the necessary ceremonies for the opening of the building were gone through, and then commenced a tour of the galleries. The Prince and his suite would pass close to us. This was a chance not to be thrown away. I had a photograph of Buhkwujjenene in my pocket. Buhkwujjenene on his breast wore a silver medal presented to him in common with other chiefs by the Prince on the occasion of his visit to Canada some years before. I stepped up to one of the managers of the Institution--Here was an Indian chief, a medal on his breast, given him by the Prince of Wales. Would it be out of place for the Chief to present his _carte de visite_ to the Prince? The manager good-naturedly said that he would speak to one of the suite when they approached and ask if it could be done. Soon the word came that the Prince would be pleased to have Chief Buhkwujjenene presented to him. So space was made for us by a policeman in the front ranks of the crowd-- and we awaited His Royal Highness's arrival. The moment came. His Royal Highness greeted the Chief most cordially and pleasantly, examined the medal on his breast, and said that he remembered his face among the Indian chiefs who had been presented to him in Canada. "Tell him," said the Prince to me; "tell him I remember his face perfectly." We were then permitted to join the Royal procession and make the round of the building. But our time was not all taken up in sightseeing. We had plenty to do, and only a little time to do it in. Nearly every night there was a meeting, and often we had two or three engagements in the course of a day. Never did an Indian chief have such a hard time of it. Wherever he went, he wore his blanket coat, his feather in his hat, his leggings and moccasins, and the skunk skin on his arm. Very seldom was any attempt made to treat him rudely, though occasionally it was necessary to hurry him through the streets to avoid a crowd collecting. Wide guesses were made at his nationality; one would take him for a New Zealander, another for a native of Japan. One of our best meetings was a garden-party at Mitcham Vicarage. There was a large gathering of ladies and gentlemen beneath the dark spreading cedars on the soft lawn. The Chief put on his feathers and ornaments, and at once became the centre of attraction. I think it was on this occasion that he narrated the Indian tradition of the Flood: "Nanaboozhoo," said the Chief, "had a son. He loved his son. He told his son never to go near the water lest evil should come to him. The son disobeyed his father: he went out in a canoe and was never seen or heard of more. Nanaboozhoo then vowed vengeance against the gods of the water, who had destroyed his son. There were two of these gods, and one day they lay sleeping on the shore. Nanaboozhoo was looking everywhere for them, determined to kill them. A loon offered to show him where they were sleeping. He followed the loon till he found them, and then he made short work of them with his tomahawk and his war-club. But lo, and behold, no sooner were the gods dead than the waters of the great lake rose up in vengeance; they pursued Nanaboozhoo up on to the dry land, and he had to run for his life. He sought the highest mountain and climbed to the top of the highest pine-tree. Still the waters pursued him. They rose higher and higher. What could he do? He broke off a few of the topmost branches, and made a raft upon which he got and saved himself. He saved also a number of the animals that were kicking and struggling in the water all around him. At length he bethought himself of making a new world. How should he do it? Could he but procure a little of the old world he might manage it. He selected the beaver from among the animals, and sent it to dive after some earth. When it came up it was dead. He sent the otter, but it died also. At length he tried the musk rat. The musk rat dived. When it came up it was dead. But in its claws was clenched a little earth. Nanaboozhoo carefully took this earth, rubbed it in his fingers till it was dry, then placed it in the palm of his hand, and blew it gently over the surface of the water. A new world was thus formed, and Nanaboozhoo and all the animals landed. Nanaboozhoo sent out a wolf to see how big the world was. He was gone a month. Again he sent him out, and he was gone a year. Then he sent out a very young wolf. This young wolf died of old age before it could get back. So Nanaboozhoo said the world was big enough, and might stop growing." About L80 was collected on this occasion. We paid two visits to the Archbishop of Canterbury, at Lambeth. On both occasions he was most cordial and kind, and appeared to take much interest in the work of evangelizing the Indians. CHAPTER XVIII. A TRIAL OF FAITH. After this, meetings were held at Hastings, Reading, Eynsford, Bayswater, Hampstead, Tooting, Wimbledon, Coleshill, Kensington, Ware, and many other places; all much of the same character--money was collected, and photographs and articles of birchbark sold. The Chief excited much interest by recounting the circumstances of his own conversion to Christianity. "When I was a little boy, not older than that little fellow there," he said, pointing to a child in the assembly, "I was very badly off. My mother was dead, and my father loved the fire-water. I was often cold and hungry, and at night would sometimes crawl into the wigwam and lie down beside my drunken father. After I was grown older, a preacher came into our neighbourhood and began to preach the Gospel to the Indians, and I used to go sometimes to listen to him. I thought the words he spoke were very wonderful, and I was so much impressed by them that I took every opportunity I could of going to listen. As for my father, he would not go to hear the preaching, and he did not wish me to go, but I used to go secretly without telling him. One, evening I was going as usual to hear the Missionary speak, wending my way alone through the dark lonely bush. My path led me out into a clearing where I could see the distant horizon, and the sun was setting in great splendour, the heavens all lighted up with gold and crimson. Suddenly, like an arrow, there darted into my breast the words which I had heard the preacher use about the last great day when the Saviour would return again in glory surrounded by all the holy angels. I sank upon my knees, and there and then offered up my first prayer to God. The next morning I called on the Missionary, and told him that I wished to become a Christian, and a short time after that I was baptized. Some time after this I was very sick, and my life was despaired of. My father, though disapproving of my having accepted Christianity, was nevertheless very fond of me; he was much grieved that I was sick, and I noticed that he had begun to think more seriously of the Christian religion, for I had often spoken to him and urged him to become a Christian; I had also prayed constantly to God that He would change my father's heart. One day my father came to me as I still lay sick upon my bed, and he said to me, 'My son, Buhkwujjenene, I do not know whether you will get well again or not, for I know you are very sick indeed, but I wish to tell you this, that I have resolved to become a Christian, and to-morrow morning myself and all your brothers and sisters are going to the Missionary to be baptized.'" It was a sore blow to us when word came from the Secretary of the Church Missionary Society that the Committee had decided not to continue the Garden River Mission. It was to me a great trial of faith to be told that my choice lay between accepting a more lucrative post in Rupert's Land or relinquishing connection with the Society under whose auspices I had first gone forth. What was I to do? How could I break the distressing news to my poor friend Buhkwujjenene? I went down upon my knees, and laid the matter before my God in prayer. And very soon the answer came. A letter was put into my hand which said, "A friend will guarantee you L100 a year if you will remain at your post at Garden River." How I thanked God. I felt it was His hand directing, and I at once accepted the offer. The Colonial and Continental Church Society guaranteed a yearly grant, and I was sure that we were being led by God, and that all would be right. I could meet my poor Chief now with a bright face and a light heart. I could tell him that all was well; that the Garden River Mission would be permanently established, and that the "big teaching wigwam" should (D.V.) be built. The next thing was to organize an English Committee and to open a subscription list for the support of the proposed Institution. Among them were the late Ven. Archdeacon Hunter, of Bayswater, and the Rev. J. Halcombe. A circular which was issued stated that the Chief had been greatly encouraged by the sum of money (L740) already collected towards the object he had so much at heart, and that the object of the Committee was to further the good Chief's wishes by the erection of an Industrial School at Garden River, where children both of Christian and of pagan parents from all parts of the Ojebway territory, would be received, clothed, boarded, educated, instructed in Christian truth, and also taught to farm and to follow useful employments. The Committee did not expect to do anything great at once, but to begin with small things, and gradually extend their work as the way might open. The amount required for the annual support of the Mission would be at least L600. It was expected that the Canadian Government would make a grant towards the support of the Institution when once fairly started, and the hope was expressed that many friends would be found both in England and in Canada to assist, so that the poor Indians might not be left destitute and uncared for, but rather learn that it was the wish of their white friends, while sending them the good tidings of salvation, also to help them to become prosperous and happy in this life, and enable them to maintain their rights as original owners of the soil. These steps having been thus satisfactorily taken and money sufficient collected to make a commencement, it seemed unnecessary to keep the good Chief away any longer from his home, and one day in the first week in August we put him on board a steamboat in London Docks and started him off for Quebec. He preferred thus to go alone rather than wait to accompany our party a month later, as he wanted to get home to see to his cattle and crops and make provision for the winter. I gave him a letter, with full directions as to time of trains, &c., which he could show to any one, and Indians are always clever in finding their way about, so that I felt no anxiety about him. When I met him afterwards at Garden River, he pointed to his little log cottage, and said that was better than all the great houses in England. However, he retained very pleasing recollections of his visit, and often has he since asked me to write a letter for him to one or another of the good friends whom he made while in the country of the pale faces. When we started on our homeward voyage, about a month later, we took with us a young man from the Rev. D. B. Hankins' congregation at Ware, named Frost, to be school teacher at the Institution when built, and also a man and his wife from a farm in Kent as servants. On board the steamboat we fell in with a family of emigrants, and persuaded them to accompany us to Sault Ste. Marie. The man was a carpenter by trade, and helped us in many ways, but the following year he fell ill and died. We then took the widow into our employment as laundress, and she is with us still. Our two younger children who had been with their nurse at London, Ontario, during our absence, now rejoined us, and we were soon once more settled and ready for a second Algoma winter. CHAPTER XIX. LEARNING TO KNOW MY PEOPLE. The Indians are a people requiring a good deal of patience on the part of their teachers, as, those who have tried working among them have generally found. There is on the one hand a charming fascination about their simple manners and habits, their readiness to receive and accept Gospel teaching, the bright winning smile that lights up their faces when pleased, their stoical behaviour under adverse circumstances, their gentleness and politeness, the absence of that rough manner and loud talk which is so common among white people of the lower classes; and yet on the other hand we must admit that there are certain strong points in their natural character which are anything but pleasing; and it is, I believe, these points coming to the notice of people who are not inclined to befriend them that have earned for them the character of an idle, ungrateful people. Many a time has it been said to me, "How can you waste your time working among those Indians? They will never get any better for all you can teach them or do for them." And yet I have continued labouring, and do still labour among them, believing that it is God's will that every wandering sheep should be sought out and, if possible, be brought into the Good Shepherd's fold. If at times I have found them trying, yet, after all, I doubt if they are much more so than many a community of white people. I will now give a few extracts from, my journal of the winter 1872-73. _Oct._ 21, we were up at 5.30 a.m., preparing for the "Bee;" I rang the church bell to bring the Indians together, and hoisted the Union Jack. Mrs. Cryer got tea made, and pork and potatoes cooked, and about 7.30 a.m. twelve stalwart Indians sat down to breakfast. Then axes were shouldered, the oxen yoked, and we started for the farm land a little way back from the house. We mustered twenty-two in all and had a good days' work--chopping down trees and brush-wood, grubbing up roots, and making huge fires to burn all up. About twelve acres were cleared sufficiently for ploughing, and this will be fenced round. In the evening, when the men all came in for supper, I showed then my plans for the new buildings, and they seemed very much pleased with them. Later in the evening I was asked to come in to Bubkwujjenene's house, as they wished to settle the matter about the ox. _Nov._ 21.--The Indians held a great council in the school-house this evening. Chief Buhkwujjenene was the principal speaker. He spoke very eloquently, feelingly, and quite to the point,--describing his journey to England and his kind reception by so many friends there. Then he spoke of the proposed Institution, for which money had been collected, and told the people that an opportunity was now given them of improving themselves and their children, and he urged upon all to support the movement and to give up their children to be educated. Chief Little Pine spoke of the increasing value of their land and the desire of the white people to purchase it from them. Our wealth, he said, is our land. As long as it lies idle it is worthless. We must clear our land and farm it, and then it will be of the greatest value. He also spoke of the Institution, and advised the people to send their children. Misquaubuhnooke and Shabahgeezhik also spoke, and each found fault with the Indians for not exerting themselves more; they said the congregations were not large enough on Sundays, and that many of the people who had families did not send their children to school. _Dec._ 1, _Advent Sunday._--Heavy snow falling, but good congregations. I preached from Rom. xiii. 12. "The night is far spent, the day is at hand; let us therefore cast off the works of darkness, and let us put on the armour of light." We have commenced a weekly offertory, and it amounts to nearly two dollars a Sunday. Two churchwardens have been appointed, and one of them has charge of the Church funds and is supposed to purchase all that is necessary in the way of fuel, oil, &c. The collections ought to be ample to meet all expenses besides paying the sexton; but if not constantly watched the Indians are apt to spend the money on things not really wanted, while we are shivering for want of fire, and blinding ourselves for want of light. _Dec. 27._--Evening Communicants' meeting at William Shabahgeezhik's; about twenty-five present. I spoke very plainly to the people, and urged none to come forward to the Sacrament without due preparation. I said I would rather see ten persons kneeling at the rail and feel that they were truly in earnest, than thirty people who had come forward without thinking of what they were doing. I invited them to come and talk with me individually in private. I said God had brought me to this place to be their friend and counsellor, and to help them on their road to heaven, and I hoped that they would regard me as such. _Dec. 28._--Our first winter mail arrived to-day. The first mail we hear was lost and one of the couriers drowned, so this must be the second that has now arrived. I had only just brought up a large packet of letters and papers to the house, when I was called away three miles distant, to see a man who had been taken suddenly ill and was supposed to be dying. I went in the sleigh and administered medicine to him. Then came a call in an opposite direction to see Chief Little Pine, who is also sick. He has no serious symptoms, but is very weak, and eats nothing. He says he does not wish to say anything about his illness, and wants no medicine. "The great God," he said, "knows a11, and He can take care of me." _Dec. 29, Sunday._--We had twenty-seven at Holy Communion to-day,-- little over half the number that assembled last year. I take this for a good sign. I trust that our people are beginning to think more, and to realize how solemn is this Holy Feast. The offertory collection was nearly four dollars. This I take for the relief of the sick. On the other Sundays the money is used for church expenses. _Jan._ 3, 1873.--Meeting to-night at Peter Jones'--about twenty- four present. After it was over I told the people that the meeting next week would be at Misquaubuhnooke's, on Sugar Island, and we had made a plan for Mr. Frost to go over and teach school there three times a week. I also made some reference to the dancing, in which they so much indulge at this time of the year,--exhorting them not to keep up their parties late at night, to finish with reading and prayer, and not to be ashamed for the Bible to be seen on the table; also not to let the whiskey bottle appear. I said God willed that we should enjoy ourselves, but in our enjoyment we must remember Him, and not give way to sin. _Jan._ 4.--Yesterday, while out, I was called in to see a poor boy in a very suffering state, a large piece of cord-wood having fallen on his arm and created some internal injury. The accident happened five days ago, and nothing yet had been done. I immediately applied a cooling lotion. The poor little-fellow, who is only about thirteen years old, was in great pain. His home is some three miles off, on Sugar Island, and his mother had only heard of the accident to-day, and had just arrived when I was called in. This morning I have brought him up in the sleigh to my house and placed him on a bed in the little old school-house; there is a nice fire in the stove, and we have given the mother cooking utensils and food, so they will be quite comfortable. _Jan._ 5.--About eleven o'clock last night the poor boy's mother came knocking for me at the window; so I went over to see him. He seemed much worse, and was screaming with the pain; his arm was quite black and the inflammation extending to the hand. The mother seemed in great trouble, and being Roman Catholics, I told her I would go over to see the priest, and perhaps he would send some one to the Sault for the doctor. The priest came back with me, but seemed to think it no use to send for the doctor, as, if mortification was beginning, he could do no good, I then left the priest alone with him, while I went to prepare a soothing draught. While walking with the priest, I took the opportunity to say a few words to him about my visiting his people. I told him I was often called in by has people to visit their sick ones, and hitherto had made it rather a point of honour not to speak to them about religion, as I thought he would not like it, and only on one occasion had done so. I however, did not like this plan; as a clergyman I felt that I ought to have the privilege of speaking to those whom I was called on to visit, especially the dying; so, if he objected to my doing so, it would be best for him to tell his people not to send for me. The priest said he certainly should not like his people to be talked to; still he would be sorry for me to give up visiting the sick, and "if I wished sometimes to offer words of consolation I must do so." At the close of my sermon to-day I mentioned this circumstance to our people, showing them first of all the difference between our religion and that of the Roman Catholics--the latter shut the Bible up, we give it to all; the latter teach people to depend on the priest for everything, we point only to God and to Jesus Christ. I said I indeed desired to see all the people on this Reserve members of our Church; still I felt that this would not be effected by strife and quarrelling, but only by love. I wished, I said, to try and copy the Saviour, who loved all men alike. For this reason, when called to help Roman Catholics or to give them medicine, I was willing to do so, as I thought it was right to do so. Still I had long felt dissatisfied that my tongue should be tied when visiting these people, for fear of offending the priest. For that reason I had now had a talk with the priest, and told him that in future, if I visited his people, I must be allowed to talk to them. If he did not like me to do this, he must forbid them sending for me. A good many of our people went in after service to see the poor sick boy. I took Archie in also to see him. The boy seemed much pleased to see him, saying, 'Kagat minwahbumenahgooze' (he is very pretty), and afterwards repeated the same words to his mother when she came in. _Jan. 7._--This evening I had quite a nice talk with my poor boy- patient. I told him the story of God's love in sending His Son to die for us; also about the penitent thief on the cross being saved in his last hour of life. The child listened very attentively, and appeared to drink in all that I told him, and I then knelt by his bed-side and prayed for him. _Jan. 10._--My poor boy is, I hope, getting a little better. His arm gives him less pain. I again had a little talk with him, and prayer. I asked him if he thought God treated him hardly in sending him so much suffering, and he replied, "No." I then told him that God had certainly sent it all in love for his soul, so that he might be led to think and prepare for the future life: God had already heard our prayers for him, and if he should get quite well, I hoped he would always love and serve God. _Jan._ 19.--Frost has begun his school on Sugar Island. The first day he had thirteen children and the second day fourteen. He is getting on wonderfully with the Indian language, and can read the lessons in church. _Feb._ 2, _Sunday._--To-day we had about seventy at at morning service, and twenty-seven communicants. Chief Little Pine came yesterday to see me about the Holy Communion. He said that recently I had spoken so strongly about the danger of receiving it unworthily that he was afraid. I knew, he said, that he owed Penny over twenty dollars; also that he had not yet paid his promised subscription of ten dollars to the school. I told him God knew the secrets of all our hearts. If he really intended to pay what he was owing as soon as possible, it was not sin for him to be in debt, and he might partake of the Sacrament with a clear conscience. I was rather glad, however, to see him turn away at the end of the service. It is the first time that he has done so, and I trust he is really beginning to think more of what it all means. CHAPTER XX. A WEDDING AND A DEATH. _Feb_. 3, 1873.--To-day William Buhkwujjenene, the Chief's only son, was married to Philemon Atoosa. The wedding was appointed for 10 a.m., and early in the morning William was off to fetch his bride and her party, their house being about four miles off, on Sugar Island. It was long past the hour when Buhkwujjenene, Atoosa, and several other Indians came to me in a rather excited state, and Buhkwujjenene, as spokesman, explained that, although Atoosa, the father, was willing for his daughter to be married in our church, the mother and brother were opposed, and wanted the priest to marry them. I replied briefly that there were two religions, Roman Catholic and Church of England. When marriages took place between parties of different Churches, agreement must be made in which Church they would be married; this agreement had already been made in this case, banns had been published, and the bride and her father were both willing, so there was no need for any trouble. Chief Buhkwujjenene said that was enough, and he would go for the party. However, I waited on and on, and at length went over to Buhkwujjenene's house to ascertain the cause of delay. I found that he, Atoosa, and his son, had gone over to see the priest. They soon returned, and brought word that the priest raised no objection to the marriage being performed in our Church, and had even said, "If you do what is right in the Church of England you will go to heaven the same as if you belonged to the Roman Catholic Church;" rather liberal language for a Jesuit priest. It was now past noon, and still there came one cause of delay after another, so that was 1.45 p.m. before the party had actually assembled in the church. All passed off very well. Bride and bridegroom put their marks in the register, and then all repaired to Chief Buhkwujjenene's dwelling. The bride wore a blue merino dress with green trimmings, a smart crimson necktie, gold brooch, chain, and locket, her hair in a net with blue ribbons. The bridesmaids were Isabel, Nancy, Sophy, and Therese Weesaw. The feasting began at 2.30 p.m., the table very well spread--wedding- cake, wine, turkey, goose, rabbit, beef, tarts, buns, and preserves. About twenty-five sat down at a time, the bride and bridegroom at the head. Two tables were cleared before the speeches began. Chief Little Pine made a capital speech, relating the happiness of his own married days, and wishing for a like blessing on the young couple just united. _March_ 15.--Last evening our cottage reading was at Buhkwujjenene's. I had just given out the first hymn when a message came that I was wanted immediately at George Pine's, for Eliza was very ill, and, they feared, dying. I got my medicines and jumped into the sleigh. George Pine had gone away last Monday beaver-hunting. Only Sarah was in the house. Eliza was lying on a couch on the floor, her head to the wall, her feet toward the stove,--Sarah sitting about two yards from her on the floor by the wall, with Eliza's baby on her knees. The other two little children, Benjamin and Esther, were lying on some blankets, on the floor at the other side of the room. While I was taking off my cap and muffler George Angisteh bent down and looked at Eliza, and then said to Sarah, "She is dead!" He then got up quickly, and went out to summon the neighbours. In the meantime I felt her pulse and heart, but her eyes were fixed, and she evidently was dead; the women who came in tried rubbing her arms and legs, but without any effect. Gradually the room became crowded with persons, the two chiefs among the number. I gave a short address, expressed my belief that Eliza was fully prepared for death, and was now happy; and told the people her words about the eight true Christians whom she thought might be found in Garden River. I pitied, I said, the three little orphan children, and I trusted that God would care for them. I spoke to Benjamin, the eldest (six years old), and told him his mother was in heaven, and that he must try and love God, and then he would go to see her again by-and-bye. _March_ 18--To-day was the funeral. The church was crammed. I gave a short address after the lesson, and we sang a hymn. The coffin was opened in the church that all who wished might take a last look. This is a prevalent custom with the Indians. There was no road cut to the cemetery, so I had to go on snow-shoes, and the sleigh, with the coffin, was drawn by four men. Again at the grave I said a few words, and commended the three little orphan children to God's care. _May_ 28.--A very satisfactory meeting to-night. After the usual evening service was over (in the school) I asked all the people to remain, so that we might have a little talk together about the Institution which I hoped would be built during the summer. The Indians, I said, had now transferred the land to us by deed, so that there was nothing to prevent our commencing the buildings at once. It was necessary, however, to consider what children would be received into the Institution when it was completed. Many friends were ready with their money to pay for the support of pupils, but they wanted first of all to know their names and ages, and other particulars. I felt, I said, that this was an important matter, and it was time now for me to ask them whether they were willing to give up their children to be trained in our Institution. I knew that it was a great responsibility for me to undertake the charge of their children; if it were not that I was persuaded that our whole undertaking had been from first to last ordered by God, I should consider it too heavy a burden, but I was sure God would be with us and bless us--it was His work, and not mine. Chief Buhkwujjenene replied. He alluded briefly to our visit to England, spoke of the generosity of the English people in contributing, and ended by saying that he should gladly send two of his daughters to our Institution. Chief Little Pine then rose. He addressed himself specially to the women, and told them a great work had been done for their children, and they must make up their minds now to give them up. In a humourous tone, be said, all the _weaned children_ must be sent to the Institution at once, and the infants be kept until they were old enough. Their Missionary, he added, seemed to think it would be a heavy burden on him, and so indeed it would be if he were alone: but he was not alone, God would help him, and so it would be light. He concluded by urging on the people to listen to the good counsel they had received. All that had been spoken was truth--it was all truth. CHAPTER XXI. THE OPENING OF THE FIRST SHINGWAUK HOME. On June 3rd, 1873, the contract for the erection of the new Industrial Home was signed. It was to cost 1550 dollars, and to be completed by August 25th. The specifications showed that it was to be a frame building, having, with the old parsonage, a frontage of 100 feet, two stories high, with verandah in front for each flat; suitable farm buildings were also to be erected on the land in the rear. It was interesting to us to watch the progress of the work day by day, to see the walls rising up, the partitions made between the rooms, and at length the roof put on and shingled. The plastering was not yet done when the first batch of children arrived. They came from our old Mission at Sarnia, and were accompanied by Mr. Jacobs. Their names were Mary Jane, Kabaoosa, Mary-Ann Jacobs, Betsey Corning, Eliza Bird, John Rodd, Tommy Winter (who was at Kettle Point); also Nancy Naudee and Jimmy Greenbird, from Walpole Island. It was difficult to find accommodation for them all, as the rooms were not ready; however, we managed to pack them in. It was just at this time that the district of Algoma, with Parry Sound and Muskoka, was set apart by the Church as a Missionary Diocese, and on the 10th September,1873, Archdeacon Fauquier, of the Huron Diocese, was elected our first Missionary Bishop. His consecration was appointed to take place October 28th. And now I must tell about the opening of our Home, which took place on Monday, the 22nd of September. It was a fine bright day, and preparations began early in the morning with the hoisting of flags, ringing the church bell, and firing of guns. A string of flags--blue, yellow, red, and white--adorned the face of the building, and a large Union Jack, given by Mrs. Buxton, was hoisted on the centre of the roof. Men on the Reserve met first, early in the morning, for a "clearing bee" on the farm; and at 4 p.m. a general gathering of all the people was appointed to take place at "The Home" for the opening ceremony. We had at this time the promise of twenty-three pupils, but only sixteen had as yet arrived--eight boys and eight girls. Six came from Sarnia, two from Walpole Island, two from Manitoulin Island, and six belonged to Garden River. Among the latter were Eliza Pine's little orphan boy Benjamin. They all seemed very happy and contented in their new home. Those who came from a distance had their travelling expenses paid by their band; and we thought, if anything, it was rather an advantage to get them, as their homes were too far off for them to be likely to run away if they became home-sick. Both boys and girls worked very well, helping the matron (Mrs. Shunk) and schoolmaster to get everything ready by 4 p.m. The dining hall was prettily decorated with stag-horn, moss, and flowers, and laid out with tables bearing, on one side of the room, a "heavy dinner" for those who had been toiling at the "Bee," and on the other side a light repast for other visitors. The hall was soon crowded with people, and all came in for some share of the feast. Then we had croquet and other games in the garden until 6 p.m., when a bell was rung, and all gathered in the hall. The two Indian Chiefs, Buhkwujjenene and Augustin Shingwauk (Little Pine), Mr. Frost, and myself, sat at a table at one end, with the boys and girls of the Home ranged on our right and left, the rest of the room being occupied by the people. The opening ceremonies were conducted in a very simple manner, with a short service, a special prayer for the occasion, hymns, and the declaration that the building was now open, and was to be known by the name of "The Shingwauk Industrial Home," Shingwank (a pine tree) having been the family name of the Garden River Chiefs, for several generations back. Then I invited the whole crowd of people to follow me in order through the building, that they might see every part of it. I went first, with a lamp, and was followed by the Chiefs and all the Indians, and the schoolmaster, with another lamp, brought up the rear. We ascended the boys' staircase, through the master's bedroom into the boys' dormitories, looked into the clothing store well supplied from English and Canadian Sunday-schools, then down our own staircase, into the dining-room, out again into the hall, through our kitchen and the Institution kitchen, and the matron's sitting-room, into the girl's work-room and dormitories, and so back to the dining-hall. Then all again took their places, and the meeting was continued. I read over the rules which had been placed on boards and hung up in the dining-hall; read over the names of the children already admitted, gave a few particulars about our work, and then invited the Chiefs each to give an address. They spoke very warmly, and expressed themselves as highly gratified with all that had been done and was being done for their advancement, and thanked God that this "big teaching wigwam," which they had so long wished for, was now built and opened for use. We then concluded the meeting with another hymn and the blessing. I had been very successful in getting support for my Indian children. Several Sunday-schools in Toronto and elsewhere had kindly undertaken the support of individual children, and Tommy and Jimmy were provided for by kind friends in England. We thus had much reason to be hopeful and to thank God. During the remainder of the week our Indian children attended regularly every day at school. At last, Saturday night came; tea and prayers were half an hour earlier than on other days. Mr. Frost played the harmonium, and the children sang sweetly "Shall we gather at the river?" Then they had their baths, and all retired to rest, looking forward to a happy day on the morrow, the first Sunday in our new Institution. CHAPTER XXII. FIRE! FIRE! At 10 o'clock that Saturday night (September 27th) I went my rounds as usual to see that all was well. Earlier in the evening we had fancied that we smelt burning, but it was accounted for by the matron, who said that she had put some old rags into the washhouse stove. Everything seemed to be safe and comfortable, and at 11 p.m. I retired to rest. About 3 o'clock in the morning Mrs. Wilson and myself were simultaneously awakened by the running to and fro of the boys in the dormitory overhead, and the shouting of the schoolmaster. We were both up in an instant. I lighted a candle, put on a few clothes, and opened the door leading into the nursery. The cause of alarm was immediately apparent. Flames were leaping up at the back of the house, seeming to come from the cellar, which was entered by a staircase from the outside, just under the nurseries. Every one now was crying "Fire!" and all seemed to be rushing about frantically. Mrs. Wilson called to the servants to wrap our children in blankets, and escape with them. I ran from the nursery to the kitchen, where was a door that led out to the back; there I found Cryer and Frost vainly endeavouring to stifle the flames by throwing on buckets of water. It was raining in torrents. Not a soul was at hand to help us. I sent Cryer and Frost to the river for more water. It was pitch dark, and the river a considerable distance off, so that by the time they returned, the flames had made great headway. It was evidently too late to save the building. Mrs. Wilson and the servants had collected the children; I caught up one of them, and we all ran to the church through the vestry. I rang the church bell hard for some minutes; still no one came. The children were wrapped in blankets, all four of them ill with coughs; the youngest, Mabel Laurie, very ill with inflammation of the lungs. I ran back to the wash-house; the flames now were leaping up madly, and lighting all the country round. I collected the Indian children in the garden, and counted them over; two were missing. Frost said he was sure they were all out; but we could not tell. We shouted into the burning building; afterwards we found that they were all right. I ran into my study, keeping my head low to avoid the smoke, unlocked three or four drawers, and rapidly collected important papers; then, half smothered, groped my way back to the hall. Mrs. Wilson had followed me, and held the door closed while I was in to keep the fire from drawing outwards; the staircase was on fire, and my hair and whiskers were singed. All our watches, jewellery, &c., were lost. My wife had collected and put them together in a basket on the floor, but it was too late to save it. Some of the Indians had now arrived, and I told them to save what they could, but every room was full of flame and smoke. The harmonium in the dining-hall might have been saved, but no one thought of it; it had only been brought in the day before, and was a gift from a lady in England. The church was now in danger; it was only 20 feet from the burning building; where should we go? We took up the children, and ran back to the farm buildings. It was still drenching with rain; the fire looked terrible, and we feared it would reach us even here. We must beat another retreat. Should we go to the Jesuit priest? He was a hospitable man, and would surely give us shelter. "Take up the children again," I said, "we must go at once." My wife persisted in carrying little Laurie, the youngest; I took the other little girl, and the servants carried the two boys. Thus we went through the pelting rain, the women with only shawls wrapped round them; my wife in her dressing-gown and slippers. I hastened on to the priest's house, and after a good deal of loud knocking succeeded in rousing him. He expressed the greatest sympathy, and invited us in. The rain had drenched us to the skin. I left Mrs. Wilson in charge of the priest's housekeeper, and ran back for the other children. If I did give way at all it was just now when, for the moment, I was alone. I felt that all my hopes and prospects were dashed; still I could pray, and God was not far off. I was comforted. Man might fail me, but God would not. If anything, it was good to feel every earthly prop give way, and to cling alone to the Mighty One. On the road I met the servants with two of the children. The flames were advancing on the barn; they had already seized on some out-buildings which lay between, and a pile of cordwood. Archie, our eldest boy, of four years old, was sitting under the fence, not crying, but a smile was on him lips, his blue eyes gazing calmly on the flames, his sunny locks wet with the falling rain. I took him up, and ran back with him to the priest's house. "Naughty fire to burn down papa's house," he said. "Papa, shall we go away in the big boat now our house is burnt?" Leaving the little fellow safely with his mother, I returned quickly to see after my Indian children. The Indians, had already taken some of them away to their houses, and the rest I sent into an empty log house which Shunk had occupied. Then I turned my attention to the church. The people were standing round doing nothing. I saw the church was in imminent danger; part of the bell-tower had caught, and the roof was smoking with the heat. I called aloud to the Indians to bring wet blankets and put them on the roof, then I seized a rail, told some of the Indians to do the same, and together we pushed over the burning end-wall of the doomed building, and it fell with a crash into the glowing embers. Thus the church was saved. When I got back to the priest's house I found Mrs. Wilson very ill; but the housekeeper, a kind-hearted French woman, was doing all she could for her. The sexton, an Indian, came to know if he should ring the bell for service. I was scarcely aware it was Sunday, but I said, "Yes and I would come myself." I had no hat, but the priest lent me his fur cap, also his boots. I would not go into the reading-desk, but knelt in the church, and read the Litany. All the people seemed greatly affected. I spoke a few words to them, comparing our position to that of the Israelites when, on setting forth, full of hope and joy, on their road to the Promised Land, found their way suddenly barred before them by the Red Sea. I told them that the events that had happened seemed sad and distressing to us, but who were we that we should understand God's purposes? We must believe that it was all for the best; we must wait on God; He would make the way clear for us. If it were His will, no doubt these ruins would be built up again, and we should all rejoice once more. Buhkwujjenene then said a few words, and spoke very feelingly. When this little service was over, I returned to the priest's house, and sat down at his table to write a telegram. There was telegraphic communication with the outer world through the United States, the wires having been extended to the American Sault only a few months previously; thus I was enabled to telegraph to England. I wrote, "All is burned down; no lives lost; nothing saved." The priest, who had been most kind throughout, sent it for me to the telegraph office, thirteen miles off. He sent also at the same time for the doctor and medicines, and a message to our friends at the Sault telling of our sad plight. We now determined to go as soon as possible to Collingwood by the steamship _Cumberland_, which was due on her way down. Poor little Laurie was very ill, and we anxiously awaited the arrival of the doctor. During the afternoon, I poked through the ashes with a stick, and found the remains of our watches and two sovereigns welded together. We also collected a quantity of silver, all welded together, scarcely a spoon or fork retaining its shape; still it was valuable, and I disposed of it afterwards in Toronto. Among the chief valuables destroyed were our piano, recently brought from England, the harmonium, a library of 500 volumes, and all our stores for the winter which had just been laid in. The whole loss was estimated at about L1300. The carpenters had only been out a day or two, and I was intending to insure the building the following week. CHAPTER XXIII. AFTER THE FIRE. Late in the afternoon Dr. King, of the American side, arrived. He was very kind and did all he could both for my suffering wife and our sick child; there seemed but little hope that the latter would live, in her weak state the shock had been too great. After tea I went over to see my poor Indian children. All were lacking in clothing more or less. Jimmy Greenbird, who ran into Frosts' room after the fire began and saved his coat for him, was rolled up in a counterpane. Little Nancy, eleven years old, had her hand to her head and looked ill. She said, "My brain pains me." She seemed inclined to faint, so I took her in my arms and gave her some restorative. All night our little Laurie was very ill, and Mrs. Wilson never slept at all. Next day, Monday, the Indians held a council to hear from me what I proposed to do. They asked me whether I felt "weak or strong about it," whether I would collect money to re-build again, or whether I should give up the Mission. I reminded them of what I had said in the church. I could only wait on God till I saw my way. Some of them said it was unfair to ask me just now when the calamity was but just over, and my wife and child sick; it would be better for them to set to work and try and repair the damages and leave me more time to think: they then talked of putting up a house at once for our school-master, as he would remain and take my place this winter. Old Chief Little Pine, spoke very nicely; addressing me, he said, "The destruction of these buildings and property is not loss. Were you to lose your wife and children it would be loss, for they cannot be replaced. I have just lost a son, and I know what that is." Our friends at the Sault were most kind and sympathising; they sent us a portmanteau full of clothing and food. One more sad event has to be recorded. Tuesday was a clear cold morning, and the stars were still shining brightly, undimmed as yet by the streaks of dawn in the East, as I wended my way to the church. I was going to toll the bell, for our little daughter Laurie was dead. The soft morning star beamed down upon me as in pity; all was quiet, all looked calm, serene, and peaceful,--the silence only broken by the deep tolling of the bell. The little coffin had to be made in haste, and was only just ready in time, for the steamship _Cumberland_ arrived at 10 a.m. My wife was carried on a mattress down to the steamer. The boat could only stay a short time. The servants and the other children were already on board. I gently lifted my child into her last narrow bed, then Cryer and I carried it on board with our hats off. Frost remained behind to take charge of the Mission temporarily. The Indian children who had come from a distance were left with him and the Matron until we could decide what to do. The captain and officers were very kind. When we got to Bruce Mines, I went up to a store to buy a great coat and other necessaries. My wife was still in her dressing gown, being too ill to dress. We had special prayer on board for fine weather, the captain and others joining with us. On reaching Collingwood, we were most kindly received by Dr. and Mrs. Lett. They were greatly distressed to hear of our sad misfortune, and my wife was carried up with the greatest care to their house. They gave up their own bedroom to her on account of its being warm and comfortable, and would not hear of our going elsewhere. Late in the evening a vehicle was engaged, and Dr. Lett, my two little boys, and myself went together to the cemetery which is some distance off--taking the little coffin with us. It was too late to read from the Service-book, but Dr. Lett repeated some portions of the service from memory, and our little girl's body was committed to the ground--"earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,--in sure and certain hope of the glorious resurrection." The telegram announcing our disaster was received at my father's house in England at 8 p.m. Oct. 1st, three days after it happened, and a reply expressing much sympathy was immediately telegraphed to us. A week later came a letter saying that L250 had already been subscribed towards the rebuilding: this simply in response to the telegram. Very great sympathy was aroused, and letters came pouring in from kind friends both in England and in Canada. By Oct. 16th the "fire fund" in England had reached L518, and this before any letters with details had arrived. Our friends up to that time knew only that "all was burnt down." They were anxiously expecting letters, and hoped to hear that we had at least saved some of our personal property. The following are extracts from some of the earliest letters received in response to the first detailed tidings of our calamity. "Your letter, giving the details of that terrible escape and your great anxiety, only reached us yesterday morning (Oct. 22). It made our hearts bleed for you. But how comforting to know that you were kept in peace, even amid _such_ sorrow. I knew you would be helped and comforted, as God's children always are, when their need is the greatest. And now our fears and longings have been greatly relieved by the short telegram which arrived at 4 a.m. to-day. We do indeed rejoice and thank God with you for this great mercy. After your sad account of your dear wife and her falls in escaping we feared much for her, but what a joy to have another living babe in place of the sweet little one whom the Good Shepherd has folded in His own arms.... How mysterious it seems that everything, just when completed, should thus in a moment have been destroyed; and then, just when the fire came, that the children should have been so ill: but if trials like these do make us cling the more to the Mighty One shall it not be well?... L550 is now in hand for you, and more keeps coming in." Another writes:--"I cannot say how we all felt for you in your great trial, such an overwhelming, overpowering misfortune; and then your darling child's death too, it all seems to have come upon you like an avalanche. Well, you have the best comfort. I came upon such a nice verse for you this morning, 'David encouraged himself in the Lord, his God.'" On the 30th October, a large packing case and bale were despatched from England containing full supplies of clothing and house requisites, books, &c., and many handsome presents from our kind and sympathizing friends. But besides all this help from England we received also very much sympathy and a great deal of substantial help from our friends in Canada. The very first contribution I received towards rebuilding was from the Methodist minister of the Sault, although I had never made his acquaintance or spoken to him. One lady sold a diamond ring from her finger and sent us the proceeds, and many others helped liberally. Dr. Lett was indefatigable in his exertions for us. The following is from our dear Bishop, who had been elected only a few weeks before the fire occurred and was not yet consecrated. "My dear Mr. Wilson,--I have only to-day been able to ascertain with any probable certainty where I could hope that a letter, conveying my deep and heartfelt sympathy with you and yours under the late severe visitation which Our Heavenly Father, doubtless for wise and good purposes, has seen fit to bring upon you, might find you.... I feel assured that you have gone to the right quarter for comfort and support in the trying hour; and that so doing you have experienced the faithfulness of Him, who hath promised that He will never leave nor forsake such as trust in Him, and have been comforted. If, in the midst of all your cares, you can find time to send me a line, first to tell how your dear partner is--whom I pray may be spared to you--as well as how you are yourself, and then what your plans for the future are, I shall indeed feel greatly obliged. Such trials as these must not discourage us, but rather quicken our exertions and stimulate our zeal. Praying that you may be strengthened and supported in this your hour of need, and realize that it is _good to be afflicted_, believe me to remain your affectionate and sympathizing brother in the Lord, F. D. FAUQUIER." CHAPTER XXIV. PROSPECTS OF RE-BUILDING. "Shingwauk--an announcement!" Such was the heading of a communication which appeared in the correspondence columns of the "Church Herald" in the Spring of 1874, between four and five months after our fire,--and it ran thus: "A little more than four months ago the Shingwauk Industrial Home at Garden River was burnt to the ground, and not a vestige of it left. An appeal was then made to Church people of Canada, England, and Ireland to assist in re-building it, and the sum required being L2000; the building to comprise an Industrial School for boys and girls, and principals residence. I am happy to announce that this sum is, so far as I can ascertain, almost, if not already, secured. From the Canadian Church, 1410 dols.; from Government, 1000 dols.; and the balance from the Old Country. I mention this in no spirit of boastfulness, but in humble gratitude to God the Father and our Lord Jesus Christ, that the Holy Spirit hath thus inclined the hearts of His people to give. All that has been contributed has been 'offertory money' in the truest sense of the word. No expense (beyond printing) has been incurred, and every contribution that has been offered, whether of a hundred pounds or a penny, has I believe been given with a full and grateful heart, as unto God and not as unto men." It was indeed a very great cause not only for thankfulness, but for deepened faith and more earnest trust in God, the Giver of all good gifts, that a work which had seemed so completely destroyed should thus, in the short space of four and a half months, without any effort being made on my part, be in a fair way towards re-establishment on a larger scale and on a more sure and permanent basis than before. Truly can we say, "God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform." If only we have faith in God, how much more may be accomplished than we have any idea of. He is _able_ to do for us far more than we can either ask or think. I feel it only right, at this point, to place it on record, as an encouragement to others who would fain trust simply in God, that the effect on myself of that fire--I cannot call it that disastrous fire-- was to draw out fresh faith and trust in my heavenly Father. At that time, when every earthly prop seemed to have given way,--when we suspected incendiarism and knew not whom to trust, and my little daughter was dead, and my wife seemed to be dying, and all things seemed to be against me,--I was enabled in that hour of deep trial to look above, to realize that God was my Father--my good Father--who would not let me want; in my helplessness I just cast myself upon Him, and rested on His strong arm. Before, I had often been anxious and had worried myself about the future, but in this my hour of distress I felt very deeply how insecure are all earthly investments, and that as His servants,--"labourers together with God," our work not of earth, but of heaven,--the truest happiness was to depend very simply on our heavenly Father for the supply of all our daily needs. Certainly it was wonderful how the money came in for re-building our burnt Institution. The English fund kept mounting up. First it was L250; that was a little more than a week after the telegram was received, and before any details had arrived. Eighteen days after the fire it was L518; a week later, L550. In four and a half months it had mounted up to L1500; just double the amount we had collected for the first Institution. And all without any great effort being made. It seemed like a fulfilment of the verse, "The Lord shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace." And now we must return to Collingwood. Spring has come; the Indian grammar and dictionary are completed, and have been sent to Toronto for publication; the ice is moving out of the bay,--the first steamboat preparing to start northward. We bid adieu to our kind friends, and are off once more to Algoma! On the second morning we pass the Garden River dock. Our poor Institution is gone; and in its place stands a very desolate-looking frame cottage, with only a door in front, and not a single window facing the river. It has been built on the site of the burnt building, and is occupied by Mr. Frost, the Catechist. The poor old church is standing still, scorched on one side. Some of the Indians are waving to us as we pass;--but we are not going to stop there,--the boat goes gliding on, and an hour later we are landed on the Sault Ste. Marie dock. [Footnote: Shortly after this the Rev. P. T. Rowe was appointed by the Bishop missionary to Garden River. It was thought better for many reasons to erect the new Institution at Sault Ste. Marie in preference to Garden River.] We had engaged a house for the summer, near the river, and here we took up our residence on the 18th day of May. Early the next morning I started off to look for land whereon to build the new Institution. East, west, and north, high and low, land was looked at, but none seemed sufficiently desirable to choose as a site for the new Shingwauk Home; either it was too near the village, or too far away, or too far from the river, or of too high a price. At length, however, the spot was decided on. One sultry evening, almost the last day of May, my wife and myself sauntered down the road along by the bank of the broad Ste. Marie River, a distance of nearly a mile and a half from the village. Here was a little open clearing, while all around was thick, tangled, almost impenetrable bush, but in front was the beautiful sparkling river, a mile and a half in width, and two pretty green islands just in front of us. Cryer, the farm-man, had followed us with a spade, and we got him to turn up the sod in several places that we might see what the soil was like. We decided there and then to make this the site of the Shingwauk Home. The soil indeed was somewhat stony, but the distance from the village was just what we wanted, and the land was cheap (only L1 an acre) and, best of all, it was close to the river, which meant plenty of boating and fishing and swimming for the boys, and skating in winter. We bought ninety acres, but it cost us nothing, as the Municipal Council gave us a bonus of 500 dols. On the 3rd of June (our wedding-day) I selected the spot on which to build, measured it and staked it out, and assisted Cryer to chop out a clearing. The bush was so dense that we could see nothing of the river from where we were working; but after a few days' labour the clearing was extended to the roadway, and we could then see where we were; we made some big fires, and burnt up the brush-wood as fast as we cut it down. On the 24th June the contract was signed, and excavations for the building were commenced. The first week of June saw the arrival of Bishop Fauquier to take up his residence at Sault Ste. Marie. The first week of June also saw the first issue of our little Missionary paper, at that time called the "Algoma Quarterly," but now the "Algoma Missionary News." CHAPTER XXV. LAYING THE FOUNDATION STONE. On Friday, the 31st of July, 1874, the foundation stone of the new Shingwauk Home was laid by the Earl of Dufferin, Governor-General of Canada. It was fortunate that his Excellency had planned a trip to the Upper Lakes just at this very time. Two days before his arrival a telegram was received from Col. Cumberland, Provincial A.D.C. who was accompanying his lordship--"I have his Excellency's commands to say that it will give him much pleasure to lay the corner-stone of your School on his arrival, which will probably be Friday afternoon." All now was bustle and excitement, and great preparations were made; triumphal arches erected, flag-poles put up and flags hoisted, and a cold collation prepared in the carpenter's shop, which was the only building at present erected. The ladies of Sault Ste. Marie most liberally gave us every assistance, and the "spread" of good things was complimented by the Governor-General, who remarked that he had never before seen a luncheon so tastefully laid out in Canada. On Friday, at 1 p.m., the steamship _Chicora_, which had been chartered by the vice-regal party, drew up at the Sault dock. The leading inhabitants of the place welcomed his Excellency on landing, and presented him with a loyal address, to which he made a suitable reply. During the procession a salute was fired by a company of volunteers. The guns were two handsome brass field pieces, strongly mounted, bearing the date 1776. An old Highlander who accompanied the party remarked, "Captain Wilson's guns are twa sma' pieces, but they make a tremendous noise;" and certainly the reports, as they followed each other with the utmost regularity, justified the remark. After some introductions to the Governor-General, he and Lady Dufferin embarked for the Shingwauk Home. They were followed by quite a fleet of other boats, and in due time all landed at our own newly-made dock. Here we met the distinguished party, and accompanied them to the site of the new buildings. Our Bishop being away, the responsibility of the occasion all rested on myself. After a short service, conducted by the two visiting clergymen, Lord Dufferin advanced and gave us the following address:-- "It is with great pleasure that I have taken an humble part in the interesting ceremony of to-day. I am always glad to have an opportunity of showing the sympathy which I feel and the interest which I take in the welfare of our Indian fellow-subjects. We are bound to remember that we are under the very gravest obligations toward them, and that the white race, in entering their country and requiring them to change their aboriginal mode of life, incurs the duty of providing for their future welfare and of taking care that in no respect whatsoever are their circumstances deteriorated by changes which are thus superinduced. It must also be remembered that, although we ourselves have the advantage of living under Parliamentary institutions, and that the humblest person in the land is able to feel that his representative is in a position to plead his cause and watch over his interests in the High Court of the Parliament of the Dominion, for obvious reasons these advantages have not yet been extended to the Indian population. On that account, therefore, if on no other, we are bound to be very solicitous in our endeavours to advance civilization, to settle the country, and to bring it under cultivation, that we do them no wrong or injury. I must say that no better or surer method could be adopted to secure those results than that which we have now assembled to inaugurate. It is very evident that so great a change as that from the wild life of the hunter to the occupation of the cultivator could scarcely be effected at all, unless those who are thus invited to alter all their habits of thought and life are educated with that intent. For this purpose it is obviously the best method to lay hold of the younger generation, by instructing them in the arts and habits of civilized life, and to put them in a position to join with us on equal terms in our endeavour to build up this great country, so that the various races may be united by common interests and in a common cause. I am happy to think that with this intent there is further joined the interest of religion, which is even a greater and stronger means of cementing the hearts of men together than that of patriotism. But when the two are united and combined, as they are upon this occasion, it is impossible but to anticipate the happiest and most successful results. I can assure you, Mr. Wilson, on behalf of those (and there are, perhaps, many more than you can imagine) who take a deep interest in this work, and on behalf of your Indian friends, that you deserve our heartiest and warmest sympathy. I can only conclude these imperfect observations by saying, on behalf of Lady Dufferin and myself, that we both wish this Institution and those engaged in promoting it all the success that they themselves could desire." At the close of this address, I, in a few words, tendered my grateful thanks for the honour his Lordship and Lady Dufferin had conferred on us by paying us this visit and laying the foundation stone of our Institution, and then we repaired for luncheon to the carpenter's shop, which was ornamented with flowers and scarlet bunting. All passed off most agreeably, and there were many hearty cheers when the little steamboat crossed the great river under a salute to deposit her noble freight on the other side. Twenty men were at work at the foundations of the new Home the day after this visit, and all went forward with vigour. It may be well here briefly to describe the general plan and appearance of the building. The main building has a frontage of 75 feet, facing the river; it is built of stone, and is three stories high; there was a wing at the eastern extremity, and other additions have been added since; the original cost of the building was 7000 dollars, and the additions have made it worth about 3000 dollars more. At first all was swamp and stumps, but the earth taken from the excavations helped to fill up the low spots, and in time, after considerable labour, the place began to look quite presentable, and a picket fence was put up along the roadway in front. On the side nearest the river were the carpenters cottage and shop (in one), which have already been mentioned, on the right, and on the left another cottage of the same dimensions, intended at first for an infirmary, but afterwards used as a laundry. These two cottages were quickly erected at a cost of about 600 dollars each, and were found very useful while the larger building was gradually rising into existence; indeed, we were enabled, by making use of these cottages, to re-open the Institution in a small way that very same autumn. CHAPTER XXVI. A TRIP TO BATCHEEWAUNING. Besides the Indian Home which was being built I had various other objects to attend to. There were the Garden River Indians to visit from time to time, and I wanted, if possible, to make another trip up Lake Superior. One Indian settlement, about fifty miles up the lake, called Batcheewauning, I had already visited, and the Bishop had consented to my building a school-church there and placing a catechist in charge. So, as soon as the new Institution was fairly started, I arranged to pay a visit to this place, accompanied by Mr. Frost. We took with us a tent and a good supply of provisions, also lesson books and slates, and a voyage of some ten hours brought us to the saw mills, where we were to land. It was a dark night and raining a little. The outline of the saw mill and a cluster of small buildings was just visible. The inhabitants of Batcheewauning consisted of about twelve men and three women--white people, and some sixty or seventy Indians, whose village was six miles off across the bay. We landed our things, a sack of camp kettles and provisions, our bedding and tent. Jacob, the Indian boy who had come with us, was left in charge, while Frost and I went off to look for a suitable place to camp. The owner of the saw mill directed us to an open spot on the shore, and we bent our steps thitherward; but after wandering about for some time, searching in vain for a smooth spot, we espied a man approaching with a lantern, and, accosting him, inquired whether all the land around were as rough. "Yes," he replied, "it is only lately cleared, but you will see better in the day-time where to camp,--and to-night you had better turn into the shanty here." To this proposition we agreed, and following our guide, were led into an old log shanty with crevices in its sides and roof. He lighted us a dip, and pointed to an unoccupied corner, where he said we could fix ourselves for the night. The accommodation, certainly, was rude, and the place by no means clean; yet we were glad of the shelter. We laid our blankets on the floor, and, oiling our faces and necks to keep off the mosquitoes, were soon asleep. At first streak of dawn we awoke. The mosquitoes would not let us rest. They became exceedingly voracious, as always, just at sunrise. It was a fine morning, the water in the bay sparkling in the sunlight, and the thickly wooded mountains looking soft and blue in the far distance. Frost and myself set out again to look for a place to camp. There was not much choice. About eight acres had been roughly cleared around the saw mill, and beyond this on all sides was the thick bush. We overcame the roughness of the ground by borrowing some old boards from the mill, with which we made a floor, and erected our tent over it. Frost kindled a fire, and I made some oatmeal porridge for breakfast, after which we strolled along the shore, and were surprised to find an encampment of Indians quite close to us. They belonged to the Indian village six miles off, and were camping here for the summer for the sake of the fishing. They occupied the ordinary conical-shaped wigwams made of poles covered with birch bark, a tire in the middle, and an aperture above for the smoke to escape. We spoke to several, and they said that there were no Indians now in the village; most of them were camping here, and others had gone to Point aux Pins. We told them the object of our visit, which was to ascertain their condition and wants, and, if they appeared desirous to have their children taught, we intended building a school and sending them a teacher in the summer. All to whom we spoke appeared much pleased by this intelligence. Many of them knew me, as I had visited them once before, and they seemed very glad that we could both speak to them in their own language and understand what they said. These people were nearly all Christians. Some had been baptized by Mr. Chance, some by myself, and others by the Methodists; but they had no school for their children and no regular services, and they appeared to be delighted with our proposals to build a school and to send them a teacher. By way of proving their sincerity we invited them to begin sending their children at once to school, and said that while we remained we would teach every day in our camp. This proposal was readily accepted. We commenced at once with twelve children, but found that unfortunately we had come without any alphabet cards. However, this difficulty was soon overcome. We cut the letters of the alphabet out of a newspaper, and pasted them on to a sheet of paper. Mr. Frost taught the children to sing several Indian hymns--"There is a happy land," "Here we suffer grief and pain," &c. They learned the hymns readily, and soon began to join quite nicely in the singing. On Saturday evening we held a council of the people, and I propounded all our plans to them. I told them of the "big teaching wigwam" which we were building of stone at Sault Ste. Marie for Ojebway children from all parts, and told them also of the appointment of a Bishop to reside at the Sault, who would take an interest in them, and would come round in the course of the summer to visit them. Then we spoke of the school-house which we proposed to build for them, and agreed on the spot which seemed to be the most suitable for the site, just at the mouth of Batcheewauning River, near to the Indian village. On Sunday we had three services, and Sunday-school twice. The morning service was in an Indian wigwam, for Indians only. In the afternoon at the saw mill, in English; all the settlers and some Indians attended--in all about thirty. In the evening we held an informal meeting at our own tent. The Indians came together about sun-down, and, it being cold, we all sat round the camp fire. We sang several hymns and I read the latter part of the I Thess. iv, dwelling on the subject of the death of Christians as distinguished from that of unbelievers, and then offered prayer, asking God's blessing upon them and their children, and upon Missionary effort among them and their heathen brethren. After the service I was asked to baptize a child, which I did, and then the people returned to their camp. We chose a very pretty spot for the school; the soil was good, and I purchased 120 acres at 2s. per acre to be the property of the Algoma Diocese; I made a rough plan of the proposed school-house, with rooms for the Catechist overhead,--pointed windows on either side to light both floors, which, with a bell-tower, would give a church-like look to the little building. The cost I estimated at about 500 dollars. We intended to return to the Sault by steamboat, but none came, so we got some Indians to take us back in their boat,--a man, a boy, and two squaws,--and a leaky old tub it was with old rags stuffed in between the boards. Happily we had fair weather. We camped one night on the road, and got home in about twenty-two hours from the time of starting, after ten days' absence. Very soon after my return I engaged a carpenter, and the following week sent him up with a couple of men to begin erecting the building. Within a month afterwards a Catechist was engaged and placed in charge of the Mission. CHAPTER XXVII. THE WINTER OF 1874-5. By the time winter set in, the walls of the new Shingwauk Home were erected and the roof on, but beyond this nothing could be done until spring. However, we could not wait for the new building to be completed before re-organizing our work. The two frame cottages, already mentioned, had been finished and furnished, and these we intended to utilize for the present. The first pupil to arrive, singularly enough, was named Adam,--Adam Kujoshk, from Walpole Island. We had eighteen pupils altogether, boys and girls; a lady was engaged to act as matron and school teacher; they had lessons and meals in a large common room in one of the cottages, and in this one the matron and the girls resided. The other was occupied by the laundress and the boys. For ourselves we had engaged an old house at the Point, not more than half a mile distant across the bay; so all fitted in very well. It was a hard winter, but the children kept well, and they had a merry and a happy Christmas. On Christmas morning we all drove in to the Sault to church; such a sleigh load--twenty, I think, altogether,--some sitting, some standing or hanging on, and two brisk ponies to pull. Then there was the Christmas dinner of roast beef and plum pludding, to which all the children did ample justice; and in the evening they came over to our house, and we had a few amusements for them, and sang some Christmas hymns. New Year's night was the time fixed for the Christmas Tree and the prize-giving. Prizes were to be given not only for reading, writing, and arithmetic, but also for laundry work, sewing, baking, cutting wood, carpentering, &c. Such of the children's parents as lived near enough were invited to be present, and a general invitation had been given to our friends at the Sault, so we had a good gathering both of whites and Indians, and the room was crowded. In the building occupied by the matron and girls, coffee and refreshments had been prepared for our guests, and in the other cottage was the Christmas Tree. Passing from one building to the other, a pretty sight was presented by the new Shingwauk Home, illuminated with half-a-dozen candles in each window. The Christmas Tree was loaded with presents, a large proportion of them being gifts from friends both in England and in Canada, and prizes were given to the successful children. We had several Christmas Carols and hymns during the evening, and all passed off pleasantly and happily. After these festivities were over, I thought the matron needed a rest, for what had been play to others had been in a great measure work and anxiety to her. So I offered to take charge myself while she went to a friend's house for a couple of days. I was curious to see how the children would manage after three months' training in the ways of the Whites. Our principle was to teach them to _do everything for themselves_, and so we kept no servants; the matron superintended, and every week the children were appointed to their various duties--two cook girls, two laundry girls, two house girls, and so on; and the boys in like manner, some to farm work, some to carrying water, some to chopping wood. Every Saturday the workers received pocket-money from two to five cents each--that is--if they had no bad marks. Well, as I have said, I was curious to see for myself how these rules would work, and how the children would manage, and in no way could I do better than by becoming at once their visitor, teacher, and quasi-matron. Another point, too, I was anxious to ascertain, and that was how "the four cents a meal" plan could be made to answer. For three months now had these children been fed, and by dint of wonderful care and economy, the matron had managed to keep within the mark. How she could do it had been rather a puzzle to me. The only time that I had undertaken to cater for them, was in the Fall, when I took a number of them down to Garden River, to dig potatoes on our land there, and on that occasion I remember I gave them bread and jam for tea, and found that the jam alone which they devoured cost more than four cents a head, leaving out the bread and the tea. Well, it was half-past two when I arrived at the cottage. The matron had just left, and it was time to commence afternoon school. The children sat on benches round a long table, Eliza Jane and Betsy, and Benjamin, David, Adam, eighteen of them altogether,--some of them rejoicing in long Indian names as well: Menesenoons, the little warrior; Puhgoonagezhigooqua, hole in the sky; and so forth. In ages they ranged from the eight-year-old little warrior up to Adam and Alice, the two eldest, who were both turned sixteen. And as regards education, one (_not_ the little warrior) was still stumbling over the Alphabet; while one or two who had attended school before they came to us had advanced as far as the Fourth Reader, and were learning English Grammar and Geography. School was over at 5 p.m., and then the workers fell to their duties, and the non-workers went forth to play. Alice Wawanosh (grand-daughter of the old Chief at Sarnia) was girl monitor for the week, and Mary Jane and 'Hole in the Sky' the cook girls. I was interested to see how very systematically they set to work: Alice got the scales and weighed out the bread half a pound to each child; Mary Jane set the table with a bright array of tin mugs and plates, and 'Hole in the Sky' put the kettle to boil and measured out the tea. Then the bread and butter was cut up, and in a very little time all was ready. At another table a cloth was laid for me, and everything placed ready in the nicest order. When the big bell rang the children all mustered and got themselves tidy, and the small bell was the signal to take their seats. They stood while I said grace, and then quietly and orderly took their evening meal. After tea came the washing up. Each one, without being told, fell to his or her duty. The boys brought in wood, and filled up the kettle and boiler with water; the girl monitor weighed out the oatmeal for to- morrow's breakfast and handed over to the cook girls, who in their turn carefully stirred it into the big iron pot on the stove. A wise arrangement this to insure breakfast being in good time in the morning, as the porridge has only to be heated up with a little fresh water, and is none the worse. By seven o'clock everything was in order, books were got out, and the children seated themselves quietly round the table, not for school, but just to amuse themselves, as best they liked. I sat in the Matron's rocking chair by the cook-stove, and was amused to hear them puzzling over the English words, spelling, and helping one another; some of them had copies of my Ojebway grammar, and were teaching themselves the English sentences translated from the Indian. At half-past seven I suggested they should sing a few hymns before prayers, so the monitor got the hymn books, and they started the tunes themselves, and sang very prettily "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild," "Beautiful River," and "Hark, hark my soul, angelic songs are swelling." Then we had prayers. I read a short passage from the Gospels in English, and explained it in Indian. Kneeling down, they all joined audibly in the general confession and the Lord's prayer. After prayers all went off to bed, the boys over to the Carpenter's Cottage, and the girls into the three dormitories. The monitor and cook, girls, however, had to stay up another hour, for bread had been set and was not yet all baked. There was the large wooden kneading trough by the stove, and the scales, and as fast as one batch of bread came out of the oven another went in, one girl cutting the dough, weighing it--four pounds to a loaf-- and another making up the bread and placing it in the tins. I think twenty loaves altogether were baked that evening, and very nicely baked too. John Rodd was the wood-cutter, and his task was to light the fire in the morning. He was early to his work, and by 6 a.m. a bright fire was burning up, lamps were lighted, the bell rung, and soon the occupants of the dormitories began to make their appearance, shivering,--and so indeed was I--for it was a cold morning, twenty degrees below Zero, or thereabouts: the smoke seemed to freeze in the chimney, the window panes were caked with ice, and nearly everything in the house frozen solid. It was just as well that the porridge had been made over-night, even though it was frozen; a little hot water soon brought it to, and it did not take very long to heat up. "Hole in the Sky" stirred it, and kept her fingers warm, and we all huddled round the stove, wishing the wood would stop crackling and smoking, and begin to glow with a red heat. At last, by seven o'clock, breakfast was ready, the bell rang, and each child sat down to his tin basin of steaming porridge, with a tablespoonful of treacle in the middle. This, with a cup of tea, and a hunch of bread, was their breakfast, and I don t think they fared by any means badly. After breakfast the "workers" went to their house duties, and the boys to their out-door work till half-past nine, when a bell called them to prayers. Then books and slates were got out, and school commenced. All were kept steadily at work till twelve, the cook girls only occasionally getting up to poke the fire or peep into the pots. Dinner was at half-past twelve, pork, beans, turnips, potatoes, and bread; and then there was intermission until half-past two, when they assembled again for school. Thus all went on very satisfactorily during my two days' visit to this embryo Institution. Merry enough they were, chasing each other about, laughing, talking, and singing, and yet all did their duties regularly and systematically--no jarring or disputes, and no shirking of work, all seemed kind and ready to help one another. Of the Indian children who were with us that first winter we know the after-record of some. Adam Kujoshk and Alice Wawanosh married May 31st. 1878, and are now living comfortably in Sarnia. Adam is a first-class carpenter, and can command high wages. He was employed in the cabinet- work department, making and fitting the cabins on board the splendid new steamship _United Empire_, which was launched at Sarnia in the Spring of 1883. There is a young Adam, who we hope will one day be a pupil at the Shingwauk Home. Mary-Jane died at her home in Sarnia, trusting in her Saviour. "Hole in the Sky" has been out to service, is a very respectable girl, and gives satisfaction to her employers. David Nahwegahbosh married Sophia Esquimau, another of our pupils, and they are living on the Manitoulin Island. Benjamin Shingwauk, "the Little Warrior," is still with us, studying, and will, we hope, shortly pass the public examination and receive a teacher's certificate. John Rodd died at the Shingwauk in 1877, and was buried in our little cemetery; he died trusting in the Saviour. Joseph Sahgejewh is still with us, working at our sash and door factory, and receiving wages. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE NEW SHINGWAUK HOME. Our new Shingwauk Home was formally opened on the 2nd of August, 1875, by the Bishop of Huron and the Bishop of Algoma. There was a large attendance including several friends from other dioceses; the day was very fine, and all passed off most auspiciously. After partaking of a sumptuous repast in the dining-hall, which was beautifully decorated for the occasion, the guests assembled in the school-room for the opening ceremony. A Special Service, prepared for the occasion, was conducted by the Bishop of Algoma, who then offered a few interesting remarks relative to the object of the Institution and the manner in which it had come into existence. He reminded the friends present how the original building had been destroyed by fire six days after its completion, and that the present one, in which they were assembled, had been erected to take its place; that the object was to train young Indians to a Christian and civilized life, and to offer them all the advantages which their white brethren enjoyed. His Lordship then called upon the Bishop of Huron to formally open the building. Bishop Hellmuth, on rising, said that it gave him great pleasure to be present at the opening of this Institution, in which he felt a deep interest. He was persuaded that the true way to do any permanent good to the poor aborigines of this country, was to take their young, and train them. If this had been done forty years ago, he felt assured that there would be many a man now from among them holding high official position in the country. In his own diocese he had at the present time three native Missionaries and a considerable number of native school teachers, male and female, all of whom worked to his entire satisfaction, He trusted that children leaving this building would become centres for the increased spread of Christian truth, and he felt no doubt but that the blessing of God would rest upon a work which had been undertaken in faith and with earnestness of purpose. The audience then rose, and the Bishop solemnly declared the building open for its intended purpose as an Industrial Home for Indian children, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. After the Doxology had been sung, short addresses were given by Mr. Simpson (formerly Member for the district), and Mr. Dawson, our Parliamentary Representative at Ottawa. Then, at the Bishop's request, I added a few remarks relative to the system upon which we proposed to carry on the work of the Home. Forty- one children, I said, were at that time present, and we were expecting several more. My experience thus far had been that it was a somewhat difficult matter to train Indians to a civilized life, still I had great hopes that our present undertaking would, under God's blessing, prove successful. The first thing, I felt, was to draw the children around me, and let them feel that I cared for them and really sought their good. I regarded them all as my children. A good proof that I had in some measure gained their affection and confidence was, that many of those who had been with us the previous winter, and had been home during the summer for their holidays, had of their own accord come back again, some of them from a great distance, and all seemed anxious to get on and learn all they could. We keep no servants, I said, but, every child is appointed to his or her work, and, as the company might see, wore badges on their arms, indicating their employment for the week. In regard to funds, all was prosperous. Ever since the fire God's blessing had, in a most marked manner, rested upon our work. People had given liberally, without any of the means usually used for raising funds being resorted to. All was paid for, and a little balance in hand. At the conclusion of the speaking the clerical party retired to disrobe, and then the Bishops, with a number of friends present, were conducted over the various parts of the building. On arriving outside, the Indian children were found drawn up in a line in front of the building, each holding a flag; the National Anthem was sung, and then all marched forward, two and two, in very tolerable order, singing the hymn, "Onward, Christian soldiers." They were followed by the company, and made a complete tour of the grounds. In the evening tea and coffee were served to the assembled guests, and the day's entertainment concluded with a display of fireworks and a bonfire on one of the islands opposite the Institution. The whole cost of the Institution, with land, cottages, &c., in round numbers, came to L2325. We soon got into regular working order. School hours were from 9 to 12 in the morning, and from 2.30 to 5 in the afternoon, every day except Saturday. We had fifty pupils, twenty-five boys and twenty-five girls, varying in age from six or seven years up to seventeen. Some of them were very poorly clad when they came to us, and very dirty; and the first thing was to give them a bath and burn all their clothes, and rig them out afresh. It was of course a great change to them to commence regular habits, to run when they heard the bell ring, and do all that they were told; and some of them began to pine under a sense of captivity. Some of them, when home-sick, seemed to lose all control over themselves, and made an unearthly noise; others would watch their opportunity and run away. In the next chapter we shall tell about three run-away boys, and their capture after ten days' absence. On the whole, however, the children seemed to be wonderfully contented and happy, and all went merrily and cheerfully day after day. The fish-boys used to go out after their nets each morning, and bring in plenty of fish; the water-boys had their grey pony, which they called "Muhnedooshish" (Little Evil Spirit), because it had such a bad temper and was always backing up and upsetting the water, instead of going forward with its load. The baker-boys made and baked the bread, in the brick oven. The sailor-boys, in their blue serge suits, had charge of _The Missionary_, and did all commissions by water. All were willing to work, and seemed to enjoy their life, and on Saturdays we gave them a few cents pocket-money as an encouragement to good conduct. True, the matron was sometimes at her wit's end, with so many to provide for and such raw young hands to do the work, and it was doubtless a task of considerable difficulty to keep everything in order, and to have meals in time and well cooked, with only these young girls as her assistants, the greater number of whom could scarcely speak a word of English; and great credit I felt was due to her for her patience with them. However, they really did try to do their best, and were quick enough when they could understand what was wanted of them. On Sundays the children used all to walk to the Sault to church in the morning, and in the evening we had service in the School-room. On Sunday afternoons there was Sunday school, and on Wednesday and Friday evenings Bible-class. Every morning at prayers the children would repeat a verse of Scripture after me, so as to know it by heart at the end of the week. This plan has been continued uninterruptedly, and the children who have been with us have thus a good store of Scriptural knowledge. They were also taught the Lord's Prayer, the Creed, the Ten Commandments, the Catechism, and the Collects in English, their lessons being of course varied according to their capacities. Our great desire was that they might all prove themselves to be true Christians-- servants and soldiers of the Lord Jesus Christ. The industries which we taught at the first outset were capentering, boot-making, and farming. It was of course a great object to make the children talk English. Twice a week I had an English class, and taught them to repeat English words and sentences, to point to their eyes, nose, ears, &c., and to bring me things I specified. In order to induce them to keep a check upon one another during play-time, I dealt out to each a certain number of buttons of a particular pattern each Saturday, and if any of them heard a companion speak Indian he was to demand a button, and the following Saturday the buttons were exchanged for nuts. We certainly have been very successful in teaching our pupils to talk English. It is an understood thing in the Institution that they must do so, and no Indian is allowed except for about an hour each day. Boys who come to us unable to speak a word of English in September, by the following June can generally manage to make themselves well understood. For the support of our pupils we looked chiefly to the Canadian Sunday Schools, many of which undertook each a _protege_ at L15 per annum. This would cover the cost of food and clothing for an individual child; and for the general expenses of the Home we depended on the contributions of our friends in England and a grant from the Canadian Government. CHAPTER XXIX. RUNAWAY BOYS. One day three boys were missing; nobody could tell what had become of them; the bush was scoured, the roads searched, and messengers despatched to the Sault to try and gain some clue to their whereabouts. After a time it was discovered that some bread and other things were missing, and it became clear that they had decamped. Their home was 300 miles away, and the idea was that they had probably gone to Garden River, about ten miles below us, with the intention of getting on board the first steamboat that might pass, and so get home; so we made up a crew, and late the same evening despatched the schoolmaster and some boys in _The Missionary_ to Garden River. They arrived back the next day, bringing word that a boat had been stolen from one of the Indians there during the night, and that, moreover, an Institution button, with "Shingwauk Home, Sault Ste. Marie" imprinted on it, had been picked up in the sand near the place from which the boat was taken. Nothing more was heard of these boys for ten days, except that one of the steamboats brought a report that they had seen three boys in an open boat near Bruce Mines, and that they had been hailed by them and asked for bread. Ten or eleven days after these boys decamped, we were preparing to start on an expedition up Lake Superior to Batcheewauning; our four sailor boys were ready, dressed in their new blue serge suits and straw hats from England, _The Missionary_ was well loaded with camp-kettles, tent, and provisions. We got as far as the Sault, when the wind, which had been favourable, suddenly veered round and blew a heavy gale in our faces, accompanied by thunder and heavy rain. As it was already between 3 and 4 p.m., it was plain we could not start that day, And just at the critical moment word came that those three runaway boys were on an island forty miles below. Our informant was a Garden River Indian. The boys, be said, had turned adrift the boat they escaped in, which was a small one, and had taken a larger one belonging to a Sugar Island Indian. This Indian finding his boat gone, pursued the boys in his canoe, overtook them, took his boat away from them, and left them alone to their fate on an island. Shabahgeezhik did not think the boys would be in distress, as there were a few settlers on the island who would feed them if they worked for their board. As soon as we heard this news, we immediately decided to head our boat round and run before the wind down to this island and catch our boys. We just stopped for ten minutes at the Shingwauk in passing, to get a dry coat or two and tell of the change in our plans, and then off we started. It was 5 p.m., and we thought we could make the island that night. Shabahgeezhik went with us as pilot. We ran along at good speed through Hey Lake, across the American channel, in and out among islands. We were soon wet and cold, and it became very dark. Shabahgeezhik steered, and seemed to know well what he was about, but we had some narrow shaves of running into islands, it was so dark. Once or twice we were close upon rocks, but just saved ourselves. We passed through the "Devil's Gap," about as narrow as one of the canal locks, and soon came in sight of the dark line of the Bruce Mines Shore. We had run well; it was only 10 o'clock, and we were nearly there. Once or twice we saw a fire on the lonely, uninhabited shore, where fishing or exploring parties were encamping. It looked cheerful, but we did not stop. Now at length we reached our island, and drew along shore to grope for the dock. There were lights shining from two dwellings--one near the shore, the other upon the hill. Securing our boat, we landed and went up to a log hut. A half-breed woman appeared at the door when we knocked, but she seemed scared when she found there were so many of us. We wanted to find Mr. Marks' house, he being the principal settler on the island. The woman gave us some hurried directions, and then shut and locked the door. We started in search of Mr. Marks' house, which it would seem was up the hill, about a mile distant. After scouring round a little to find the road, we at length hit on a cattle-track which seemed to go in the right direction. But what a track it was! Every step we took it became worse; it led along the side of the hill through the bushes and tall grass, and under foot slimy sticks and roots spread over a black swamp. For a few steps one would balance one's self, and then down one would go, knee deep in the mire. Always hoping that the road would improve, we persevered for nearly half a mile. But it only got worse, and reluctantly we had to turn back to our starting-point. Then Shabahgeezhik took a run further up the hill to look for another road. In a few minutes he shouted for us to follow, and the track this time led us out just above Mr. Marks' house. It was nearly midnight, but Mr. Marks was standing outside. We told him who we were and what our errand, and he immediately gave the satisfactory information that the boys we wanted were with a half-breed in a shanty just below. He showed us which way to go, and we descended the hill-side in quest of them. Arriving at the shanty, we knocked at the door. A man answered in English, and asked what we wanted. At length the door was cautiously opened. We said that Mr. Marks had told us to come here for three boys who had run away. Upon this the man opened the door, and said, "Yes, the boys were there, and we could take them." A lamp was lighted, and we told the boys, who were, lying on the floor and scarcely awake yet, to get up and come along, and then our sailor boys each took charge of one prisoner, and we marched them down to the boat. The boys got the tent up and went to bed with their prisoners, while we accepted the kind hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Marks, and slept in their house. It was 1 a.m. when we got to bed, and at 4 a.m. we were astir again, and prepared for the start home. The wind was against us, and we had to pull. At 7.30 we went ashore for breakfast. We were very chilly, our things still being wet, and we lighted a large fire and got everything dry. After breakfast we managed to sail a little, tacking against the wind, and by 12.30 p.m. we had made Sugar Island. Here was the American channel, and we resolved to get dinner, and wait for a tow. In this we were very fortunate, for just as we were finishing dinner a propeller came along. We signalled to her, and she very politely shut off steam and gave us a line from her stern. A storm was getting up, rain beginning to fall, and we had to cross Lake George, and had rather a rough time of it, the propeller dragging us forward mercilessly through the crested waves, the spray and foam dashing all over us, so that we shipped a good deal of water and had to bale. Arriving at length opposite the Shingwauk, we got our masts up, and, giving the propeller a wave of hats and a cheer, the tow-line was let go, up went our sails in a trice, and in a few moments more we had arrived at the shore. All the boys were dancing on the dock, greatly edified to see the return of the runaways. CHAPTER XXX. CHARLIE AND BEN. During a short visit which I paid to England in the winter of 1877, the idea was formed of building a separate Home for Indian girls, and now it became necessary to make the project known also in Canada. Accordingly, in the summer vacation of that year I started off, taking with me two little fellows from our Institution--Charlie and Ben, and also a model which I had made of the Shingwauk Home. My object was not so much to collect money as to tell the friends who had been helping us what, by God's help, we had been enabled to do, and what, with His blessing, we still hoped to do. The first part of the journey was a dash of two miles along a muddy road in a buggy drawn by my spirited little mare "Dolly," with only ten minutes to catch the boat. The next 300 miles were passed on board the steamboat _Ontario_, which, after rather a rough passage, landed us in Sarnia on the night of Tuesday, May 22nd. From Sarnia we took train to Toronto. Here we passed the Queen's birthday, and the boys saw a splendid display of fireworks in the evening. The most remarkable part of the entertainment was a races between a pig and an elephant in mid-air. They were fire balloons shaped like those animals, and it was really very good. On Friday we arrived in Belleville about noon. This was the beginning of our work, and we held our first meeting that evening in the Town Hall. There was a fair attendance, and after the meeting our two boys distributed papers about our Home, and contribution envelopes, which I asked the people to take home with them, and at any future day that they might feel disposed, to put something in and place it on the offertory plate, and it would thus in due time come to us. The envelopes, I should mention, had the following words on them: "Algoma. A contribution to God's work in the Indian Institution at Sault Ste. Marie." After visiting Brockville, Smith's Falls, and Prescott, we arrived in Ottawa on the 31st. I had here an interview with the Premier in regard to my work among the Indians, which was quite satisfactory, and in the afternoon we went to pay our respects to the Governor-General. Happily his Excellency was at home, and he received the boys very kindly, and showed them through the rooms of Rideau Hall. One thing that he said to them at parting I hope they will always remember. He said, "I hope you boys will grow up to be good Canadians." This just expresses the secret of our work; this is just what we want to do with our Indian boys: to make Canadians of them. When they leave our Institution, instead of returning to their Indian Reserves, to go back to their old way of living, we want them to become apprenticed out to white people, and to become, in fact, Canadians. At Montreal we had several meetings, and met with many kind friends who evinced great interest in our work. Early on the morning of June 8th we arrived in Quebec, and found rooms provided for us at the hotel. The Synod of the diocese was sitting, and we received a hearty welcome from the Bishop and many of the clergy whom I knew. In the afternoon I took the boys to the citadel, where they were greatly pleased to see the soldiers and the big guns; and in the evening we dined at the Bishop's. Both the Bishop and Mrs. Williams have always taken much interest in our work. On Sunday evening I preached at the cathedral. The following day I took my boys over the ocean steamship _Sardinian_, and in the afternoon drove out to visit Wolf's monument and the gaol. The boys each took a copy of the inscription on the monument, and we returned to Mr. Hamilton's for dinner. There was a capital meeting in the National School Hall in the evening. The Bishop of Quebec presided, and nearly all the city clergy were present. We had not intended to go further east than St. John, N. B., but finding we had a day or two to spare, we resolved to run on into Nova Scotia and visit Halifax. Two telegrams had been despatched, one to Rev. Geo. Hill, rector of St. Paul's, Halifax, to tell of our intended visit, and the other to Montreal in the hope of obtaining a pass from the manager of the line. The application for the pass was happily successful, and after travelling all day and all night and half the next day, we at length reached Halifax, met with a warm reception from Mr. Hill and had a capital meeting. The boys enjoyed themselves immensely, paddling about in the sea water among the limpets and star-fish and sea-weed, and making vain attempts to catch crabs. Returning by way of New Brunswick, we next visited Fredericton, and were the guests of the Lieutenant Governor, who had most kindly invited us. The Bishop and a large party of clergy and others came to lunch at two p.m., and at four o'clock in the afternoon was a Sunday-school gathering in the school-house, the model was exhibited and I gave an address. After this there was a very pleasing little ceremony at Government House. At Lady Tilley's invitation a number of young girls, members of her Sunday-school class, had met together week after week at Government House and made a variety of articles for sale, then--shortly before our arrival--a bazaar had been held, and the large sum realized of 300 dollars. This sum was presented to me by one of the little girls when they were all assembled in the drawing-room, and is to be applied to the building fund of the Wawanosh Home. The most successful meeting of any that we held took place in the large Temperance Hall. Lady Tilley kindly consented to become one of the patronesses of our Girl's Home. The following day, Wednesday, I called on the Bishop and we spent an hour and a half very pleasantly in examining every part of their beautiful cathedral--the _one_ church gem in Canada. The Bishop set to work in his own way to satisfy himself what our boys were good for, and I am glad to say that the result of the examination was satisfactory. The afternoon of this day, June 26th, we bade farewell to our Fredericton friends and took the train back to St. John. About half an hour before we arrived we received word that a fearful fire was raging, and as we drew near the fated city we found that the report was only too true. The whole city seemed to be in a blaze, the fire appearing to extend fully two miles, even at that early hour, about 6 p.m. Leaving the two boys at the Rev. Mr. Dowling's house, Mr. Dowling and myself started to cross the harbour to try and render some assistance to our friends. We could not take the ferry for the landing stage was on fire, so we hailed a fishing-smack, and landed in Portland. We walked around, to the back of the fire; all the principal part of the city was in flames, and everything in wild confusion; hundreds of people, old and young, heavily ladened and hustling each other along, fire engines at every corner, the open places crowded with a motley throng of people with piles of baggage and furniture. We made our way round to Mrs. Peter's house, where we had been on Saturday; they were all packed up ready to fly, but could not get a team. The flames were fast advancing upon them. The gas works were close by, and it was expected they would blow up every minute. The younger children were already sent off with their nurse. We staid till after midnight, doing what little we could to help, and then returned to Carleton by the suspension bridge, bringing several refugees with us. The following day, Thursday, we drove to the station in St. John by way of the suspension bridge. The city was still on fire and enveloped in smoke. Happily, however, the station was just outside the burnt district, so we bade adieu to our friends and started once more for the west. After visiting and holding meetings in Toronto, Hamilton, St. Catharines, and elsewhere, we arrived July 4th at Niagara. We were now in the great fruit district of Canada, strawberries, cherries, grapes, apples, plums, peaches, all in the greatest abundance, orchards everywhere, rich luxuriant vines trailing over trellis-work, the earth fairly teeming with plenty. What a contrast to poor Algoma, where we can grow neither apple nor plum and cannot even ripen tomatoes. Nothing delighted our boys more than to sit up in a cherry tree and eat cherries _ad libitum_--such a delicious novelty--and then to be summoned in for a tea of strawberries and cream! In the evening we met Archdeacon McMurray, who received us warmly. He was the first Missionary at Sault Ste. Marie, more than forty years ago, and very kindly gave us an organ for the Institution. From Niagara, we proceeded by train to Drummondville. The falls of Niagara were scarcely more than a stone's throw from the house, and the following morning as soon as breakfast was over we went to pay them a visit. Grand and impressive as was the sight, I fear that our boys, boylike, were more taken up with a couple of bears in their cages than with that enormous mass of water surging over the rocks, and tumbling 200 feet into the boiling basin of white foam below. On Friday the 6th we arrived in Brantford and had a meeting in the evening. The following day we walked out to visit the Mohawk Institution, supported by the New England Company; this institution has been, I believe, nearly thirty years in existence, and they have at present thirty-eight boys and forty-two girls. It was strange how shy our boys seemed of the young Mohawks, though making friends so readily with white boys. Mohawks and Ojebways were hereditary enemies, and, in days gone by, used to delight in scalping one another. Altogether we travelled upwards of 4000 miles, and I calculated that I had addressed about 5,500 people at meetings and about 6700 Sunday- school children, besides sermons in churches. Though we made no collections, I nevertheless had handed to me 990 dollars for the Girl's Home Building Fund, and 225 dollars for the Shingwauk. CHAPTER XXXI. A TRIP UP LAKE SUPERIOR. It had been arranged that directly the holidays commenced at the Shingwauk Home, the Bishop and myself should start on a Missionary tour up Lake Superior, the plan being simply as follows:--We would take with us our boat, _The Missionary_, five or six Indian boys to man it, and provisions for six or seven weeks. We would first proceed by steamboat 300 miles direct to Prince Arthur's Landing, taking our boat on board; remain there about a week, during which we would pay a visit into the interior; then coast the whole way back, visiting all the Indians along the north shore of the Lake. When we reached the Landing, the Indian superintendent, to our great satisfaction, invited us to join him in an expedition to the "Height of Land" where he was going to pay the wild Indian tribes their annuity money. At length after four days we reached the Hudson Bay waters, the Savanne connecting through a long chain of lakes and rivers with Lake Winnipeg. Lac des Milles Lacs, into which we soon entered, is a perfect labyrinth of lakes and islands. Here and there were expectant Indians come out to meet us in their frail bark canoes, and, paddling up alongside, they joined the cluster at our stern. A strange and impressive sight was it when we at length hove in sight of the "Height of Land," a huge rocky eminence like an upturned basin, literally swarming all over with Indians, in every position and every imaginable costume. One solitary wigwam stood at the top and others could just be seen, betraying a considerable village in the rear. A large Union Jack also floated from a mast planted in the rock. There they sat and crouched and smoked, or stood, or leaned with that majestic composure peculiar to the Indian race; while below, on the slippery sides of the rock, tumbled and rolled about their dirty children, or prowled their grim and wolfish-looking dogs. It was a gay holiday time for them all. For three days and three nights pork and flour and tobacco would be flowing freely into their laps from their great and good mother, the Queen; and to every individual, man, woman, and child, yea, to even the papoose of a day old, would be given L1 to spend as they pleased. We got our tents pitched--the Bishop's and our own--and then went out to survey the scene. A most novel and interesting one indeed it was, wigwams on all sides of us, some of them containing perhaps forty people, others conical, in which were two or three families with a fire common to them all in the middle. In the water near the dock were several boys bathing and diving, as though perfectly in their element. Here and there stalked a stately chief in his scarlet coat, leggings, mocassins, and feathers in his head. The councillors, of which there were three to each band, wore dark coats with scarlet trimmings. But there were more outlandish personages than these to be seen; tall, lank men, with nothing on them but a scarlet blanket wound around the naked body, at times covering the shoulders, at times drawn only around the waist. Nearly all had plaited hair and silver earrings, and many had feathers in their heads, or head-dresses of beads and ribbons. The squaws were dressed much the same as our own Indians in bodices and skirts, though not quite so tidily. Some of the bead-work worn by the men was very handsome; it consisted mostly of garters below the knee, waistbands and tobacco-pouches worn round the neck and covering the front of the body. They also had their curiously-carved pipes, some of them with stems a yard long, tomahawks, knives, and other appendages. Soon men and squaws were seen wending their way to their wigwams, bending under the weight of a side of bacon or a bag of flour. Now was a high time of joviality for them all--even the dogs licked their lips and prepared for the feast. A crowd collected in rear of the Government buildings; and squatting upon mats on the ground were the musicians, three or four in number, beating away vigorously at their very unmusical drums--just the size and shape of a flat cheese, their drumsticks being shaped like a crook. Soon the war-dancers appeared upon the scene, each with a whoop and a flourish of his knife or tomahawk. Conspicuous among them was Blackstone--no longer in European dress, but with legs bare on either side to his hips--a white shirt almost hidden by massive beadwork ornaments, long braided hair, feathers in his head, and his right hand flourishing a bayonet. The dancing consisted in the actors leaping suddenly to their feet with a whoop, and working the whole body convulsively up and down while standing on their toes, without moving from their position, a monotonous whirring sound being kept up all the time, in which the squaws sitting around assisted. This was kept up long enough for me to sketch one man, when with another whoop and a flourish they sank into a squatting position, the drums still going on unceasingly. After a little rest up they got again, and so it kept on for a couple of hours. The proceedings, however, were broken in the middle by a speech from Blackstone. When it was nearly tea-time I went out to look for my boys, and found Esquimau talking to an old man under a bark shelter with a stick or two burning at their feet; the old man was living quite alone and this was his wigwam, just room for him to lie down and no more. I sent the younger boys to light a fire and get tea ready, and then stayed with Esquimau to talk to the old man. When he found I was going to speak about religion, he called to his children--two men and a squaw--to come and listen. Another man came up, and in rather an officious manner informed me that it was no use for me to talk to the Indiana about religion; that they would not listen to me, and did not intend to accept Christianity. The Great Spirit, he continued, has made us all, and he has given one religion to the whites and another to the Indians. He does not wish his red children to accept the white man's religion. I said I was sorry that any of them should think that, but that if any of them did not wish to hear me they could go somewhere else, and I would talk only to the old man. The old man, however, had now changed his mind and said he did not wish to hear me speak. Several others came round and all said that I must not speak to them about Christianity. One said their custom was for any one who wished to speak to them first of all to put down tobacco. This roused me. "No!" I said, "I am not a trader to carry tobacco about. I am working for my Master, the Great Spirit: the Great Spirit has told His followers that when they go out to preach they are not to carry money or anything else with them, they are simply to tell His message, if they are received, it is well, if not, they are to go away from that place and take the message to others." I then said to Esquimau--"We had better kneel down and ask God to help us, and teach us what to do." So we knelt, and each offered prayer, amid the jeers and interruptions of the Indians. Then I stood out among them and said in a loud voice, "My friends, I have come here to see you about religion, not to buy and sell, and trade with you, but to tell you about the Great Spirit who made you. Your Superintendent, Mr. Wright, has come to pay you money, but I have come to speak to you on religion. I have no tobacco, no pork, no money to give you. But I come to tell you of God who made us, and of His Son who came into the world to save us. I have been told that I must not speak, that none of you will listen to me, but I tell you that I will speak to you: God has told me to speak to you, so this evening I will come among you to speak; those that wish to hear me can listen, those who will not hear can keep away." During tea it was arranged that the Bishop and myself, with the four Indian boys, should go out about sundown and address the people. Before starting we knelt together in the tent, and the Bishop offered up an earnest prayer to God that He would give us grace and wisdom to speak, and incline the hearts of these heathen people to hear and accept His word. On the road there we were met by Blackstone. He seemed very angry, and said, "I am told that you are going to speak to the people to-night. You must not speak to-night, you must wait until to-morrow." I said, "No, my friend, I must speak to them to-night." "It shall not be," said Blackstone, "you will not be listened to to-night; to-morrow I will let you speak." I pointed to the sky, and said, "The Great Spirit has told me to speak to-night and I must obey the Great Spirit, I cannot obey man about this.". Blackstone still refused to allow me to speak, but I was determined, and we went on. We went to the top of the rocky elevation, and immediately began singing a hymn in Indian. Our boys stood out nobly, and sang splendidly. I felt that it required more determination on their part to face the opposition of their own people than for us who were recognised as "black-coats." The singing attracted a number of people around us, and I spoke out loudly and addressed them. We then sang another hymn suitable for the occasion and the boys sang out lustily, like good soldiers of Christ. After this the Bishop gave a short, but very earnest and pointed address. Then Esquimau spoke very freely and forcibly, urging upon the people to give up their vain customs and accept Christianity. Then we knelt on the bare rock and prayed God to turn the hearts of the people to Himself, after which we left. Quite a number of people had gathered together when the singing commenced, and remained during more than half the time. _July_ 24.--The next evening we had service again; myself and my four boys standing on the summit of the rocky eminence in the dim twilight, wigwams on all sides below us; a couple of old women cooking at a fire just beside us, and a few straggling Indians or children lying or sitting about. We sang a hymn in Indian at the top of our voices. This brought a great many people out, but not so many as last night. Then I addressed them. We then sang another hymn, after which Esquimau spoke and urged the people to give up their vain customs and to become Christians; and, after kneeling on the hard rock and offering up an earnest prayer to God to change the hearts of these poor heathen, we departed. Black clouds had gathered overhead and it was beginning to rain heavily when we sought the shelter of our tent. _July_ 25.--The day following Blackstone appeared at my tent door. I asked him to come in but he declined. He seemed to be in a better frame of mind, and spoke in friendly terms, telling me all about the journey from here to the place where he generally lives, at the North-west angle about 200 miles distant. I showed him a photograph of the Shingwauk Home, and he asked some questions about it. He stayed some little time, and then said that the Indians were going to hold a council, and left. About noon the boys returned with a tin pail of raspberries which we stewed and had for dinner. The monotonous sing-song and drum-beating of the Indians had been going on the whole morning in an adjoining wigwam; we were expecting hourly that the council would begin, but Blackstone kept putting it off. I suspected that he intended to have it at our usual time of meeting so as to draw away the people, and so for that reason we had our meeting earlier, about five o'clock. Before starting I called the boys together into the tent, and, after reading a few verses of Scripture, asked them if either of them were inclined to give up the attempt to teach these heathen people; they had been with me through it all, they had seen the reception we had met with, they had acted their part according to the talent committed to them; would they now give it up as hopeless, or would they go with me again to-night? To this they each in turn replied cheerfully and earnestly that they wished to go with me; so we knelt in prayer and asked for God's help and proceeded forth once more to our rocky pulpit. We saw Blackstone going to and fro among the wigwams, and I thought I would ask him once more whether he would give his countenance to our service. So I called to him, "Blackstone, may I speak to you?" "Pahmah, pahmah," (by-and-by, bye-and-bye), was his reply; "I am busy just now." We waited until he came round again, and as he merely brushed past I resolved to commence at once. We chose a new situation this time, another rocky eminence in the middle of the wigwams. We conducted our little service as usual, and urged upon the people once more to forsake their customs and to accept the crucified Saviour. When I spoke of the Resurrection of Christ on the third day, there was a jeering laugh from some of the Indians which made me think of Acts xvii. 32. Blackstone, as I had expected, commenced his pow-pow or council directly we began our service, and so drew away all the principal men. But it was time to prepare for our departure. CHAPTER XXXII. COASTING AND CAMPING. Quite a high sea was running on Thunder Bay when, on _July_ 30, having parted with the Bishop, I started off in _The Missionary_ with my seven Indian boys. A stiff south-east wind was blowing, and, as our course lay in a southerly direction, we had to tack. We managed, however, to run across Thunder Bay within five or six miles of our point, and then tacked about to reach it; and about three miles further ran into a nice little sheltered bay, where we camped for the night. The boys were merry, and soon had a capital fire blazing up and the camp-pots hissing and bubbling. By eight o'clock supper was ready, and then, after prayer and singing and each one repeating a verse of Scripture around the camp fire, we all turned in for the night, having safely accomplished the first twenty miles of our homeward trip. It may be well to state at this point, for the information of those who are not acquainted with the topography of Canada, that Lake Superior, upon which we were now sailing, is the largest body of fresh water in the world, the length of it from end to end, by the course which the steamboats take, being 623 miles. The breadth of the lake at the widest point is 160 miles. Its area is fully as large as Ireland, and its mean depth is 1000 feet. The north shore of the lake belongs to the Province of Ontario, is exceedingly wild and rocky and is inhabited almost exclusively by Indians with a few Hudson Bay Company's posts at various points on the route. Prince Arthur's Landing is the _only_ Canadian town on the north shore, and that has risen into existence only within the last few years. The south shore of Lake Superior, borders on the State of Michigan. _July _31. A dense fog filled the air when we arose early this morning. We waited until eight o'clock to see if it would lift, but as it appeared to have no intention of doing so, we started off, myself steering and the boys rowing. With a good compass, we steered our course straight into Silver Islet. We landed on the main shore, and spent half an hour viewing the silver stamping mills. The fog was now clearing, and we proceeded to cross Black Bay. This was a wide stretch, and we had to pull as there was no wind. After this, we got into a narrow channel studded with islands: then were out on the open lake again, a heavy swell rolling in and breaking on reefs near the shore. About five p m. we came off Cape Magnet, and soon after reached a snug little bay, where we camped for the night. After two more days sailing, we got into Neepigon, and found the Bishop (who had come on the _Manitoba_) waiting for us. The Bishop had his tent pitched on the shore, and had been cooking for himself in two little bright tin pots. We were all wet and cold, and as quickly as possible our two tents were up and a large camp-fire built, over which were soon hissing three ugly black kettles--one with water for the tea, another with potatoes, another with rice and currants--while the Bishop's little kettle hung meekly by, at one end of the horizontal stick, and soon lost its brightness under the unwonted heat of the fire. At 8:30 we all gathered for prayer, and then went to rest. The total distance we had come, since leaving Prince Arthur's landing, was about 100 miles. We passed a quiet Sunday in our camp at Red Rock. No Indians came round, but we had a little service for ourselves under an awning. In the afternoon our boys gathered for Sunday-school, and the Bishop examined them in the Scriptures and Catechism. _Aug_. 5.--We had intended to be up and preparing for our trip to Lake Neepigon at five a.m., but heavy rain caused us to prolong our slumbers, and we did not breakfast until 7:30 a.m. By this time, however, the weather was clearing, and we determined on making a start. There was plenty to do. We had a trip of 200 miles before us and expected to be away about ten days. All the things in _The Missionary_ that were not wanted were packed away in Mr. McLellan's storehouse; provisions were given out sufficient to last the three boys who were to remain behind, and supplies put up for the travelling party. Then--about ten a.m.--the large canoe which we had hired was brought round; Uhbesekun, our guide, put in his appearance; portage straps were brought out, the packs made ready, and all placed on board. The Bishop and myself walked across the portage, about three-quarters of a mile in length, while Uhbesekun and the boys propelled the loaded canoe up the rapids with poles. CHAPTER XXXIII. UP THE NEEPIGON RIVER. Five miles of paddling above the rapids brought us to the mouth of the river Neepigon, a rapid stream about 500 yards in width, we had to keep close to shore in order to avoid the current. Our canoe was about 20 feet in length, and weighed perhaps 150 lbs., she sat as light as a feather upon the water, and the least movement on the part of any of the party tipped it over to one side. The paddlers sat on the cross bars--about two inches wide, Uhbesekun in the bows, then Joseph, the Bishop and myself, Jimmy and William, and Esquimau in the stern, six paddles in all, and we travelled at the rate of from four to six miles an hour. About 1.30 p.m. rain began to fall, and the clouds threatened a storm. We paddled on fast to a convenient landing-place, and then went ashore for dinner, which we partook of under the tent, the rain pelting down in torrents. However, it was merely a thunder-shower, and in the course of an hour we were able to proceed. By four o'clock we had reached our first long portage--three miles in length--and now began the tug of war. Esquimau and Uhbesekun got the huge canoe mounted on their shoulders--one at either end of it--keeping it in its position by ropes which they held as they walked, with their arms outstretched. Then followed Joseph with the bag of flour (70 lb.) carried by a portage strap, placed in true Indian style round his forehead. Then started Jimmy with the tent, blankets, axe, and gun, and the Bishop with his bundle of wraps hung on his umbrella. William remained behind with me while I made a sketch. There was no great hurry for us, as the canoe-bearers would have to return again to take the remainder of the things. William's pack consisted of my camp-bed, blankets, mat, coats, &c, and I had the Bishop's valise and some coats. The portage track was narrow, raspberry canes and high grass almost hiding the path; up hill and down hill, and across a creek. We soon met the canoe-bearers going back for their second load, and a little further on was Joseph, who had deposited his flour and come back to meet us. The tents were already pitched when we reached the end of our tramp on the shores of Lake Jessie, and soon our cook was at work baking bread and frying pork for our evening meal. We were all tired, and went to bed about 9 o'clock, after uniting together in singing and prayer under the open vault of heaven. "Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer, That calls me from a world of care," was the hymn we sung. William shared my tent with me, and the rest of the boys, with Uhbesekun, slept under the canoe. The next morning was bright, but with a headwind, we made slow progress. We accomplished twelve miles across Lakes Jessie and Maria and pulled up for dinner at Split Rock portage. Here was some of the grandest scenery we had yet witnessed--high, towering rocks, their crests clad with fir and birch-trees, the rapids rushing in a white foaming torrent over the rocks in two rushing, roaring streams, divided one from the other by a high, precipitous, rocky island. I made a sketch, and we had dinner, and then, having accomplished the portage once more, started paddling. It was not far to go this time. In half an hour we had reached Bland portage, and everything again had to be unladen and carried. Soon we were in the canoe again heading for the opposite shore, with a new set of rapids on our right. Now for some stiff work again, a long portage of about two-and-a-half miles. We each took our packs and toiled away, getting into camp about 6 p.m. We were rather disappointed with the appearance of Lake Neepigon, with its large unbroken line of horizon, land being almost too distant to be visible. Our baggage was deposited on the face of a great slippery rock, sloping down gradually into the deep water of the lake. A favourable breeze was blowing, and as soon as we had dinner our blanket sail was rigged up. When we were well out into the lake we found quite a high sea running, and our canoe shipped water. Still we kept on, and made about twenty miles before we put into an island for the night at 7:30 p.m. A disappointment awaited us next morning. A strong head-wind was blowing. We started at 8 a.m., and made about twelve miles. It was very rough, and the waves dashed over the prow of our frail canoe. We went in to an island for dinner, and, the wind increasing, we were obliged to remain there for the rest of the day. All our baking-powder was gone, and we were reduced to "grease bread," i.e., flat cakes of flour and water fried in pork fat. They make a good substitute for bread, but are rather greasy. Joseph had shot a brace of ducks in the morning before coming away, and one of them we had for supper; which, with some potted beef and tea in a tin basin, made very good fare! _August 9th_--We packed up, got all on board, and started precisely at 6:30. It was a head-wind and a high sea still, so we proceeded only about one mile to another island, and then pulled in to have breakfast and wait until the wind went down. At 1 p.m. we made a start, and ran about five miles to another island. After running twelve miles more we put in for supper. We calculated we had come fifty miles on the lake, and had twenty miles more to go. The direct course was sixty-five miles, but we had lost way by going into the bays. _August 10th_--We stopped two hours on the island where we landed for supper last night, and then--it being bright moonlight, and the wind having calmed down, we started again on a twenty mile stretch, determined, if possible, to reach the H. B. C. Post at the head of Lake Neepigon before midnight. The Bishop settled himself down in the bottom of the canoe, and Uhbesekun, the four boys and myself, plied vigorously at our paddles-- forty-two strokes per minute. It was a glorious night, and the keen air put fresh strength into our muscles, so that we kept on untiringly for nearly three hours. Just at 11 o'clock we came underneath a stupendous cliff, its dark, rugged face glittering in the moonlight, extending far up towards the sky above us, with a few ragged fir trees crowning its summit. It was the grandest scenery we had seen yet. Our voices echoed as we passed beneath it, and we heard afterwards that it was called Echo Rock. After passing the cliff, another mile or so brought us to the Post. We had some difficulty in finding a camping ground in the dark. The shore was rocky, and we had to cut out a place in the thick bush on which to pitch our tents. The boys made up a large fire, which was grateful in the chill night air, and soon we had the pot boiling for tea. It was 1.30 a.m. when we got to bed, well tired after our long paddle of seventy miles across the lake. Next morning the Bishop was the first one astir. About 8 a.m. I got up and went with Uhbesekun to H. B. Co.'s store to buy baking-powder and sugar, both of which we had run out of. Prices are high here, flour is 6_d_. a pound--at the Sault it is only 1 1/2_d_. Our cook had only just woke up, and was rubbing his eyes when we got back. We were glad to get "spider-bread" again (bread baked in a spider or frying-pan) instead of grease bread. Several Indians came round. I had a very interesting talk with a chief this morning. He and another man came over in a canoe from an island close by, and Esquimau and myself talked to them as they sat floating on the water, keeping the canoe off the rocks with their paddles. The chief was certainly the most intelligent Indian we had yet met with on our travels. He was greatly interested in hearing about the Shingwauk Home, and said that if he had a son young enough to go he would send him, but his children were all either grown up or dead. We felt very thankful thus to meet one at length who will listen, and who seems anxious for the improvement of his people. The old man's way of speaking reminds me very much of "Little Pine" of Garden River, and he appears to be a man of much the same stamp. Just after this a couple of young boys visited our camp. One of them was a half-breed. They carried bows and arrows, and were shooting squirrels. We gave them an alphabet card. Most of the Indians just round the Post are Roman Catholics, but those scattered over the lake, about 500 in number, are nearly all pagans. The name of the chief with whom we talked this morning is David Winchaub (Bowstring). We had tea about 7 o'clock, and then put our canoe in the water and paddled over to the island to visit our friend the chief. He was sitting cross-legged in a large tent, his summer residence, cooler probably than a wigwam. Only Esquimau and Joseph were with me. We entered the chiefs tent and soon got into conversation with him. I asked him if he would like me to relate to him the history of Little Pine's conversion to Christianity. He said yes, and listened very attentively, several times uttering ejaculations, as I recounted to him how bewildered Little Pine had been about the many religions offered to him when he was still a pagan some forty years ago; how he and his father and other Indians made a journey of 300 miles in a canoe, and then walked another 100 miles till they got to Toronto; how they went to visit the Great Chief, Sir John Colborne, and asked his advice as to what they should do about religion, and how Sir John Colborne said to them, "This country belongs to the Queen. I belong to the Queen's Church, and I think all you Indians, who are so loyal, ought to belong to the Queen's Church too." And then, how Little Pine and his party returned to Garden River, and ever since that time had been faithful members of the Church of England. The Chief then made some remarks expressing his approval of what we had told him, and said he quite understood all that we meant. I then asked him if he would like me to tell him what was written in God's book, the Bible. There was only one Bible. French Christians and English Christians were the same in that,--they had only one Bible. He would see from what I would tell him whether it was the same as what he had been taught. He said he was willing to hear and asked me to proceed. As he was rather deaf, and I wanted him thoroughly to understand. I asked Esquimau to interpret what I said instead of speaking to him myself. As I dwelt on the universal sinfulness of mankind, and urged that there was not a single one free from sin, the Chief said emphatically, "Kagat, kagat, kagat, kagat! me suh goo azhewabuk!" (Truly, truly, truly, truly, it is indeed so!) The boys and myself then knelt and offered up prayer to God for this poor, ignorant, yet eagerly-listening chief, and for his people, that they might be taught the true way to life and eternal happiness. It was 9.30 p.m. when we paddled back to our camp. We met as usual around the camp fire, and each one repeated a verse of Scripture; then we knelt in the shade of the dark bush, with the ripple of the water in our ears, and God's heaven lighted up by His silvery moon, nearly at its full, and offered up our confessions, and prayers, and praises to Almighty God before retiring to rest. _Sunday, August 11th_--While I was dressing, William came to say that a squaw had come in a canoe with fish to sell. I said, "No, we do not buy fish on Sunday." So he gave her a piece of bread and sent her away. We had arranged with the Chief to hold a short service in the afternoon at his camp, so we passed the morning quietly among ourselves, reading the first part of the Church prayers, chanting the Psalms, and one lesson, and then the Bishop taught and catechised the boys from the Gospel for the day (Matt. vii. 15). In the afternoon, about 4 p.m., we put our canoe in the water, and leaving our pagan guide to take care of the tents, the Bishop, four boys, and myself, paddled across the water to Winchaub's camp. After waiting some little time, about sixteen or seventeen people gathered together; being Roman Catholics, the Bishop thought it best not to attempt a service, but merely to address them on the object of our visit. So, after shaking hands with the Chief, the Bishop began.. He spoke first of man's sin and the love of God in preparing a way of salvation for us by the sacrifice of His own Son. Then he spoke of the uselessness of mere formal religion, and that we must give our hearts to God. The Bible, he said, teaches us to care for and to do good to one another. Then he referred to our Industrial Home at Sault Ste. Marie, and after urging the people to send their children to it, left it to me to give a detailed account of the work of the Home. The Indians listened attentively to all we said, and the Chief thanked the Bishop, and said that he and the other men would talk together about what they had heard, and later in the evening he would come over and give the Bishop their answer. CHAPTER XXXIV. THIRTY YEARS WAITING FOR A MISSIONARY. At 8 p.m. Chief Winchaub came over, having had a friendly cup of tea, he delivered his promised answer.--The Indians, he said, approved all that we had said; they were glad to see us, and that we had built this big teaching wigwam for Indian boys, they would like to have their children educated, but most of them thought it was too far to send their children. He, for his part, if he had a child, would send him, and another man was willing to send his little boy when older, at present he was too young. We asked him about one promising-looking lad we had seen, the dark-eyed boy with the bow and arrows. The Chief said he had spoken to that boy's father, but he was not willing to send him, it was too far, and he would never know how it fared with him. The Chief then said he had one other thing he wished to speak about,-- there was one band of Indians on the lake, not belonging to him, who, he understood, wished to embrace Christianity and become members of the Church of England. At the time of the great council at Sault Ste. Marie, thirty years ago, the great White Chief had told them that they should have a Missionary of the English Church, and they had been waiting for him ever since. After telling us this he bade us adieu and left. We had already gone to bed, in preparation for an early start in the morning, and I was lying awake, when my attention was attracted by the splash of paddles and an animated conversation going on upon the water. Esquimau came to my tent and said, "One of those men that the Chief was talking about has just arrived, and he has two boys with him." I said to William, "This is God's doing," and we both got up and went out to see the man; the Bishop also got up and came out. It was a most interesting interview. We stirred up the dying embers of the camp fire and sat around it on logs. This man, whose name we found was Mesten, had travelled about forty miles, not knowing that we were here till he met Esquimau. He said that he and his people, though at present pagans, were prepared to accept the English religion. Their former chief, who was now dead, had told them to do so thirty years ago. He had waited for a Missionary to come until he died, and since then they had been waiting on year after year; they would not accept the French religion, but were waiting for an English Black-coat to come and teach them. He did not know how many they were in number, but he thought about a hundred; our guide, Uhbesekun, he said, was one of their number. We then made inquiries as to their location, and found it would take us about ten miles out of our way to visit them. The Bishop was so impressed with the evident leading of God's Providence in the matter that even, though it might cause some alteration in our plans, we determined to pay them a visit. _August 12th_.--Uhbesekun was commissioned to wake everyone at half-past four, but I was the first to wake, and sent William to arouse the others. A head-wind was blowing, so we had to paddle and row hard; we accomplished about thirty miles in seven consecutive hours. We had dinner on a rocky island, and then five or six miles more brought us to the Indian encampment in Chiefs Bay. There were only two wigwams visible, with six or seven people in each, a few canoes on the shore, and seven or eight large dogs prowling about. After introducing ourselves to the men and telling them the object of our visit, we paddled on about a mile further to deposit our baggage at the portage, and left two boys and the guide to light a fire and erect the tents, and then the Bishop, Joseph, William, and myself, returned to the Indian camp. The men were away when we got there, so I sat down and made a sketch of the camp and our boys showed the photograph of the Shingwauk Home to the women, and told them all about it. By this time the men had returned, a fish-box was brought for the "Big black-coat" to sit on, and a tub turned up for me, and then the pow-wow began. The Bishop briefly related what had led us to visit them, how one of their number had fallen in with us the night before, and had told us that they were desirous of embracing the English religion, and so we had come on purpose to see them. There were two principal men listening to us, and they several times expressed their approval as the Bishop proceeded. One of them then replied at length. He said, "Thirty years ago all the Indian Chiefs were called together at the Rapids (Sault Ste. Marie) to meet the Great White Chief in order to make a treaty with him about surrendering their lands to the Queen, My father was chief at that time; his name was Muhnedooshans. The Great White Chief (Sir John Robinson) made a treaty with us. We were each to receive L6 a year as an annuity. My father often spoke to us about it when he was alive. My eldest brother is now our chief; his name is Cheyadah. The chieftainship has been in our family for many generations past. We still carry out the precepts of our father; we do not do as the other Indians do. The Great White Chief gave my father a paper which showed the boundaries of the land set apart for our use by the Queen. My eldest brother now has this paper. My father said to us, 'Do not travel about all the time as the other Indians do, but settle upon this land and farm like the white people do.' We obey the precepts of our father. We have already cleared some land, and every year we plant potatoes. We cannot do much more than this until we have some one to teach us. We have built also three log-houses like the white people. Some of us live in these houses in the winter time. Our land is about four miles in extent. At present it is our fishing season, so we are scattered about fishing, and live in wigwams as you see us now. This is how we gain our living. Another thing that the Great White Chief said to my father was, that we should not join the French religion, but he would send us an English black-coat to teach us. So every year my father was waiting for the English teacher to come; he waited on in vain, year after year, and died a pagan. His last words to us were that we should still wait for an English teacher to come, and that when he came we must receive him well and ask him to open a school for our children to be taught. He also told us never to sell our land to the white people, but always to keep it, and not to scatter about, but to keep together. Thus to this present day have we kept to the precepts of our father, and we now welcome you as the English teachers that our father told us to look for." The Bishop then spoke again, and told them that he felt most thankful in his heart to hear their words; he was very thankful that the Great Spirit had directed his steps to come and see them. He had it in his heart to do all he could for them; he was sorry that he could not at once send them a teacher; that was impossible for the present. All that he could offer was to take one or two of their boys into our Institution at Sault Ste. Marie. Then, at the Bishop's request, I gave the people a full account of the origin and history of our Shingwauk Home, much the same as I had said to Chief Winchaub the night before. They seemed much interested, though afraid to send any children on account of the great distance. After this the conversation became general. They told us their names; they said they were very thankful we had come to see them; they knew the white man was right about religion, for he knew everything, their knives and axes and clothing were all made by white men; Indians were poor and ignorant, and needed to be taught. They had almost given up looking for a Missionary. When they went to the Hudson Bay Post in the spring, they were told they had better join the Roman Catholics, but they said, No, they would still wait, and they were glad now that they had done so. I then made a list of the heads of families and the number belonging to each, the total being about seventy. We showed them a hymn-book printed in Indian at the Shingwauk Home, which interested them greatly, though at first they held it upside down. Then I showed them the Indian Testament, and told them this was the Book that God had given to us. They handled it very reverently, and answered readily in the affirmative when asked if they would like to hear some of the words it contained. I read part of the 8th chapter of St. Mark, about the feeding of the four thousand, the curing of the blind man, and our Lord's words about the worth of the soul. The people listened most intently, indicating their wonderment by suppressed ejaculations as I read anything that especially struck them, such, for instance, as the fact that 4000 men were fed with the loaves and fishes; but what produced the most intense attention was the account of our Lord's mockery, Crucifixion, and Resurrection. Their sympathy with the suffering Saviour was most marked, and their simple astonishment most evident when I came to the part about the stone rolled away and the angels telling the women that Jesus was risen from the dead. When we were preparing to go back to our camp, Oshkahpuhkeda said to me, "Well, if my son is not too big, you may take him with you; I know I shall be sad without him, I shall weep often for him, but I want him to be taught, and I will try to control myself until he returns to see me next summer." I said I should be very glad to take the boy, and would treat him as my son, and I would write to the Hudson Bay Company's agent at Red Rock, that through him he might hear how his son fared, and next summer his boy should go back to him, and he need not send him again unless he wished. I also asked him whether he would be willing that the lad should be baptized after he had received instruction. "Yes, yes," he said, "that is what I wish; I wish my son to be educated and brought up as a Christian. My wife," he continued, "is dead; I also have a sickness working in my body--perhaps I shall not live long. If I die, I wish you to take all my children: this boy who is going with you, his brother whom you saw with Meshen last night, this little girl sitting here (about ten years old), and that papoose,-- you may have them all and bring them up as Christians." We thought it would be better to take the younger of the two boys, if Meshen (with whom he had gone) should get back in time, and to this the father also agreed. CHAPTER XXXV. THE PAGAN BOY--NINGWINNENA. We returned with thankful hearts to our camp. The Bishop was much impressed, and said it reminded him of Cornelius, who was waiting, prepared for the visit of the Apostle Peter; and for my part I thought of Jonadab, the son of Rechab, whose followers carried out to the letter the precepts of their father. At our meeting for prayer that evening I said to Uhbesekun, "I hear that you belong to these people whom we have been talking to. Will you not join us to-night in our prayers?" So Uhbesekun instead of going away, as had been his custom, remained with us, wrapped in his blanket on the ground near the camp fire, and when we knelt for prayer he also turned over with his face toward the earth. Oshkahpuhkeda came over in good time the next day according to promise, with his two boys. The younger one was to go with us. His name is Nin-gwin-ne-na, and he is a quiet, gentle lad of thirteen or fourteen. The father repeated his wish that we should take all his children in the event of his death, and took an affectionate leave of his son. "I know I shall lie awake at night and grieve the loss of my boy." he said, "we Indians cannot bear to be parted from our children, but it is right that he should go. If my heart is too heavy for me to bear, I shall come to Red Rock and get on the Fire Ship and come to see him." I took the boy by the hand and said, "Ningwinnena shall be my son while he is away from you; I will take great care of him." The Bishop also said, "We will take good care of your son, and shall hope to come and see you again." Then Ningwinnena followed me along the portage track. Arriving once more on the shore of the lake, we found a favourable wind blowing, and put up a blanket for a sail. We had thirty miles to go to bring us to Flat Rock, where we should leave the lake and make our first portage inland. We reached it at five minutes to four, the portage occupied fifty minutes, and soon we were launched once more on Sturgeon Lake. A heavy thunderstorm came on, and continued during the time we wended our way through the narrow, stony creek which connects Sturgeon Lake with the river Neepigon. The Bishop and myself sat in the canoe with our mackintoshes on while the boys waded along knee deep in the water, and twice we had to get out and pick our way along the stepping stones as there was not water enough for the canoe. By-and-bye we emerged on the broad Neepigon river, and its swift current now bore us quickly along upon our course to Long Pine portage, where we were to camp for the night. It had now ceased raining; it was 7.30 p.m., and we had travelled forty miles. The tents were pitched, a fire lighted, supper consumed, prayers round the camp-fire as usual, the new boy Ningwinnena joining with us, and then we retired for the night, three boys and the guide under the canoe, and myself and two boys in the tent. _August_ 14_th_.--Esquimau came to call up the cook at 4 a.m. He and Uhbesekun were to carry the canoe across the portage, and return here for breakfast before conveying the remainder of the baggage, hence the early start. We had only twenty miles more to go, and expected to reach Reed Rock in the evening, which was according to the programme we had made before starting. Ningwinnena seems to be a very nice boy, and quick at taking things in. He has that gentleness of disposition peculiar to savage life, and follows me about like a faithful hound. Last night I gave him his first lesson in the alphabet, and I never saw any boy make such rapid progress; he could say the alphabet through in half-an-hour, although at first not knowing A from B, and a little while after he was spelling and reading such short words as dog, cat, man, fish. He must come of a good stock. He was also most handy in putting up my tent last night, and rolling up my camp bed this morning, seeming to take in at once the right way to do things. The day has passed, and we are once more back at our Neepigon encampment, having arrived in the middle of pouring rain at 5.10 p.m. The three boys were very pleased to see us back, and we went up to Mr. McLellan's house for supper. He has been most kind in supplying us with milk and fresh butter. _August_ 16_th_.--The morning opened with a heavy mist, threatening clouds and wind. Hoping for a change for the better, we took down our tents, and by 9 a.m. all was packed on board _The Missionary_,--then, as was our custom, the boys gathered in a semicircle, a hymn was sung, a portion of Scripture read, and prayer offered, Ningwinnena standing beside me and looking curiously at my book as I read. By the time we started, the wind had become favourable and we made a splendid run, getting into Pugwash Bay at 5.30 p.m. Eight or ten birch bark canoes on the shore told us the whereabouts of the Indians, though no wigwams were visible, the bush being so thick; as we neared the shore, the people began to show themselves, men, women, and children starting up one after another from amid the dense foliage and gazing at us with curious eyes. There were about seventy people, though nearly half of them were away. Some had been baptized by the Jesuits, others were pagans. After ascertaining these facts we paddled along the shore a little way to a sandy beach, where we made our camp. Our three tents were pitched in the thick of the bush like the Indians, and a huge fire lighted in the middle as the weather had become autumnal and chilly. These poor people seem to have nothing to eat as a rule except fish and small animals; and they sat and lay around like half-starved dogs while we partook of our evening meal. Two or three of them brought raspberries for which we gave them bread in exchange, and we invited one man, who seemed to be something of a chief among them, to take supper with the boys. These Indians are of a very low type, and are very dirty, appearing to have no idea of anything beyond pork and flour. I went to see an old man who had been baptized about a year ago by the Roman Catholics, and read the Bible to him. His wife was still a pagan, but they both listened attentively while I read and seemed glad to be visited. _August_ 19_th_.--By 8.15 a.m. we were fairly out on the bay. I steered and the boys rowed till the wind being favourable, we hoisted our sails and made a good start, winding our way for some miles among islands, and then coming out on the open lake. The wind fell, and the last part of the way we had to row, which made us late in getting to Pic Island,--and a hard matter indeed it was to get in. In the dim twilight we could see nothing but high, forbidding rocks, with the dark rippling waves lapping their sides. Being on the side of the island exposed to the lake, we could not think of attempting to land until we should find a secure harbour for our boat, for a sudden storm rising in the night would knock her to pieces on such a coast. At length, groping about among the rocks, we espied a crevice into which it appeared _The Missionary_ would just fit. But, oh! what a place for the night! High, slippery rocks, piled about us by some giant hand, no wood for a fire, no grass, no place for a camp--nothing but sharp ledges and points of rocks. The boys clambered about with their shoeless feet like cats, and we heard them shouting,--"This is where I am going to sleep! This is where I shall sleep!" The Bishop groaned and said, "I shall remain on the boat." I, for my part, followed the boys, and presently found a sort of small cavern under a ledge of rock, into which I had my camp-bed carried, and having lighted a candle, sent Esquimau to bring the Bishop. It was really most comfortable, and, moreover, in the corner of the cavern we found a dry log, probably washed there by the waves in a storm; and with this log we lighted a fire and made some tea, and so--after all-- we had quite a cosy time of it. _August_ 20_th_.--We all slept sweetly till about 5 a.m., when I think we awoke simultaneously; at any rate we were all on the stir soon after that hour. And now we were hungry, and there was no bread, no fire, and no wood, and fourteen miles to get to the mainland, and a head-wind. What was to be done? By the kindly light of day we discovered that our position was not so distressing as we had at first imagined. A little way over the rocks was a shore with drift-wood lying on it, our cook was despatched with the frying-pan and his bag of flour, and after all we did famously. Before starting off we joined in repeating the morning psalms. We had a hard pull against a steady head-wind, and could only make two miles an hour, so that it was a little after three when we reached Pic River; and having run the boat on to a sandy shore, carried up our things and prepared our camp. After eight more day's sailing, we reached the Shingwauk again, where a warm welcome awaited us. CHAPTER XXXVI. BAPTIZED--BURIED. "I know I shall lie awake at night and grieve at the loss of my boy,--we Indians cannot bear to be parted from our children, but it is right that he should go." Such were the words of the pagan Indian on the shores of Lake Neepigon, when he parted from his loved son Ningwinnena, and gave him up to return with us. I remembered those words,--and often over the camp fire--as we journeyed home I looked across at my adopted son and thought, I will take the very best care I can of you and I trust that by-and-bye it may please God for you to return and do a good work among your people. Such a nice intelligent boy he was,--such gentle eyes, and such a trustful look,--he seemed quite to accept me as his father and guardian, and was always ready to give a helping hand, and he learned with marvellous rapidity. Our arrival at Sault Ste. Marie was quite a new era in his life,--the steamboats, the shops, and people;--few of course in comparison to places further south--but multitudes compared to the Neepigon region, and he had never seen a horse in his life till he reached the Sault. It was a great pleasure to me preparing this dear boy for baptism, there were two other pagan lads from Michipicoten and I had them in a class together. I had good reason to hope and believe that all of them embraced the truth and accepted the Lord Jesus as their Saviour. The three boys were baptized by Bishop Fauquier at St. Luke's Church, Sault Ste. Marie, on the 27th of October; the Bishop took a great fancy to Ningwinnena, became his godfather, and gave him his own name, Frederick. Everyone indeed loved the Neepigon boy; he was so gentle in his ways, so quiet and polite in his manner, and made such quaint efforts to converse in English. He seemed so pleased too at any little attention shown him. But, poor boy, he was soon laid on the bed of sickness. His mother had died of consumption, and that terrible hereditary disease was secretly sapping his life. At Christmas time he was ill with bronchitis and inflammation of the lungs. From this attack he never thoroughly recovered. There was a hollowness of the cheek, and an unnatural brightness about the eye, and yet otherwise, he had become well enough again to occupy his place in school and pursue his studies with the other boys. Just after recovering from this illness he wrote a short note in English to the Bishop, composed by himself, in pencil. "Me not learn much book, all the time sick me," and so forth. Shortly after this he was much delighted at receiving a letter from his father. His poor father spoke of the longing he felt to see his loved son once more, and how anxiously he was looking forward to the spring, when he hoped to see him again. The Bishop also kindly wrote to him in reply to his little letter--exhorting him to try and live as God tells us to do in the Book which He has given to us; and concluding with the earnest hope that when he died, he might go to that happy place where the Saviour Jesus Christ is preparing to receive all who truly love him, "Goodbye, my dear boy," added the Bishop, "may God bless, and make you good." This letter Frederick fondly treasured to the time of his death, and afterwards expressed his desire to see the Bishop again. On Sunday, March 28th, Frederick was at church in the Sault with the other boys. There was administration of the Holy Communion, and the other boys who had been confirmed remained to partake. Frederick remained with them and innocently came up with the rest to kneel at the rails. I was very sorry to turn him back, but whispered to him in Indian, that only those who were confirmed were about to take the Sacrament, and he quietly withdrew to his seat. Afterwards I explained it to him, and, a day or two subsequently, wrote to the Bishop asking him to arrange, if possible, to hold a confirmation before the boys dispersed for their holidays, so that Frederick, among others, might be confirmed. Had I known that he was so soon to die, and that in his last illness he would not be sufficiently conscious to partake intelligently of the sacred feast, I would not have turned the dear boy back. Too often do we, perhaps, unwittingly act the part of the disciples who hindered the little children in their approach to Jesus. On Sunday evening, April 27th, Frederick came in for a little talk with me after service. He seemed very earnest and spoke very nicely of his trust in the Saviour. I said to him (in Indian) I want you to get quite well, Frederick, before you go home, perhaps your father will be angry with me if he sees you sick. He looked up in my face to see if I meant what I said, and, seeing me smile, replied, "No, I am sure he will not be angry. He entrusted me to you. My grandfather said, before he died, that we were to wait for an English teacher, and that when he came we must listen to him, and do what he told us. That is why my father gave me up to you." The dear boy seemed to have some presentiment that he might not live, and expressed himself on the subject in his broken English to one of our little children who had taken him up some canned peaches. "All the time my head just like broke. All the time sick me. By-and-bye I guess me dead." A few days after, severe symptoms set in, and the doctor was sent for. Frederick became delirious and had to be watched constantly both night and day. We never have any difficulty in procuring night watchers among our Indian boys. Quite a forest of hands generally goes up when the question is put after evening prayers. "Who will stay up to watch to- night?" Two boys stay at a time, and the change is made every three or four hours. For three days and nights poor Frederick lay in a perfectly unconscious state, taking neither medicine or nourishment. The doctor pronounced it to be organic disease of the brain, the result of a consumptive tendency in his system, and gave but faint hope of his recovery. Day and night we watched him; and were glad when on the fourth day he showed signs of returning consciousness. His brain never seemed to become quite clear, but he had intervals of intelligence, during which he would often answer questions and attempt to repeat verses of Scripture. The verse "Suffer little children to come unto Me," he said through. He attempted also "God so loved the world," but only got as far as "believeth in Him." Two nights before he died, he tried to say the Lord's prayer, but it seemed to be an effort to him; at the words, "as it is in heaven," he stopped, and after a pause, said, "can't say 'my Father.' Too much runaway me." After a pause I asked him--"Who was it that died on the Cross for us, Frederick?" He rambled for a moment or two, and then, as the meaning of my question flashed upon him, spoke out in clear accents "Jesus Christ." Very little longer was he to live. We had prayed earnestly, constantly, for his recovery, but it was not God's will. On Saturday evening, after prayers, I perceived that he was sinking, and told the boys who were watching him that I did not think he would live through the night. He was breathing heavily and quickly. He would take no notice when spoken to, and could not swallow. An hour or two sped by, it was ten o'clock, and he was now gasping frequently for breath, his pulse being scarcely perceptible. I called to his bedside those boys who had made the Lake Superior trip with me last summer, and we stood watching him. Then as his end drew near, we knelt and I offered up the beautiful commendatory prayer for the sick, and we joined in repeating the Lord's prayer. As we rose from our knees the dear boy gave one more faint gasp for breath and expired. How wonderful are the ways of God, how little can we understand His dealings. But the very essence of faith is the trusting in God when we do not understand His dispensations. We had earnestly hoped that Frederick's father would have arrived in time to see his boy's body before its burial, and for that reason we kept it twelve days packed in ice, and I wrote to him and sent money for his passage. But it was not so to be. The Manitoba arrived at midnight on Wednesday, the 28th of May, but instead of the father, came a letter from him full of expectancy and longing to see his loved son. This seemed to make it sadder still. The letter was dated May 12th; it was written evidently for him by some white man at the Post; and said that he was patiently waiting at Red Rock, with his son Muqua, for Frederick to return; it also enclosed money for the boy's passage on the steamboat. The day after I received this letter, we buried Frederick. I prepared a slab for his grave, on which were inscribed the words--"_Frederick Oshkahpukeda_, a boy from the wild regions of Lake Neepigon. Was baptized a Christian, Oct. 27th, 1878: and was taken home to his Saviour, May 17th, 1879;--aged fourteen." "'Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.'" The Bishop read the service at the grave. Sometime after, I received the following touching letter from the poor pagan father; written for him by some friend who understood Indian. "_Red Rock, May_ 31_st_, 1879. DEAR SIR,--I learn that my poor boy is dead, so that our talk is dead, for I will not send any more of my children to the Home; but if you want to follow out the engagement you made then, put up a schoolhouse somewhere round here, so that our children may learn, for after what has happened I don't think that any of the Indians at Neepigon will let their children go to the Home. I don't think that we will be able to visit the grave of my poor boy. I would have been very glad if you could have sent the body in the steamer. I feel very sorry for what has happened, my heart is sore. I do not know what to do. Did not my poor boy say anything before he died? Surely he said something about his father! If so, let me know when you write. I do not blame anybody about the death of my boy, but I am most happy for the care you have taken with him. I want you to send me an alphabet, and a small book with words of two or three letters, about the school. I have nothing more to say at present. I am very sick at heart. My respects to you, and I hope to see you soon, or hear from you about my son's last words. I would like very much to know. Your sincere friend, OSHKAHPUKEDA. P.S.--Tell all the boys I send them my love; and the boy that he loved best I shall think him my son. Good-bye." * * * * * A year after this, Oshkahpukeda, and a number of the other Indians of Lake Neepigon were baptized; the site for a Mission was selected, and a roughly built log school-house with bark roof was constructed, also another log-house for a teacher. Joseph Esquimau, a pupil of the Shingwauk Home was placed in charge of the Mission temporarily, and conducted services, and taught school very successfully. In the summer of 1881, the Rev. R. Renison, was appointed by the Bishop to take charge of the Mission, and moved there with his family. Several of the Indians had by that time built log-houses for themselves, and the village is called Ningwinnenang, after the boy who died. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE WAWANOSH HOME. The spot selected for the Wawanosh Home was rather more than a mile above the village of Sault Ste. Marie. I bought five acres of bush land at three pounds an acre as a site for the Institution, and a ten-acre cultivated lot, just opposite, for L60. Immediately after making the purchase, we took all our boys up there for a "clearing bee;" they hoisted the Union Jack on the site of the new Home, and within a few days had cleared a considerable piece of land and commenced digging the foundations. It was to be a stone building of two storeys high with a frontage of about forty-five feet, and a wing running back, and to cost about L700. During the summer our boys got out all the stone necessary for building, most of it was collected on the Shingwauk land, and they were paid 20 cents a cord for piling it. We were anxious as soon as possible to get the new Home into operation. After the summer of 1876 no girls returned to the Shingwauk, and we doubled our number of boys. It seemed hard to shut the girls out from the privileges of Christian care and education, and we were naturally desirous of receiving back as soon as possible those whom we had already commenced teaching. For this reason we thought it well at once to make a beginning by erecting the back wing of the Institution first. During the winter stone and sand were hauled, and on the 5th of May, 1877, building operations commenced. We took the contract ourselves. I had a good practical man as carpenter at the Shingwauk, and we got our plans and specifications; then an estimate was made, and after being approved by a third party--a person experienced in such matters--the work began. Mrs. Fauquier, our Bishop's wife, and two or three other ladies kindly joined with me as a committee to manage the Institution, a lady was engaged as lady Superintendent, a man and wife as gardener and matron, and about the first week in September the girls began to arrive. We only took ten girls that winter, as we were of course cramped for room. It was rather uphill work bringing into operation the Wawanosh Home, but difficulties during the progress of a work often have the effect of making it more solid and strong in the end. To induce Sunday Schools and friends to aid us, I divided the estimated cost of the building with its fittings and furniture, into forty-four lots, and a considerable number of these lots were "taken up." Still we were short of money. When the Spring of 1878 came, all our money for building was gone, and the fund to meet current expenses, even with only ten girls to provide for, was found to be insufficient. It was very discouraging. Sorrowfully I told our lady Superintendent that we must close the Institution for the present,--and sorrowfully I dismissed the girls for their holidays and told them that they must not come back until they heard from me that we were able to receive them. But God heard our prayers and opened the way for us. On Sunday Sept. 7th, I had just returned from Garden River where I had been to hold service with the Indians, and on my arrival found a sail- boat lying at our dock. An Indian had come over a hundred miles and had brought five little girls for the Wawanosh Home. Two of them had been with us the winter before and had misunderstood me about coming back, and the other three were new ones,--they all looked so happy and pleased. But their faces fell when I explained to the man our circumstances, that we had closed for want of funds, and could not see our way towards re-opening for the present. The Indian said it seemed very hard to have come such a long distance and then to have to go all the way back again. "Can you not manage to take them," he said; "I will help you all I can,--I will bring you some barrels of fish in the Fall" I told the man they could all remain with us that night, and I would let him know what could be done after I had thought it over. I went to see Mrs. Fauquier, and the other ladies came together, and we talked it over and had much earnest prayer. It seemed to us all that it was the hand of God pointing out the way, and that we ought to have faith to go on. The end of it was that we kept those five children; the lady who had had charge of the Home the previous winter most generously agreed to remain for another year at a reduced salary and to do without the services of a matron. And so the Wawanosh Home was open again. Two weeks later I received a letter from England: "I have good news to tell you. Miss ---- wrote a few days ago to ask how much money was wanted to complete the Girls' Home. We sent her word that the original estimate was L700, and that about L500 had been collected. I to-day received from her a cheque for L350! Of this L100 is her annual subscription, and L250 for the completion of the Home. You will I am sure look on it as God's gift in answer to the prayer of faith." The following January a letter came from the Indian Department at Ottawa, saying that the Government had in reply to my request, made a grant of L120 towards the building expenses of the Wawanosh Home, and that this grant would be continued annually, provided there were not less than fifteen girls, towards the maintenance of the Institution. Thus did Almighty God open the way for us, and clear away all our difficulties. By the middle of the summer of 1879 the building was completed, the ground in front cleared and formed into a garden, with a picket fence and two gates, and a drive up to the front door, and at the back a stable, cow-house, pig-styes, &c. The cottage on the other side of the road was now occupied by Mrs. Bridge, the laundress, and a year or two later, we built a new laundry. The new Home was opened on the 19th of August, 1879, and that winter we had fourteen girls. The following letter from an English lady who visited the Wawanosh Home in the summer of 1880, gives a good idea of the Institution and its surroundings:-- "I drove to see the Indian girls' Home, and was surprised to find in these wilds such an English stone building, but with the advantage of a nice verandah and green blinds which keep the house cool in summer. The inside of the house I thought very, nice; all the rooms are high and of a good size; a hall, school-room, class-room, and dining-room, and prettily furnished sitting-room for the lady superintendent, a laundry, and good kitchen with a large stove--all these are on the ground floor. Upstairs there is a large dormitory with eight double beds and a smaller one with four beds. These rooms are more airy and give more space to each girl than in many institutions I have seen in England. A small room is set apart for the sick. The lavatory is well fitted up, and everything is clean and neat. The girls do the work partly themselves under the matron, and learn to become servants. The Home has only been fully opened a year, so of course it is still rough round the house, but soon the ground will be laid out. On one side of the house will be the vegetable garden, which the girls will be taught to keep weeded and in order. On the other side of the house the committee intend putting up a gymnasium with money a lady in England has collected: It is a room very much wanted, for, in the winter, with the snow three to four, and sometimes five feet deep, it is impossible to send children out, and if they do not get exercise they would suffer. The room is to be 40 feet by 20, with one end divided off for a meat-house and tool-house; when I say a meat-house I mean a place to keep meat, for they kill cattle and sheep enough for the winter at the beginning of the very cold weather, it freezes hard and keeps well. The gymnasium will, when finished, only cost about 200 dollars. The children look very happy and very little amuses them. I showed them some English village children's games, and left them delighted." There is always a "but," that is, kind friends are wanted to provide for some of the new girls just come to the Home. If any one would give or collect four shillings a week, that is sufficient to feed a child. CHAPTER XXXVIII. A SAD WINTER. The winter of 1882 was a sad time. There was great mortality all through the country, and our Homes did not escape. Our kind friend, Mrs. Fauquier, who, though a constant invalid, had done very much to promote the interests and welfare of our Girls' Home, was called away to the Heavenly Rest on the 4th of November, 1881. During the last few years of her life she had made the Wawanosh Home her special care, her work for Christ. Those girls were always in her thoughts: she it was who devised their uniform dress of blue serge trimmed with scarlet, and got friends in England to supply them; she chose the furniture for the Home and fitted the lady superintendent's rooms so prettily and tastefully. Many were the kind words of counsel that the girls received from her, and it used to be her delight to have them to visit her in the afternoon at the See House. Only a month had passed after we heard of Mrs. Fauquier's death,--she died in New York,--when the appalling tidings reached us that the Bishop, too, was gone. He had died suddenly in Toronto on December 7th. In the same mail bag which brought the sad news was a letter to me from him, written only an hour or two before he died. "The sad void," he wrote, "which my dear wife's departure hence has made seems to grow wider and deeper; and it seems difficult to settle down to work as of old. I must try to realize more fully than I have done in the past what a blessing her presence for more than thirty years has been. How true it is that we seldom appreciate our blessings and privileges until they are taken from us." The church at Sault Ste. Marie was draped with black the following Sunday, and the Indian children of the Homes wore black scarves in token of respect for him who had had their welfare so much at heart. The next death was that of our carpenter's wife: she had been ailing all through the previous autumn, and died January 2nd. Then three days later we lost one of the Indian boys, a little fellow named Charlie Penahsewa, who had only been with as a few months. We buried him the next day in our little cemetery at 7 p.m. The boys carried torches. Several other boys were at this time in the sick room, two or three also of the Wawanosh girls were ill, and the doctor was to and fro at both the Homes. Poor little Beaconsfield, one of the Michipicotin boys who had been baptized at the same time as Frederick, was among the sick. His only name when he first came to us, nearly five years before, was Chegauns (little man close by); he was a little wild pagan boy, but with soft eyes and gentle disposition, like Frederick, and was very quick to learn. A kind lady in Kingston undertook his support, and took great interest in him, and at her wish we named him "Benjamin Beaconsfield." We had every reason to hope and believe that there was a work of grace in his heart. The little fellow had a tender conscience, and would come and tell me if he had been playing on Sunday or had told an untruth, and would ask me to pray for him. Another boy in the sick room was little Peter, Peterans as we called him [ans at the end of a word makes its diminutive]; he was a grandchild of my old friend, widow Quakegwah, at Sarnia. We sent him and another little fellow who was ailing to the Wawanosh, for change of air and more careful nursing. But it was all in vain. Beaconsfield died on the 16th of January, and little Peter died at the Wawanosh on the 8th of February. They were both buried in our little cemetery. After this I had to go down to Toronto to attend to diocesan matters, and was away about two months, going through the Muskoka district, and being present in Montreal when the Provincial Synod met, and our new Bishop, Dr. Sullivan, was unanimously elected. When I returned to the Shingwauk things looked brighter; the sick room was empty, and every one seemed more cheery. But our hopes were doomed to be disappointed. I had only been home three days when my dear boy, William Sahgucheway, the captain of our school, was taken suddenly ill with inflammation, and a day or two later we were in the greatest alarm about him. I felt about him as I had about Frederick--that surely his life would be spared to us, he of all others was the one whom we looked to as the pride and hope of our Institution; he was nineteen years of age, and was looking forward and preparing for the ministry. But it was not to be. God had called him, and eight days after he was taken ill and died. In the next chapter I shall give a little account of his life. Three days after William was buried, the bodies of our late dear Bishop and Mrs. Fauquier arrived in charge of two of their sons, it having been their expressed wish to be buried in our little cemetery with our Indian children. On Monday, the 22nd, the long funeral cortege moved slowly to the cemetery. There was a large gathering of people both from the Canadian and American sides--people of all classes and creeds. First, the clergy in their surplices, then the Indian boys, two and two, one of them, who had been supported by the late Bishop, carrying a banner with the words, "He rests from his labours;" then came the hearse bearing the late Bishop's remains, with four horses, all draped, and the Wawanosh girls followed, one of them bearing a banner with the words, "She is not dead, but sleepeth;" then the hearse, and members of the family and other mourners--a long mournful procession. A vault had been prepared, and the coffins, covered with flowers, were laid within it, and the latter part of the Burial Service read. Thus the good, kind-hearted, self-sacrificing Bishop, the first Bishop of this wild Missionary diocese, and his afflicted yet devoted wife, who had laboured so earnestly for the welfare of the Indians during the latter part of their lives, were now laid side by side in the Indian cemetery to await the joyful resurrection to eternal life. The very next grave to the Bishop's was that of Frederick, the Neepigon boy. Before the summer holidays commenced, the cemetery gate had once more to be opened and the earth once more to be turned, for another boy, Simon Altman, from Walpole Island, was dead. This was the fifth boy who had died during the winter, not from any malignant disease or fever, but from various causes, and seven bodies in all had been committed to the silent dust. For a time we were afraid that the saddening effect of so many deaths would lead to a complete break up of our work, as the Indians are of course very superstitious and might be afraid to send any more of their children to us. Next autumn our number at both the Homes was very much reduced, still we were able to keep on, and now our pupils are once more steadily on the increase. CHAPTER XXXIX. WILLIAM SAHGUCHEWAY. William Sahgucheway was born on the Indian Reserve of Walpole Island about the year 1862, the exact date is not known. His father and mother both died eight or ten years ago, and since then he had lived with an uncle and aunt, of both of whom he was very fond. He had two younger brothers, but no sisters. One of the brothers, Elijah, was a pupil with William at the Shingwauk Home for two or three years. He left when the Home was temporarily closed in the spring of 1880, and before it had re-opened he had been called home to his Saviour. William felt the death of his little brother very deeply. In a letter dated June 4th he says, "Last Sunday my brother Elijah died: but now he is with Jesus and the angels. This text he had in his Bible. 'Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord' (Rev. xiv. 13); and also the Bible was dated May 30th, 1879. This is important to me, like if it were telling me how he died and when he died." William Sahgucheway came first to the Shingwauk Home on the 17th of June, 1875. I had paid a visit to Walpole Island that summer, and William was one who, in company with five or six other children, came back with me to Sault Ste. Marie. He was at that time a bright, intelligent looking lad of twelve or thirteen years of age, and being an orphan, he was made rather a special favourite from the first; the attachment grew, and soon the boy learned to look upon me as his father, and always commenced his letters "My dear Noosa" (father) when writing to me. William like the other boys in the Institution, was supported by the contributions of Sunday school children, and it was quite hoped that he would at no distant day have become a student at Huron Theological College. William's Indian name was "Wahsashkung"--shining light. A most appropriate name, for his presence always seemed to bring light and happiness; he was always so cheerful, so ready to help, so self- denying; grown people and little children were equally his friends. We always regarded that verse in Matt. v. as specially his verse,--"Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven." William accompanied me on many of my travels. He was with me on the shores of Lake Neepigon in 1878, when that pagan tribe was discovered, who for thirty years had been waiting for a Missionary to come to them. He befriended the pagan boy, Ningwinnena, and taught him to pray and love his Saviour. And when the poor boy died at Christian, six months after entering the Institution, William was among those who knelt at his bedside and watched his last expiring breath. In 1879 William accompanied me to England, and while there wrote a little journal of his travels, extracts from which were published. Wherever he went he made friends, and many white people on both sides of the Atlantic will long remember his bright, intelligent face, his gentle voice, and kind obliging manner. In the spring of 1880, when I was dangerously ill and my life despaired of, William was one of the few Indian boys who were privileged to come to my bedside, and the only one who was allowed to take turn in watching beside me at night; for whenever there was anything to be done requiring special effort or care, it was always William who was wanted, and William who was ready. About three years before this time the dear boy became truly in earnest about religion, and dedicated his life to the Saviour. From his earliest boyhood he would appear to have been a child of grace, avoiding what was bad, with a desire to follow what was pure and good; but with nearly all followers of Christ there is probably some period in life which may be looked back to when the seeds of truth began more distinctly to germinate in the soul, and that blessed union with the Saviour, which is the joy of all true believers, was for the first time perhaps fully realized and felt. It was on the 23rd March, 1877, that this dear boy, William, after a long earnest talk, knelt down beside me and yielded his heart to the Saviour: "Tabaningayun Jesus, kemeenin ninda noongoom suh tebekuk, kuhnuhga kayahhe che tebanindezosewaun keen dush chetebanemeyun"--"Lord Jesus, I give my heart to Thee this night, no longer to belong to myself, but to belong to Thee." I gave him a Bible the same evening, and it became his most valued treasure; on the first leaf is the verse, "Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out," and on the last leaf, "God is love." I always tried to impress on those who had dedicated themselves to the Saviour's service, that they should prove the fact of their union with Christ by working for Him and bearing fruit to the glory of His name. William seemed to be especially impressed with this, and rarely a week passed without his trying to exercise some influence for good among his companions. Many are the boys now in the Institution who can trace their first serious thoughts on their spiritual condition to his intercourse with them. In January, 1878, a boys' prayer meeting was commenced weekly, and continued almost without interruption, except during holidays. The boys met on Wednesday evenings after prayers-- quite by themselves--one read a portion of Scripture in his own language, and others offered a few words of simple prayer. It was due to William and one or two like-minded companions that these little gatherings were kept together, and there can be little doubt that much blessing resulted. William used latterly to take notes of the sermons which he heard on Sundays. And now we come to the last scenes of the dear boy's life here on earth. I had been away on a tour through the other dioceses, and William, as captain of the school, had additional duties devolving upon him during the principal's absence. He had charge of the clothing store and had to give out clothing each week to the boys, and perform other duties requiring care and attention. The bodies of the late Bishop Fauquier and Mrs. Fauquier were expected shortly to arrive for interment in the Shingwauk cemetery, and preparations had to be made for this; the road to the cemetery, which was blocked in places by large boulders and old pine stumps, had to be cleared and levelled. William, of course, was called into service for this--no one could clear a road through a rough tract of land better than he. He was busy preparing for the spring examinations, and very anxious to be victor; but books were laid aside without a murmur, and he shouldered his pickaxe and shovel, and in company with two or three other big boys set cheerfully and heartily to work. It seemed strange that his last work on earth should be preparing this road to the cemetery along which his own body would be carried before those of the Bishop and Mrs. Fauquier arrived. That hard work, with taking a chill, was probably in some measure the cause of his death. He seemed very well on the Friday, the day on which I returned home, and joined the boys in offering a hearty welcome, but the following Sunday he seemed to be ailing, and on Monday, although he had come down to lessons, and was setting to work, he was trembling and scarcely able to stand. I recommended him to return to his room to bed, which he at once did, but it was very soon evident that a serious illness was setting in. An Indian woman was engaged to nurse him, and the doctor from the Sault attended him. For the first few days no great alarm was felt, and the pain seemed to in some measure subdued. No one would allow himself to imagine that death was so near. It was not until Friday evening, the 12th, that a decided change for the worse set in. He became very low and weak, with a slight tendency to delirium. We were all very anxious, and the Indian boys took turns watching at his bedside. On Sunday afternoon ten or twelve of the boys came up to his room for prayer. William, though very weak, and only able to say a few words at a time, asked permission to speak to them, and he spoke very earnestly for six or seven minutes in his own language; then we knelt and prayed--prayed with great earnestness that God, if it were His holy will, would permit our dear boy to recover. All Monday he was very ill. Our hopes were sinking. It scarcely seemed possible that the dear boy could live more than another day or two. We had much earnest prayer at his bedside, and the faintest signs of improvement were eagerly looked for. He was quite resigned to God's will, wishing to recover if it were his Father's will, or ready to die if the call had come. In the afternoon he seemed to realize that his end was drawing near. To one who visited him and remained a short time alone with him he said, "I should like to meet my little brother Elijah again; I do so love Elijah." And after a pause he said, "I don't think I shall live long, I am getting very weak." "We all love you very much," was replied, "we indeed wish to keep you with us, but God's will must be done." "Yes." he said, "God's will must be done. May be God will revive me, but I have no wish whether to live or die. I wish for what is God's will." "Is there anything you want?" was asked. "No--thank you," he replied with great effort, then put his hand to his heart and slowly waved it upwards. "I shall soon be singing on the golden shore," he said. To one of our little girls who came in he said, "Do you like to see me like this, Winnie?" "No," said the little child, the tears trickling down her cheeks. "Perhaps I will get well again if it is God's will," he said, "but I don't know." To the carpenter, who had lost his wife only a few months before, he spoke very earnestly: "You see," he said, "there is nothing to trouble me, nothing at all; God is love, this is all God's love to me; may be God will take me away." "Poor boy, poor, boy," ejaculated the carpenter, with tears in his eyes, "how you are changed; how much you must have suffered." "Oh, it is just nothing," said William; "God is love, I can trust in Him: 'the blood--of Jesus Christ--cleanseth us--from all sin.'" I could hardly bear to speak to him of death,--it seemed to me as though he must live, that a change for the better would set in, and that the dear boy would revive. I repeated some passages of Scripture to him and knelt often for prayer. Many, indeed, were the earnest prayers that went up to the throne of grace for the boy's recovery. Between eleven and half-past he was left for the night in charge of two Indian boys, Kahgaug and Willis. They were to keep hot bricks to his hands and feet, and administer a stimulating mixture and nourishment, and at two o'clock their place would be taken by two other boys. Having been up a great part of the preceding night, I then retired to rest, to be called if there was any change for the worse. Just at half-past two there came a knock at the door,--"William is worse; please come at once." I hurried up to the sick room as quickly as possible, but it was a moment too late--the dear boy had breathed his last. His hands were clasped on his breast, his eyes lifted to heaven, a smile just fading on his lips, and thus he had left the earth and gone to meet his Saviour. Three boys only were with him when he died--Wigwaus, Benjamin, and Davidans. We knelt together, and I offered up prayer, humbly commending the soul of the dear brother departed into the hands of Almighty God, as into the hands of a faithful Creator and most merciful Saviour. A feeling of awe seemed to pervade the whole household when, at early dawn, the tolling of the school-bell told only too plainly that the beloved spirit had departed. Never was a boy more loved by his play- mates or more honoured and respected by his teachers. As he lived he died, trusting in the merits of an Almighty Saviour for his salvation. On the evening of his death his dear form was laid by loving hands in the coffin, and some white flowers placed on his breast; the lid was drawn back a little, and on it were placed his Prayer-book, his Bible (open at I John iv.), a photograph of him in a frame, and a single wax taper. Then the folding doors leading into the back school-room were opened and the boys gathered around and sang the hymn he loved, "Safe in the arms of Jesus." Scarcely an eye was dry, and many a sigh was heaved, and many a sob broke the silence of the apartment as they came up one by one to look on the marble face of their dead companion, and to imprint a kiss on his cold brow. Many of the boys would not be satisfied with coming once; they came again and again, and some laid their faces down on his and sobbed. Several hymns were sung: "Here we suffer grief and pain," "There is a happy land," and "My God, my Father, while I stray," and prayer also was offered. The funeral was on Thursday, Ascension day, at nine o'clock in the morning. The coffin was brought into the school-room by six boys, who had been appointed pall-bearers, and I read the opening sentences of the burial service and special psalms and lessons; then, after a hymn, was the sermon, from I John iii. 2, "We know that when He shall appear, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is," and I read some extracts from William's diary, which he had commenced keeping four years before; they show what the boy's thoughts were and how near he lived to his Saviour. _Jan_. 27, 1878.--"O Lord Jesus Christ, I have given my heart to Thee. I belong to Thee, and I want to work for Thee as long as I live. Give me Thy Holy Spirit in mine heart. May I not get cold and careless, but may I always be full of love to Thee. May I not be a dead branch, but may I bear much fruit to the glory of Thy name. Amen." _March_ 5.--"O Lord Jesus Christ, give me Thy Holy Spirit that I may be able to fight the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the devil." _Oct_. 1.--"O God, I give my body unto Thee, and wherever you want me to go, I will go, and whatever you want me to do as long as I live, I shall do this for the name of Christ." _March_ 21, 1879.--"O Lord. I am trying to work for Thee. Am I trying to walk in the light every day? Am I going to serve God or serve the devil? Let me not think too much of the things of this world. Let me more think about the things of heaven. This is all,--for Christ's sake." After another hymn had been sung, a procession was formed to the cemetery, and the dear boy's body was laid in the grave, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of a glorious resurrection to eternal life. There was one more duty to be performed on the return of the funeral party to the school-room, and that was to distribute some of the dear boy's books and treasures to those who would specially value them. I took for my share the Bible which I had given him four years before, and an ancient arrow head, which he had dug up while making the road to the cemetery, and had laughingly remarked that he would keep it till he died. The rest of the things were packed in a box and sent home to his aunt. Who shall estimate the amount of good done by this earnest whole-souled Indian boy during his short career? He sowed good seed, and we trust there may be an abundant harvest in the hearts and lives of the other boys. When asked how many of them had received special benefit by their intercourse with William, twenty boys rose to their feet. Many testified that they had been spoken to by him of the Saviour, others that they had been checked by him in doing something sinful, others, that he had talked or read or offered prayer with them. What a blessed testimony, that in a school of fifty-four boys, twenty should have been benefited by the example and teaching of one boy who loved the Saviour! May God the Holy Spirit bless this simple recital to the hearts of those who read it, and may other boys, whether white or Indian, be stirred in their souls to follow the example of this young soldier of the cross, and let their light shine before men as did this young Indian boy-- Wahsashkung--Shining light--William Sahgucheway. CHAPTER XL. OUR INDIAN HOMES. Come and visit our Indian Homes now, this summer of 1884. No longer are we in the midst of bush and swamp, as we were ten years ago. The land has been cleared up and a good part of it brought under cultivation, fences have been put up, and several new buildings added. Let us visit the Shingwauk Home first. We may go by water, and land at the Shingwauk dock; there is the boat-house, with our new boat, _The Missionary_, given to us by the children of St. James's Sunday-school, Toronto, floating gently on the dark water within. We have no need to walk up to the Institution. There is an excellent tramway, which has just been completed, and visitors are requested to take their seats in the tramcar, and some of the Indian boys will push them up to the Home. We can already see the Institution over the brow of the hill, and a little to the right the Memorial Chapel, and nearer to us the Factory, and off to the left the boot shop and carpenter's cottage. We note that there are neat stone walls round some of the fields, and a white picket fence inclosing the Institution; the old-fashioned lych-gate in front of the Chapel also strikes us, with the hops clambering over it; but we must hasten on and enter the Home. As we walk up the central drive we notice that the Institution is a substantial stone building, the bareness of the walk relieved by a pretty trellis-work, up which hops and other creeping plants are climbing; to our right is a cottage-wing, which is the principal's residence, and to our left the entrance hall, with an ornamental belfry over it; a little further to our left is another small stone building--the dairy. We enter the hall, and, having written our names in the Visitors' book, we ascend the oak staircase and visit the school-room. Here the boys are all busy at work with their slates and books, and Mr. Wotton, the master, is instructing a class by the black- board. The school-room is nicely fitted up with modern desks and other appliances; on the walls are large maps and pictures, which give it a cheerful look; the ceiling is panelled in woods of two shades. Opening into the school-room is a smaller room, a class-room separated from it by three folding-doors. Ascending the staircase, we visit the dormitories. The east dormitory for the senior boys is fitted with English iron bedsteads, the junior dormitory has wooden bedsteads painted blue, and wide enough for two little fellows to sleep in each; the front dormitory, which is the largest of them all, is hung with hammocks,--there is sleeping accommodation altogether for about sixty- five boys. Descending once more, we pass through the lavatory and the matron's sitting-room down to the dining-hall, and we note as we go along every here and there a shelf with three white pails full of water and an ominous F painted on them. Evidently experience has taught caution. The dining-hall is a fine large room, the ceiling panelled like the school-room. It has five long tables, at each of which twelve or fourteen boys can sit comfortably. One side of the room we notice is railed off--this is called the pen, and here the boys have to wait in patience while the tables are prepared for meals. Adjoining the dining- hall are the kitchen on one side, the work-room on the other. Every thing looks clean and tidy and well kept--the matron takes pride in having her department all in good order. In the work-room we find the Indian servant, Eliza, working at the sewing-machine making garments for the boys. Passing on through the other doorway, we cross a passage, and enter the class-room where John Esquimau is sitting at his studies, reading theology and studying Latin and Greek, with a view to entering the ministry. Adjoining this room is the office and dispensary. And now we must leave the Institution building and visit the Chapel (see Frontispiece), a little winding path under the trees leads us to it. The building is of stone, set in a frame-work of wood, which, painted dark, gives a most picturesque appearance. There is a deep porch at the western entrance with stained glass window; within are heavy oak doors with ornamental mountings, and these, being opened, give us a view of the interior of the Chapel, and a very pretty view it is. In front of us are pillars supporting the chancel arch, and on either side a smaller arch, one enclosing the vestry, the other the organ-chamber; the space between the top of these arches and the roof being filled with fretwork. The windows are stained glass. The pulpit and prayer-desk and all the seats are of oak, and nicely carved. Under the chancel window is an oak reredos, on which are inscribed the Creed, the Lord's Prayer, and the Ten Commandments in Indian. The altar-cloth is a very handsome one, given by a lady in England, and the stone font was presented by relatives of the late Bishop. Service is held in the Chapel twice every Sunday, the pupils from both Homes attending; and on Wednesday evenings there is a short service and catechizing. Crossing to the other side of the road after leaving the Chapel, we enter the sash and door factory, and are immediately deafened by the din of the various machines in motion. Three Indian boys are at work here under the foreman, making doors, window-sash mouldings, and turned work of all descriptions. The boys are old pupils who have passed through the Institution, and now receive wages for their work, but they attend school every evening, which is a great advantage to them. One or two of the younger boys are also commencing to learn carpenter work at the factory. Crossing to the other cottage to the left of the Institution, we enter the boot shop; here we find another old pupil at work,--Harry Nahwaquageezhik,--and a very good boot maker he is. He does all the work for the Institutions, both mending and making, and has one or two younger boys under his instruction. When not required at the boot shop, Harry goes to garden or farm work. And now we must drive out to the Wawanosh Home and pay it a visit also. It is upwards of two miles from Shingwauk, up the northern road and away from the river. As we drive up the road bordered with fields of grain or grass on either side, or shaded by birch and fir trees, we catch sight of the stone building to our right, in a nest of green foliage; and on the left white garments flapping in the breeze bespeak the presence of the laundry, with the laundress' cottage close beside. A number of the girls are on the verandah, or amusing themselves on the grass, for it is play-time and school is over. Miss Cunningham, the lady Superintendent, meets us at the door, and conducts us through the building; on the left as we enter are the school-room and work-room with folding doors between, and on the right Miss Cunningham's little sitting-room, and the girls' dining-room; then at the back are the kitchen and wash-house, and overhead the girls' dormitories and lavatory and other bed-rooms. All is kept very clean and neat, and does credit to those who are in charge. Such are our buildings and our work, and such the efforts that we are making for the evangelization and training of these poor Ojebway Indians. And now perhaps the question will be asked:-- DO THESE INDIAN HOMES SEEM LIKELY TO PROVE A SUCCESS? Have we reason to expect that we shall, in due time, achieve our object, and raise the Indian to a position equal to that of his white brethren? Is this idea of inducing them to exchange the bow and arrow for the carpenter's bench, the war-club for the blacksmith's hammer, the net and canoe for the plough, a mere visionary one, or is it a scheme that we have a good prospect of seeing carried into effect? The following questions suggest themselves and we are prepared with the answers:-- 1. Are the Indians willing to make the change? Yes, for the most part, they desire it. 2. Are their sons capable of receiving education and acquiring a knowledge of the various trades sufficient to make a livelihood? We refer to the appended letters from the masters of the various trades that our boys are learning: and as to education, our own experience is that Indian boys can learn as fast as white boys, and many of them will _retain_ what they have learnt a good deal better. They read distinctly, without any foreign accent, write a capital hand, and are very fair arithmeticians. 3. Will they stick to their work? Yes. We were doubtful about this at first, but now we can say yes. Our apprentice boys work ten hours a day, six days a week, and very rarely ask for a holiday. Having once become accustomed to regular work, they like it, and will stick to it as well as any white man. 4. Will their love for a wild life ever be eradicated? Perhaps not. Why should it? Our boys, all of them, thoroughly enjoy a "camp out," such as we have sometimes in the summer, but scarcely one of them would wish to go back and spend his whole life in this manner. They know that a life depending on hunting and fishing means poverty, dirt, and ignorance; and they don't mean to go back to this. We don't wish to un-Indianize them altogether, we would not overcurb their free spirit; we would not pluck the feather from their cap or the sash from their waist or the moccasin from their foot. They are a proud, grand nation in their way. An Indian was never a slave any more than a Briton. An Indian has no words of profanity in his language. An Indian is noted for his loyalty to the British Crown. Let them hand down their noble and good qualities to their children. But in the matter of procuring a livelihood let us, for their own good, induce them to lay aside the bow and fish-spear, and, in lieu thereof, put their hand to the plough, or make them wield the tool of the mechanic. We hope to see the day, if it please God, when these Indian Homes shall be three times their size, and the number of the pupils deriving benefit from them shall be three-fold increased. The tailor to whom one boy was apprenticed writes as follows:-- "DEAR SIR,--Aubee has all the necessary qualifications to make a good tailor. I think it would be better for him to come every week, instead of every second week, as at present. Yours &c., W. VAUGHAN." _From the Printer_. "The Indian boys who are employed in the Shingwauk Printing Office--in charge of which I have been for the past eighteen months--have, during that time, made very considerable progress. I have found them, as a rule, apt, obedient, steady and clever, and do not doubt, that in course of time and with proper education, they will make excellent printers. S. REID." _From the Tinsmith_. "DEAR SIR,--I think that you have not a boy in the Home better deserving of praise than Pedahjewun. He will make a first-class tinsmith. He has been with me two years and I never knew him to tell me a lie in that time. H. P. PIM." _From the Carpenter and Builder_. "SIR,--From the time Jackson has been under me, he has learnt the trade fast. He is fond of it, is steady and obliging, and I think will make a good mechanic as joiner and carpenter. Yours truly, E. MURTON (Builder)." CHAPTER XLI. A POW-WOW AT GARDEN RIVER. The following is an account of a visit paid by the Bishop and Mrs. Sullivan to Garden River, where Indian names were conferred on them:-- Garden River was reached about 6 p.m. on Saturday, August 29th, the tent pitched, the vacant Mission house occupied, fires lighted, water brought from the river, and other preparations made for the night, the boys of the party voting, with true tramp-like instinct, that they preferred slumbering in the new mown hay in the barn. After tea under the shade of a spreading pine tree, the Bishop and myself spent some time visiting the Indian houses, among them that of an old man of eighty, who had been blind for four years, but bore his affliction, augmented as it was by other trials, with an uncomplaining submission. Another dwelling visited was that of Chief Buhkwujjenene, already known to our readers. On the table his Indian Testament lay open, his constant study, in which, he told the Bishop, he had taught himself to read his own tongue. At 9 p.m. all assembled in the little church, and there, by the light of "a lantern dimly burning," and amid a holy calm, unbroken save by the rustling of the leaves at the open windows, joined in the evening sacrifice of prayer and praise. Soon after breakfast next morning the tinkling of the church bell was heard, and groups of two or three were seen assembling, and passing into the sacred building, with a quiet, silent reverence. The service, with the exception of the Old Testament lesson and the sermon, which was interpreted, was in Ojebway, and old and young listened attentively as the preacher told the story of the Brazen Serpent, and pointed his hearers to Him who said of Himself, "I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men unto Me." At 3 p.m. the bell was rung, the flags hoisted, and the whole party ushered into the school-house to find the platform furnished with chairs, the centre one carefully reserved for the "Kechemakadawekoonuhya" (the big black coat). By the time the feast was over the sun was setting. Now the table was put aside, benches arranged, and the signal for the pow-wow, given on the drum, when all who could find space to sit or stand crowded in. A few minutes' silence followed, and then Chief Buhkwujjenene rose, advanced to the platform, shook hands (an invariable preliminary to an Indian speech), and said, "Chief's, principal men, brothers, and sisters, we were told many days ago that our new Bishop was coming among us, and we decided to have a cup of tea with him. Now he has come, and has eaten and drank with us. Now (turning to the Bishop) we are glad that you have come, and that you have told us the Gospel." His way being paved by this brief introduction, the Bishop addressed them, saying that he thanked them for the feast they had prepared, and the very kind welcome they had given to him. When Jesus Christ was on earth, Matthew the publican and others made feasts for Him, and as the Indians had received him in Christ's name and for His sake, therefore they would receive the fulfilment of the promise which Christ gave, that "whosoever gave to a disciple a cup of cold water only should in no wise lose his reward." At his last visit he told them he would go to school and learn their language, and he had done this, and as he had a good teacher, Mr. Wilson, he had been able to read part of their beautiful services yesterday in their own tongue; it was a hard language to learn, but he would persevere until he was able to preach to them. He had some good news to tell them about their church. A gentleman in Toronto, whom he had never seen, had sent him 50 dollars in aid of it (great clapping of hands), and more, he was sure, was on the way, for God never failed to hear and help His children who prayed to Him in their trouble and difficulty. He had heard that they were going to give him a new name. He had had two names already, first Edward Sullivan, then Edward Algoma, and he hoped that the new one would be a good one, and that he would not be ashamed to tell it his friends and theirs in Montreal and Toronto. After this the other old Chief, a fine looking specimen of the aboriginal race, rose from his seat, and, divesting himself of his loose scarlet jacket, put on a fantastic head-dress composed of eagle feathers, then threw round his neck a blue ribbon with a heavy silver medal suspended from either end (one presented to his father by George III, and the other to himself by the Prince of Wales). Then fastening on his right wrist an armlet made of polecat skins, he stepped on to the platform, and apologizing, for the lack of a portion of his costume, on account of the excessive heat, proceeded in highly poetic strains, and with a fervid, impassioned manner, to which no description could do justice, to picture the glory of the rising sun, how at first the night is dark, very dark, and the darkness clears a little, and the light looks through, and the great sun appears, creeping up slowly higher and higher, from east to west, till the whole heaven is filled with his brightness, making all things glad--"so," said the old Chief, turning suddenly to the Bishop, "has your teaching been, and our hearts are glad because of the new light, and henceforth you will be called 'Tabahsega,' _i.e._, 'spreading or radiant light.'" Here he extended his hand, and said, "Boozhoo (_i.e._, good day) Tabahsega," a salutation which was re-echoed by the others, who, coming forward in succession, repeated the ceremony of hand-shaking. The old Chief then beckoned to the Bishop's wife to come forward, and going back to his former figure, to bring out the idea of the soft roseate hue that overspreads the sky before the rising of the sun, announced that her name should be "Misquahbenooqua" (_i.e._, rosy dawn), at which there was great applause, and a number of squaws came forward and confirmed the title given by going through the hand-shaking process again. The evening was by this time far advanced, but there still remained a part of the ceremony which could not possibly be dispensed with. This was the smoking of the pipe of peace. The pipe was no ordinary one, but about four feet long, the bowl carved of stone, and the stem of wood in spiral form, dyed with alternate lines of red and blue. With this in his hand, duly prepared and lit, old Shingwauk stood in the centre of the group, and, first taking a few preliminary whiffs (for the pipe to go out before all have smoked is unlucky), presented it to each, of the guests, beginning with the Bishop, who performed his part as well as could be expected of one who was a stranger to the art, the others following his example, so far, at least in some cases, as putting the pipe to their lips. This being the last scene in this interesting drama, the Bishop addressed a few parting words of counsel to those present, through the interpreter, expressing the hope that, as they had feasted together very happily on earth, they might be permitted, in God's mercy, to sit down together at the marriage supper of the Lamb. He then concluded with a collect and the benediction in Indian, after which our kind and hospitable entertainers dispersed to their homes, and the visitors returned by boat to Sault Ste. Marie. CHAPTER XLII. GLAD TIDINGS FROM NEEPIGON. I shall now close this little volume with a letter from, the Rev. R. Renison, who is labouring most devotedly among the poor Neepigon Indians. It is dated February, 1884, and it speaks for itself. "On Monday, Feb. 12th, Oshkahpukeda and myself left Ningwinnenang to visit a family of pagan Indians about forty miles from this Mission. Our blankets, overcoats, provisions, and cooking utensils, made a pack of forty pound weight for each to carry; over lakes, through the dense bush, up steep hills which were sometimes almost insurmountable. It was one of the most beautiful winter mornings that I have ever yet experienced. The sun shone brightly, and it was just cold enough to render a brisk walk enjoyable. At 11 a.m. we reached a wigwam at the north end of McIntyre Bay, which was occupied by Mishael Obeseekun, their wives and children, who had left the Mission some time previous for the purpose of snaring rabbits, which at present is the chief support of the Indians. Here we received a hearty welcome; a large pot of rabbits was quickly cooked--we enjoyed them thoroughly; and all the little children declared that they were glad to see their Missionary. Mishael's wife having noticed that my moccasin was badly torn, took her needle and thread and had it fixed 'in less than no time.' Before leaving I took the Indian New Testament and read the following verse:--'This is a faithful saying and worthy of all acceptation that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief.' I find it a good plan, when reading to the Indians, to take one text at a time. They differ very much from the white people in this respect, as you may read it over and over twenty times and yet they will be glad to hear it again. The result of this plan is, that many of the Indians at our Mission have committed to memory several verses. I was much astonished as well as delighted a few days ago to find that Obeseekun could repeat accurately ten texts. Well, at 2 p.m. we reached 'Kookookuhooseebee' (owl river). We followed this river for about half an hour, and then entered the bush. We walked till sun down, and then camped near the shore of Black Sturgeon Lake. We had a splendid fire, as there was plenty of dry pine close at hand. We ate heartily, but slept little, as the night was very cold. We had breakfast by moonlight, and then recommenced our journey. Our route lay through the middle of the lake, which is about ten miles long. As we again entered the bush at its north end, to our great astonishment we met the very pagan Indian whom we were so anxious to see. He had a small tebaugan drawn by one dog--was on his way to the 'Neepigon Post' for pork and flour. His wife and children were very hungry, rabbits and fish this winter being so scarce that several of the Indians are obliged to abandon their usual hunting grounds. 'Kebuk,' for this is the pagan's name, was very glad to see us, a large fire was quickly made, snow melted, pork fried, and soon the Missionary, guide, and pagan were enjoying a hearty meal. About two years ago, and upon two different occasions, I had visited this pagan family. I tried to preach Christ to them the Saviour of all men. I must confess that after twice travelling a distance of eighty miles through the dense bush, that I was a little discouraged and depressed in spirits to find that the invitation was refused, and full and free salvation through the precious blood of Jesus rejected. And now for the third time the Missionary and pagan meet face to face. He knows full well the errand on which I have come. As we sat for a few minutes in silence around the blazing fire I prayed to my Father in secret to enlighten his understanding, and give him grace to receive the Gospel message and enter the fold of the Good Shepherd. 'Owh suh kadabwayandung kuhya kabaptizooind tahbemahjeah, owh duhyabwendusig tahnahneboomah.' ('He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved, and he that believeth not shall be condemned.') The once proud pagan now kneels in prayer; he receives Christ rejoicingly; accepts, this time, the Gospel invitation. 'Proceed on your journey,' said he, 'go to my wigwam, baptize all my children, and next spring, when navigation opens, I will go to the Mission and myself and wife will be baptized in the church at Ningwinnenang. This is my wish, I will build a house on the Mission ground and am very anxious that my children should be properly instructed.' After bidding us a friendly 'boozhoo,' he proceeded on his journey to the Neepigon Post, and we hastened toward the wigwam from which we were still ten miles distant. At about 3 p.m. we reached Muskrat Lake, which is four miles long. On the opposite shore we saw the pagan's daughter fishing for pike with hook and line under the ice. When she first noticed us approaching, she quickly disappeared in the bush, entered the wigwam and apprized them of our coming. When we arrived we found eight pagans, including two old women of 80 and 75 years old, one girl and four children. After many friendly 'boozhoos' and hearty expressions of welcome, the Missionary and guide seated on shingoob branches rested their wearied limbs beside a blazing fire, whilst the two old women smoking their pipes and preparing rabbits and pike for dinner, were heard to say 'pooch tah pukedawaug pooch tah-kadishkhusk-enawug' (they must be very hungry and must have a hearty meal). After dinner the Indian New Testament was introduced, the simple Gospel expounded and some of Christ's beautiful invitations read. I tried to prove to them from God's own Word that we all need a Saviour, for that all have sinned and come short of the glory of God; that there is one way only by which we can be saved, namely, by entering the fold of the good Shepherd; that Jesus Christ himself is the door, 'He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved.' It appears that nearly two months ago these nine pagans had unanimously agreed to become Christians and join our mission at Ningwinnenang. The seed sown two years ago was not sown in vain, the bread cast upon the waters is found after many days, God's word will not return to Him void. One of the old women, 80 years old, with only one eye, determines to return with the Missionary, a distance of 40 miles through the dense bush and over frozen lakes, to be instructed at the Mission and prepared for baptism. The young woman and four children were baptized. The rest of the family, namely an old man of 75, 'Kebuk,' and his wife will (D.V.) be baptized in the spring in our little church, and then we hope to have quite a nice congregation. In conclusion, let me add that poor old Wesqua, who returned with us to the Mission, has not yet recovered from the fatigue of the journey, the last day's travelling in particular for her was very trying. We had to cross an arm of the lake about 15 miles in breadth, and the piercing north wind was too much for an old woman of 80, whose entire clothing consisted of an old canvass bag rent in two and rolled around her legs for leggings, her skirts of blue calico did not reach much below her knees, and a piece of old blanket thrown over her head and shoulders was all that she had to save her from the sharp wind which blows at intervals across the Neepigon Lake. When she arrived the blood had almost ceased to circulate, her hands were numb, and she was indeed in a pitiable condition. Half a teaspoonful of stimulant in a cup of warm water was all we had to give. She revived, and after a supper of bread and tea was soon herself again. Let me ask some of my Christian friends to whom 'the lines have fallen in pleasant places' to remember the poor Indians at Neepigon. Cast off warm clothing even of an inferior quality, will be thankfully received and gratefully acknowledged; and we trust that those who cannot assist us from a pecuniary point of view will at least remember us in their prayers." THE END. Trancriber's note: The following words (may be mis-spelt) in original text, are retained to get the flavour of the author's language: 
8122	----	LEGENDS OF THE NORTHWEST. By H. L. Gordon _Author of Pauline_. CONTAINING PRELUDE--THE MISSISSIPPI. THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS, A LEGEND OF THE DAKOTAS. WINONA, A LEGEND OF THE DAKOTAS. THE LEGEND OF THE FALLS, A LEGEND OF THE DAKOTAS. THE SEA-GULL, THE OJIBWA LEGEND OF THE PICTURED ROCKS OF LAKE SUPERIOR. MINNETONKA. * * * * * PREFACE. I have for several years devoted many of my leisure hours to the study of the language, history, traditions, customs and superstitions of the Dakotas. These Indians are now commonly called the "Sioux"--a name given them by the early French traders and _voyageurs_. "Dakota" signifies _alliance_ or _confederation_. Many separate bands, all having a common origin and speaking a common tongue, were united under this name. See "_Tah-Koo Wah-Kan_," or "_The Gospel Among the Dakotas_," by Stephen R. Riggs, pp. 1 to 6 inc. They were, but yesterday, the occupants and owners of the fair forests and fertile prairies of Minnesota--a brave, hospitable and generous people,--barbarians, indeed, but noble in their barbarism. They may be fitly called the Iroquois of the West. In form and features, in language and traditions, they are distinct from all other Indian tribes. When first visited by white men, and for many years afterwards, the Falls of St. Anthony (by them called the Ha-Ha) was the center of their country. They cultivated tobacco, and hunted the elk, the beaver and the bison. They were open-hearted, truthful and brave. In their wars with other tribes they seldom slew women or children, and rarely sacrificed the lives of their prisoners. For many years their chiefs and head men successfully resisted the attempts to introduce spirituous liquors among them. More than a century ago an English trader was killed at Mendota, because he persisted, after repeated warnings by the chiefs, in dealing out _mini-wakan_ (Devil-water) to the Dakota braves. With open arms and generous hospitality they welcomed the first white men to their land; and were ever faithful in their friendship, till years of wrong and robbery, and want and insult, drove them to desperation and to war. They were barbarians, and their warfare was barbarous, but not more barbarous than the warfare of our Saxon and Celtic ancestors. They were ignorant and superstitious, but their condition closely resembled the condition of our British forefathers at the beginning of the Christian era. Macaulay says of Britain, "Her inhabitants, when first they became known to the Tyrian mariners, were little superior to the natives of the Sandwich Islands." And again, "While the German princes who reigned at Paris, Toledo, Arles and Ravenna listened with reverence to the instructions of Bishops, adored the relics of martyrs, and took part eagerly in disputes touching the Nicene theology, the rulers of Wessex and Mercia were still performing savage rites in the temples of Thor and Woden." The day of the Dakotas is done. The degenerate remnants of that once powerful and warlike people still linger around the forts and agencies of the Northwest, or chase the caribou and the bison on the banks of the Sascatchewan, but the Dakotas of old are no more. The brilliant defeat of Custer, by Sitting Bull and his braves, was their last grand rally against the resistless march of the sons of the Saxons and the Celts. The plow-shares of a superior race are fast leveling the sacred mounds of their dead. But yesterday, the shores of our lakes, and our rivers, were dotted with their tepees. Their light canoes glided over our waters, and their hunters chased the deer and the buffalo on the sites of our cities. To-day, they are not. Let us do justice to their memory, for there was much that was noble in their natures. In the following Dakota Legends I have endeavored to faithfully represent many of the customs and superstitions, and some of the traditions, of that people. I have taken very little "poetic license" with their traditions; none, whatever, with their customs and superstitions. In my studies for these Legends I have been greatly aided by Rev. S. R. Riggs, author of the Grammar and Dictionary of the Dakota language, "Tah-Koo Wah-Kan," &c., and for many years a missionary among the Dakotas. He has patiently answered my numerous inquiries and given me valuable information. I am also indebted to Gen. H. H. Sibley, one of the earliest American traders among them, and to Rev. S. W. Pond, of Shakopee, one of the first Protestant missionaries to these people, and himself the author of poetical versions of some of their principal legends; to Mrs. Eastman's "Dacotah." and last, but not least, to the Rev. E. D. Neill, whose admirable "History of Minnesota" so fully and faithfully presents almost all that is known of the history, traditions, customs, manners and superstitions of the Dakotas. In _Winona_ I have "tried my hand" on Hexameter verse. With what success, I leave to those who are better able to judge than I. If I have failed, I have but added another failure to the numerous vain attempts to naturalize Hexameter verse in the English language. The Earl of Derby, in the preface to his translation of the Iliad, calls it "That pestilent heresy of the so-called English Hexameter; a metre wholly repugnant to the genius of our language; which can only be pressed into the service by a violation of every rule of prosody." Lord Kames, in his "Elements of Criticism." says, "Many attempts have been made to introduce Hexameter verse into the living languages, but without success. The English language, I am inclined to think, is not susceptible of this melody, and my reasons are these: First, the polysyllables in Latin and Greek are finely diversified by long and short syllables, a circumstance that qualifies them for the melody of Hexameter verse: ours are extremely ill qualified for that service, because they super-abound in short syllables. Secondly, the bulk of our monosyllables are arbitrary with regard to length, which is an unlucky circumstance in Hexameter. * * * In Latin and Greek Hexameter invariable sounds direct and ascertain the melody. English Hexameter would be destitute of melody, unless by artful pronunciation; because of necessity the bulk of its sounds must be arbitrary. The pronunciation is easy in a simple movement of alternate long and short syllables; but would be perplexing and unpleasant in the diversified movement of Hexameter verse." Beautiful as is the _Evangeline_ of Longfellow, his Hexameter lines are sometimes hard to scan, and often grate harshly on the ear. He is frequently forced to divide a word by the central or pivotal pause of the line, and sometimes to make a pause in the sense where the rhythm forbids it. Take for example some of the opening lines of _Evangeline_: "This is the forest prime|val. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in gar|ments green, indistinct in the twilight. Loud from its rocky cav|erns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents discon|solate answers the wail of the forest. Lay in the fruitful val|ley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward." Again, in order to comply with the Greek and Latin rule of beginning each line with a _long_ syllable, he is compelled to emphasize words contrary to the sense. Examples: _In_ the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas _Some_what apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas. _But_ a celestial bright|ness--a more etherial beauty. _And_ the retreating sun the sign of the scorpion enters. _In_-doors, warmed by the wide-|mouthed fireplace idly the farmer, _Four_ times the sun had ris|en and set; and now on the fifth day, "Greek and Latin Hexameter lines, as to time, are all of the same length, being equivalent to the time taken in pronouncing twelve long syllables, or twenty-four short ones. An Hexameter line may consist of seventeen syllables, and when regular and not Spondiac, it never has fewer than thirteen: whence it follows that where the syllables are many, the plurality must be short; where few, the plurality must be long. This line is susceptible of much variety as to the succession of long and short syllables. It is however subject to laws that confine its variety within certain limits. * * * 1st. The line must always commence with a _long_ syllable, and close with two long preceded by two short. 2d. More than two short syllables can never be found together, nor _fewer_ than two. 3d. Two long syllables which have been preceded by two short can not also be followed by two short. These few rules fulfill all the conditions of an Hexameter line with relation to order of arrangement."--_Lord Kames, "Elements of Criticism."_ One who attempts to write English Hexameter, under the Greek and Latin rules, will speedily be made aware that the English language "super-abounds in short syllables." Why then should we rigidly adhere to rules repugnant to the genius of our language, if they can be modified so as to adapt the sonorous Hexameter to the structure of our mother-tongue? Can they be so modified? I have attempted it. I venture to change them as follows: 1st. By beginning each line with a _short_ syllable instead of a long one. And it will be seen that I often begin a line with two short syllables. 2d. By often using one short syllable unaccompanied by another. 3d. I have increased the average number of syllables in the line to better adapt it to our super-abundance of short syllables. 4th. In _Winona_ I have introduced a rhyme at the pivotal pause of the line, not because my Hexameter requires it, but because I think it increases the melody, and more emphatically marks the central pause. I am not quite sure that, in a long poem, the rhyme is not detrimental. That depends greatly, however, upon the skill with which it is handled. Surely the same Hexameter can be written as smoothly and more vigorously without rhyme. Rhyme adds greatly to the labor of composition; it rarely assists, but often hinders, the expression of the sense which the author would convey. At times I have been on the point of abandoning it in despair, but after having been under the hammer and the file, at intervals for the last four years, _Winona_ is at last _done_, if not finished. It will be observed that I have slightly changed the length and the rhythm of the old Hexameter line, but it is still Hexameter, and, I think, improved. I am not afraid of intelligent criticism. I invoke it, and will endeavor to profit by it in the future as in the past. The reception of my _Pauline_ at home and abroad has been so flattering that I have been encouraged to attempt something better. That was my first real effort and full of crudities but if the Legends are received by our best critics as well as _Pauline_ was received I shall be well pleased with my efforts. After much thought I have decided to publish the first edition of my _Legends_ here at home: 1st Because they pertain particularly to the lakes and rivers to the fair forests and fertile fields of our own Minnesota and ought to be appreciated here if anywhere. 2d Because many of our people are competent to judge whether my representations of Dakota customs, life, traditions, and superstitions are correct or not and at the same time the reading public of the North west is as intelligent and discriminating as that of any other portion of our country. If these _Legends_ be appreciated and approved by our own people who are familiar with the scenery described and more or less, with the customs, traditions and superstitions of the Dakotas, and if beyond that these poems shall stand the test of candid criticism I may give them a wider publication. H. L. GORDON. MINNEAPOLIS. June 1, 1881. [Illustration: VIEW OF THE MISSISSIPPI AT FORT SNELLING] PRELUDE. THE MISSISSIPPI. Onward rolls the Royal River, proudly sweeping to the sea, Dark and deep and grand, forever wrapt in myth and mystery. Lo he laughs along the highlands, leaping o'er the granite walls: Lo he sleeps among the islands, where the loon her lover calls. Still like some huge monster winding downward through the prairie plains, Seeking rest but never finding, till the tropic gulf he gains. In his mighty arms he claspeth now an empire broad and grand; In his left hand lo he graspeth leagues of fen and forest land; In his right the mighty mountains, hoary with eternal snow. Where a thousand foaming fountains singing seek the plains below. Fields of corn and feet of cities lo the mighty river laves, Where the Saxon sings his ditties o'er the swarthy warriors' graves. Aye, before the birth, of Moses--ere the Pyramids were piled-- All his banks were red with roses from the sea to nor'lands wild, And from forest, fen and meadows, in the deserts of the north, Elk and bison stalked like shadows, and the tawny tribes came forth; Deeds of death and deeds of daring on his leafy banks were done-- Women loved and men went warring--ere the siege of Troy begun. Where his wayward waters thundered, roaring o'er the rocky walls, Dusky hunters sat and wondered, listening to the spirits' calls. "Ha-ha!" [76] cried the warrior greeting from afar the cataract's roar; "Ha-ha!" rolled the answer, beating down the rock-ribbed leagues of shore. Now, alas, the bow and quiver and the dusky braves have fled, And the sullen, shackled river drives the droning mills instead. Where the war whoop rose, and, after, women wailed their warriors slain, List the Saxon's silvery laughter, and his humming hives of gain. Swiftly sped the tawny runner o'er the pathless prairies then, Now the iron-reindeer sooner carries weal or woe to men. On thy bosom, Royal River, silent sped the birch canoe, Bearing brave with bow and quiver, on his way to war or woo; Now with flaunting flags and streamers--mighty monsters of the deep-- Lo the puffing, panting steamers, through thy foaming waters sweep; And behold the grain-fields golden, where the bison grazed of eld; See the fanes of forests olden by the ruthless Saxon felled,-- Pluméd pines that spread their shadows ere Columbus spread his sails. Firs that fringed the mossy meadows ere the Mayflower braved the gales, Iron oaks that nourished bruin while the Vikings roamed the main, Crashing fall in broken ruin for the greedy marts of gain. Still forever and forever rolls the restless river on, Slumbering oft but ceasing never, while the circling centuries run. In his palm the lakelet lingers, in his hair the brooklets hide, Grasped within his thousand fingers lies a continent fair and wide,-- Yea, a mighty empire swarming with its millions like the bees, Delving, drudging, striving, storming, all their lives, for golden ease. Still, methinks, the dusky shadows of the days that are no more Stalk around the lakes and meadows, haunting oft the wonted shore,-- Hunters from the land of spirits seek the bison and the deer, Where the Saxon now inherits golden field and silver mere; And beside the mound where burried lies the dark-eyed maid he loves, Some tall warrior, wan and wearied, in the misty moonlight moves. See--he stands erect and lingers--stoic still, but loth to go-- Clutching in his tawny fingers feathered shaft and polished bow. Never wail or moan he utters and no tear is on his face, But a warrior's curse he mutters on the crafty Saxon race. O thou dark, mysterious River, speak and tell thy tales to me; Seal not up thy lips forever--veiled in mist and mystery. I will sit and lowly listen at the phantom-haunted falls, Where thy waters foam and glisten o'er the rugged, rocky walls. Till some spirit of the olden, mystic, weird, romantic days Shall emerge and pour her golden tales and legends through my lays. Then again the elk and bison on thy grassy banks shall feed, And along the low horizon shall the pluméd hunter speed; Then again on lake and river shall the silent birch canoe Bear the brave with bow and quiver on his way to war or woo: Then the beaver on the meadow shall rebuild his broken wall, And the wolf shall chase his shadow and his mate the panther call. From the prairies and the regions where the pine-plumed forest grows Shall arise the tawny legions with their lances and their bows; And again the shouts of battle shall resound along the plain, Bows shall twang and quivers rattle, women wail their warriors slain. THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS. [1] A LEGEND OF THE DAKOTAS. (In pronouncing Dakota words give "a" the sound of "ah"--"e" the sound of "a"--"i" the sound of "e" and "u" the sound of "oo," sound "ee" as in English. The numerals, 1, 2, etc. refer to explanatory notes in the appendix.) THE GAME OF BALL. [2] Clear was the sky as a silver shield; The bright sun blazed on the frozen field. On icebound river and white robed prairie The diamonds gleamed in the flame of noon; But cold and keen were the breezes airy Wa-zi-ya [3] blew from his icy throne. On the solid ice of the silent river The bounds are marked, and a splendid prize, A robe of black fox lined with beaver-- Is hung in view of the eager eyes; And fifty merry Dakota maidens, The fairest moulded of woman kind, Are gathered in groups on the level ice. They look on the robe and its beauty gladdens, And maddens their hearts for the splendid prize. Lo the rounded ankles and raven hair That floats at will on the wanton wind, And the round brown arms to the breezes bare, And breasts like the mounds where the waters meet, [4] And feet as fleet as the red deer's feet, And faces that glow like the full, round moon When she laughs in the luminous skies of June. The leaders are chosen and swiftly divide The opposing parties on either side. Wiwâstè [5] is chief of a nimble band. The star-eyed daughter of Little Crow; [6] And the leader chosen to hold command Of the band adverse is a haughty foe-- The dusky, impetuous Hârpstinà, [7] The queenly cousin of Wapasa. [8] Kapóza's chief and his tawny hunters Are gathered to witness the queenly game. The ball is thrown and a bat encounters, And away it flies with a loud acclaim. Swift are the maidens that follow after, And swiftly it flies for the farther bound: And long and loud are the peals of laughter, As some fair runner is flung to ground; While backward and forward, and to and fro, The maidens contend on the trampled snow. With loud "Ihó!--Itó!--Ihó!" [9] And waving the beautiful prize anon, The dusky warriors cheer them on. And often the limits are almost passed, As the swift ball flies and returns. At last It leaps the line at a single bound From the fair Wiwâstè's sturdy stroke, Like a fawn that flies from the baying hound. Wild were the shouts, and they rolled and broke On the beetling bluffs and the hills profound, An echoing, jubilant sea of sound. Wakâwa, the chief, and the loud acclaim Announced the end of the well-fought game, And the fair Wiwâstè was victor crowned. Dark was the visage of Hârpstinà When the robe was laid at her rival's feet, And merry maidens and warriors saw Her flashing eyes and her look of hate, As she turned to Wakâwa, the chief, and said:-- "The game was mine were it fairly played. I was stunned by a blow on my bended head, As I snatched the ball from slippery ground Not half a fling from Wiwâstè's bound. And the cheat--behold her! for there she stands With the prize that is mine in her treacherous hands. The fawn may fly, but the wolf is fleet; The fox creeps sly on Magâ's [10] retreat; And a woman's revenge--it is swift and sweet." She turned to her lodge, but a roar of laughter And merry mockery followed after. Little they heeded the words she said, Little they cared for her haughty tread, For maidens and warriors and chieftain knew That her lips were false and her charge untrue. Wiwâstè, the fairest Dakota maiden, The sweet-faced daughter of Little Crow, To her teepee [11] turned with her trophy laden-- The black robe trailing the virgin snow. Beloved was she by her princely father, Beloved was she by the young and old, By merry maidens and many a mother, And many a warrior bronzed and bold. For her face was as fair as a beautiful dream, And her voice like the song of the mountain stream; And her eyes like the stars when they glow and gleam. Through the somber pines of the nor'land wold, When the winds of winter are keen and cold. Mah-pí-ya Dú-ta [12] the tall Red Cloud, A hunter swift and a warrior proud, With many a scar and many a feather, Was a suitor bold and a lover fond. Long had he courted Wiwâstè's father, Long had he sued for the maiden's hand. Aye, brave and proud was the tall Red Cloud, A peerless son of a giant race, And the eyes of the panther were set in his face. He strode like a stag, and he stood like a pine: Ten feathers he wore of the great Wanmdeè; [13] With crimsoned quills of the porcupine His leggins were worked to his brawny knee. The bow he bent was a giant's bow; The swift red elk could he overtake, And the necklace that girdled his brawny neck Was the polished claws of the great Mató [14] He grappled and slew in the northern snow. Wiwâstè looked on the warrior tall; She saw he was brawny and brave and great, But the eyes of the panther she could but hate, And a brave Hóhé [15] loved she better than all. Loved was Mahpíya by Hârpstinà, But the warrior she never could charm or draw; And bitter indeed was her secret hate For the maiden she reckoned so fortunate. HEYÓKA WACÍPEE [16]--THE GIANT'S DANCE. The night-sun [17] sails in his gold canoe, The spirits [18] walk in the realms of air With their glowing faces and flaming hair, And the shrill, chill winds o'er the prairies blow. In the Tee [19] of the Council the Virgins light The Virgin-fire [20] for the feast to-night; For the Sons of Heyóka will celebrate The sacred dance to the giant great. The kettle boils on the blazing fire, And the flesh is done to the chief's desire. With his stoic face to sacred East, [21] He takes his seat at the Giant's Feast. For the feast of Heyóka [22] the braves are dressed With crowns from the bark of the white-birch trees, And new skin leggins that reach the knees; With robes of the bison and swarthy bear, And eagle-plumes in their coal-black hair, And marvelous rings in their tawny ears, Which were pierced with the points of their shining spears. To honor Heyóka, Wakâwa lifts His fuming pipe from the Red-stone Quarry. [23] The warriors follow. The white cloud drifts From the Council-lodge to the welkin starry, Like a fog at morn on the fir-clad hill, When the meadows are damp and the winds are still. They dance to the tune of their wild "Ha-ha!" A warrior's shout and a raven's caw-- Circling the pot and the blaming fire To the tom-tom's bray and the rude bassoon; Round and round to their heart's desire, And ever the same wild chant and tune-- A warrior's shout and a raven's caw-- "Ha-ha,--ha-ha,--ha-ha,--ha!" They crouch, they leap, and their burning eyes Flash fierce in the light of the flaming fire, As fiercer and fiercer and higher and higher The rude, wild notes of their chant arise. They cease, they sit, and the curling smoke Ascends again from their polished pipes, And upward curls from their swarthy lips To the God whose favor their hearts invoke. Then tall Wakâwa arose and said: "Brave warriors, listen, and give due heed. Great is Heyóka, the magical god; He can walk on the air; he can float on the flood. He's a worker of magic and wonderful wise; He cries when he laughs and he laughs when he cries; He sweats when he's cold, and he shivers when hot, And the water is cold in his boiling pot. He hides in the earth and he walks in disguise, But he loves the brave and their sacrifice. We are sons of Heyóka. The Giant commands In the boiling water to thrust our hands; And the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire Heyóka will crown with his hearts desire." They thrust their hands in the boiling pot; They swallow the bison meat steaming hot, Not a wince on their stoical faces bold. For the meat and the water, they say, are cold, And great is Heyóka and wonderful wise; He floats on the flood and he walks in the skies, And ever appears in a strange disguise; But he loves the brave and their sacrifice; And the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire Heyóka will crown with his heart's desire. Proud was the chief of his warriors proud, The sinewy sons of the Giant's race; But the bravest of all was the tall Red Cloud; The eyes of the panther were set in his face; He strode like a stag and he stood like a pine; Ten feathers he wore at the great Wanmdeé; [13] With crimsoned quills of the porcupine His leggins were worked to his brawny knee. Blood-red were the stripes on his swarthy cheek, And the necklace that girdled his brawny neck Was the polished claws of the great Mató [14] He grappled and slew in the northern snow. Proud Red Cloud turned to the braves and said, As he shook the plumes on his haughty head: "Ho! the warrior that scorneth the foe and fire Heyóka will crown with his heart's desire!" He snatched from the embers a red-hot brand, And held it aloft in his naked hand. He stood like a statue in bronze or stone,-- Not a muscle moved, and the braves looked on. He turned to the chieftain,--"I scorn the fire,-- Ten feathers I wear of the great Wanmdeé; Then grant me, Wakâwa, my heart's desire; Let the sunlight shine in my lonely tee. [19] I laugh at red death and I laugh at red fire; Brave Red Cloud is only afraid of fear; But Wiwâstè is fair to his heart and dear; Then grant him, Wakâwa, his heart's desire." The warriors applauded with loud "Ho! Ho!" [24] And he flung the brand to the drifting snow. Three times Wakâwa puffed forth the smoke From his silent lips; then he slowly spoke: "Mâhpíya is strong as the stout-armed oak That stands on the bluff by the windy plain, And laughs at the roar of the hurricane. He has slain the foe and the great Mató With his hissing arrow and deadly stroke. My heart is swift but my tongue is slow. Let the warrior come to my lodge and smoke; He may bring the gifts; [25] but the timid doe May fly from the hunter and say him no." Wiwâstè sat late in the lodge alone, Her dark eyes bent on the glowing fire. She heard not the wild winds shrill and moan; She heard not the tall elms toss and groan; Her face was lit like the harvest moon; For her thoughts flew far to her heart's desire. Far away in the land of the Hóhé [15] dwelt The warrior she held in her secret heart; But little he dreamed of the pain she felt, For she hid her love with a maiden's art. Not a tear she shed, not a word she said, When the fair young chief from the lodge departed; But she sat on the mound when the day was dead, And gazed at the full moon mellow hearted. Fair was the chief as the morning-star; His eyes were mild and his words were low, But his heart was stouter than lance or bow; And her young heart flew to her love afar O'er his trail long covered with drifted snow. But she heard a warrior's stealthy tread, And the tall Wakâwa appeared, and said-- "Is Wiwâstè afraid of the spirit dread That fires the sky in the fatal north? [26] Behold the mysterious lights. Come forth Some evil threatens,--some danger nears, For the skies are pierced with the burning spears." The warriors rally beneath the moon; They shoot their shafts at the evil spirit. The spirit is slain and the flame is gone, And his blood lies red on the snow fields near it. But again from the dead will the spirit rise, And flash his spears in the northern skies. Then the chief and the queenly Wiwâstè stood Alone in the moon-lit solitude, And she was silent and he was grave. "And fears not my daughter the evil spirit? The strongest warriors and bravest fear it The burning spears are an evil omen; They threaten the wrath of a wicked woman, Or a treacherous foe; but my warriors brave, When danger nears, or the foe appears, Are a cloud of arrows,--a grove of spears." "My Father," she said, and her words were low, "Why should I fear? for I soon will go To the broad, blue lodge in the Spirit land, Where my dark eyed mother went long ago, And my dear twin sisters walk hand in hand. My Father, listen,--my words are true," And sad was her voice as the whippowil When she mourns her mate by the moon-lit rill, "Wiwâstè lingers alone with you, The rest are sleeping on yonder hill,-- Save one--and he an undutiful son,-- And you, my Father, will sit alone When Sisóka [27] sings and the snow is gone. I sat, when the maple leaves were red, By the foaming falls of the haunted river; The night sun was walking above my head, And the arrows shone in his burnished quiver; And the winds were hushed and the hour was dread With the walking ghosts of the silent dead. I heard the voice of the Water-Fairy; [28] I saw her form in the moon-lit mist, As she sat on a stone with her burden weary, By the foaming eddies of amethyst. And robed in her mantle of mist the sprite Her low wail poured on the silent night. Then the spirit spake, and the floods were still-- They hushed and listened to what she said, And hushed was the plaint of the whippowil In the silver-birches above her head: 'Wiwâstè,--the prairies are green and fair, When the robin sings and the whippowil; But the land of the Spirits is fairer still, For the winds of winter blow never there; And forever the songs of the whippowils And the robins are heard on the leafy hills. Thy mother looks from her lodge above,-- Her fair face shines in the sky afar, And the eyes of thy sisters are bright with love, As they peep from the tee of the mother-star. To her happy lodge in the spirit-land She beckons Wiwâstè with shining hand.' "My Father,--my Father, her words were true; And the death of Wiwâstè will rest on you. You have pledged me as wife to the tall Red Cloud; You will take the gifts of the warrior proud; But I, Wakâwa,--I answer--never! I will stain your knife in my heart's red blood, I will plunge and sink in the sullen river, Ere I will be wife to the fierce Red Cloud!" "Wiwâstè," he said, and his voice was low, "Let it be as you will, for Wakâwa's tongue Has spoken no promise;--his lips are slow, And the love of a father is deep and strong. Be happy, Micúnksee [29], the flames are gone,-- They flash no more in the Northern sky. See the smile on the face of the watching moon; No more will the fatal red arrows fly; For the singing shafts of my warriors sped To the bad spirit's bosom and laid him dead, And his blood on the snow of the North lies red. Go,--sleep in the robe that you won to-day, And dream of your hunter--the brave Chaskè." Light was her heart as she turned away; It sang like the lark in the skies of May. The round moon laughed, but a lone red star, [30] As she turned to the teepee and entered in, Fell flashing and swift in the sky afar, Like the polished point of a javelin. Nor chief nor daughter the shadow saw Of the crouching listener--Hârpstinà. Wiwâstè, wrapped in her robe and sleep Heard not the storm-sprites wail and weep, As they rode on the winds in the frosty air; But she heard the voice of her hunter fair; For a shadowy spirit with fairy fingers The curtains drew from the land of dreams; And lo in her teepee her lover lingers; The light of love in his dark eye beams, And his voice is the music of mountain streams. And then with her round, brown arms she pressed His phantom form to her throbbing breast, And whispered the name, in her happy sleep, Of her Hóhé hunter so fair and far. And then she saw in her dreams the deep Where the spirit wailed, and a falling star; Then stealthily crouching under the trees, By the light of the moon, the Kan-ó-ti-dan, [31] The little, wizened, mysterious man, With his long locks tossed by the moaning breeze. Then a flap of wings, like a thunder-bird, [32] And a wailing spirit the sleeper heard; And lo, through the mists of the moon, she saw The hateful visage of Hârpstinà. But waking she murmured--"And what are these-- The flap of wings and the falling star, The wailing spirit that's never at ease, The little man crouching under the trees, And the hateful visage of Hârpstinà? My dreams are like feathers that float on the breeze, And none can tell what the omens are-- Save the beautiful dream of my love afar In the happy land of the tall Hóhé [15]-- My beautiful hunter--my brave Chaskè." "Ta-tânka! Ta-tânka!" [33] the hunters cried, With a joyous shout at the break of dawn; And darkly lined on the white hill-side, A herd of bison went marching on Through the drifted snow like a caravan. Swift to their ponies the hunters sped, And dashed away on the hurried chase. The wild steeds scented the game ahead, And sprang like hounds to the eager race. But the brawny bulls in the swarthy van Turned their polished horns to the charging foes, And reckless rider and fleet foot-man Were held at bay in the drifted snows, While the bellowing herd o'er the hill-tops ran, Like the frightened beasts of a caravan On the Sahara's sands when the simoon blows. Sharp were the twangs of the hunters' bows, And swift and humming the arrows sped, Till ten huge bulls on the bloody snows Lay pierced with arrows and dumb and dead. But the chief with the flankers had gained the rear, And flew on the trail of the flying herd. The shouts of the riders rang loud and clear, As their frothing steeds to the chase they spurred. And now like the roar of an avalanche Rolls the sullen wrath of the maddened bulls. They charge on the riders and runners stanch, And a dying steed in the snow-drift rolls, While the rider, flung to the frozen ground Escapes the horns by a panther's bound. But the raging monsters are held at bay, While the flankers dash on the swarthy rout. With lance and arrow they slay and slay; And the welkin rings to the gladsome shout-- To the loud Inâs and the wild Ihós, [34]-- And dark and dead, on the bloody snows, Lie the swarthy heaps of the buffaloes. All snug in the teepee Wiwâstè lay, All wrapped in her robe, at the dawn of day,-- All snug and warm from the wind and snow, While the hunters followed the buffalo. Her dreams and her slumber their wild shouts broke; The chase was afoot when the maid awoke; She heard the twangs of the hunter's bows, And the bellowing bulls and the loud Ihós, And she murmured--"My hunter is far away In the happy land of the tall Hóhé-- My beautiful hunter, my brave Chaskè; But the robins will come and my warrior too, And Wiwâstè will find her a way to woo." And long she lay in a reverie, And dreamed, wide-awake, of her brave Chaskè, Till a trampling of feet on the crispy snow She heard, and the murmur of voices low;-- Then the hunters' greeting--Ihó! Ihó! And behold, in the blaze of the risen day, With the hunters that followed the buffalo,-- Came her beautiful hunter--her brave Chaskè. Far south has he followed the bison-trail With his band of warriors so brave and true. Right glad is Wakâwa his friend to hail, And Wiwâstè will find her a way to woo. Tall and straight as the larch tree stood The manly form of the brave young chief, And fair as the larch in its vernal leaf, When the red fawn bleats in the feathering wood. Mild was his face as the morning skies, And friendship shone in his laughing eyes; But swift were his feet o'er the drifted snow On the trail of the elk or the buffalo; And his heart was stouter than lance or bow, When he heard the whoop of his enemies. Five feathers he wore of the great Wanmdeè, And each for the scalp of a warrior slain, When down on his camp from the northern plain, With their murder cries rode the bloody Cree. [35] But never the stain of an infant slain, Or the blood of a mother that plead in vain, Soiled the honored plumes of the brave Hóhé. A mountain bear to his enemies, To his friends like the red fawn's dappled form; In peace, like the breeze from the summer seas; In war, like the roar of the mountain storm. His fame in the voice of the winds went forth From his hunting grounds in the happy north, And far as the shores of the Great Medè [36] The nations spoke of the brave Chaskè. Dark was the visage of grim Red Cloud, Fierce were the eyes of the warrior proud, When the chief to his lodge led the brave Chaskè, And Wiwâstè smiled on the tall Hóhé. Away he strode with a sullen frown, And alone in his teepee he sat him down. From the gladsome greeting of braves he stole, And wrapped himself in his gloomy soul. But the eagle eyes of the Hârpstinà The clouded face of the warrior saw. Softly she spoke to the sullen brave: "Mah-pí-ya Dúta,--his face is sad. And why is the warrior so glum and grave? For the fair Wiwâstè is gay and glad. She will sit in the teepee the live-long day, And laugh with her lover--the brave Hóhé. Does the tall Red Cloud for the false one sigh? There are fairer maidens than she, and proud Were their hearts to be loved by the brave Red Cloud. And trust not the chief with the smiling eyes; His tongue is swift, but his words are lies; And the proud Mah-pí-ya will surely find That Wakâwa's promise is hollow wind. Last night I stood by his lodge, and lo I heard the voice of the Little Crow; But the fox is sly and his words were low. But I heard her answer her father--"Never! I will stain your knife in my heart's red blood, I will plunge and sink in the sullen river, Ere I will be wife to the fierce Red Cloud!" Then he spake again, and his voice was low, But I heard the answer of Little Crow: "Let it be as you will, for Wakâwa's tongue Has spoken no promise,--his lips are slow, And the love of a father is deep and strong." Mâh-pí-ya Dúta, they scorn your love, But the false chief covets the warrior's gifts. False to his promise the fox will prove, And fickle as snow in Wo-kâ-da-weè, [37] That slips into brooks when the gray cloud lifts, Or the red sun looks through the ragged rifts. Mah-pí-ya Dúta will listen to me There are fairer birds in the bush than she, And the fairest would gladly be Red Cloud's wife. Will the warrior sit like a girl bereft, When fairer and truer than she are left That love Red Cloud as they love their life? Mah-pí-ya Dúta will listen to me I love him well,--I have loved him long: A woman is weak, but a warrior is strong, And a lovelorn brave is a scorn to see. Mah-pí-ya Dúta, O listen to me! Revenge is swift and revenge is strong, And sweet as the hive in the hollow tree. The proud Red Cloud will revenge his wrong Let the brave be patient, it is not long Till the leaves be green on the maple tree, And the Feast of the Virgins is then to be;-- The Feast of the Virgins is then to be!" Proudly she turned from the silent brave, And went her way; but the warrior's eyes-- They flashed with the flame of a sudden fire, Like the lights that gleam in the Sacred Cave, [38] When the black night covers the autumn skies, And the stars from their welkin watch retire. Three nights he tarried--the brave Chaskè; Winged were the hours and they flitted away; On the wings of Wakândee [39] they silently flew, For Wiwâstè had found her a way to woo. Ah, little he cared for the bison-chase; For the red lilies bloomed on the fair maid's face; Ah, little he cared for the winds that blew, For Wiwâstè had found her a way to woo. Brown-bosomed she sat on her fox-robe dark, Her ear to the tales of the brave inclined, Or tripped from the tee like the song of a lark, And gathered her hair from the wanton wind. Ah, little he thought of the leagues of snow He trode on the trail of the buffalo; And little he recked of the hurricanes That swept the snow from the frozen plains And piled the banks of the Bloody River. [40] His bow unstrung and forgotten hung With his beaver hood and his otter quiver; He sat spell-bound by the artless grace Of her star-lit eyes and her moon-lit face. Ah, little he cared for the storms that blew, For Wiwâstè had found her a way to woo. When he spoke with Wakâwa her sidelong eyes Sought the handsome chief in his hunter-guise. Wakâwa marked, and the lilies fair On her round cheeks spread to her raven hair. They feasted on rib of the bison fat, On the tongue of the Ta [41] that the hunters prize, On the savory flesh of the red Hogân, [42] On sweet tipsânna [43] and pemmican, And the dun-brown cakes of the golden maize; And hour after hour the young chief sat, And feasted his soul on the maiden's eyes. The sweeter the moments the swifter they fly; Love takes no account of the fleeting hours; He walks in a dream mid the blooming of flowers, And never awakes till the blossoms die. Ah, lovers are lovers the wide world over-- In the hunter's lodge and the royal palace. Sweet are the lips of his love to the lover,-- Sweet as new wine in a golden chalice, From the Tajo's [44] slopes or the hills beyond; And blindly he sips from his loved one's lips, In lodge or palace the wide world over, The maddening honey of Trebizond. [45] O, what are leagues to the loving hunter, Or the blinding drift of the hurricane, When it raves and roars o'er the frozen plain! He would face the storm,--he would death encounter The darling prize of his heart to gain. But his hunters chafed at the long delay, For the swarthy bison were far away, And the brave young chief from the lodge departed. He promised to come with the robin in May, With the bridal gifts for the bridal day; And the fair Wiwâstè was happy-hearted, For Wakâwa promised the brave Chaskè. Birds of a feather will flock together. The robin sings to his ruddy mate, And the chattering jays, in the winter weather, To prate and gossip will congregate; And the cawing crows on the autumn heather, Like evil omens, will flock together, In extra-session, for high debate; And the lass will slip from a doting mother To hang with her lad on the garden gate. Birds of a feather will flock together,-- 'Tis an adage old,--it is nature's law, And sure as the pole will the needle draw, The fierce Red Cloud with the flaunting feather, Will follow the finger of Hârpstinà. The winter wanes and the south-wind blows From the Summer Islands legendary. The skéskas [46] fly and the melted snows In lakelets lie on the dimpled prairie. The frost-flowers [47] peep from their winter sleep Under the snow-drifts cold and deep. To the April sun and the April showers, In field and forest, the baby flowers Lift their golden faces and azure eyes; And wet with the tears of the winter-fairies, Soon bloom and blossom the emerald prairies, Like the fabled Garden of Paradise. The plum-trees, white with their bloom in May, Their sweet perfume on the vernal breeze Wide strew like the isles of the tropic seas, Where the paroquet chatters the livelong day. But the May-days pass and the brave Chaskè-- O, why does the lover so long delay? Wiwâstè waits in the lonely tee, Has her fair face fled from his memory? For the robin cherups his mate to please, The blue bird pipes in the poplar trees, The meadow lark warbles his jubilees, Shrilling his song in the azure seas, Till the welkin throbs to his melodies; And low is the hum of the humble bees, And the Feast of the Virgins is now to be. THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS. The sun sails high in his azure realms; Beneath the arch of the breezy elms The feast is spread by the murmuring river. With his battle spear and his bow and quiver, And eagle plumes in his ebon hair, The chief Wakâwa himself is there; And round the feast in the Sacred Ring, [48] Sit his weaponed warriors witnessing. Not a morsel of food have the Virgins tasted For three long days ere the holy feast; They sat in their teepee alone and fasted, Their faces turned to the Sacred East. [21] In the polished bowls lies the golden maize And the flesh of fawn on the polished trays. For the Virgins the bloom of the prairies wide-- The blushing pink and the meek blue-bell, The purple plumes of the prairie's pride, [49] The wild, uncultured asphodel, And the beautiful, blue-eyed violet That the Virgins call "Let-me-not-forget," In gay festoons and garlands twine With the cedar sprigs [50] and the wildwood vine. So gaily the Virgins are decked and dressed, And none but a virgin may enter there; And clad is each in a scarlet vest, And a fawn skin frock to the brown calves bare. Wild rosebuds peep from their flowing hair, And a rose half-blown on the budding breast; And bright with the quills of the porcupine The moccasined feet of the maidens shine. Hand in hand round the feast they dance, And sing to the notes of a rude bassoon, And never a pause or a dissonance In the merry dance or the merry tune. Brown-bosomed and fair as the rising moon, When she peeps o'er the hills of the dewy east, Wiwâstè sings at the Virgins Feast; And bright is the light in her luminous eyes; They glow like the stars in the winter skies; And the lilies that bloom in her virgin heart Their golden blush to her cheeks impart-- Her cheeks half hid in her midnight hair. Fair is her form--as the red fawn's fair, And long is the flow of her raven hair; It falls to her knees, and it streams on the breeze Like the path of a storm on the swelling seas. Proud of their rites are the Virgins fair, For none but a Virgin may enter there. 'Tis a custom of old and a sacred thing; Nor rank nor beauty the warriors spare, If a tarnished maiden should enter there. And her that enters the Sacred Ring With a blot that is known or a secret stain The warrior who knows is bound to expose, And lead her forth from the ring again. And the word of the warrior is a sacred by law; For the Virgins' Feast is a sacred thing. Aside with the mothers sat Hârpstinà: She durst not enter the virgins' ring. Round and round to the merry song The maidens dance in their gay attire. While the loud "Ho-Ho's" of the tawny throng Their flying feet and their song inspire. They have finished the song and the sacred dance, And hand in hand to the feast advance-- To the polished bowls of the golden maize, And the sweet fawn meat in the polished trays. Then up from his seat in the silent crowd Rose the frowning, fierce-eyed, tall Red Cloud; Swift was his stride as the panther's spring, When he leaps on the fawn from his cavern lair; Wiwâstè he caught by her flowing hair, And dragged her forth from the Sacred Ring. She turned on the warrior. Her eyes flashed fire; Her proud lips quivered with queenly ire; Her hand to the Spirits she raised and said, And her sun browned cheeks were aflame with red: "I am pure!--I am pure as falling snow! Great Tâku-Skan-Skan [51] will testify! And dares the tall coward to say me no?" But the sullen warrior made no reply. She turned to the chief with her frantic cries: "Wakâwa--my Father; he lies!--he lies! Wiwâstè is pure as the faun unborn; Lead me back to the feast, or Wiwâstè dies!" But the warriors uttered a cry of scorn, And he turned his face from her pleading eyes. Then the sullen warrior, the tall Red Cloud, Looked up and spoke and his voice was loud; But he held his wrath and spoke with care: "Wiwâstè is young, she is proud and fair, But she may not boast of the virgin snows. The Virgins Feast is a Sacred thing: How durst she enter the Virgins ring? The warrior would fain, but he dares not spare; She is tarnished and only the Red Cloud knows." She clutched her hair in her clenched hand: She stood like statue bronzed and grand: Wakân-deè [39] flashed in her fiery eyes; Then, swift as the meteor cleaves the skies-- Nay, swift as the fiery Wakinyan's dart, [32] She snatch the knife from the warriors belt, And plunged it clean to the polished hilt-- With deadly cry--in the villain's heart. Staggering he clutched the air and fell; His life-blood smoked on the trampled sand, And dripped from the knife in the virgin's hand. Then rose his kinsmen's savage yell. Swift as the doe's Wiwâstè's feet Fled away to the forest. The hunters fleet In vain pursue, and in vain they prowl, And lurk in the forest till dawn of day. They hear the hoot of the mottled owl; They hear the were-wolf's [52] winding howl; But the swift Wiwâstè is far away. They found no trace in the forest land, They found no trail in the dew-damp grass, They found no track in the river sand, Where they thought Wiwâstè would surely pass. The braves returned to the troubled chief; In his lodge he sat in his silent grief. "Surely," they said, "she has turned a spirit. No trail she left with her flying feet; No pathway leads to her far retreat. She flew in the air, and her wail--we could hear it, As she upward rose to the shining stars; And we heard on the river, as we stood near it, The falling drops of Wiwâstè's tears." Wakâwa thought of his daughter's words Ere the south-wind came and the piping birds-- "My Father, listen,--my words are true," And sad was her voice as the whippowil When she mourns her mate by the moon-lit rill, "Wiwâstè lingers alone with you; The rest are sleeping on yonder hill-- Save one--and he an undutiful son,-- And you, my Father, will sit alone When Sisóka [53] sings and the snow is gone." His broad breast heaved on his troubled soul, The shadow of grief o'er his visage stole Like a cloud on the face of the setting sun. "She has followed the years that are gone," he said; "The spirits the words of the witch fulfill; For I saw the ghost of my father dead, By the moon's dim light on the misty hill. He shook the plumes on his withered head, And the wind through his pale form whistled shrill. And a low, sad voice on the hill I heard. Like the mournful wail of a widowed bird." Then lo, as he looked from his lodge afar, He saw the glow of the Evening-star; "And yonder," he said, "is Wiwâstè's face; She looks from her lodge on our fading race. Devoured by famine, and fraud, and war, And chased and hounded from woe to woe, As the white wolves follow the buffalo." And he named the planet the _Virgin Star_. [54] "Wakâwa," he muttered, "the guilt is thine! She was pure,--she was pure as the fawn unborn. O, why did I hark to the cry of scorn, Or the words of the lying libertine? Wakâwa, Wakâwa, the guilt is thine! The springs will return with the voice of birds, But the voice of my daughter will come no more. She wakened the woods with her musical words, And the sky-lark, ashamed of his voice, forbore. She called back the years that had passed, and long I heard their voice in her happy song. Her heart was the home of the sunbeam. Bright Poured the stream of her song on the starry night. O, why did the chief of the tall Hóhé His feet from Kapóza [6] so long delay? For his father sat at my father's feast, And he at Wakâwa's--an honored guest. He is dead!--he is slain on the Bloody Plain, By the hand of the treacherous Chippeway; And the face shall I never behold again Of my brave young brother--the chief Chaskè. Death walks like a shadow among my kin; And swift are the feet of the flying years That cover Wakâwa with frost and tears, And leave their tracks on his wrinkled skin. Wakâwa, the voice of the years that are gone Will follow thy feet like the shadow of death, Till the paths of the forest and desert lone Shall forget thy footsteps. O living breath, Whence art thou, and whither so soon to fly? And whence are the years? Shall I overtake Their flying feet in the star-lit sky? From his last long sleep will the warrior wake? Will the morning break in Wakâwa's tomb, As it breaks and glows in the eastern skies? Is it true?--will the spirits of kinsmen come And bid the bones of the brave arise?" "Wakâwa, Wakâwa, for thee the years Are red with blood and bitter with tears. Gone,--brothers, and daughters, and wife,--all gone That are kin to Wakâwa,--but one--but one-- Wakínyan Tanka--undutiful son! And he estranged from his fathers tee, Will never return till the chief shall die. And what cares he for his father's grief? He will smile at my death,--it will make him chief. Woe burns in my bosom. Ho, Warriors,--Ho! Raise the song of red war; for your chief must go To drown his grief in the blood of the foe! I shall fall. Raise my mound on the sacred hill. Let my warriors the wish of their chief fulfill; For my fathers sleep in the sacred ground. The Autumn blasts o'er Wakâwa's mound Shall chase the hair of the thistle's head, And the bare armed oak o'er the silent dead. When the whirling snows from the north descend, Shall wail and moan in the midnight wind. In the famine of winter the wolf shall prowl, And scratch the snow from the heap of stones, And sit in the gathering storm and howl, On the frozen mound, for Wakâwa's bones. But the years that are gone shall return again. As the robin returns and the whippowil When my warriors stand on the sacred hill And remember the deeds of their brave chief slain." Beneath the glow of the Virgin Star They raised the song of the red war dance. At the break of dawn with the bow and lance They followed the chief on the path of war. To the north--to the forests of fir and pine-- Led their stealthy steps on the winding trail, Till they saw the Lake of the Spirit [55] shine Through somber pines of the dusky dale. Then they heard the hoot of the mottled owl; [56] They heard the gray wolf's dismal howl; Then shrill and sudden the war whoop rose From an hundred throats of their swarthy foes, In ambush crouched in the tangled wood. Death shrieked in the twang of their deadly bows, And their hissing arrows drank brave men's blood. From rock, and thicket, and brush, and brakes, Gleamed the burning eyes of the forest snakes. [57] From brake, and thicket, and brush, and stone, The bow string hummed and the arrow hissed, And the lance of a crouching Ojibway shone, Or the scalp-knife gleamed in a swarthy fist. Undaunted the braves of Wakâwa's band Jumped into the thicket with lance and knife, And grappled the Chippewas hand to hand; And foe with foe, in the deadly strife, Lay clutching the scalp of his foe and dead, With a tomahawk sunk in his ghastly head, Or his still heart sheathing a bloody blade. Like a bear in the battle Wakâwa raves, And cheers the hearts of his falling braves. But a panther crouches along his track,-- He springs with a yell on Wakâwa's back! The tall Chief, stabbed to the heart, lies low; But his left hand clutches his deadly foe, And his red right clenches the bloody hilt Of his knife in the heart of the slayer dyed. And thus was the life of Wakâwa spilt, And slain and slayer lay side by side. The unscalped corpse of their honored chief His warriors snatched from the yelling pack, And homeward fled on their forest track With their bloody burden and load of grief. The spirits the words of the brave fulfill,-- Wakâwa sleeps on the sacred hill, And Wakínyan Tânka, his son, is chief. Ah, soon shall the lips of men forget Wakâwa's name, and the mound of stone Will speak of the dead to the winds alone, And the winds will whistle their mock-regret. The speckled cones of the scarlet berries [58] Lie red and ripe in the prairie grass. The Sí-yo [59] clucks on the emerald prairies To her infant brood. From the wild morass, On the sapphire lakelet set within it, Magâ [60] sails forth with her wee ones daily. They ride on the dimpling waters gaily, Like a fleet of yachts and a man of war. The piping plover, the laughing linnet, And the swallow sail in the sunset skies. The whippowil from her cover hies, And trills her song on the amber air. Anon, to her loitering mate she cries "Flip, O Will!--trip, O Will!--skip, O Will!" And her merry mate from afar replies: "Flip I will,--skip I will,--trip I will;" And away on the wings of the wind he flies. And bright from her lodge in the skies afar Peeps the glowing face of the Virgin Star. The fox pups [60] creep from the mother's lair And leap in the light of the rising moon; And loud on the luminous moonlit lake Shrill the bugle notes of the lover loon; And woods and waters and welkin break Into jubilant song,--it is joyful June. But where is Wiwâstè? O where is she-- The Virgin avenged--the queenly queen-- The womanly woman--the heroine? Has she gone to the spirits and can it be That her beautiful face is the Virgin Star Peeping out from the door of her lodge afar, Or upward sailing the silver sea. Star-beaconed and lit like an avenue, In the shining stern of her gold canoe? No tidings came--nor the brave Chaskè: O, why did the lover so long delay? He promised to come with the robins in May, With the bridal gifts for the bridal day; But the fair May mornings have slipped away, And where is the lover--the brave Chaskè? But what of the venomous Hârpstinà-- The serpent that tempted the proud Red Cloud, And kindled revenge in his savage soul? He paid for his crime with his false heart's blood, But his angry spirit has brought her dole; [61] It has entered her breast and her burning head, And she raves and burns on her fevered bed. "He is dead! He is dead!" is her wailing cry. "And the blame is mine,--it was I,--it was I! I hated Wiwâstè, for she was fair, And my brave was caught in her net of hair. I turned his love to a bitter hate; I nourished revenge, and I pricked his pride; Till the Feast of the Virgins I bade him wait. He had his revenge, but he died,--he died! And the blame is mine,--it was I,--it was I! And his spirit burns me, I die,--I die!" Thus, alone in her lodge and her agonies, She wails to the winds of the night, and dies. But where is Wiwâstè? Her swift feet flew To the somber shades of the tangled thicket. She hid in the copse like a wary cricket, And the fleetest hunters in vain pursue. Seeing unseen from her hiding place, She sees them fly on the hurried chase; She sees their fierce eyes glance and dart, As they pass and peer for a track or trace, And she trembles with fear in the copse apart. Lest her nest be betrayed by her throbbing heart. [Illustration] Weary the hours; but the sun at last Went down to his lodge in the west, and fast The wings of the spirits of night were spread O'er the darkling woods and Wiwâstè's head. Then, slyly she slipped from her snug retreat, And guiding her course by Wazíya's star, [62] That shone through the shadowy forms afar, She northward hurried with silent feet; And long ere the sky was aflame in the east, She was leagues from the place of the fatal feast. 'Twas the hoot of the owl that the hunters heard, And the scattering drops of the threat'ning shower, And the far wolf's cry to the moon preferred. Their ears were their fancies,--the scene was weird, And the witches [63] dance at the midnight hour. She leaped the brook and she swam the river; Her course through the forest Wiwâstè wist By the star that gleamed through the glimmering mist That fell from the dim moon's downy quiver. In her heart she spoke to her spirit-mother: "Look down from your teepee, O starry spirit. The cry of Wiwâstè, O mother, hear it; And touch the heart of my cruel father. He hearkened not to a virgin's words; He listened not to a daughter's wail. O give me the wings of the thunder-birds, For his were-wolves [52] follow Wiwâstè's trail; O, guide my flight to the far Hóhé-- The sheltering lodge of my brave Chaskè." The shadows paled in the hazy east, And the light of the kindling morn increased. The pale-faced stars fled one by one, And hid in the vast from the rising sun. From woods and waters and welkin soon Fled the hovering mists of the vanished moon. The young robins chirped in their feathery beds, The loon's song shrilled like a winding horn, And the green hills lifted their dewy heads To greet the god of the rising morn. She reached the rim of the rolling prairie-- The boundless ocean of solitude; She hid in the feathery hazel wood, For her heart was sick and her feet were weary; She fain would rest, and she needed food. Alone by the billowy, boundless prairies, She plucked the cones of the scarlet berries; In feathering copse and the grassy field She found the bulbs of the young Tipsânna, [43] And the sweet medó [64] that the meadows yield. With the precious gift of his priceless manna God fed his fainting and famished child. At night again to the northward far She followed the torch of Wazíya's star. For leagues away o'er the prairies green, On the billowy vast, may a man be seen, When the sun is high and the stars are low; And the sable breast of the strutting crow Looms up like the form of the buffalo. The Bloody River [40] she reached at last, And boldly walked in the light of day, On the level plain of the valley vast; Nor thought of the terrible Chippeway. She was safe from the wolves of her father's band, But she trode on the treacherous "Bloody Land." And lo--from afar o'er the level plain-- As far as the sails of a ship at sea May be seen as they lift from the rolling main-- A band of warriors rode rapidly. She shadowed her eyes with her sun browned hand; All backward streamed on the wind her hair, And terror spread o'er her visage fair, As she bent her brow to the far off band. For she thought of the terrible Chippeway-- The fiends that the babe and the mother slay; And yonder they came in their war-array! She hid like a grouse in the meadow-grass, And moaned--"I am lost!--I am lost! alas; And why did I fly my native land To die by the cruel Ojibway's hand?" And on rode the braves. She could hear the steeds Come galloping on o'er the level meads; And lowly she crouched in the waving grass, And hoped against hope that the braves would pass. They have passed, she is safe,--she is safe! Ah, no, They have struck her trail and the hunters halt. Like wolves on the track of the bleeding doe, That grappled breaks from the dread assault, Dash the warriors wild on Wiwâstè's trail. She flies,--but what can her flight avail? Her feet are fleet, but the flying feet Of the steeds of the prairie are fleeter still; And where can she fly for a safe retreat? But hark to the shouting:--"Ihó!--Ihó!" [9] Rings over the wide plain sharp and shrill. She halts, and the hunters come riding on; But the horrible fear from her heart is gone, For it is not the shout of the dreaded foe; 'Tis the welcome shout of her native land! Up galloped the chief of the band, and lo-- The clutched knife dropped from her trembling hand; She uttered a cry and she swooned away; For there; on his steed in the blaze of day, On the boundless prairie, so far away, With his burnished lance and his feathers gay, Sat the manly form of her own Chaskè! There's a mote in my eye or a blot on the page, And I cannot tell of the joyful greeting; You may take it for granted and I will engage, There were kisses and tears at the strange, glad meeting; For aye since the birth of the swift-winged years, In the desert drear, in the field of clover, In the cot, and the palace, and all the world over,-- Yea, away on the stars to the ultimate spheres, The language of love to the long sought lover,-- Is tears and kisses and kisses and tears. But why did the lover so long delay? And whitherward rideth the chief to-day? As he followed the trail of the buffalo, From the tees of Kapóza a maiden, lo, Came running in haste o'er the drifted snow. She spoke to the chief of the tall Hóhé: "Wiwâstè requests that the brave Chaskè Will abide with his band and his coming delay 'Till the moon when the strawberries are ripe and red, And then will the chief and Wiwâstè wed-- When the Feast of the Virgins is past," she said. Wiwâstè's wish was her lover's law; And so his coming the chief delayed Till the mid-May blossoms should bloom and fade,-- But the lying runner was Hârpstinà. And now with the gifts for the bridal day And his chosen warriors he took his way, And followed his heart to his moon-faced maid, And thus was the lover so long delayed; And so as he rode with his warriors gay, On that bright and beautiful summer day, His bride he met on the trail mid-way, By the haunts of the treacherous Chippeway. God arms the innocent. He is there-- In the desert vast, in the wilderness, On the bellowing sea, in the lion's lair, In the midst of battle, and everywhere. In his hand he holds with a father's care The tender hearts of the motherless; The maid and the mother in sore distress He shields with his love and his tenderness; He comforts the widowed--the comfortless, And sweetens her chalice of bitterness; He clothes the naked--the numberless,-- His charity covers their nakedness,-- And he feeds the famished and fatherless With the hand that feedeth the birds of air. Let the myriad tongues of the earth confess His infinite love and his holiness; For his pity pities the pitiless, His wayward children his bounties bless, And his mercy flows to the merciless; And the countless worlds in the realms above, Revolve in the light of his boundless love. And what of the lovers? you ask, I trow. She told him all ere the sun was low,-- Why she fled from the Feast to a safe retreat. She laid her heart at her lover's feet, And her words were tears and her lips were slow. As she sadly related the bitter tale His face was aflame and anon grew pale, And his dark eyes flashed with a brave desire, Like the midnight gleam of the sacred fire. [65] "Mitâwin," [66] he said, and his voice was low, "Thy father no more is the false Little Crow; But the fairest plume shall Wiwâstè wear Of the great Wanmdeè [13] in her midnight hair. In my lodge, in the land of the tall Hóhé, The robins will sing all the long summer day To the beautiful bride of the brave Chaskè." Aye, love is tested by stress and trial Since the finger of time on the endless dial Began its rounds, and the orbs to move In the boundless vast, and the sunbeams clove The chaos; but only by fate's denial Are fathomed the fathomless depths of love. Man is the rugged and wrinkled oak, And woman the trusting and tender vine-- That clasps and climbs till its arms entwine The brawny arms of the sturdy stoke. [67] The dimpled babes are the flowers divine That the blessing of God on the vine and oak With their cooing and blossoming lips invoke. To the pleasant land of the brave Hóhé Wiwâstè rode with her proud Chaskè. She ruled like a queen in his bountiful tee, And the life of the twain was a jubilee. Their wee ones climbed on the father's knee, And played with his plumes of the great Wanmdeè. The silken threads of the happy years They wove into beautiful robes of love That the spirits wear in the lodge above; And time from the reel of the rolling spheres His silver threads with the raven wove; But never the stain of a mother's tears Soiled the shining web of their happy years. When the wrinkled mask of the years they wore, And the raven hair of their youth was gray, Their love grew deeper, and more and more; For he was a lover for aye and aye, And ever her beautiful, brave Chaskè. Through the wrinkled mask of the hoary years To the loving eyes of the lover aye The blossom of beautiful youth appears. At last, when their locks were as white as snow, Beloved and honored by all the band, They silently slipped from their lodge below, And walked together, and hand in hand, O'er the Shining Path [68] to the Spirit-land; Where the hills and the meadows for aye and aye Are clad with the verdure and flowers of May, And the unsown prairies of Paradise Yield the golden maize and the sweet wild rice. There ever ripe in the groves and prairies Hang the purple plums and the luscious berries. And the swarthy herds of bison feed On the sun-lit slope and the waving mead; The dappled fawns from their coverts peep, And countless flocks on the waters sleep; And the silent years with their fingers trace No furrows for aye on the hunter's face. [Illustration] WINONA. [Illustration: FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY. FACSIMILE OF THE CUT IN CARVER'S TRAVELS, PUBLISHED AT LONDON, IN 1778, FROM A SURVEY AND SKETCH MADE BY CAPT. J. CARVER, NOV. 17, 1766. PERPENDICULAR FALL, 30 FEET; BREADTH NEAR 600 FEET.] _When the meadow-lark trilled o'er the leas and the oriole piped in the maples, From my hammock, all under the trees, by the sweet scented field of red-clover, I harked to the hum of the bees, as they gathered the mead of the blossoms, And caught from their low melodies the rhythm of the song of Winona_. (In pronouncing Dakota words give "a" the sound of "ah,"--"e" the sound of "a,"--"i" the sound of "e" and "u" the sound of "oo." Sound "ee" the same as in English. The numerals 1-2 etc. refer to notes in the appendix). Two hundred white Winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer, Since here on the oak shaded shore of the dark winding swift Mississippi, Where his foaming floods tumble and roar, on the falls and white rolling rapids, In the fair, fabled center of Earth, sat the Indian town of Ka-thá-ga. [86] Far rolling away to the north, and the south, lay the emerald prairies, Alternate with woodlands and lakes, and above them the blue vast of ether. And here where the dark river breaks into spray and the roar of the Ha-Ha, [76] Were gathered the bison-skin tees of the chief tawny tribe of Dakotas; For here, in the blast and the breeze, flew the flag of the chief of Isantees, [86] Up-raised on the stem of a lance --the feathery flag of the eagle. And here to the feast and the dance, from the prairies remote and the forests, Oft gathered the out-lying bands, and honored the gods of the nation. On the islands and murmuring strands they danced to the god of the waters, Unktéhee, [69] who dwelt in the caves deep under the flood of the Ha-Ha; [76] And high o'er the eddies and waves hung their offerings of fur and tobacco. [a] And here to the Master of life --Anpé-tu-wee, [70] god of the heavens, Chief, warrior, and maiden, and wife, burned the sacred green sprigs of the cedar. And here to the Searcher-of-hearts --fierce Tá-ku Skan-skán, [51] the avenger, Who dwells in the uttermost parts --in the earth and the blue, starry ether, Ever watching, with all-seeing eyes, the deeds of the wives and the warriors, As an osprey afar in the skies, sees the fish as they swim in the waters, Oft spread they the bison-tongue feast, and singing preferred their petitions, Till the Day-Spirit [70] rose in the East --in the red, rosy robes of the morning, To sail o'er the sea of the skies, to his lodge in the land of the shadows, Where the black winged tornadoes [b] arise --rushing loud from the mouths of their caverns. And here with a shudder they heard, flying far from his tee in the mountains, Wa-kin-yan, [32] the huge Thunder-Bird, --with the arrows of fire in his talons. [a] See Hennepin's Description of Louisiana by Shea pp 243 and 256. Parkman's Discovery p. 246--and Carver's Travels, p. 67 [b] The Dakotas like the ancient Romans and Greeks think the home of the winds is in the caverns of the mountains, and their great Thunder bird resembles in many respects the Jupiter of the Romans and the Zeus of the Greeks. The resemblance of the Dakota mythology to that of the older Greeks and Romans is striking. Two hundred white Winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer, Since here by the cataract's roar, in the moon of the red blooming lilies, [71] In the tee of Ta-té-psin [a] was born Winona --wild-rose of the prairies. Like the summer sun peeping, at morn, o'er the hills was the face of Winona; And here she grew up like a queen --a romping and lily-lipped laughter, And danced on the undulant green, and played in the frolicsome waters, Where the foaming tide tumbles and twirls o'er the murmuring rocks in the rapids; And whiter than foam were the pearls that gleamed in the midst of her laughter. Long and dark was her flowing hair flung, like the robe of the night to the breezes; And gay as the robin she sung, or the gold-breasted lark of the meadows. Like the wings of the wind were her feet, and as sure as the feet of Ta-tó-ka; [b] And oft like an antelope fleet o'er the hills and the prairies she bounded, Lightly laughing in sport as she ran, and looking back over her shoulder, At the fleet footed maiden or man, that vainly her flying steps followed. The belle of the village was she, and the pride of the aged Ta-té-psin, Like a sunbeam she lighted his tee, and gladdened the heart of her father. [a] Ta te--Wind, Psin--Wild Rice,--wild rice wind. [b] The Mountain Antelope. In the golden hued Wázu-pe-weé --the moon when the wild rice is gathered; When the leaves on the tall sugar-tree are as red as the breast of the robin, And the red-oaks that border the lea are aflame with the fire of the sunset, From the wide waving fields of wild-rice --from the meadows of Psin-ta-wak-pá-dan, [a] Where the geese and the mallards rejoice, and grow fat on the bountiful harvest, Came the hunters with saddles of moose and the flesh of the bear and the bison, And the women in birchen canoes well laden with rice from the meadows, With the tall, dusky hunters, behold, came a marvelous man or a spirit, White-faced and so wrinkled and old, and clad in the robe of the raven. Unsteady his steps were and slow, and he walked with a staff in his right hand, And white as the first-falling snow were the thin locks that lay on his shoulders. Like rime-covered moss hung his beard, flowing down from his face to his girdle; And wan was his aspect and weird; and often he chanted and mumbled In a strange and mysterious tongue, as he bent o'er his book in devotion. Or lifted his dim eyes and sung, in a low voice, the solemn "_Te Deum_." Or Latin, or Hebrew, or Greek --all the same were his words to the warriors,-- All the same to the maids and the meek, wide-wondering-eyed, hazel-brown children. [a] Little Rice River. It bears the name of Rice Creek to-day and empties into the Mississippi from the east, a few miles above Minneapolis. Father Renè Menard [a]--it was he, long lost to his Jesuit brothers, Sent forth by an holy decree to carry the Cross to the heathen. In his old age abandoned to die, in the swamps, by his timid companions, He prayed to the Virgin on high, and she led him forth from the forest; For angels she sent him as men --in the forms of the tawny Dakotas, And they led his feet from the fen, --from the slough of despond and the desert. Half-dead in a dismal morass, as they followed the red-deer they found him, In the midst of the mire and the grass, and mumbling "_Te Deum laudamus_." "Unktómee [72]--Ho!" muttered the braves, for they deemed him the black Spider-Spirit That dwells in the drearisome caves, and walks on the marshes at midnight, With a flickering torch in his hand, to decoy to his den the unwary. His tongue could they not understand, but his torn hands all shriveled with famine, He stretched to the hunters and said: "He feedeth his chosen with manna; And ye are the angels of God, sent to save me from death in the desert." His famished and woe-begone face, and his tones touched the hearts of the hunters; They fed the poor father apace, and they led him away to Ka-thá-ga. [a] See the account of Father Menard, his mission and disappearance in the wilderness, etc. Neill's Hist. Minnesota, pp 104 to 107 inc. There little by little he learned the tongue of the tawny Dakotas; And the heart of the good father yearned to lead them away from their idols-- Their giants [16] and dread Thunder-birds --their worship of stones [73] and the devil. "Wakán-de!" [a] they answered his words, for he read from his book in the Latin, Lest the Nazarene's holy commands by his tongue should be marred in translation; And oft with his beads in his hands, or the cross and the crucified Jesus, He knelt by himself on the sands, and his dim eyes uplifted to heaven. But the braves bade him look to the East --to the silvery lodge of Han-nán-na; [b] And to dance with the chiefs at the feast --at the feast of the Giant Heyó-ka. [16] They frowned when the good father spurned the flesh of the dog in the kettle, And laughed when his fingers were burned in the hot, boiling pot of the giant. "The Blackrobe" they called the poor priest, from the hue of his robe and his girdle; And never a game or a feast but the father must grace with his presence. His prayer book the hunters revered, --they deemed it a marvelous spirit; It spoke and the white father heard, --it interpreted visions and omens. And often they bade him to pray this marvelous spirit to answer, And tell where the sly Chippeway might be ambushed and slain in his forests. For Menard was the first in the land, proclaiming, like John in the desert-- "The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand; repent ye, and turn from your idols."-- The first of the brave brotherhood that, threading the fens and the forest, Stood afar by the turbulent flood at the falls of the Father of Waters. [a] It is wonderful. [b] The morning. In the lodge of the Stranger [a] he sat awaiting the crown of a martyr; His sad face compassion begat in the heart of the dark eyed Winona. Oft she came to the teepee and spoke; she brought him the tongue of the bison, Sweet nuts from the hazel and oak, and flesh of the fawn and the mallard. Soft hánpa [b] she made for his feet and leggins of velvety fawn-skin,-- A blanket of beaver complete, and a hood of the hide of the otter. And oft at his feet on the mat, deftly braiding the flags and the rushes, Till the sun sought his teepee she sat, enchanted with what he related Of the white winged ships on the sea and the teepees far over the ocean, Of the love and the sweet charity of the Christ and the beautiful Virgin. [a] A lodge set apart for guests of the village. [b] Moccasins. She listened like one in a trance when he spoke of the brave, bearded Frenchmen, From the green sun-lit valleys of France to the wild Hochelága [a] transplanted, Oft trailing the deserts of snow in the heart of the dense Huron forests, Or steering the dauntless canoe through the waves of the fresh water ocean. "Yea, stronger and braver are they," said the aged Menard to Winona, "Than the head-chief, tall Wazi-kuté, [74] but their words are as soft as a maiden's; Their eyes are the eyes of the swan, but their hearts are the hearts of the eagles; And the terrible Máza Wakán [b] ever walks, by their side like a spirit. Like a Thunder-bird, roaring in wrath, flinging fire from his terrible talons, It sends to their enemies death, in the flash of the fatal Wakándee." [c] [a] The Ottawa name for the region of the St. Lawrence River. [b] "Mysterious metal"--or metal having a spirit in it. This is the common name applied by the Dakotas to all fire arms. [c] Lightning. The Autumn was past and the snow lay drifted and deep on the prairies; From his teepee of ice came the foe --came the storm-breathing god of the winter. Then roared in the groves,--on the plains, --on the ice-covered lakes and the river-- The blasts of the fierce hurricanes blown abroad from the breast of Wazíya. [3] The bear cuddled down in his den, and the elk fled away to the forest; The pheasant and gray prairie-hen made their beds in the heart of the snow-drift; The bison-herds huddled and stood in the hollows and under the hill-sides; Or rooted the snow for their food in the lee of the bluffs and the timber; And the mad winds that howled from the north, from the ice-covered seas of Wazíya, Chased the gray wolf and red fox and swarth to their dens in the hills of the forest. Poor Father Menard,--he was ill; in his breast burned the fire of the fever; All in vain was the magical skill of Wicásta Wakán [61] with his rattle; Into soft child-like slumber he fell, and awoke in the land of the blessèd-- To the holy applause of "Well done!" and the harps in the hands of the angels. Long he carried the cross, and he won the coveted crown of a martyr. In the land of the heathen he died, meekly following the voice of his Master, One mourner alone by his side --Ta-té-psin's compassionate daughter. She wailed the dead father with tears, and his bones by her kindred she buried. Then winter followed winter. The years sprinkled frost on the head of her father; And three weary winters she dreamed of the fearless and fair-bearded Frenchmen; In her sweet sleep their swift paddles gleamed on the breast of the broad Mississippi, And the eyes of the brave strangers beamed on the maid in the midst of her slumber. She lacked not admirers; the light of the lover oft burned in her teepee-- At her couch in the midst of the night, --but she never extinguished the flambeau. The son of Chief Wazi-kuté --a fearless and eagle plumed warrior-- Long sighed for Winona, and he --was the pride of the band of Isántees. Three times, in the night, at her bed, had the brave held the torch of the lover, [75]And thrice had she covered her head and rejected the handsome Tamdóka. [a] [a] Tah-mdo-kah--literally the buck deer. 'Twas Summer. The merry voiced birds trilled and warbled in woodland and meadow; And abroad on the prairies the herds cropped the grass in the land of the lilies,-- And sweet was the odor of rose wide-wafted from hillside and heather; In the leaf-shaded lap of repose lay the bright, blue eyed babes of the summer; And low was the murmur of brooks and low was the laugh of the Ha-Ha; [76] And asleep in the eddies and nooks lay the broods of magá [60] and the mallard. 'Twas the moon of Wasúnpa. [71] The band lay at rest in the tees at Ka-thá-ga, And abroad o'er the beautiful land walked the spirits of Peace and of Plenty-- Twin sisters, with bountiful hand, wide scatt'ring wild rice and the lilies. An-pé-tu-wee [70] walked in the west --to his lodge in the midst of the mountains, And the war eagle flew to her nest in the oak on the Isle of the Spirit. [a] And now at the end of the day, by the shore of the Beautiful Island, [b] A score of fair maidens and gay made joy in the midst of the waters. Half-robed in their dark, flowing hair, and limbed like the fair Aphroditè, They played in the waters, and there they dived and they swam like the beavers,-- Loud-laughing like loons on the lake when the moon is a round shield of silver, And the songs of the whippowils wake on the shore in the midst of the maples. [a] The Dakotas say that for many years in olden times a war-eagle made her nest in an oak tree on Spirit island--Wanagi-wita just below the Falls till frightened away by the advent of white men. [b] The Dakotas called Nicollet Island "Wi-ta Waste"--the Beautiful Island. But hark!--on the river a song, --strange voices commingled in chorus; On the current a boat swept along with DuLuth and his hardy companions; To the stroke of their paddles they sung, and this the refrain that they chanted: "Dans mon chemin j'ai recontré Deux cavaliers bien monteés. Lon, lon, laridon daine, Lon, lon, laridon dai." "Deux cavaliers bien monteés; L'un a cheval, et l'autre a pied. Lon, lon, laridon daine, Lon, lon, laridon dai." [a] Like the red, dappled deer in the glade, alarmed by the footsteps of hunters, Discovered, disordered, dismayed, the nude nymphs fled forth from the waters, And scampered away to the shade, and peered from the screen of the lindens. [a] A part of one of the favorite songs of the French _voyageurs_. A bold and and adventuresome man was DuLuth, and a dauntless in danger, And straight to Kathága he ran, and boldly advanced to the warriors, Now gathering, a cloud, on the strand, and gazing amazed on the strangers; And straightway he offered his hand unto Wázi-kuté, the Itáncan. To the Lodge of the Stranger were led DuLuth and his hardy companions; Robes of beaver and bison were spread, and the Peace pipe [23] was smoked with the Frenchman. There was dancing and feasting at night, and joy at the presents he lavished. All the maidens were wild with delight with the flaming red robes and the ribbons, With the beads and the trinkets untold, and the fair, bearded face of the giver; And glad were they all to behold the friends from the Land of the Sunrise. But one stood apart from the rest --the queenly and peerless Winona, Intently regarding the guest --hardly heeding the robes and the ribbons, Whom the White Chief beholding admired, and straightway he spread on her shoulders A lily-red robe and attired, with necklet and ribbons, the maiden. The red lilies bloomed in her face, and her glad eyes gave thanks to the giver, And forth from her teepee apace she brought him the robe and the missal Of the father--poor Renè Menard; and related the tale of the "Black Robe." She spoke of the sacred regard he inspired in the hearts of Dakotas; That she buried his bones with her kin, in the mound by the Cave of the Council; That she treasured and wrapt in the skin of the red-deer his robe and his prayer-book-- "Till his brothers should come from the East --from the land of the far Hochelága, To smoke with the braves at the feast, on the shores of the Loud-laughing Waters. [76] For the "Black Robe" spake much of his youth and his friends in the Land of the Sunrise; It was then as a dream, now in truth, I behold them, and not in a vision." But more spake her blushes, I ween, and her eyes full of language unspoken, As she turned with the grace of a queen, and carried her gifts to the teepee. Far away from his beautiful France --from his home in the city of Lyons, A noble youth full of romance, with a Norman heart big with adventure, In the new world a wanderer, by chance, DuLuth sought the wild Huron forests. But afar by the vale of the Rhone, the winding and musical river, And the vine-covered hills of the Saône, the heart of the wanderer lingered,-- 'Mid the vineyards and mulberry trees, and the fair fields of corn and of clover That rippled and waved in the breeze, while the honey-bees hummed in the blossoms For there, where the impetuous Rhone, leaping down from the Switzerland mountains, And the silver-lipped soft flowing Saône, meeting, kiss and commingle together, Down-winding by vineyards and leas, by the orchards of fig trees and olives, To the island-gemmed, sapphire-blue seas of the glorious Greeks and the Romans; Aye, there, on the vine covered shore, 'mid the mulberry trees and the olives, Dwelt his blue-eyed and beautiful Flore, with her hair like a wheat field at harvest, All rippled and tossed by the breeze, and her cheeks like the glow of the morning, Far away o'er the emerald seas, ere the sun lifts his brow from the billows, Or the red-clover fields when the bees, singing sip the sweet cups of the blossoms. Wherever he wandered --alone in the heart of the wild Huron forests, Or cruising the rivers unknown to the land of the Crees or Dakotas-- His heart lingered still on the Rhone, 'mid the mulberry-trees and the vineyards, Fast-fettered and bound by the zone that girdled the robes of his darling. Till the red Harvest Moon [71] he remained in the vale of the swift Mississippi. The esteem of the warriors he gained, and the love of the dark eyed Winona. He joined in the sports and the chase; with the hunters he followed the bison, And swift were his feet in the race when the red elk they ran on the prairies. At the Game of the Plum-stones [77] he played and he won from the skillfulest players; A feast to Wa'tánka [78] he made, and he danced at the feast of Heyóka. [16] With the flash and the roar of his gun he astonished the fearless Dakotas; They called it the "Máza Wakán" --the mighty, mysterious metal. "'Tis a brother," they said, "of the fire in the talons of dreadful Wakínyan, [32] When he flaps his huge wings in his ire, and shoots his red shafts at Unktéhee." [69] The Itancan, [74] tall Wazí-kuté, appointed a day for the races. From the red stake that stood by his tee, on the southerly side of the Ha-ha To a stake at the Lake of the Loons [79] --a league and return--was the distance. On the crest of the hills red batons marked the course for the feet of the runners. They gathered from near and afar, to the races and dancing and feasting. Five hundred tall warriors were there from Kapóza [6] and far off Keóza; [8] Remnica, [a] too, furnished a share of the legions that thronged to the races, And a bountiful feast was prepared by the diligent hands of the women, And gaily the multitudes fared in the generous tees of Kathága. The chief of the mystical clan appointed a feast to Unktéhee-- The mystic "Wacípee Wakán" [b]-- at the end of the day and the races. A band of sworn brothers are they, and the secrets of each one are sacred. And death to the lips that betray is the doom of the swarthy avengers, And the son of tall Wazí-kuté was the chief of the mystical order. [a] Pronounced Ray mne chah--the village of the Mountains situate where Red Wing now stands. [b] Sacred Dance--The Medicine dance--See description infra. On an arm of an oak hangs the prize for the swiftest and strongest of runners-- A blanket as red as the skies, when the flames sweep the plains in October. And beside it a strong, polished bow, and a quiver of iron tipped arrows, Which Kapóza's tall chief will bestow on the fleet-footed second that follows. A score of swift-runners are there from the several bands of the nation; And now for the race they prepare, and among them fleet-footed Tamdóka. With the oil of the buck and the bear their sinewy limbs are anointed, For fleet are the feet of the deer and strong are the limbs of the bruin, And long is the course and severe for the swiftest and strongest of runners. Hark!--the shouts and the braying of drums, and the Babel of tongues and confusion! From his teepee the tall chieftain comes, and Duluth brings a prize for the runners-- A keen hunting-knife from the Seine, horn-handled and mounted with silver. The runners are ranged on the plain, and the Chief waves a flag as a signal, And away like the gray wolves they fly --like the wolves on the trail of the red deer; O'er the hills and the prairie they vie, and strain their strong limbs to the utmost, While high on the hills hangs a cloud of warriors and maidens and mothers, To behold the swift runners, and loud are the cheers and the shouts of the warriors. Now swift from the lake they return, o'er the emerald hills and the heather; Like grey-hounds they pant and they yearn, and the leader of all is Tamdóka. At his heels flies Hu-pá-hu, [a] the fleet --the pride of the band of Kaóza, A warrior with eagle-winged feet, but his prize is the bow and the quiver. Tamdóka first reaches the post, and his are the knife and the blanket, By the mighty acclaim of the host and award of the chief and the judges. Then proud was the tall warrior's stride, and haughty his look and demeanor; He boasted aloud in his pride, and he scoffed at the rest of the runners. "Behold me, for I am a man! [b] my feet are as swift as the West wind. With the coons and the beavers I ran; but where is the elk or the cabri? [80] Come!--where is the hunter will dare match his feet with the feet of Tamdóka? Let him think of Taté [c] and beware, ere he stake his last robe on the trial." "Ohó! Ho! Hó-héca!" [d] they jeered, for they liked not the boast of the boaster; But to match him no warrior appeared, for his feet wore the wings of the west-wind. [a] The wings. [b] A favorite boast of the Dakota braves. [c] The wind. [d] About equivalent to Oho--Aha--fudge. Then forth from the side of the chief stepped DuLuth and he looked on the boaster; "The words of a warrior are brief, --I will run with the brave," said the Frenchman; "But the feet of Tamdóka are tired; abide till the cool of the sunset." All the hunters and maidens admired, for strong were the limbs of the stranger. "Hiwó! Ho!" [a] they shouted and loud rose the cheers of the multitude mingled; And there in the midst of the crowd stood the glad-eyed and blushing Winona. [a] Hurra there! Now afar o'er the plains of the west walked the sun at the end of his journey, And forth came the brave and the guest, at the tap of the drum, for the trial. Like a forest of larches the hordes were gathered to witness the contest; As loud is the drums were their words and they roared like the roar of the Ha-ha. For some for Tamdóka contend, and some for the fair, bearded stranger, And the betting runs high to the end, with the skins of the bison and beaver. A wife of tall Wazi-kuté --the mother of boastful Tamdóka-- Brought her handsomest robe from the tee, with a vaunting and loud proclamation: She would stake her last robe on her son who, she boasted, was fleet as the Cábri [80] And the tall, tawny chieftain looked on, approving the boast of the mother. Then fleet as the feet of a fawn to her lodge ran the dark eyed Winona, She brought and she staked on the lawn, by the side of the robe of the boaster, The lily-red mantle Duluth, with his own hands, had laid on her shoulders. "Tamdóka is swift, but forsooth, the tongue of his mother is swifter," She said, and her face was aflame with the red of the rose and the lily, And loud was the roar of acclaim; but dark was the face of Tamdóka. They strip for the race and prepare, --DuLuth in his breeches and leggins; And the brown, curling locks of his hair downward droop to his bare, brawny shoulders, And his face wears a smile debonair, as he tightens his red sash around him; But stripped to the moccasins bare, save the belt and the breech-clout of buckskin, Stands the haughty Tamdóka aware that the eyes of the warriors admire him; For his arms are the arms of a bear and his legs are the legs of a panther. The drum beats,--the chief waves the flag, and away on the course speed the runners, And away leads the brave like a stag, --like a hound on his track flies the Frenchman; And away haste the hunters, once more, to the hills for a view to the lake-side, And the dark-swarming hill-tops, they roar with the storm of loud voices commingled. Far away o'er the prairie they fly, and still in the lead is Tamdóka, But the feet of his rival are nigh, and slowly he gains on the hunter. Now they turn on the post at the lake, --now they run full abreast on the home-stretch; Side by side they contend for the stake, for a long mile or more on the prairie. They strain like a stag and a hound, when the swift river gleams through the thicket, And the horns of the rulers resound, winding shrill through the depths of the forest. But behold!--at full length on the ground falls the fleet-footed Frenchman abruptly. And away with a whoop and a bound, springs the eager, exulting Tamdóka. Long and loud on the hills is the shout of his swarthy admirers and backers; "But the race is not won till it's out," said DuLuth, to himself as he gathered, With a frown on his face, for the foot of the wily Tamdóka had tripped him. Far ahead ran the brave on the route, and turning he boasted exultant. Like spurs to the steed to DuLuth were the jeers and the taunts of the boaster; Indignant was he and red wroth, at the trick of the runner dishonest; And away like a whirlwind he speeds --like a hurricane mad from the mountains; He gains on Tamdóka,--he leads! --and behold, with the spring of a panther, He leaps to the goal and succeeds, 'mid the roar of the mad acclamation. Then glad as the robin in May was the voice of Winona exulting; And the crest-fallen brave turned away, and lonely he walked by the river; He glowered as he went and the fire of revenge in his bosom was kindled, But he strove to dissemble his ire, and he whistled alone by the Ha-ha. THE "WAKAN WACEPEE," OR SACRED DANCE. [81] Lo the lights in the "Teepee Wakán!" 'tis the night of the Wakán-Wacépee. Round and round walks the chief of the clan, as he rattles the sacred Ta-shá-kay; [81] Long and loud on the Chân-che-ga [81] beat the drummers with magical drumsticks, And the notes of the Chô-tánka [81] greet, like the murmur of winds on the waters. By the friction of white-cedar wood for the feast was a Virgin-fire [20] kindled. They that enter the firm brotherhood first must fast and be cleansed by E-neé-pee; [81] And from foot-sole to crown of the head must they paint with the favorite colors; For Unktéhee likes bands of blood-red, with the stripings of blue intermingled. In the hollow earth, dark and profound, Unktéhee and fiery Wakín-yan Long fought and the terrible sound of the battle was louder than thunder; The mountains were heaved and around were scattered the hills and the boulders, And the vast solid plains of the ground rose and fell like the waves of the ocean. But the god of the waters prevailed. Wakín-yan escaped from the cavern, And long on the mountains he wailed, and his hatred endureth forever. When Unktéhee had finished the earth, and the beasts and the birds and the fishes, And men at his bidding came forth from the heart of the huge hollow mountains [69] A band chose the god from the hordes, and he said "Ye are sons of Unktéhee; Ye are lords of the beasts and the birds, and the fishes that swim in the waters. But hearken ye now to my words, --let them sound in your bosoms forever. Ye shall honor Unktéhee and hate Wakínyan, the Spirit of Thunder, For the power of Unktéhee is great, and he laughs at the darts of Wakínyan. Ye shall honor the Earth and the Sun, --for they are your father and mother. [70] Let your prayer to the Sun be --_Wakán, Até: on-si-má-da oheé-neé_ [a] And remember the Táku Wakán, [73] all pervading in earth and in ether-- Invisible ever to man, but he dwells in the midst of all matter; Yea, he dwells in the heart of the stone --in the hard granite heart of the boulder; Ye shall call him forever Tunkán --grandfather of all the Dakotas. Ye are men that I choose for my own; ye shall be as a strong band of brothers, Now I give you the magical bone and the magical pouch of the spirits. [b] And these are the laws ye shall heed: Ye shall honor the pouch and the giver. Ye shall walk as twin-brothers; in need, one shall forfeit his life for another. Listen not to the voice of the crow. [c] Hold as sacred the wife of a brother. Strike, and fear not the shaft of the foe, for the soul of the brave is immortal. Slay the warrior in battle, but spare the innocent babe and the mother. Remember a promise;--beware, --let the word of a warrior be sacred. When a stranger arrives at the tee --be he friend of the band or a foeman, Give him food; let your bounty be free; lay a robe for the guest by the lodge-fire; Let him go to his kindred in peace, if the peace-pipe he smoke in the teepee; And so shall your children increase, and your lodges shall laugh with abundance. And long shall ye live in the land, and the spirits of earth and the waters Shall come to your aid, at command, with the power of invisible magic. And at last, when you journey afar --o'er the shining "_Wanágee Ta-chán-ku_," [70] You shall walk as a red, shining star, [18] in the land of perpetual summer." [a] "Sacred Spirit, Father have pity on me always" [b] Riggs' Tahkoo Wakan, p. 90. [c] Slander. All the night in the teepee they sang, and they danced to the mighty Unktéhee, While the loud-braying Chán-che-ga rang and the shrill-piping flute and the rattle, Till Anpétuwee [70] rose in the east --from the couch of the blushing Han-nân-na. And then at the dance and the feast sang the song of Unktéhee in chorus: "Wa-dú-ta o-hna mi-ká-ge! Wa-dú-ta o-hná mi-ká-ge! Mini-yâta ité wakândè makù, Atè wakán--Tunkánsidán, Tunkânsidán pejihúta wakán Micâgè--he Wicâgè! Miniyáta ité wakándé makú. Taukánsidán ite, nápè dú-win-ta woo, Wahutôpa wan yúha, nápè dú-win-ta too." TRANSLATION In red swan-down he made it for me; In red swan-down he made it for me; He of the water--he of the mysterious face-- Gave it to me; Sacred Father--Grandfather! Grandfather made me magical medicine That is true! Being of mystery,--grown in the water-- He gave it to me! To the face of our Grandfather stretch out your hand; Holding a quadruped, stretch out your hand! Till high o'er the hills of the east Anpétuwee walked on his journey, In secret they danced at the feast, and communed with the mighty Unktéhee. Then opened the door of the tee to the eyes of the day and the people, And the sons of Unktéhee, to be, were endowed with the sacred Ozúha [82] By the son of tall Wazí-kuté, Tamdóka, the chief of the Magi. And thus since the birth-day of man --since he sprang from the heart of the mountains, [69] Has the sacred "Wacépee Wakán" by the warlike Dakotas been honored, And the god-favored sons of the clan work their will with the help of the spirits. 'Twas sunrise; the spirits of mist trailed their white robes on dewy savannas, And the flowers raised their heads to be kissed by the first golden beams of the morning. The breeze was abroad with the breath of the rose of the Isles of the Summer, And the humming-bird hummed on the heath from his home in the land of the rain-bow. [a] 'Twas the morn of departure. Duluth stood alone by the roar of the Ha-ha; Tall and fair in the strength of his youth stood the blue-eyed and fair-bearded Frenchman. A rustle of robes on the grass broke his dream as he mused by the waters, And, turning, he looked on the face of Winona, wild rose of the prairies, Half hid in her forest of hair, like the round, golden moon in the pine tops. Admiring he gazed--she was fair as his own blooming Flore in her orchards, With her golden locks loose on the air, like the gleam of the sun through the olives, Far away on the vine-covered shore, in the sun-favored land of his fathers. "Lists the chief to the cataract's roar for the mournful lament of the Spirit?" [b] Said Winona,--"The wail of the sprite for her babe and its father unfaithful, Is heard in the midst of the night, when the moon wanders dim in the heavens." [a] The Dakotas say the humming-bird comes from the "land of the rain-bow." [b] See Legend of the Falls or Note 28--Appendix. "Wild-Rose of the Prairies," he said, "DuLuth listens not to the Ha-ha, For the wail of the ghost of the dead, for her babe and its father unfaithful; But he lists to a voice in his heart that is heard by the ear of no other, And to-day will the White Chief depart --he returns to the land of the sunrise." "Let Winona depart with the chief, --she will kindle the fire in his teepee; For long are the days of her grief, if she stay in the tee of Ta-té-psin," She replied and her cheeks were aflame with the bloom of the wild prairie lilies. "Tanké, [a] is the White Chief to blame?" said DuLuth to the blushing Winona. "The White Chief is blameless," she said, "but the heart of Winona will follow Wherever thy footsteps may lead, O blue-eyed brave Chief of the white men. For her mother sleeps long in the mound, and a step-mother rules in the teepee. And her father, once strong and renowned, is bent with the weight of his winters. No longer he handles the spear, --no longer his swift, humming arrows Overtake the fleet feet of the deer, or the bear of the woods, or the bison; But he bends as he walks, and the wind shakes his white hair and hinders his footsteps; And soon will he leave me behind, without brother or sister or kindred. The doe scents the wolf in the wind, and a wolf walks the path of Winona. Three times have the gifts for the bride [25] to the lodge of Ta-té-psin been carried. But the voice of Winona replied that she liked not the haughty Tamdóka. And thrice were the gifts sent away, but the tongue of the mother protested, And the were wolf [52] still follows his prey, abides but the death of my father." [a] My Sister. "I pity Winona," he said, "but my path is a pathway of danger, And long is the trail for the maid to the far-away land of the sunrise; And few are the braves of my band, and the braves of Tamdóka are many; But soon I return to the land, and a cloud of my hunters will follow. When the cold winds of winter return, and toss the white robes of the prairies, The fire of the White Chief will burn in his lodge at the Meeting-of-Waters; [a] And when from the Sunrise again comes the chief of the suns of the Morning, Many moons will his hunters remain in the land of the friendly Dakotas. The son of Chief Wazí-kuté guides the White Chief afar on his journey; Nor long on the Tonka Medé [b] --on the breast of the blue, bounding billows-- Shall the bark of the Frenchman delay, but his pathway shall kindle behind him." [a] Mendota, properly _Mdó-tè_--meaning the outlet of lake or river into another, commonly applied to the region about Fort Snelling. [b] Tonka Mede--Great Lake, i.e. Lake Superior. The Dakotas seem to have had no other name for it. They generally referred to it as _Mini-ya-ta--There at the water._ She was pale, and her hurried voice swelled with alarm as she questioned replying "Tamdóka thy guide? --I beheld thy death in his face at the races! He covers his heart with a smile, but revenge never sleeps in his bosom; His tongue--it is soft to beguile; but beware of the pur of the panther! For death, like a shadow, will walk by thy side in the midst of the forest, Or follow thy path like a hawk on the trail of a wounded Mastinca. [a] A son of Unktéhee is he, --the Chief of the crafty magicians; They have plotted thy death; I foresee, and thy trail, it is red in the forest; Beware of Tamdóka,--beware. Slumber not like the grouse of the woodlands, With head under wing, for the glare of the eyes that sleep not are upon thee." [a] The rabbit. The Dakotas called the Crees "Mastincapi"--Rabbits. "Winona, fear not," said Duluth, "for I carry the fire of Wakínyan, [a] And strong is the arm of my youth, and stout are the hearts of my warriors; But Winona has spoken the truth, and the heart of the White Chief is thankful. Hide this in thy bosom, dear maid, --'tis the crucified Christ of the white men. [b] Lift thy voice to his spirit in need, and his spirit will hear thee and answer; For often he comes to my aid; he is stronger than all the Dakotas; And the Spirits of evil, afraid, hide away when he looks from the heavens." In her swelling brown bosom she hid the crucified Jesus in silver; "Niwástè," [c] she sadly replied; in her low voice the rising tears trembled; Her dewy eyes turned she aside, and she slowly returned to the teepees. But still on the swift river's strand, admiring the graceful Winona, As she gathered, with brown, dimpled hand, her hair from the wind, stood the Frenchman. [a] i.e. a fire arm which the Dakotas compare to the roar of the wings of the Thunder-bird and the fiery arrows he shoots. [b] Duluth was a devout Catholic. [c] Nee-wahshtay--Thou art good. To bid the brave White Chief adieu, on the shady shore gathered the warriors; His glad boatmen manned the canoe, and the oars in their hands were impatient. Spake the Chief of Isántees, --"A feast will await the return of my brother In peace rose the sun in the East, in peace in the West he descended. May the feet of my brother be swift, till they bring him again to our teepees; The red pipe he takes as a gift, may he smoke that red pipe many winters. At my lodge-fire his pipe shall be lit, when the White Chief returns to Kathága; On the robes of my tee shall he sit, he shall smoke with the chiefs of my people. The brave love the brave; and his son sends the Chief as a guide for his brother, By the way of the Wákpa Wakán [a] to the Chief at the Lake of the Spirits. [a] Spirit River, now called _Rum_ River. As light as the foot-steps of dawn are the feet of the stealthy Tamdóka, And he fears not the Máza Wakán; [a] he is sly as the fox of the forest. When he dances the dance of red war all the hungry wolves howl by the Big Sea, [b] For they scent on the south-wind afar their feast on the bones of Ojibways." Thrice the Chief puffed the red pipe of peace, ere it passed to the lips of the Frenchman. Spake DuLuth,--"May the Great Spirit bless with abundance the Chief and his people; May their sons and their daughters increase, and the fire ever burn in their teepees." Then he waved with a flag his adieu to the Chief and the warriors assembled; And away shot Tamdóka's canoe to the strokes of ten sinewy hunters; And a white path he clove up the blue, bubbling stream of the swift Mississippi; And away on his foaming trail flew, like a Sea-Gull the bark of the Frenchman. Then merrily rose the blithe song of the _voyageurs_ homeward returning, And thus, as they glided along, sang the bugle-voiced boatmen in chorus: SONG Home again! home again! bend to the oar! Merry is the life of the gay _voyageur_ He rides on the river with his paddle in his hand, And his boat is his shelter on the water and the land. The clam in his shell and the water turtle too, And the brave boatman's shell is his birch bark canoe. So pull away, boatmen, bend to the oar; Merry is the life of the gay _voyageur_. Home again! home again! bend to the oar! Merry is the life of the gay _voyageur_. His couch is as downy as a couch can be, For he sleeps on the feathers of the green fir-tree. He dines on the fat of the pemmican-sack, And his _eau de vie_ is the _eau de lac_. So pull away, boatmen; bend to the oar; Merry is the life of the gay _voyageur_. Home again! home again! bend to the oar! Merry is the life of the gay _voyageur_. The brave, jolly boatman,--he never is afraid When he meets at the portage a red, forest maid, A Huron, or a Cree, or a blooming Chippeway; And he marks his trail with the _bois brulès_. So pull away, boatmen; bend to the oar; Merry is the life of the gay _voyageur_. Home again! home again! bend to the oar! Merry is the life of the gay _voyageur_. [a] Fire arm--spirit metal. [b] Lake Superior--at that time the home of the Ojibways. (Chippewas) In the reeds of the meadow the stag lifts his branchy head stately and listens, And the bobolink, perched on the flag, her ear sidelong bends to the chorus. From the brow of the Beautiful Isle, [a] half hid in the midst of the maples, The sad-faced Winona, the while, watched the boat growing less in the distance. Till away in the bend of the stream, where it turned and was lost in the lindens, She saw the last dip and the gleam of the oars ere they vanished forever. Still afar on the waters the song, like bridal bells distantly chiming, The stout, jolly boatmen prolong, beating time with the stroke of their paddles; And Winona's ear, turned to the breeze, lists the air falling fainter and fainter Till it dies like the murmur of bees when the sun is aslant on the meadows. Blow, breezes,--blow softly and sing in the dark, flowing hair of the maiden; But never again shall you bring the voice that she loves to Winona. [a] Wista Waste--Nicollet Island. Now a light, rustling wind from the South shakes his wings o'er the wide, wimpling waters; Up the dark winding river DuLuth follows fast in the wake of Tamdóka. On the slopes of the emerald shores leafy woodlands and prairies alternate; On the vine-tangled islands the flowers peep timidly out at the white men; In the dark-winding eddy the loon sits warily, watching and voiceless, And the wild goose, in reedy lagoon, stills the prattle and play of her children. The does and their sleek, dappled fawns prick their ears and peer out from the thickets, And the bison-calves play on the lawns, and gambol like colts in the clover. Up the still flowing Wákpa Wakán's winding path through the groves and the meadows. Now DuLuth's brawny boatmen pursue the swift gliding bark of Tamdóka; And hardly the red braves out-do the stout, steady oars of the white men. Now they bend to their oars in the race --the ten tawny braves of Tamdóka; And hard on their heels in the chase ply the six stalwart oars of the Frenchmen. In the stern of his boat sits DuLuth, in the stern of his boat stands Tamdóka; And warily, cheerily, both urge the oars of their men to the utmost. Far-stretching away to the eyes, winding blue in the midst of the meadows, As a necklet of sapphires that lies unclaspt in the lap of a virgin, Here asleep in the lap of the plain lies the reed-bordered, beautiful river. Like two flying coursers that strain, on the track, neck and neck, on the home-stretch, With nostrils distended, and mane froth-flecked, and the neck and the shoulders, Each urged to his best by the cry and the whip and the rein of his rider, Now they skim o'er the waters and fly, side by side, neck and neck, through the meadows. The blue heron flaps from the reeds, and away wings her course up the river; Straight and swift is her flight o'er the meads, but she hardly outstrips the canoemen. See! the _voyageurs_ bend to their oars till the blue veins swell out on their foreheads; And the sweat from their brawny breasts pours; but in vain their Herculean labor; For the oars of Tamdôka are ten, and but six are the oars of the Frenchmen, And the red warriors' burden of men is matched by the _voyageur's_ luggage. Side by side, neck and neck, for a mile, still they strain their strong arms to the utmost, Till rounding a willowy isle, now ahead creeps the boat of Tamdóka, And the neighboring forests profound, and the far-stretching plain of the meadows To the whoop of the victors resound, while the panting French rest on their paddles. With sable wings wide o'er the land, night sprinkles the dew of the heavens; And hard by the dark river's strand, in the midst of a tall, somber forest, Two camp-fires are lighted, and beam on the trunks and the arms of the pine-trees. In the fitful light darkle and gleam the swarthy-hued faces around them. And one is the camp of DuLuth, and the other the camp of Tamdóka, But few are the jests and uncouth of the _voyageurs_ over their supper, While moody and silent the braves round their fire in a circle sit crouching; And low is the whisper of leaves and the sough of the wind in the branches; And low is the long-winding howl of the lone wolf afar in the forest; But shrill is the hoot of the owl, like a bugle blast blown in the pine-tops, And the half-startled _voyageurs_ scowl at the sudden and saucy intruder. Like the eyes of the wolves are the eyes of the watchful and silent Dakotas; Like the face of the moon in the skies, when the clouds chase each other across it. Is Tamdóka's dark face in the light of the flickering flames of the camp fire. They have plotted red murder by night, and securely contemplate their victims. But wary and armed to the teeth are the resolute Frenchmen and ready, If need be, to grapple with death, and to die hand to hand in the desert. Yet skilled in the arts and the wiles of the cunning and crafty Algonkins, They cover their hearts with their smiles, and hide their suspicions of evil. Round their low, smouldering fire, feigning sleep, lie the watchful and wily Dakotas; But DuLuth and his _voyageurs_ heap their fire that shall blaze till the morning, Ere they lay themselves snugly to rest, with their guns by their side on the blankets, As if there were none to molest but the ravening beasts of the forest. 'Tis midnight. The rising moon gleams, weird and still o'er the dusky horizon; Through the hushed, somber forest she beams, and fitfully gloams on the meadows; And a dim, glimmering pathway she paves, at times, on the dark stretch of river. The winds are asleep in the caves --in the heart of the far-away mountains; And here on the meadows and there, the lazy mists gather and hover; And the lights of the Fen-Spirits [72] flare and dance on the low-lying marshes, As still as the footsteps of death by the bed of the babe and its mother; And hushed are the pines, and beneath lie the weary limbed boatmen in slumber. Walk softly,--walk softly, O Moon, through the gray, broken clouds in thy pathway, For the earth lies asleep, and the boon of repose is bestowed on the weary. Toiling hands have forgotten their care; e'en the brooks have forgotten to murmur; But hark!--there's a sound on the air! --'tis the light-rustling robes of the Spirits. Like the breath of the night in the leaves, or the murmur of reeds on the river, In the cool of the mid-summer eves, when the blaze of the day has descended. Low-crouching and shadowy forms, as still as the gray morning's footsteps, Creep sly as the serpent that charms, on her nest in the meadow, the plover; In the shadows of pine-trunks they creep, but their panther-eyes gleam in the fire-light, As they peer on the white men asleep, in the glow of the fire, on their blankets. Lo, in each swarthy right hand a knife, in the left hand, the bow and the arrows! Brave Frenchmen! awake to the strife! --or you sleep in the forest forever. Nay, nearer and nearer they glide, like ghosts on the fields of their battles, Till close on the sleepers, they bide but the signal of death from Tamdóka. Still the sleepers sleep on. Not a breath stirs the leaves of the awe-stricken forest; The hushed air is heavy with death; like the footsteps of death are the moments. "_Arise_!"--At the word, with a bound, to their feet spring the vigilant Frenchmen; And the dark, dismal forests resound to the crack and the roar of their rifles; And seven writhing forms on the ground clutch the earth. From the pine-tops the screech owl Screams and flaps his wide wings in affright, and plunges away through the shadows; And swift on the wings of the night flee the dim, phantom forms of the spirit. Like cabris [80] when white wolves pursue, fled the four yet remaining Dakotas; Through forest and fen-land they flew, and wild terror howled on their footsteps. And one was Tamdóka. DuLuth through the night sent his voice like a trumpet; "Ye are Sons of Unktéhee, forsooth! Return to your mothers, ye cowards!" His shrill voice they heard as they fled, but only the echoes made answer. At the feet of the brave Frenchmen, dead, lay seven swarthy Sons of Unktéhee; And there, in the midst of the slain, they found, as it gleamed in the fire light, The horn-handled knife from the Seine, where it fell from the hand of Tamdóka. [Illustration: THE RIVER WAKPA WAKAN OR SPIRIT RIVER] In the gray of the morn, ere the sun peeped over the dewy horizon, Their journey again was begun, and they toiled up the swift, winding river; And many a shallow they passed on their way to the Lake of the Spirits; But dauntless they reached it at last, and found Akee-pá-kee-tin's village, [a] On an isle in the midst of the lake; and a day in his teepee they tarried. [a] see Hennepin's account of Aqui-pa-que-tin and his village. Shea's Hennepin 227. Of the deed in the wilderness spake, to the brave Chief, the frank-hearted Frenchman. A generous man was the Chief and a friend of the fearless explorer; And dark was his visage with grief at the treacherous act of the warriors. "Brave Wazi-Kuté is a man, and his heart is as clear as the sun-light; But the head of a treacherous clan, and a snake in the bush is Tamdóka," Said the chief; and he promised Duluth, on the word of a friend and a warrior, To carry the pipe and the truth to his cousin, the chief at Kathága; For thrice at the Tânka Medé had he smoked in the lodge of the Frenchman; And thrice had he carried away the bountiful gifts of the trader. When the chief could no longer prevail on the white men to rest in his teepee, He guided their feet on the trail to the lakes of the winding Rice-River. [a] Now on speeds the light bark canoe, through the lakes to the broad Gitchee Seebee; [b] And up the great river they row, --up the Big Sandy Lake and Savanna; And down through the meadows they go to the river of broad Gitchee Gumee. [c] [a] Now called "Mud River"--it empties into the Mississippi at Aitkin. [b] _Gitchee seebee_--Big River--the Ojibway name for the Mississippi, which is a corruption of Gitchee Seebee--as Michigan is a corruption of _Gitchee Gumee_--Great Lake, the Ojibway name of Lake Superior. [c] The Ojibways call the St. Louis River _Gitchee-Gumee See-bee--Great-lake River_, i.e. the river of the Great Lake (Lake Superior). [Illustration: DALLES OF THE ST. LOUIS] Still onward they speed to the Dalles --to the roar of the white-rolling rapids, Where the dark river tumbles and falls down the ragged ravine of the mountains, And singing his wild jubilee to the low-moaning pines and the cedars, Rushes on to the unsalted sea o'er the ledges upheaved by volcanoes. Their luggage the _voyageurs_ bore down the long, winding path of the portage, [a] While they mingled their song with the roar of the turbid and turbulent waters. Down-wimpling and murmuring there, twixt two dewy hills winds a streamlet, Like a long, flaxen ringlet of hair on the breast of a maid in her slumber. [a] The route of Duluth above described--from the mouth of the Wild Rice Mud River to Lake Superior--was for centuries and still is, the Indians' canoe route. I have walked over the old portage from the foot of the Dalles to the St. Louis above--trod by the feet of half-breeds and _voyageurs_ for more than two centuries, and by the Indians for, perhaps, a thousand years. All safe at the foot of the trail, where they left it, they found their felucca, And soon to the wind spread the sail, and glided at ease through the waters, Through the meadows and lakelets and forth, round the point stretching south like a finger, From the mist-wreathen hill on the north, sloping down to the bay and the lake-side And behold, at the foot of the hill, a cluster of Chippewa wigwams, And the busy wives plying with skill their nets in the emerald waters. Two hundred white winters and more have fled from the face of the Summer Since DuLuth, on that wild, somber shore, in the unbroken forest primeval, From the midst of the spruce and the pines, saw the smoke of the wigwams up-curling, Like the fumes from the temples and shrines of the Druids of old in their forests. Ah, little he dreamed then, forsooth, that a city would stand on that hill-side, And bear the proud name of Duluth, the untiring and dauntless explorer. A refuge for ships from the storms, and for men from the bee-hives of Europe. Out-stretching her long, iron arms o'er an empire of Saxons and Normans. The swift west-wind sang in the sails, and on flew the boat like a Sea-Gull, By the green, templed hills and the dales, and the dark rugged rocks of the North Shore; For the course of the brave Frenchman lay to his fort at the Gáh-mah-na-ték-wáhk, [83] By the shore of the grand Thunder Bay, where the gray rocks loom up into mountains; Where the Stone Giant sleeps on the Cape, and the god of the storms makes the thunder, [83] And the Makinak [83] lifts his huge shape from the breast of the blue-rolling waters, And thence to the south-westward led his course to the Holy Ghost Mission. [84] Where the Black Robes, the brave shepherds, fed their wild sheep on the isle Wau-ga-bá-mé. [84] [Illustration: SUNSET BAY, LAKE SUPERIOR.] In the enchanting Cha-quam-e-gon Bay, defended by all the Apostles; [a] And thence by the Ké-we-naw, lay his course to the Mission Sainte Marie. [b] Now the waves drop their myriad hands, and streams the white hair of the surges; DuLuth at the steady helm stands, and he hums as he bounds o'er the billows: O sweet is the carol of bird, And sweet is the murmur of streams, But sweeter the voice that I heard-- In the night--in the midst of my dreams. [a] The Apostle Islands. [b] At the Saut St. Marie. 'Tis the moon of the sere, falling leaves. From the heads of the maples the west-wind Plucks the red-and-gold plumage and grieves on the meads for the rose and the lily; Their brown leaves the moaning oaks strew, and the breezes that roam on the prairies, Low-whistling and wanton pursue the down of the silk weed and thistle. All sere are the prairies and brown, in the glimmer and haze of the Autumn; From the far northern marshes flock down, by thousands, the geese and the mallards. From the meadows and wide-prairied plains, for their long southward journey preparing, In croaking flocks gather the cranes, and choose with loud clamor their leaders. The breath of the evening is cold, and lurid along the horizon The flames of the prairies are rolled, on the somber skies flashing their torches. At noontide a shimmer of gold, through the haze, pours the sun from his pathway. The wild-rice is gathered and ripe, on the moors, lie the scarlet po-pán-ka; [a] Michabo [85] is smoking his pipe, --'tis the soft, dreamy Indian Summer, When the god of the South as he flies from Wazíya, the god of the Winter, For a time turns his beautiful eyes, and backward looks over his shoulder. [a] Cranberries. It is noon. From his path in the skies the red sun looks down on Kathága, Asleep in the valley it lies, for the swift hunters follow the bison. Ta-té-psin, the aged brave, bends as he walks by the side of Winona; Her arm to his left hand she lends, and he feels with his staff for the pathway; On his slow, feeble footsteps attends his gray dog, the watchful Wicháka; [a] For blind in his years is the chief of a fever that followed the Summer, And the days of Ta-té-psin are brief. Once more by the dark-rolling river Sits the Chief in the warm, dreamy haze of the beautiful Summer in Autumn; And the faithful dog lovingly lays his head at the feet of his master. On a dead, withered branch sits a crow, down-peering askance at the old man; On the marge of the river below romp the nut-brown and merry-voiced children, And the dark waters silently flow, broad and deep, to the plunge of the Ha-ha. [a] Wee-chah kah--literally "Faithful". By his side sat Winona. He laid his thin, shriveled hand on her tresses, "Winona my daughter," he said, "no longer thy father beholds thee; But he feels the long locks of thy hair, and the days that are gone are remembered, When Sisóka [a] sat faithful and fair in the lodge of swift footed Ta-té-psin. The white years have broken my spear; from my bow they have taken the bow-string; But once on the trail of the deer, like a gray wolf from sunrise till sunset, By woodland and meadow and mere, ran the feet of Ta-té-psin untiring. But dim are the days that are gone, and darkly around me they wander, Like the pale, misty face of the moon when she walks through the storm of the winter; And sadly they speak in my ear. I have looked on the graves of my kindred. The Land of the Spirits is near. Death walks by my side like a shadow. Now open thine ear to my voice, and thy heart to the wish of thy father, And long will Winona rejoice that she heeded the words of Ta-té-psin. The cold, cruel winter is near, and famine will sit in the teepee. What hunter will bring me the deer, or the flesh of the bear or the bison? For my kinsmen before me have gone; they hunt in the land of the shadows. In my old age forsaken, alone, must I die in my teepee of hunger? Winona, Tamdóka can make my empty lodge laugh with abundance; For thine aged and blind father's sake, to the son of the Chief speak the promise. For gladly again to my tee will the bridal gifts come for my daughter. A fleet-footed hunter is he, and the good spirits feather his arrows; And the cold, cruel winter will be a feast-time instead of a famine." [a] The Robin--the name of Winona's Mother. "My father," she said, and her voice was filial and full of compassion, "Would the heart of Ta-té-psin rejoice at the death of Winona, his daughter? The crafty Tamdóka I hate. Must I die in his teepee of sorrow? For I love the White Chief, and I wait his return to the land of Dakotas. When the cold winds of winter return, and toss the white robes of the prairies, The fire of the White Chief will burn, in his lodge, at the Meeting-of-Waters. Winona's heart followed his feet far away to the land of the morning, And she hears in her slumber his sweet, kindly voice call the name of thy daughter. My father, abide, I entreat, the return of the brave to Kathága. The wild-rice is gathered, the meat of the bison is stored in the teepee; Till the Coon-Moon [71] enough and to spare; and if then the white warrior return not, Winona will follow the bear, and the coon, to their dens in the forest. She is strong; she can handle the spear; she can bend the stout bow of the hunter; And swift on the trail of the deer will she run o'er the snow on her snow-shoes. Let the step-mother sit in the tee, and kindle the fire for my father; And the cold, cruel winter shall be a feast-time instead of a famine." "The White Chief will never return," half angrily muttered Ta-té-psin; "His camp-fire will nevermore burn in the land of the warriors he slaughtered. I grieve, for my daughter has said that she loves the false friend of her kindred; For the hands of the White Chief are red with the blood of the trustful Dakotas." Then warmly Winona replied, "Tamdóka himself is the traitor, And the white-hearted stranger had died by his treacherous hand in the forest, But thy daughter's voice bade him beware of the sly death that followed his footsteps. The words of Tamdóka are fair, but his heart is the den of the serpents. When the braves told their tale, like a bird sang the heart of Winona rejoicing, But gladlier still had she heard of the death of the crafty Tamdóka. The Chief will return, he is bold, and he carries the fire of Wakínyan; To our people the truth will be told, and Tamdóka will hide like a coward." His thin locks the aged brave shook; to himself half inaudibly muttered; To Winona no answer he spoke --only moaned he "Micunksee! Micunksee! [a] In my old age forsaken and blind! Yun! He he! Micúnksee! Micúnksee!" [b] And Wicháka, the pitying dog, whined, as he looked on the face of his master. [a] My Daughter! My Daughter! [b] Alas! O My Daughter,--My Daughter! Wazíya came down from the North --from his land of perpetual winter. From his frost-covered beard issued forth the sharp-biting, shrill-whistling North-wind; At the touch of his breath the wide earth turned to stone, and the lakes and the rivers; From his nostrils the white vapors rose, and they covered the sky like a blanket. Like the down of Magá [a] fell the snows, tossed and whirled into heaps by the North-wind. Then the blinding storms roared on the plains, like the simoons on sandy Sahara; From the fangs of the fierce hurricanes fled the elk and the deer and the bison. Ever colder and colder it grew, till the frozen earth cracked and split open; And harder and harder it blew, till the prairies were bare as the boulders. To the southward the buffaloes fled, and the white rabbits hid in their burrows; On the bare sacred mounds of the dead howled the gaunt, hungry wolves in the night-time. The strong hunters crouched in their tees; by the lodge-fires the little ones shivered; And the Magic Men [b] danced to appease, in their teepee, the wrath of Wazíya; But famine and fatal disease, like phantoms, crept into the village. The Hard Moon [c] was past, but the moon when the coons make their trails in the forest [d] Grew colder and colder. The coon or the bear, ventured not from his cover; For the cold, cruel Arctic Simoon swept the earth like the breath of a furnace. In the tee of Ta-té-psin the store of wild-rice and dried meat was exhausted; And Famine crept in at the door, and sat crouching and gaunt by the lodge-fire. But now with the saddle of deer, and the gifts, came the crafty Tamdóka; And he said, "Lo I bring you good cheer, for I love the blind Chief and his daughter. Take the gifts of Tamdóka, for dear to his heart is the dark-eyed Winona." The aged chief opened his ears; in his heart he already consented; But the moans of his child and her tears touched the age-softened heart of the father, And he said, "I am burdened with years, --I am bent by the snows of my winters; Ta-té-psin will die in his tee; let him pass to the Land of the Spirits; But Winona is young; she is free, and her own heart shall choose her a husband." The dark warrior strode from the tee; low-muttering and grim he departed. "Let him die in his lodge," muttered he, "but Winona shall kindle my lodge-fire." [a] Wild goose. [b] Medicine men. [c] January. [d] February. Then forth went Winona. The bow of Ta-té-psin she took and his arrows, And afar o'er the deep, drifted snow, through the forest, she sped on her snow-shoes. Over meadow and ice-covered mere, through the thickets of red oak and hazel, She followed the tracks of the deer, but like phantoms they fled from her vision. From sunrise till sunset she sped; half-famished she camped in the thicket; In the cold snow she made her lone bed; on the buds of the birch [a] made her supper. To the dim moon the gray owl preferred, from the tree top, his shrill lamentation, And around her at midnight she heard the dread famine-cries of the gray wolves. In the gloam of the morning again on the trail of the red-deer she followed-- All day long through the thickets in vain, for the gray wolves were chasing the roebucks; And the cold, hungry winds from the plain chased the wolves and the deer and Winona. [a] The pheasant feeds on birch-buds in winter. Indians eat them when very hungry. In the twilight of sundown she sat, in the forest, all weak and despairing; Ta-té-psin's bow lay at her feet, and his otter skin quiver of arrows. "He promised,--he promised," she said --half-dreamily uttered and mournful,-- "And why comes he not? Is he dead? Was he slain by the crafty Tamdóka? Must Winona, alas, make her choice --make her choice between death and Tamdóka? She will die but her soul will rejoice in the far Summer-land of the spirits. Hark! I hear his low, musical voice! He is coming! My White Chief is coming! Ah, no; I am half in a dream! --'twas the mem'ry of days long departed; But the birds of the green Summer seem to be singing above in the branches." Then forth from her bosom she drew the crucified Jesus in silver. In her dark hair the cold north wind blew, as meekly she bent o'er the image. "O Christ of the White man," she prayed, "lead the feet of my brave to Kathága; Send a good spirit down to my aid, or the friend of the White Chief will perish." Then a smile on her wan features played, and she lifted her pale face and chanted: "E-ye-he-ktá! E-ye-he-ktá! Hé-kta-cè; é-ye-ce-quón. Mí-Wamdee-ská, he-he-ktá; He-kta-cè; é-ye-ce-quón, Mí-Wamdee-ská." [TRANSLATION.] He will come; he will come; He will come, for he promised. My White Eagle, he will come; He will come, for he promised,-- My White Eagle. Thus sadly she chanted, and lo --allured by her sorrowful accents-- From the dark covert crept a red doe and wondrously gazed on Winona. Then swift caught the huntress her bow; from her trembling hand hummed the keen arrow. Up-leaped the red gazer and fled, but the white snow was sprinkled with scarlet, And she fell in the oak thicket dead. On the trail ran the eager Winona. Half-famished the raw flesh she ate. To the hungry maid sweet was her supper. Then swift through the night ran her feet, and she trailed the sleek red-deer behind her. And the guide of her steps was a star --the cold-glinting star of Wazíya--[a] Over meadow and hilltop afar, on the way to the lodge of her father. But hark! on the keen frosty air wind the shrill hunger-howls of the gray wolves! And nearer,--still nearer! --the blood of the doe have they scented and follow; Through the thicket, the meadow, the wood, dash the pack on the trail of Winona. Swift she speeds with her burden, but swift on her track fly the minions of famine; Now they yell on the view from the drift, in the reeds at the marge of the meadow; Red gleam their wild, ravenous eyes; for they see on the hill-side their supper; The dark forest echoes their cries; but her heart is the heart of a warrior. From its sheath snatched Winona her knife, and a leg from the red doe she severed; With the carcass she ran for her life, --to a low-branching oak ran the maiden; Round the deer's neck her head-strap [b] was tied; swiftly she sprang to the arms of the oak-tree; Quick her burden she drew to her side, and higher she clomb on the branches, While the maddened wolves battled and bled, dealing death o'er the leg to each other; Their keen fangs devouring the dead, --yea, devouring the flesh of the living, They raved and they gnashed and they growled, like the fiends in the regions infernal; The wide night re-echoing howled, and the hoarse North wind laughed o'er the slaughter. But their ravenous maws unappeased by the blood and the flesh of their fellows, To the cold wind their muzzles they raised, and the trail to the oak-tree they followed. Round and round it they howled for the prey, madly leaping and snarling and snapping; But the brave maiden's keen arrows slay, till the dead number more than the living. All the long, dreary night-time, at bay, in the oak sat the shivering Winona; But the sun gleamed at last, and away skulked the gray cowards [c] down through the forest. Then down dropped the doe and the maid. Ere the sun reached the midst of his journey, Her red, welcome burden she laid at the feet of her famishing father. [a] Wazíya's Star is the North Star. [b] A strap used in carrying burdens. [c] Wolves sometimes attack people at night but rarely if ever in the day time. If they have followed a hunter all night, or "treed" him they will skulk away as soon as the sun rises. Wazíya's wild wrath was appeased, and homeward he turned to his teepee, [3] O'er the plains and the forest-land breezed, from the Islands of Summer, the South wind. From their dens came the coon and the bear; o'er the snow through the woodlands they wandered; On her snow shoes with stout bow and spear on their trails ran the huntress Winona. The coon to his den in the tree, and the bear to his burrow she followed; A brave, skillful hunter was she, and Ta-té-psin's lodge laughed with abundance. The long winter wanes. On the wings of the spring come the geese and the mallards; On the bare oak the red-robin sings, and the crocuses peep on the prairies, And the bobolink pipes, but he brings, of the blue-eyed, brave White Chief, no tidings. With the waning of winter, alas, waned the life of the aged Tatépsin; Ere the blue pansies peeped from the grass, to the Land of the Spirits he journeyed; Like a babe in its slumber he passed, or the snow from the hill tops in April; And the dark-eyed Winona, at last, stood alone by the graves of her kindred. When their myriad mouths opened the trees to the sweet dew of heaven and the rain drops, And the April showers fell on the leas, on his mound fell the tears of Winona. Round her drooping form gathered the years and the spirits unseen of her kindred, As low, in the midst of her tears, at the grave of her father she chanted: E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày! E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày! E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày! Ma-káh kin háy-chay-dan táy-han wan-kày. Tú-way ne ktáy snee e-yáy-chen e-wáh chày. E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày! E-yó-tan-han e-yáy-wah ké-yày! Ma-káh kin háy-chay-dan táy-han wan-kày. [TRANSLATION] Sore is my sorrow! Sore is my sorrow! Sore is my sorrow! The earth alone lasts. I speak as one dying; Sore is my sorrow! Sore is my sorrow! The earth alone lasts. Still hope, like a star in the night gleaming oft through the broken clouds somber, Cheered the heart of Winona, and bright, on her dreams, beamed the face of the Frenchman. As the thought of a loved one and lost, sad and sweet were her thoughts of the White Chief; In the moon's mellow light, like a ghost, walked Winona alone by the Ha-ha, Ever wrapped in a dream. Far away --to the land of the sunrise--she wandered; On the blue rolling Tánka Medé, [a] in the midst of her dreams, she beheld him-- In his white-winged canoe, like a bird, to the land of Dakotas returning; And often in fancy she heard the dip of his oars on the river. On the dark waters glimmered the moon, but she saw not the boat of the Frenchman; On the somber night bugled the loon, but she heard not the song of the boatmen. The moon waxed and waned, but the star of her hope never waned to the setting; Through her tears she beheld it afar, like a torch on the eastern horizon. "He will come,--he is coming," she said; "he will come, for my White Eagle promised," And low to the bare earth the maid bent her ear for the sound of his footsteps. "He is gone, but his voice in my ear still remains like the voice of the robin; He is far, but his footsteps I hear; he is coming; my White Chief is coming!" [a] Lake Superior,--The _Gitchee Gumee_ of the Chippewas. But the moon waxed and waned. Nevermore will the eyes of Winona behold him. Far away on the dark, rugged shore of the blue Gitchee Gúmee he lingers. No tidings the rising sun brings; no tidings the star of the evening; But morning and evening she sings, like a turtle-doe widowed and waiting; Aké u, aké u, aké u; Ma cântè maséca. Aké u, aké u, aké u; Ma cântè maséca. Come again, come again, come again; For my heart is sad. Come again, come again, come again; For my heart is sad. Down the broad Gitchee Seebee [a] the band took their way to the Games at Keóza. While the swift-footed hunters by land ran the shores for the elk and the bison. Like magás [b] ride the birchen canoes on the breast of the dark Gitchee Seebee; By the willow-fringed islands they cruise by the grassy hills green to their summits; By the lofty bluffs hooded with oaks that darken the deep with their shadows; And bright in the sun gleam the strokes of the oars in the hands of the women. With the band went Winona. The oar plied the maid with the skill of a hunter. They loitered and camped on the shore of Remníca --the Lake of the Mountains. [c] There the fleet hunters followed the deer, and the thorny _pahin_ [d] for the women. [a] Chippewa name of the Mississippi [b] Wild Geese [c] Lake Pepin; by Hennepin called Lake of Tears--Called by the Dakotas Remnee-chah-Mday--Lake of the Mountains. [d] Pah hin--the porcupine--the quill of which are greatly prized for ornamental work. From the tees rose the smoke of good cheer, curling blue through the tops of the maples, Near the foot of a cliff that arose, like the battle-scarred walls of a castle. Up-towering, in rugged repose, to a dizzy height over the waters. But the man-wolf still followed his prey, and the step-mother ruled in the tepee; Her will must Winona obey, by the custom and law of Dakotas. The gifts to the teepee were brought --the blankets, and beads of the White men, And Winona, the orphaned, was bought by the crafty relentless Tamdóka. In the Spring-time of life, in the flush of the gladsome mid-May days of Summer, When the bobolink sang and the thrush, and the red robin chirped in the branches, To the tent of the brave must she go; she must kindle the fire in his tepee; She must sit in the lodge of her foe, as a slave at the feet of her master. Alas for her waiting! the wings of the East-wind have brought her no tidings; On the meadow the meadow-lark sings but sad is her song to Winona, For the glad warblers melody brings but the memory of voices departed. The Day-Spirit walked in the west to his lodge in the land of the shadows; His shining face gleamed on the crest of the oak-hooded hills and the mountains, And the meadow-lark hied to her nest, and the mottled owl peeped from her cover. But hark! from the teepees a cry! Hear the shouts of the hurrying warriors! Are the steps of the enemy nigh, --of the crafty and creeping Ojibways? Nay; look on the dizzy cliff high! --on the brink of the cliff stands Winona! Her sad face up-turned to the sky. Hark! I hear the wild chant of her death-song: My Father's Spirit, look down, look down-- From your hunting-grounds in the shining skies; Behold, for the light of my soul is gone,-- The light is gone and Winona dies. I looked to the East, but I saw no star; The face of my White Chief was turned away. I harked for his footsteps in vain; afar His bark sailed over the Sunrise-sea. Long have I watched till my heart is cold; In my breast it is heavy and cold as stone. No more shall Winona his face behold, And the robin that sang in her heart is gone. Shall I sit at the feet of the treacherous brave? On his hateful couch shall Winona lie? Shall she kindle his fire like a coward slave? No!--a warrior's daughter can bravely die. My Father's Spirit, look down, look down-- From your hunting-grounds in the shining skies; Behold, for the light of my soul is gone,-- The light is gone and Winona dies. Swift the strong hunters clomb as she sang, and the foremost of all was Tamdóka; From crag to crag upward he sprang; like a panther he leaped to the summit. Too late! on the brave as he crept turned the maid in her scorn and defiance; Then swift from the dizzy height leaped. Like a brant arrow-pierced in mid-heaven. Down-whirling and fluttering she fell, and headlong plunged into the waters. Forever she sank mid the wail, and the wild lamentation of women. Her lone spirit evermore dwells in the depths of the Lake of the Mountains, And the lofty cliff evermore tells to the years as they pass her sad story. [a] In the silence of sorrow the night o'er the earth spread her wide, sable pinions; And the stars [18] hid their faces, and light on the lake fell the tears of the spirits. As her sad sisters watched on the shore for her spirit to rise from the waters, They heard the swift dip of an oar, and a boat they beheld like a shadow, Gliding down through the night in the gray, gloaming mists on the face of the waters. 'Twas the bark of DuLuth on his way from the Falls to the Games at Keóza. [a] The Dakotas say that the spirit of Winona forever haunts the lake. They say that it was many, many winters ago when Winona leaped from the rock--that the rock was then perpendicular to the water's edge and she leaped into the lake, but now the rock has worn away, or the water has receded, so that it does not reach the foot of the rock. [Illustration: "DOWN THE RAGGED RAVINE OF THE MOUNTAINS." DALLES OF THE ST LOUIS.] THE LEGEND OF THE FALLS. Note: An-pe-tu Sa-pa--Clouded Day--was the name of the Dakota mother who committed suicide, as related in this legend, by plunging over the Falls of St. Anthony. Schoolcraft calls her "_Ampata_ Sapa." _Ampata_ is not Dakota. There are several versions of this legend, all agreeing in the main points. [Read at the celebration of the Old Settlers of Hennepin County, at the Academy of Music, Minneapolis, July 4, 1879.] (The numerals refer to notes in the Appendix.) On the Spirit-Island [a] sitting under midnight's misty moon, Lo I see the spirits flitting o'er the waters one by one! Slumber wraps the silent city, and the droning mills are dumb; One lone whippowil's shrill ditty calls her mate that ne'er will come. Sadly moans the mighty river, foaming down the fettered falls, Where of old he thundered ever o'er abrupt and lofty walls. Great Unktèhee [69]--god of waters--lifts no more his mighty head;-- Fled he with the timid otters?--lies he in the cavern dead? [a] The small island of rock a few rods below the Falls, was called by the Dakotas Wanagee We-ta�-Spirit-Island. They say the spirit of Anpetu Sapa sits upon that island at night and pours forth her sorrow in song. They also say that from time out of mind, war-eagles nested on that island, until the advent of white men frightened them away. This seems to be true. Carver's Travels. London. 1778, p. 71. Hark!--the waters hush their sighing, and the whippowil her call, Through the moon-lit mists are flying dusky shadows silent all. Lo from out the waters foaming--from the cavern deep and dread-- Through the glamour and the gloaming, comes a spirit of the dead. Sad she seems, her tresses raven on her tawny shoulders rest; Sorrow on her brow is graven, in her arms a babe is pressed. Hark!--she chants the solemn story,--sings the legend sad and old, And the river wrapt in glory listens while the tale is told. Would you hear the legend olden, hearken while I tell the tale-- Shorn, alas, of many a golden, weird Dakota chant and wail. THE LEGEND. Tall was young Wanâta, stronger than Heyóka's [16] giant form. Laughed at flood and fire and hunger, faced the fiercest winter storm. When Wakínyan [32] flashed and thundered, when Unktéhee raved and roared, All but brave Wanâta wondered, and the gods with fear implored. When the war-whoop wild resounded, calling friends to meet the foe, From the teepee swift he bounded, armed with polished lance and bow. In the battle's din and clangor fast his fatal arrows flew, Flashed his fiery eyes with anger,--many a haughty foe he slew. Hunter, swift was he and cunning, caught the beaver, slew the bear, Overtook the roebuck running, dragged the panther from his lair. Loved was he by many a maiden; many a dark eye glanced in vain; Many a heart with sighs was laden for the love it might not gain. So they called the brave "Ska Câpa"; [a] but the fairest of the band-- Moon-faced, meek Anpétu-Sâpa--won the hunter's heart and hand. [a] Or Capa Ska--White beaver. White beavers are very rare, very cunning and hard to catch. From the wars with triumph burning, from the chase of bison fleet, To his lodge the brave returning, spread his trophies at her feet. Love and joy sat in the tepee; him a black-eyed boy she bore; But alas, she lived to weep a love she lost forevermore. For the warriors chose Wanâta first Itâncan [a] of the band. At the council-fire he sat a leader loved a chieftain grand. Proud was fair Anpétu-Sâpa, and her eyes were glad with joy; Proud was she and very happy, with her chieftain and her boy. But alas, the fatal honor that her brave Wanâta won, Brought a bitter woe upon her,--hid with clouds the summer sun For among the brave Dakotas, wives bring honor to the chief. On the vine-clad Minnesota's banks he met the Scarlet Leaf. Young and fair was Apè-dúta [b]--full of craft and very fair; Proud she walked a queen of beauty with her wondrous flowing hair. In her net of hair she caught him--caught Wanâta with her wiles; All in vain his wife besought him--begged in vain his wonted smiles. Apè-dúta ruled the teepee--all Wanâta's smiles were hers; When the lodge was wrapped in sleep a star [c] beheld the mother's tears. Long she strove to do her duty for the black-eyed babe she bore; But the proud, imperious beauty made her sad forevermore. Still she dressed the skins of beaver, bore the burdens, spread the fare; Patient ever, murmuring never, while her cheeks were creased with care. [a] E-tan-can--Chief. [b] A-pe--leaf,--duta--Scarlet,--Scarlet leaf. [c] Stars, the Dakotas say, are the faces of departed friends and relatives on earth. In the moon Magâ-o-Kâda, [71] twice an hundred years ago-- Ere the "Black Robe's" [a] sacred shadow stalked the prairies' pathless snow Down the swollen, rushing river, in the sunset's golden hues, From the hunt of bear and beaver came the band in swift canoes. On the queen of fairy islands, on the Wita-Wâstè's [b] shore, Camped Wanâta, on the highlands, just above the cataract's roar. Many braves were with Wanâta; Apè-dúta, too, was there, And the sad Anpétu-sâpa spread the lodge with wonted care. Then above the leafless prairie leaped the fat faced, laughing moon, And the stars--the spirits fairy--walked the welkin one by one. Swift and silent in the gloaming on the waste of waters blue, Speeding downward to the foaming, shot Wanâta's birch canoe, In it stood Anpétu-sâpa--in her arms her sleeping child; Like a wailing Norse-land _drapa_ [c] rose her death-song weird and wild: Mihihna, [d] Mihihna, my heart is stone; The light is gone from my longing eyes; The wounded loon in the lake alone Her death-song sings to the moon and dies. Mihihna, Mihihna, the path is long. The burden is heavy and hard to bear; I sink,--I die, and my dying song Is a song of joy to the false one's ear. Mihihna, Mihihna, my young heart flew Far away with my brave to the bison-chase; To the battle it went with my warrior true, And never returned till I saw his face. Mihihna, Mihihna, my brave was glad When he came from the chase of the roebuck fleet; Sweet were the words that my hunter said, As his trophies he laid at Anpétu's feet. Mihihna, Mihihna, the boy I bore-- When the robin sang and my brave was true, I can bear to look on his face no more. For he looks, Mihihna, so much like you. Mihihna, Mihihna, the Scarlet Leaf Has robbed my boy of his father's love; He sleeps in my arms--he will find no grief In the star-lit lodge in the land above. Mihihna, Mihihna, my heart is stone, The light is gone from my longing eyes; The wounded loon in the lake alone, Her death-song sings to the moon and dies. [a] The Dakotas called the Jesuit priests "Black Robes" from the color of their vestments. [b] Wee tah Wah-stay--Beautiful Island,--the Dakota name for Nicollet Island just above the Falls. [c] _Drapa_, a Norse funeral wail in which the virtues of the deceased are recounted. [d] Mee heen-yah--My husband. Swiftly down the turbid torrent, as she sung her song she flew; Like a swan upon the current, dancing rode the light canoe. Hunters hurry in the gloaming, all in vain Wanâta calls; Singing through the surges foaming, lo she plunges o'er the Falls. Long they search the sullen river--searched for leagues along the shore, Bark or babe or mother never saw the sad Dakotas more; But at night or misty morning oft the hunters heard her song, Oft the maidens heard her warning in their mellow mother-tongue. On the bluffs they sat enchanted till the blush of beamy dawn; Spirit Isle they say, is haunted, and they call the spot "Wakân." [a] Many summers on the highland, in the full-moon's golden glow-- In the woods on Fairy Island, [b] walked a snow white fawn and doe Spirits of the babe and mother sadly seeking evermore, For a father's love another turned with evil charm and power. [a] Pronounced Walk on--Sacred, inhabited by a Spirit. [b] Fairy Island--Wita Waste--Nicollet Island. Sometimes still when moonbeams shimmer through the maples on the lawn, In the gloaming and the glimmer walk the silent doe and fawn; And on Spirit-Isle or near it, under midnight's misty moon, Oft is seen the mother's spirit, oft is heard her mournful tune. [Illustration: SCENE ON THUNDER BAY, LAKE SUPERIOR.] THE SEAGULL. [101] THE LEGEND OF THE PICTURED ROCKS OF LAKE SUPERIOR. OJIBWAY. IN THE MEASURE OF HIAWATHA (The numerals 1 2 etc., refer to Notes to Sea-Gull in Appendix.) On the shore of Gitchee Gumee--[102] Deep, mysterious, mighty waters--Where the mânitoes--the spirits-- Ride the storms and speak in thunder, In the days of Neme-Shómis, [103] In the days that are forgotten, Dwelt a tall and tawny hunter-- Gitchee Péz-ze-ú--the panther, Son of Waub-Ojeeg, [104] the warrior, Famous Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior. Strong was he and fleet as roebuck, Brave was he and very stealthy; On the deer crept like a panther; Grappled with Makwá, [105] the monster, Grappled with the bear and conquered; Took his black claws for a necklet, Took his black hide for a blanket. When the Panther wed the Sea-Gull, Young was he and very gladsome; Fair was she and full of laughter; Like the robin in the spring time, Sang from sunrise till the sunset; For she loved the handsome hunter. Deep as Gitchee Gumee's waters Was her love--as broad and boundless; And the wedded twain were happy-- Happy as the mated robins. When their first born saw the sunlight Joyful was the heart of Panther, Proud and joyful was the mother. All the days were full of sunshine; All the nights were full of star light. Nightly from the land of spirits On them smiled the starry faces,-- Faces of their friends departed. Little moccasins she made him, Feathered cap and belt of wampum; From the hide of fawn a blanket, Fringed with feathers soft as sable; Singing at her pleasant labor, By her side the tekenâgun [106] And the little hunter in it. Oft the Panther smiled and fondled, Smiled upon the babe and mother, Frolicked with the boy and fondled. Tall he grew and like his father, And they called the boy the Raven-- Called him Kâk-kâh-gè--the Raven. Happy hunter was the Panther. From the woods he brought the pheasant, Brought the red deer and the rabbit, Brought the trout from Gitchee Gumee-- Brought the mallard from the marshes,-- Royal feast for boy and mother: Brought the hides of fox and beaver, Brought the skins of mink and otter, Lured the loon and took his blanket, Took his blanket for the Raven. Winter swiftly followed winter, And again the tekenâgun Held a babe--a tawny daughter, Held a dark-eyed, dimpled daughter; And they called her Waub-omeé-meé,-- Thus they named her--the White-Pigeon. But as winter followed winter Cold and sullen grew the Panther; Sat and smoked his pipe in silence; When he spoke he spoke in anger; In the forest often tarried Many days, and homeward turning, Brought no game unto his wigwam: Only brought his empty quiver, Brought his dark and sullen visage. Sad at heart and very lonely Sat the Sea-Gull in the wigwam; Sat and swung the tekenâgun, Sat and sang to Waub-omeé-meé; Thus she sang to Waub-omeé-meé, Thus the lullaby she chanted: Wâ-wa, wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà; Kah-wéen, nee-zhéka kè-diaus-âi, Ke-gâh nau-wâi, ne-mé-go s'wéen, Ne-bâun, ne-bâun, ne-dâun-is-âis, Wâ-wa, wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà; Ne-bâun, ne-bâun, ne-dâun-is-âis, E-we wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà, E-we wâ-wa, wâ-we-yeà, [TRANSLATION] Swing, swing little one, lullaby; Thou'rt not left alone to weep; Mother cares for you,--she is nigh; Sleep, my little one, sweetly sleep; Swing, swing, little one, lullaby; Mother watches you--she is nigh; Gently, gently, wee one swing; Gently, gently, while I sing E-we wâ-wa--lullaby, E-we wâ-wa�-lullaby. Homeward to his lodge returning Kindly greeting found the hunter, Fire to warm and food to nourish, Golden trout from Gitchee Gumee, Caught by Kâk-kâh-gè--the Raven. With a snare he caught the rabbit-- Caught Wabóse, the furry footed, [107] Caught Penây, the forest drummer; [107] Sometimes with his bow and arrows, Shot the red deer in the forest. Shot the squirrel in the pine top, Shot Ne-kâ, the wild goose, flying. Proud as Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior, To the lodge he bore his trophies So when homeward turned the Panther Ever found he food provided, Found the lodge-fire brightly burning, Found the faithful Sea-Gull waiting. "You are cold," she said, "and famished; Here are fire and food, my husband." Not by word or look he answered; Only ate the food provided, Filled, his pipe and pensive puffed it, Smoked and sat in sullen silence. Once--her dark eyes full of hunger-- Thus she spoke and thus besought him: "Tell me, O my silent Panther, Tell me, O beloved husband, What has made you sad and sullen? Have you met some evil spirit-- Met some goblin in the forest? Has he put a spell upon you-- Filled your heart with bitter waters, That you sit so sad and sullen, Sit and smoke, but never answer, Only when the storm is on you?" Gruffly then the Panther answered: "Brave among the brave is Panther, Son of Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior, And the brave are ever silent; But a whining dog is woman, Whining ever like a coward." Forth into the tangled forest, Threading through the thorny thickets, Treading, trails on marsh and meadow, Sullen strode the moody hunter. Saw he not the bear or beaver, Saw he not the elk or roebuck; From his path the red fawn scampered, But no arrow followed after; From his den the sly wolf listened, But no twang of bow-string heard he. Like one walking in his slumber, Listless, dreaming walked the Panther; Surely had some witch bewitched him, Some bad spirit of the forest. When the Sea-Gull wed the Panther, Fair was she and full of laughter; Like the robin in the spring-time, Sang from sunrise till the sunset; But the storms of many winters Sifted frost upon her tresses, Seamed her tawny face with wrinkles. Not alone the storms of winters Seamed her tawny face with wrinkles. Twenty winters for the Panther Had she ruled the humble wigwam; For her haughty lord and master Borne the burdens on the journey, Gathered fagots for the lodge-fire, Tanned the skins of bear and beaver, Tanned the hides of moose and red deer; Made him moccasins and leggings, Decked his hood with quills and feathers-- Colored quills of Kaug, the thorny, [108] Feathers from Kenéw--the eagle. [108] For a warrior brave was Panther; Often had he met the foemen, Met the bold and fierce Dakotas; Westward on the war-path met them; And the scalps he won were numbered, Numbered seven by Kenéw-feathers. Sad at heart was Sea-Gull waiting, Watching, waiting in the wigwam; Not alone the storms of winters Sifted frost upon her tresses. Ka-be-bón-ík-ka, the mighty, [109] He that sends the cruel winter, He that turned to stone the Giant, From the distant Thunder-mountain, Far across broad Gitchee Gumee, Sent his warning of the winter, Sent the white frost and Kewâydin, [1010] Sent the swift and hungry North-wind. Homeward to the South the Summer Turned and fled the naked forests. With the Summer flew the robin, Flew the bobolink and blue-bird. Flock wise following chosen leaders, Like the shaftless heads of arrows Southward cleaving through the ether, Soon the wild geese followed after. One long moon the Sea-Gull waited, Watched and waited for her husband, Till at last she heard his footsteps, Heard him coming through the thicket. Forth she went to meet her husband, Joyful went to greet her husband. Lo behind the haughty hunter, Closely following in his footsteps, Walked a young and handsome woman, Walked the Red Fox from the island-- Gitchee Ménis--the Grand Island,-- Followed him into the wigwam, Proudly took her seat beside him. On the Red Fox smiled the hunter, On the hunter smiled the woman. Old and wrinkled was the Sea-Gull, Good and true, but old and wrinkled. Twenty winters for the Panther Had she ruled the humble wigwam, Borne the burdens on the journey, Gathered fagots for the lodge-fire, Tanned the skins of bear and beaver, Tanned the hides of moose and red deer, Made him moccasins and leggings, Decked his hood with quills and feathers, Colored quills of Kaug, the thorny, Feathers from the great war-eagle; Ever diligent and faithful, Ever patient, ne'er complaining. but like all brave men the Panther Loved a young and handsome woman; So he dallied with the danger, Dallied with the fair Algónkin, [1011] Till a magic mead she gave him, Brewed of buds of birch and cedar. [1012]Madly then he loved the woman; Then she ruled him, then she held him Tangled in her raven tresses, Tied and tangled in her tresses. Ah, the tail and tawny Panther! Ah, the brave and brawny Panther! Son of Waub-Ojeeg, the warrior! With a slender hair she led him, With a slender hair he drew him, Drew him often to her wigwam; There she bound him, there she held him Tangled in her raven tresses, Tied and tangled in her tresses. Ah, the best of men are tangled-- Sometime tangled in the tresses Of a fair and crafty woman. So the Panther wed the Red Fox, And she followed to his wigwam. Young again he seemed and gladsome, Glad as Raven when the father Made his first bow from the elm-tree, From the ash tree made his arrows, Taught him how to aim his arrows, How to shoot Wabóse--the rabbit. Then again the brawny hunter Brought the black bear and the beaver, Brought the haunch of elk and red-deer, Brought the rabbit and the pheasant-- Choicest bits of all for Red Fox. For her robes he brought the sable, Brought the otter and the ermine, Brought the black-fox tipped with silver. But the Sea-Gull murmured never, Not a word she spoke in anger, Went about her work as ever, Tanned the skins of bear and beaver, Tanned the hides of moose and red deer, Gathered fagots for the lodge-fire, Gathered rushes from the marches; Deftly into mats she wove them; Kept the lodge as bright as ever. Only to herself she murmured, All alone with Waub-omeé-meé, On the tall and toppling highland, O'er the wilderness of waters; Murmured to the murmuring waters, Murmured to the Nébe-nâw-baigs-- To the spirits of the waters; On the wild waves poured her sorrow, Save the infant on her bosom With her dark eyes wide with wonder, None to hear her but the spirits, And the murmuring pines above her. Thus she cast away her burdens, Cast her burdens on the waters; Thus unto the Mighty Spirit, Made her lowly lamentation: "Wahonówin!--Wahonówin!" [1013] Gitchee Mânito, benâ nin! Nah, Ba-bâ, showâin neméshin! "Wahonówin!--Wahonówin!" Ka-be-bón-ík-ka, the mighty, [109] He that sends the cruel winter, From the distant Thunder-mountain, On the shore of Gitchee Gumee-- On the rugged northern limit, Sent his solemn, final warning, Sent the white wolves of the Nor'land [1014] Like the dust of stars in ether-- In the Pathway of the Spirits. [1015] Like the sparkling dust of diamonds, Fell the frost upon the forest, On the mountains and the meadows, On the wilderness of woodland. On the wilderness of waters. All the lingering fowls departed-- All that seek the South in winter, All but Shingebís, the diver. [1016] He defies the Winter-maker, Sits and laughs at Winter-maker. Ka-be-bón-ík-ka, the mighty, From his wigwam called Kewáydin,-- From his home among the ice-bergs, From the sea of frozen waters, Called the swift and hungry North-wind. Then he spread his mighty pinions Over all the land and shook them, Like the white down of Wâubésè [1017] Fell the feathery snow and covered, All the marshes and the meadows, All the hill-tops and the highlands. Then old Péboân--the winter--[1018] Laughed along the stormy waters, Danced upon the windy headlands, On the storm his white hair streaming,-- And his steaming breath, ascending, On the pine-tops and the cedars Fell in frosty mists refulgent, Sprinkling somber shades with silver, Sprinkling all the woods with silver. By the lodge-fire all the winter Sat the Sea-Gull and the Red Fox, Sat and kindly spoke and chatted, Till the twain seemed friends together. Friends they seemed in word and action, But within the breast of either Smouldered still the baneful embers-- Fires of jealousy and hatred,-- Like a camp-fire in the forest Left by hunters and deserted; Only seems a bed of ashes, But the East-wind, Wâbun noódin, Scatters through the woods the ashes, Fans to flame the sleeping embers, And the wild-fire roars and rages, Roars and rages through the forest. So the baneful embers smouldered, Smouldered in the breast of either. From the far-off Sunny Islands, From the pleasant land of Summer, Where the spirits of the blessèd Feel no more the fangs of hunger, Or the cold breath of Kewâydin, Came a stately youth and handsome, Came Según the foe of Winter. [1019] Like the rising sun his face was, Like the shining stars his eyes were, Light his footsteps as the Morning's. In his hand were buds and blossoms, On his brow a blooming garland. Straightway to the icy wigwam Of old Péboân, the Winter, Strode Según and quickly entered. There old Péboân sat and shivered, Shivered o'er his dying lodge-fire. "Ah, my son, I bid you welcome; Sit and tell me your adventures; I will tell you of my power; We will pass the night together." Thus spake Péboân--the Winter; Then he filled his pipe and lighted; Then by sacred custom raised it To the spirits in the ether; To the spirits in the caverns Of the hollow earth he lowered it. Thus he passed it to the spirits, And the unseen spirits puffed it. Next himself old Péboân honored; Thrice he puffed his pipe and passed it, Passed it to the handsome stranger. "Lo I blow my breath," said Winter, "And the laughing brooks are silent; Hard as flint become the waters, And the rabbit runs upon them." Then Según, the fair youth, answered: "Lo I breathe upon the hill-sides, On the valleys and the meadows, And behold, as if by magic-- By the magic of the Spirits, Spring the flowers and tender grasses." Then old Péboân replying: "Nah! [1020] I breathe upon the forests, And the leaves fall sere and yellow; Then I shake my locks and snow falls, Covering all the naked landscape." Then Según arose and answered: "Nashké! [1020]--see!--I shake my ringlets; On the earth the warm rain falleth, And the flowers look up like children Glad-eyed from their mother's bosom. Lo my voice recalls the robin, Brings the bobolink and blue-bird, And the woods are full of music. With my breath I melt their fetters, And the brooks leap laughing onward." Then old Péboân looked upon him, Looked and knew Según, the Summer, From his eyes the big tears started And his boastful tongue was silent. Now Keezís [1021]--the great life-giver, From his wigwam in Waubú-nong [1021] Rose and wrapped his shining blanket Round his giant form and started; Westward started on his journey, Striding on from hill to hill-top. Upward then he climbed the ether-- On the Bridge of Stars [1022] he traveled, Westward traveled on his journey To the far-off Sunset Mountains-- To the gloomy land of shadows. On the lodge-poles sang the robin,-- And the brooks began to murmur. On the South wind floated fragrance Of the early buds and blossoms. From old Péboân's eyes the teardrops Down his pale face ran in streamlets; Less and less he grew in stature Till he melted doun to nothing; And behold, from out the ashes, From the ashes of his lodge-fire, Sprang the Miscodeed [1023] and, blushing, Welcomed Según to the North-land. So from Sunny Isles returning, From the Summer-Land of spirits, On the poles of Panther's wigwam Sang Opeé-chee--sang the robin. In the maples cooed the pigeons-- Cooed and wooed like silly lovers. "Hah!--hah!" laughed the crow derisive, In the pine-top, at their folly,-- Laughed and jeered the silly lovers. Blind with love were they, and saw not; Deaf to all but love, and heard not; So they cooed and wooed unheeding, Till the gray hawk pounced upon them, And the old crow shook with laughter. On the tall cliff by the sea-shore Red Fox made a swing. She fastened Thongs of moose-hide to the pine-tree, To the strong arm of the pine-tree. like a hawk, above the waters, There she swung herself and fluttered, Laughing at the thought of danger, Swung and fluttered o'er the waters. Then she bantered Sea-Gull, saying, "See!--I swing above the billows! Dare you swing above the billows,-- Swing like me above the billows?" To herself said Sea-Gull--"Surely I will dare whatever danger Dares the Red Fox--dares my rival; She shall never call me coward." So she swung above the waters-- Dizzy height above the waters, Pushed and aided by her rival, To and fro with reckless daring, Till the strong tree rocked and trembled, Rocked and trembled with its burden. As above the yawning billows Flew the Sea-Gull like a whirlwind, Red Fox, swifter than red lightning, Cut the cords, and headlong downward, Like an osprey from the ether, Like a wild-goose pierced with arrows, Fluttering fell the frantic woman, Fluttering fell into the waters-- Plunged and sank beneath the waters! Hark!--the wailing of the West-wind! Hark!--the wailing of the waters, And the beating of the billows! But no more the voice of Sea-Gull. In the wigwam sat the Red Fox, Hushed the wail of Waub-omeé-meé, Weeping for her absent mother. With the twinkling stars the hunter From the forest came and Raven. "Sea-Gull wanders late" said Red Fox, "Late she wanders by the sea-shore, And some evil may befall her." In the misty morning twilight Forth went Panther and the Raven, Searched the forest and the marshes, Searched for leagues along the lake-shore, Searched the islands and the highlands; But they found no trace or tidings, Found no track in marsh or meadow, Found no trail in fen or forest, On the shore sand found no foot-prints. Many days they sought and found not. Then to Panther spoke the Raven: "She is in the Land of Spirits-- Surely in the Land of Spirits. High at midnight I beheld her-- Like a flying star beheld her-- To the waves of Gitchee Gumee, Downward flashing through the ether. Thus she flashed that I might see her, See and know my mother's spirit; Thus she pointed to the waters, And beneath them lies her body, In the wigwam of the spirits-- In the lodge of Nébe-nâw-baigs." [1024] Then spoke Panther to the Raven: "On the tall cliff by the waters Wait and watch with Waub-omeé-meé. If the Sea-Gull hear the wailing Of her infant she will answer." On the tall cliff by the waters So the Raven watched and waited; All the day he watched and waited, But the hungry infant slumbered, Slumbered by the side of Raven, Till the pines' gigantic shadows Stretched and pointed to Waubú-Nong--[1021] To the far off land of Sunrise; Then the wee one woke and famished, Made a long and piteous wailing. From afar where sky and waters Meet in misty haze and mingle, Straight toward the rocky highland, Straight as flies die feathered arrow, Straight to Raven and the infant Swiftly flew a snow white sea-gull.-- Flew and touched the earth a woman. And behold, the long-lost mother Caught her wailing child and nursed her, Sang a lullaby and nursed her. Thrice was wound a chain of silver Round her waist and strongly fastened. Far away into the waters-- To the wigwam of the spirits,-- To the lodge of Nébe-nâw-baigs,-- Stretched the magic chain of silver. Spoke the mother to the Raven: "O my son--my brave young hunter, Feed my tender little orphan; Be a father to my orphan; Be a mother to my orphan,-- For the Crafty Red Fox robbed us,-- Robbed the Sea-Gull of her husband, Robbed the infant of her mother. From this cliff the treacherous woman Headlong into Gitchee Gumee Plunged the mother of my orphan. Then a Nébe-nâw-baig caught me,-- Chief of all the Nébe-nâw-baigs-- Took me to his shining wigwam, In the cavern of the waters, Deep beneath the might waters. All below is burnished copper, All above is burnished silver Gemmed with amethyst and agates. As his wife the Spirit holds me; By this silver chain he holds me. When my little one is famished, When with long and piteous wailing Cries the orphan for her mother, Hither bring her, O my Raven; I will hear her,--I will answer. Now the Nébe-nâw-baig calls me,-- Pulls the chain,--I must obey him." Thus she spoke and in the twinkling Of a star the spirit-woman Changed into a snow-white sea-gull, Spread her wings and o'er the waters Swiftly flew and swiftly vanished. Then in secret to the Panther Raven told his tale of wonder. Sad and sullen was the hunter; Sorrow gnawed his heart like hunger; All the old love came upon him, And the new love was a hatred. Hateful to his heart was Red Fox, But he kept from her the secret-- Kept his knowledge of the murder. Vain was she and very haughty--- Oge-mâ-kwa [1025] of the wigwam. All in vain her fond caresses On the Panther now she lavished; When she smiled his face was sullen, When she laughed he frowned upon her; In her net of raven tresses Now no more she held him tangled. Now through all her fair disguises Panther saw an evil spirit, Saw the false heart of the woman. On the tall cliff o'er the waters Raven sat with Waub-omeé-meé, Sat and watched again and waited, Till the wee one faint and famished, Made a long and piteous wailing. Then again the snow-white Sea-Gull From afar where sky and waters Meet in misty haze and mingle, Straight toward the rocky highland, Straight as flies the feathered arrow, Straight to Raven and the infant, With the silver chain around her, Flew and touched the earth a woman. In her arms she caught her infant-- Caught the wailing Waub-omeé-meé, Sang a lullaby and nursed her. Sprang the Panther from the thicket-- Sprang and broke the chain of silver! With his tomahawk he broke it. Thus he freed the willing Sea-Gull-- From the Water-Spirit freed her, From the Chief of Nébe-nâw-baigs. Very angry was the Spirit; When he drew the chain of silver, Drew and found that it was broken, Found that he had lost the woman, Very angry was the Spirit. Then he raged beneath the waters, Raged and smote the mighty waters, Till the big sea boiled and bubbled, Till the white-haired, bounding billows Roared around the rocky head-lands, Roared and plashed upon the shingle. To the wigwam happy Panther, As when first he wooed and won her, Led his wife--as young and handsome. For the waves of Gitchee Gumee Washed away the frost and wrinkles, And the Spirits by their magic Made her young and fair forever. In the wigwam sat the Red Fox, Sat and sang a song of triumph, For she little dreamed of danger, Till the haughty hunter entered, Followed by the happy mother, Holding in her arms her infant. Then the Red Fox saw the Sea-Gull-- Saw the dead a living woman, One wild cry she gave despairing, One wild cry as of a demon. Up she sprang and from the wigwam To the tall cliff flew in terror; Frantic sprang upon the margin, Frantic plunged into the water, Headlong plunged into the waters. Dead she tossed upon the billows; For the Nébe-nâw-baigs knew her, Knew the crafty, wicked woman, And they cast her from the waters, Spurned her from their shining wigwams; Far away upon the shingle With the roaring waves they cast her. There upon her bloated body Fed the cawing crows and ravens, Fed the hungry wolves and foxes. On the shore of Gitchee Gumee, Ever young and ever handsome, Long and happy lived the Sea-Gull, Long and happy with the Panther. Evermore the happy hunter Loved the mother of his children. Like a red star many winters Blazed their lodge-fire on the sea-shore. O'er the Bridge of Souls together [1026] Walked the Sea-Gull and the Panther. To the far-off Sunny Islands-- To the Summer-Land of Spirits, Where no more the happy hunter Feels the fangs of frost or famine, Or the keen blasts of Kewâydin. Where no pain or sorrow enters, And no crafty, wicked woman, Sea-Gull journeyed with her husband. There she rules his lodge forever, And the twain are very happy, On the far-off Sunny Islands, In the Summer-Land of Spirits. On the rocks of Gitchee Gumee-- On the Pictured Rocks--the Legend Long ago was traced and written, Pictured by the Water Spirits; But the storms of many winters Have bedimmed the pictured story, So that none can read the legend But the Jossakeeds, the prophets. [1027] [Illustration: CRYSTAL BAY, LAKE MINNETONKA.] MINNETONKA Note: The Dakota name for this beautiful lake is _Me-ne-a-tan-ka_--Broad Water. By dropping the a before tánka, we have changed the name to _Big Water_. I sit once more on breezy shore, at sunset in this glorious June. I hear the dip of gleaming oar. I list the singer's merry tune. Beneath my feet the waters beat and ripple on the polished stones. The squirrel chatters from his seat: the bag-pipe beetle hums and drones. The pink and gold in blooming wold,--the green hills mirrored in the lake! The deep, blue waters, zephyr-rolled, along the murmuring pebbles break. The maples screen the ferns, and lean the leafy lindens o'er the deep; The sapphire, set in emerald green, lies like an Orient gem asleep. The crimsoned west glows like the breast of _Rhuddin_ [a] when he pipes in May, As downward droops the sun to rest, and shadows gather on the bay. [a] The Welsh name for the robin. In amber sky the swallows fly, and sail and circle o'er the deep; The light-winged night-hawks whir and cry; the silver pike and salmon leap. The rising moon, the woods aboon, looks laughing down on lake and lea; Weird o'er the waters shrills the loon; the high stars twinkle in the sea. From bank and hill the whippowil sends piping forth his flute-like notes, And clear and shrill the answers trill from leafy isles and silver throats. The twinkling light on cape and height; the hum of voices on the shores; The merry laughter on the night; the dip and plash of frolic oars,-- These tell the tale. On hill and dale the cities pour their gay and fair; Along the sapphire lake they sail, and quaff like wine the balmy air. 'Tis well. Of yore from isle and shore the smoke of Indian teepees [a] rose; The hunter plied the silent oar; the forest lay in still repose. The moon-faced maid, in leafy glade, her warrior waited from the chase; The nut-brown, naked children played, and chased the gopher on the grass. The dappled fawn, on wooded lawn, peeped out upon the birch canoe, Swift-gliding in the gray of dawn along the silent waters blue. In yonder tree the great _Wanm-dee_ [b] securely built her spacious nest; The blast that swept the land-locked sea [c] but rocked her clamorous babes to rest. By grassy mere the elk and deer gazed on the hunter as he came; Nor fled with fear from bow or spear;--"so wild were they that they were tame." [a] Lodges. [b] Wanm-dee--the war-eagle of the Dakotas. [c] Lake Superior. Ah, birch canoe, and hunter, too, have long forsaken lake and shore: He bade his father's bones adieu and turned away forevermore. But still, methinks, on dusky brinks the spirit of the warrior moves; At crystal springs the hunter drinks, and nightly haunts the spot he loves. For oft at night I see the light of lodge-fires on the shadowy shores, And hear the wail some maiden's sprite above her slaughtered warrior pours. I hear the sob on Spirit Knob [a] of Indian mother o'er her child; And on the midnight waters throb her low _yun-he-he's_ [b] weird and wild. And sometimes, too, the light canoe glides like a shadow o'er the deep At midnight, when the moon is low, and all the shores are hushed in sleep. [a] Spirit Knob is a small hill up on a point in the lake in full view from Wayzata. The spirit of a Dakota mother whose only child was drowned in the lake during a storm, many, many years ago often wails at midnight (so the Dakotas say), on this hill. So they called it _Wa-na-gee Pa-ze-dan_--Spirit Knob. (Literally--little hill of the spirit.) [b] Pronounced _Yoon-hay-hay_--the exclamation used by Dakota women in their lament for the dead, and equivalent to "woe is me." Alas--Alas!--for all things pass; and we shall vanish, too, as they; We build our monuments of brass, and granite, but they waste away. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Called in the Dakota tongue "Hok-sée-win-nâ-pee Wo-hàn-pee"--Virgins Dance (or Feast).] [Footnote 2: One of the favorite and most exciting games of the Dakotas is ball-playing. A smooth place on the prairie, or in winter, on a frozen lake or river, is chosen. Each player has a sort of bat, called "Tâ-kée-cha-psé-cha," about thirty two inches long with a hoop at the lower end four or five inches in diameter, interlaced with thongs of deer-skin, forming a sort of pocket. With these bats they catch and throw the ball. Stakes are set as bounds at a considerable distance from the centre on either side. Two parties are then formed, and each chooses a leader or chief. The ball (Tâ-pa) is then thrown up half way between the bounds, and the game begins, the contestants contending with their bats for the ball as it falls. When one succeeds in getting it fairly in the pocket of his bat he swings it aloft and throws it as far as he can towards the bound to which his party is working, taking care to send it, if possible, where some of his own side will take it up. Thus the ball is thrown and contended for till one party succeeds in casting it beyond the bound of the opposite party. A hundred players on a side are sometimes engaged in this exciting game. Betting on the result often runs high. Moccasins, pipes, knives, hatchets, blankets, robes and guns are hung on the prize-pole. Not unfrequently horses are staked on the issue, and sometimes even women. Old men and mothers are among the spectators praising their swift-footed sons, and young wives and maidens are there to stimulate their husbands and lovers. This game is not confined to the warriors, but is also a favorite amusement of the Dakota maidens who generally play for prizes offered by the chief or warriors. See Neill's Hist. Minn. pp 74-5; Riggs' "Tâkoo Wakân," pp 44-5, and Mrs Eastman's Dacotah, p 55.] [Footnote 3: Pronounced Wah-zeé-yah. The god of the North, or Winter. A fabled spirit who dwells in the frozen North, in a great teepee of ice and snow. From his mouth and nostrils he blows the cold blasts of winter. He and "I-tó-ka-ga Wi-câs-ta"--the spirit or god of the South (literally the "South Man"), are inveterate enemies, and always on the war-path against each other. In winter Wa-zí-ya advances southward and drives "I-tó-ka-ga Wi-câs-ta" before him to the Summer-Islands. But in Spring the god of the South, having renewed his youth and strength, in the "Happy Hunting Grounds," is able to drive Wa-zí-ya back again to his icy wigwam in the North. Some Dakotas say that the numerous granite boulders, scattered over the prairies of Minnesota and Dakota, were hurled in battle by Wa-zí-ya from his home in the North at "I-tó-ka-ga Wi-câs-ta." The Wa-zí-ya of the Dakotas is substantially the name as "_Ka-be-bón-ik-ka_"--the "Winter-maker" of the Ojibways.] [Footnote 4: Mendota--(meeting of the waters) at the confluence of the Mississippi and Minnesota rivers. See view of the valley�front cut. The true Dakota word is Mdó tè--applied to the mouth of a river flowing into another,--also to the outlet of a lake.] [Footnote 5: Pronounced Wee-wâh-stay; literally--a beautiful virgin, or woman.] [Footnote 6: Cetân-wa-ká-wa-mâni--"He who shoots pigeon-hawks walking"--was the full Dakota name of the grandfather of the celebrated "Little Crow" (Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta.--His Red People) who led his warriors in the terrible outbreak in Minnesota in 1862-3. The Chippewas called the grandfather "Kâ-kâ-keé"--crow or raven--from his war-badge, a crow-skin; and hence the French traders and _courriers du bois_ called him "_Petit Corbeau_"--Little Crow. This sobriquet, of which he was proud, descended to his son, Wakínyan Tânka--Big Thunder, who succeeded him as chief; and from Big Thunder to his son Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta, who became chief on the death of Wakínyan Tânka. These several "Little Crows" were successively Chiefs of the Light-foot, or Kapóza band of Dakotas. Kapóza, the principal village of this band, was originally located on the east bank of the Mississippi near the site of the city of St. Paul. Col. Minn. Hist. Soc., 1864, p. 29. It was in later years moved to the west bank. The grandfather, whom I, for short, call Wakâwa, died the death of a brave in battle against the Ojibways (commonly called Chippewas)--the hereditary enemies of the Dakotas. Wakínyan Tânka.--Big Thunder, was killed by the accidental discharge of his own gun. They were both buried with their kindred near the "Wakan Teepee," the sacred Cave--(Carver's Cave). Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta, the last of the Little Crows, was killed July 3, 1863, near Hutchinson, Minnesota, by one Lamson, and his bones were duly "done up" for the Historical Society of Minnesota. For a part of the foregoing information I am indebted to Gen. H. H. Sibley. See Heard's Hist. Sioux War, and Neill's Hist. Minnesota, Third Edition.] [Footnote 7: Hârps-te-nâh. The first-born _daughter_ of a Dakota is called Winona; the second, Hârpen; the third, Hârpstinâ; the fourth. Wâska; the fifth, Wehârka. The first born _son_ is called Chaskè; the second, Hârpam; the third, Hapéda; the fourth, Châtun; the fifth, Hârka. They retain these names till others are given them on account of some action, peculiarity, etc. The females often retain their child-names through life.] [Footnote 8: Wah-pah-sâh was the hereditary name of a long and illustrious lineof Dakota Chiefs. Wabashaw is a corrupt pronounciation. The name is a contraction of "Wâ-pa-hâ-sa," which is from "Wâ-ha-pa," the standard or pole used in the Dakota dances, and upon which feathers of various colors are tied, and not from "Wâ-pa"--leaf or leaves, as has been generally supposed. Therefore Wâpasa means the Standard--and not the "Leaf-Shaker," as many writers have it. The principal village of these hereditary Chiefs was Ke-úk-sa, or Ke-ó-sa,--where now stands the fair city of Winona. Ke-úk-sa signifies--The village of law-breakers; so-called because this band broke the law or custom of the Dakotas against marrying blood relatives of any degree. I get this information from Rev. Stephen R. Riggs, author of the Dakota Grammar and Dictionary, "_Takoo Wakan_," etc. Wapasa, grandfather of the last Chief of that name, and a contemporary of Cetan-Wa-kâ-wa-mâni, was a noted Chief, and a friend of the British in the war of the Revolution. Neill's Hist. Minn., pp. 225-9.] [Footnote 9: E-hó, E-tó--Exclamations of surprise and delight.] [Footnote 10: Mah-gâh--The wild-goose.] [Footnote 11: Teé-peé--A lodge or wigwam, often contracted to "tee."] [Footnote 12: Pronounced Mahr-peé-yah-doó-tah--literally, Cloud Red.] [Footnote 13: Pronounced Wahnmdeé--The War-Eagle. Each feather worn by a warrior represents an enemy slain or captured--man, woman or child; but the Dakotas, before they became desperate under the cruel warfare of their enemies, generally spared the lives of their captives, and never killed women or infants, except in rare instances, under the _lex talionis_. Neill's Hist. Minn., p. 112.] [Footnote 14: Mah-tó--The polar bear--_ursus maritimus_. The Dakotas say that, in olden times, white bears were often found about Rainy Lake and the Lake of the Woods, in winter, and sometimes as far south as the mouth of the Minnesota. They say one was once killed at White Bear Lake (but a few miles from St. Paul and Minneapolis), and they therefore named the lake Medé Mató--White Bear Lake.] [Footnote 15: The Hó-hé (Hó-hây) are the Assiniboins or "Stone-roasters." Their home is the region of the Assiniboin river in British America. They speak the Dakota tongue, and originally were a band of that nation. Tradition says a Dakota "Helen" was the cause of the separation and a bloody feud that lasted for many years. The Hohés are called "Stone roasters," because, until recently at least, they used "Wa-ta-pe" kettles and vessels made of birch bark in which they cooked their food. They boiled water in these vessels by heating stones and putting them in the water. The "wa-ta-pe" kettle is made of the fibrous roots of the white cedar, interlaced and tightly woven. When the vessel is soaked it becomes watertight. (Footnote Snelling's) Tales of the North west, p 21. Mackenzie's Travels.] [Footnote 16: Hey-ó-ka is one of the principal Dakota deities. He is a Giant, but can change himself into a buffalo, a bear, a fish or a bird. He is called the Anti-natural God or Spirit. In summer he shivers with cold, in winter he suffers from heat; he cries when he laughs and he laughs when he cries, &c. He is the reverse of nature in all things. Heyóka is universally feared and reverenced by the Dakotas, but so severe is the ordeal that the Heyóka Wacípee (the dance to Heyóka) is now rarely celebrated. It is said that the "Medicine-men" use a secret preparation which enables them to handle fire and dip their hands in boiling water without injury, and thereby gain great _eclat_ from the uninitiated. The chiefs and the leading warriors usually belong to the secret order of "Medicine-men," or "Sons of Unktéhee"--the Spirit of the Waters.] [Footnote 17: The Dakota name for the moon is Han-yé-tu-wee--literally, Night-Sun. He is the twin brother of An-pé-tu-wee--the Day Sun. See note 70.] [Footnote 18: The Dakotas believe that the stars are the spirits of their departed friends.] [Footnote 19: Tee--Contracted from teepee, lodge or wigwam, and means the same.] [Footnote 20: For all their sacred feasts the Dakotas kindle a new fire called "The Virgin Fire." This is done with flint and steel, or by rubbing together pieces of wood till friction produces fire. It must be done by a virgin, nor must any woman, except a virgin, ever touch the "sacred armor" of a Dakota warrior. White cedar is "Wakân"--sacred. See note 50. Riggs' "Tahkoo Wakân," p. 84.] [Footnote 21: All Northern Indians consider the East a mysterious and sacred land whence comes the sun. The Dakota name for the East is Wee-yo-heé-yan-pa--the sunrise. The Ojibways call it Waub-ó-nong--the white land or land of light, and they have many myths, legends and traditions relating thereto. Barbarous peoples of all times have regarded the East with superstitious reverence, simply because the sun rises in that quarter.] [Footnote 22: See Mrs. Eastman's Dacotah, pp. 225-8, describing the feast to Heyóka.] [Footnote 23: This stone from which the Dakotas have made their pipes for ages, is esteemed "wakân"--sacred. They call it I-yân-ska, probably from "íya," to speak, and "ska," white, truthful, peaceful,--hence, peace-pipe, herald of peace, pledge of truth, etc. In the cabinet at Albany, N.Y., there is a very ancient pipe of this material which the Iroquois obtained from the Dakotas. Charlevoix speaks of this pipe-stone in his History of New France. LeSueur refers to the Yanktons as the village of the Dakotas at the Red-Stone Quarry, See Neill's Hist. Minn., p. 514.] [Footnote 24: "Ho" is an exclamation of approval�-yea, yes, bravo.] [Footnote 25: Buying is the honorable way of taking a wife among the Dakotas. The proposed husband usually gives a horse or its, value in other articles to the father or natural guardian of the woman selected--sometimes against her will. See note 75.] [Footnote 26: The Dakotas believe that the _Aurora Borealis_ is an evil omen and the threatening of an evil spirit, (perhaps Wazíya, the Winter-god--some say a witch, or a very ugly old woman). When the lights appear, danger threatens, and the warriors shoot at, and often slay, the evil spirit, but it rises from the dead again.] [Footnote 27: Se-só-kah--The Robin.] [Footnote 28: The spirit of Anpétu-sâpa that haunts the Falls of St. Anthony with her dead babe in her arms. See the Legend in Neill's Hist. Minn., or my "Legend of the Falls."] [Footnote 29: Mee-coónk-shee--My daughter.] [Footnote 30: The Dakotas call the meteor, "Wakân-denda" (sacred fire) and Wakân-wohlpa (sacred gift.) Meteors are messengers from the Land of Spirits, warning of impending danger. It is a curious fact that the "sacred stone" of the Mohammedans, in the Kaaba at Mecca, is a meteoric stone, and obtains its sacred character from the fact that it fell from heaven. 31: Kah-nó-te-dahn--The little, mysterious dweller in the woods. This spirit lives in the forest in hollow trees. Mrs. Eastman's Dacotah, Pre. Rem. xxxi. "The Dakota god of the woods--an unknown animal said to resemble a man, which the Dakotas worship; perhaps, the monkey." Riggs' Dakota Dic. Tit--_Canotidan_.] [Footnote 32: The Dakotas believe that thunder is produced by the flapping of the wings of an immense bird which they call Wakínyan--the Thunder-bird. Near the source of the Minnesota River is a place called "Thunder-Tracks" where the foot-prints of a "Thunder-bird" are seen on the rocks twenty-five miles apart. Mrs. Eastman's Dacotah, p. 71. There are many Thunder-birds. The father of all the Thunder-birds--"Wakínyan Tanka"--or "Big Thunder," has his teepee on a lofty mountain in the far West. His teepee has four openings, at each of which is a sentinel; at the east, a butterfly; at the west, a bear; at the south, a red deer; at the north, a caribou. He has a bitter enmity against Unktéhee (god of waters) and often shoots his fiery arrows at him, and hits the earth, trees, rocks, and sometimes men. Wakínyan created wild-rice, the bow and arrow, the tomahawk and the spear. He is a great war-spirit, and Wanmdée (the war-eagle) is his messenger. A Thunder-bird (say the Dakotas) was once killed near Kapóza by the son of Cetan-Wakawa-mâni, and he there upon took the name of "Wakínyan Tanka"--"Big Thunder."] [Footnote 33: Pronounced Tah-tâhn-kah--Bison or Buffalo.] [Footnote 34: Enâh--An exclamation of wonder. Ehó--Behold! see there!] [Footnote 35: The Crees are the Knisteneaux of Alexander Mackenzie. See his account of them, Mackenzie's Travels, (London 1801) p. xci. to cvii.] [Footnote 36: Lake Superior. The only names the Dakotas have for Lake Superior are Medé Tânka or Tânka Medé--Great Lake, and Me-ne-yâ-ta--literally, _At-the-Water_.] [Footnote 37: April--Literally, the moon when the geese lay eggs. See note 71.] [Footnote 38: Carver's Cave at St. Paul was called by the Dakotas "Wakân Teepee"--sacred lodge. In the days that are no more, they lighted their Council-fires in this cave, and buried their dead near it. See Neill's Hist. Minn., p. 207. Capt. Carver in his _Travels_, London, 1778, p. 63, et seq., describes this cave as follows: "It is a remarkable cave of an amazing depth. The Indians term it Wakon-teebe, that is, the Dwelling of the Great Spirit. The entrance into it is about ten feet wide, the height of it five feet, the arch within is near fifteen feet high and about thirty feet broad. The bottom of it consists of fine clear sand. About twenty feet from the entrance begins a lake, the water of which is transparent, and extends to an unsearchable distance; for the darkness of the cave prevents all attempts to acquire a knowledge of it. I threw a small pebble towards the interior parts of it with my utmost strength. I could hear that it fell into the water, and notwithstanding it was of so small a size, it caused an astonishing and horrible noise that reverberated through all those gloomy regions. I found in this cave many Indian hieroglyphics, which appeared very ancient, for time had nearly covered them with moss, so that it was with difficulty I could trace them. They were cut in a rude manner upon the inside of the walls, which were composed of a stone so extremely soft that it might be easily penetrated with a knife: a stone everywhere to be found near the Mississippi. This cave is only accessible by ascending a narrow, steep passage that lies near the brink of the river. At a little distance from this dreary cavern is the burying-place of several bands of the Naudowessie (Dakota) Indians." Many years ago the roof fell in, but the cave has been partially restored and is now used as a beer cellar.] [Footnote 39: Wah-kahn-dee--The lightning.] [Footnote 40: The Bloody River--the Red River was so-called on account of the numerous Indian battles that have been fought on its banks. The Chippewas say that its waters were colored red by the blood of many warriors slain on its banks in the fierce wars between themselves and the Dakotas.] [Footnote 41: Tah--The Moose. This is the root-word for all ruminating animals; Ta-tânka, buffalo�-Ta-tóka mountain antelope--Ta-hinca, the red-deer--Ta-mdóka, the buck deer�-Ta-hinca-ska, white deer (sheep).] [Footnote 42: Hogâhn--Fish. Red Hogan, the trout.] [Footnote 43: Tipsânna (often called _tipsinna_) is a wild prairie turnip used for food by the Dakotas. It grows on high, dry land, and increases from year to year. It is eaten both cooked and raw.] [Footnote 44: Rio Tajo, (or Tagus), a river of Spain and Portugal.] [Footnote 45: "* * * * Bees of Trebizond-- Which from the sunniest flowers that glad With their pure smile the gardens round, Draw venom forth that drives men mad." --_Thomas Moore_] [Footnote 46: Skeé-skah--The Wood duck.] [Footnote 47: The Crocus. I have seen the prairies in Minnesota spangled with these beautiful flowers in various colors before the ground was entirely free from frost. The Datotas call them frost-flowers.] [Footnote 48: The "Sacred Ring" around the feast of the Virgins is formed by armed warriors sitting, and none but a virgin must enter this ring. The warrior who knows is bound on honor, and by old and sacred custom, to expose and publicly denounce any tarnished maiden who dares to enter this ring, and his word cannot be questioned--even by the chief. See Mrs Eastman's Dacotah, p. 64.] [Footnote 49: Prairie's Pride.--This annual shrub, which abounds on many of the sandy prairies in Minnesota, is sometimes called "tea-plant," "sage-plant," and "red-root willow." I doubt if it has any botanic name. Its long plumes of purple and gold are truly the "pride of the prairies."] [Footnote 50: The Dakotas consider white cedar "Wakân," (sacred). They use sprigs of it at their feasts, and often burn it to destroy the power of evil spirits. Mrs Eastman's Dacotah, p. 210.] [Footnote 51: Tâhkoo-skahng-skang.--This deity is supposed to be invisible, yet everywhere present; he is an avenger and a searcher of hearts. (Neill's Hist. Minn., p. 57.) I suspect he was the chief spirit of the Dakotas before the missionaries imported "Wakan Tânka"--(Great Spirit).] [Footnote 52: The Dakotas believe in "were-wolves" as firmly as did our Saxon ancestors, and for similar reasons--the howl of the wolf being often imitated as a decoy or signal by their enemies, the Ojibways.] [Footnote 53: Shee-shó-kah--The Robin.] [Footnote 54: The Dakotas cail the Evening Star the "_Virgin Star_," and believe it to be the spirit of the virgin wronged at the feast.] [Footnote 55: Mille Lacs. This lake was discovered by DuLuth, and by him named Lac Buade, in honor of Governor Frontenac of Canada, whose familyname was Buade. The Dakota name for it is Mdé Waksân--Spirit Lake.] [Footnote 56: The Ojibways imitate the hoot of the owl and the howl of the wolf to perfection, and often use these cries as signals to each other in war and the chase.] [Footnote 57: The Dakotas called the Ojibways the "Snakes of the Forest," on account of their lying in ambush for their enemies.] [Footnote 58: Strawberries.] [Footnote 59: Seé-yo--The Prairie-hen.] [Footnote 60: Mahgâh--The Wild-goose. _Fox-pups_. I could never see the propriety of calling the young of foxes _kits_ or _kittens_, which mean _little cats_. The fox belongs to the _canis_, or dog family and not the _felis_, or cat family. If it is proper to call the young of dogs and wolves _pups_, it is equally proper to so call the young of foxes.] [Footnote 61: When a Dakota is sick, he thinks the spirit of an enemy or some animal has entered into his body, and the principal business of the "medicine man"--_Wicasta Wakan_--is to cast out the "unclean spirit," with incantations and charms. See Neill's Hist. Minn., pp. 66--8. The Jews entertained a similar belief in the days of Jesus of Nazareth.] [Footnote 62: Wah-zeé-yah's star--The North-star. See note 3.] [Footnote 63: The Dakotas, like our forefathers and all other barbarians, believe in witches and witchcraft.] [Footnote 64: The Medó is a wild potato, it resembles the sweet potato in top and taste. It grows in bottom-lands, and is much prized by the Dakotas for food. The "Dakota Friend," for December, 1850.] [Footnote 65: The meteor--Wakân denda--Sacred fire.] [Footnote 66: Meetâhwin--My bride.] [Footnote 67: Stoke--The body of a tree. This is an old English word of Saxon origin, now changed to _stock_.] [Footnote 68: The _Via Lactea_ or Milky Way. The Dakotas call it _Wanagee-Tach-anku_--The path-way of the spirits and believe that over this path the spirits of the dead pass to the Spirit-land. See Riggs' Tah-koo Wah-kan, p. 101.] [Footnote 69: Oonk-táy-hee--There are many Unktéhees, children of the Great Unktéhee, who created the earth and man and who formerly dwelt in a vast cavern under the Falls of St. Anthony. The Unktéhee sometimes reveals himself in the form of a huge buffalo-bull. From him proceed invisible influences. The Great Unktéhee created the earth. "Assembling in grand conclave all the aquatic tribes he ordered them to bring up dirt from beneath the waters, and proclaimed death to the disobedient. The beaver and otter forfeited their lives. At last the muskrat went beneath the waters, and, after a long time appeared at the surface, nearly exhausted, with some dirt. From this, Unktéhee fashioned the earth into a large circular plain. The earth being finished, he took a deity, one of his own offspring, and grinding him to powder, sprinkled it upon the earth, and this produced many worms. The worms were then collected and scattered again. They matured into infants and these were then collected and scattered and became full-grown Dakotas. The bones of the mastodon, the Dakotas think, are the bones of Unktéhees, and they preserve the with the greatest care in the medicine bag." Neill's Hist. Minn., p. 55. The Unktéhees and the Thunder-birds are perpetually it war. There are various accounts of the creation of man. Some say that at the bidding of the Great Unktéhee, men sprang full grown from the caverns of the earth. See Riggs' "Tah-koo Wah-kân," and Mrs Eastman's Dacotah. The Great Unktéhee and the Great Thunder-bird had a terrible battle in the bowels of the earth to determine which should be the ruler of the world. See description in Legend of Winona.] [Footnote 70: Prononced Ahng-pay-too-wee--The Sun; literally the Day Sun, thus distinguishing him from Han-yé-tuwee (Hahng-yay-too-wee) the night sun, (the moon). They are twin brothers but Anpétuwee is the more powerful Han-yé-tuwee receives his power from his brother and obeys him. He watches over the earth while the Sun sleeps. The Dakotas believe the sun is the father of life. Unlike the most of their other gods, he is beneficent and kind; yet they worship him (in the sun-dance) in the most dreadful manner. See Riggs' "Tah-koo Wah-kân," pp. 81-2, and Catlin's Riggs' "Okee-pa." The moon is worshipped as the representative of the sun; and in the great Sun-dance, which is usually held in the full of the moon, when the moon rises the dancers turn their eyes on her (or him). Anpétuwee issues every morning from the lodge of Han-nan-na (the Morning) and begins his journey over the sky to his lodge in the land of shadows. Sometimes he walks over on the Bridge (or path) of the Spirits--Wanâgee Ta-chan-ku,--and sometimes he sails over the sea of the skies in his shining canoe; but _somehow_, and the Dakotas do not explain how, he gets back again to the lodge of Hannanna in time to take a nap and eat his breakfast before starting anew on his journey. The Dakotas swear by the sun. "_As Anpé-tu-wee hears me, this is true_!" They call him Father and pray to him --"_Wakan! Ate, on-she-ma-da._" "Sacred Spirit,--Father, have mercy on me." As the Sun is the father, so they believe the Earth is the mother, of life. Truly there is much philosophy in the Dakota mythology. The Algonkins call the earth "_Me-suk-kum-mik-o-kwa_"--the great-grandmother of all. Narrative of John Tanner, p. 193.] [Footnote 71: The Dakotas reckon their months by _moon_. They name their moons from natural circumstances. They correspond very nearly with our months, as follows: January--Wee-té-rhee--The Hard Moon, i.e.--the cold moon. February--Wee-câ-ta-wee--The Coon Moon. March--Istâ-wee-ca-ya-zang-wee--the sore eyes moon (from snow blindness.) April--Magâ-okâ-da-wee--the moon when the geese lay eggs; also called Wokâda-wee--egg-moon, and sometimes Wató-papee-wee, the canoe moon, or moon when the streams become free from ice. May--Wó-zu-pee-wee--the planting moon. June--Wazú-ste-ca-sa-wee--the strawberry moon. July--Wa-sun-pa-wee--moon when the geese shed their feathers, also called Chang-pâ-sapa-wee--Choke-Cherry moon, and sometimes--Mna-rchâ-rhca-wee--"The moon of the red blooming lilies", literally, the red-lily moon. August--Wasú-ton-wee--the ripe moon, i.e. Harvest Moon. September--Psin-na-ké-tu-wee--the ripe rice moon. October--Wà-zu-pee-wee or Wee-wa-zú-pee--the moon when wild rice is gathered and laid up for winter. November--Ta-kee-yu-hrâ-wee--the deer-rutting moon. December--Ta-hé-cha-psung-wee--the moon when deer shed their horns.] [Footnote 72: Oonk-tó-mee--is a "bad spirit" in the form of a monstrous black spider. He inhabits fens and marshes and lies in wait for his prey. At night he often lights a torch (evidently the _ignis fatuus_ or Jack-a-lantern) and swings it on the marshes to decoy the unwary into his toils.] [Footnote 73: The Dakotas have their stone idol, or god, called Toon-kan--or In-yan. This god dwells in stone or rocks and is they say, the _oldest god of all_--he is grandfather of all living things. I think, however that the stone is merely the symbol of the everlasting, all pervading, invisible _Ta-ku Wa-kan_--the essence of all life,--pervading all nature, animate and inanimate. The Rev. S. R. Riggs who, for forty years, has been a student of Dakota customs, superstitions etc., says, "Tâhkoo Wahkan," p. 55: et seq. "The religious faith of the Dakota is not in his gods as such. It is in an intangible, mysterious something of which they are only the embodiment, and that in such measure and degree as may accord with the individual fancy of the worshipper. Each one will worship some of these divinities, and neglect or despise others, but the great object of all their worship, whatever its chosen medium, is the _Ta-koo Wa-kan_, which is the _supernatural_ and _mysterious_. No one term can express the full meaning of the Dakotas _Wakan_. It comprehends all mystery, secret power and divinity. Awe and reverence are its due, and it is as unlimited in manifestation as it is in idea. All life is _Wakan_; so also is everything which exhibits power, whether in action as the winds and drifting clouds; or in passive endurance, as the boulder by the wayside. For even the commonest sticks and stones have a spiritual essence which must be reverenced as a manifestation of the all-pervading mysterious power that fills the the universe."] [Footnote 74: Wazi-kuté--Wah-ze-koo-tay; literally--Pine-shooter--he that shoots among the pines. When Father Hennepin was at Mille Lacs in 1679-80, Wazi-kuté was the head Chief (Itâncan) of the band of Isantees. Hennepin writes his name� Ouasicoudé and translates it--the "Pierced Pine." See Shea's Hennepin p. 234, Minn. Hist. Coll. vol. I. p. 316.] [Footnote 75: When a Dakota brave wishes to "propose" to a "dusky maid", he visits her teepee at night after she has retired, or rather, laid down in her robe to sleep. He lights a splinter of wood and holds it to her face. If she blows out the light, he is accepted; if she covers her head and leaves it burning, he is rejected. The rejection however is not considered final till it has been thrice repeated. Even then the maiden is often bought of her parents or guardian, and forced to become the wife of the rejected suitor. If she accepts the proposal, still the suitor must buy her of her parents with suitable gifts.] [Footnote 76: The Dakotas called the Falls of St. Anthony the Ha-Ha--the _loud laughing_, or _roaring_. The Mississippi River they called Ha-Ha Wá-kpa--River of the Falls. The Ojibway name for the Falls is Ka-ká-bih-kúng. Minnehaha is a combination of two Dakota words--Mini--water and Ha-Ha--Falls; but it is not the name by which the Dakotas designated that cataract. Some authorities say they called it I-ha-ha pronounced E-rhah-rhah--lightly laughing. Rev. S. W. Pond, whose long residence as a missionary among the Dakotas in this immediate vicinity makes him an authority that can hardly be questioned, says "they called the Falls of Minnehaha "Mini-i-hrpâ-ya dan," and it had no other name in Dakota. It means Little Falls and nothing else." Letter to the author.] [Footnote 77: The game of the Plum-stones is one of the favorite games of the Dakotas. Hennepin was the first to describe this game in his "Description de la Louisiane," Paris, 1683, and he describes it very accurately. See Shea's translation p. 301. The Dakotas call this game _Kan-soo Koo tay-pe_--shooting plum-stones. Each stone is painted black on one side and red on the other; on one side they grave certain figures which make the stones "Wakan." They are placed in a dish and thrown up like dice; indeed the game is virtually a game of dice. Hennepin says: "There are some so given to this game that they will gamble away even their great coat. Those who conduct the game cry at the top of their voices when they rattle the platter and they strike their shoulders so hard as to leave them all black with the blows."] [Footnote 78: Wa'tanka--contraction of Wa-kan Tanka--Great Spirit. The Dakotas had no Wakan Tanka--or Wakan-péta--fire spirit--till whitemen imported them. There being no name for the Supreme Being in the Dakota tongue (except Tá-ku Wakan--See note 73)--and all their gods and spirits being Wakan--the missionaries named God in Dakota--"_Wakan Tanka_"--which means _Big Spirit_, or _The Big Mysterious_.] [Footnote 79: The Dakotas called Lake Calhoun--Mdé-mdó-za--Loon Lake. They also called it--_Re-ya-ta-mde_--the lake back from the river. They called Lake Harriet--Mdé-únma--the other lake--or (perhaps) Mdé úma�Hazel-nut Lake. The lake nearest Calhoun on the north--Lake of the Isles--they called Wí-ta Mdé--Island-Lake. Lake Minnetonka they called Me-me-a-tán-ka--_Broad Water_.] [Footnote 80: The animal called by the French _voyageurs_ the _cabri_ (the kid) is found only on the prairies. It is of the goat kind, smaller than a deer, and so swift that neither horse nor dog can overtake it. (Snelling's) "Tales of the Northwest," p. 286. note 15. It is the gazelle, or prairie antelope, called by the Dakotas Tato-ka-dan--little antelope. It is the _Pish-tah-te-koosh_ of the Algonkin tribes, "reckoned the fleetest animal in the prairie country about the Assinneboin." Captivity and Adventures of John Tanner, p. 301.] [Footnote 81: The Wicâstâpi Wakânpi (literally, _men supernatural_) are the "Medicine-men" or Magicians of the Dakotas. They call themselves the sons, or disciples of Unktéhee. In their rites, ceremonies, tricks and pretensions they closely resemble the Dactyli, Idæ and Curetes of the ancient Greeks and Romans, the Magi of the Persians, and the Druids of Britain. Their pretended intercourse with spirits, their powers of magic and divination, and their rites are substantially the same, and point unmistakably to a common origin. The Dakota "Medicine-Man" can do the "rope-trick" of the Hindoo magician to perfection. The teepee used for the _Wakan Wacipee_--or Sacred Dance--is called the _Wakan Teepee_--the Sacred Teepee. Carver's Cave at St. Paul was also called Wakan Teepee, because the Medicine-men or magicians often held their dances and feasts in it. For a full account of the rites, etc., see Riggs' "Tâhkoo Wahkan", Chapter VI. The _Ta-sha-ke_--literally, "Deer-hoofs"--is a rattle made by hanging the hard segments of deer-hoofs to a wooden rod a foot long--about an inch in diameter at the handle end, and tapering to a point at the other. The clashing of these horny bits makes a sharp, shrill sound something like distant sleigh-bells. In their incantations over the sick they sometimes use the gourd-shell rattle.] The Chân-che-ga--is a drum or "Wooden Kettle." The hoop of the drum is from a foot to eighteen inches in diameter, and from three to ten inches deep. The skin covering is stretched over one end making a drum with one end only. The magical drum sticks are ornamented with down, and heads of birds or animals are carved on them. This makes them Wakan.] The flute called _Cho-tanka_ (big pith) is of two varieties--one made of sumac, the pith of which is punched out, etc. The second variety is made of the long bone of the wing or thigh of the swan or crane. They call the first the _bubbling chotanka_ from the tremulous note it gives when blown with all the holes stopped. Riggs' Tahkoo Wahkan, p. 476, et seq.] E-né-pee--vapor bath is used as a purification preparatory to the sacred feasts. The vapor bath is taken in this way: "A number of poles the size of hoop-poles or less are taken, and their larger ends being set in the ground in a circle, the flexible tops are bent over and tied in the centre. This frame work is then covered with robes and blankets, a small hole being left on one side for an entrance. Before the door a fire is built, and round stones about the size of a man's head are heated in it. When hot, they are rolled within, and the door being closed, steam is made by pouring water on them. The devotee, stripped to the skin, sits within this steam-tight dome, sweating profusely at every pore, until he is nearly suffocated. Sometimes a number engage in it together and unite their prayers and songs." "Tâhkoo Wakan," p. 83. Father Hennepin was subjected to the vapour-bath at Mille Lacs by Chief Aqui-pa-que-tin, two hundred years ago. After describing the method Hennepin says: "When he had made me sweat thus three times in a week, I felt as strong as ever." Shea's Hennepin, p. 228. For a very full and accurate account of the Medicine men of the Dakotas, and their rites etc., see Chap. II, Neill's Hist. Minnesota.] [Footnote 82: The sacred _O-zu-ha_--or Medicine-sack must be made of the skin of the otter, the coon, the weasel, the squirrel, the loon, a certain kind of fish or the skins of serpents. It must contain four kinds of medicine (or magic) representing birds, beasts, herbs and trees, viz: The down of the female swan colored red, the roots of certain grasses, bark from the roots of cedar trees, and hair of the buffalo. "From this combination proceeds a Wakân influence so powerful that no human being unassisted can resist it." Wonderful indeed must be the magic power of these Dakota Druids to lead such a man aa the Rev. S. R. Riggs to say of them: "By great shrewdness, untiring industry, and more or less of _actual demoniacal possession_, they convince great numbers of their fellows, and in the process are convinced _themselves_, of their sacred character and office." Tahkoo Wakân, pp. 88-9: ] [Footnote 83: Gâh-ma-na-tek-wâhk--_the river of many falls_--is the Ojibway name of the river commonly called Kaministiguia, near the mouth of which is situate Fort William, on the site of DuLuth's old fort. The view on Thunder-Bay is one of the grandest in America. Thunder-Cap, with its sleeping stone-giant, looms up into the heavens. Here _Ka-be-bon-ikka_--the Ojibway's god of storms, flaps his huge wings and makes the Thunder. From this mountain he sends forth the rain, the snow, the hail, the lightning and the tempest. A vast giant, turned to stone by his magic, lies asleep at his feet. The island called by the Ojibways the _Mak-i-nak_ (the turtle) from its tortoise-like shape, lifts its huge form in the distance. Some "down-east" Yankee, called it "Pie-Island," from its (to his hungry imagination) fancied resemblance to a pumpkin pie, and the name, like all bad names, _sticks_. McKay's Mountain on the main-land, a perpendicular rock more than a thousand feet high, up-heaved by the throes of some vast volcano, and numerous other bold and precipitous head lands, and rock-built islands, around which roll the sapphire-blue waters of the fathomless bay, present some of the most magnificent views to be found on either continent.] [Footnote 84: The Mission of the Holy Ghost--at La Pointe on the isle Waug-a-bá-me--(winding view) in the beautiful bay of Cha-quam-egon�was founded by the Jesuits about the year 1660, and Father Renè Menard was the first priest at this point. After he was lost in the wilderness, Father Glaude Allouëz permanently established ihe mission in 1665. The famous Father Marquette, who took Allouëz's place, Sept. 13. 1669, writing to his Superior, thus describes the Dakotas: "The Nadouessi are the Iroquois of this country, beyond La Pointe, _but less faithless, and never attack till attacked._ Their language is entirely different from the Huron and Algonquin. They have many villages, but are widely scattered. They have very extraordinary customs. They principally use the calumet. They do not speak at great feasts, and when a stranger arrives give him to eat of a wooden fork, as we would a child. All the lake tribes make war on them, but with small success. They have false oats, (wild rice) use little canoes, _and keep their word strictly_." Neill's Hist. Minn., p. 111.] [Footnote 85: Michâbo--the Good, Great Spirit of the Algonkins. In Autumn, in the moon of the falling leaf, ere he composes himself to his winter's sleep, he fills his great pipe and takes a god-like smoke. The balmy clouds from his pipe float over the hills and woodland, filling the air with the haze of "Indian Summer." Brinton's Myths of the New World, p. 163.] [Footnote 86: Pronounced _Kah-thah-gah_--literally, _the place of waves and foam_. This was the principal village of the Isantee band of Dakotas two hundred years ago, and was located at the Falls of St. Anthony, which the Dakotas called the _Ha-ha_--pronounced _Rhah-rhah_--the _loud, laughing waters_. The Dakotas believed that the Falls were in the centre of the earth. Here dwelt the Great Unktéhee, the creator of the earth and man; and from this place a path led to the Spirit-land. DuLuth undoubtedly visited Kathága in the year 1679. In his "Memoir" (Archives of the Ministry of the Marine) addressed to Seignelay, 1685, he says: "On the 2nd of July, 1679, I had the honor to plant his Majesty's arms in the great village of the Nadouecioux called Izatys, where never had a Frenchman been, etc." _Izatys_ is here used not as the name of the village, but as the name of the band--the Isantees. _Nadouecioux_ was a name given the Dakotas generally by the early French traders and the Ojibways. See Shea's Hennepin's Description of Louisiana pp. 203: and 375. The villages of the Dakotas were not permanent towns. They were hardly more than camping grounds, occupied at intervals and for longer or shorter periods, as suited the convenience of the hunters: yet there were certain places, like Mille Lacs, the Falls of St. Anthony, Kapóza (near St. Paul), Remnica, (where the city of Red Wing now stands), and Keúxa (or Keóza) on the site of the city of Winona, so frequently occupied by several of the bands as to be considered their chief villages respectively.] FOOTNOTES TO THE SEA-GULL: [Footnote 101: Kay-óshk is the Ojibway name of Sea-Gull.] [Footnote 102: Gitchee--great,--Gumee--sea or lake,--Lake Superior; also often called Ochipwè Gítchee Gúmee, Great Lake (or sea) of the Ojibways.] [Footnote 103: Né-mè-Shómis--my grandfather. "In the days of my Grandfather" is the Ojibway's preface to all his traditions and legends.] [Footnote 104: Waub--white---O-jeeg,--fisher, (a furred animal.) White Fisher was the name of a noted Chippewa Chief who lived on the south shore of Lake Superior many years ago. Schoolcraft married one of his descendants.] [Footnote 105: Ma-kwâ or mush-kwa--the bear.] [Footnote 106: The Te-ke-nâh-gun is a board upon one side of which a sort of basket is fastened or woven with thongs of skin or strips of cloth. In this the babe is placed, and the mother carries it on her back. In the wigwam the tekenagun is often suspended by a cord to the lodge-poles and the mother swings her babe in it.] [Footnote 107: Wabóse--the rabbit. Penay, the pheasant. At certain seasons the pheasant drums with his wings.] [Footnote 108: Kaug, the porcupine. Kenéw. the war-eagle.] [Footnote 109: Ka-be-bón-ik-ka is the god of storms, thunder, lightning, etc. His home is on Thunder-Cap at Thunder-Bay, Lake Superior. By his magic, the giant that lies on the mountain was turned to stone. He always sends warnings before he finally sends the severe cold of winter, in order to give all creatures time to prepare for it.] [Footnote 1010: Kewaydin or Kewaytin, is the North-wind or North-west wind.] [Footnote 1011: Algónkin is the general name applied to all tribes that speak the Ojibway language or dialects of it.] [Footnote 1012: This is the favorite "love-broth" of the Ojibway squaws. The warrior who drinks it immediately falls desperately in love with the woman who gives it to him. Various tricks are devised to conceal the nature of the "medicine" and to induce the warrior to drink it; but when it is mixed with a liberal quantity of "fire-water" it is considered irresistable.] [Footnote 1013: Translation: Woe-is-me! Woe-is-me! Great Spirit, behold me! Look, Father; have pity upon me! Woe-is-me! Woe-is-me!] [Footnote 1014: Snow-storms from the North-west.] [Footnote 1015: The Ojibways, like the Dakotas, call the _Via Lactea_ (Milky Way) the Pathway of the Spirits.] [Footnote 1016: Shingebis, the diver, is the only water-fowl that remains about Lake Superior all winter. See Schoolcraft's Hiawatha Legends, p. 113.] [Footnote 1017: Waub-ésè--the white swan.] [Footnote 1018: Pé-boân, Winter, is represented as an old man with long white hair and beard.] [Footnote 1019: Se-gún is Spring or Summer. This beautiful allegory has been "done into verse" by Longfellow in _Hiawatha_. I took my version from the lips of an old Chippewa Chief. I have compared it with Schoolcraft's version, from which Mr. Longfellow evidently took his.] [Footnote 1020: Nah--look, see. Nashké--behold.] [Footnote 1021: Kee-zis--the sun,--the father of life. Waubúnong--or Waub-ó-nong--is the White Land or Land of Light,--the Sun-rise, the East.] [Footnote 1022: The Bridge of Stars spans the vast sea of the skies, and the sun and moon walk over on it.] [Footnote 1023: The Miscodeed is a small white flower with a pink border. It is the earliestblooming wild-flower on the shores of Lake Superior, and belongs to the crocus family.] [Footnote 1024: The Ne-be-naw-baigs, are Water-spirits; they dwell in caverns in the depths of the lake, and in some respects resemble the Unktéhees of the Dakotas.] [Footnote 1025: Ogema, Chief,--Ogema-kwa--female Chief. Among the Algonkin tribes women are sometimes made chiefs. Net-nó-kwa, who adopted Tanner as her son, was Oge-mâ-kwa of a band of Ottawas. See John Tanner's Narrative, p. 36.] [Footnote 1026: The "Bridge of Souls" leads from the earth over dark and stormy waters to the Spirit-land. The "Dark River" seems to have been a part of the superstition of all nations.] [Footnote 1027: The Jossakeeds of the Ojibways are sooth-sayers who are able, by the aid of spirits, to read the past as well as the future.]