



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Young Voyageurs--Boy Hunters in the North, by Captain Mayne Reid.

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The heroes are the three boys whom we met in "The Boy Hunters" where
they were off on a search for a white buffalo, which their father had
requested.  Now, however, their father has died, and the only relative
they have is an uncle who works for the Hudson's Bay Company, in the
very north of Canada.  The uncle sends for them, and sends his own son
to guide them over the Canadian part of the journey.

This is the story of their journey from their original home in the south
of the U.S.A., many thousands of miles, to be with their uncle.  At the
time the only way they could do this journey was by their own efforts,
by canoe, on foot, and, after the onset of winter, by sledge, or, if
they could get one, by dog-train.

The canoe and much of their clothes, food and equipment is lost in a
major rapid, so they are very much thrown on their own ingenuity and
woodcraft.  One of the boys has a major interest in natural history, and
we hear from him all about the various animals and birds encountered.
This is far from being a bore, as the author has taken care to make it
interesting.

This is a very enjoyable book, even though it is over 150 years since it
was written.

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THE YOUNG VOYAGEURS--BOY HUNTERS IN THE NORTH, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE FUR COUNTRIES.

Boy reader, you have heard of the Hudson's Bay Company?  Ten to one, you
have worn a piece of fur, which it has provided for you; if not, your
pretty little sister has--in her muff, or her boa, or as a trimming for
her winter dress.  Would you like to know something of the country
whence come these furs?--of the animals whose backs have been stripped
to obtain them?  As I feel certain that you and I are old friends, I
make bold to answer for you--yes.  Come, then! let us journey together
to the "Fur Countries;" let us cross them from south to north.

A vast journey it will be.  It will cost us many thousand miles of
travel.  We shall find neither railway-train, nor steamboat, nor
stage-coach, to carry us on our way.  We shall not even have the help of
a horse.  For us no hotel shall spread its luxurious board; no road-side
inn shall hang out its inviting sign and "clean beds;" no roof of any
kind shall offer us its hospitable shelter.  Our table shall be a rock,
a log, or the earth itself; our lodging a tent; and our bed the skin of
a wild beast.  Such are the best accommodations we can expect upon our
journey.  Are you still ready to undertake it?  Does the prospect not
deter you?

No--I hear you exclaim.  I shall be satisfied with the table--what care
I for mahogany?  With the lodging--I can tent like an Arab.  With the
bed--fling feathers to the wind!

Enough, brave boy! you shall go with me to the wild regions of the
"North-west," to the far "fur countries" of America.  But, first--a word
about the land through which we are going to travel.

Take down your Atlas.  Bend your eye upon the map of North America.
Note two large islands--one upon the right side, Newfoundland; another
upon the left, Vancouver.  Draw a line from one to the other; it will
nearly bisect the continent.  North of that line you behold a vast
territory.  How vast!  You may take your scissors, and clip fifty
Englands out of it!  There are lakes there in which you might _drown_
England, or make an island of it!  Now, you may form some idea of the
vastness of that region known as the "fur countries."

Will you believe me, when I tell you that all this immense tract is a
wilderness--a howling wilderness, if you like a poetical name?  It is
even so.  From north to south, from ocean to ocean,--throughout all that
vast domain, there is neither town nor village--hardly anything that can
be dignified with the name of "settlement."  The only signs of
civilisation to be seen are the "forts," or trading posts, of the
Hudson's Bay Company; and these "signs" are few and far--hundreds of
miles--between.  For inhabitants, the country has less than ten thousand
white men, the _employes_ of the Company; and its native people are
Indians of many tribes, living far apart, few in numbers, subsisting by
the chase, and half starving for at least a third part of every year!
In truth, the territory can hardly be called "inhabited."  There is not
a man to every ten miles; and in many parts of it you may travel
hundreds of miles without seeing a face, red, white, or black!

The physical aspect is, therefore, entirely wild.  It is very different
in different parts of the territory.  One tract is peculiar.  It has
been long known as the "Barren Grounds."  It is a tract of vast extent.
It lies north-west from the shores of Hudson's Bay, extending nearly to
the Mackenzie River.  Its rocks are _primitive_.  It is a land of hills
and valleys,--of deep dark lakes and sharp-running streams.  It is a
woodless region.  No timber is found there that deserves the name.  No
trees but glandular dwarf birches, willows, and black spruce, small and
stunted.  Even these only grow in isolated valleys.  More generally the
surface is covered with coarse sand--the _debris_ of granite or
quartz-rock--upon which no vegetable, save the lichen or the moss, can
find life and nourishment.  In one respect these "Barren Grounds" are
unlike the deserts of Africa: they are well watered.  In almost every
valley there is a lake; and though many of these are landlocked, yet do
they contain fish of several species.  Sometimes these lakes communicate
with each other by means of rapid and turbulent streams passing through
narrow gorges; and lines of those connected lakes form the great rivers
of the district.

Such is a large portion of the Hudson's Bay territory.  Most of the
extensive peninsula of Labrador partakes of a similar character; and
there are other like tracts west of the Rocky Mountain range in the
"Russian possessions."

Yet these "Barren Grounds" have their denizens.  Nature has formed
animals that delight to dwell there, and that are never found in more
fertile regions.  Two ruminating creatures find sustenance upon the
mosses and lichens that cover their cold rocks: they are the caribou
(reindeer) and the musk-ox.  These, in their turn, become the food and
subsistence of preying creatures.  The wolf, in all its varieties of
grey, black, white, pied, and dusky, follows upon their trail.  The
"brown bear,"--a large species, nearly resembling the "grizzly,"--is
found only in the Barren Grounds; and the great "Polar bear" comes
within their borders, but the latter is a dweller upon their shores
alone, and finds his food among the finny tribes of the seas that
surround them.  In marshy ponds, existing here and there, the musk-rat
(_Fibre zibethieus_) builds his house, like that of his larger cousin,
the beaver.  Upon the water sedge he finds subsistence; but his natural
enemy, the wolverene (_Gulo luscus_), skulks in the same neighbourhood.
The "Polar hare" lives upon the leaves and twigs of the dwarf
birch-tree; and this, transformed into its own white flesh, becomes the
food of the Arctic fox.  The herbage, sparse though it be, does not grow
in vain.  The seeds fall to the earth, but they are not suffered to
decay.  They are gathered by the little lemmings and meadow-mice
(_arvicolae_), who, in their turn, become the prey of two species of
_mustelidae_, the ermine and vison weasels.  Have the fish of the lakes
no enemy?  Yes--a terrible one in the Canada otter.  The mink-weasel,
too, pursues them; and in summer, the osprey, the great pelican, the
cormorant, and the white-headed eagle.

These are the _fauna_ of the Barren Grounds.  Man rarely ventures within
their boundaries.  The wretched creatures who find a living there are
the Esquimaux on their coasts, and a few Chippewa Indians in the
interior, who hunt the caribou, and are known as "caribou-eaters."
Other Indians enter them only in summer, in search of game, or
journeying from point to point; and so perilous are these journeyings,
that numbers frequently perish by the way.  There are no white men in
the Barren Grounds.  The "Company" has no commerce there.  No fort is
established in them: so scarce are the fur-bearing animals of these
parts, their skins would not repay the expense of a "trading post."

Far different are the "wooded tracts" of the fur countries.  These lie
mostly in the southern and central regions of the Hudson's Bay
territory.  There are found the valuable beaver, and the wolverene that
preys upon it.  There dwells the American hare, with its enemy the
Canada lynx.  There are the squirrels, and the beautiful martens
(sables) that hunt them from tree to tree.  There are found the foxes of
every variety, the red, the cross, and the rare and highly-prized
silver-fox (_Vulpes argentatus_), whose shining skin sells for its
weight in gold!  There, too, the black bear (_Ursus Americanus_) yields
its fine coat to adorn the winter carriage, the holsters of the dragoon,
and the shako of the grenadier.  There the fur-bearing animals exist in
greatest plenty, and many others whose skins are valuable in commerce,
as the moose, the wapiti, and the wood-bison.

But there is also a "prairie" district in the fur countries.  The great
table prairies of North America, that <DW72> eastward from the Rocky
Mountains, also extend northward into the Hudson's Bay territory.  They
gradually grow narrower, however, as you proceed farther north, until,
on reaching the latitude of the Great Slave Lake, they end altogether.
This "prairie land" has its peculiar animals.  Upon it roams the
buffalo, the prong-horned antelope, and the mule-deer.  There, too, may
be seen the "barking-wolf" and the "swift fox."  It is the favourite
home of the marmots, and the gauffres or sand-rats; and there, too, the
noblest of animals, the horse, runs wild.  West of this prairie tract is
a region of far different aspect,--the region of the Rocky Mountains.
This stupendous chain, sometimes called the Andes of North America,
continues throughout the fur countries from their southern limits to the
shores of the Arctic Sea.  Some of its peaks overlook the waters of that
sea itself, towering up near the coast.  Many of these, even in southern
latitudes, carry the "eternal snow."  This "mountain-chain" is, in
places, of great breadth.  Deep valleys lie in its embrace, many of
which have never been visited by man.  Some are desolate and dreary;
others are oases of vegetation, which fascinate the traveller whose
fortune it has been, after toiling among naked rocks, to gaze upon their
smiling fertility.  These lovely wilds are the favourite home of many
strange animals.  The argali, or mountain-sheep, with his huge curving
horns, is seen there; and the shaggy wild goat bounds along the steepest
cliffs.  The black bear wanders through the wooded ravines; and his
fiercer congener, the "grizzly"--the most dreaded of all American
animals--drags his huge body along the rocky declivities.

Having crossed the mountains, the fur countries extend westward to the
Pacific.  There you encounter barren plains, treeless and waterless;
rapid rivers, that foam through deep, rock-bound channels; and a country
altogether rougher in aspect, and more mountainous, than that lying to
the east of the great chain.  A warmer atmosphere prevails as you
approach the Pacific, and in some places forests of tall trees cover the
earth.  In these are found most of the fur-bearing animals; and, on
account of the greater warmth of the climate, the true _felidae_--the
long-tailed cats--here wander much farther north than upon the eastern
side of the continent.  Even so far north as the forests of Oregon these
appear in the forms of the cougar (_Felis concolor_), and the ounce
(_Felis onza_).

But it is not our intention at present to cross the Rocky Mountains.
Our journey will lie altogether on the eastern side of that great chain.
It will extend from the frontiers of civilisation to the shores of the
Arctic Sea.  It is a long and perilous journey, boy reader; but as we
have made up our minds to it, let us waste no more time in talking, but
set forth at once.  You are ready?  Hurrah!



CHAPTER TWO.

THE YOUNG VOYAGEURS.

There is a canoe upon the waters of Red River--Red River of the north.
It is near the source of the stream, but passing downward.  It is a
small canoe, a frail structure of birch-bark, and contains only four
persons.  They are all young--the eldest of them evidently not over
nineteen years of age, and the youngest about fifteen.

The eldest is nearly full-grown, though his body and limbs have not yet
assumed the muscular development of manhood.  His complexion is dark,
nearly olive.  His hair is jet-black, straight as an Indian's, and long.
His eyes are large and brilliant, and his features prominent.  His
countenance expresses courage, and his well-set jaws betoken firmness
and resolution.  He does not belie his looks, for he possesses these
qualifications in a high degree.  There is a gravity in his manner,
somewhat rare in one so young; yet it is not the result of a morose
disposition, but a subdued temperament produced by modesty, good sense,
and much experience.  Neither has it the air of stupidity.  No: you
could easily tell that the mind of this youth, if once roused, would
exhibit both energy and alertness.  His quiet manner has a far different
expression.  It is an air of coolness and confidence, which tells you he
has met with dangers in the past, and would not fear to encounter them
again.  It is an expression peculiar, I think, to the hunters of the
"Far West,"--those men who dwell amidst dangers in the wild regions of
the great prairies.  Their solitary mode of life begets this expression.
They are often for months without the company of a creature with whom
they may converse--months without beholding a human face.  They live
alone with Nature, surrounded by her majestic forms.  These awe them
into habits of silence.  Such was in point of fact the case with the
youth whom we have been describing.  He had hunted much, though not as a
professional hunter.  With him the chase had been followed merely as a
pastime; but its pursuit had brought him into situations of peril, and
in contact with Nature in her wild solitudes.  Young as he was, he had
journeyed over the grand prairies, and through the pathless forests of
the West.  He had slain the bear and the buffalo, the wild-cat and the
cougar.  These experiences had made their impression upon his mind, and
stamped his countenance with that air of gravity we have noticed.

The second of the youths whom we shall describe is very different in
appearance.  He is of blonde complexion, rather pale, with fair silken
hair that waves gently down his cheeks, and falls upon his shoulders.
He is far from robust.  On the contrary, his form is thin and delicate.
It is not the delicacy of feebleness or ill-health, but only a body of
slighter build.  The manner in which he handles his oar shows that he
possesses both health and strength, though neither in such a high degree
as the dark youth.  His face expresses, perhaps, a larger amount of
intellect, and it is a countenance that would strike you as more open
and communicative.  The eye is blue and mild, and the brow is marked by
the paleness of study and habits of continued thought.  These
indications are no more than just, for the fair-haired youth _is_ a
student, and one of no ordinary attainments.  Although only seventeen
years of age, he is already well versed in the natural sciences; and
many a graduate of Oxford or Cambridge would but ill compare with him.
The former might excel in the knowledge--if we can dignify it by that
name--of the laws of scansion, or in the composition of Greek idyls; but
in all that constitutes _real_ knowledge he would prove but an idle
theorist, a dreamy imbecile, alongside our practical young scholar of
the West.

The third and youngest of the party--taking them as they sit from stem
to bow--differs in many respects from both those described.  He has
neither the gravity of the first, nor yet the intellectuality of the
second.  His face is round, and full, and ruddy.  It is bright and
smiling in its expression.  His eye dances merrily in his head, and its
glance falls upon everything.  His lips are hardly ever at rest.  They
are either engaged in making words--for he talks almost incessantly--or
else contracting and expanding with smiles and joyous laughter.  His cap
is jauntily set, and his fine brown curls, hanging against the rich
roseate skin of his cheeks, give to his countenance an expression of
extreme health and boyish beauty.  His merry laugh and free air tell you
he is not the boy for books.  He is not much of a hunter neither.  In
fact, he is not particularly given to anything--one of those easy
natures who take the world as it comes, look upon the bright side of
everything, without getting sufficiently interested to excel in
anything.

These three youths were dressed nearly alike.  The eldest wore the
costume, as near as may be, of a backwoods hunter--a tunic-like
hunting-shirt, of dressed buckskin, leggings and mocassins of the same
material, and all--shirt, leggings, and mocassins--handsomely braided
and embroidered with stained quills of the porcupine.  The cape of the
shirt was tastefully fringed, and so was the skirt as well as the seams
of the mocassins.  On his head was a hairy cap of raccoon skin, and the
tail of the animal, with its dark transverse bars, hung down behind like
the drooping plume of a helmet.  Around his shoulders were two leathern
belts that crossed each other upon his breast.  One of these slung a
bullet-pouch covered with a violet-green skin that glittered splendidly
in the sun.  It was from the head of the "wood-duck" (_Anas sponsa_),
the most beautiful bird of its tribe.  By the other strap was suspended
a large crescent-shaped horn taken from the head of an Opelousas bull,
and carved with various ornamental devices.  Other smaller implements
hung from the belts, attached by leathern thongs: there was a picker, a
wiper, and a steel for striking fire with.  A third belt--a broad stout
one of alligator leather--encircled the youth's waist.  To this was
fastened a holster, and the shining butt of a pistol could be seen
protruding out; a hunting-knife of the kind denominated "bowie" hanging
over the left hip, completed his "arms and accoutrements."

The second of the youths was dressed, as already stated, in a somewhat
similar manner, though his accoutrements were not of so warlike a
character.  Like the other, he had a powder-horn and pouch, but instead
of knife and pistol, a canvass bag or haversack hung from his shoulder;
and had you looked into it, you would have seen that it was half filled
with shells, pieces of rock, and rare plants, gathered during the day--
the diurnal storehouse of the geologist, the palaeontologist, and
botanist--to be emptied for study and examination by the night
camp-fire.  Instead of the '<DW53>-skin cap he wore a white felt hat with
broad leaf; and for leggings and mocassins he had trousers of blue
cottonade and laced buskins of tanned leather.

The youngest of the three was dressed and accoutred much like the
eldest, except that his cap was of blue cloth--somewhat after the
fashion of the military forage cap.  All three wore shirts of 
cotton, the best for journeying in these uninhabited regions, where soap
is scarce, and a laundress not to be had at any price.

Though very unlike one another, these three youths were brothers.  I
knew them well.  I had seen them before--about two years before--and
though each had grown several inches taller since that time, I had no
difficulty in recognising them.  Even though they were now two thousand
miles from where I had formerly encountered them, I could not be
mistaken as to their identity.  Beyond a doubt they were the same brave
young adventurers whom I had met in the swamps of Louisiana, and whose
exploits I had witnessed upon the prairies of Texas.  They were the "Boy
Hunters,"--Basil, Lucien, Francois!  I was right glad to renew
acquaintance with them.  Boy reader, do you share my joy?

But whither go they now?  They are full two thousand miles from their
home in Louisiana.  The Red River upon which their canoe floats is not
that Red River, whose blood-like waters sweep through the swamps of the
hot South--the home of the alligator and the gar.  No, it is a stream of
a far different character, though also one of great magnitude.  Upon the
banks of the former ripens the rice-plant, and the sugar-cane waves its
golden tassels high in the air.  There, too, flourishes the giant reed
(_Arundo gigantea_), the fan-palm (_Chamaerops_), and the broad-leafed
magnolia, with its huge snow-white flowers.  There the aspect is
Southern, and the heat tropical for most part of the year.

All this is reversed on the Red River of the North.  It is true that on
its banks sugar is also produced; but it is no longer from a plant but a
lordly tree--the great sugar-maple (_Acer saccharinum_).  There is rice
too,--vast fields of rice upon its marshy borders; but it is not the
pearly grain of the South.  It is the wild rice, "the water oats"
(_Zizania aquatica_), the food of millions of winged creatures, and
thousands of human beings as well.  Here for three-fourths of the year
the sun is feeble, and the aspect that of winter.  For months the cold
waters are bound up in an icy embrace.  The earth is covered with thick
snow, over which rise the needle-leafed _coniferae_--the pines, the
cedars, the spruce, and the hemlock.  Very unlike each other are the
countries watered by the two streams, the Red River of the South and its
namesake of the North.

But whither go our Boy Hunters in their birch-bark canoe?  The river
upon which they are _voyaging_ runs due northward into the great Lake
Winnipeg.  They are floating with its current, and consequently
increasing the distance from their home.  Whither go they?

The answer leads us to some sad reflections.  Our joy on again beholding
them is to be mingled with grief.  When we last saw them they had a
father, but no mother.  Now they have neither one nor the
other.  The old Colonel, their father--the French _emigre_, the
_hunter-naturalist_--is dead.  He who had taught them all they knew, who
had taught them "to ride, to swim, to dive deep rivers, to fling the
lasso, to climb tall trees, and scale steep cliffs, to bring down birds
upon the wing or beasts upon the run, with the arrow and the unerring
rifle; who had trained them to sleep in the open air, in the dark
forest, on the unsheltered prairie, along the white snow-wreath--
anywhere--with but a blanket or a buffalo-robe for their bed; who had
taught them to live on the simplest food, and had imparted to one of
them a knowledge of science, of botany in particular, that enabled them,
in case of need, to draw sustenance from plants and trees, from roots
and fruits, to find resources where ignorant men would starve; had
taught them to kindle a fire without flint, steel, or detonating powder;
to discover their direction without a compass, from the rocks and the
trees and the signs of the heavens; and in addition to all, had taught
them, as far as was then known, the geography of that vast wilderness
that stretches from the Mississippi to the shores of the Pacific Ocean,
and northward to the icy borders of the Arctic Sea"--he who had taught
them all this, their father, was no more; and his three sons, the "boy
men," of whom he was so proud, and of whose accomplishments he was wont
to boast, were now orphans upon the wide world.

But little more than a year after their return from their grand
expedition to the Texan prairies, the "old Colonel" had died.  It was
one of the worst years of that scourge of the South--the yellow fever--
and to this dread pestilence he had fallen a victim.

Hugot, the _ex-chasseur_ and attached domestic, who was accustomed to
follow his master like a shadow, had also followed him into the next
world.  It was not grief that killed Hugot, though he bore the loss of
his kind master sadly enough.  But it was not grief that killed Hugot.
He was laid low by the same disease of which his master had died--the
yellow fever.  A week had scarcely passed after the death of the latter,
before Hugot caught the disease, and in a few days he was carried to the
tomb and laid by the side of his "old Colonel."

The Boy Hunters--Basil, Lucien, Francois--became orphans.  They knew of
but _one_ relation in the whole world, with whom their father had kept
up any correspondence.  This relation was an uncle, and, strange as it
may seem, a Scotchman--a Highlander, who had strayed to Corsica in early
life, and had there married the Colonel's sister.  That uncle had
afterwards emigrated to Canada, and had become extensively engaged in
the fur trade.  He was now a superintendent or "factor" of the Hudson's
Bay Company, stationed at one of their most remote posts near the shores
of the Arctic Sea!  There is a romance in the history of some men wilder
than any fiction that could be imagined.

I have not yet answered the question as to where our Boy Hunters were
journeying in their birch-bark canoe.  By this time you will have
divined the answer.  Certainly, you will say, they were on their way to
join their uncle in his remote home.  For no other object could they be
travelling through the wild regions of the Red River.  That supposition
is correct.  To visit this Scotch uncle (they had not seen him for
years) was the object of their long, toilsome, and perilous journey.
After their father's death he had sent for them.  He had heard of their
exploits upon the prairies; and, being himself of an adventurous
disposition, he was filled with admiration for his young kinsmen, and
desired very much to have them come and live with him.  Being now their
guardian, he might command as much, but it needed not any exercise of
authority on his part to induce all three of them to obey his summons.
They had travelled through the mighty forests of the Mississippi, and
upon the summer prairies of the South.  These great features of the
earth's surface were to them familiar things, and they were no longer
curious about them.  But there remained a vast country which they longed
eagerly to explore.  They longed to look upon its shining lakes and
crystal rivers; upon its snow-clad hills and ice-bound streams; upon its
huge mammalia--its moose and its musk-oxen, its wapiti and its monster
bears.  This was the very country to which they were now invited by
their kinsman, and cheerfully did they accept his invitation.  Already
had they made one-half the journey, though by far the easier half.  They
had travelled up the Mississippi, by steamboat as far as the mouth of
the Saint Peter's.  There they had commenced their canoe voyage--in
other words became "voyageurs"--for such is the name given to those who
travel by canoes through these wild territories.  Their favourite horses
and the mule "Jeannette" had been left behind.  This was a necessity, as
these creatures, however useful upon the dry prairies of the South,
where there are few or no lakes, and where rivers only occur at long
intervals, would be of little service to the traveller in the Northern
regions.  Here the route is crossed and intercepted by numerous rivers;
and lakes of all sizes, with tracts of inundated marsh, succeed one
another continually.  Such, in fact, are the highways of the country,
and the canoe the travelling carriage; so that a journey from one point
of the Hudson's Bay territory to another is often a canoe voyage of
thousands of miles--equal to a "trip" across the Atlantic!

Following the usual custom, therefore, our Boy Hunters had become
voyageurs--"_Young Voyageurs_."  They had navigated the Saint Peter's in
safety, almost to its head-waters.  These interlock with the sources of
the Red River.  By a "portage" of a few miles they had crossed to the
latter stream; and, having launched their canoe upon its waters, were
now floating downward and northward with its current.  But they had yet
a long journey before them--nearly two thousand miles!  Many a river to
be "run," many a rapid to be "shot," many a lake to be crossed, and many
a "portage" to be passed, ere they could reach the end of that great
_voyage_.

Come, boy reader, shall we accompany them?  Yes.  The strange scenes and
wild adventures through which we must pass, may lighten the toils, and
perhaps repay us for the perils, of the journey.  Think not of the
toils.  Roses grow only upon thorns.  From toil we learn to enjoy
leisure.  Regard not the perils.  "From the nettle danger we pluck the
flower safety."  Security often springs from peril.  From such hard
experiences great men have arisen.  Come, then, my young friend! mind
neither toil nor peril, but with me to the great wilderness of the
North!

Stay!  We are to have another "_compagnon du voyage_."  There is a
fourth in the boat, a fourth "young voyageur."  Who is he?  In
appearance he is as old as Basil, full as tall, and not unlike him in
"build."  But he is altogether of a different _colour_.  He is
fair-haired; but his hair (unlike that of Lucien, which is also
light-) is strong, crisp, and curly.  It does not droop, but
stands out over his cheeks in a profusion of handsome ringlets.  His
complexion is of that kind known as "fresh," and the weather, to which
it has evidently been much exposed, has bronzed and rather enriched the
colour.  The eyes are dark blue, and, strange to say, with _black_ brows
and lashes!  This is not common, though sometimes observed; and, in the
case of the youth we are describing, arose from a difference of
complexion on the part of his parents.  He looked through the eyes of
his mother, while in other respects he was more like his father, who was
fair-haired and of a "fresh" colour.

The youth, himself, might be termed handsome.  Perhaps he did not
possess the youthful beauty of Francois, nor the bolder kind that
characterised the face of Basil.  Perhaps he was of a coarser "make"
than any of his three companions.  His intellect had been less
cultivated by education, and _education adds to the beauty of the face_.
His life had been a harder one--he had toiled more with his hands, and
had seen less of civilised society.  Still many would have pronounced
him a handsome youth.  His features were regular, and of clean outline.
His lips expressed good-nature as well as firmness.  His eye beamed with
native intelligence, and his whole face bespoke a heart of true and
determined honesty--_that made it beautiful_.

Perhaps a close scrutiniser of countenances might have detected some
resemblance--a family one--between him and his three companions.  If
such there was, it was very slight; but there might have been, from the
relationship that existed between them and him.  He was their cousin--
their full cousin--the only son of that uncle they were now on their way
to visit, and the new-comer who had been sent to bring them.  Such was
the fourth of "the young voyageurs."

His dress was not unlike that worn by Basil; but as he was seated on the
bow, and acting as pilot, and therefore more likely to feel the cold, he
wore over his hunting-shirt a Canadian _capote_ of white woollen cloth,
with its hood hanging, down upon his shoulders.

But there was still another "voyageur," an old acquaintance, whom you,
boy reader, will no doubt remember.  This was an animal, a quadruped,
who lay along the bottom of the canoe upon a buffalo's hide.  "From his
size and colour--which was a tawny red--you might have mistaken him for
a panther--a cougar.  His long black muzzle and broad hanging ears gave
him quite a different aspect, however, and declared him to be a hound.
He _was_ one--a bloodhound, with the build of a mastiff--a powerful
animal.  He was the dog `Marengo.'"  You remember Marengo?

In the canoe there were other objects of interest.  There were blankets
and buffalo-robes; there was a small canvass tent folded up; there were
bags of provisions, and some cooking utensils; there was a spade and an
axe; there were rifles--three of them--and a double-barrelled shot-gun;
besides a fish-net, and many other articles, the necessary equipments
for such a journey.

Loaded almost to the gunwale was that little canoe, yet lightly did it
float down the waters of the Red River of the North.



CHAPTER THREE.

THE TRUMPETER SWAN AND THE BALD EAGLE.

It was the spring season, though late.  The snow had entirely
disappeared from the hills, and the ice from the water, and the melting
of both had swollen the river, and rendered its current more rapid than
usual.  Our young voyageurs needed not therefore to ply their oars,
except now and then to guide the canoe; for these little vessels have no
rudder, but are steered by the paddles.  The skilful voyageurs can shoot
them to any point they please, simply by their dexterous handling of the
oars; and Basil, Lucien, and Francois, had had sufficient practice both
with "skiffs" and "dugouts" to make good oarsmen of all three.  They had
made many a canoe trip upon the lower Mississippi and the bayous of
Louisiana; besides their journey up the Saint Peter's had rendered them
familiar with the management of their birchen craft.  An occasional
stroke of the paddle kept them in their course, and they floated on
without effort.  Norman--such was the name of their Canadian or Highland
cousin--sat in the bow and directed their course.  This is the post of
honour in a canoe; and as he had more experience than any of them in
this sort of navigation, he was allowed habitually to occupy this post.
Lucien sat in the stern.  He held in his hands a book and pencil; and as
the canoe glided onward, he was noting down his memoranda.  The trees
upon the banks were in leaf--many of them in blossom--and as the little
craft verged near the shore, his keen eye followed the configuration of
the leaves, to discover any new species that might appear.  There is a
rich vegetation upon the banks of the Red River; but the _flora_ is far
different from that which appears upon the low _alluvion_ of Louisiana.
It is Northern, but not Arctic.  Oaks, elms, and poplars, are seen
mingling with birches, willows, and aspens.  Several species of
indigenous fruit trees were observed by Lucien, among which were
crab-apple, raspberry, strawberry, and currant.  There was also seen the
fruit called by the voyageurs "le poire," but which in English
phraseology is known as the "service-berry" (_Amelanchier ovalis_).  It
grows upon a small bush or shrub of six or eight feet high, with smooth
pinnate leaves.  These pretty red berries are much esteemed and eaten
both by Indians and whites, who preserve them by drying, and cook them
in various ways.  There was still another bush that fixed the attention
of our young botanist, as it appeared all along the banks, and was a
_characteristic_ of the vegetation of the country.  It was not over
eight feet in height, with spreading branches of a grey colour.  Its
leaves were three inches wide, and somewhat lobed liked those of the
oak.  Of course, at this early season, the fruit was not ripe upon it;
but Lucien knew the fruit well.  When ripe it resembles very much a red
cherry, or, still more, a cranberry, having both the appearance and
acrid taste of the latter.  Indeed, it is sometimes used as a substitute
for cranberries in the making of pies and tarts; and in many parts it is
called the "bush cranberry."  The name, however, by which it is known
among the Indians of Red River is "_anepeminan_," from "_nepen_,"
summer, and "_minan_" berry.  This has been corrupted by the fur-traders
and voyageurs into "Pembina;" hence, the name of a river which runs into
the Red, and also he name of the celebrated but unsuccessful settlement
of "Pembina," formed by Lord Selkirk many years ago.  Both took their
names from this berry that grows in abundance in the neighbourhood.  The
botanical appellation of this curious shrub is _Viburnum oxycoccos_; but
there is another species of the viburnum, which is also styled
"oxycoccos."  The common "snowball bush" of our gardens is a plant of
the same genus, and very like the "Pembina" both in leaf and flower.  In
fact, in a wild state they might be regarded as the same; but it is
well-known that the flowers of the snowball are sterile, and do not
produce the beautiful bright crimson berries of the "Pembina."  Lucien
lectured upon these points to his companions as they floated along.
Norman listened with astonishment to his philosophic cousin, who,
although he had never been in this region before, knew more of its
plants and trees than he did himself.  Basil also was interested in the
explanations given by his brother.  On the contrary, Francois, who cared
but little for botanical studies, or studies of any sort, was occupied
differently.  He sat near the middle of the canoe, double-barrel in
hand, eagerly watching for a shot.  Many species of water-fowl were upon
the river, for it was now late in the spring, and the wild geese and
ducks had all arrived, and were passing northward upon their annual
migration.  During the day Francois had got several shots, and had
"bagged" three wild geese, all of different kinds, for there are many
species of wild geese in America.  He had also shot some ducks.  But
this did not satisfy him.  There was a bird upon the river that could
not be approached.  No matter how the canoe was manoeuvred, this shy
creature always took flight before Francois could get within range.  For
days he had been endeavouring to kill one.  Even upon the Saint Peter's
many of them had been seen, sometimes in pairs, at other times in small
flocks of six or seven, but always shy and wary.  The very difficulty of
getting a shot at them, along with the splendid character of the birds
themselves, had rendered Francois eager to obtain one.  The bird itself
was no other than the great wild swan--the king of aquatic birds.

"Come, brother!" said Francois, addressing Lucien, "bother your
viburnums and your oxycocks!  Tell us something about these swans.  See!
there goes another of them!  What a splendid fellow he is!  I'd give
something to have him within range of buck-shot."

As Francois spoke he pointed down-stream to a great white bird that was
seen moving out from the bank.  It was a swan, and one of the very
largest kind--a "trumpeter" (_Cygnus buccinator_).

It had been feeding in a sedge of the wild rice (_Zizania aquatica_),
and no doubt the sight of the canoe or the plash of the guiding oar had
disturbed, and given it the alarm.  It shot out from the reeds with head
erect and wings slightly raised, offering to the eyes of the voyageurs a
spectacle of graceful and majestic bearing, that, among the feathered
race at least, is quite inimitable.

A few strokes of its broad feet propelled it into the open water near
the middle of the stream, when, making a half wheel, it turned head down
the river, and swam with the current.

At the point where it turned it was not two hundred yards ahead of the
canoe.  Its apparent boldness in permitting them to come so near without
taking wing, led Francois to hope that they might get still nearer; and,
begging his companions to ply the paddles, he seized hold of his
double-barrel, and leaned forward in the canoe.  Basil also conceived a
hope that a shot was to be had, for he took up his rifle, and looked to
the cock and cap.  The others went steadily and quietly to work at the
oars.  In a few moments the canoe cleft the current at the rate of a
galloping horse, and one would have supposed that the swan must either
at once take wing or be overtaken.

Not so, however.  The "trumpeter" knew his game better than that.  He
had full confidence both in his strength and speed upon the water.  He
was not going to undergo the trouble of a fly, until the necessity arose
for so doing; and, as it was, he seemed to be satisfied that that
necessity had not yet arrived.  The swim cost him much less muscular
exertion than flying would have done, and he judged that the current,
here very swift, would carry him out of reach of his pursuers.

It soon began to appear that he judged rightly; and the voyageurs, to
their chagrin, saw that, instead of gaining upon him, as they had
expected, every moment widened the distance between him and the canoe.
The bird had an advantage over his pursuers.  Three distinct powers
propelled him, while they had only two to rely upon.  He had the current
in his favour--so had they.  He had oars or paddles--his feet; they had
oars as well.  He "carried sail," while they spread not a "rag."  The
wind chanced to blow directly down-stream, and the broad wings of the
bird, held out from his body, and half extended, caught the very pith of
the breeze on their double concave surfaces, and carried him through the
water with the velocity of an arrow.  Do you think that he was not aware
of this advantage when he started in the race?  Do you suppose that
these birds do not _think_?  I for one am satisfied they do, and look
upon every one who prates about the _instinct_ of these creatures as a
philosopher of a very old school indeed.  Not only does the great swan
think, but so does your parrot, and your piping bullfinch, and the
little canary that hops on your thumb.  All think, and _reason_, and
_judge_.  Should it ever be your fortune to witness the performance of
those marvellous birds, exhibited by the graceful Mademoiselle
Vandermeersch in the fashionable _salons_ of Paris and London, you will
agree with me in the belief that the smallest of them has a mind like
yourself.

Most certainly the swan, which our voyageurs were pursuing, thought, and
reasoned, and judged, and calculated his distance, and resolved to keep
on "the even tenor of his way," without putting himself to extra trouble
by beating the air with his wings, and lifting his heavy body--thirty
pounds at least--up into the heavens.  His judgment proved sound; for,
in less than ten minutes from the commencement of the chase, he had
gained a clear hundred yards upon his pursuers, and continued to widen
the distance.  At intervals he raised his beak higher than usual, and
uttered his loud booming note, which fell upon the ears of the voyageurs
as though it had been sent back in mockery and defiance.

They would have given up the pursuit, had they not noticed that a few
hundred yards farther down the river made a sharp turn to the right.
The swan, on reaching this, would no longer have the wind in his favour.
This inspired them with fresh hopes.  They thought they would be able
to overtake him after passing the bend, and then, either get a shot at
him, or force him into the air.  The latter was the more likely; and,
although it would be no great gratification to see him fly off, yet they
had become so interested in this singular chase that they desired to
terminate it by putting the trumpeter to some trouble.  They bent,
therefore, with fresh energy to their oars, and pulled onward in the
pursuit.  First the swan, and after him the canoe, swung round the bend,
and entered the new "reach" of the river.  The voyageurs at once
perceived that the bird now swam more slowly.  He no longer "carried
sail," as the wind was no longer in his favour.  His wings lay closely
folded to his body, and he moved only by the aid of his webbed feet and
the current, which last happened to be sluggish, as the river at this
part spread over a wide expanse of level land.  The canoe was evidently
catching up, and each stroke was bringing the pursuers nearer to the
pursued.

After a few minutes' brisk pulling, the trumpeter had lost so much
ground that he was not two hundred yards in the advance, and "dead
ahead."  His body was no longer carried with the same gracefulness, and
the majestic curving of his neck had disappeared.  His bill protruded
forward, and his thighs began to drag the water in his wake.  He was
evidently on the threshold of flight.  Both Francois and Basil saw this,
as they stood with their guns crossed and ready.

At this moment a shrill cry sounded over the water.  It was the scream
of some wild creature, ending in a strange laugh, like the laugh of a
maniac!

On both sides of the river there was a thick forest of tall trees of the
cotton-wood species (_Populus angustifolia_).  From this forest the
strange cry had proceeded, and from the right bank.  Its echoes had
hardly ceased, when it was answered by a similar cry from the trees upon
the left.  So like were the two, that it seemed as if some one of God's
wild creatures was mocking another.  These cries were hideous enough to
frighten any one not used to them.  They had not that effect upon our
voyageurs, who knew their import.  One and all of them were familiar
with the voice of the _white-headed eagle_!

The trumpeter knew it as well as any of them, but on him it produced a
far different effect.  His terror was apparent, and his intention was
all at once changed.  Instead of rising into the air, as he had
premeditated, he suddenly lowered his head, and disappeared under the
water!

Again was heard the wild scream and the maniac laugh; and the next
moment an eagle swept out from the timber, and, after a few strokes of
its broad wing, poised itself over the spot where the trumpeter had gone
down.  The other, its mate, was seen crossing at the same time from the
opposite side.

Presently the swan rose to the surface, but his head was hardly out of
the water when the eagle once more uttered its wild note, and, half
folding its wings, darted down from above.  The swan seemed to have
expected this, for before the eagle could reach the surface, he had gone
under a second time, and the latter, though passing with the velocity of
an arrow, plunged his talons in the water to no purpose.  With a cry of
disappointment the eagle mounted back into the air, and commenced
wheeling in circles over the spot.  It was now joined by its mate, and
both kept round and round watching for the reappearance of their
intended victim.

Again the swan came to the surface, but before either of the eagles
could swoop upon him he had for the third time disappeared.  The swan is
but an indifferent diver; but under such circumstances he was likely to
do his best at it.  But what could it avail him?  He must soon rise to
the surface to take breath--each time at shorter intervals.  He would
soon become fatigued and unable to dive with sufficient celerity, and
then his cruel enemies would be down upon him with their terrible
talons.  Such is the usual result, unless the swan takes to the air,
which he sometimes does.  In the present case he had built his hopes
upon a different means of escape.  He contemplated being able to conceal
himself in a heavy sedge of bulrushes (_Scirpus lacustris_) that grew
along the edge of the river, and towards these he was evidently
directing his course under the water.  At each emersion he appeared some
yards nearer them, until at length he rose within a few feet of their
margin, and diving again was seen no more!  He had crept in among the
sedge, and no doubt was lying with only his head, or part of it, above
the water, his body concealed by the broad leaves of the _nymphae_,
while the head itself could not be distinguished among the white flowers
that lay thickly along the surface.  The eagles now wheeled over the
sedge, flapping the tops of the bulrushes with their broad wings, and
screaming with disappointed rage.  Keen as were their eyes they could
not discover the hiding-place of their victim.  No doubt they would have
searched for it a long while, but the canoe--which they now appeared to
notice for the first time--had floated near; and, becoming aware of
their own danger, both mounted into the air again, and with a farewell
scream flew off, and alighted at some distance down the river.

"A swan for supper!" shouted Francois, as he poised his gun for the
expected shot.

The canoe was headed for the bulrushes near the point where the
trumpeter had been last seen; and a few strokes of the paddles brought
the little craft with a whizzing sound among the sedge.  But the culms
of the rushes were so tall, and grew so closely together, that the
canoemen, after entering, found to their chagrin they could not see six
feet around them.  They dared not stand up, for this is exceedingly
dangerous in a birch canoe, where the greatest caution is necessary to
keep the vessel from careening over.  Moreover, the sedge was so thick,
that it was with difficulty they could use their oars.  They remained
stationary for a time, surrounded by a wall of green bulrush.  They soon
perceived that that would never do, and resolved to push back into the
open water.  Meanwhile Marengo had been sent into the sedge, and was now
heard plunging and sweltering about in search of the game.  Marengo was
not much of a water-dog by nature, but he had been trained to almost
every kind of hunting, and his experience among the swamps of Louisiana
had long since relieved him of all dread for the water.  His masters
therefore had no fear but that Marengo would "put up" the trumpeter.

Marengo had been let loose a little too soon.  Before the canoe could be
cleared of the entangling sedge, the dog was heard to utter one of his
loud growls, then followed a heavy plunge, there was a confused
fluttering of wings, and the great white bird rose majestically into the
air!  Before either of the gunners could direct their aim, he was beyond
the range of shot, and both prudently reserved their fire.  Marengo
having performed his part, swam back to the canoe, and was lifted over
the gunwale.  The swan, after clearing the sedge, rose almost vertically
into the air.  These birds usually fly at a great elevation--sometimes
entirely beyond the reach of sight.  Unlike the wild geese and ducks,
they never alight upon land, but always upon the bosom of the water.  It
was evidently the intention of this one to go far from the scene of his
late dangers, perhaps to the great Lake Winnipeg itself.  After
attaining a height of several hundred yards, he flew forward in a
horizontal course, and followed the direction of the stream.  His flight
was now regular, and his trumpet-note could be heard at intervals, as,
with outstretched neck, he glided along the heavens.  He seemed to feel
the pleasant sensations that every creature has after an escape from
danger, and no doubt he fancied himself secure.  But in this fancy he
deceived himself.  Better for him had he risen a few hundred yards
higher, or else had uttered his self-gratulation in a more subdued tone;
for it was heard and answered, and that response was the maniac laugh of
the white-headed eagle.  At the same instant two of these birds--those
already introduced--were seen mounting into the air.  They did not fly
up vertically, as the swan had done, but in spiral curves, wheeling and
crossing each other as they ascended.  They were making for a point that
would intersect the flight of the swan should he keep on in his
horizontal course.  This, however, he did not do.  With an eye as quick
as theirs, he saw that he was "headed;" and, stretching his long neck
upward, he again pursued an almost vertical line.  But he had to carry
thirty pounds of flesh and bones, while the largest of the eagles--the
female bird--with a still broader spread of wing, was a "light weight"
of only seven.  The result of this difference was soon apparent.  Before
the trumpeter had got two hundred yards higher, the female of the eagles
was seen wheeling around him on the same level.  The swan was now
observed to double, fly downward, and then upward again, while his
mournful note echoed back to the earth.  But his efforts were in vain.
After a series of contortions and manoeuvres, the eagle darted forward,
with a quick toss threw herself back downward, and, striking upward,
planted her talons in the under part of the wing of her victim.  The
lacerated shaft fell uselessly down; and the great white bird, no longer
capable of flight, came whistling through the air.  But it was not
allowed to drop directly to the earth; it would have fallen on the bosom
of the broad river, and that the eagles did not wish, as it would have
given them some trouble to get the heavy carcass ashore.  As soon as the
male--who was lower in the air--saw that his partner had struck the
bird, he discontinued his upward flight, and, poising himself on his
spread tail, waited its descent.  A single instant was sufficient.  The
white object passed him still fluttering; but the moment it was below
his level he shot after it like an arrow, and, clutching it in his
talons, with an outward stroke sent it whizzing in a diagonal direction.
The next moment a crashing was heard among the twigs, and a dull sound
announced that the swan had fallen upon the earth.

The eagles were now seen sailing downward, and soon disappeared among
the tops of the trees.

The canoe soon reached the bank; and Francois, accompanied by Basil and
Marengo, leaped ashore, and went in search of the birds.  They found the
swan quite dead and lying upon its back as the eagles had turned it.
Its breast was torn open, and the crimson blood, with which they had
been gorging themselves, was spread in broad flakes over its snowy
plumage.  The eagles themselves, scared by the dog Marengo, had taken
flight before the boys could get within shot of them.

As it was just the hour for a "noon halt" and a luncheon, the swan was
carried to the bank of the river, where a crackling fire was soon
kindled to roast him; and while this operation was going on the
"naturalist" was requested by his companions to give them an account of
the "swans of America."



CHAPTER FOUR.

THE SWANS OF AMERICA.

"Very well, then," said Lucien, agreeing to the request.  "I shall tell
you all I know of the swans; and, indeed, that is not much, as the
natural history of these birds in their wild state is but little
understood.  On account of their shy habits, there is not much
opportunity of observing them; and as they annually migrate and breed in
those desolate regions within the Arctic circle, where civilised men do
not live, but little information has been collected about them.  Some of
the species, however, breed in the temperate zones, and the habits of
these are better known.

"For a long time it was fancied there was but one species of swan.  It
is now known that there are several, distinguished from each other in
form, colour, voice, and habits.  `White as a swan,' is a simile as old,
perhaps; as language itself.  This, I fancy, would sound strangely to
the ears of a native Australian, who is accustomed to look upon swans as
being of the very opposite colour, for the black swan is a native of
that country.

"According to the naturalist Brehm, who has given much attention to this
subject, there are four distinct species of swans in Europe.  They are
all white, though some of the species have a reddish orange tinge about
the head and neck.  Two of them are `gibbous,' that is, with a knob or
protuberance upon the upper part of the bill.  One of these Brehm terms
the `white-headed gibbous swan' (_Cygnus gibbus_).  The other is the
`yellow-headed' (_Cygnus olor_); and this last also is known as the
_mute_ or _tame_ swan, because it is that species most commonly seen in
a tame state upon the ornamental lakes and ponds of England.  The other
two European species Brehm has designated `singing swans,' as both of
them utter a note that may be heard to a considerable distance.

"The black swan of Australia (_Cygnus niger_) has been naturalised in
Europe, and breeds freely in England, where, from its great size and
peculiar markings, it is one of the most ornamental of water-fowls.  It
is, moreover, a great tyrant, and will not permit other birds to
approach its haunt, but drives them off, striking them furiously with
its strong broad wings.

"Until a late period the swans of America were supposed to be all of one
kind.  This is not the case.  There are now known to be three distinct
species inhabiting the fur countries, and migrating annually to the
South.  That which is best known is the `whistler,' or `hooper' (_Cygnus
Americanus_), because it is the species that abounds in the old States
upon the Atlantic, and was therefore more observed by naturalists.  It
is believed to be identical with one of the European `singing' swans
(_Cygnus ferus_), but this is not certain; and for my part, I believe
they are different, as the eggs of the American swan are greenish, while
those of its European congener are brownish, with white blotches.

"The `hooper' is four and a half feet in length, though there are males
still larger, some of them measuring five feet.  Its colour is white,
except upon the head and back part of the neck, where there is a coppery
tinge.  The bill and feet are black.  From the angle of the mouth to the
eye there is a small naked `cere,' of a bright yellow colour.  These
swans, like others of the genus, do not care much for the salt water.
They are rarely seen upon the sea, except near its shores, where they
may find the aquatic plants upon which they feed.  Nor do they go out
upon the large lakes.  When found upon these, it is generally close in
to the land.  This is accounted for by the fact that the swans do not
`dive' for their food, but stretch down for it with their long necks,
which Nature has peculiarly adapted to this very purpose.  Their
favourite food consists of the roots of aquatic plants, which are often
farinaceous.  As these grow best in the shallow small lakes and along
the margins of rivers, such places are the usual resort of the swans.
Although their diet is a vegetable one, it is not exclusively so, as
they will eat frogs, worms, and small fish.  Unlike the ducks and geese,
they rarely feed upon land, but while floating upon the surface of the
water.  They walk but awkwardly on land, and are at home only on water
or in the air.  In the air they are quite at home, and fly so swiftly
that it is no easy matter to shoot them, especially when going before
the wind.  At such times they are supposed to fly at the rate of one
hundred miles an hour.  When moulting, and unable to rise into the air,
it is no easy matter to follow them even with a canoe.  By means of
their broad feet and strong wings, they can flutter so quickly over the
water, now and then diving, that the hunter cannot overtake them in his
boat, but is obliged to use his gun in the pursuit.

"The `hoopers' are migratory,--that is, they pass to the north every
spring, and southward again in the autumn.  Why they make these annual
migrations, remains one of the mysteries of nature.  Some believe they
migrate to the north, because they there find those desolate uninhabited
regions where they can bring forth their young in security.  But this
explanation cannot be the true one, as there are also uninhabited
regions in the south, even under the equator, where they may be equally
free from the presence of man.  Another explanation might be offered.
In hot and tropical countries most of the small lakes and swamps, where
these birds love to dwell, dry up during the summer months: hence the
necessity of a migration to colder and moister regions.  But this would
only hold good of the wading and water birds; it would not account for
the migration of the many other birds of passage.

"A better explanation may be this: The north and the cold zones are the
natural habitat of most migratory birds.  It is there that they bring
forth their young, and there they are at home.  In tropical regions they
are only sojourners for a season, forced thither, some of them, by a
cold which they do not relish; but others, such as the water-fowl, by
the frost, which, binding up the lakes, rivers, and swamps, hinders them
from procuring their food.  They are thus compelled to make an annual
migration to the open waters of the South, but as soon as the ice has
given way before the genial breath of spring, they all return rejoicing
to their favourite home in the North, when their season of love
commences.

"The `hoopers' follow this general law, and migrate to the northward
every spring.  They breed upon islets in the numerous lakes that stud
the whole northern part of the American continent.  Eminences in swamps
are also chosen for breeding places, and the ends of promontories that
jut out into the water.  The spot selected is always such that the swan,
when seated upon her nest, can have a view of the surrounding country,
and detect any enemy long before it can approach her.  The top of the
dome-shaped dwellings of the musk-rat, or musquash (_Fibre zibethicus_),
is often selected by the swan for her nest.  These curious little houses
are usually in the midst of impenetrable swamps: they are only occupied
by their builders during the winter; and as they are deserted by them in
early spring, they are therefore quite at the service of the swan for
the `balance of the season.'  The bird makes a large cavity in the top,
and lines it with such reeds and grass as may be found near the spot.

"The hooper lays from six to eight eggs, and sits upon them for a period
of six weeks, when the cygnets come forth covered with a thick down of a
bluish-grey colour.  While sitting upon her eggs, the swan is
exceedingly watchful and shy.  She `faces' towards the point whence she
most apprehends danger.  When the weather is severe, and the wind cold
and keen, she changes into that position which is most comfortable.  If
her nest be upon a promontory instead of an island, she usually sits
with her head to the land, as she feels secure that no enemy will reach
her from the waterside.  From the land she has not only man to `look
out' for, but the wolverene (_Gulo luscus_), the lynx (_Felis
Canadensis_), foxes, and wolves.

"The Indians often snare the swan upon her nest.  Of course the snare--a
running noose made from the intestines of the deer--is set in her
absence.  It is placed upon the side by which she enters, as these birds
enter and leave the nest upon opposite sides.  The snare must be
arranged with great care, and with _clean hands_; and the Indians always
take the precaution to wash their hands before setting it, else the
swans, whose sense of smell is very acute, will perceive the presence of
danger, and will not only keep away for a time, but sometimes desert the
eggs altogether.  There are many other birds that have a similar habit.

"So much for the `hooper,'" continued Lucien; "now for the `trumpeter.'
This is the largest of the American swans, being found to measure
seventy inches in length.  Its specific name `trumpeter' (Cygnus
_buccinator_) is given to it on account of its note, which resembles the
sound of a French horn, or trumpet, played at a distance.  The bird is
white, with black bill and feet, and has also a reddish orange or copper
tinge upon the crown and neck; but it wants the yellow spot between the
split of the mandibles and the eye.  It is easily distinguished from the
hooper, both by its louder note and larger body.  Its habits, however,
are very similar, except that it seems to be more gregarious,--small
flocks of six or eight often appearing together, while the hooper is
seen only in pairs, and sometimes solitary.  Another distinction is,
that the trumpeter arrives much earlier in its migrations to the North,
being the earliest bird that appears except the eagles.  It breeds as
far South as latitude 61 degrees, but most generally within the Arctic
circle.  Its nest is constructed similarly to those of the hooper, but
its eggs are much larger, one of them being a meal for a moderate eater,
without bread or any other addition.  The trumpeter frequently arrives
in the North before the lakes or rivers are thawed.  It is then obliged
to find sustenance at the rapids and waterfalls, where the Indians can
approach under cover, and many are shot at such times by these people.
At all other times, as you, Francois, have observed, it is a bird most
difficult of approach; and the Indian hunters only attempt it when they
have a long-range gun loaded with ball.

"The third species of American swans is that known as Bewick's swan
(Cygnus _Bewickii_), called after the naturalist of that name.  It is
the smallest of the three, rarely measuring over fifty-two inches in
length, and weighing only fourteen pounds, while the hooper is over
twenty pounds in weight, and the trumpeter is often obtained of the
enormous weight of thirty!

"Bewick's swan is also said to be identical with one of Brehm's singing
swans.  Its colour is almost similar to that of the hooper, and the two
are often mistaken for each other.  The size and the tail-feathers of
all three of the American swans form a sufficiently specific
distinction.  In the trumpeter these are twenty-four in number, in the
hooper twenty, while the small species has only eighteen.

"Of the three, the last-mentioned is the latest on its annual journey,
but it breeds farther North than either of the others.  Its nest is
found upon the islands of the Arctic Sea; it is usually built of
peat-moss, and is of gigantic dimensions, being six feet long by five in
width, and nearly two feet high.  In the top of this pile is the nest
itself, forming a large round cavity nearly two feet in diameter.  The
eggs are of a brownish white, with clouds of darker tint.

"I have remarked," continued Lucien, "a singularity in the geographical
distribution of these three species.  Upon the Pacific coast the
smallest kind and the hooper only are met with, and the small ones
outnumber the others in the ratio of five to one.  In the interior parts
of the continent only the hoopers and trumpeters appear; and the
trumpeters are by far the most numerous, while upon the eastern coasts
of America the hoopers are the sort best known.

"The swans are eagerly hunted both by the Indians and white hunters.
Their skins, with the quills and down, form a source of profit to the
natives of the fur countries, who dispose of them to the Hudson's Bay
Company.  In some years as many as ten thousand skins have been
exported, and sold at the rate of six or seven shillings each.  Most of
the skins thus sold were those of the trumpeter swans, which are the
most numerous.

"Now," said Lucien, in conclusion, "you know as much about the swans as
I do; so I shall drop the subject, and recommend to all of you a piece
of roast swan, which is now just done to a turn, and which I doubt not
will be found less dry than my lecture."



CHAPTER FIVE.

A SWAN-HUNT BY TORCHLIGHT.

A few days brought our travellers to the settlement of Red River, where
they made but a very short stay; and, having procured a few articles
which they stood in need of, they resumed their journey, and floated on
towards Lake Winnipeg.  The swans were seen in greater numbers than
ever.  They were not less shy however, and Francois, as before, in vain
tried to get a shot at one.  He was very desirous of bringing down one
of these noble birds, partly because the taste he had had of their flesh
had given him a liking for it; and partly because their shyness had
greatly tantalised him.  One is always more eager to kill shy game, both
on account of the rarity of the thing, and the credit one gets for his
expertness.  But the voyageurs had now got within less than twenty miles
of Lake Winnipeg, and Francois had not as yet shot a single swan.  It
was not at all likely the eagles would help him to another.  So there
would be no more roast swan for supper.

Norman, seeing how eager Francois was to shoot one of these birds,
resolved to aid him by his advice.

"Cousin Frank," said he, one evening as they floated along, "you wish
very much to get a shot at the swans?"

"I do," replied Francois,--"I do; and if you can tell me how to
accomplish that business, I'll make you a present of this knife."  Here
Francois held up a very handsome clasp-knife that he carried in his
pouch.

A knife in the fur countries is no insignificant affair.  With a knife
you may sometimes buy a horse, or a tent, or a whole carcass of beef,
or, what is stranger still, a wife!  To the hunter in these wild
regions--perhaps a thousand miles from where knives are sold--such a
thing is of very great value indeed; but the knife which Francois
offered to his cousin was a particularly fine one, and the latter had
once expressed a wish to become the owner of it.  He was not slow,
therefore, in accepting the conditions.

"Well," rejoined he, "you must consent to travel a few miles by night,
and I think I can promise you a shot at the trumpeters--perhaps
several."

"What say you, brothers?" asked Francois, appealing to Basil and Lucien;
"shall we have the sport?  Say yes."

"Oh!  I have no objection," said Lucien.

"Nor I," added Basil.  "On the contrary, I should like it above all
things.  I wish very much to know what plan our cousin shall adopt.  I
never heard of any mode of approaching these birds."

"Very well, then," answered Norman, "I shall have the pleasure of
instructing you in a way that is in use in these parts among the
Indians, who hunt the swan for its skin and quills, which they trade to
us at the post.  We can manage it to-night, I think," continued he,
looking up at the sky: "there is no moon, and the sky is thick.  Yes, it
will be dark enough."

"Is it necessary the night should be a dark one?" asked Francois.

"The darker the better," replied Norman.  "To-night, if I am not
mistaken, will be as black as pitch.  But we need to make some
preparations.  It is near sundown, and we shall have just time to get
ready for the business.  Let us get ashore, then, as quickly as
possible."

"Oh! certainly--let us land," replied all three at once.

The canoe was now turned to the shore; and when it had arrived within a
few feet of the land it was brought to a stop.  Its keel was not allowed
to touch the bottom of the river, as that would have injured the little
craft.  The greatest precaution is always observed both in landing and
embarking these vessels.  The voyageurs first get out and wade to the
shore, one or two remaining to hold the canoe in its place.  The cargo,
whatever it be, is then taken out and landed; and after that the canoe
itself is lifted out of the water, and carried ashore, where it is set,
bottom upward, to dry.  The birch-bark canoe is so frail a structure,
that, were it brought rudely in contact either with the bottom or the
bank, it would be very much damaged, or might go to pieces altogether.
Hence the care with which it is handled.  It is dangerous, also, to
stand upright in it, as it is so "crank" that it would easily turn over,
and spill both canoemen and cargo into the water.  The voyageurs,
therefore, when once they have got in, remain seated during the whole
passage, shifting about as little as they can help.  When landed for the
night, the canoe is always taken out of the water as described.  The
bark is of a somewhat spongy nature; and if left in the water for a
length of time, would become soaked and heavy, and would not run so
well.  When kept all night, bottom upward, it drips and becomes dryer
and lighter.  In the morning, at the commencement of the day's journey,
it sits higher upon the water than in the afternoon and evening, and is
at that time more easily paddled along.

Our voyageurs, having got on shore, first kindled a fire to cook their
supper.  This they intended to despatch earlier than usual, so as to
give them the early part of the night for their swan-hunt, which they
expected to finish before midnight.  Lucien did the cooking, while
Norman, assisted by Basil and Francois, made his preparations for the
hunt.  Francois, who was more interested in the result than any of them,
watched every movement of his cousin.  Nothing escaped him.

Norman proceeded as follows:--

He walked off into the woods, accompanied by Francois.  After going
about an hundred yards or so, he stopped at the foot of a certain tree.
The tree was a birch--easily distinguished by its smooth, silvery bark.
By means of his sharp hunting-knife he "girdled" this tree near the
ground, and then higher up, so that the length between the two
"girdlings," or circular cuttings, was about four feet.  He then made a
longitudinal incision by drawing the point of his knife from one circle
to the other.  This done he inserted the blade under the bark, and
peeled it off, as he would have taken the skin from a buffalo.  The tree
was a foot in diameter, consequently the bark, when stripped off and
spread flat, was about three feet in width; for you must remember that
the circumference of a circle or a cylinder is always about three times
the length of its diameter, and therefore a tree is three times as much
"_round_" as it is "_through_."

They now returned to the camp-fire, taking along with them the piece of
bark that had been cut off.  This was spread out, though not quite flat,
still leaving it somewhat curved.  The convex side, that which had lain
towards the tree, was now blackened with pulverised charcoal, which
Norman had directed Basil to prepare for the purpose; and to the bark at
one end was fastened a stake or shaft.  Nothing more remained but to fix
this stake in the canoe, in an upright position near the bow, and in
such a way that the bottom of the piece of bark would be upon a level
with the seats, with its hollow side looking forward.  It would thus
form a screen, and prevent those in the canoe from being seen by any
creature that might be ahead.

When all this had been arranged, Norman shouldered the axe, and again
walked off into the woods.  This time his object was to obtain a
quantity of "knots" of the pitch-pine (_Pinus rigida_), which he knew
would most likely be found in such a situation.  The tree was soon
discovered, and pointed out to Francois, who accompanied him as before.
Francois saw that it was a tree of about fifty feet in height, and a
foot in diameter at its base.  Its bark was thick, very dark in the
colour, and full of cracks or fissures.  Its leaves, or "needles," were
about three inches long, and grew in threes, each three forming a little
bunch, bound together at its base by a brownish sheath.  These bunches,
in botanical language, are termed "fasciles."  The cones were somewhat
shorter than the leaves, nearly of the shape of eggs, and clustered
together in threes and fours.  Francois noticed that the tree was
thickly branched, and therefore there are many knots in the wood.  For
this reason it is not of much use as timber; but on account of the resin
which it contains, it is the best species for firewood; and for that
purpose it is used in all parts of the United States, where it grows.
Most of the _pine-wood_ sold for fuel in the large cities of America is
the wood of this species.

Francois supposed that his companion was about to fell one of the trees.
He was mistaken, however; Norman had no such intention; he had only
stopped before one to examine it, and make sure that it was the species
he was in search of.  He was soon satisfied of this, and moved on,
directing his eyes along the ground.  Again he stopped; but this time it
was by a tree that had already fallen--blown down, perhaps, by the wind.
It was half decayed; but Francois could see that it was one of the same
species--the pitch-pine.

This was the very thing Norman wanted, and plying his axe, he soon
knocked out a large quantity of the resinous knots.  These he at length
collected, and putting them into a bag, returned with Francois to the
fire.  He then announced that he had no further preparations to make.

All four now sat down to supper, which consisted of dry meat, with
biscuits and coffee; and, as their appetites were sharpened by their
water journey, they made a hearty meal of it.

As soon as they had finished eating, the canoe was launched and got
ready.  The screen of birch-bark was set up, by lashing its shaft to the
bottom timbers, and also to one of the seats.  Immediately in front of
this, and out upon the bow, was placed the frying-pan; and this having
been secured by being tied at the handle, was filled with dry
pine-knots, ready to be kindled at a moment's notice.  These
arrangements being made, the hunters only awaited the darkness to set
forth.

In the progress of their hunt they would be carried still farther
down-stream; but as that was the direction in which they were
travelling, they would only be progressing on their journey, and thus
"killing two birds with one stone."  This was altogether a very pleasant
consideration; and, having stowed everything snugly in the canoe, they
sat chatting agreeably and waiting for the arrival of night.

Night came at length, and, as Norman had predicted, it was as "dark as
pitch."  Stepping gently into the canoe, and seating themselves in their
respective places, they pushed out and commenced floating down-stream.
Norman sat near the bow, in order to attend to his torch of pine-knots.
Francois was next to him, holding his double-barrel, loaded with
buck-shot, which is the same size as that used for swans, and in England
is even known as "swan-shot."

Next came Basil with his rifle.  He sat near Francois, just by the
middle of the little vessel.  Lucien, who was altogether a man of peace
principles, and but little of a shot compared with either of his
brothers, handled the oar--not to propel the canoe, but merely to guide
it.  In this way the party floated on in silence.

Norman soon kindled his torch, which now cast its red glare over the
surface of the river, extending its fiery radii even to the banks on
both sides of the stream.  The trees that overhung the water seemed
tinged with vermilion, and the rippling wave sparkled like liquid gold.
The light only extended over a semicircle.  From the manner in which the
torch was placed, its light did not fall upon the other half of the
circle, and this, by contrast, appeared even darker than it would
otherwise have done.

The advantage of the plan which Norman had adopted was at once apparent
to all.  Ahead of the canoe the whole river was plainly seen for a
distance of several hundred yards.  No object larger than a cork could
have floated on its surface, without being visible to those in the
vessel--much less the great white body of a trumpeter swan.  Astern of
the canoe, on the other hand, all was pitchy darkness, and any one
looking at the vessel from a position ahead could have seen nothing but
the bright torch and the black uniform surface behind it.  As I have
already stated, the concave side of the bark was towards the blaze, and
the pan containing the torch being placed close in to the screen, none
of the light could possibly fall upon the forms of those within the
canoe.  They were therefore invisible to any creature from the front,
while they themselves could see everything before them.

Two questions yet remained unanswered.  First,--would our hunters find
any swans on the river?  Second,--if they should, would these birds
allow themselves to be approached near enough to be shot at?  The first
question Norman, of course, could not answer.  That was a matter beyond
his knowledge or control.  The swans might or might not appear, but it
was to be hoped they would.  It was likely enough.  Many had been seen
on the preceding day, and why not then?  To the second question, the
young Canadian gave a definite reply.  He assured his cousins that, if
met with, the birds would be easily approached in this manner; he had
often hunted them so.  They would either keep their place, and remain
until the light came very near them, or they would move towards it (as
he had many times known them to do), attracted by curiosity and the
novelty of the spectacle.  He had hunted deer in the same manner; he had
shot, he said, hundreds of these animals upon the banks of rivers, where
they had come down to the water to drink, and stood gazing at the light.

His cousins could well credit his statements.  They themselves had
hunted deer by torchlight in the woods of Louisiana, where it is termed
"fire-hunting."  They had killed several in this way.  The creatures, as
if held by some fascination, would stand with head erect looking at the
torch carried by one of the party, while the other took sight between
their glancing eyes and fired the deadly bullet.  Remembering this, they
could easily believe that the swans might act in a similar manner.

It was not long until they were convinced of it by actual experience.
As the canoe rounded a bend in the river, three large white objects
appeared in the "reach" before them.  A single glance satisfied all that
they were swans, though, in the deceptive glare of the torch, they
appeared even larger than swans.  Their long upright necks, however,
convinced the party they could be nothing else, and the canoe was headed
directly for them.

As our hunters approached, one of the birds was heard to utter his
strange trumpet-note, and this he repeated at intervals as they drew
nearer.

"I have heard that they sing before death," muttered Francois to Basil,
who sat nearest him.  "If so, I hope that's the song itself;" and
Francois laughed quietly at the joke he had perpetrated.

Basil also laughed; and Lucien, who had overheard the remark, could not
restrain himself from joining in the laughter.

"I fear not," rejoined Basil; "there is hardly enough music in the note
to call it a song.  They may live to `blow their own trumpet' a long
while yet."

This remark called forth a fresh chorus of laughter, in which all took
part; but it was a very silent kind of laughter, that could not have
been heard ten yards off: it might have been termed "laughing in a
whisper."

It soon ended, however, as matters now became serious: they were already
within less than two hundred yards of the game, and the greatest caution
had to be observed.  The gunners had arranged the order of fire: Basil
was to shoot first, taking steady aim with his rifle at any one of the
birds; while Francois should fire as soon as he heard the report of his
brother's gun, taking the remaining swans upon the wing, with one or
both barrels, as he best might.

At length Basil deemed himself near enough, and, levelling his piece,
fired.  The bird threw out its wings, and flattened down upon the water,
almost without a struggle.  The other two were rising into the air, when
"crack! crack!" went the two barrels of Francois' piece, and one of the
swans fell back with a broken wing, and fluttered over the surface of
the stream.  Basil's had been shot dead, and was taken up easily; but
the wounded bird was only captured after a long chase with the canoe;
and when overtaken, it struck so fiercely with its remaining wing, that
one of the blows inflicted a painful wound on the wrist of Francois.
Both, however, were at length got safely aboard, and proved to be a male
and female of the largest dimensions.



CHAPTER SIX.

"CAST AWAY."

Of course, the reports of the guns must have frightened any other swans
that were near.  It was not likely they would find any more before going
some distance farther down the river; so, having stowed away in a safe
place the two already killed, the hunters paddled rapidly onward.

They had hardly gone half a mile farther, when another flock of swans
was discovered.  These were approached in a similar way, and no less
than three were obtained--Francois making a remarkable shot, and killing
with both barrels.  A little farther down, one of the "hoopers" was
killed; and still farther on, another trumpeter; making in all no less
than seven swans that lay dead in the bottom of the canoe!

These seven great birds almost filled the little craft to the gunwales,
and you would think that our "torch-hunters" ought to have been content
with such a spoil; but the hunter is hard to satisfy with game, and but
too often inclined to "spill much more blood" than is necessary to his
wants.  Our voyageurs, instead of desisting, again set the canoe in
motion, and continued the hunt.

A short distance below the place where they had shot the last swan, as
they were rounding a bend in the river, a loud rushing sounded in their
ears; similar to that produced by a cascade or waterfall.  On first
hearing it, they were startled and somewhat alarmed.  It might be a
"fall," thought they.  Norman could not tell: he had never travelled
this route; he did not know whether there were falls in the Red River or
not, but he believed not.  In his voyage to the South, he had travelled
by another route; that was, up the Winnipeg River, and through Rainy
Lake and the Lake of the Woods to Lake Superior.  This is the usual and
well-known track followed by the _employes_ of the Hudson's Bay Company;
and Norman had travelled it.

In this uncertainty the canoe was brought to a stop, and our voyageurs
remained listening.  The noise made by the water was not very distant,
and sounded like the roaring of "rapids," or the rush of a "fall."  It
was evidently one or the other; but, after listening to it for a
considerable time, all came to the conclusion that the sound did not
proceed from the Red River itself, but from some stream that emptied
into it upon the right.  With this belief they again put the canoe in
motion, and glided slowly and cautiously onward.

Their conjecture proved to be correct.  As they approached nearer, they
perceived that the noise appeared every moment more and more to their
right; and presently they saw, below them, a rapid current sweeping into
the Red River from the right bank.  This was easily distinguished by the
white froth and bubbles that were carried along upon its surface, and
which had evidently been produced by some fall over which the water had
lately passed.  The hunters now rowed fearlessly forward, and in a few
moments came opposite the _debouchure_ of the tributary stream, when a
considerable cascade appeared to their view, not thirty yards from the
Red River itself.  The water foamed and dashed over a series of steps,
and then swept rapidly on, in a frothy current.  They had entered this
current, and were now carried along with increased velocity, so that the
oarsmen suspended operations, and drew their paddles within the canoe.

A flock of swans now drew their attention.  It was the largest flock
they had yet seen, numbering nearly a score of these noble birds,--a
sight, as Norman informed them, that was exceedingly rare even in the
most favoured haunts of the swan.  Rarely are more than six or seven
seen together, and oftener only two or three.  A grand _coup_ was
determined upon.  Norman took up his own gun, and even Lucien, who
managed the stern oar, and guided the craft, also brought his piece--a
very small rifle--close to his hand, so that he might have a shot as
well as the others.

The canoe was directed in such a manner that, by merely keeping its head
down the stream, it would float to the spot where the swans were.

In a short while they approached very near the great birds, and our
hunters could see them sitting on the water, with upraised necks, gazing
in wonder at the torch.  Whether they sounded their strange note was not
known, for the "sough" of the waterfall still echoed in the ears of the
canoemen, and they could not hear aught else.

Basil and Norman fired first, and simultaneously; but the louder
detonations of Francois' double-barrel, and even the tiny crack of
Lucien's rifle, were heard almost the instant after.  Three of the birds
were killed by the volley, while a fourth, evidently "winged," was seen
to dive, and flutter down-stream.  The others mounted into the air, and
disappeared in the darkness.

During the time occupied in this manoeuvre, the canoe, no longer guided
by Lucien's oar, had been caught by some eddy in the current, and swept
round stern-foremost.  In this position the light no longer shone upon
the river ahead, but was thrown up-stream.  All in a downward direction
was buried in deep darkness.  Before the voyageurs could bring the canoe
back to its proper direction, a new sound fell upon their ears that
caused some of them to utter a cry of terror.  It was the noise of
rushing water, but not that which they had already heard and passed.  It
was before them in the river itself.  Perhaps it was a cataract, and
_they were sweeping rapidly to its brink_!

The voice of Norman was heard exclaiming, "Hold with your oars!--the
rapids!--the rapids!"  At the same time he himself was seen rising up
and stretching forward for an oar.  All was now consternation; and the
movements of the party naturally consequent upon such a sudden panic
shook the little craft until her gunwales lipped the water.  At the same
time she had swung round, until the light again showed the stream ahead,
and a horrid sight it was.  Far as the eye could see was a reach of
foaming rapids.  Dark points of rocks, and huge black boulders, thickly
scattered in the channel, jutted above the surface; and around and
against these, the water frothed and hissed furiously.  There was no
cataract, it is true--there is none such in Red River--but for all
purposes of destruction the rapids before them were equally dangerous
and terrible to the eyes of our voyageurs.  They no longer thought of
the swans.  The dead were permitted to float down unheeded, the wounded
to make its escape.  Their only thought was to stop the canoe before it
should be carried upon the rapids.

With this intent all had taken to the oars, but in spite of every
exertion they soon found that the light craft had got within the
influence of the strong current, and was sucked downward more rapidly
than ever.  Their backward strokes were to no purpose.

In a few seconds the canoe had passed over the first stage of the
rapids, and shot down with the velocity of an arrow.  A huge boulder lay
directly in the middle of the channel, and against this the current
broke with fury, laving its sides in foaming masses.  The canoe was
hurried to this point; and as the light was again turned up-stream, none
of the voyageurs could see this dangerous rock.  But they could not have
shunned it then.  The boat had escaped from their control, and spun
round at will.  The rock once more came under the light, but just as the
canoe, with a heavy crash, was driven against it.

For some moments the vessel, pressed by the current against the rock,
remained motionless, but her sides were stove in, and the water was
rushing through.  The quick eye of Basil--cool in all crises of extreme
danger--perceived this at a glance.  He saw that the canoe was a wreck,
and nothing remained but to save themselves as they best might.
Dropping the oar, and seizing his rifle, he called to his companions to
leap to the rock: and all together immediately sprang over the gunwale.
The dog Marengo followed after.

The canoe, thus lightened, heeled round into the current, and swept on.
The next moment she struck another rock, and was carried over on her
beams.  The water then rushed in--the white bodies of the swans, with
the robes, blankets, and implements, rose on the wave; the blazing knots
were spilled from the pan, and fell with a hissing sound: and a few
seconds after they were extinguished, and all was darkness!

The Young Voyageurs--by Captain Mayne Reid



CHAPTER SEVEN.

A BRIDGE OF BUCKSKIN.

The canoe was lost, and all it had contained, or nearly all.  The
voyageurs had saved only their guns, knives, and the powder-horns and
pouches, that had been attached to their persons.  One other thing had
been saved--an axe which Basil had flung upon the rock as he stepped out
of the sinking vessel.  All the rest--robes, blankets, swans, cooking
utensils, bags of provisions, such as coffee, flour, and dried meat--
were lost--irrecoverably lost.  These had either drifted off upon the
surface, or been carried under water and hidden among the loose stones
at the bottom.  No matter where, they were lost; and our voyageurs now
stood on a small naked rock in the middle of the stream, with nothing
left but the clothes upon their backs, and the arms in their hands.
Such was their condition.

There was something so sudden and awful in the mishap that had befallen
them, that for some minutes they stood upon the spot where they had
settled without moving or addressing a word to one another.  They gazed
after the canoe.  They knew that it was wrecked, although they could see
nothing either of it or its contents.  Thick darkness enveloped them,
rendered more intense from the sudden extinction of the torchlight.
They saw nothing but the foam flickering along the river; like the
ghosts of the swans they had killed, and they heard only the roaring of
the water, that sounded in their ears with a hoarse and melancholy wail.

For a long time they stood impressed with the lamentable condition into
which the accident had plunged them; and a lamentable condition it was,
sure enough.  They were on a small rock in the midst of a rapid river.
They were in the midst of a great wilderness too, many long miles from a
settlement.  The nearest could only be reached by travelling through
pathless forests, and over numerous and deep rivers.  Impassable swamps,
and lakes with marshy shores, lay on the route, and barred the direct
course, and all this journey would have to be made on foot.

But none of our young voyageurs were of that stamp to yield themselves
to despair.  One and all of them had experienced perils before--greater
even than that in which they now stood.  As soon, therefore, as they
became fully satisfied that their little vessel was wrecked, and all its
contents scattered, instead of despairing, their first thoughts were how
to make the best of their situation.

For that night, at least, they were helpless.  They could not leave the
rock.  It was surrounded by rapids.  Sharp, jagged points peeped out of
the water, and between these the current rushed with impetuosity.  In
the darkness no human being could have crossed to either shore in
safety.  To attempt it would have been madness, and our voyageurs soon
came to this conclusion.  They had no other choice than to remain where
they were until the morning; so, seating themselves upon the rock, they
prepared to pass the night.

They sat huddled close together.  They could not lie down--there was not
room enough for that.  They kept awake most of the night, one or other
of them, overcome by fatigue, occasionally nodding over in a sort of
half-sleep, but awakening again after a few minutes' uncomfortable
dreaming.  They talked but little, as the noise of the rushing rapids
rendered conversation painful.  To be heard, they were under the
necessity of shouting to one another, like passengers in an omnibus.  It
was cold, too.  None of them had been much wetted in escaping from the
canoe; but they had saved neither overcoat, blanket, nor buffalo-robe;
and, although it was now late in the spring, the nights near Lake
Winnipeg, even at that season, are chilly.  They were above the latitude
of 50 degrees; and although in England, which is on that parallel, it is
not very cold of a spring night, it must be remembered that the line of
equal temperature--in the language of meteorologists the "_isothermal
line_,"--is of a much lower latitude in America than in Europe.

Another fact worth remembering is, that upon the eastern or Atlantic
coast of the American Continent it is much colder in the same latitude
than on the western or Pacific side.  The Pacific "sea-board" in its
climate is more like the western edge of the old continent.  This would
seem to indicate that the climate of a coast country is much influenced
by the side upon which the ocean lies, whether east or west.  This in
reality is the case, for you may observe on your map that the western
coasts of both the "old world" and the "new" are somewhat similarly
placed in regard to their oceans, and hence the similarity of their
climates.

There are many other causes connected with this; such as the direction
of winds, and the different effects produced by them on the atmosphere
when they have passed over water or over land.  It was, and is still by
many people believed, that the winds are produced by the air becoming
heated in a particular place, and then ascending, and leaving a "vacuum"
into which the colder air rushes from all sides around.  This "rushing,"
it was supposed, made the wind.  To some extent this theory is true, but
there are several other causes that operate in producing wind.
Electricity--an agent hitherto but little known, but one of the most
important elements of our Earth--has much to do with the winds; and the
revolution of the Earth on its own axis has also an influence upon them.
Indeed it is to be wondered at, that mankind should have so long
remained satisfied with the very unsatisfactory theory of the _heated
air_.  But it is not to be wondered at either, when we consider how
little mankind has had to do with these things--when we consider that as
yet nearly every country upon the face of the globe is despotic; that
the whole time of the great body of the people is occupied in a struggle
for life--occupied in toiling for a few, who by the most cunning devices
rob them of the fruits of their toils--rob them so skilfully that the
poor blinded masses have grown to consider eternal toil as the _natural
state of man_--nay more, are ready to persecute him who would elevate
them, and worship him who would sink them deeper in baseness and
bondage;--when we reflect on this almost hopeless darkness of soul that
has marked the history of the past, and is too much the character of the
present, we need not wonder that so few have had either leisure or
inclination to yield themselves to the acquirement or prosecution of
scientific knowledge.  "The winds have blown where they listed, and we
have heard the sound thereof," but men absorbed in the hard struggle of
life have found but little time to inquire "whence they come or whither
they go."

The people of the United States are yet but partially free.  They still
inherit, from customs and prejudices, the fruits of an ancestral
oppression, and a bondage of centuries of duration.  But even their
_partial_ freedom has already shown its good effects.  At this moment
knowledge is progressing faster among these people than any other on the
face of the earth.  Meteorology begins to assume the palpable shape of
an exact science.  The winds are being traced in their currents, and
followed through all their windings, by Maury and other men of talent;
and if you live twenty years longer (and I hope you may live three times
as many years), you will no doubt be able to tell "whence the wind
cometh and whither it goeth."

Well, we began this politico-scientific discussion by observing that it
was very cold in the latitude of Lake Winnipeg, even in late spring.
Only at night though; the days are sometimes so hot there that you might
fancy yourself in the tropics.  These extremes are characteristic of the
climate of all American countries, and particularly those that lie at a
distance from the sea-coast.

Our voyageurs were chilled to the very bones, and of course glad to see
the daylight glimmering through the tops of the trees that grew upon the
banks of the river.  As soon as day broke, they began to consider how
they would reach those trees.  Although swimming a river of that width
would have been to any of the four a mere bagatelle, they saw that it
was not to be so easy an affair.  Had they been upon either bank, they
could have crossed to the other without difficulty--as they would have
chosen a place where the water was comparatively still.  On the rock
they had no choice, as the rapids extended on both sides above and below
it.  Between the boulders the current rushed so impetuously, that had
they attempted to swim to either bank, they would have been carried
downward, and perhaps dashed with violence against one or other of the
sharp stones.

As soon as it was light, they saw all this; not without feelings of
apprehension and uneasiness.  Their whole attention was now occupied
with the one object--how they should get to the bank of the river.

The right bank was the more distant; but the passage in that direction
appeared the easier one.  The current was not so swift, nor yet did it
seem so deep.  They thought they might ford it, and Basil made the
attempt; but he soon got beyond his depth; and was obliged, after being
carried off his feet, to swim up under the lee of the rock again.

From the rock to the right bank was about an hundred yards' distance.
Here and there, at irregular intervals, sharp, jagged stones rose above
the surface, some of them projecting three feet or more out of the
water, and looking _very_ much like upright tombstones.  Lucien had
noticed these, and expressed the opinion that if they only had a rope,
they might fling it over one of these stones, and then, holding it fast
at the other end, might pass by that means from one to the other.

The suggestion was a good one, but where was the rope to come from?  All
their ropes and cords--lassoes and all--had been swept away in the
wreck.  Not a string remained, except those that fastened their horns,
flasks, and other accoutrements; and these were only small thongs, and
would be of no use for such a purpose.  It would require a rope strong
enough to carry the weight of a man impelled by a rapid current--in
fact, a weight equal to that of several men.  They all set to thinking
how this was to be obtained.  Each looked at the other, and scanned the
straps and thongs that were around their bodies.  They were satisfied at
a glance that these would not be sufficient to make such a rope as was
wanted.  They did not give up the hope of being able to obtain one.
They were all of them accustomed to resort to strange expedients, and a
sufficiently strange one now suggested itself.  Basil and Norman seemed
to have thought of it at the same time, for both at once unbuckled their
straps, and commenced pulling off their buckskin hunting-shirts.  The
others said nothing, as they knew well what they were going to do with
them--they knew they intended cutting them into strips, and then
twisting a rope out of them.

All four set to work together.  Lucien and Francois held the shirts
taut, while Basil and Norman handled the knives, and in a few minutes
the rock was covered with strips of buckskin about two inches wide, by a
yard or so in length.  These were next joined and plaited together in
such a manner that a rope was formed nearly forty feet long.  An eye was
made at one end, and through this the other end was reeved--so that a
running noose was obtained, in the same manner as the Mexicans and
Indians make their lassoes.  The rope was now ready for use, and Basil
was the very hand to use it; for Basil knew how to fling a lasso as well
as either Mexican or Indian.  He had practised it often, and had lassoed
many a long-horned bull upon the prairies of Opelousas and the
Attakapas.  To Basil, therefore, the rope was given.  He placed himself
on the highest part of the rock, having first coiled the new-made lasso,
and hung the coil lightly over his left arm.  He then took the noose-end
in his right hand, and commenced winding it around his head.  His
companions had laid themselves flat, so as not to be in the way of the
noose as it circled about.  After a few turns the rope was launched
forth, and a loud "hurrah!" from Francois announced that the throw was
successful.  It was so in fact, as the noose was seen settling smoothly
over the jutting-stone, taking full hold upon it.  A pull from Basil
fixed it; and in a few minutes it was made quite fast, without the
slightest danger of its slipping off.  The other end was then carried
round a projecting point of the rock on which they stood, and knotted
firmly, so that the rope was quite taut, and stretched in a nearly
horizontal direction, about a foot above the surface of the water.

The voyageurs now prepared to cross over.  Their guns, pouches, and
flasks were carefully secured, so that the water could not damage them.
Then each took a piece of the buckskin thong, and fastened it round his
waist, leaving enough to form a running loop.  This loop was intended to
embrace the rope, and run along it, as they drew themselves forward by
their hands.

Basil passed over first.  He was the oldest, and, as he asserted, it was
but right he should run the risk in testing the new-fashioned bridge, of
which he was the architect.  It worked admirably, and sustained the
weight of his body, with the whole force of the current acting upon it.
Of course he was swept far down, and the rope was stretched to its full
tension, but he succeeded in handing himself along, until he was able to
touch the second rock, and clamber upon it in safety.  During the
passage across he was watched by his companions with emotions of no
ordinary character, but as soon as he had reached the opposite end of
the rope all three uttered a loud and simultaneous cheer.  Lucien passed
over next, and after him Francois.  Notwithstanding his danger, Francois
laughed loudly all the time he was in the water, while his brothers were
not without some fears for his safety.  Marengo was next attached to the
rope, and pulled safely over.

Norman was the last to cross upon the buckskin bridge, but, like the
others, he landed in safety; and the four, with the dog, now stood upon
the little isolated boulder, where there was just room enough to give
them all a footing.

A difficulty now presented itself, which they had not hitherto thought
of.  Another reach of rapid current was to be crossed, before they could
safely trust themselves to enter the water.  This they knew before, but
they had also noticed that there was another jutting rock, upon which
they might fling their rope.  But the rope itself was now the
difficulty.  It was fast at both ends, and how were they to release it
from the rock they had left?  One of them could easily cross over again
and untie it, but how was he to get back to the others?  Here was a
dilemma which had not presented itself before, and they now saw
themselves no better off than ever.  The rapid that remained to be
crossed, was as dangerous as the one they had succeeded in passing.
There was no hope that they could swim it in safety.  They would
certainly be swept with violence against the rocks below.  There was no
chance, then, of their going an inch farther--unless by some means
similar to that they had just used, and the rope was no longer at their
service.

For some time they all stood silent, each considering the matter in his
own way.  How could they free the rope?

"It cannot be done," said one.  "Impossible," rejoined another.  "We
must make a second rope.  Francois's shirt still remains, and our
leggings--we can use them."

This was the mode suggested by Francois and Norman, and Lucien seemed to
assent to it.  They had already commenced untying their leggings, when
Basil uttered the ejaculation--

"Stop!"

"Well, what is it, brother?" asked Lucien.

"I think I can free the rope at the other end.  At all events, let me
try.  It will not cost much, either in time or trouble."

"How do you mean to do it, brother?"

"Sit close, all of you.  Give me room--you shall see presently."

As directed by Basil, they all cowered closely down, so as to occupy as
little space as possible.  Basil, having uncovered the lock of his
rifle--which had been carefully bound up in a piece of deer's bladder--
placed himself in a firm position, and appeared as if about to fire.
Such was his intention--for in a few moments he was seen to raise the
gun to his shoulder, and take aim.  None of his companions uttered a
word.  They had already guessed the object of this movement, and sat
silently awaiting the result.

On the rock which they had left, the rope still bound fast passed around
one of the angles, in such a way that, from the point where Basil stood,
it offered a fair mark.  It was at this Basil was aiming.  His object
was to cut the thong with his bullet.  He could not do it with a single
shot, as the thong was broader than the bullet, but he had calculated
that he might effect his purpose with several.  If he did not succeed in
cutting it clean through, the ball flattening upon the rock would,
perhaps, tear the rope in such a manner that, by pulling by the other
end, they might detach it.  Such were the calculations and hopes of
Basil.

A moment more and the crack of his rifle was heard.  At the same instant
the dust rose up from the point at which he had aimed, and several small
fragments flew off into the water.  Again was heard Francois's "hurrah,"
for Francois, as well as the others, had seen that the rope had been hit
at the right place, and now exhibited a mangled appearance.

While Basil was reloading, Norman took aim and fired.  Norman was a good
shot, though perhaps not so good a one as Basil, for that was no easy
matter, as there were few such marksmen to be found anywhere, not even
among the professional trappers and hunters themselves.  But Norman was
a fair shot, and this time hit his mark.  The thong was evidently better
than half divided by the two; bullets.  Seeing this, Francois took hold
of the other end, and gave it a strong jerk or two, but it was still too
much for him, and he ceased pulling, and waited the effect of Basil's
second shot.

The latter had now reloaded, and, taking deliberate aim again, fired.
The rope was still held taut upon the rock, for part of it dragged in
the current, the force of which kept pressing it hard downward.
Scarcely was the report heard, when the farther end of the thong flew
from its fastening, and, swept by the running water, was seen falling
into the lee of the boulder on which the party now stood.  A third time
was heard the voice of Francois uttering one of his customary "hurrahs."
The rope was now dragged up, and made ready for further use.  Basil
again took hold of it; and, after coiling it as before, succeeded in
throwing the noose over the third rock, where it settled and held fast.
The other end was tied as before, and all passed safely to the new
station.  Here, however, their labour ended.  They found that from this
point to the shore the river was shallow, and fordable; and, leaving the
rope where it was, all four took the water, and waded safely to the
bank.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

DECOYING THE "GOATS."

For the present, then, our voyageurs had escaped.  They were safe upon
the river's bank; but when we consider the circumstances in which they
were placed, we shall perceive that they were far from being pleasant
ones.  They were in the midst of a wilderness, without either horse or
boat to carry them out of it.  They had lost everything but their arms
and their axe.  The hunting-shirts of some of them, as we have seen,
were destroyed, and they would now suffer from the severe cold that even
in summer, as we have said, often reigns in these latitudes.  Not a
vessel was left them for cooking with, and not a morsel of meat or
anything was left to be cooked.  For their future subsistence they would
have to depend upon their guns, which, with their ammunition, they had
fortunately preserved.

After reaching the shore, their first thoughts were about procuring
something to eat.  They had now been a long time without food, and all
four were hungry enough.  As if by one impulse, all cast their eyes
around, and looked upward among the branches of the tree's, to see if
any animal could be discovered that might serve them for a meal.  Bird
or quadruped, it mattered not, so that it was large enough to give the
four a breakfast.  But neither one nor the other was to be seen,
although the woods around had a promising appearance.  The trees were
large, and as there was much underwood, consisting of berry-bushes and
plants with edible roots, our voyageurs did not doubt that there would
be found game in abundance.  It was agreed, then, that Lucien and
Francois should remain on the spot and kindle a fire, while Basil and
Norman went off in search of something to be cooked upon it.

In less than an hour the latter returned, carrying an animal upon his
shoulders, which both the boys recognised as an old acquaintance,--the
prong-horned antelope (_Antilope furcifer_), so called from the single
fork or prong upon its horns.  Norman called it "a goat," and stated
that this was its name among the fur-traders, while the Canadian
voyageurs give it the title of "cabree."  Lucien, however, knew the
animal well.  He knew it was not of the goat kind, but a true antelope,
and the only animal of that genus found in North America.  Its habitat
is the prairie country, and at the present time it is not found farther
east than the prairies extend, nor farther north either, as it is not a
creature that can bear extreme cold.  In early times, however--that is,
nearly two centuries ago--it must have ranged nearly to the Atlantic
shores, as Father Hennepin in his Travels speaks of "goats" being killed
in the neighbourhood of Niagara, meaning no other than the prong-horned
antelopes.  The true wild goat of America is a very different animal,
and is only found in the remote regions of the Rocky Mountains.

What Norman had shot, then, was an antelope; and the reason why it is
called "cabree" by the voyageurs, and "goat" by the fur-traders, is
partly from its colour resembling that of the common goat, but more from
the fact, that along the upper part of its neck there is a standing
mane, which does in truth give it somewhat the appearance of the
European goat.  Another point of resemblance lies in the fact, that the
"prong-horns" emit the same disagreeable odour, which is a well-known
characteristic of the goat species.  This proceeds from two small
glandular openings that lie at the angles of the jaws, and appear spots
of a blackish brown colour.

Both Lucien and Francois had shot antelopes.  They had decoyed them
within range in their former expedition on the prairies, and had seen
wolves do the same.  The Indians usually hunt them in this manner, by
holding up some bright- flag, or other curious object, which
rarely fails to bring them within shot; but Norman informed his cousins
that the Indians of the Hudson's Bay Company care little about the
antelope, and rarely think it worth hunting.  Its skin is of little
value to them, and they consider its flesh but indifferent eating.  But
the chief reason why they take so little notice of it is, because it is
found in the same range with the buffalo, the moose, and the elk; and,
as all these animals are more valuable to the Indian hunter, he allows
the antelope to go unmolested, unless when he is hard pressed with
hunger, and none of the others are to be had.

While skinning the antelope for breakfast, Norman amused his companions
by relating how he had killed it.  He said that he had got near enough
to shoot it by practising a "dodge."  After travelling through the woods
for some half-mile or so, he had come out into a country of "openings,"
and saw that there was a large prairie beyond.  He saw that the woods
extended no farther than about a mile from the banks of the river, and
that the whole country beyond was without timber, except in scattered
clumps.  This is, in fact, true of the Red River country, particularly
of its western part, from which the great prairies stretch westward,
even to the "foot-hills" (_piedmont_) of the Rocky Mountains.  Well,
then, after arriving at the openings, Norman espied a small herd of
antelopes, about ten or a dozen in all.  He would rather they had been
something else, as elk or deer; for, like the Indians, he did not much
relish the "goat's" meat.  He was too hungry, however, to be nice, and
so he set about trying to get within shot of the herd.  There was no
cover, and he knew he could not approach near enough without using some
stratagem.  He therefore laid himself flat upon his back, and raised his
heels as high as he could into the air.  These he kicked about in such a
manner, as soon to attract the attention of the antelopes, that, curious
to make out what it was, commenced running round and round in circles,
of which Norman himself was the centre.  The circles gradually became
smaller and smaller, until the hunter saw that his game was within
range; when, slyly rolling himself round on one shoulder, he took aim at
a buck, and fired.  The buck fell, and the rest of the herd bounded off
like the wind.  Norman feeling hungry himself, and knowing that his
companions were suffering from the same cause, lost no time in looking
for other game; but shouldering the "goat," carried it into camp.

By this time Lucien and Francois had a fire kindled--a roaring fire of
"pine-knots"--and both were standing by it, smoking all over in their
wet leggings.  They had got nearly dry when Norman returned, and they
proceeded to assist in butchering the antelope.  The skin was whipped
off in a trice; and the venison, cut into steaks and ribs, was soon
spitted and sputtering cheerily in the blaze of the pine-knots.
Everything looked pleasant and promising, and it only wanted the
presence of Basil to make them all feel quite happy again.  Basil,
however, did not make his appearance; and as they were all as hungry as
wolves, they could not wait for him, but set upon the antelope-venison,
and made each of them a hearty meal from it.

As yet they had no apprehensions about Basil.  They supposed he had not
met with any game, and was still travelling about in search of it.
Should he succeed in killing any, he would bring it in; and should he
not, he would return in proper time without it.  It was still early in
the day.

But several hours passed over, and he did not come.  It was an unusual
length of time for him to be absent, especially in strange woods of
which he knew nothing; moreover, he was in his shirt-sleeves, and the
rest of his clothing had been dripping wet when he set out.  Under these
circumstances would he remain so long, unless something unpleasant had
happened to him?

This question the three began to ask one another.  They began to grow
uneasy about their absent companion; and as the hours passed on without
his appearing, their uneasiness increased to serious alarm.  They at
length resolved to go in search of him.  They took different directions,
so that there would be a better chance of finding him.  Norman struck
out into the woods, while Lucien and Francois, followed by the dog
Marengo, kept down the bank--thinking that if Basil had got lost, he
would make for the river to guide him, as night approached.  All were to
return to the camp at nightfall whether successful or not.

After several hours spent in traversing the woods and openings, Norman
came back.  He had been unable to find any traces of their missing
companion.  The others had got back before him.  They heard his story
with sorrowing hearts, for neither had they fallen in with the track of
living creature.  Basil was lost, beyond a doubt.  He would never have
stayed so long, had not some accident happened to him.  Perhaps he was
dead--killed by some wild animal--a panther or a bear.  Perhaps he had
met with Indians, who had carried him off, or put him to death on the
spot.  Such were the painful conjectures of his companions.

It was now night.  All three sat mournfully over the fire, their looks
and gestures betokening the deep dejection they felt.  Although in need
of repose, none of them attempted to go to sleep.  At intervals they
discussed the probability of his return, and then they would remain
silent.  Nothing could be done that night.  They could only await the
morning light, when they would renew their search, and scour the country
in every direction.

It was near midnight, and they were sitting silently around the fire,
when Marengo started to his feet, and uttered three or four loud barks.
The echoes of these had hardly died among the trees when a shrill
whistle was heard at some distance off in the woods.

"Hurrah!" shouted Francois, leaping to his feet at the instant; "that's
Basil's whistle, I'll be bound.  I'd know it a mile off.  Hurrah!"

Francois' "hurrah!" rang through the woods, and the next moment came
back a loud "Hilloa!" which all recognised as the voice of Basil.

"Hilloa!" shouted the three by the fire.

"Hilloa, my boys! all right!" replied the voice; and a few seconds
after, the tall upright form of Basil himself was seen advancing, under
the glare of the pine-knots.  A shout of congratulation was again
raised; and all the party, preceded by Marengo, rushed out to meet the
new-comer.  They soon returned, bringing Basil up to the fire, when it
was seen that he had not returned empty-handed.  In one hand he carried
a bag of grouse, or "prairie hens," while from the muzzle of his
shouldered rifle there hung something that was at once recognised as a
brace of buffalo tongues.

"_Voila_!" cried Basil, flinging down the bag, "how are you off for
supper?  And here," continued he, pointing to the tongues, "here's a
pair of tit-bits that'll make you lick your lips.  Come! let us lose no
time in the cooking, for I'm hungry enough to eat either of them raw."

Basil's request was instantly complied with.  The fire was raked up,
spits were speedily procured, a tongue and one of the grouse were
roasted; and although Lucien, Francois, and Norman, had already supped
on the "goat's meat," they set to upon the new viands with fresh
appetites.  Basil was hungrier than any, for he had been all the while
fasting.  It was not because he was without meat, but because he knew
that his comrades would be uneasy about him, and he would not stop to
cook it.  Of meat he had enough, since he had slain the two buffaloes to
which the tongues had belonged; and these same buffaloes, he now
informed them, had been the cause of his long absence.

Of course, all were eager to know how the buffaloes could have delayed
him; and therefore, while they were discussing their savoury supper,
Basil narrated the details of his day's adventure.



CHAPTER NINE.

A "PARTRIDGE DANCE."

"After leaving here," said Basil, "I struck off through the woods in a
line that led from the river, in a diagonal direction.  I hadn't walked
more than three hundred yards, when I heard a drumming sound, which I at
first took to be thunder; but, after listening a while, I knew it was
not that, but the drumming of the ruffed grouse.  As soon as I could
ascertain the direction of the sound, I hurried on in that way; but for
a long time I appeared to get no nearer it, so greatly does this sound
deceive one.  I should think I walked a full mile before I arrived at
the place where the birds were, for there were many of them.  I then had
a full view of them, as they went through their singular performances.

"There were, in all, about a score.  They had selected a piece of open
and level ground, and over this they were running in a circle, about
twenty feet in diameter.  They did not all run in the same direction,
but met and crossed each other, although they never deviated much from
the circumference of the circle, around which the grass was worn quite
bare, and a ring upon the turf looked baked and black.  When I first got
near, they heard my foot among the leaves, and I saw that one and all of
them stopped running, and squatted close down.  I halted, and hid myself
behind a tree.  After remaining quiet a minute or so, the birds began to
stretch up their necks, and then all rose together to their feet, and
commenced running round the ring as before.  I knew they were performing
what is called the `Partridge Dance;' and as I had never witnessed it I
held back awhile, and looked on.  Even hungry as I was, and as I knew
all of you to be, so odd were the movements of these creatures, that I
could not resist watching them a while, before I sent my unwelcome
messenger into their `ballroom.'  Now and then an old cock would
separate from the pack, and running out to some distance, would leap
upon a rock that was there; then, after dropping his wings, flirting
with his spread tail, erecting the ruff upon his neck, and throwing back
his head, he would swell and strut upon the rock, exhibiting himself
like a diminutive turkey-cock.  After manoeuvring in this way for a few
moments, he would commence flapping his wings in short quick strokes,
which grew more rapid as he proceeded, until a `booming' sound was
produced, more like the rumble of distant thunder than anything I can
think of.

"This appeared to be a challenge to the others; and then a second would
come out, and, after replying to it by putting himself through a similar
series of attitudes, the two would attack each other, and fight with all
the fury of a pair of game-cocks.

"I could have watched their manoeuvres much longer," continued Basil,
"but hunger got the better of me, and I made ready to fire.  Those that
were `dancing' moved so quickly round the ring that I could not sight
one of them.  If I had had a shot-gun, I might have covered several, but
with the rifle I could not hope for more than a single bird; so, wanting
to make sure of that, I waited until an old cock mounted the rock, and
got to `drumming.'  Then I sighted him, and sent my bullet through his
crop.  I heard the loud whirr of the pack as they rose up from the ring;
and, marking them, I saw that they all alighted only a couple of hundred
yards off, upon a large spruce-tree.  Hoping they would sit there until
I could get another shot, I loaded as quickly as possible, and stepped
forward.  The course I took brought me past the one I had killed, which
I picked up, and thrust hastily into my bag.  Beyond this I had to pass
over some logs that lay along the ground, with level spaces between
them.  What was my surprise in getting among these, to see two of the
cocks down upon the grass, and righting so desperately that they took no
notice of my approach!  At first I threw up my rifle, intending to fire,
but seeing that the birds were within a few feet of me, I thought they
might let me lay hold of them, which they, in fact, did; for the next
moment I had `grabbed' both of them, and cooled their bellicose spirits
by wringing their heads off.

"I now proceeded to the pack, that still kept the tree.  When near
enough, I sheltered myself behind another tree; and taking aim at one, I
brought him tumbling to the ground.  The others sat still.  Of course, I
shot the one upon the lowest branch: I knew that, so long as I did this,
the others would sit until I might get the whole of them; but that if I
shot one of the upper ones, its fluttering down through the branches
would alarm the rest, and cause them to fly off.  I loaded and fired,
and loaded and fired, until half-a-dozen of the birds lay around the
root of the tree.  I believe I could have killed the whole pack, but it
just then occurred to me that I was wasting our precious ammunition, and
that, considering the value of powder and shot to us just now, the birds
were hardly worth a load apiece; so I left off cracking at them.  As I
stepped forward to gather what I had killed, the rest whirred away into
the woods.

"On reaching the tree where they had perched, I was very much surprised
to find a raw-hide rope neatly coiled up, and hanging from one of the
lower branches.  I knew that somebody must have placed it there, and I
looked round to see what `sign' there was besides.  My eye fell upon the
cinders of an old fire near the foot of the tree; and I could tell that
some Indians had made their camp by it.  It must have been a good while
ago, as the ashes were beaten into the ground by the rain, and,
moreover, some young plants were springing up through them.  I
concluded, therefore, that whoever had camped there had hung the rope
upon the tree, and on leaving the place had forgotten it.  I took the
rope down to examine it: it was no other than a lasso, full fifty feet
long, with an iron ring neatly whipped into the loop-end; and, on trying
it with a pull, I saw it was in the best condition.  Of course, I was
not likely to leave such a prize behind me.  I had grown, as you may all
conceive, to have a very great regard for a rope, considering that one
had just saved all our lives; so I resolved on bringing the lasso with
me.  In order to carry it the more conveniently, I coiled it, and then
hung the coil across my shoulders like a belt.  I next packed my game
into the bag, which they filled chock up to the mouth, and was turning
to come back to camp, when my eye fell upon an object that caused me
suddenly to change my intention.

"I was near the edge of the woods, and through the trunks I could see a
large open space beyond, where there were no trees, or only one here and
there.  In the middle of this opening there was a cloud of dust, and in
the thick of it I could see two great dark animals in motion.  They were
running about, and now and then coming together with a sudden rush; and
every time they did so, I could hear a loud thump, like the stroke of a
sledgehammer.  The sun was shining upon the yellow dust-cloud, and the
animals appeared from this circumstance to be of immense size--much
larger than they really were.  Had I not known what kind of creatures
were before me, I should have believed that the mammoths were still in
existence.  But I knew well what they were: I had seen many before,
carrying on just such a game.  I knew they were buffalo bulls, engaged
in one of their terrible battles."

Here Basil's narrative was interrupted by a singular incident.  Indeed,
it had been interrupted more than once by strange noises that were heard
at some distance off in the woods.  These noises were not all alike: at
one time they resembled the barking of a cur dog; at another, they might
have been mistaken for the gurglings of a person who was being hanged;
and then would follow a shriek so dreadful that for some time the woods
would echo with its dismal sound!  After the shriek a laugh would be
heard, but a miserable "haw-haw-haw!" unlike the laugh of a sane person.

All these strange voices were calculated to inspire terror, and so have
they many a time, with travellers not accustomed to the solitary woods
of America.  But our young voyageurs were not at all alarmed by them.
They knew from what sort of a creature they proceeded; they knew they
were the varying notes of the great horned-owl (_Strix Virginiana_); and
as they had seen and heard many a one before, they paid no heed to this
individual.

While Basil was going on with his relation, the bird had been several
times seen to glide past, and circle around upon his noiseless pinions.
So easy was his flight, that the slightest inclining of his spread tail,
or the bending of his broad wing, seemed sufficient to turn and carry
him in any direction.  Nothing could be more graceful than his flight,
which was not unlike that of the eagle, while he was but little inferior
in size to one of these noble birds.

What interrupted Basil was, that the owl had alighted upon a branch not
twenty feet from where they were all sitting round the fire, by the
blaze of which they now had a full view of this singular creature.  The
moment it alighted, it commenced uttering its hideous and unmusical
cries, at the same time going through such a variety of contortions,
both with its head and body, as to cause the whole party a fit of
laughter.  It was, in fact, an odd and interesting sight to witness its
grotesque movements, as it turned first its body, and then its head
around, without moving the shoulders, while its great honey-
eyes glared in the light of the fire.  At the end of every attitude and
utterance, it would snap its bill with such violence, that the cracking
of the mandibles upon each other might have been heard to the distance
of several hundred yards.

This was too much for Francois' patience to bear, and he immediately
crept to his gun.  He had got hold of the piece, and cocked it; but,
just as he was about to take aim, the owl dropped silently down from the
branch, and, gliding gently forward, thrust out its feathered leg, and
lifted one of the grouse in its talons.  The latter had been lying upon
the top of a fallen tree not six feet from the fire!  The owl, after
clutching it, rose into the air; and the next moment would have been
lost in darkness, but the crack of Francois' rifle put a sudden stop to
its flight, and with the grouse still clinging to its claws it fell
fluttering to the earth.  Marengo jumped forward to seize it; but
Marengo little knew the sort of creature he had to deal with.  It
happened to be only "winged," and as soon as the dog came near, it threw
itself upon its back, and struck at him with its talons so wickedly,
that he was fain to approach it with more caution.  It cost Marengo a
considerable fight before he succeeded in getting his jaws over it.
During the contest it continually snapped its bill, while its great
goggle eyes kept alternately and quickly opening and closing, and the
feathers being erected all over its body, gave it the appearance of
being twice its real size.  Marengo at length succeeded in "crunching"
it--although not until he was well scratched about the snout--and its
useless carcass having been thrown upon the ground, the dog continued to
worry and chew at it, while Basil went on with his narration.



CHAPTER TEN.

BASIL AND THE BISON-BULL.

"As soon as I saw the buffaloes," continued Basil, "my first thought was
to get near, and have a shot at them.  They were worth a charge of
powder and lead, and I reflected that if I could kill but one of them,
it would ensure us against hunger for a couple of weeks to come.  So I
hung my game-bag to the branch of a tree, and set about approaching
them.  I saw that the wind was in my favour, and there was no danger of
their scenting me.  But there was no cover near them--the ground was as
level as a table, and there was not a score of trees upon as many acres.
It was no use crawling up, and I did not attempt it, but walked
straight forward, treading lightly as I went.  In five minutes, I found
myself within good shooting range.  Neither of the bulls had noticed me.
They were too busy with one another, and in all my life I never saw two
creatures fighting in such earnest.  They were foaming at the mouth, and
the steam poured out of their nostrils incessantly.  At times, they
would back from each other like a pair of rams, and then rush together
head-foremost, until their skulls cracked with the terrible collision.
One would have fancied that they would break them at every fresh
encounter, but I knew the thickness of a buffalo's skull before that
time.  I remember having fired a musket at one that stood fronting me
not more than six feet distant, when, to my surprise, the bullet
flattened and fell to the ground before the nose of the buffalo!  The
creature was not less astonished than myself, as up to that time it had
not seen me.

"Well," continued Basil after a pause, "I did not stop long to watch the
battle of the bison-bulls.  I was not curious about that.  I had seen
such many a time.  I was thinking about the meat; and I paused just long
enough to select the one that appeared to have the most fat upon his
flanks, when I drew up my rifle and fired.  I aimed for the heart, and
my aim was a true one, for the animal came to its knees along with the
crack.  Just at that moment the other was charging upon it, and, to my
surprise, it continued to run on, until striking the wounded one full
butt upon the forehead, it knocked the latter right over upon its side;
where, after giving half-a-dozen kicks, it lay quite dead.

"The remaining bull had dashed some paces beyond the spot, and now
turned round again to renew his attack.  On seeing his antagonist
stretched out and motionless, he seemed to be as much astonished as I
was.  At first, no doubt, he fancied himself the author of a grand
_coup_, for it was plain that up to this time he had neither noticed my
presence, nor the report of the rifle.  The bellowing noise that both
were making had drowned the latter; and the dust, together with the long
shaggy tufts that hung over his eyes, had prevented him from seeing
anything more than his rival, with whom he was engaged.  Now that the
other was no longer able to stand before him, and thinking it was
himself that had done the deed, he tossed up his head and snorted in
triumph.  At this moment, the matted hair was thrown back from his eyes,
and the dust having somewhat settled away, he sighted me, where I stood
reloading my gun.  I fancied he would take off before I could finish,
and I made all the haste in my power--so much so that I dropped the box
of caps at my feet.  I had taken one out, however, and hurriedly
adjusted it, thinking to myself, as I did so, that the box might lie
where it was until I had finished the job.  I brought the piece to my
shoulder, when, to my surprise, the bull, instead of running away, as I
had expected, set his head, and uttering one of his terrible bellows,
came rushing towards me.  I fired, but the shot was a random one, and
though it hit him in the snout, it did not in the least disable him.
Instead of keeping him off, it only seemed to irritate him the more, and
his fury was now at its height.

"I had no time to load again.  He was within a few feet of me when I
fired, and it was with difficulty that, by leaping to one side, I
avoided his horns; but I did so, and he passed me with such violence
that I felt the ground shake under his heavy tread.

"He wheeled immediately, and made at me a second time.  I knew that if
he once touched me I was gone.  His horns were set, and his eyes glared
with a terrible earnestness.  I rushed towards the body of the buffalo
that lay near, hoping that this might assist me in avoiding the onset.
It did so, for, as he dashed forward over it, he became entangled among
the limbs, and again charged without striking me.  He turned, however,
as quick as thought, and again rushed bellowing upon me.  There was a
tree near at hand.  I had noticed it before, but I could not tell
whether I should have time to reach it.  I was now somewhat nearer it,
and, fearing that I might not be able to dodge the furious brute any
longer upon the ground, I struck out for the tree.  You may be sure I
did my best at running.  I heard the bull coming after, but before he
could overtake me, I had got to the root of the tree.  It was my
intention, at first, only to take shelter behind the trunk; but when I
had got there, I noticed that there were some low branches, and catching
one of these I swung myself up among them.

"The bull passed under me with a rush--almost touching my feet as I hung
by the branch--but I was soon safely lodged in a fork, and out of his
reach.

"My next thought was to load my gun, and fire at him from my perch, and,
with this intention, I commenced loading.  I had no fear but that he
would give me an opportunity, for he kept round the tree, and at times
attacked the trunk, butting and goring it with his horns, and all the
while bellowing furiously.  The tree was a small one, and it shook so,
that I began to fear it might break down.  I therefore made all the
haste I could to get in the load, expecting soon to put an end to his
attacks.  I succeeded at length in ramming down the bullet, and was just
turning the gun to put on a cap, when I recollected that the cap-box was
still lying on the ground where it had fallen!  The sudden attack of the
animal had prevented me from taking it up.  My caps were all within that
box, and my gun, loaded though it was, was as useless in my hands as a
bar of iron.  To get at the caps would be quite impossible.  I dared not
descend from the tree.  The infuriated bull still kept pacing under it,
now going round and round, and occasionally stopping for a moment and
looking angrily up.

"My situation was anything but a pleasant one.  I began to fear that I
might not be permitted to escape at all.  The bull seemed to be most
pertinacious in his vengeance.  I could have shot him in the back, or
the neck, or where I liked, if I had only had one cap.  He was within
three feet of the muzzle of my rifle; but what of that when I could not
get the gun to go off?  After a while I thought of making some tinder
paper, and then trying to `touch off' the piece with it, but a far
better plan at that moment came into my head.  While I was fumbling
about my bullet-pouch to get at my flint and steel, of course my fingers
came into contact with the lasso which was still hanging around my
shoulders.  It was this that suggested my plan, which was no other than
to _lasso the bull, and tie him to the tree_!

"I lost no time in carrying it into execution.  I uncoiled the rope, and
first made one end fast to the trunk.  The other was the loop-end, and
reeving it through the ring, I held it in my right hand while I leaned
over and watched my opportunity.  It was not long before a good one
offered.  The bull still continued his angry demonstrations below, and
passed round and round.  It was no new thing for me to fling a lasso,
and at the first pitch I had the satisfaction of seeing the noose pass
over the bison's head, and settle in a proper position behind his horns.
I then gave it a twitch, so as to tighten it, and after that I ran the
rope over a branch, and thus getting `a purchase' upon it, I pulled it
with all my might.

"As soon as the bull felt the strange cravat around his neck, he began
to plunge and `rout' with violence, and at length ran furiously out from
the tree.  But he soon came to the end of his tether; and the quick
jerk, which caused the tree itself to crack, brought him to his
haunches, while the noose tightening on his throat was fast strangling
him.  But for the thick matted hair it would have done so, but this
saved him, and he continued to sprawl and struggle at the end of the
rope.  The tree kept on cracking, and as I began to fear that it might
give way and precipitate me to the ground, I thought it better to slip
down.  I ran direct to where I had dropped the caps; and, having got
hold of the box, I soon had one upon my gun.  I then stole cautiously
back, and while the bison was hanging himself as fast as he could, I
brought his struggles to a period by sending a bullet through his ribs.

"As it was quite night when I had finished the business, of course I
could not stay to butcher the bulls.  I knew that you would be wondering
what kept me, so I cut out the tongues, and coming by the place where I
had left the grouse, brought them along.  I left a `scare-wolf' over
both the bulls, however, and I guess we'll find them all right in the
morning."

Basil having finished the narration of his day's adventures, fresh fuel
was heaped on the embers, and a huge fire was built--one that would last
until morning.  This was necessary, as none of them had now either
blankets or bedding.  Basil himself and Norman were even in their
shirt-sleeves, and of course their only chance for keeping warmth in
their bodies would be to keep up a roaring fire all the night.  This
they did, and all four laying themselves close together, slept soundly
enough.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THREE CURIOUS TREES.

Next morning they were awake at an early hour.  There was still enough
of the tongues and grouse left, along with some ribs of the antelope, to
breakfast the party; and then all four set out to bring the flesh of
Basil's buffaloes into camp.  This they accomplished, after making
several journeys.  It was their intention to dry the meat over the fire,
so that it might keep for future use.  For this purpose the flesh was
removed from the bones, and after being cut into thin slices and strips,
was hung up on poles at some distance from the blaze.  Nothing more
could be done, but wait until it became sufficiently parched by the
heat.

While this process was going on our voyageurs collected around the fire,
and entered into a consultation about what was best to be done.  At
first they thought of going back to the Red River settlement, and
obtaining another canoe, as well as a fresh stock of provisions and
implements.  But they all believed that getting back would be a toilsome
and difficult matter.  There was a large lake and several extensive
marshes on the route, and these would have to be got round, making the
journey a very long one indeed.  It would take them days to perform it
on foot, and nothing is more discouraging on a journey than to be forced
by some accident to what is called "taking the back-track."  All of them
acknowledged this, but what else could they do?  It is true there was a
post of the Hudson's Bay Company at the northern end of Lake Winnipeg.
This post was called Norway House.  How were they to reach that afoot?
To walk around the borders of the lake would be a distance of more than
four hundred miles.  There would be numerous rivers to cross, as well as
swamps and pathless forests to be threaded.  Such a journey would occupy
a month or more, and at Norway House they would still be as it were only
at the beginning of the great journey on which they had set out.
Moreover, Norway House lay entirely out of their way.  Cumberland
House--another trading post upon the River Saskatchewan--was the next
point where they had intended to rest themselves, after leaving the Red
River settlements.  To reach Cumberland House _afoot_ would be equally
difficult, as it, too, lay at the distance of hundreds of miles, with
lakes, and rivers, and marshes, intervening.  What, then, could they do?

"Let us _not_ go back," cried Francois, ever ready with a bold advice;
"let us make a boat, and keep on, say I."

"Ha!  Francois," rejoined Basil, "it's easy to say `make a boat;' how is
that to be done, I pray?"

"Why, what's to hinder us to hew a log, and make a dugout?  We have
still got the axe, and two hatchets left."

Norman asked what Francois meant by a dugout.  The phrase was new to
him.

"A canoe," replied Francois, "hollowed out of a tree.  They are
sometimes called `dugouts' on the Mississippi, especially when they are
roughly made.  One of them, I think, would carry all four of us well
enough.  Don't you think so, Luce?"

"Why, yes," answered the student; "a large one might: but I fear there
are no trees about here of sufficient size.  We are not among the great
timber of the Mississippi bottom, you must remember."

"How large a tree would it require?" asked Norman, who knew but little
of this kind of craft.

"Three feet in diameter, at least," replied Lucien; "and it should be of
that thickness for a length of nearly twenty feet.  A less one would not
carry four of us."

"Then I am sure enough," responded Norman, "that we won't find such
timber here.  I have seen no tree of that size either yesterday, or
while we were out this morning."

"Nor I," added Basil.

"I don't believe there's one," said Lucien.

"If we were in Louisiana," rejoined Francois, "I could find fifty
canoe-trees by walking as many yards.  Why, I never saw such
insignificant timber as this here."

"You'll see smaller timber than this, Cousin Frank, before we reach the
end of our voyage."

This remark was made by Norman, who knew that, as they proceeded
northward, the trees would be found decreasing in size until they would
appear like garden shrubbery.

"But come," continued he, "if we can't build a craft to carry us from
_one_ tree, perhaps we can do it out of _three_."

"With three!" echoed Francois.  "I should like to see a canoe made from
three trees!  Is it a raft you mean, Cousin Norman?"

"No," responded the other; "a canoe, and one that will serve us for the
rest of our voyage."

All three--Basil, Lucien, and Francois--looked to their cousin for an
explanation.

"You would rather not go back up the river?" he inquired, glancing from
one to the other.

"We wish to go on--all of us," answered Basil, speaking for his brothers
as well.

"Very well," assented the young fur-trader; "I think it is better as you
wish it.  Out of these trees I can build a boat that will carry us.  It
will take us some days to do it, and some time to find the timber, but I
am tolerably certain it is to be found in these woods.  To do the job
properly I want three kinds; two of them I can see from where I sit; the
third I expect will be got in the hills we saw this morning."

As Norman spoke he pointed to two trees that grew among many others not
far from the spot.  These trees were of very different kinds, as was
easily told by their leaves and bark.  The nearer and more conspicuous
of them at once excited the curiosity of the three Southerners.  Lucien
recognised it from its botanical description.  Even Basil and Francois,
though they had never seen it, as it is not to be found in the hot clime
of Louisiana, knew it from the accounts given of it by travellers.  The
tree was the celebrated "canoe-birch," or, as Lucien named it,
"paper-birch" (_Betula papyracea_), celebrated as the tree out of whose
bark those beautiful canoes are made that carry thousands of Indians
over the interior lakes and rivers of North America; out of whose bark
whole tribes of these people fashion their bowls, their pails, and their
baskets; with which they cover their tents, and from which they even
make their soup-kettles and boiling-pots!  This, then, was the
canoe-birch-tree, so much talked of, and so valuable to the poor Indians
who inhabit the cold regions where it grows.

Our young Southerners contemplated the tree with feelings of interest
and curiosity.  They saw that it was about sixty feet high, and somewhat
more than a foot in diameter.  Its leaves were nearly cordate, or
heart-shaped, and of a very dark-green colour; but that which rendered
it most conspicuous among the other trees of the forest was the shining
white or silver- bark that covered its trunk, and its numerous
slender branches.  This bark is only white externally.  When you have
cut through the epidermis you find it of a reddish tinge, very thick,
and capable of being divided into several layers.  The wood of the tree
makes excellent fuel, and is also often used for articles of furniture.
It has a close, shining grain, and is strong enough for ordinary
implements; but if exposed to the weather will decay rapidly.

The "canoe-birch" is not the only species of these trees found in North
America.  The genus _Betula_ (so called from the Celtic word _batu_,
which means birch) has at least half-a-dozen other known representatives
in these parts.  There is the "white birch" (_Betula populifolia_), a
worthless tree of some twenty feet in height, and less than six inches
diameter.  The bark of this species is useless, and its wood, which is
soft and white, is unfit even for fuel.  It grows, however, in the
poorest soil.  Next there is a species called the "cherry-birch"
(_Betula lento_), so named from the resemblance of its bark to the
common cherry-tree.  It is also called "sweet birch," because its young
twigs, when crushed, give out a pleasant aromatic odour.  Sometimes the
name of "black birch" is given to this species.  It is a tree of fifty
or sixty feet in height, and its wood is much used in cabinet-work, as
it is close-grained, of a beautiful reddish colour, and susceptible of a
high polish.

The "yellow birch" is a tree of the same size, and is so called from the
colour of its epidermis.  It is likewise used in cabinet-work, though it
is not considered equal in quality to the cherry-birch.  Its leaves and
twigs have also an aromatic smell when bruised, not so strong, however,
as the last-mentioned.  The wood makes excellent fuel, and is much used
for that purpose in some of the large cities of America.  The bark, too,
is excellent for tanning--almost equal to that of the oak.

The "red birch" is still another species, which takes its name from the
reddish hue of its bark.  This is equal in size to the canoe-birch,
often growing seventy feet high, with a trunk of nearly three feet
diameter.  Its branches are long, slender, and pendulous; and it is from
the twigs of this species that most of the "birch-brooms" used in
America are made.

Still another species of American birches is the "dwarf birch" (_Betula
nana_), so called from its diminutive size, which is that of a shrub,
only eighteen inches or two feet in height.  It usually grows in very
cold or mountainous regions, and is the smallest of these interesting
trees.

This information regarding the birches of America was given by Lucien to
his brothers, not at that time, but shortly afterward, when the three
were engaged in felling one of these trees.  Just then other matters
occupied them, and they had only glanced, first at the canoe-birch and
then at the other tree which Norman had pointed out.  The latter was of
a different genus.  It belonged to the order _Coniferae_, or
cone-bearing trees, as was evident from the cone-shaped fruits that hung
upon its branches, as well as from its needle-like evergreen leaves.

The cone-bearing trees of America are divided by botanists into three
great sub-orders--the _Pines_, the _Cypresses_, and the _Yews_.  Each of
these includes several genera.  By the "pine tribe" is meant all those
trees known commonly by the names pine, spruce, fir, and larch; while
the _Cupressinae_, or cypress tribe, are the cypress proper, the cedars,
the arbour-vitae, and the junipers.  The yew tribe has fewer genera or
species; but the trees in America known as yews and hemlocks--of which
there are several varieties--belong to it.

Of the pine tribe a great number of species exist throughout the North
American Continent.  The late explorations on the western <DW72> of the
Rocky Mountains, and in the countries bordering on the Pacific, have
brought to light a score of species hitherto unknown to the botanist.
Many of these are trees of a singular and valuable kind.  Several
species found in the mountains of North Mexico, and throughout those
desert regions where hardly any other vegetation exists, have edible
seeds upon which whole tribes of Indians subsist for many months in the
year.  The Spanish Americans call them _pinon_ trees, but there are
several species of them in different districts.  The Indians parch the
seeds, and sometimes pound them into a coarse meal, from which they bake
a very palatable bread.  This bread is often rendered more savoury by
mixing the meal with dried "prairie crickets," a species of coleopterous
insects--that is, insects with a crustaceous or shell-like covering over
their wings--which are common in the desert wilds where these Indians
dwell.  Some prairie travellers have pronounced this singular mixture
equal to the "best pound-cake."

The "Lambert pine," so called from the botanist of that name, is found
in Oregon and California, and may be justly considered one of the
wonders of the world.  Three hundred feet is not an uncommon height for
this vegetable giant; and its cones have been seen of eighteen inches in
length, hanging like sugar-loaves from its high branches!  The wonderful
"palo Colorado" of California is another giant of the pine tribe.  It
also grows above three hundred feet high, with a diameter of sixteen
feet!  Then there is the "red pine," of eighty feet high, much used for
the decks and masts of ships; the "pitch-pine" (_Pinus rigida_), a
smaller tree, esteemed for its fuel, and furnishing most of the firewood
used in some of the American cities.  From this species the strong
burning "knots" are obtained.  There is the "white pine" (_Pinus
strobus_), valuable for its timber.  This is one of the largest and best
known of the pines.  It often attains a height of an hundred and fifty
feet, and a large proportion of those planks so well-known to the
carpenter are sawed from its trunk.  In the State of New York alone no
less than 700,000,000 feet of timber are annually obtained from trees of
this species, which, by calculation, must exhaust every year the
enormous amount of 70,000 acres of forest!  Of course, at this rate the
pine-forests of New York State must soon be entirely destroyed.

In addition, there is the "yellow pine," a tree of sixty feet high, much
used in flooring houses; and the beautiful "balsam fir," used as an
ornamental evergreen both in Europe and America, and from which is
obtained the well-known medicine--the "Canada balsam."  This tree, in
favourable situations, attains the height of sixty feet; while upon the
cold summits of mountains it is often seen rising only a few inches from
the surface.  The "hemlock spruce" (_Pinus Canadensis_), is another
species, the bark of which is used in tanning.  It is inferior to the
oak, though the leather made by it is of excellent quality.  The "black"
or "double spruce" (_Pinus nigra_), is that species from the twigs of
which is extracted the essence that gives its peculiar flavour to the
well-known "_spruce beer_."  Besides these, at least a dozen new species
have lately been discovered on the interior mountains of Mexico--all of
them more or less possessing valuable properties.

The pines cannot be termed trees of the tropics, yet do they grow in
southern and warm countries.  In the Carolinas, tar and turpentine,
products of the pine, are two staple articles of exportation; and even
under the equator itself, the high mountains are covered with
pine-forests.  But the pine is more especially the tree of a northern
_sylva_.  As you approach the Arctic circle, it becomes the
characteristic tree.  There it appears in extensive forests, lending
their picturesque shelter to the snowy desolation of the earth.  One
species of pine is the very last tree that disappears as the traveller,
in approaching the pole, takes his leave of the limits of vegetation.
This species is the "white spruce" (_Pinus alba_), the very one which,
along with the birch-tree, had been pointed out by Norman to his
companions.

It was a tree not over thirty or forty feet high, with a trunk of less
than a foot in thickness, and of a brownish colour.  Its leaves or
"needles" were about an inch in length, very slender and acute, and of a
bluish green tint.  The cones upon it, which at that season were young,
were of a pale green.  When ripe, however, they become rusty-brown, and
are nearly two inches in length.

What use Norman would make of this tree in building his canoe, neither
Basil nor Francois knew.  Lucien only guessed at it.  Francois asked the
question, by saying that he supposed the "timbers" were to come out of
it.

"No," said Norman, "for that I want still another sort.  If I can't find
that sort, however, I can manage to do without it, but not so well."

"What other sort?" demanded Francois.

"I want some cedar-wood," replied the other.

"Ah! that's for the timbers," said Francois; "I am sure of it.  The
cedar-wood is lighter than any other, and, I dare say, would answer
admirably for ribs and other timbers."

"You are right this time, Frank--it is considered the best for that
purpose."

"You think there are cedar-trees on the hills we saw this morning?" said
Francois, addressing his Canadian cousin.

"I think so.  I noticed something like them."

"And I, too, observed a dark foliage," said Lucien, "which looked like
the cedar.  If anywhere in this neighbourhood, we shall find them there.
They usually grow upon rocky, sterile hills, such as those appear to
be--that is their proper situation."

"The question," remarked Basil, "ought to be settled at once.  We have
made up our mind to the building of a canoe, and I think we should lose
no time in getting ready the materials.  Suppose we all set out for the
hills."

"Agreed--agreed!" shouted the others with one voice; and then
shouldering their guns, and taking the axe along, all four set out for
the hills.  On reaching these, the object of their search was at once
discovered.  The tops of all the hills--dry, barren ridges they were--
were covered with a thick grove of the red cedar (_Juniperus
viginiana_).  The trees were easily distinguished by the numerous
branches spreading horizontally, and thickly covered with short
dark-green needles, giving them that sombre, shady appearance, that
makes them the favourite haunt of many species of owls.  Their beautiful
reddish wood was well-known to all the party, as it is to almost every
one in the civilised world.  Everybody who has seen or used a black-lead
pencil must know what the wood of the red cedar is like--for it is in
this the black-lead is usually incased.  In all parts of America, where
this tree grows in plenty, it is employed for posts and fence-rails, as
it is one of the most durable woods in existence.  It is a great
favourite also for kindling fires, as it catches quickly, and blazes up
in a few seconds, so as to ignite the heavier logs of other timbers,
such as the oak and the pine.

The red cedar usually attains a height of about thirty to forty feet,
but in favourable situations it grows still larger.  The soil which it
loves best is of a stony, and often sterile character, and dry barren
hill-tops are frequently covered with cedars, while the more moist and
fertile valleys between possess a _sylva_ of a far different character.
There is a variety of the red cedar, which trails upon the ground like a
creeping plant, its branches even taking root again.  This is rather a
small bush than a tree, and is often seen hanging down the face of
inaccessible cliffs.  It is known among botanists as the _Juniperus
prostrata_.

"Now," said Norman, after examining a few of the cedar-trees, "we have
here all that's wanted to make our canoe.  We need lose no more time,
but go to work at once!"

"Very well," replied the three brothers, "we are ready to assist you,--
tell us what to do."

"In the first place," said the other, "I think we had better change our
camp to this spot, as I see all the different kinds of trees here, and
much better ones than those near the river.  There," continued he,
pointing to a piece of moist ground in the valley,--"there are some
journeys if we go back and bring our meat to this place at once."

To this they all of course agreed, and started back to their first camp.
They soon returned with the meat and other things, and having chosen a
clean spot under a large-spreading cedar-tree, they kindled a new fire
and made their camp by it--that is, they strung up the provisions, hung
their horns and pouches upon the branches around, and rested their guns
against the trees.  They had no tent to pitch, but that is not necessary
to constitute a camp.  In the phraseology of the American hunter,
wherever you kindle your fire or spend the night is a "camp."



CHAPTER TWELVE.

HOW TO BUILD A BARK CANOE.

Norman expected that they would be able to finish the canoe in about a
week.  Of course, the sooner the better, and no time was lost in setting
about it.  The ribs or "timbers" were the first thing to be fashioned,
and a number of straight branches of cedar were cut, out of which they
were to be made.  These branches were cleared of twigs, and rendered of
an equal thickness at both ends.  They were then flattened with the
knife; and, by means of a little sweating in the ashes, were bent so as
to bear some resemblance in shape to the wooden ox-yokes commonly used
in America, or indeed to the letter U.  The ribs when thus bent were not
all of the same width.  On the contrary, those which were intended to be
placed near the middle or gangway of the vessel, were about two feet
across from side to side, while the space between the sides of the
others was gradually less in each fresh pair, according as their
position was to be near to the stem and stern.  When the whole of them
had been forced into the proper shape, they were placed, one inside the
other after the manner of dishes, and then all were firmly lashed
together, and left to dry.  When the lashing should be removed, they
would hold to the form thus given them, and would be ready for fastening
to the kelson.

While Norman was occupied with the timbers the others were not idle.
Basil had cut down several of the largest and straightest birches, and
Lucien employed himself in carefully removing the bark and cleansing it
of nodules and other inequalities.  The broad sheets were suspended by a
smoke fire, so as completely to dry up the sap, and render it tough and
elastic.  Francois had his part to play, and that was to collect the
resinous gum which was distilled, in plenty from the trunks of the
epinette or spruce-trees.  This gum is a species of pitch, and is one of
the most necessary materials in the making of a bark canoe.  It is used
for "paying" the seams, as well as any cracks that may show themselves
in the bark itself; and without it, or some similar substance, it would
be difficult to make one of these little vessels watertight.  But that
is not the only thing for which the epinette is valued in
canoe-building; far from it.  This tree produces another indispensable
material; its long fibrous roots when split, form the twine-like threads
by which the pieces of bark are sewed to each other and fastened to the
timbers.  These threads are as strong as the best cords of hemp, and are
known among the Indians by the name of "watap."  In a country,
therefore, where hemp and flax cannot be readily procured, the "watap"
is of great value.  You may say that deer are plenty, and that thongs of
buckskin would serve the same purpose.  This, however, is not the case.
The buckskin would never do for such a use.  The moment it becomes wet
it is liable to stretch, so that the seams would open and the canoe get
filled with water.  The watap, wet or dry, does not yield, and has
therefore been found to be the best thing of all others for this
purpose.  The only parts now wanted were the gunwale and the bottom.
The former was easily obtained.  Two long poles, each twenty feet in
length, were bent somewhat like a pair of bows, and then placed with
their concave sides towards each other, and firmly lashed together at
the ends.  This was the gunwale.  The bottom was the most difficult part
of all.  For that a solid plank was required, and they had no saw.  The
axe and the hatchet, however, were called into requisition, and a log
was soon hewn and thinned down to the proper dimensions.  It was
sharpened off at the ends, so as to run to a very acute angle, both at
the stem and stern.  When the bottom was considered sufficiently
polished, and modelled to the right shape, the most difficult part of
the undertaking was supposed to be accomplished.  A few long poles were
cut and trimmed flat.  These were to be laid longitudinally between the
ribs and the bark, somewhat after the fashion of laths in the roofing of
a house.  Their use was to prevent the bark from splitting.  The
materials were now all obtained complete, and, with a few days' smoking
and drying, would be ready for putting together.

While waiting for the timbers to dry, paddles were made, and Norman,
with the help of the others, prepared what he jokingly called his
"dock," and also his "ship-yard."  This was neither more nor less than a
long mound of earth--not unlike a new-made grave, only three times the
length of one, or even longer.  It was flat upon the top, and graded
with earth so as to be quite level and free from inequalities.

At length all the materials were considered quite ready for use, and
Norman went to work to put them together.

His first operation was to untie the bundle of timbers, and separate
them.  They were found to have taken the exact form into which they had
been bent, and the thongs being no longer necessary to keep them in
place, were removed.  The timbers themselves were next placed upon the
bottom or kelson, those with the widest bottoms being nearer to
"midships," while those with the narrower bend were set towards the
narrower ends of the plank.  Thus placed, they were all firmly lashed
with strong cords of watap, by means of holes pierced in the bottom
plank.  Fortunately Lucien happened to have a pocket-knife, in which
there was a good awl or piercer, that enabled them to make these holes--
else the matter would have been a much more difficult one, as an awl is
one of the most essential tools in the construction of a bark canoe.  Of
course it took Norman a considerable time to set all the ribs in their
proper places, and fasten them securely; but he was ably assisted by
Francois, who waited upon him with much diligence, handing him now the
awl, and then the watap, whenever he required them.

Norman's next operation was the laying of his kelson "in dock."  The
timbers being attached to it, it was lifted up on the earthen mound,
where it reached quite from end to end.  Half-a-dozen large heavy stones
were then placed upon it, so that, pressed down by these upon the even
surface of the mould, it was rendered quite firm; and, moreover, was of
such a height from the ground that the young shipwright could work upon
it without too much bending and kneeling.

The gunwale, already prepared, was next placed so as to touch the ends
of the ribs all round, and these ends were adjusted to it with great
nicety, and firmly joined.  Strong cross-pieces were fixed, which were
designed, not only to keep the gunwale from spreading or contracting,
but afterwards to serve as seats.

Of course the gunwale formed the complete mouth, or upper edge of the
canoe.  It was several feet longer than the bottom plank, and, when in
place, projected beyond the ribs at both ends.  From each end of the
bottom plank, therefore, to the corresponding end of the gunwale, a
straight piece of wood was stretched, and fastened.  One of these pieces
would form the stem or cutwater, while the other would become the stern
of the craft.  The long poles were next laid longitudinally upon the
ribs outside, and lashed in their places; and this done, the skeleton
was completed, ready for the bark.

The latter had been already cut to the proper dimensions and shape.  It
consisted of oblong pieces--each piece being a regular parallelogram, as
it had been stripped from the tree.  These were laid upon the ribs
longitudinally, and then sewed to the edge of the bottom plank, and also
to the gunwale.  The bark itself was in such broad pieces that two of
them were sufficient to cover half a side, so that but one seam was
required lengthwise, in addition to the fastenings at the top and
bottom.  Two lengths of the bark also reached cleverly from stem to
stern, and thus required only one transverse seam on each side.  There
was an advantage in this arrangement, for where the birch-bark can only
be obtained in small flakes, a great number of seams is a necessary
consequence, and then it is extremely difficult to keep the canoe from
leaking.  Thanks to the fine birch-trees, that grew in abundance around,
our boat-builders had procured the very best bark.

The canoe was now completed all but the "paying," and that would not
take long to do.  The gum of the epinette had to be boiled, and mixed
with a little grease, so as to form a species of wax.  For this the fat
already obtained from the buffaloes was the very thing; and a small tin
cup which Basil had saved from the wreck (it had been strung to his
bullet-pouch), enabled them to melt the gum, and apply it hot.  In less
than an hour the thing was done.  Every crack and awl-hole was payed,
and the canoe was pronounced "watertight," and, as Francois added, with
a laugh, "seaworthy."

A small pond was near, at the bottom of the hill: Francois espied it.

"Come, boys," cried he, "a launch! a launch!"

This was agreed to by all.  The great stones were taken out.  Basil and
Norman, going one to the stem the other to the stern, lifted the canoe
from the "dock," and, raising it upon their shoulders, carried it down
to the pond.  The next moment it was pushed into the water, where it
floated like a cork.  A loud cheer was given, in which even Marengo
joined; and a salute was then fired--a full broadside--from the four
guns.  Francois, to complete the thing, seized one of the paddles, and
leaping into the canoe, shot the little craft out upon the bosom of the
pond, cheering all the while like one frantic.  After amusing himself
for some minutes, he paddled back to the shore, when they all looked
eagerly into the canoe, and perceived to their gratification that not as
much as a drop of water had leaked during the "trip."  Thanks and
congratulations now greeted Norman from every side; and, taking their
vessel from the water, the young voyageurs returned to their camp, to
regale themselves with a grand dinner, which Lucien had cooked for the
occasion.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE CHAIN OF LAKES.

Our young voyageurs now prepared to resume their journey.  While Norman
was engaged in building his canoe, with his assistant, Francois, the
others had not been idle.  Basil was, of course, the hunter of the
party; and, in addition to the small game, such as hares, geese, and
grouse, he had killed three caribou, of the large variety known as
"woodland caribou."  These are a species of the reindeer (_Cervus
tarandus_), of which I have more to say hereafter.  Lucien had attended
to the drying of their flesh; and there was enough of it still left, as
our voyageurs believed, to supply their wants until they should reach
Cumberland House, where they would, of course, procure a fresh stock of
provisions.  The skins of the caribou had also been scraped and dressed
by Lucien--who understood the process well--and these, with the skin of
the antelope, were sufficient to make a pair of hunting-shirts for Basil
and Norman, who, it will be remembered, had lost theirs by cutting them
up.

Next morning the canoe was launched upon the river--below the rapids--
and the dried meat, with their other matters, snugly stowed in the
stern.  Then the young voyageurs got in, and, seating themselves in
their places, seized hold of the paddles.  The next moment the canoe
shot out into the stream; and a triumphant cheer from the crew announced
that they had recommenced their journey.  They found to their delight
that the little vessel behaved admirably,--shooting through the water
like an arrow, and leaking not water enough, as Francois expressed it,
"to drown a mosquito."  They had all taken their seats in the order
which had been agreed upon for the day.  Norman was "bowsman," and, of
course, sate in the bow.  This, among the regular Canadian voyageurs, is
esteemed the post of honour, and the bowsman is usually styled "Captain"
by the rest of the crew.  It is also the post that requires the greatest
amount of skill on the part of its occupant, particularly where there
are rapids or shoals to be avoided.  The post of "steersman" is also one
of honour and importance; and both steersman and bowsman receive higher
wages than the other voyageurs, who pass under the name of "middlemen."
The steersman sits in the stern, and that place was now occupied by
Lucien, who had proved himself an excellent steersman.  Basil and
Francois were, of course, the "middlemen," and plied the paddles.  This
was the arrangement made for the day; but although on other days the
programme was to be changed, so as to relieve Basil and Francois, on all
occasions when there were rapids or other difficulties to be encountered
they were to return to this order.  Norman, of course, understood canoe
navigation better than his Southern cousins; and therefore, by universal
assent, he was acknowledged "the Captain," and Francois always addressed
him as such.  Lucien's claim to the post of second honour was admitted
to be just, as he had proved himself capable of filling it to the
satisfaction of all.  Marengo had no post, but lay quietly upon the
buffalo skin between Lucien's legs, and listened to the conversation
without joining in it, or in any way interfering in the working of the
vessel.

In a few hours our voyageurs had passed through the low marshy country
that lies around the mouth of the Red River, and the white expanse of
the great Lake Winnipeg opened before them, stretching northward far
beyond the range of their vision.  Norman knew the lake, having crossed
it before, but its aspect somewhat disappointed the Southern travellers.
Instead of a vast dark lake which they had expected to see, they looked
upon a whitish muddy sheet, that presented but few attractive points to
the eye, either in the hue of its water or the scenery of its shores.
These, so far as they could see them, were low, and apparently marshy;
and this is, in fact, the character of the southern shores of Winnipeg.
On its east and north, however, the country is of a different character.
There the geological formation is what is termed _primitive_.  The
rocks consist of granite, sienite, gneiss, etcetera; and, as is always
the case where such rocks are found, the country is hilly and rugged.
On the western shores a _secondary_ formation exists.  This is
_stratified limestone_,--the same as that which forms the bed of many of
the great prairies of America; and, indeed, the Lake Winnipeg lies
between this secondary formation and the primitive, which bounds it on
the east.  Along its western shores extends the flat limestone country,
partly wooded and partly prairie land, running from that point for
hundreds of miles up to the very foot of the Rocky Mountains, where the
primitive rocks again make their appearance in the rugged peaks of that
stupendous chain.  Lake Winnipeg is nearly three hundred miles in
length, but it is very narrow--being in its widest reach not over fifty
miles, and in many places only fifteen miles from shore to shore.  It
trends nearly due north and south, leaning a little north-west and
south-east, and receives many large rivers, as the Red, the
Saskatchewan, and the Winnipeg.  The waters of these are again carried
out of it by other rivers that run from the lake, and empty into the
Hudson's Bay.  There is a belief among the hunters and voyageurs that
this lake has its tides like the ocean.  Such, however, is not the case.
There is at times a rise and overflow of its waters, but it is not
periodical, and is supposed to be occasioned by strong winds forcing the
waters towards a particular shore.

Lake Winnipeg is remarkable, as being in the very centre of the North
American continent, and may be called the centre of the _canoe
navigation_.  From this point it is possible to travel _by water_ to
Hudson's Bay on the north-east, to the Atlantic Ocean on the east, to
the Gulf of Mexico on the south, to the Pacific on the west, and to the
Polar Sea on the north and north-west.  Considering that some of these
distances are upwards of three thousand miles, it will be perceived that
Lake Winnipeg holds a singular position upon the continent.  All the
routes mentioned can be made without any great "portage," and even a
choice of route is often to be had upon those different lines of
communication.

These were points of information communicated by Norman as the canoe was
paddled along the shore; for Norman, although troubling himself but
little about the causes of things, possessed a good practical knowledge
of things as they actually were.  He was tolerably well acquainted with
the routes, their portages, and distances.  Some of them he had
travelled over in company with his father, and of others he had heard
the accounts given by the voyageurs, traders, and trappers.  Norman knew
that Lake Winnipeg was muddy,--he did not care to inquire the cause.  He
knew that there was a hilly country on its eastern and a low level land
on its western shores, but it never occurred to him to speculate on this
geological difference.  It was the naturalist Lucien who threw out some
hints on this part of the subject, and further added his opinion, that
the lake came to be there in consequence of the wearing away of the
rocks at the junction of the stratified with the primitive formation,
thus creating an excavation in the surface, which in time became filled
with water and formed the lake.  This cause he also assigned for the
existence of a remarkable "chain of lakes" that extends almost from the
Arctic Sea to the frontiers of Canada.  The most noted of these are
Martin, Great Slave, Athabasca, Wollaston, Deer, Lake Winnipeg, and the
Lake of the Woods.  Lucien further informed his companions, that where
primitive rocks form the surface of a country, that surface will be
found to exhibit great diversity of aspect.  There will be numerous
lakes and swamps, rugged steep hills with deep valleys between, short
streams with many falls and rapids.  These are the characteristics of a
primitive surface.  On the other hand, where secondary rocks prevail the
surface is usually a series of plains, often high, dry, and treeless, as
is the case upon the great American prairies.

Upon such topics did Lucien instruct his companions, as they paddled
their canoe around the edge of the lake.  They had turned the head of
their little vessel westward--as it was their design to keep along the
western border of the lake until they should reach the mouth of the
Saskatchewan.  They kept at a short distance from the shore, usually
steering from point to point, and in this way making their route as
direct as possible.  It would have been still more direct had they
struck out into the open lake, and kept up its middle; but this would
have been a dangerous course to pursue.  There are often high winds upon
Lake Winnipeg, that spring up suddenly; and at such times the waves, if
not mountains high, at least arrive at the height of houses.  Among such
billows the little craft would have been in danger of being swamped, and
our voyageurs of going to the bottom.  They, therefore, wisely resolved
not to risk such an accident, but to "hug the shore," though it made
their voyage longer.  Each night they would land at some convenient
place, kindle their fire, cook their supper, and dry their canoe for the
next day's journey.

According to this arrangement, a little before sunset of the first day
they came to land and made their camp.  The canoe was unloaded,
carefully lifted out of the water, and then set bottom upward to drip
and dry.  A fire was kindled, some of the dry meat cooked, and all four
sat down and began to eat, as only hungry travellers can.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

WAPITI, WOLVES, AND WOLVERENE.

The spot where our voyageurs had landed was at the bottom of a small
bay.  The country back from the lake was level and clear of timber.
Here and there, nearer the shore, however, its surface was prettily
interspersed with small clumps of willows, that formed little copse-like
thickets of deep green.  Beside one of these thickets, within a hundred
yards of the beach, the fire had been kindled, on a spot of ground that
commanded a view of the plain for miles back.

"Look yonder!" cried Francois, who had finished eating, and risen to his
feet.  "What are these, captain?"  Francois pointed to some objects that
appeared at a great distance off upon the plain.

The "captain" rose up, placed his hand so as to shade his eyes from the
sun, and, after looking for a second or two in the direction indicated,
replied to the other's question by simply saying--

"Wapiti."

"I'm no wiser than before I asked the question," said Francois.  "Pray,
enlighten me as to what a wapiti may be!"

"Why, red deer; or elk, if you like."

"Oh! elk--now I understand you.  I thought they were elk, but they're so
far off I wasn't sure."

Lucien at this moment rose up, and looking through a small telescope,
which he carried, confirmed the statement of the "captain," and
pronounced it to be a herd of elk.

"Come, Luce," demanded Francois, "tell us what you know of the elk.  It
will pass the time.  Norman says it's no use going after them out there
in the open ground, as they'd shy off before one could get within shot.
You see there is not a bush within half-a-mile of them."

"If we wait," interrupted Norman, "I should not wonder but we may have
them among the bushes before long.  They appear to be grazing this way.
I warrant you, they'll come to the lake to drink before nightfall."

"Very well then: the philosopher can tell us all about them before
that."

Lucien, thus appealed to, began:--

"There are few animals that have so many names as this.  It is called in
different districts, or by different authors, _elk, round-horned elk,
American elk, stag, red deer, grey moose, le biche, wapiti_, and
_wewaskish_.  Naturalists have given not a _few of_ their designations,
as _Cervus Canadensis, Cervus major, Cervus alces, Cervus
strongylocerus, etcetera_.

"You may ask, Why so many names?  I shall tell you.  It is called `elk'
because it was supposed by the early colonists to be the same as the elk
of Europe.  Its name of `grey moose' is a hunter appellation, to
distinguish it from the real moose, which the same hunters know as the
`black moose.'  `Round-horned elk' is also a hunter name.  `Wewaskish,'
or `waskesse,' is an Indian name for the animal.  `Stag' comes from the
European deer so called, because this species somewhat resembles the
stag; and `red deer' is a name used by the Hudson Bay traders.  `Le
biche' is another synonyme of French authors.

"Of all these names I think that of `wapiti,' which our cousin has
given, the best.  The names of `elk,' `stag,' and `red deer,' lead to
confusion, as there are other species to which they properly belong, all
of which are entirely different from the wapiti.  I believe that this
last name is now used by the best-informed naturalists.

"In my opinion," continued Lucien, "the wapiti is the noblest of all the
deer kind.  It possesses the fine form of the European stag, while it is
nearly a third larger and stronger.  It has all the grace of limb and
motion that belongs to the common deer, while its towering horns give it
a most majestic and imposing appearance.  Its colour during the summer
is of a reddish brown, hence the name red deer; but, indeed, the reddish
tint upon the wapiti is deeper and richer than that of its European
cousin.  The wapiti, like other deer, brings forth its fawns in the
spring.  They are usually a male and female, for two is the number it
produces.  The males only have horns; and they must be several years old
before the antlers become full and branching.  They fall every year, but
not until February or March, and then the new ones grow out in a month
or six weeks.  During the summer the horns remain soft and tender to the
touch.  They are covered at this time with a soft membrane that looks
like greyish velvet, and they are then said to be `in the velvet,' There
are nerves and blood-vessels running through this membrane, and a blow
upon the horns at this season gives great pain to the animal.  When the
autumn arrives the velvet peels off, and they become as hard as bone.
They would need to be, for this is the `rutting' season, and the bucks
fight furious battles with each other, clashing their horns together, as
if they would break them to pieces.  Very often a pair of bucks, while
thus contending, `lock' their antlers, and being unable to draw them
apart, remain head to head, until both die with hunger, or fall a prey
to the prowling wolves.  This is true not only of the elk, but also of
the reindeer, the moose, and many other species of deer.  Hundreds of
pairs of horns have been found thus `locked,' and the solitary hunter
has often surprised the deer in this unpleasant predicament.

"The wapiti utters a whistling sound, that can be heard far off, and
often guides the hunter to the right spot.  In the rutting season the
bucks make other noises, which somewhat resemble the braying of an ass,
and are equally disagreeable to listen to.

"The wapiti travel about in small herds, rarely exceeding fifty, but
often of only six or seven.  Where they are not much hunted they are
easily approached, but otherwise they are shy enough.  The bucks, when
wounded and brought to bay, become dangerous assailants; much more so
than those of the common deer.  Hunters have sometimes escaped with
difficulty from their horns and hoofs, with the latter of which they can
inflict very severe blows.  They are hunted in the same way as other
deer; but the Indians capture many of them in the water, when they
discover them crossing lakes or rivers.  They are excellent swimmers,
and can make their way over the arm of a lake or across the widest
river.

"They feed upon grass, and sometimes on the young shoots of willows and
poplar-trees.  They are especially fond of a species of wild rose (_Rosa
blanda_), which grows in the countries they frequent.

"The wapiti at one time ranged over a large part of the continent of
North America.  Its range is now restricted by the spread of the
settlements.  It is still found in most of the Northern parts of the
United States, but only in remote mountainous districts, and even there
it is a rare animal.  In Canada it is more common; and it roams across
the continent to the shores of the Pacific.  It is not an animal of the
tropical countries, as it is not found in Mexico proper.  On the other
hand, wapiti do not go farther north than about the fifty-seventh
parallel of latitude, and then they are not in their favourite habitat,
which is properly the temperate zone."

Lucien was interrupted by an exclamation from Basil, who stood up
looking out upon the prairie.  They all saw that he had been observing
the wapiti.

"What is it?" cried they.

"Look yonder!" replied Basil, pointing in the direction of the herd.
"Something disturbs them.  Give me your glass, Luce."

Lucien handed the telescope to his brother, who, drawing it to the
proper focus, pointed it towards the deer.  The rest watched them with
the naked eye.  They could see that there was some trouble among the
animals.  There were only six in the herd, and even at the distance our
voyageurs could tell that they were all bucks, for it was the season
when the does secrete themselves in the woods and thickets to bring
forth their young.  They were running to and fro upon the prairie, and
doubling about as if playing, or rather as if some creature was chasing
them.  With the naked eye, however, nothing could be seen upon the
ground but the bucks themselves, and all the others looked to Basil, who
held the glass, for an explanation of their odd manoeuvres.

"There are wolves at them," said Basil, after regarding them for a
second or two.

"That's odd," rejoined Norman.  "Wolves don't often attack full-grown
wapiti, except when wounded or crippled somehow.  They must be precious
hungry.  What sort of wolves are they?"

To you, boy reader, this question may seem strange.  You, perhaps, think
that a wolf is a wolf, and there is but one kind.  Such, however, is not
the exact truth.  In America there are two distinct species of wolves,
and of these two species there are many varieties, which differ so much
in colour and other respects, that some authors have classed them as so
many distinct species instead of considering them mere varieties.
Whether they may be species or not is still a question among
naturalists; but certain it is that _two_ well-defined species do exist,
which differ in size, form, colour, and habits.  These are the _large_
or _common wolf (Canis lupus_), and the barking or prairie wolf (_Canis
latrans_).  The first species is the American representative of the
common wolf of Europe; and although an animal of similar nature and
habits, it differs very much from the latter in form and appearance.  It
is, therefore, not the _same_, as hitherto supposed.  This American wolf
is found in greater or less numbers throughout the whole continent; but
in the Northern regions it is very common, and is seen in at least five
different varieties, known by the characteristic names of _black, pied,
white, dusky_, and _grey_ wolves.  Of these the grey is the most
numerous kind; but as I shall have occasion to speak of the large wolves
hereafter, I shall say no more of them at present, but direct your
attention to the second and very different species, the _prairie
wolves_.

These are a full third smaller than the common kind.  They are swifter,
and go in larger packs.  They bring forth their young in burrows on the
open plain, and not among the woods, like the other species.  They are
the most cunning of American animals, not excepting their kindred the
foxes.  They cannot be trapped by any contrivance, but by singular
manoeuvres often themselves decoy the over-curious antelope to approach
too near them.  When a gun is fired upon the prairies they may be seen
starting up on all sides, and running for the spot in hopes of coming in
for a share of the game.  Should an animal--deer, antelope, or buffalo--
be wounded, and escape the hunter, it is not likely to escape them also.
They will set after it, and run it down if _the wound has been a mortal
one_.  On the other hand, if the wound has been only slight, and is not
likely in the end to <DW36> the animal, the wolves will not stir from
the spot.  This extraordinary sagacity often tells the hunter whether it
is worth his while to follow the game he has shot at; but in any case he
is likely to arrive late, if the wolves set out before him, as a dozen
of them will devour the largest deer in a few minutes' time.  The
prairie wolves as well as the others follow the herds of buffaloes, and
attack the gravid cows and calves when separated from the rest.
Frequently they sustain a contest with the bulls, when the latter are
old or wounded, but on such occasions many of them get killed before the
old bull becomes their prey.

They resemble the common grey wolf in colour, but there are varieties in
this respect, though not so great as among the larger species.  Their
voice is entirely different, and consists of three distinct barks,
ending in a prolonged howl.  Hence the specific and usual name
"barking-wolf" (_Canis latrans_).  They are found only in the Western or
prairie half of the continent, and thence west to the Pacific.  Their
Northern range is limited to the fifty-fifth parallel of latitude--but
they are met with southward throughout Mexico, where they are common
enough, and known by the name of "coyote."

Their skins are an article of trade with the Hudson's Bay Company.  The
fur is of about the same quality with that of other wolves, and consists
of long hairs, with a thick wool at the base.  In commerce they are
termed "cased wolves," because their skins, on being removed, are not
split open as with the large wolf-skins, but are stript off after the
manner of rabbits, and then turned inside out, or "cased," as it is
termed.

So much for the _Canis latrans_.

"Prairie wolves!" said Basil, in answer to the question put by his
cousin.

"There must be something the matter with one of the bucks, then,"
remarked Norman, "or else there's a good big pack of the wolves, and
they expect to tire one down.  I believe they sometimes do try it that
way."

"There appears to be a large pack," answered Basil, still looking
through the glass; "fifty at least--See! they have separated one of the
bucks from the herd--it's running this way!"

Basil's companions had noticed this as soon as himself, and all four now
leaped to their guns.  The wapiti was plainly coming towards them, and
they could now distinguish the wolves following upon his heels, strung
out over the prairie like a pack of hounds.  When first started, the
buck was a full half-mile distant, but in less than a minute's time he
came breasting forward until the boys could see his sparkling eyes and
the play of his proud flanks.  He was a noble animal to look at.  His
horns were full-grown, but still "in the velvet," and as he ran with his
snout thrown forward, his antlers lay along both sides of his neck until
their tips touched his shoulders.  He continued on in a direct line
until he was within less than an hundred paces of the camp; but,
perceiving the smoke of the fire, and the figures crouching around it,
he swerved suddenly from his course, and darted into the thicket of
willows, where he was for the moment hidden from view.  The wolves--
fifty of them at least--had followed him up to this point; and as he
entered the thicket several had been close upon his heels.  The boys
expected to see the wolves rush in after him--as there appeared to be no
impediment to their doing so--but, to the astonishment of all, the
latter came to a sudden halt, and then went sneaking back--some of them
even running off as if terrified!  At first the hunters attributed this
strange conduct to their own presence, and the smoke of the camp; but a
moment's reflection convinced them that this could not be the reason of
it, as they were all well acquainted with the nature of the prairie
wolf, and had never witnessed a similar exhibition before.

They had no time to think of the wolves just then.  The buck was the
main attraction, and, calling to each other to surround the thicket, all
four started in different directions.  In a couple of minutes they had
placed themselves at nearly equal distances around the copse, and stood
watching eagerly for the reappearance of the wapiti.

The willows covered about an acre of ground, but they were tolerably
thick and full-leaved, and the buck could not be seen from any side.
Wherever he was, he was evidently at a standstill, for not a rustle
could be heard among the leaves, nor were any of the tall stalks seen to
move.

Marengo was now sent in.  This would soon start him, and all four stood
with guns cocked and ready.  But before the dog had made three lengths
of himself into the thicket, a loud snort was heard, followed by a
struggle and the stamping of hoofs, and the next moment the wapiti came
crashing through the bushes.  A shot was fired--it was the crack of
Lucien's small rifle--but it had missed, for the buck was seen passing
onward and outward.  All ran round to the side he had taken, and had a
full view of the animal as he bounded off.  Instead of running free as
before, he now leaped heavily forward, and what was their astonishment
on seeing that he _carried another animal upon his back_!

The hunters could hardly believe their eyes, but there it was, sure
enough, a brown shaggy mass, lying flat along the shoulders of the
wapiti, and clutching it with large-spreading claws.  Francois cried
out, "A panther!" and Basil at first believed it to be a bear, but it
was hardly large enough for that.  Norman, however, who had lived more
in those parts where the animal is found, knew it at once to be the
dreaded "wolverene."  Its head could not be seen, as that was hid behind
the shoulder of the wapiti, whose throat it was engaged in tearing.  But
its short legs and broad paws, its busily tail and long shaggy hair,
together with its round-arching back and dark-brown colour, were all
familiar marks to the young fur-trader; and he at once pronounced it a
"wolverene."

When first seen, both it and the wapiti were beyond the reach of their
rifles; and the hunters, surprised by such an unexpected apparition, had
suddenly halted.  Francois and Basil were about to renew the pursuit,
but were prevented by Norman who counselled them to remain where they
were.

"They won't go far," said he; "let us watch them a bit.  See! the buck
takes the water!"

The wapiti, on leaving the willows, had run straight out in the first
direction that offered, which happened to be in a line parallel with the
edge of the lake.  His eye, however, soon caught sight of the water,
and, doubling suddenly round, he made directly towards it, evidently
with the intention of plunging in.  He had hopes, no doubt, that by this
means he might rid himself of the terrible creature that was clinging to
his shoulders, and tearing his throat to pieces.

A few bounds brought him to the shore.  There was no beach at the spot.
The bank--a limestone bluff--rose steeply from the water's edge to a
height of eight feet, and the lake under it was several fathoms in
depth.  The buck did not hesitate, but sprang outward and downwards.  A
heavy plash followed, and for some seconds both wapiti and wolverene
were lost under the water.  They rose to the surface, just as the boys
reached the bank, but they came up _separately_.  The dip had proved a
cooler to the fierce wolverene; and while the wapiti was seen to strike
boldly out into the lake and swim off, the latter--evidently out of his
element--kept plunging about clumsily, and struggling to get back to the
shore.  Their position upon the cliff above gave the hunters an
excellent opportunity with their rifles, and both Basil and Norman sent
their bullets into the wolverene's back.  Francois also emptied his
double-barrelled gun at the same object, and the shaggy brute sank dead
to the bottom of the lake.  Strange to say, not one of the party had
thought of firing at the buck.  This persecution by so many enemies had
won for him their sympathy, and they would now have suffered him to go
free, but the prospect of fresh venison for supper overcame their
commiseration, and the moment the wolverene was despatched all set about
securing the deer.  Their guns were reloaded, and, scattering along the
shore, they prepared to await his return.  But the buck, seeing there
was nothing but death in his rear, swam on, keeping almost in a direct
line out into the lake.  It was evident to all that he could not swim
across the lake, as its farther shore was not even visible.  He must
either return to where they were, or drown; and knowing this to be his
only alternative, they stood still and watched his motions.  When he had
got about half-a-mile from the shore, to the surprise of all, he was
seen to rise higher and higher above the surface, and then all at once
stop, with half of his body clear out of the water!  He had come upon a
shoal, and, knowing the advantage of it, seemed determined to remain
there.

Basil and Norman ran to the canoe, and in a few minutes the little craft
was launched, and shooting through the water.  The buck now saw that it
was likely to be all up with him, and, instead of attempting to swim
farther, he faced round and set his antlers forward in a threatening
attitude.  But his pursuers did not give him the chance to make a rush.
When within fifty yards or so, Norman, who used the paddles, stopped and
steadied the canoe, and the next moment the crack of Basil's rifle
echoed over the lake, and the wapiti fell upon the water, where, after
struggling a moment, he lay dead.

The canoe was paddled up, and his antlers being made fast to the stern,
he was towed back to the shore, and carried into camp.  What now
surprised our voyageurs was, their finding that the wapiti had been
wounded before encountering either the wolves, wolverene, or themselves.
An arrow-head, with a short piece of the shaft, was sticking in one of
his thighs.  The Indians, then, had been after him, and very lately too,
as the wound showed.  It was not a mortal wound, had the arrow-head been
removed; but of course, as it was, it would have proved his death in the
long run.  This explained why the wolves had assailed an animal, that
otherwise, from his great size and strength, would have defied them.
The wolverene, moreover, rarely attacks game so large as the wapiti; but
the latter had, no doubt, chanced upon the lair of his fierce enemy, who
could not resist such a tempting opportunity of getting a meal.  The
wolves had seen the wolverene as they approached the thicket, and that
accounted for their strange behaviour in the pursuit.  These creatures
are as great cowards as they are tyrants, and their dread of a wolverene
is equal to that with which they themselves often inspire the wounded
deer.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A PAIR OF DEEP DIVERS.

The wapiti was carefully skinned, and the skin spread out to dry.  Since
their mishap our voyageurs had been very short of clothing.  The three
skins of the woodland caribou had made only a pair of jackets, instead
of full hunting-shirts, and even these were pinched fits.  For beds and
bed-clothes they had nothing but the hides of buffaloes, and these,
although good as far as they went, were only enough for two.  Lucien,
the most delicate of the party, appropriated one, as the others insisted
upon his so doing.  Francois had the other.  As for Basil and Norman,
they were forced each night to lie upon the naked earth, and but for the
large fires which they kept blazing all the night, they would have
suffered severely from cold.  Indeed, they did suffer quite enough; for
some of the nights were so cold, that it was impossible to sleep by the
largest fire without one-half of their bodies feeling chilled.  The
usual practice with travellers in the Far West is to lie with their feet
to the fire, while the head is at the greatest distance from it.  This
is considered the best mode, for so long as the feet are warm, the rest
of the body will not suffer badly; but, on the contrary, if the feet are
allowed to get cold, no matter what state the other parts be in, it is
impossible to sleep with comfort.  Of course our young voyageurs
followed the well-known practice of the country, and lay with their feet
to the fire in such a manner that, when all were placed, their bodies
formed four radii of a circle, of which the fire was the centre.
Marengo usually lay beside Basil, whom he looked upon as his proper
master.

Notwithstanding a bed of grass and leaves which they each night spread
for themselves, they were sadly in want of blankets, and therefore the
skin of the wapiti, which was a very fine one, would be a welcome
addition to their stock of bedding.  They resolved, therefore, to remain
one day where they had killed it, so that the skin might be dried and
receive a partial dressing.  Moreover, they intended to "jerk" some of
the meat--although elk-venison is not considered very palatable where
other meat can be had.  It is without juice, and resembles dry
short-grained beef more than venison.  For this reason it is looked upon
by both Indians and white hunters as inferior to buffalo, moose,
caribou, or even the common deer.  One peculiarity of the flesh of this
animal is, that the fat becomes hard the moment it is taken off the
fire.  It freezes upon the lips like suet, and clings around the teeth
of a person eating it, which is not the case with that of other species
of deer.  The skin of the wapiti, however, is held in high esteem among
the Indians.  It is thinner than that of the moose, but makes a much
better article of leather.  When dressed in the Indian fashion--that is
to say, soaked in a lather composed of the brains and fat of the animal
itself, and then washed, dried, scraped, and smoked--it becomes as soft
and pliable as a kid-glove, and will wash and dry without stiffening
like chamois leather.  That is a great advantage which it has, in the
eyes of the Indians, over the skins of other species of deer, as the
moose and caribou--for the leather made from these, after a wetting,
becomes harsh and rigid and requires a great deal of rubbing to render
it soft again.

Lucien knew how to dress the elk-hide, and could make leather out of it
as well as any Indian squaw in the country.  But travelling as they
were, there was not a good opportunity for that; so they were content to
give it such a dressing as the circumstances might allow.  It was spread
out on a frame of willow-poles, and set up in front of the fire, to be
scraped at intervals and cleared of the fatty matter, as well as the
numerous parasites that at this season adhere to the skins of the
wapiti.

While Lucien was framing the skin, Basil and Norman occupied themselves
in cutting the choice pieces of the meat into thin slices and hanging
them up before the fire.  This job being finished, all sat down to watch
Lucien currying his hide.

"Ho, boys!" cried Francois, starting up as if something had occurred to
him; "what about the wolverene?  It's a splendid skin--why not get it
too?"

"True enough," replied Norman, "we had forgotten that.  But the beasts
gone to the bottom--how can we get at him?"

"Why, fish him up, to be sure," said Francois.  "Let's splice one of
these willow-poles to my ramrod, and I'll screw it into him, and draw
him to the surface in a jiffy.  Come!"

"We must get the canoe round, then," said Norman.  "The bank's too steep
for us to reach him without it."

"Of course," assented Francois, at the same time going towards the
willows; "get you the canoe into the water, while I cut the sapling."

"Stay!" cried Basil, "I'll show you a shorter method.  Marengo!"

As Basil said this, he rose to his feet, and walked down to the bluff
where they had shot the wolverene.  All of them followed him as well as
Marengo, who bounded triumphantly from side to side, knowing he was
wanted for some important enterprise.

"Do you expect the dog to fetch him out?" inquired Norman.

"No," replied Basil; "only to help."

"How?"

"Wait a moment--you shall see."

Basil flung down his '<DW53>-skin cap, and stripped off his caribou
jacket, then his striped cotton shirt, then his under-shirt of fawn
skin, and, lastly, his trousers, leggings, and mocassins.  He was now as
naked as Adam.

"I'll show you, cousin," said he, addressing himself to Norman, "how we
take the water down there on the Mississippi."

So saying, he stepped forward to the edge of the bluff; and having
carefully noted the spot where the wolverene had gone down, turned to
the dog, and simply said--

"Ho!  Marengo!  _Chez moi_!"  The dog answered with a whimper, and a
look of intelligence which showed that he understood his master's wish.

Basil again pointed to the lake, raised his arms over his head, placing
his palms close together, launched himself out into the air, and shot
down head-foremost into the water.

Marengo, uttering a loud bay, sprang after so quickly that the plunges
were almost simultaneous, and both master and dog were for some time
hidden from view.  The latter rose first, but it was a long time before
Basil came to the surface--so long that Norman and the others were
beginning to feel uneasy, and to regard the water with some anxiety.  At
length, however, a spot was seen to bubble, several yards from where he
had gone down, and the black head of Basil appeared above the surface.
It was seen that he held something in his teeth, and was pushing a heavy
body before him, which they saw was the wolverene.

Marengo, who swam near, now seized hold of the object, and pulled it
away from his master, who, calling to the dog to follow, struck out
towards a point where the bank was low and shelving.  In a few minutes
Basil reached a landing-place, and shortly after Marengo arrived towing
the wolverene, which was speedily pulled out upon the bank, and carried,
or rather dragged, by Norman and Francois to the camp.  Lucien brought
Basil's clothes, and all four once more assembled around the blazing
fire.

There is not a more hideous-looking animal in America than the
wolverene.  His thick body and short stout legs, his shaggy coat and
bushy tail, but, above all, his long curving claws and doglike jaws,
give him a formidable appearance.  His gait is low and skulking, and his
look bold and vicious.  He walks somewhat like a bear, and his tracks
are often mistaken for those of that animal.  Indians and hunters,
however, know the difference well.  His hind-feet are plantigrade, that
is, they rest upon the ground from heel to toe; and his back curves like
the segment of a circle.  He is fierce and extremely voracious--quite as
much so as the "glutton," of which he is the American representative.
No animal is more destructive to the small game, and he will also attack
and devour the larger kinds when he can get hold of them; but as he is
somewhat slow, he can only seize most of them by stratagem.  It is a
common belief that he lies in wait upon trees and rocks to seize the
deer passing beneath.  It has been also asserted that he places moss,
such as these animals feed upon, under his perch, in order to entice
them within reach; and it has been still further asserted, that the
arctic foxes assist him in his plans, by hunting the deer towards the
spot where he lies in wait, thus acting as his jackals.  These
assertions have been made more particularly about his European cousin,
the "glutton," about whom other stories are told equally strange--one of
them, that he eats until scarce able to walk, and then draws his body
through a narrow space between two trees, in order to relieve himself
and get ready for a fresh meal.  Buffon and others have given credence
to these tales upon the authority of one "Olaus Magnus," whose name,
from the circumstance, might be translated "great fibber."  There is no
doubt, however, that the glutton is one of the most sagacious of
animals, and so, too, is the wolverene.  The latter gives proof of this
by many of his habits; one in particular fully illustrates his cunning.
It is this.  The marten-trappers of the Hudson Bay territory set their
traps in the snow, often extending over a line of fifty miles.  These
traps are constructed out of pieces of wood found near the spot, and are
baited with the heads of partridges, or pieces of venison, of which the
marten (_Mustela martes_) is very fond.  As soon as the marten seizes
the bait, a trigger is touched, and a heavy piece of wood falling upon
the animal, crushes or holds it fast.  Now the wolverene _enters the
trap from behind_, tears the back out of it before touching the bait,
and thus avoids the falling log!  Moreover, he will follow the tracks of
the trapper from one to another, until he has destroyed the whole line.
Should a marten happen to have been before him, and got caught in the
trap, he rarely ever eats it, as he is not fond of its flesh.  But he is
not satisfied to leave it as he finds it.  He usually digs it from under
the log, tears it to pieces, and then buries it under the snow.  The
foxes, who are well aware of this habit, and who themselves greedily eat
the marten, are frequently seen following him upon such excursions.
They are not strong enough to take the log from off the trapped animal,
but from their keen scent can soon find it where the other has buried it
in the snow.  In this way, instead of their being providers for the
wolverene, the reverse is the true story.  Notwithstanding, the
wolverene will eat _them_ too, whenever he can get his claws upon them;
but as they are much swifter than he, this seldom happens.  The foxes,
however, are themselves taken in traps, or more commonly shot by guns
set for the purpose, with the bait attached by a string to the trigger.
Often the wolverene, finding the foxes dead or wounded, makes a meal of
them before the hunter comes along to examine his traps and guns.  The
wolverene kills many of the foxes while young, and sometimes on finding
their burrow, widens it with his strong claws, and eats the whole family
in their nests.  Even young wolves sometimes become his prey.  He lives,
in fact, on very bad terms with both foxes and wolves, and often robs
the latter of a fat deer which they may have just killed, and are
preparing to dine upon.  The beaver, however, is his favourite food, and
but that these creatures can escape him by taking to the water--in which
element he is not at all at home--he would soon exterminate their whole
race.  His great strength and acute scent enable him to overcome almost
every wild creature of the forest or prairie.  He is even said to be a
full match for either the panther or the black bear.

The wolverene lives in clefts of rock, or in hollow trees, where such
are to be found; but he is equally an inhabitant of the forest and the
prairie.  He is found in fertile districts, as well as in the most
remote deserts.  His range is extensive, but he is properly a denizen of
the cold and snowy regions.  In the southern parts of the United States
he is no longer known, though it is certain that he once lived there
when those countries were inhabited by the beaver.  North of latitude 40
degrees he ranges perhaps to the pole itself, as traces of him have been
found as far as man has yet penetrated.  He is a solitary creature, and,
like most predatory animals, a nocturnal prowler.  The female brings
forth two, sometimes three and four, at a birth.  The cubs are of a
cream colour, and only when full-grown acquire that dark-brown hue,
which in the extreme of winter often passes into black.  The fur is not
unlike that of the bear, but is shorter-haired, and of less value than a
bear-skin.  Notwithstanding, it is an article of trade with the Hudson's
Bay Company, who procure many thousands of the skins annually.

The Canadian voyageurs call the wolverene "carcajou;" while among the
Orkney and Scotch servants of the Hudson's Bay Company he is oftener
known as the "quickhatch."  It is supposed that both these names are
corruptions of the Cree word _okee-coo-haw-gew_ (the name of the
wolverene among the Indians of that tribe).  Many words from the same
language have been adopted by both voyageurs and traders.

Those points in the natural history of the wolverene, that might be
called _scientific_, were imparted by Lucien, while Norman furnished the
information about its habits.  Norman knew the animal as one of the most
common in the "trade"; and in addition to what we have recorded, also
related many adventures and stories current among the voyageurs, in
which this creature figures in quite as fanciful a manner, as he does in
the works either of Olaus Magnus, or Count de Buffon.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A GRAND SUNDAY DINNER.

After remaining a day at their first camp on the lake, our voyageurs
continued their journey.  Their course lay a little to the west of
north, as the edge of the lake trended in that direction.  Their usual
plan, as already stated, was to keep out in the lake far enough to shun
the numerous indentations of the shore, yet not so far as to endanger
their little craft when the wind was high.  At night they always landed,
either upon some point or on an island.  Sometimes the wind blew "dead
ahead," and then their day's journey would be only a few miles.  When
the wind was favourable they made good progress, using the skin of the
wapiti for a sail.  On one of these days they reckoned a distance of
over forty miles from camp to camp.  It was their custom always to lie
by on Sunday, for our young voyageurs were Christians.  They had done so
on their former expedition across the Southern prairies, and they had
found the practice to their advantage in a physical as well as a moral
sense.  They required the rest thus obtained; besides, a general
cleaning up is necessary, at least, once every week.  Sunday was also a
day of feasting with them.  They had more time to devote to culinary
operations, and the _cuisine_ of that day was always the most varied of
the week.  Any extra delicacy obtained by the rifle on previous days,
was usually reserved for the Sunday's dinner.  On the first Sunday after
entering Lake Winnipeg the "camp" chanced to be upon an island.  It was
a small island, of only a few acres in extent.  It lay near the shore,
and was well wooded over its whole surface with trees of many different
kinds.  Indeed, islands in a large lake usually have a great variety of
trees, as the seeds of all those sorts that grow around the shores are
carried thither by the waves, or in the crops of the numerous birds that
flit over its waters.  But as the island in question lay in a lake,
whose shores exhibited such a varied geology, it was natural the
vegetation of the island itself should be varied.  And, in truth; it was
so.  There were upon it, down by the water's edge, willows and
cottonwoods (_Populus angulata_), the characteristic _sylva_ of the
prairie land; there were birches and sugar-maples (_Acer saccharinum_);
and upon some higher ground, near the centre, appeared several species
that belonged more to the primitive formations that bounded the lake on
the east.  These were pines and spruces, the juniper, and tamarack or
American larch (_Laryx Americana_); and among others could be
distinguished the dark cone-shaped forms of the red cedar-trees.  Among
the low bushes and shrubs there were rose and wild raspberry; there were
apple and plum trees, and whole thickets of the "Pembina" (_Viburnum
oxycoccos_).  There is, in fact, no part of the world where a greater
variety of wild fruit has been found indigenous than upon the banks of
the Red River of the North, and this variety extended to the little
island where our voyageurs had encamped.

The camp had been placed under a beautiful tree--the tacamahac, or
balsam poplar (_Populus balsamifera_).  This is one of the finest trees
of America, and one of those that extend farthest north into the cold
countries.  In favourable situations it attains a height of one hundred
and fifty feet, with a proportionate thickness of trunk; but it is
oftener only fifty or eighty feet high.  Its leaves are oval, and, when
young, of a rich yellowish colour, which changes to a bright green.  The
buds are very large, yellow, and covered with a varnish, which exhales a
delightful fragrance, and gives to the tree its specific name.

It was near sunset on the afternoon of Saturday; the travellers had just
finished their repast, and were reclining around a fire of red cedar,
whose delicate smoke curled up among the pale-green leaves of the
poplars.  The fragrant smell of the burning wood, mixed with the
aromatic odour of the balsam-tree, filled the air with a sweet perfume,
and, almost without knowing why, our voyageurs felt a sense of pleasure
stealing over them.  The woods of the little island were not without
their voices.  The scream of the jay was heard, and his bright azure
wing appeared now and then among the foliage.  The scarlet plumage of
the cardinal grosbeak flashed under the beams of the setting sun; and
the trumpet-note of the ivory-billed woodpecker was heard near the
centre of the island.  An osprey was circling in the air, with his eye
bent on the water below, watching for his finny prey; and a pair of bald
eagles (_Haliaetus leucocephalus_) were winging their way towards the
adjacent mainland.  Half-a-dozen turkey vultures (_Cathartes atratus_)
were wheeling above the beach, where some object, fish or carrion, had
been thrown up by the waves.

For some time the party remained silent, each contemplating the scene
with feelings of pleasure.  Francois, as usual, first broke the silence.

"I say, cook, what's for dinner to-morrow?"

It was to Lucien this speech was addressed.  He was regarded as the
_maitre de cuisine_.

"Roast or boiled--which would you prefer?" asked the cook, with a
significant smile.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Francois; "boiled, indeed! a pretty boil we could
have in a tin cup, holding less than a pint.  I wish we _could_ have a
boiled joint and a bowl of soup.  I'd give something for it.  I'm
precious tired of this everlasting dry roast."

"You shall have both," rejoined Lucien, "for to-morrow's dinner.  I
promise you both the soup and the joint."

Again Francois laughed incredulously.

"Do you mean to make soup in your shoe, Luce?"

"No; but I shall make it in this."

And Lucien held up a vessel somewhat like a water-pail, which the day
before he had himself made out of birch-bark.

"Well," replied Francois, "I know you have got a vessel that holds
water, but cold water ain't soup; and if you can boil water in that
vessel, I'll believe you to be a conjuror.  I know you can do some
curious things with your chemical mixtures; but that you can't do, I'm
sure.  Why, man, the bottom would be burned out of your bucket before
the water got blood-warm.  Soup, indeed!"

"Never mind, Frank, you shall see.  You're only like the rest of
mankind--incredulous about everything they can't comprehend.  If you'll
take your hook and line, and catch some fish, I promise to give you a
dinner to-morrow, with all the regular courses--soup, fish, boiled,
roast, and dessert, too!  I'm satisfied I can do all that."

"_Parbleu_! brother, you should have been cook to Lucullus.  Well, I'll
catch the fish for you."

So saying, Francois took a fish-hook and line out of his pouch, and
fixing a large grasshopper upon the hook, stepped forward to the edge of
the water, and cast it in.  The float was soon seen to bob and then
sink, and Francois jerked his hook ashore with a small and very pretty
fish upon it of a silver hue, with which the lake and the waters running
into it abound.  Lucien told him it was a fish of the genus _Hyodon_.
He also advised him to bait with a worm, and let his bait sink to the
bottom, and he might catch a sturgeon, which would be a larger fish.

"How do you know there are sturgeon in the lake?" inquired Francois.

"I am pretty sure of that," answered the naturalist; "the sturgeon
(_Acipenser_) is found all round the world in the northern temperate
zone--both in its seas and fresh waters; although, when you go farther
south into the warmer climate, no sturgeons exist.  I am sure there are
some here, perhaps more than one species.  Sink your bait, for the
sturgeon is a toothless fish, and feeds upon soft substances at the
bottom."

Francois followed the advice of his brother, and in a few minutes he had
a "nibble," and drew up and landed a very large fish, full three feet in
length.  Lucien at once pronounced it a sturgeon, but of a species he
had not before seen.  It was the _Acipenser carbonarius_, a curious sort
of fish found in these waters.  It did not look like a fish that would
be pleasant eating; therefore Francois again took to bobbing for the
silver fish (_Hyodons_), which, though small, he knew to be excellent
when broiled.

"Come," said Basil, "I must furnish my quota to this famous dinner that
is to be.  Let me see what there is on the island in the way of game;"
and shouldering his rifle, he walked off among the trees.

"And I," said Norman, "am not going to eat the produce of other people's
labour without contributing my share."

So the young trader took up his gun and went off in a different
direction.

"Good!" exclaimed Lucien, "we are likely to have plenty of meat for the
dinner.  I must see about the vegetables;" and taking with him his
new-made vessel, Lucien sauntered off along the shore of the islet.
Francois alone remained by the camp, and continued his fishing.  Let us
follow the plant-hunter, and learn a lesson of practical botany.

Lucien had not gone far, when he came to what appeared to be a mere
sedge growing in the water.  The stalks or culms of this sedge were full
eight feet high, with smooth leaves, an inch broad, nearly a yard in
length, and of a light green colour.  At the top of each stalk was a
large panicle of seeds, somewhat resembling a head of oats.  The plant
itself was the famous wild rice (_Zizania aquatica_), so much prized by
the Indians as an article of food, and also the favourite of many wild
birds, especially the reed-bird or rice-bunting.  The grain of the
zizania was not yet ripe, but the ears were tolerably well filled, and
Lucien saw that it would do for his purpose.  He therefore waded in, and
stripped off into his vessel as much as he wanted.

"I am safe for rice-soup, at all events," soliloquised he, "but I think
I can do still better;" and he continued on around the shore, and
shortly after struck into some heavy timber that grew in a damp, rich
soil.  He had walked about an hundred yards farther, when he was seen to
stoop and examine some object on the ground.

"It ought to be found here," he muttered to himself; "this is the very
soil for it,--yes, here we have it!"

The object over which he was stooping was a plant, but its leaves
appeared shrivelled, or rather quite withered away.  The upper part of a
bulbous root, however, was just visible above the surface.  It was a
bulb of the wild leek (_Allium tricoccum_.)  The leaves, when young, are
about six inches in length, of a flat shape and often three inches
broad; but, strange to say, they shrivel or die off very early in the
season,--even before the plant flowers, and then it is difficult to find
the bulb.

Lucien, however, had sharp eyes for such things; and in a short while he
had rooted out several bulbs as large as pigeons' eggs, and deposited
them in his birchen vessel.  He now turned to go back to camp, satisfied
with what he had obtained.  He had the rice to give consistency to his
soup, and the leek-roots to flavour it with.  That would be enough.

As he was walking over a piece of boggy ground his eye was attracted to
a singular plant, whose tall stem rose high above the grass.  It was
full eight feet in height, and at its top there was an umbel of
conspicuous white flowers.  Its leaves were large, lobed, and toothed,
and the stem itself was over an inch in diameter, with furrows running
longitudinally.  Lucien had never seen the plant before, although he had
often heard accounts of it, and he at once recognised it from its
botanical description.  It was the celebrated "cow parsnip" (_Heracleum
lanatum_).  Its stem was jointed and hollow, and Lucien had heard that
the Indians called it in their language "flute-stem," as they often used
it to make their rude musical instruments from, and also a sort of
whistle or "call," by which they were enabled to imitate and decoy
several kinds of deer.  But there was another use to which the plant was
put, of which the naturalist was not aware.  Norman, who had been
wandering about, came up at this moment, and seeing Lucien standing by
the plant, uttered a joyful "Hulloh!"

"Well," inquired Lucien, "what pleases you, coz?"

"Why, the flute-stem, of course.  You talked of making a soup.  It will
help you, I fancy."

"How?" demanded Lucien.

"Why, the young stems are good eating, and the roots, if you will; but
the young shoots are better.  Both Indians and voyageurs eat them in
soup, and are fond of them.  It's a famous thing, I assure you."

"Let us gather some, then," said Lucien; and the cousins commenced
cutting off such stems as were still young and tender.  As soon as they
had obtained enough, they took their way back to the camp.  Basil had
already arrived with a fine _prairie hen (Tetrao cupido_) which he had
shot, and Norman had brought back a squirrel; so that, with Francois's
fish, of which a sufficient number had been caught, Lucien was likely to
be able to keep his promise about the dinner.

Francois, however, could not yet comprehend how the soup was to be
boiled in a wooden pot; and, indeed, Basil was unable to guess.  Norman,
however, knew well enough, for he had travelled through the country of
the Assinoboil Indians, who take their name from this very thing.  He
had also witnessed the operation performed by Crees, Chippewas, and even
voyageurs, where metal or earthen pots could not be obtained.

On the next day the mystery was cleared up to Basil and Francois.
Lucien first collected a number of stones--about as large as
paving-stones.  He chose such as were hard and smooth.  These he flung
into the cinders, where they soon became red-hot.  The water and meat
were now put into the bark pot, and then one stone after another,--each
being taken out as it got cooled,--until the water came to a fierce
boil.  The rice and other ingredients were added at the proper time, and
in a short while an excellent soup was made.  So much, then, for the
soup, and the boiled dishes with vegetables.  The roast, of course, was
easily made ready upon green-wood spits, and the "game" was cooked in a
similar way.  The fish were broiled upon the red cinders, and eaten, as
is usual, after the soup.  There were no puddings or pies, though, no
doubt, Lucien could have made such had they been wanted.  In their place
there was an excellent service of fruit.  There were strawberries and
raspberries, one sort of which found wild in this region is of a most
delicious flavour.  There were gooseberries and currants; but the most
delicious fruit, and that which Francois liked best, was a small berry
of a dark blue colour, not unlike the huckleberry, but much sweeter and
of higher flavour.  It grows on a low bush or shrub with ovate leaves;
and this bush when it blossoms is so covered with beautiful white
flowers, that neither leaves nor branches can be seen.  There are no
less than four varieties of it known, two of which attain to the height
of twenty feet or more.  The French Canadians call it "le poire," but in
most parts of America it is known as the "service-berry," although
several other names are given to it in different districts.  Lucien
informed his companions, while they were crushing its sweet purplish
fruit between their teeth, that its botanical name is _Amelanchier_.

"Now," remarked Francois, "if we only had a cup of coffee and a glass of
wine, we might say that we had dined in fashionable style."

"I think," replied Lucien, "we are better without the wine, and as for
the other I cannot give you that, but I fancy I can provide you with a
cup of tea if you only allow me a little time."

"Tea!" screamed Francois; "why, there's not a leaf of tea nearer than
China; and for the sugar, not a grain within hundreds of miles!"

"Come, Frank," said Lucien, "nature has not been so ungenerous here,--
even in such luxuries as tea and sugar.  Look yonder!  You see those
large trees with the dark- trunks.  What are they?"

"Sugar-maples," replied Francois.

"Well," said Lucien, "I think even at this late season we might contrive
to extract sap enough from them to sweeten a cup of tea.  You may try,
while I go in search of the tea-plant."

"Upon my word, Luce, you are equal to a wholesale grocery.  Very well.
Come, Basil, we'll tap the maples; let the captain go with Luce."

The boys, separating into pairs, walked off in different directions.
Lucien and his companion soon lighted upon the object of their search in
the same wet bottom where they had procured the _Heracleum_.  It was a
branching shrub, not over two feet in height, with small leaves of a
deep green colour above, but whitish and woolly underneath.  It is a
plant well-known throughout most of the Hudson's Bay territory by the
name of "Labrador tea-plant;" and is so called because the Canadian
voyageurs, and other travellers through these northern districts, often
drink it as tea.  It is one of the _Ericaceae_, or heath tribe, of the
genus _Ledum_--though it is not a true heath, as, strange to say, no
true heath is found upon the continent of America.

There are two kinds of it known,--the "narrow-leafed" and
"broad-leafed;" and the former makes the best tea.  But the pretty white
flowers of the plant are better for the purpose than the leaves of
either variety; and these it was that were now gathered by Lucien and
Norman.  They require to be dried before the decoction is made; but this
can be done in a short time over a fire; and so in a short time it was
done, Norman having parched them upon heated stones.  Meanwhile Basil
and Francois had obtained the sugar-water, and Lucien having washed his
soup-kettle clean, and once more made his boiling stones red-hot,
prepared the beverage; and then it was served out in the tin cup, and
all partook of it.  Norman had drunk the Labrador tea before, and was
rather fond of it, but his Southern cousins did not much relish it.  Its
peculiar flavour, which somewhat resembles rhubarb, was not at all to
the liking of Francois.  All, however, admitted that it produced a
cheering effect upon their spirits; and, after drinking it, they felt in
that peculiarly happy state of mind which one experiences after a cup of
the real "Bohea."



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE MARMOTS OF AMERICA.

From such a luxurious dinner you may suppose that our young voyageurs
lived in prime style.  But it was not always so.  They had their fasts
as well as feasts.  Sometimes for days they had nothing to eat but the
jerked deer-meat.  No bread--no beer--no coffee, nothing but water--dry
venison and water.  Of course, this is food enough for a hungry man; but
it can hardly be called luxurious living.  Now and then a wild duck, or
a goose, or perhaps a young swan, was shot; and this change in their
diet was very agreeable.  Fish were caught only upon occasions, for
often these capricious creatures refused Francois' bait, however
temptingly offered.  After three weeks' coasting the Lake, they reached
the Saskatchewan, and turning up that stream, now travelled in a due
westerly direction.  At the Grand Rapids, near the mouth of this river,
they were obliged to make a portage of no less than three miles, but the
magnificent view of these "Rapids" fully repaid them for the toil they
underwent in passing them.

The Saskatchewan is one of the largest rivers in America, being full
1600 miles in length, from its source in the Rocky Mountains to its
_debouchure_, under the name of the "Nelson River," in Hudson's Bay.
For some distance above Lake Winnipeg, the country upon its banks is
well wooded.  Farther up, the river runs through dry sandy prairies that
extend westward to the foot-hills of the Rocky Mountains.  Many of these
prairies may be properly called "deserts."  They contain lakes as salt
as the ocean itself, and vast tracts--hundreds of square miles in
extent--where not a drop of water is to be met with.  But the route of
our voyageurs did not lie over these prairies.  It was their intention,
after reaching Cumberland House, to turn again in a northerly direction.

One evening, when within two days' journey of the Fort, they had
encamped upon the bank of the Saskatchewan.  They had chosen a beautiful
spot for their camp, where the country, swelling into rounded hills, was
prettily interspersed with bushy copses of _Amelanchiers_, and _Rosa
blanda_, whose pale red flowers were conspicuous among the green leaves,
and filled the air with a sweet fragrance, that was wafted to our
voyageurs upon the sunny breeze.  The ground was covered with a grassy
sward enamelled by the pink flowers of the _Cleome_, and the deeper red
blossoms of the beautiful wind-flower (_Anemone_).  Upon that day our
travellers had not succeeded in killing any game, and their dinner was
likely to consist of nothing better than dry venison scorched over the
coals.  As they had been travelling all the morning against a sharp
current, and, of course, had taken turn about at the paddles, they all
felt fatigued, and none of them was inclined to go in search of game.
They had flung themselves down around the fire, and were waiting until
the venison should be broiled for dinner.

The camp had been placed at the foot of a tolerably steep hill, that
rose near the banks of the river.  There was another and higher hill
facing it, the whole front of which could be seen by our travellers as
they sat around their fire.  While glancing their eyes along its
declivity, they noticed a number of small protuberances or mounds
standing within a few feet of each other.  Each of them was about a foot
in height, and of the form of a truncated cone--that is, a cone with its
top cut off, or beaten down.

"What are they?" inquired Francois.

"I fancy," answered Lucien, "they are marmot-houses."

"They are," affirmed Norman; "there are plenty of them in this country."

"Oh! marmots!" said Francois.  "Prairie-dogs, you mean?--the same we met
with on the Southern prairies?"

"I think not," replied Norman: "I think the prairie-dogs are a different
sort.  Are they not, Cousin Luce?"

"Yes, yes," answered the naturalist; "these must be a different species.
There are too few of them to be the houses of prairie-dogs.  The `dogs'
live in large settlements, many hundreds of them in one place; besides,
their domes are somewhat different in appearance from these.  The mounds
of the prairie-dogs have a hole in the top or on one side.  These, you
see, have not.  The hole is in the ground beside them, and the hill is
in front, made by the earth taken out of the burrow, just as you have
seen it at the entrance of a rat's hole.  They are marmots, I have no
doubt, but of a different species from the prairie-dog marmots."

"Are there not many kinds of marmots in America?  I have heard so," said
Francois.

This question was of course addressed to Lucien.

"Yes," answered he.  "The _fauna_ of North America is peculiarly rich in
species of these singular animals.  There are thirteen kinds of them,
well-known to naturalists; and there are even some varieties in these
thirteen kinds that might almost be considered distinct species.  I have
no doubt, moreover, there are yet other species which have not been
described.  Perhaps, altogether, there are not less than twenty
different kinds of marmots in North America.  As only one or two species
are found in the settled territories of the United States, it was
supposed, until lately, that there were no others.  Latterly the
naturalists of North America have been very active in their researches,
and no genus of animals has rewarded them so well as the marmots--
unless, perhaps, it may be the squirrels.  Almost every year a new
species of one or the other of these has been found--mostly inhabiting
the vast wilderness territories that lie between the Mississippi and the
Pacific Ocean.

"As regards the marmots, the _closet-naturalists_, as usual, have
rendered their history as complicated and difficult to be understood as
possible.  They have divided them into several genera, because one kind
happens to have a larger tubercle upon its tooth than another, or a
little more curving in its claws, or a shorter tail.  It is true that in
the thirteen species some differ considerably from the others in size,
colour, and other respects.  Yet, for all that, there is such an
identity, if I may so express it, about the mode of life, the food, the
appearance, and habits of all the thirteen, that I think it is both
absurd and ill-judged to render the study of them more difficult, by
thus dividing them into so many genera.  They are all _marmots_, that is
what they are; and why confound the study of them by calling them
spermophiles and arctomys, and such-like hard names?"

"I quite agree with you, Luce," said the hunter, Basil, who, although
not averse to the study of natural history (all hunters, I believe, love
it more or less), had no great opinion of the closet-naturalists and
"babblers about teeth," as he contemptuously called them.

"When a family of animals," continued Lucien, "contains a great many
species, and these species differ widely from each other, I admit that
it may then be convenient and useful to class them into genera, and
sometimes even sub-genera; but, on the other hand, when there are only a
few species, and these closely allied to each other, I think nothing can
be more ridiculous than this dividing and subdividing, and giving such
unpronounceable names to them.  It is this that renders the study
difficult, because even the committing to memory such a string of
unmeaning phrases is of itself no easy task.  Take, for example, such a
phrase as `_Arctomys spermophilus Rickardsonii_,' which, although nearly
a yard long, means simply the `tawny marmot.'  Do not mistake me,"
continued Lucien; "I do not object to the use of the Greek or Latin
phraseology used in such cases.  Some universal language must be
adopted, so that the naturalists of different countries may understand
each other.  But then this language should, when translated, describe
the animal, by giving some of its characteristics, and thus have a
meaning.  On the contrary, it usually, when put into plain English,
gives us only the name--often a clumsy and unpronounceable German one--
of some obscure friend of the author, or, as is not unfrequently the
case, some lordly patron for whom your closet-naturalist entertains a
flunkeyish regard, and avails himself of this means of making it known
to his Maecenas.  In my opinion," continued Lucien, warming with the
enthusiasm of a true naturalist, "it is a most impertinent interference
with the beautiful things of Nature--her birds and quadrupeds, her
plants and flowers--to couple them with the names of kings, princes,
lords, and lordlings, who chance to be the local gods of some
closet-naturalist.  It is these catalogue-makers who generally multiply
synonymes so as to render science unintelligible.  Sitting in their
easy-chairs they know little or nothing of the habits of the animals
about which they write; and therefore, to write something original, they
multiply names, and give measurements _ad infinitum_, and this among
them constitutes a science.  I do not, of course, include among these
the man whose name is given--Richardson.  No; he was a true naturalist,
who travelled and underwent hardships to earn the high name which he
bears and so well deserves."

"Brother Luce," said Basil, "you grow excited upon this subject, and
that is something of a rarity to see.  I agree with you, however, in all
you have said.  Previous to our leaving home I read several books
upon natural history.  They were the works of distinguished
closet-naturalists.  Well, I found that all the information they
contained about the animals of these Northern regions--at least, all
that could be called _information_--I had read somewhere before.  After
thinking for a while I recollected where.  It was in the pages of the
traveller Hearne--a man who, among these scientific gentlemen, is
considered only in the light of a rude traveller, and not deserving the
name of naturalist.  Hearne journeyed to the Arctic Sea so early as the
year 1771; and to him the world is indebted for their first knowledge of
the fact that there was no strait across the Continent south of the
seventieth parallel of latitude."

"Yes," said Lucien, "he was sent out by the Hudson's Bay Company,
perhaps more scantily furnished than any explorer ever was before.  He
underwent the most dreadful hardships and perils, and has left behind
him an account of the inhabitants and natural history of these parts, so
full and so truthful, that it has not only stood the test of subsequent
observation, but the closet-naturalists have added but little to it ever
since.  Most of them have been satisfied with giving just what poor
Hearne had gathered--as, in fact, they knew nothing more, and could not,
therefore, add anything.  Some of them have quoted his own words, and
given him the credit of his vast labour; while others have endeavoured
to pass off Hearne's knowledge as their own, by giving a slightly
altered paraphrase of his language.  This sort of thing," said Lucien,
"makes me indignant."

"It's downright mean," interposed Norman.  "All of us in this country
have heard of Hearne.  He was a right hardy traveller, and no mistake
about it."

"Well, then," said Lucien, cooling down, and resuming the subject of the
marmots, "these little animals seem to form a link between the squirrels
and rabbits.  On the side of the squirrels they very naturally join on,
if I may use the expression, to the ground-squirrel, and some of them
differ but little in their habits from many of the latter.  Other
species, again, are more allied to the rabbits, and less like the
squirrels; and there are two or three kinds that I should say--using a
Yankee expression--have a `sprinkling' of the rat in them.  Some, as the
ground-hog, or wood-chuck of the United States, are as large as rabbits,
while others, as the leopard-marmot, are not bigger than Norway rats.
Some species have cheek-pouches, in which they can carry a large
quantity of seeds, nuts, and roots, when they wish to hoard them up for
future use.  These are the spermophiles, and some species of these have
more capacious pouches than others.  Their food differs somewhat,
perhaps according to the circumstances in which they may be placed.  In
all cases it is vegetable.  Some, as the prairie-dogs, live upon
grasses, while others subsist chiefly upon seeds, berries, and leaves.
It was long supposed that the marmots, like the squirrels, laid up
stores against the winter.  I believe this is not the case with any of
the different species.  I know for certain that most of them pass the
winter in a state of torpidity, and of course require no provisions, as
they eat nothing during that season.  In this we observe one of those
cases in which Nature so beautifully adapts a creature to its
circumstances.  In the countries where many of the marmots are found, so
severe are the winters, and so barren the soil, that it would be
impossible for these creatures to get a morsel of food for many long
months.  During this period, therefore, Nature suspends her functions,
by putting them into a deep, and, for aught we know to the contrary, a
pleasant sleep.  It is only when the snow melts, under the vernal sun,
and the green blades of grass and the spring flowers array themselves on
the surface of the earth, that the little marmots make their appearance
again.  Then the warm air, penetrating into their subterranean abodes,
admonishes them to awake from their protracted slumber, and come forth
to the enjoyment of their summer life.  These animals may be said,
therefore, to have no winter.  Their life is altogether a season of
summer and sunshine.

"Some of the marmots," continued Lucien, "live in large communities, as
the prairie-dogs; others, in smaller tribes, while still other species
lead a solitary life, going only in pairs, or at most in families.
Nearly all of them are burrowing animals, though there are one or two
species that are satisfied with a cleft in the rock, or a hole among
loose stones for their nests.  Some of them are tree-climbers, but it is
supposed they only ascend trees in search of food, as they do not make
their dwellings there.  Many of the species are very prolific, the
females bringing forth eight, and even ten young at a birth.

"The marmots are extremely shy and watchful creatures.  Before going to
feed, they usually reconnoitre the ground from the tops of their little
mounds.  Some species do not have such mounds, and for this purpose
ascend any little hillock that may be near.  Nearly all have the curious
habit of placing sentries to watch while the rest are feeding.  These
sentries station themselves on some commanding point, and when they see
an enemy approaching give warning to the others by a peculiar cry.  In
several of the species this cry resembles the syllables `seek-seek'
repeated with a hiss.  Others bark like `toy-dogs,' while still other
kinds utter a whistling noise, from which one species derives its
trivial name of `whistler' among the traders, and is the `siffleur' of
the Canadian voyageurs.

"The `whistler's' call of alarm can be heard at a great distance; and
when uttered by the sentinel is repeated by all the others as far as the
troop extends.

"The marmots are eaten both by Indians and white hunters.  Sometimes
they are captured by pouring water into their burrows; but this method
only succeeds in early spring, when the animals awake out of their
torpid state, and the ground is still frozen hard enough to prevent the
water from filtering away.  They are sometimes shot with guns; but,
unless killed upon the spot, they will escape to their burrows, and
tumble in before the hunter can lay his hands upon them."



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE BLAIREAU, THE "TAWNIES," AND THE "LEOPARDS."

Perhaps Lucien would have carried his account of the marmots still
farther--for he had not told half what he knew of their habits--but he
was at that moment interrupted by the marmots themselves.  Several of
them appeared at the mouths of their holes; and, after looking out and
reconnoitring for some moments, became bolder, and ran up to the tops of
their mounds, and began to scatter along the little beaten paths that
led from one to the other.  In a short while as many as a dozen could be
seen moving about, jerking their tails, and at intervals uttering their
"seek-seek."

Our voyageurs saw that there were two kinds of them, entirely different
in colour, size, and other respects.  The larger ones were of a greyish
yellow above, with an orange tint upon the throat and belly.  These were
the "tawny marmots," called sometimes "ground-squirrels," and by the
voyageurs, "siffleurs," or "whistlers."  The other species seen were the
most beautiful of all the marmots.  They were very little smaller than
the tawny marmots; but their tails were larger and more slender, which
rendered their appearance more graceful.  Their chief beauty, however,
lay in their colours and markings.  They were striped from the nose to
the rump with bands of yellow and chocolate colour, which alternated
with each other, while the chocolate bands were themselves variegated by
rows of yellow spots regularly placed.  These markings gave the animals
that peculiar appearance so well-known as characterising the skin of the
leopard, hence the name of these little creatures was "leopard-marmots."

It was plain from their actions that both kinds were "at home" among the
mounds, and that both had their burrows there.  This was the fact, and
Norman told his companion that the two kinds are always found together,
not living in the same houses, but only as neighbours in the same
"settlement."  The burrows of the "leopard" have much smaller entrances
than those of their "tawny kin," and run down perpendicularly to a
greater depth before branching off in a horizontal direction.  A
straight stick may be thrust down one of these full five feet before
reaching an "elbow."  The holes of the tawny marmots, on the contrary,
branch off near the surface, and are not so deep under ground.  This
guides us to the explanation of a singular fact--which is, that the
"tawnies" make their appearance three weeks earlier in spring than the
"leopards," in consequence of the heat of the sun reaching them sooner,
and waking them out of their torpid sleep.

While these explanations were passing among the boys, the marmots had
come out, to the number of a score, and were carrying on their gambols
along the declivity of the hill.  They were at too great a distance to
heed the movements of the travellers by the camp-fire.  Besides, a
considerable valley lay between them and the camp, which, as they
believed, rendered their position secure.  They were not at such a
distance but that many of their movements could be clearly made out by
the boys, who after a while noticed that several furious battles were
being fought among them.  It was not the "tawnies" against the others,
but the males of each kind in single combats with one another.  They
fought like little cats, exhibiting the highest degree of boldness and
fury; but it was noticed that in these conflicts the leopards were far
more active and spiteful than their kinsmen.  In observing them through
his glass Lucien noticed that they frequently seized each other by the
tails, and he further noticed that several of them had their tails much
shorter than the rest.  Norman said that these had been bitten off in
their battles; and, moreover, that it was a rare thing to find among the
males, or "bucks," as he called them, one that had a perfect tail!

While these observations were being made, the attention of our party was
attracted to a strange animal that was seen slowly crawling around the
hill.  It was a creature about as big as an ordinary setter dog, but
much thicker in the body, shorter in the legs, and shaggier in the coat.
Its head was flat, and its ears short and rounded.  Its hair was long,
rough, and of a mottled hoary grey colour, but dark-brown upon the legs
and tail.  The latter, though covered with long hair, was short, and
carried upright; and upon the broad feet of the animal could be seen
long and strong curving claws.  Its snout was sharp as that of a
greyhound--though not so prettily formed--and a white stripe, passing
from its very tip over the crown, and bordered by two darker bands, gave
a singular expression to the animal's countenance.  It was altogether,
both in form and feature, a strange and vicious-looking creature.
Norman recognised it at once as the "blaireau," or American badger.  The
others had never seen such a creature before--as it is not an inhabitant
of the South, nor of any part of the settled portion of the United
States, for the animal there sometimes called a badger is the
ground-hog, or Maryland marmot (_Arctomys monax_).  Indeed, it was for a
long time believed that no true badger inhabited the Continent of
America.  Now, however, it is known that such exists, although it is of
a species distinct from the badger of Europe.  It is less in size than
the latter, and its fur is longer, finer, and lighter in colour; but it
is also more voracious in its habits, preying constantly upon mice,
marmots, and other small animals, and feeding upon carcasses, whenever
it chances to meet with such.  It is an inhabitant of the sandy and
barren districts, where it burrows the earth in such a manner that
horses frequently sink and snap their legs in the hollow ground made by
it.  These are not always the holes scraped out for its own residence,
but the burrows of the marmots, which the blaireau has enlarged, so that
it may enter and prey upon them.  In this way the creature obtains most
of its food, but as the marmots lie torpid during the winter months, and
the ground above them is frozen as hard as a rock, it is then impossible
for the blaireau to effect an entrance.  At this season it would
undoubtedly starve had not Nature provided against such a result, by
giving it the power of sleeping throughout the winter months as well as
the marmots themselves, which it does.  As soon as it wakes up and comes
abroad, it begins its campaign against these little creatures; and it
prefers, above all others, the "tawnies," and the beautiful "leopards,"
both of which it persecutes incessantly.

The badger when first seen was creeping along with its belly almost
dragging the ground, and its long snout projected horizontally in the
direction of the marmot "village."  It was evidently meditating a
surprise of the inhabitants.  Now and then it would stop, like a pointer
dog when close to a partridge, reconnoitre a moment, and then go on
again.  Its design appeared to be to get between the marmots and their
burrows, intercept some of them, and get a hold of them without the
trouble of digging them up--although that would be no great affair to
it, for so strong are its fore-arms and claws that in loose soil it can
make its way under the ground as fast as a mole.

Slowly and cautiously it stole along, its hind-feet resting all their
length upon the ground, its hideous snout thrown forward, and its eyes
glaring with a voracious and hungry expression.  It had got within fifty
paces of the marmots, and would, no doubt, have succeeded in cutting off
the retreat of some of them, but at that moment a burrowing owl (_Strix
cunicularia_), that had been perched upon one of the mounds, rose up,
and commenced hovering in circles above the intruder.  This drew the
attention of the marmot sentries to their well-known enemy, and their
warning cry was followed by a general scamper of both tawnies and
leopards towards their respective burrows.

The blaireau, seeing that further concealment was no longer of any use,
raised himself higher upon his limbs, and sprang forward in pursuit.  He
was too late, however, as the marmots had all got into their holes, and
their angry "seek-seek," was heard proceeding from various quarters out
of the bowels of the earth.  The blaireau only hesitated long enough to
select one of the burrows into which he was sure a marmot had entered;
and then, setting himself to his work, he commenced throwing out the
mould like a terrier.  In a few seconds he was half buried, and his
hindquarters and tail alone remained above ground.  He would soon have
disappeared entirely, but at that moment the boys, directed and headed
by Norman, ran up the hill, and seizing him by the tail, endeavoured to
jerk him back.  That, however, was a task which they could not
accomplish, for first one and then another, and then Basil and Norman--
who were both strong boys--pulled with all their might, and could not
move him.  Norman cautioned them against letting him go, as in a
moment's time he would burrow beyond their reach.  So they held on until
Francois had got his gun ready.  This the latter soon did, and a load of
small shot was fired into the blaireau's hips, which, although it did
not quite kill him, caused him to back out of the hole, and brought him
into the clutches of Marengo.  A desperate struggle ensued, which ended
by the bloodhound doubling his vast black muzzle upon the throat of the
blaireau, and choking him to death in less than a dozen seconds; and
then his hide--the only part which was deemed of any value--was taken
off and carried to the camp.  The carcass was left upon the face of the
hill, and the red shining object was soon espied by the buzzards and
turkey vultures, so that in a few minutes' time several of these filthy
birds were seen hovering around, and alighting upon the hill.

But this was no new sight to our young voyageurs, and soon ceased to be
noticed by them.  Another bird, of a different kind, for a short time
engaged their attention.  It was a large hawk, which Lucien, as soon as
he saw it, pronounced to be one of the kind known as buzzards (_Buteo_).
Of these there are several species in North America, but it is not to
be supposed that there is any resemblance between them and the buzzards
just mentioned as having alighted by the carcass of the blaireau.  The
latter, commonly called "turkey buzzards," are true vultures, and feed
mostly, though not exclusively, on carrion; while the "hawk buzzards"
have all the appearance and general habits of the rest of the falcon
tribe.

The one in question, Lucien said, was the "marsh-hawk," sometimes also
called the "hen-harrier" (_Falco uliginosus_).  Norman stated that it
was known among the Indians of these parts as the "snake-bird," because
it preys upon a species of small green snake that is common on the
plains of the Saskatchewan, and of which it is fonder than of any other
food.

The voyageurs were not long in having evidence of the appropriateness of
the Indian appellation; for these people, like other savages, have the
good habit of giving names that express some quality or characteristic
of the thing itself.  The bird in question was on the wing, and from its
movements evidently searching for game.  It sailed in easy circlings
near the surface, _quartering_ the ground like a pointer dog.  It flew
so lightly that its wings were not seen to move, and throughout all its
wheelings and turnings it appeared to be carried onwards or upwards by
the power of mere volition.  Once or twice its course brought it
directly over the camp, and Francois had got hold of his gun, with the
intention of bringing it down, but on each occasion it perceived his
motions; and, soaring up like a paper-kite until out of reach, it passed
over the camp, and then sank down again upon the other side, and
continued its "quarterings" as before.  For nearly half-an-hour it went
on manoeuvring in this way, when all at once it was seen to make a
sudden turning in the air as it fixed its eyes upon some object in the
grass.  The next moment it glided diagonally towards the earth, and
poising itself for a moment above the surface, rose again with a small
green- snake struggling in its talons.  After ascending to some
height, it directed its flight towards a clump of trees, and was soon
lost to the view of our travellers.

Lucien now pointed out to his companions a characteristic of the hawk
and buzzard tribe, by which these birds can always be distinguished from
the true falcon.  That peculiarity lay in the manner of seizing their
prey.  The former skim forward upon it sideways--that is, in a
horizontal or diagonal direction, and pick it up in passing; while the
true falcons--as the merlin, the peregrine, the gerfalcon, and the great
eagle-falcons--shoot down upon their prey _perpendicularly_ like an
arrow, or a piece of falling lead.

He pointed out, moreover, how the structure of the different kinds of
preying birds, such as the size and form of the wings and tail, as well
as other parts, were in each kind adapted to its peculiar mode of
pursuing its prey; and then there arose a discussion as to whether this
adaptation should be considered a _cause_ or an _effect_.  Lucien
succeeded in convincing his companions that the structure was the effect
and not the cause of the habit, for the young naturalist was a firm
believer in the changing and progressive system of nature.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

AN ODD SORT OF DECOY-DUCK.

Two days after the adventure with the blaireau, the young voyageurs
arrived at Cumberland House--one of the most celebrated posts of the
Hudson's Bay Company.  The chief factor, who resided there, was a friend
of Norman's father, and of course the youths were received with the
warmest hospitality, and entertained during their stay in the best
manner the place afforded.  They did not make a long stay, however, as
they wished to complete their journey before the winter should set in,
when canoe-travelling would become impossible.  During winter, not only
the lakes, but the most rapid rivers of these Northern regions, become
frozen up, and remain so for many months.  Nearly the whole surface of
the earth is buried under deep snow, and travelling can only be done
with snow-shoes, or with sledges drawn by dogs.  These are the modes
practised by the Indians, the Esquimaux, and the few white traders and
trappers who have occasion in winter to pass from one point to another
of that icy and desolate region.

Travelling under such circumstances is not only difficult and laborious,
but is extremely perilous.  Food cannot always be obtained--supplies
fall short, or become exhausted--game is scarce, or cannot be found at
all, as at that season many of the quadrupeds and most of the birds have
forsaken the country, and migrated to the South--and whole parties of
travellers--even Indians, who can eat anything living or dead, roast or
raw--often perish from hunger.

Our travellers were well acquainted with these facts; and being anxious,
therefore, to get to the end of their journey before the winter should
come down upon them, made all haste to proceed.  Of course they obtained
a new "outfit" at the Fort; but they took with them only such articles
as were absolutely necessary, as they had many portages to make before
they could reach the waters of the Mackenzie River.  As it required two
of the party to carry the canoe, with a few little things besides, all
the baggage was comprised in such loads as the others could manage; and
of course that was not a great deal, for Francois was but a lad, and
Lucien was far from being in robust health.  A light axe, a few cooking
utensils, with a small stock of provisions, and of course their guns,
formed the bulk of their loads.

After leaving the Fort they kept for several days' journey up the
Saskatchewan.  They then took leave of that river, and ascended a small
stream that emptied into it from the north.  Making their first portage
over a "divide," they reached another small stream that ran in quite a
different direction, emptying itself into one of the branches of the
Mississippi, or Churchill River.  Following this in a north-westerly
course, and making numerous other portages, they reached Lake La Crosse,
and afterwards in succession, Lakes Clear, Buffalo, and Methy.  A long
"portage" from the last-mentioned lake brought them to the head of a
stream known as the "Clear Water;" and launching their canoe upon this,
they floated down to its mouth, and entered the main stream of the Elk,
or Athabasca, one of the most beautiful rivers of America.  They were
now in reality upon the waters of the Mackenzie itself, for the Elk,
after passing through the Athabasca Lake, takes from thence the name of
Slave River, and having traversed Great Slave Lake, becomes the
Mackenzie--under which name it continues on to the Arctic Ocean.  Having
got, therefore, upon the main head-water of the stream which they
intended to traverse, they floated along in their canoe with light
hearts and high hopes.  It is true they had yet fifteen hundred miles to
travel, but they believed that it was all down-hill work now; and as
they had still nearly two months of summer before them, they doubted not
being able to accomplish the voyage in good time.

On they floated down-stream, feasting their eyes as they went--for the
scenery of the Elk valley is of a most picturesque and pleasing
character; and the broad bosom of the stream itself, studded with wooded
islands, looked to our travellers more like a continuation of lakes than
a running river.  Now they glided along without using an oar, borne
onward by the current; then they would take a spell at the paddles,
while the beautiful Canadian boat-song could be heard as it came from
the tiny craft, and the appropriate chorus "Row, brothers, row!" echoed
from the adjacent shores.  No part of their journey was more pleasant
than while descending the romantic Elk.

They found plenty of fresh provisions, both in the stream itself and on
its banks.  They caught salmon in the water, and the silver-
hyodon, known among the voyageurs by the name of "Dore."  They shot both
ducks and geese, and roast-duck or goose had become an everyday dinner
with them.  Of the geese there were several species.  There were
"snow-geese," so called from their beautiful white plumage; and
"laughing geese," that derive their name from the circumstance that
their call resembles the laugh of a man.  The Indians decoy these by
striking their open hand repeatedly over the mouth while uttering the
syllable "wah."  They also saw the "Brent goose," a well-known species,
and the "Canada goose," which is the _wild goose par excellence_.
Another species resembling the latter, called the "barnacle goose," was
seen by our travellers.  Besides these, Lucien informed them that there
were several other smaller kinds that inhabit the northern countries of
America.  These valuable birds are objects of great interest to the
people of the fur countries for months in the year.  Whole tribes of
Indians look to them as a means of support.

With regard to ducks, there was one species which our travellers had not
yet met with, and for which they were every day upon the look-out.  This
was the far-famed "canvass-back," so justly celebrated among the
epicures of America.  None of them had ever eaten of it, as it is not
known in Louisiana, but only upon the Atlantic coast of the United
States.  Norman, however, had heard of its existence in the Rocky
Mountains--where it is said to breed--as well as in other parts of the
fur countries, and they were in hopes that they might fall in with it
upon the waters of the Athabasca.  Lucien was, of course, well
acquainted with its "biography," and could have recognised one at sight;
and as they glided along he volunteered to give his companions some
information, not only about this particular species, but about the whole
genus of these interesting birds.

"The canvass-back," began he, "is perhaps the most celebrated and
highly-prized of all the ducks, on account of the exquisite flavour of
its flesh--which is thought by some epicures to be superior to that of
all other birds.  It is not a large duck--rarely weighing over three
pounds--and its plumage is far from equalling in beauty that of many
other species.  It has a red or chestnut-<DW52> head, a shining black
breast, while the greater part of its body is of a greyish colour; but
upon close examination this grey is found to be produced by a whitish
ground minutely mottled with zig-zag black lines.  I believe it is this
mottling, combined with the colour, which somewhat resembles the
appearance and texture of ship's canvass, that has given the bird its
trivial name; but there is some obscurity about the origin of this.  In
colour, however, it so nearly resembles the `pochard,' or `red-head' of
Europe, and its near congener the red-head (_Anas ferina_) of America,
that at a distance it is difficult to distinguish them from each other.
The last-mentioned species is always found associated with the
canvass-backs, and are even sold for the latter in the markets of New
York and Philadelphia.  A naturalist, however, can easily distinguish
them by their bills and eyes.  The canvass-back has red eyes, with a
greenish black bill, nearly straight; while the eyes of the red-head are
of an orange yellow, its bill bluish and concave along the upper ridge.

"The canvass-back is known in natural history as _Anas valisneria_, and
this specific name is given to it because it feeds upon the roots of an
aquatic plant, a species of `tape-grass,' or `eel-grass;' but
botanically called `_Valisneria_,' after the Italian botanist, Antonio
Valisneri.  This grass grows in slow-flowing streams, and also on shoals
by the seaside--where the water, from the influx of rivers, is only
brackish.  The water where it grows is usually three to five feet in
depth, and the plant itself rises above the surface to the height of two
feet or more, with grass-like leaves of a deep green colour.  Its roots
are white and succulent, and bear some resemblance to celery--hence the
plant is known among the duck-hunters as `wild celery.'  It is upon
these roots the canvass-back almost exclusively feeds, and they give to
the flesh of these birds its peculiar and pleasant flavour.  Wherever
the valisneria grows in quantity, as in the Chesapeake Bay and some
rivers, like the Hudson, there the canvass-backs resort, and are rarely
seen elsewhere.  They do not eat the leaves but only the white soft
roots, which they dive for and pluck up with great dexterity.  The
leaves when stripped of the root are suffered to float off upon the
surface of the water; and where the ducks have been feeding, large
quantities of them, under the name of `grass wrack,' are thrown by the
wind and tide upon the adjacent shores.

"Shooting the canvass-backs is a source of profit to hundreds of gunners
who live around the Chesapeake Bay, as these birds command a high price
in the markets of the American cities.  Disputes have arisen between the
fowlers of different States around the Bay about the right of shooting
upon it; and vessels full of armed men--ready to make war upon one
another--have gone out on this account.  But the government of these
States succeeded in settling the matter peacefully, and to the
satisfaction of all parties."

The canoe at this moment shot round a bend, and a long smooth expanse of
the river appeared before the eyes of our voyageurs.  They could see
that upon one side another stream ran in, with a very sluggish current;
and around the mouth of this, and for a good stretch below it, there
appeared a green sedge-like water-grass, or rushes.  Near the border of
this sedge, and in a part of it that was thin, a flock of wild fowl was
diving and feeding.  They were small, and evidently ducks; but the
distance was yet too great for the boys to make out to what species they
belonged.  A single large swan--a trumpeter--was upon the water, between
the shore and the ducks, and was gradually making towards the latter.
Francois immediately loaded one of his barrels with swan, or rather
"buck" shot, and Basil looked to his rifle.  The ducks were not thought
of--the trumpeter was to be the game.  Lucien took out his telescope,
and commenced observing the flock.  They had not intended to use any
precaution in approaching the birds, as they were not extremely anxious
about getting a shot, and were permitting the canoe to glide gently
towards them.  An exclamation from Lucien, however, caused them to
change their tactics.  He directed them suddenly to "hold water" and
stop the canoe, at the same time telling them that the birds ahead were
the very sort about which they had been conversing--the "canvass-backs."
He had no doubt of it, judging from their colour, size, and peculiar
movements.

The announcement produced a new excitement.  All four were desirous not
only of shooting, but of _eating_, a canvass-back; and arrangements were
set about to effect the former.  It was known to all that the
canvass-backs are among the shyest of water-fowl, so much so that it is
difficult to approach them unless under cover.  While feeding, it is
said, they keep sentinels on the look-out.  Whether this be true or not,
it is certain that they never all dive together, some always remaining
above water, and apparently watching while the others are under.  A plan
to get near them was necessary, and one was suggested by Norman, which
was to tie bushes around the sides of the canoe, so as to hide both the
vessel and those in it.  This plan was at once adopted--the canoe was
paddled up to the bank--thick bushes were cut, and tied along the
gunwale; and then our voyageurs climbed in, and laying themselves as low
as possible, commenced paddling gently downward in the direction of the
ducks.  The rifles were laid aside, as they could be of little service
with such game.  Francois' double-barrel was the arm upon which
dependence was now placed; and Francois himself leaned forward in the
bow in order to be ready, while the others attended to the guidance of
the vessel.  The buck-shot had been drawn out, and a smaller kind
substituted.  The swan was no longer cared for or even thought of.

In about a quarter of an hour's time, the canoe, gliding silently along
the edge of the sedge--which was the wild celery (_Valisneria
spiralis_)--came near the place where the ducks were; and the boys,
peeping through the leafy screen, could now see the birds plainly.  They
saw that they were not all canvass-backs, but that three distinct kinds
of ducks were feeding together.  One sort was the canvass-backs
themselves, and a second kind very much resembled them, except that they
were a size smaller.  These were the "red-heads" or "pochards."  The
third species was different from either.  They had also heads of a
reddish colour, but of a brighter red, and marked by a white band that
ran from the root of the bill over the crown.  This mark enabled Lucien
at once to tell the species.  They were widgeons (_Anas Americana_); but
the most singular thing that was now observed by our voyageurs was the
terms upon which these three kinds of birds lived with each other.  It
appeared that the widgeon obtained its food by a regular system of
robbery and plunder perpetrated upon the community of the canvass-backs.
The latter, as Lucien had said, feeds upon the roots of the valisneria;
but for these it is obliged to dive to the depth of four or five feet,
and also to spend some time at the bottom while plucking them up.  Now
the widgeon is as fond of the "celery" as the canvass-back, but the
former is not a diver--in fact, never goes under water except when
washing itself or in play, and it has therefore no means of procuring
the desired roots.  Mark, then, the plan that it takes to effect this
end.  Seated as near as is safe to the canvass-back, it waits until the
latter makes his _somersault_ and goes down.  It (the widgeon) then
darts forward so as to be sufficiently close, and, pausing again, scans
the surface with eager eye.  It can tell where the other is at work, as
the blades of the plant at which it is tugging are seen to move above
the water.  These at length disappear, pulled down as the plant is
dragged from its root, and almost at the same instant the canvass-back
comes up holding the root between his mandibles.  But the widgeon is
ready for him.  He has calculated the exact spot where the other will
rise; and, before the latter can open his eyes or get them clear of the
water, the widgeon darts forward, snatches the luscious morsel from his
bill, and makes off with it.  Conflicts sometimes ensue; but the
widgeon, knowing himself to be the lesser and weaker bird, never stands
to give battle, but secures his prize through his superior agility.  On
the other hand, the canvass-back rarely attempts to follow him, as he
knows that the other is swifter upon the water than he.  He only looks
after his lost root with an air of chagrin, and then, reflecting that
there is "plenty more where it came from," kicks up its heels, and once
more plunges to the bottom.

The red-head rarely interferes with either, as he is contented to feed
upon the leaves and stalks, at all times floating in plenty upon the
surface.

As the canoe glided near, those on board watched these curious
manoeuvres of the birds with feelings of interest.  They saw, moreover,
that the "trumpeter" had arrived among them, and the ducks seemed to
take no notice of him.  Lucien was struck with something unusual in the
appearance of the swan.  Its plumage seemed ruffled and on end, and it
glided along in a stiff and unnatural manner.  It moved its neck neither
to one side nor the other, but held its head bent forward, until its
bill almost touched the water, in the attitude that these birds adopt
when feeding upon something near the surface.  Lucien said nothing to
his companions, as they were all silent, lest they might frighten the
ducks; but Basil and Norman had also remarked the strange look and
conduct of the trumpeter.  Francois' eyes were bent only upon the ducks,
and he did not heed the other.

As they came closer, first Lucien, and then Basil and Norman, saw
something else that puzzled them.  Whenever the swan approached any of
the ducks, these were observed to disappear under the water.  At first,
the boys thought that they merely dived to get out of his way, but it
was not exactly in the same manner as the others were diving for the
roots.  Moreover, none of those that went down in the neighbourhood of
the swan were seen to come up again!

There was something very odd in all this, and the three boys, thinking
so at the same time, were about to communicate their thoughts to one
another, when the double crack of Francois' gun drove the thing, for a
moment, out of their heads; and they all looked over the bushes to see
how many canvass-backs had been killed.  Several were seen dead or
fluttering along the surface; but no one counted them, for a strange,
and even terrible, object now presented itself to the astonished senses
of all.  If the conduct of the swan had been odd before, it was now
doubly so.  Instead of flying off after the shot, as all expected it
would do, it was now seen to dance and plunge about on the water,
uttering loud screams, that resembled the human voice far more than any
other sounds!  Then it rose as if pitched into the air, and fell on its
back some distance off; while in its place was seen a dark, round object
moving through the water, as if making for the bank, and uttering, as it
went, the same hideous human-like screams!

This dark object was no other than the poll of a human being; and the
river shallowing towards the bank, it rose higher and higher above the
water, until the boys could distinguish the glistening neck and naked
shoulders of a red and brawny Indian!  All was now explained.  The
Indian had been duck-hunting, and had used the stuffed skin of the swan
as his disguise; and hence the puzzling motions of the bird.  He had not
noticed the canoe--concealed as it was--until the loud crack of
Francois' gun had startled him from his work.  This, and the heads and
white faces of the boys peeping over the bushes, had frightened him,
even more than he had them.  Perhaps they were the first white faces he
had ever seen.  But, whether or not, sadly frightened he was; for, on
reaching the bank, he did not stop, but ran off into the woods, howling
and yelling as if Old Nick had been after him: and no doubt he believed
that such was the case.

The travellers picked up the swan-skin out of curiosity; and, in
addition to the ducks which Francois had killed, they found nearly a
score of these birds, which the Indian had dropped in his fright, and
that had afterwards risen to the surface.  These were strung together,
and all had their necks broken.

After getting them aboard, the canoe was cleared of the bushes; and the
paddles being once more called into service, the little craft shot
down-stream like an arrow.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE DUCKS OF AMERICA.

Lucien now continued his "monograph" of the American ducks.

"There are," said he, "more than two dozen species of ducks on the
waters of North America.  These the systematists have divided into no
less than _eighteen genera_!  Why it would be more easy to learn all
that ever was known about all the ducks in creation, than to remember
the eighteen generic names which these gentlemen have invented and put
forward.  Moreover, the habits of any two species of these ducks are
more similar than those of any two kinds of dogs.  Why then, I should
ask--why this complication?  It is true that the ducks do not resemble
each other in every thing.  Some species are fonder of water than
others.  Some feed entirely upon vegetable substances; others upon small
fish, insects, crustacea, etcetera.  Some live entirely in the sea;
others make their home in the freshwater lakes and rivers, while many
species dwell indifferently, either in salt or fresh waters.  Some love
the open wave; others the sedgy marsh; while one or two species roost
upon trees, and build their nests in the hollow trunks.  Notwithstanding
all this, there is such a similarity in the appearance and habits of the
different species, that I think the systematists have improved but
little, if anything, upon the simple arrangement of the true naturalist
Wilson, who--poor Scotch _emigre_ as he was, with an empty purse and a
loaded gun--has collected more original information about the birds of
America than all that have followed him.  He described the ducks of
America under the single genus _Anas_; and, in my opinion, described
them in a more intelligent and intelligible manner than any one has done
since his time--not even excepting another great and true naturalist,
whose career has been longer, more successful, and happier; and whose
fame, in consequence of his better fortune, has become, perhaps, higher
and more extended.

"The water-fowl of America," continued Lucien--"I mean the swans, geese,
and ducks, are of great importance in the fur countries where we are now
travelling.  At certain seasons of the year, in many parts, they furnish
almost the only article of food that can be procured.  They are all
migratory--that is, when the lakes and rivers of these regions become
frozen over in the winter they all migrate southward, but return again
to breed and spend the summer.  They do this, perhaps, because these
wild territories afford them a better security during the season of
incubation, and afterwards of moulting.  It is not very certain,
however, that this is the reason, and for my part I am inclined to think
not, for there are also wild, uninhabited territories enough in southern
latitudes, and yet they forsake these and migrate north in the spring.
`Their arrival in the fur countries,' writes a distinguished naturalist,
`marks the commencement of spring, and diffuses as much joy among the
wandering hunters of the Arctic regions, as the harvest or vintage
excites in more genial climes.'  Both by the Indians and hunters in the
employ of the Hudson's Bay Company swans, geese, and ducks, are
slaughtered by thousands, and are eaten not only when fresh killed, but
they are salted in large quantities, and so preserved for winter use,
when fresh ones can no longer be procured.  Of course, both Indian and
white hunters use all their art in killing or capturing them; and to
effect this they employ many different methods, as decoying, snaring,
netting, and shooting them: but Cousin Norman here could give a better
description of all these things than I.  Perhaps he will favour us with
some account of them."

"The Indians," said the young trader, taking up the subject without
hesitation, "usually snare them.  Their most common way is to make a
number of hedges or wattle fences projecting into the water at right
angles to the edge of the lake, or, it may be, river.  These fences are
two or three yards apart, and between each two there is, of course, an
opening, into which the birds swim, as they make towards the shore for
their food.  In these openings, then, the snares are set and tied so
firmly to a post stuck in the bottom, that the birds, whether ducks,
geese, or swans, when caught, may not be able to drag it away.  To keep
the snare in its place, it is secured to the wattles of the fence with
tender strands of grass, that of course give way the moment the fowl
becomes entangled.  The snares are made out of deer sinews, twisted like
packthread, and sometimes of thongs cut from a `parchment' deerskin,
which, as you know, is a deerskin simply dried, and not tanned or
dressed.  The making of the fences is the part that gives most trouble.
Sometimes the timber for the stakes is not easily had; and even when it
is plenty, it is no easy matter to drive the stakes into the bottom and
wattle them, while seated in a vessel so crank as a birch canoe.
Sometimes, in the rivers where the water-fowl most frequent, the current
is swift, and adds to this trouble.  Where the lakes and rivers are
shallow, the thing becomes easier; and I have seen small lakes and
rivers fenced in this way from shore to shore.  In large lakes this
would not be necessary, as most of the water-birds--such as the swans
and geese--and all the ducks that are not of the diving kinds, are sure
to come to the shore to feed, and are more likely to be taken close in
to land than out in the open water.

"The Indians often snare these birds upon the nest, and they always wash
their hands before setting the snare.  They have a notion--I don't know
whether true or not--that if their hands are not clean, the birds can
smell the snare, and will be shy of going into it.  They say that all
these birds--and I believe it's true of all fowls that make their nests
upon the ground--go into the nest at one side, and out at the opposite.
The Indians knowing this, always set their snares at the side where the
bird enters, and by this they are more sure of catching them, and also
of getting them some hours sooner.

"Besides snaring the water-fowl," continued Norman, "the Indians
sometimes catch them in nets, and sometimes on hooks baited with
whatever the birds are known to eat.  They also shoot them as the white
hunters do, and to get near enough use every sort of cunning that can be
thought of.  Sometimes they decoy them within shot, by putting wooden
ducks on the water near their cover, where they themselves are
stationed.  Sometimes they disguise their canoes under brushwood, and
paddle to the edge of the flock; and when the moulting season comes
round, they pursue them through the water, and kill them with sticks.
The swans, when followed in this way, often escape.  With their strong
wings and great webbed feet, they can flap faster over the surface than
a canoe can follow them.  I have heard of many other tricks which the
Indians of different tribes make use of, but I have only seen these ways
I have described, besides the one we have just witnessed."

Norman was one of your practical philosophers, who did not choose to
talk much of things with which he was not thoroughly acquainted.

Lucien now took up the thread of the conversation, and gave some further
information about the different species of American ducks.

"One of the most celebrated," said he, "is the `eider-duck' (_Anas
mollissima_).  This is prized for its down, which is exceedingly soft
and fine, and esteemed of great value for lining quilts and making beds
for the over-luxurious.  It is said that three pounds' weight of `eider
down' can be compressed to the size of a man's fist, and yet is
afterwards so dilatable as to fill a quilt of five feet square.  The
down is generally obtained without killing the bird, for that which is
plucked from dead birds is far inferior, and has lost much of its
elasticity.  The mode of procuring it is to steal it from the nest, in
the absence of the birds.  The female lines the nest with down plucked
from her own breast.  When this is stolen from her, by those who gather
the commodity, she plucks out a second crop of it, and arranges it as
before.  This being also removed, it is said that the male bird then
makes a sacrifice of his downy waistcoat, and the nest is once more put
in order; but should this too be taken, the birds forsake their nest
never to return to it again.  The quantity of `eider down' found in a
single nest is sufficient to fill a man's hat, and yet it will weigh
only about three ounces.

"The eider-duck is about the size of the common mallard, or wild duck
proper.  Its colour is black below, and buff-white on the back, neck,
and shoulders, while the forehead is bluish black.  It is one of the
`sea-ducks,' or _fuligulae_, as the naturalists term them, and it is
rarely seen in fresh water.  Its food is principally the soft mollusca
common in the Arctic seas, and its flesh is not esteemed except by the
Greenlanders.  It is at home only in the higher latitudes of both
Continents, and loves to dwell upon the rocky shores of the sea; but in
very severe winters, it makes its appearance along the Atlantic coast of
the United States, where it receives different names from the gunners--
such as `black-and-white coot,' `big sea-duck,' `shoal-duck,' and
`squaw-duck;' and under these titles it is often sold in the markets of
American cities.  Some suppose that the eider-duck could be easily
domesticated.  If so, it would, no doubt, prove a profitable as well as
an interesting experiment; but I believe it has already been attempted
without success.  It is in the countries of Northern Europe where the
gathering of the eider down has been made an object of industry.  On the
American Continent the pursuit is not followed, either by the native or
white settler.

"Another species common to the higher latitudes of both Continents is
the `king-duck,' so called from its very showy appearance.  Its habits
are very similar to the `eider,' and its down is equally soft and
valuable, but it is a smaller bird.

"A still smaller species, also noted for its brilliant plumage, inhabits
the extreme north of both continents.  This is the `harlequin-duck;' or,
as the early colonists term it, the `lord.'

"But the `wood-duck' (_Anas sponsa_) is perhaps the most beautiful of
all the American species, or indeed of all ducks whatever--although it
has a rival in the _mandarin duck_ of China, which indeed it very much
resembles both in size and markings.  The wood-duck is so called from
the fact of its making its nest in hollow trees, and roosting
occasionally on the branches.  It is a freshwater duck, and a Southern
species--never being seen in very high latitudes; nor is it known in
Europe in a wild state, but is peculiar to the Continent of America.  It
is one of the easiest species to domesticate, and no zoological garden
is now without it; in all of which its small size--being about that of a
widgeon--its active movements and innocent look, its musical
_peet-peet_, and, above all, its beautiful plumage, make it a general
favourite.

"Besides these, there are many others of the American ducks, whose
description would interest you, but you would grow tired were I to give
a detailed account of them all; so I shall only mention a few that are
distinguished by well-known peculiarities.  There is the `whistler'
(_Anas clangula_), which takes its trivial name from the whistling sound
of its wings while in flight; and the `shoveller,' so called from the
form of its bill; and the `conjuring,' or `spirit' ducks of the Indians
(_Anas vulgaris_ and _albeola_), because they dive so quickly and
dexterously, that it is almost impossible to shoot them either with bow
or gun.  There is the `old wife,' or `old squaw' (_Anas glacialis_), so
called from its incessant cackle, which the hunters liken to the
scolding of an ill-tempered old wife.  This species is the most noisy of
all the duck tribe, and is called by the voyageurs `caccawee,' from its
fancied utterance of these syllables; and the sound, so often heard in
the long nights of the fur countries, has been woven into and forms the
burden of many a voyageur's song.  In some parts of the United States
the caccawee is called `south-southerly,' as its voice is there thought
to resemble this phrase, while at the time when most heard--the autumn--
these ducks are observed flying in a southerly direction.

"Besides these," continued Lucien, "there are the teals--blue and
green-winged--and the coots, and the widgeon--slightly differing from
the widgeon of Europe--and there is the rare and beautiful little ruddy
duck (_Anas rubida_), with its bright mahogany colour--its long upright
tail and short neck--that at a distance give it the appearance of a duck
with two heads.  And there is the well-known `pintail,' and the
`pochard' or `red-head;' and the `mallard,' from which comes the common
domestic variety, and the `scoter,' and `surf,' and `velvet,' and
`dusky,' ducks--these last four being all, more or less, of a dark
colour.  And there are the `shell-drakes,' or `fishers,' that swim low
in the water, dive and fly well, but walk badly, and feed altogether on
fish.  These, on account of their toothed bills, form a genus of
themselves--the `mergansers,'--and four distinct species of them are
known in America."

The approach of night, and the necessity of landing, to make their night
camp, brought Lucien's lecture to a close.  Indeed Francois was glad
when it ended, for he was beginning to think it somewhat tedious.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

THE SHRIKE AND THE HUMMING-BIRDS.

The picturesque scenery of the Elk appeared to be a favourite resort
with the feathered creation.  Here our voyageurs saw many kinds of
birds; both those that migrate into the fur countries during summer, and
those that make their home there in the cold, dark days of winter.
Among the former were observed,--the beautiful blue bird of Wilson
(_Sialia Wilsoni_) which, on account of its gentle and innocent habits,
is quite as much esteemed in America as the "robin" in England.  Another
favourite of the farmer and the homestead, the purple martin, was seen
gracefully wheeling through the air; while, among the green leaves,
fluttered many brilliant birds.  The "cardinal grosbeak" (_Pitylus
cardinalis_) with his bright scarlet wings; the blue jay, noisy and
chattering; the rarer "crossbill" (_Loxia_) with its deep crimson
colour; and many others, equally bright and beautiful, enlivened the
woods, either with their voice or their gaudy plumage.  There was one
bird, however, that had neither "fine feathers" nor an agreeable voice,
but that interested our travellers more than any of the others.  Its
voice was unpleasant to the ear, and sounded more like the grating of a
rusty hinge than anything else they could think of.  The bird itself was
not larger than a thrush, of a light grey colour above, white
underneath, and with blackish wings.  Its bill resembled that of the
hawks, but its legs were more like those of the woodpecker tribe; and it
seemed, in fact, to be a cross between the two.  It was neither the
colour of the bird, nor its form, nor yet its song, that interested our
travellers, but its singular habits; and these they had a fine
opportunity of observing at one of their "noon camps," where they had
halted to rest and refresh themselves during the hot midday hours.  The
place was on one of the little islets, which was covered with underwood,
with here and there some larger trees.  The underwood bushes were of
various sorts; but close to the spot where they had landed was a large
thicket of honeysuckle, whose flowers were in full bloom, and filled the
air with their sweet perfume.

While seated near these, Francois' quick eye detected the presence of
some very small birds moving among the blossoms.  They were at once
pronounced to be humming-birds, and of that species known as the
"ruby-throats" (_Trochilus rolubris_), so called, because a flake of a
beautiful vinous colour under the throat of the males exhibits, in the
sun, all the glancing glories of the ruby.  The back, or upper parts,
are of a gilded green colour; and the little creature is the smallest
bird that migrates into the fur countries, with one exception, and that
is a bird of the same genus,--the "cinnamon humming-bird" (_Trochilus
rufus_).  The latter, however, has been seen in the Northern regions,
only on the western side of the Rocky Mountains; but then it has been
observed even as far north as the bleak and inhospitable shores of
Nootka Sound.  Mexico, and the tropical countries of America, are the
favourite home of the humming-birds; and it was, for a long time,
supposed that the "ruby-throats" were the only ones that migrated
farther north than the territory of Mexico itself.  It is now known,
that besides the "cinnamon humming-bird," two or three other species
annually make an excursion into higher latitudes.

The "ruby-throats" not only travel into the fur countries, but breed in
numbers upon the Elk River, the very place where our travellers now
observed them.

As they sat watching these little creatures, for there were several of
them skipping about and poising themselves opposite the flowers, the
attention of all was attracted to the movements of a far different sort
of bird.  It was that one we have been speaking of.  It was seated upon
a tree, not far from the honeysuckles; but every now and then it would
spring from its perch, dash forward, and after whirring about for some
moments among the humming-birds, fly back to the same tree.

At first the boys watched these manoeuvres without having their
curiosity excited.  It was no new thing to see birds acting in this
manner.  The jays, and many other birds of the fly-catching kind
(_Muscicapae_), have this habit, and nothing was thought of it at the
moment.  Lucien, however, who had watched the bird more narrowly,
presently declared to the rest that it was catching the humming-birds,
and preying upon them--that each time it made a dash among the
honeysuckles, it carried off one in its claws, the smallness of the
victim having prevented them at first from noticing this fact.  They all
now watched it more closely than before, and were soon satisfied of the
truth of Lucien's assertion, as they saw it seize one of the
ruby-throats in the very act of entering the corolla of a flower.  This
excited the indignation of Francois, who immediately took up his
"double-barrel," and proceeded towards the tree where the bird, as
before, had carried this last victim.  The tree was a low one, of the
locust or _pseud-acacia_ family, and covered all over with great thorny
spikes, like all trees of that tribe.  Francois paid no attention to
this; but, keeping under shelter of the underwood, he crept forward
until within shot.  Then raising his gun, he took aim, and pulling
trigger, brought the bird fluttering down through the branches.  He
stepped forward and picked it up--not that he cared for such unworthy
game, but Lucien had called to him to do so, as the naturalist wished to
make an examination of the creature.  He was about turning to go back to
camp, when he chanced to glance his eye up into the locust-tree.  There
it was riveted by a sight which caused him to cry out with astonishment.
His cry brought the rest running up to the spot, and they were not less
astonished than he, when they saw the cause of it.  I have said that the
branches of the tree were covered with long thorny spikes that pointed
in every direction; but one branch in particular occupied their
attention.  Upon this there were about a dozen of these spines pointing
upward, and upon each spike _was impaled a ruby-throat_!  The little
creatures were dead, of course, but they were neither torn nor even much
ruffled in their plumage.  They were all placed back upwards, and as
neatly spitted upon the thorns as if they had been put there by human
hands.  On looking more closely, it was discovered that other creatures,
as well as the humming-birds, had been served in a similar manner.
Several grasshoppers, spiders, and some coleopterous insects were found,
and upon another branch two small meadow-mice (_Arvicolae_) had been
treated to the same terrible death!

To Basil, Norman, and Francois, the thing was quite inexplicable, but
Lucien understood well enough what it meant.  All these creatures, he
informed them, were placed there by the bird which Francois had shot,
and which was no other than the "shrike" (_Lanius_) or "butcher-bird"--a
name by which it is more familiarly known, and which it receives from
the very habit they had just observed.  Why it follows such a practice
Lucien could not tell, as naturalists are not agreed upon this point.
Some have asserted that it spits the spiders and other insects for the
purpose of attracting nearer the small birds upon which it preys; but
this cannot be true, for it preys mostly upon birds that are not
insect-eaters, as the finches: besides, it is itself as fond of eating
grasshoppers as anything else, and consumes large quantities of these
insects.  The most probable explanation of the singular and apparently
cruel habit of the butcher-bird is, that it merely places its victims
upon the thorns, in order to keep them safe from ground-ants, rats,
mice, raccoons, foxes, and other preying creatures--just as a good cook
would hang up her meat or game in the larder to prevent the cats from
carrying it off.  The thorny tree thus becomes the storehouse of the
shrike, where he hangs up his superfluous spoil for future use, just as
the crows, magpies, and jays, make their secret deposits in chinks of
walls and the hollows of trees.  It is no argument against this theory,
that the shrike sometimes leaves these stores without returning to them.
The fox, and dog, as well as many other preying creatures, have the
same habit.

Wondering at what they had seen, the voyageurs returned to their camp,
and once more embarked on their journey.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

THE FISH-HAWK.

A few days after, another incident occurred to our voyageurs, which
illustrated the habits of a very interesting bird, the "osprey," or
fish-hawk, as it is more familiarly known in America.

The osprey (_Falco halicetus_) is a bird of the falcon tribe, and one of
the largest of the genus--measuring two feet from bill to tail, with an
immense spread of wing in proportion, being nearly six feet from tip to
tip.  It is of a dark-brown colour above, that colour peculiar to most
of the hawk tribe, while its lower parts are ashy white.  Its legs and
bill are blue, and its eyes of a yellow orange.  It is found in nearly
all parts of America, where there are waters containing fish, for on
these it exclusively feeds.  It is more common on the sea-coast than in
the interior, although it also frequents the large lakes, and lives in
the central parts of the continent during summer, when these are no
longer frozen over.  It is not often seen upon muddy rivers, as there it
would stand no chance of espying its victims in the water.  It is a
migratory bird, seeking the South in winter, and especially the shores
of the Great Mexican Gulf, where large numbers are often seen fishing
together.  In the spring season these birds move to the northward, and
make their appearance along the Atlantic coast of the continent, where
they diffuse joy into the hearts of the fishermen--because the latter
know, on seeing them, that they may soon expect the large shoals of
herring, shad, and other fish, for which they have been anxiously
looking out.  So great favourites are they with the fishermen, that they
would not knowingly kill an osprey for a boat-load of fish, but regard
these bold fishing birds in the light of "professional brethren."  In
this case the old adage that "two of a trade never agree" is clearly
contradicted.  The farmer often takes up his gun to fire at the osprey--
mistaking it for the red-tailed buzzard (_Buteo borealis_) or some other
hawk, several species of which at a distance it resembles--but, on
discovering his mistake, brings down his piece without pulling trigger,
and lets the osprey fly off unharmed.  This singular conduct on the part
of the farmer arises from his knowledge of the fact, that the osprey
will not only _not_ kill any of his ducks or hens, but that where he
makes a settlement he will drive off from the premises all the hawks,
buzzards, and kites, that would otherwise prey upon the poultry.  With
such protection, therefore, the osprey is one of the securest birds in
America.  He may breed in a tree over the farmer's or fisherman's door
without the slightest danger of being disturbed in his incubation.  I
say _his_ incubation; but the male takes no part in this domestic duty,
further than to supply his loved mate with plenty of fish while she does
the hatching business.  Of course, thus protected, the osprey is not a
rare bird.  On the contrary, fish-hawks are more numerous than perhaps
any other species of the hawk tribe.  Twenty or thirty nests may be seen
near each other in the same piece of woods, and as many as three hundred
have been counted on one little island.  The nests are built upon large
trees--not always at the tops, as those of rooks, but often in forks
within twenty feet of the ground.  They are composed of large sticks,
with stalks of corn, weeds, pieces of wet turf, and then lined
plentifully with dry sea-grass, or any other grass that may be most
convenient.  The whole nest is big enough to make a load for a cart, and
would be heavy enough to give any horse a good pull.  It can be seen,
when the woods are open, to an immense distance, and the more easily, as
the tree upon which it is built is always a "dead wood," and therefore
without leaves to conceal it.  Some say that the birds select a dead or
decaying tree for their nest.  It is more probable such is the effect,
and not the cause, of their building upon a particular tree.  It is more
likely that the tree is killed partly by the mass of rubbish thus piled
upon it, and partly by the nature of the substances, such as sea-weed in
the nest, the oil of the fish, the excrement of the birds themselves,
and the dead fish that have been dropped about the root, and suffered to
remain there; for when the osprey lets fall his finny prey, which he
often does, he never condescends to pick it up again, but goes in search
of another.  Boys "a-nesting" might easily discover the nest of the
osprey; but were they inclined to despoil it of its three or four eggs
(which are about the size of a duck's, and blotched with Spanish brown),
they would find that a less easy task, for the owners would be very
likely to claw their eyes out, or else scratch the tender skin from
their beardless cheeks: so that boys do not often trouble the nest of
the osprey.  A very curious anecdote is related of a <DW64> having
climbed up to plunder a nest of these birds.  The <DW64>'s head was
covered with a close nap of his own black wool, which is supposed by a
certain stretch of fancy to have the peculiarity of "growing in at both
ends."  The <DW64>, having no other protection than that which his thick
fur afforded him, was assailed by both the owners of the nest, one of
which, making a dash at the "darkie's" head, struck his talons so firmly
into the wool, that he was unable to extricate them, and there stuck
fast, until the astonished plunderer had reached the foot of the tree.
We shall not answer for the truthfulness of this anecdote, although
there is nothing improbable about it; for certain it is that these birds
defend their nests with courage and fury, and we know of more than one
instance of persons being severely wounded who made the attempt to rob
them.

The ospreys, as already stated, feed exclusively on fish.  They are not
known to prey upon birds or quadrupeds of any kind, even when deprived
of their customary food, as they sometimes are for days, on account of
the lakes and rivers, in which they expected to find it, being frozen
over to a later season than usual.  Other birds, as the purple grakles,
often build among the sticks of the osprey's nest, and rear their young
without being meddled with by this generous bird.  This is an important
point of difference between the osprey and other kinds of hawks; and
there is a peculiarity of structure about the feet and legs of the
osprey, that points to the nature of his food and his mode of procuring
it.  His legs are disproportionately long and strong.  They are without
feathers nearly to the knees.  The feet and toes are also very long, and
the soles are covered with thick, hard scales, like the teeth of a rasp,
which enable the bird to hold securely his slippery prey.  The claws,
too, are long, and curved into semicircles, with points upon them almost
as sharp as needles.

I have stated that an incident occurred to our party that illustrated
some of the habits of this interesting bird.  It was upon the afternoon
of a Saturday, after they had fixed their camp to remain for the
following day.  They had landed upon a point or promontory that ran out
into the river, and from which they commanded a view of a fine stretch
of water.  Near where they had placed their tent was the nest of an
osprey, in the forks of a large poplar.  The tree, as usual, was dead,
and the young were plainly visible over the edge of the nest.  They
appeared to be full-grown and feathered; but it is a peculiarity of the
young ospreys that they will remain in the nest, and be fed by the
parent birds, until long after they might be considered able to shift
for themselves.  It is even asserted that the latter become impatient at
length, and drive the young ones out of the nest by beating them with
their wings; but that for a considerable time afterwards they continue
to feed them--most likely until the young birds learn to capture their
finny prey for themselves.

This Lucien gave as a popular statement, but did not vouch for its
truth.  It was not long, however, before both he and his companions
witnessed its complete verification.

The old birds, after the arrival of the voyageurs upon the promontory,
had remained for some time around the nest, and at intervals had shot
down to where the party was, uttering loud screams, and making the air
whizz with the strokes of their wings.  Seeing that there was no
intention of disturbing them, they at length desisted from these
demonstrations, and sat for a good while quietly upon the edge of their
nest.  Then first one, and shortly after the other, flew out, and
commenced sailing in circles, at the height of an hundred feet or so
above the water.  Nothing could be more graceful than their flight.  Now
they would poise themselves a moment in the air, then turn their bodies
as if on a pivot, and glide off in another direction.  All these motions
were carried on with the most perfect ease, and as if without the
slightest aid from the wings.  Again they would come to a pause, holding
themselves fixed in mid-air by a gentle flapping, and appearing to
scrutinise some object below.  Perhaps it was a fish; but it was either
too large a one, or not the species most relished, or maybe it had sunk
to too great a depth to be easily taken.  Again they sail around; one of
them suddenly arrests its flight, and, like a stone projected from a
sling, shoots down to the water.  Before reaching the surface, however,
the fish, whose quick eye has detected the coming enemy, has gone to the
dark bottom, and concealed himself; and the osprey, suddenly checking
himself by his wings and the spread of his full tail, mounts again, and
re-commences his curvilinear flight.

After this had gone on for some time, one of the birds--the larger one,
and therefore the female--was seen to leave off hunting, and return to
the nest.  There she sat only for a few seconds, when, to the
astonishment of the boys, she began to strike her wings against the
young ones, as if she was endeavouring to force them from the nest.
This was just what she designed doing.  Perhaps her late unsuccessful
attempt to get them a fish had led her to a train of reflections, and
sharpened her determination to make them shift for themselves.  However
that may be, in a few moments she succeeded in driving them up to the
edge, and then, by half pushing, and half beating them with her wings,
one after the other--two of them there were--was seen to take wing, and
soar away out over the lake.

At this moment, the male shot down upon the water, and then rose again
into the air, bearing a fish, head-foremost, in his talons.  He flew
directly towards one of the young, and meeting it as it hovered in the
air, turned suddenly over, and held out the fish to it.  The latter
clutched it with as much ease as if it had been accustomed to the thing
for years, and then turning away, carried the fish to a neighbouring
tree, and commenced devouring it.  The action had been perceived by the
other youngster, who followed after, and alighted upon the same branch,
with the intention of sharing in the meal.  In a few minutes, the best
part of the fish was eaten up, and both, rising from the branch, flew
back to their nest.  There they were met by the parents, and welcomed
with a loud squeaking, that was intended, no doubt, to congratulate them
upon the success of their first "fly."



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE OSPREY AND HIS TYRANT.

After remaining for some time on the nest along with the others, the old
male again resolved to "go a-fishing," and with this intent he shot out
from the tree, and commenced wheeling above the water.  The boys, having
nothing better to engage them, sat watching his motions, while they
freely conversed about his habits and other points in his natural
history.  Lucien informed them that the osprey is a bird common to both
Continents, and that it is often seen upon the shores of the
Mediterranean, pursuing the finny tribes there, just as it does in
America.  In some parts of Italy it is called the "leaden eagle,"
because its sudden heavy plunge upon the water is fancied to resemble
the falling of a piece of lead.

While they were discoursing, the osprey was seen to dip once or twice
towards the surface of the water, and then suddenly check himself, and
mount upward again.  These manoeuvres were no doubt caused by the fish
which he intended to "hook" having suddenly shifted their quarters.
Most probably experience had taught them wisdom, and they knew the
osprey as their most terrible enemy.  But they were not to escape him at
all times.  As the boys watched the bird, he was seen to poise himself
for an instant in the air, then suddenly closing his wings, he shot
vertically downward.  So rapid was his descent, that the eye could only
trace it like a bolt of lightning.  There was a sharp whizzing sound in
the air--a plash was heard--then the smooth bosom of the water was seen
to break, and the white spray rose several feet above the surface.  For
an instant the bird was no longer seen.  He was underneath, and the
place of his descent was marked by a patch of foam.  Only a single
moment was he out of sight.  The next he emerged, and a few strokes of
his broad wing carried him into the air, while a large fish was seen
griped in his claws.  As the voyageurs had before noticed, the fish was
carried head-foremost, and this led them to the conclusion that in
striking his prey beneath the water the osprey follows it and aims his
blow from behind.

After mounting a short distance the bird paused for a moment in the air,
and gave himself a shake, precisely as a dog would do after coming out
of water.  He then directed his flight, now somewhat slow and heavy,
toward the nest.  On reaching the tree, however, there appeared to be
some mismanagement.  The fish caught among the branches as he flew
inward.  Perhaps the presence of the camp had distracted his attention,
and rendered him less careful.  At all events, the prey was seen to drop
from his talons; and bounding from branch to branch, went tumbling down
to the bottom of the tree.

Nothing could be more opportune than this, for Francois had not been
able to get a "nibble" during the whole day, and a fresh fish for dinner
was very desirable to all.  Francois and Basil had both started to their
feet, in order to secure the fish before the osprey should pounce down
and pick it up; but Lucien assured them that they, need be in no hurry
about that, as the bird would not touch it again after he had once let
it fall.  Hearing this, they took their time about it, and walked
leisurely up to the tree, where they found the fish lying.  After taking
it up they were fain to escape from the spot, for the effluvium arising
from a mass of other fish that lay in a decomposed state around the tree
was more than any delicate pair of nostrils could endure.  The one they
had secured proved to be a very fine salmon of not less than six pounds
weight, and therefore much heavier than the bird itself!  The track of
the osprey's talons was deeply marked; and by the direction in which the
creature was scored, it was evident the bird had seized it from behind.
The old hawks made a considerable noise while the fish was being carried
away; but they soon gave up their squealing, and, once more hovering out
over the river, sailed about with their eyes bent upon the water below.

"What a number of fish they must kill!" said Francois.  "They don't
appear to have much difficulty about it.  I should think they get as
much as they can eat.  See! there again!  Another, I declare!"

As Francois spake the male osprey was seen to shoot down as before, and
this time, although he appeared scarcely to dip his foot in the water,
rose up with a fish in his talons.

"They have sometimes others to provide for besides themselves," remarked
Lucien.  "For instance, the bald eagle--"

Lucien was interrupted by a cackling scream, which was at once
recognised as that of the very bird whose name had just escaped his
lips.  All eyes were instantly turned in the direction whence it came--
which was from the opposite side of the river--and there, just in the
act of launching itself from the top of a tall tree, was the great enemy
of the osprey--the white-headed eagle himself!

"Now a chase!" cried Francois, "yonder comes the big robber!"

With some excitement of feeling, the whole party watched the movements
of the birds.  A few strokes of the eagle's wing brought him near; but
the osprey had already heard his scream, and knowing it was no use
carrying the fish to his nest, turned away from it, and rose spirally
upward, in the hope of escaping in that direction.  The eagle followed,
beating the air with his broad pinions, as he soared after.  Close
behind him went the female osprey, uttering wild screams, flapping her
wings against his very beak, and endeavouring to distract his attention
from the chase.  It was to no purpose, however, as the eagle full well
knew her object, and disregarding her impotent attempts, kept on in
steady flight after her mate.  This continued until the birds had
reached a high elevation, and the ospreys, from their less bulk, were
nearly out of sight.  But the voyageurs could see that the eagle was on
the point of overtaking the one that carried the fish.  Presently, a
glittering object dropped down from the heavens, and fell with a plunge
upon the water.  It was the fish, and almost at the same instant was
heard the "whish!" of the eagle, as the great bird shot after it.
Before reaching the surface, however, his white tail and wings were seen
to spread suddenly, checking his downward course; and then, with a
scream of disappointment, he flew off in a horizontal direction, and
alit upon the same tree from which he had taken his departure.  In a
minute after the ospreys came shooting down, in a diagonal line, to
their nest; and, having arrived there, a loud and apparently angry
consultation was carried on for some time, in which the young birds bore
as noisy a part as either of their parents.

"It's a wonder," said Lucien, "the eagle missed the fish--he rarely
does.  The impetus which he can give his body enables him to overtake a
falling object before it can reach the earth.  Perhaps the female osprey
was in his way, and hindered him."

"But why did he not pick it up in the water?" demanded Francois.

"Because it went to the bottom, and he could not reach it--that's
clear."

It was Basil who made answer, and the reason he assigned was the true
one.

"It's too bad," said Francois, "that the osprey, not half so big a bird,
must support this great robber-tyrant by his industry."

"It's no worse than among our own kind," interposed Basil.  "See how the
white man makes the black one work for him here in America.  That,
however, is the _few_ toiling for the _million_.  In Europe the case is
reversed.  There, in every country, you see the million toiling for the
few--toiling to support an oligarchy in luxurious ease, or a monarch in
barbaric splendour."

"But why do they do so? the fools!" asked Francois, somewhat angrily.

"Because they know no better.  That oligarchy, and those monarchs, have
taken precious care to educate and train them to the belief that such is
the _natural_ state of man.  They furnish them with school-books, which
are filled with beautiful sophisms--all tending to inculcate principles
of endurance of wrong, and reverence for their wrongers.  They fill
their rude throats with hurrah songs that paint false patriotism in
glowing colours, making loyalty--no matter to whatsoever despot--the
greatest of virtues, and revolution the greatest of crimes; they
studiously divide their subjects into several creeds, and then, playing
upon the worst of all passions--the passion of religious bigotry--easily
prevent their misguided helots from uniting upon any point which would
give them a real reform.  Ah! it is a terrible game which the present
rulers of Europe are playing!"

It was Basil who gave utterance to these sentiments, for the young
republican of Louisiana had already begun to think strongly on political
subjects.  No doubt Basil would one day be an M.C.

"The bald eagles have been much blamed for their treatment of the
ospreys, but," said Lucien, "perhaps they have more reason for levying
their tax than at first appears.  It has been asked: Why they do not
capture the fish themselves?  Now, I apprehend, that there is a
_natural_ reason why they do not.  As you have seen, the fish are not
always caught upon the surface.  The osprey has often to plunge beneath
the water in the pursuit, and Nature has gifted him with power to do so,
which, if I am not mistaken, she has denied to the eagles.  The latter
are therefore compelled, in some measure, to depend upon the former for
a supply.  But the eagles sometimes do catch the fish themselves, when
the water is sufficiently shallow, or when their prey comes near enough
to the surface to enable them to seize it."

"Do they ever kill the ospreys?" inquired Francois.

"I think not," replied Lucien; "that would be `killing the goose,'
etcetera.  They know the value of their tax-payers too well to get rid
of them in that way.  A band of ospreys, in a place where there happens
to be many of them together, have been known to unite and drive the
eagles off.  That, I suppose, must be looked upon in the light of a
successful _revolution_."

The conversation was here interrupted by another incident.  The ospreys
had again gone out fishing, and, at this moment, one of them was seen to
pounce down and take a fish from the water.  It was a large fish, and,
as the bird flew heavily upward, the eagle again left its perch, and
gave chase.  This time the osprey was overtaken before it had got two
hundred yards into the air, and seeing it was no use attempting to carry
off the prey, it opened its claws and let it drop.  The eagle turned
suddenly, poised himself a moment, and then shot after the falling fish.
Before the latter had got near the ground, he overtook and secured it
in his talons.  Then, arresting his own flight by the sudden spread of
his tail, he winged his way silently across the river, and disappeared
among the trees upon the opposite side.  The osprey, taking the thing as
a matter of course, again descended to the proper elevation, and betook
himself to his work.  Perhaps he grinned a little like many another
royal tax-payer, but he knew the tax had to be paid all the same, and he
said nothing.

An incident soon after occurred that astonished and puzzled our party
not a little.  The female osprey, that all this time seemed to have had
but poor success in her fishing, was now seen to descend with a rush,
and plunge deeply into the wave.  The spray rose in a little cloud over
the spot, and all sat watching with eager eyes to witness the result.
What was their astonishment when, after waiting many seconds, the bird
still remained under water!  Minutes passed, and still she did not come
up.  _She came up no more_!  The foam she had made in her descent
floated away--the bosom of the water was smooth as glass--not a ripple
disturbed its surface.  They could have seen the smallest object for a
hundred yards or more around the spot where she had disappeared.  It was
impossible she could have emerged without them seeing her.  Where, then,
had she gone?  This, as I have said, puzzled the whole party; and formed
a subject of conjecture and conversation for the rest of that day, and
also upon the next.  Even Lucien was unable to solve the mystery.  It
was a point in the natural history of the osprey unknown to him.  Could
she have drowned herself?  Had some great fish, the "gar pike," or some
such creature, got hold of and swallowed her?  Had she dashed her head
against a rock, or become entangled in weeds at the bottom of the river?

All these questions were put, and various solutions of the problem were
offered.  The true one was not thought of, until accident revealed it.
It was Saturday when the incident occurred.  The party, of course,
remained all next day at the place.  They heard almost continually the
cry of the bereaved bird, who most likely knew no more than they what
had become of his mate.  On Monday our travellers re-embarked and
continued down-stream.  About a mile below, as they were paddling along,
their attention was drawn to a singular object floating upon the water.
They brought the canoe alongside it.  It was a large fish, a sturgeon,
floating dead, with a bird beside it, also dead!  On turning both over,
what was their astonishment to see that the talons of the bird were
firmly fixed in the back of the fish!  It was the _female osprey_!  This
explained all.  She had struck a fish too heavy for her strength, and
being unable to clear her claws again, had been drawn under the water
and had perished along with her victim!



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE VOYAGE INTERRUPTED.

About ten days' rapid travelling down the Elk River brought our party
into the Athabasca Lake--sometimes called the "Lake of the Hills."  This
is another of those great bodies of fresh water that lie between the
primitive rocks of the "Barren Grounds," and the more fertile limestone
deposit upon the west.  It is nearly two hundred miles long from west to
east, and is only fifteen miles in breadth, but in some places it is so
narrow and full of islands that it looks more like a broad river than a
lake.  Its shores and many of its islands are thickly wooded,
particularly upon the southern and western edges; and the eye of the
traveller is delighted with many a beautiful vista as he passes along.
But our voyageurs took little heed of these things.  A gloom had come
over their spirits, for one of their party had taken ill, and was
suffering from a painful and dangerous disease--an intermittent fever.
It was Lucien--he that was beloved by all of them.  He had been
complaining for several days--even while admiring the fair scenery of
the romantic Elk--but every day he had been getting worse, until, on
their arrival at the lake, he declared himself no longer able to travel.
It became necessary, therefore, to suspend their journey; and choosing
a place for their camp, they made arrangements to remain until Lucien
should recover.  They built a small log-hut for the invalid, and did
everything to make him as comfortable as possible.  The best skins were
spread for his couch; and cooling drinks were brewed for him from roots,
fruits, and berries, in the way he had already taught his companions to
prepare them.  Every day Francois went forth with his gun, and returned
with a pair of young pigeons, or a wood-partridge, or a brace of the
beautiful ruffed grouse; and out of these he would make delicate soups,
which he was the better able to do as they had procured salt, pepper,
and other ingredients, at the Fort.  They had also brought with them a
stock of tea--the real China tea--and sugar; and as the quantity of both
was but small, this luxurious beverage was made exclusively for Lucien,
and was found by him exceedingly beneficial during his illness.

To the great joy of all the invalid was at length restored to health,
and the canoe being once more launched and freighted, they continued
their journey.

They coasted along the shores of the lake, and entered the Great Slave
River, which runs from the Athabasca into the Great Slave Lake.  They
soon came to the mouth of another large river, called the Peace.  This
runs into the Great Slave a short distance below Lake Athabasca, and,
strange to say, the sources of the Peace River lie upon the _western_
side of the Rocky Mountains, so that this stream actually runs across
the mountain-chain!  It passes through the mountains in a succession of
deep gorges, which are terrible to behold.  On both sides dizzy cliffs
and snow-capped peaks rise thousands of feet above its rocky bed, and
the scenery is cold and desolate.  Its head-waters interlock with those
of several streams that run into the Pacific; so that, had our voyageurs
wished to travel to the shores of that ocean, they might have done so in
their birch-bark canoe nearly the whole of the way.  But this was not
their design at present, so they passed the _debouchure_ of the Peace,
and kept on for the Great Slave Lake.  They were still upon the same
water as the Elk, for the Great Slave is only another name for that part
of the river lying between the two lakes--Athabasca and Great Slave.  Of
course the river had now become much larger by the influx of the Peace,
and they were travelling upon the bosom of a magnificent stream, with
varied scenery upon its banks.  They were not so happy, however, as when
descending the Elk--not but that they were all in good health, for
Lucien had grown quite strong again.  No, it was not any want of health
that rendered them less cheerful.  It was the prospect before them--the
prospect of coming winter, which they now felt certain would arrive
before they had got to the end of their journey.  The delay of nearly a
month, occasioned by Lucien's illness, had deranged all their
calculations; and they had no longer any hope of being able to finish
their voyage in what remained of the short summer.  The ice would soon
make its appearance; the lakes and rivers would be frozen up; they could
no longer navigate them in their canoe.  To travel afoot would be a most
laborious undertaking, as well as perilous in an extreme degree.  In
this way it is only possible to carry a very small quantity of
provisions--for the traveller is compelled to load himself with
skin-clothing in order to keep out the cold.  The chances of procuring
game by the way in that season are precarious, and not to be depended
upon.  Most of the birds and many of the quadrupeds migrate to more
southern regions; and those that remain are shy and rare.  Besides,
great snow-storms are to be encountered, in which the traveller is in
danger of getting "smoored."  The earth is buried under a deep covering
of snow, and to pass over this while soft is difficult, and at times
quite impossible.  All these circumstances were known to our young
voyageurs--to Norman better than any of them--and of course the prospect
was a cheerless one--much more so than those unacquainted with the
winter of these dreary regions would be willing to believe.

It was the month of August, near its end, when they reached the Great
Slave Lake, in the latitude of 62 degrees.  The days had now become very
short, and their journeys grew short in proportion.  They already
experienced weather as cold as an English winter.  There were slight
frosts at night--though not yet enough to cover the water with ice--and
the midday hours were hot, sometimes too hot to be comfortable.  But
this only caused them to feel the cold the more sensibly when evening
set in; and all their robes and skins were necessary to keep them warm
during the night.

The Great Slave Lake, like the Athabasca, is very long and very narrow.
It extends full 260 miles from east to west, but at its widest part is
not over thirty, and in some places much less.  Along its northern
shores lies the edge of the "Barren Grounds," and there nothing meets
the eye but bleak and naked hills of primitive rock.  On its southern
side the geology is entirely of a different character.  There the
limestone prevails, and scarcely anything that deserves the name of hill
is to be seen.  There are fine forests too, in which poplars, pines, and
birches, are the principal trees.  The lake is filled with islands, many
of which are wholly or partially covered with timber of these kinds, and
willows also are abundant.  There are fish of several species in its
waters, which are in many places of great depth--sixty fathoms deep--and
in some of the islands, and around the wooded shores, game exists in
abundance in the summer season.  Even in winter it is not scarce, but
then it is difficult to follow it on account of the deep snow.  Many of
the animals, too, at this season become torpid, and are of course hidden
in caves and hollow trees, and even in the snow itself, where no one can
find them.  Notwithstanding all this, our voyageurs knew that it would
be the best place for them to make their winter camp.  They saw that to
complete their journey during that season would be impossible.  Even had
it been a month earlier it would have been a difficult undertaking.  In
a few days winter would be upon them.  They would have to stop
somewhere.  There was no place where they could so safely stay as by the
lake.  One thing they would have there, which might not be found so
plenty elsewhere, that was wood for their fire; and this was an
inducement to remain by the lake.  Having made up their minds,
therefore, to encamp on some part of it, they looked from day to day for
a place that would be most suitable, still continuing their journey
towards its western end.  As yet no place appeared to their liking, and
as the lake near its western point trends away towards the south, Norman
proposed that they should follow the shore no longer, but strike across
to a promontory on the northern shore of the lake, known as "Slave
Point."  This promontory is of the limestone formation, and as Norman
had heard, is well wooded, and stocked with game.  Even buffaloes are
found there.  It is, in fact, the farthest point to the north-east that
these animals range, and this presents us with a curious fact.  It is
the farthest point that the limestone deposit extends in that direction.
Beyond that, to the east and north, lie the primitive rocks of the
Barren Grounds, into which the buffaloes never stray.  Thus we observe
the connexion that exists between the _fauna_ of a country and its
geological character.

Of course they all agreed to Norman's proposal.  The canoe was,
therefore, headed for the open waters; and, after a hard day's
paddling--for there was a head-wind--the voyageurs landed upon a small
wooded island, about halfway over the lake, where they encamped for the
night, intending next day to cross the remaining part.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

FISHING UNDER THE ICE.

On awaking next morning, to their great surprise, they saw that the
_lake was frozen over_!  They had almost anticipated as much, for the
night was one of the coldest they had yet experienced--so cold that one
and all of them had slept but badly.  As yet the ice was thin, but so
much the worse.  It was thick enough to prevent them from using the
canoe, but too thin to bear their weight, and they now saw that they
were _prisoners upon the island_!

It was not without some feelings of alarm that they made this discovery;
but their fears were allayed by reflecting, that they could remain upon
the island until the ice either thawed away or became strong enough to
bear them, and then they could cross upon it to the northern shore.

With this consolation, therefore, they set about making their temporary
quarters upon the island as snug as circumstances would permit.  Their
apprehensions, however, began to return again, when several days had
passed over, and the ice neither grew any thinner nor any thicker, but
seemed to remain at a standstill.  In the early part of the morning it
was almost strong enough to bear them; but during the day the sun melted
it, until it was little better than a scum over the surface of the
water.  The alarm of our voyageurs increased.  Their provisions were
nearly out.  There was no game on the islet--not so much as a bird--for
they had beaten every bush, and found nothing.  Once or twice they
thought of launching their canoe and breaking a way for it through the
ice.  But they knew that this proceeding would be one of much labour as
well as danger.  The islet was full ten miles from the shore, and they
would therefore have to break the ice for ten miles.  Moreover, to stand
up in a bark canoe, so as to get at the work, would be a difficult task.
It could not be accomplished without endangering the equilibrium of the
vessel, and indeed without upsetting it altogether.  Even to lean
forward in the bow would be a perilous experiment; and under these
considerations the idea of breaking a way was abandoned.  But their
provisions were at length entirely exhausted, and what was to be done?
The ice was still too weak to carry them.  Near the shore it might have
been strong enough, but farther out lay the danger.  There they knew it
was thinner, for it had not frozen over until a later period.  It would
have been madness to have risked it yet.  On the other hand, they were
starving, or likely to starve from hunger, by staying where they were.
There was nothing eatable on the island.  What was to be done?  In the
water were fish--they doubted not that--but how were they to catch them?
They had tried them with hook and line, letting the hook through a hole
in the ice; but at that late season the fish would not take a bait, and
although they kept several continually set, and "looked" them most
regularly and assiduously, not a "tail" was taken.

They were about to adopt the desperate expedient, now more difficult
than ever, of breaking their way through the ice, when, all at once, it
occurred to Norman, that, if they could not coax the fish to take a
bait, they might succeed better with a net, and capture them against
their will.  This idea would have been plausible enough, had there been
a net; but there was no net on that islet, nor perhaps within an hundred
miles of it.  The absence of a net might have been an obstacle to those
who are ever ready to despair; but such an obstacle never occurred to
our courageous boys.  They had two _parchment_ skins of the caribou
which they had lately killed, and out of these Norman proposed to make a
net.  He would soon do it, he said, if the others would set to work and
cut the deerskins into thongs fine enough for the purpose.  Two of them,
therefore, Basil and Lucien, took out their knives, and went briskly to
work; while Francois assisted Norman in twining the thongs, and
afterwards held them, while the latter wove and knotted them into
meshes.  In a few hours both the skins were cut into fine strips, and
worked up; and a net was produced nearly six yards in length by at least
two in width.  It was rude enough, to be sure, but perhaps it would do
its work as well as if it had been twined out of silk.  At all events,
it was soon to have a trial--for the moment it was finished the sinkers
were attached to it, and it was carried down to the edge of the water.

The three "Southerners" had never seen a net set under ice--for in their
country ice is an uncommon thing, and indeed never freezes of sufficient
thickness to carry the weight of a man.  They were therefore very
curious to know how the thing was to be done.  They could not conceive
how the net was to be stretched under the ice, in such a manner as to
catch the fish.  Norman, however, knew all about it.  He had seen the
Indians, and had set many a one himself.  It was no new thing for him,
and he set about it at once.

He first crept out upon the ice to the distance of about twenty or
thirty yards from the shore.  He proceeded cautiously, as the ice
creaked under him.  Having arrived at the place where he intended to set
the net, he knelt down, and with his knife cut several holes in the ice,
at the distance of about six feet from each other, and all in one line.
He had already provided himself with a straight sapling of more than six
feet in length, to one end of which he had attached a cord.  The other
end of this cord was tied to the net, at one of its corners.  He now
thrust the sapling through the first hole he had made, and then guided
it so as to pass directly under the second.  At this hole he took a
fresh hold of the stick, and passed it along to the next, and so on to
the last, where he pulled it out again, and of course along with it the
string.  The net was now drawn into the first hole, and by means of the
cord already received through, was pulled out to its full length.  The
sinkers, of course, fell down in the water, and drew it into a vertical
position.  At both its upper corners the net was made fast above the
ice, and was now "set."  Nothing more could be done until the fish came
into it of their own accord, when it could be drawn out upon the ice by
means of the cord attached; and, of course, by the same means could
easily be returned to its place, and set again.

All of them now went back to the fire, and with hungry looks sat around
it, waiting the result.  They had made up their minds, should no fish be
caught, to get once more into the canoe and attempt breaking their way
to the shore.  Summoning all their patience, therefore, they waited for
nearly two hours, without examining the net.  Then Norman and Basil
crawled back upon the ice, to see what fortune had done for them.  They
approached the spot, and, with their hearts thumping against their ribs,
untied the knot, and commenced hauling out.

"It certainly feels heavy," said Basil, as he net was being drawn.
"Hurrah!" he shouted, "Something kicks, hurrah!" and with the second
"hurrah!" a beautiful fish was pulled up through the hole, and landed
upon the ice.  A loud "hurrah" was uttered in response by Lucien and
Francois--who, fearing the ice might not bear so many, had remained upon
the shore.  A yard or two more of the net was cleared, and a second fish
still larger than the former was greeted with a general "hurrah!"  The
two fish were now taken out--as these were all that had been caught--and
the net was once more carefully set.  Basil and Norman came back to the
shore--Norman to receive quite a shower of compliments from his
companions.  The fish--the largest of which weighed nearly five pounds--
proved to be trout; and it was not long before their quality was put to
the proof.  All declared they had never eaten so fine trout in their
lives; but when the condition of their appetites is taken into account,
we may infer that there was, perhaps, a little exaggeration in this
statement.  If hunger really makes good sauce, our voyageurs had the
best of sauce with their fish, as each of them was as hungry as a
half-famished wolf.

They felt quite relieved, as far as present appetite went, but they were
still uneasy for the future.  Should they not succeed in taking more
fish--and it was by no means certain they should succeed--they would be
no better off than ever.  Their anxiety, however, was soon removed.
Their second "haul" proved even more successful than the first--as five
fish, weighing together not less than twenty pounds, were pulled up.

This supply would enable them to hold out for a long time, but they had
not much longer to remain on the islet.  Upon that very night there was
one of those severe frosts known only in high latitudes, and the ice
upon the lake became nearly a foot in thickness.  They had no longer any
fear of its breaking under their weight; and taking their canoe with all
their "traps," they set out to cross over upon the ice.  In a few hours
they reached the shore of the lake, near the end of the promontory,
where they chose a spot, and encamped.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

AN ODD ALARM.

The first thing our voyageurs did after choosing a suitable situation,
was to build a log-hut.  Being young backwoodsmen this was but a trifle
to them.  All four of them knew how to handle an axe with dexterity.
The logs were soon cut and notched, and a small cabin was put up, and
roofed with split clap-boards.  With the stones that lay near the shore
of the lake they built a chimney.  It was but a rude structure, but it
drew admirably.  Clay was wanted to "chink" the cabin, but that could
not be had, as the ground was hard frozen, and it was quite impossible
to make either clay or mud.  Even hot water poured out would freeze into
ice in a few minutes.  This was a serious want--for in such a cold
climate even the smallest hole in the walls will keep a house
uncomfortable, and to fill the interstices between the logs, so as to
make them air-tight, some soft substance was necessary.  Grass was
suggested, and Lucien went off in search of it.  After a while he
returned with an armful of half-withered grass, which all agreed would
be the very thing; and a large quantity was soon collected, as it grew
plentifully at a short distance from the cabin.

They now set to work to stuff it into the chinks; when, to their
astonishment, they found that this grass had a beautiful smell, quite as
powerful and as pleasant as that of mint or thyme!  When a small
quantity of it was flung into the fire it filled the cabin with a
fragrance as agreeable as the costliest perfumes.  It was the "scented
grass," which grows in great profusion in many parts of the Hudson's Bay
territory, and out of which the Indians often make their beds, burning
it also upon the fire to enjoy its aromatic perfume.

For the first day or two, at their new abode, the travellers had lived
altogether on fish.  They had, of course, brought their net with them
from the island, and had set it near the shore in the same way as
before.  They had captured as many as they wanted, and, strange to say,
at one haul they found no less than five different species in the net!
One kind, a white fish, the _Coregonus albus_ of naturalists, but which
is named "tittameg" by the fur-traders, they caught in great plenty.
This fish is found in nearly all the lakes and rivers of the Hudson's
Bay territory, and is much prized both by whites and Indians for its
delicate flavour.  At some of the trading posts it often forms, for
weeks together, the only food which the residents can obtain; and they
are quite satisfied when they can get enough of it.  The tittameg is not
a large fish; the largest attain to the weight of about eight pounds.

There was another and still smaller species, which, from its colour, the
voyageurs call the "poisson bleu," or blue fish.  It is the _Coregonus
signifer_ of ichthyologists.  It is a species of grayling, and frequents
sharp-running water, where it will leap at the fly like a trout.
Several kinds of trout also inhabit the Great Slave Lake, and some of
these attain to the enormous weight of eighty pounds!  A few were
caught, but none of so gigantic proportions as this.  Pike were also
taken in the net, and a species of burbot (_Gadus lota_).  This last is
one of the most voracious of the finny tribe, and preys upon all others
that it is able to swallow.  It devours whole quantities of cray-fish,
until its stomach becomes crammed to such a degree as to distort the
shape of its whole body.  When this kind was drawn out, it was treated
very rudely by the boys--because its flesh was known to be extremely
unsavoury, and none of them cared to eat it.  Marengo, however, had no
such scruples, and he was wont to make several hearty meals each day
upon the rejected burbot.

A fish diet exclusively was not the thing; and as our party soon grew
tired of it, the hunter Basil shouldered his rifle, and strode off into
the woods in search of game.  The others remained working upon the
cabin, which was still far from being finished.

Basil kept along the edge of the lake in an easterly direction.  He had
not gone more than a quarter of a mile, when he came upon a dry gravelly
ridge, which was thickly covered with a species of pine-trees that
resembled the Scotch fir (_Pinus sylvestris_).  These trees were not
over forty feet in height, with very thick trunks and long flexible
branches.  No other trees grew among them, for it is the nature of this
pine--which was the "scrub" or grey pine (_Pinus Banksiana)_ to
monopolise the ground wherever it grows.  As Basil passed on, he noticed
that many of the trees were completely "barked," particularly on the
branches; and small pieces of the bark lay scattered over the ground, as
though it had been peeled off and gnawed by some animal.  He was walking
quietly on and thinking what creature could have made such a wreck, when
he came to a place where the ground was covered with fine sand or dust.
In this, to his astonishment, he observed what he supposed to be the
tracks of human feet!  They were not those of a man, but small tracks,
resembling the footsteps of a child of three or four years of age.  He
was about stooping down to examine them more closely, when a voice
sounded in his ears exactly like the cry of a child!  This brought him
suddenly to an erect attitude again, and he looked all round to discover
who or what had uttered that strange cry.  He could see no one--child or
man--and strange, too, for he had a clear view through the tree-trunks
for several hundred yards around.  He was filled with curiosity, not
unmixed with alarm; and, stepping forward a few paces, he was about to
bend down and examine the tracks a second time, when the singular cry
again startled him.  This time it was louder than before, as if he was
closer to whatever had uttered it, but Basil now perceived that it
proceeded from above him.  The creature from which it came was certainly
not upon the ground, but high up among the tops of the trees.  He looked
up, and there, in the fork of one of the pines, he perceived a singular
and hideous-looking animal--such as he had never before seen.  It was of
a brown colour, about the size of a terrier-dog, with thick shaggy hair,
and clumped up in the fork of the tree--so that its head and feet were
scarcely distinguishable.  Its odd appearance, as well as the peculiar
cry which it had uttered, would have alarmed many a one of less courage
than our young hunter, and Basil was at first, as he afterwards
confessed, "slightly flurried;" but a moment's reflection told him what
the animal was--one of the most innocent and inoffensive of God's
creatures--the Canada porcupine.  It was this, then, that had barked the
scrub-pines--for they are its favourite food; and it was its track--
which in reality very much resembles that of a child--that Basil had
seen in the sand.

The first thought of the young hunter was to throw up his rifle, and
send a bullet through the ungainly animal; which, instead of making any
effort to escape, remained almost motionless, uttering, at intervals,
its child-like screams.  Basil, however, reflected that the report of
his rifle would frighten any large game that might chance to be near;
and as the porcupine was hardly worth a shot, he concluded, upon
reflection, it would be better to leave it alone.  He knew--for he had
heard Lucien say so--that he would find the porcupine at any time, were
it a week, or even a month after--for these creatures remain sometimes a
whole winter in the same grove.  He resolved, therefore, should no other
game turn up, to return for it; and, shouldering his rifle again, he
continued his course through the woods.

As he proceeded, the timber became thinner.  The scrub-pines gave place
to poplar-trees, with here and there an undergrowth of willows.  The
trees stood far apart, and the willows grew only in clumps or "islands,"
so that the view was nearly open for many hundred yards around.  Basil
walked on with all the silence and watchfulness of a true "still"
hunter--for, among backwoodsmen, this species of hunting is so called.
He ascended a low hill, and keeping a tree in front of him, looked
cautiously over its crest.  Before him, and stretching from the bottom
of the hill, was a level tract of considerable extent.  It was bounded
on one side by the edge of the lake, and on all the others by thin
woods, similar to those through which the hunter had been for some time
travelling.  Here and there, over the plain, there stood trees, far
apart from each other, and in nowise intercepting the view for a mile or
more.  The ground was clear of underwood, except along the immediate
edge of the lake, which was fringed by a thicket of willows.

As Basil looked over the hill, he espied a small group of animals near
the interior border of the willows.  He had never seen animals of the
same species before, but the genus was easily told.  The tall antlered
horns, that rose upon the head of one of them, showed that they were
deer of some kind; and the immense size of the creature that bore them,
together with his ungainly form, his long legs, and ass-like ears, his
huge head with its overhanging lip, his short neck with its standing
mane, and, above all, the broad palmation of the horns themselves, left
Basil without any doubt upon his mind that the animals before him were
moose-deer--the largest, and perhaps the most awkward, of all the deer
kind.  The one with the antlers was the male or bull-moose.  The others
were the female and her two calves of the preceding year.  The latter
were still but half-grown, and, like the female, were without the
"branching horns" that adorned the head of the old bull.  They were all
of a dark-brown colour--looking blackish in the distance--but the large
one was darker than any of the others.

Basil's heart beat high, for he had often heard of the great moose, but
now saw it for the first time.  In his own country it is not found, as
it is peculiarly a creature of the cold regions, and ranges no farther
to the south than the northern edge of the United States territory.  To
the north it is met with as far as timber grows--even to the shores of
the Polar Sea!  Naturalists are not certain, whether or not it be the
same animal with the elk (_Cervus alces_) of Europe.  Certainly the two
are but little, if anything, different; but the name "elk" has been
given in America to quite another and smaller species of deer--the
wapiti (_Cervus Canadensis_).  The moose takes its name from its Indian
appellation, "moosoa," or "wood-eater;" and this name is very
appropriate, as the animal lives mostly upon the leaves and twigs of
trees.  In fact, its structure--like that of the camelopard--is such
that it finds great difficulty in reaching grass, or any other herbage,
except where the latter chances to be very tall, or grows upon the
declivity of a very steep hill.  When it wishes to feed upon grass, the
moose usually seeks it in such situations; and it may often be seen
browsing up the side of a hill, with its legs spread widely on both
sides of its neck.  But its favourite food is found at a more convenient
height, and consists of the young shoots of many species of trees.  It
prefers those of the poplar, the birch-tree, and willows, and one kind
of these last, the red willow, is its particular favourite.  The
"striped" maple (_Acer striatum_) is also much relished by the moose--
hence the name "moose-wood," by which this tree is known among the
hunters.  It loves also the common water-lilies (_Nympha_); and in
summer it may be seen wading out into lakes, and plucking up their
succulent leaves.  It takes to the water also for other purposes--to
cool its body, and rid itself of several species of gnats and mosquitoes
that at this season torment it exceedingly.  At such times it is more
easily approached; and the Indians hunt it in their canoes, and kill it
in the water, both with spears and arrows.  They never find the moose,
however, in large numbers--for it is a solitary animal, and only
associates in pairs during one part of the year, and in families at
another season--as Basil now found it.  In winter the Indians track it
through the snow, following it upon snow-shoes.  These give them the
advantage of skimming along the surface, while the moose plunges through
the deep drift, and is therefore impeded in its flight.
Notwithstanding, it will frequently escape from the hunter, after a
_chase of several days' duration_!  Sometimes, in deep snow, a dozen or
more of these animals will be found in one place, where they have got
accidentally together.  The snow will be trodden down until the place
appears as if enclosed by a wall.  This the hunters term a
"moose-pound," and when found in such situations the moose are easily
approached and surrounded--when a general _battue_ takes place, in which
few or none of the animals are allowed to escape.

I have said that Basil's heart beat high at the sight of the moose.  He
was very desirous of killing one--partly on account of the novelty of
the thing, and partly because he and his companions at the camp were
anxious for a change of diet.  Moose-meat was the very thing; and he
knew that if he could return to camp with a few pieces of this strung
over his gun, he would receive a double welcome.  He was well aware that
the flesh of the moose was of the most savoury and delicate kind, and
that the long pendulous upper lip is one of the "tit-bits" of the fur
countries.  Moreover, the fine hide would be an acceptable addition to
their stock, as it is the best of all deerskins for mocassins, as well
as snow-shoes--articles which Basil knew would soon be needed.  For
these reasons he was unusually desirous of killing one of the moose.

He knew it would be difficult to approach them.  He had heard that they
were shyest at that very season--the beginning of winter--and indeed
such is the case.  No deer is so difficult to get a shot at as a moose
in early winter.  In summer it is not so--as then the mosquitoes torment
these animals to such a degree that they pay less heed to other enemies,
and the hunter can more easily approach them.  In winter they are always
on the alert.  Their sense of smell--as well as of sight and hearing--is
acute to an extreme degree, and they are cunning besides.  They can
scent an enemy a long distance off--if the wind be in their favour--and
the snapping of a twig, or the slightest rustle of the leaves, is
sufficient to start them off.  In their journeyings through the snow,
when they wish to rest themselves, they make a sort of _detour_, and,
coming back, lie down near the track which they have already passed
over.  This gives them an opportunity of hearing any enemy that may be
following upon their trail, and also of making off in a side-direction,
while the latter will be looking steadfastly ahead for them.

Basil had heard of all these tricks of the moose--for many an old
moose-hunter had poured his tale into Basil's ear.  He proceeded,
therefore, with all due caution.  He first buried his hand in his
game-bag, and after a little groping brought out a downy feather which
had chanced to be there.  This he placed lightly upon the muzzle of his
rifle, and having gently elevated the piece above his head, watched the
feather.  After a moment, the breeze carried it off, and Basil noted the
direction it took.  This is called, in hunter phrase, "tossing the
feather," and gave Basil the exact direction of the wind--an important
knowledge in the present case.  To Basil's gratification he saw that it
was blowing down the lake, and nearly towards himself.  He was not
exactly to leeward of the moose; but, what was better still, the willows
that fringed the lake were, for he could see them bending from the deer,
as the breeze blew freshly.  He knew he could easily get among the
willows; and as they were not yet quite leafless, and, moreover, were
interspersed with tall reed-grass, they formed a tolerable cover under
which he might make his approach.

Without losing time, then, he made for the willows, and placing them
between himself and the game, commenced "approaching" along the shore of
the lake.

He had a full half-hour's creeping--at one time upon his hands and
knees--at another, crawling flat upon his breast like a gigantic lizard,
and now and then, at favourable spots, walking in a bent attitude.  A
full half-hour was he, and much pain and patience did it cost him,
before getting within shot.  But Basil was a hunter, and knew both how
to endure the pain and practise the patience--virtues that, in hunting
as well as in many other occupations, usually meet with their reward.
And Basil was likely to meet with his, for on parting the leaves, and
looking cautiously through, he saw that he had arrived at the right
spot.  Within fifty yards of him he saw the high shoulders of the
bull-moose and his great flat antlers towering over the tops of the
willows, among the leaves of which the snout of the animal was buried.
He also caught a glimpse of parts of the other three beyond; but he
thought only of the bull, and it was upon him that he kept his eyes
fixed.  Basil did not think of the quality of the meat, else he would
have selected either the cow or one of the calves.  Had it been
buffaloes he would certainly have done so; but as he had never killed a
moose, he was determined to slay the leader of the herd.

Indeed, had he wished to shoot one of the others, it might not have been
so easy, as they were farther off, and he could only see the tops of
their shoulders over the willows.  Neither did the bull offer a fair
mark.  He stood face to face with the hunter, and Basil fancied that a
shot on the frontal bone might not kill him.  He knew it would not kill
a buffalo.  There was only one other part at which he could aim--the
fore-shoulder; and after waiting some moments for the animal to give him
a fairer chance, he took aim at this and fired.  He heard a loud
cracking of hoofs, as the cow and calves shambled off over the plain,
but he saw that the bull was not with them.  He was down behind the
willows.  No doubt he was dead.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

ENCOUNTER WITH A MOOSE.

What was a rare thing for Basil to do, he rushed forward without
reloading his gun.  A few springs brought him into the open ground, and
in presence of the game.  To his astonishment, the bull was not dead,
nor down neither, but only upon his knees--of course wounded.  Basil saw
the "crease" of the bullet along the neck of the animal as he drew near.
It was only by a quick glance that he saw this, for as soon as the bull
saw him he rose to his full height--his eyes flashing like a tiger's--
and setting his antlers in a forward position, sprang upon the hunter!
Basil leaped aside to avoid the encounter; and in the first rush was
successful, but the animal turned suddenly, and, coming up a second
time, raised his fore-feet high in the air, and struck forward with his
long-pointed hoofs.  Basil attempted to defend himself with his rifle,
but the piece was struck out of his hand in an instant.  Once more
avoiding the forward rush of the infuriated beast, the young hunter
looked around for some object to save him.  A tree fell under his eye,
and he ran towards it with all his speed.  The moose followed close upon
his heels, and he had just time to reach the tree and get around its
trunk, when the animal brushed past, tearing the bark with his sharp
antlers.  Basil now slipped round the trunk, and when the moose again
turned himself the two were on opposite sides of the tree!  The beast,
however, rushed up, and struck the tree furiously first with his brow
antlers, and then with his hoofs, uttering loud snorts, and at intervals
a shrill whistling sound that was terrible to hear.  The disappointment
which the enraged animal felt, at seeing his enemy thus escape him,
seemed to have added to his rage; and he now vented his spite upon the
tree, until the trunk, to the height of six feet, was completely
stripped of its bark.  While this was going on, Basil remained behind
the tree, "dodging" round as the moose manoeuvred, and taking care
always to have the animal on the opposite side.  To have got into a
safer situation he would have climbed the tree; but it happened to be a
poplar, without a branch for many feet from the ground, and of too great
a girth to be "embraced."  He could do nothing, therefore, but remain
upon the ground, and keep the tree-trunk between himself and the bull.

For nearly an hour this lasted, the moose now remaining at rest for a
few minutes, and then making fresh onsets that seemed to abate nothing
in their fury.  His rage appeared to be implacable, and his vengeance as
tenacious as that of a tiger or any other beast of prey.  The wound
which the hunter had given him was no doubt painful, and kept his
resentment from cooling.  Unfortunately, it was not a mortal wound, as
Basil had every opportunity of seeing.  The bullet had hit the
fore-shoulder; but, after tearing along the skin, had glanced off
without injuring the bone.  It had only enraged the bull, without
crippling him in the least degree.  Basil began to dread the result.  He
was becoming faint with fatigue as well as hunger.  When would he be
relieved?  When would the fierce brute feel inclined to leave him?
These were questions which the hunter put to himself repeatedly, without
being able to divine an answer.  He had heard of hunters being killed by
wounded moose.  He had heard that these creatures will remain for days
watching a person whom they may have "treed."  He could not stand it for
days.  He would drop down with fatigue, and then the bull would gore and
trample him at pleasure.  Would they be able to trace him from the camp?
They would not think of that before nightfall.  They would not think of
him as "lost" before that time; and then they could not follow his trail
in the darkness, nor even in the light--for the ground was hard as a
rock, and he had made no footmarks.  Marengo might trace him.  The dog
had been left at the camp, as Basil preferred "still-hunting" without
him.  But in his present situation the hunter's apprehensions were
stronger than his hopes.  Even Marengo might be baffled in lifting the
scent.  The trail was an exceedingly devious one, for Basil had
meandered round the sides of the hill in search of game.  Deer or other
animals might have since crossed it, which might mislead the hound.  It
would be cold at night, and much colder next morning.  There were many
chances that no relief might reach him from the camp.  Impressed with
this conviction, Basil began to feel serious alarm.  Not despair,
however--he was not the boy to despair.  His mind only grew more alive
to the necessity for action.  He looked around to discover some means of
escape.  His gun lay not a hundred yards off.  Could he only get hold of
the piece, and return safely to the tree again, he could there load it
and put at end to the scene at once.  But to reach the gun was
impossible.  The moose would bound after and overtake him to a
certainty.  The idea of getting the gun was abandoned.

In the opposite direction to that in which the gun lay, Basil perceived
that there were other trees.  The nearest was but a dozen yards from
him; and others, again, grew at about the same distance from that one,
and from each other.  Basil now conceived the idea of escaping to the
nearest, and from that to the next, and by this means getting back into
the thick forest.  Once there, he believed that he would be the better
able to effect his escape, and perhaps reach the camp by dodging from
tree to tree.  He could beat the moose for a dozen yards--getting a
little the start of him--and this he hoped to be able to do.  Should he
fail in his short race, however--should his foot slip--the alternative
was fearful.  _It was no other than death_!

He knew that, but it did not change his resolution to make the attempt.
He only waited for the animal to work round between him and the tree
towards which he intended to run.  You will wonder that he did not
prefer to have the moose on the other side.  But he did not, for this
reason--had the bull been there, he could have sprung after him at the
first start; whereas, when heading the other way, Basil believed he
could brush close past, and gain an advantage, as the unwieldy brute,
taken by surprise, would require some time in turning himself to give
chase.

The opportunity at length arrived; and nerving himself for the race, the
hunter sprang past the moose, brushing the very tips of its antlers.  He
ran without either stopping or even looking back, until he had reached
the tree, and sheltered himself behind its trunk.  The moose had
followed, and arrived but the moment after, snorting and whistling
furiously.  Enraged at the _ruse_, it attacked this tree, as it had the
other, with hoof and horns; and Basil nimbly evaded both by keeping on
the opposite side, as before.

In a few minutes he prepared himself for a second rush, and once more
started.  A third tree was reached in safety--and then a fourth, and a
fifth, and many others, in a similar manner--the moose all the while
following in hot pursuit.  Basil had begun to hope that in this way he
would get off, when, to his chagrin, he saw that an open space still
intervened between him and the thick woods, upon which there were only a
few trees, and those so small that not one of them would have sheltered
him.  This tract was full two hundred yards in width, and extended all
along the edge of the thick forest.  He dared not cross it.  The moose
would overtake him before he could get half the way; and he was obliged
to give up the idea of making the attempt.

As he stood behind the last tree he had reached, he saw that it
branched, and the lowest branches grew but a little above his head.  He
could easily climb it, and at once resolved to do so.  He would there be
safe for the time, and could at least rest himself, for he was now weak
with fatigue.  He, therefore, stretched up his hands, and, laying hold
of a branch, swung himself up into the tree.  Then climbing up a little
higher, he sat down on one of the forks.

The moose appeared as furious as ever; and ran round the tree, now
striking it with his horns, and then rearing upon his hind-legs, and
pouncing against the trunk with his hoofs.  At times his snout was so
close to Basil, that the latter could almost touch it; and he had even
drawn his hunting-knife, and reached down with the intent of giving the
creature a stab.

This last action led to a train of thought, and Basil seemed suddenly to
adopt some new resolution.  Leaving the fork where he had perched
himself, he climbed higher up the tree; and, selecting one of the
longest and straightest branches, commenced cutting it off close to the
trunk.  This was soon effected; and then, drawing it along his knee, he
trimmed off all the twigs and tops until the branch became a straight
pole, like a spear-handle.  Along one end of this he laid the handle of
his knife; and with thongs, which he had already cut out of the strap of
his bullet-pouch, he spliced the knife and pole together.  This gave him
a formidable weapon--for the knife was a "bowie," and had a long blade,
with a point like a rapier.  He was not slow in using it.  Descending
again to the lowermost limbs, he commenced making demonstrations, in
order to bring the moose within reach.  This he very soon succeeded in
doing; and the animal ran forward and reared up against the tree.
Before it could get upon its four legs again, Basil had thrust it in the
neck, giving full force to the blow.  The blood rushed forth in a thick
stream, as the jugular vein had been cut by the keen blade; and the huge
brute was seen to totter in its steps, and then fall with a dull heavy
sound to the earth.  In a few moments the hunter had the satisfaction of
perceiving that it was quite dead.

Basil now dropped out of the tree, and walking back to where his rifle
lay, took up the piece and carefully reloaded it.  He then returned to
the moose, and opening the great jaws of the animal, gagged them with a
stick.  He next unspliced his knife, took off the gristly lips, and cut
out the tongue.  These he placed in his game-bag, and shouldering his
rifle, was about to depart; when some new idea caused him to halt, put
down his gun, and again unsheath his knife.  Once more approaching the
carcass, he made an incision near the kidneys; and having inserted his
hand, drew forth what appeared to be a part of the intestines.  It was
the bladder.  He then looked around as if in search of something.
Presently his eye rested upon some tall reed-grass that was growing
near.  This was just what he wanted, and, pulling up one of the stems,
he cut and fashioned it into a pipe.  With this the moose-bladder was
blown out to its full dimensions, and tied at the neck by a piece of
thong.  The other end of the thong was fastened to one of the branches
of the tree above, so that the bladder dangled within a few feet of the
carcass of the moose, dancing about with the lightest breath of wind.
All these precautions Basil had taken to keep the wolves from devouring
the moose--for it was his intention to return and butcher it, as soon as
he could get help.  When he had hung the bladder to his liking, he put
up his knife again; and, once more shouldering his rifle, walked off.

On reaching the camp--which he did shortly after--the tongue of the
moose was broiled without delay, and, after making a delicious meal of
it, the whole party went off for the remainder of the meat.  They found
it all quite safe; although, had it not been for the bladder, not much
of it would have been there--as no less than a dozen great gaunt wolves
were seen lurking about, and these would have eaten it up in the
shortest possible time.  The bladder, however, had kept them off; for,
strange to say, these creatures, who are as cunning as foxes, and can
hardly be trapped, can yet be deceived and frightened by such a simple
thing as a bladder dangling from a branch.

The moose proved to be one of the largest of his kind.  His height was
quite equal to that of a horse; and his horns, flattened out to the
breadth of shovels, weighed over sixty pounds.  His carcass was not less
than fifteen hundred pounds weight; and our voyageurs had to make two
journeys to convey the meat to their camp.  On the last journey,
Francois brought the porcupine as well--having found it on the very same
tree where Basil had left it!



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

LIFE IN A LOG-HUT.

The log-hut was finished on the 1st of September, and not a day too
soon; for on that very day the winter set in with full severity.  A
heavy fall of snow came down in the night; and next morning, when our
voyageurs looked abroad, the ground was covered to the depth of a foot,
or more; and the ice upon the lake was also white.  Walking through the
great wreaths now became very difficult; and the next thing to be done
was the making of "snow-shoes."

Snow-shoes are an invention of the Indians; and, in the winter of the
Arctic regions of America, are an article almost as indispensable as
clothing itself.  Without them, travelling afoot would be impossible.
In these countries, as already stated, the snow often covers the ground
to the depth of many feet; and remains without any considerable
diminution for six, and, in some years, eight or nine months.  At times,
it is frozen hard enough on the surface to bear a man without the
snow-shoes; but oftener on account of thaws and fresh falls, it becomes
quite soft, and at such times travelling over it is both difficult and
dangerous.  To avoid both the difficulty and the danger, the Indians
make use of this _very_ singular sort of foot-wear--called "snow-shoes"
by the English, and "raquets" by the Canadian voyageurs.  They are used
by all the Indian tribes of the Hudson's Bay territory; and were it not
for them these people would be confined to one place for months
together, and could not follow the deer or other game.  As almost all
savages are improvident, and none more so than the North American
Indians, were they prevented for a season from going out to hunt, whole
tribes would starve.  Indeed, many individuals of them perish with
hunger as it is; and the life of all these Indians is nothing more than
one continued struggle for food enough to sustain them.  In summer they
are often in the midst of plenty; slaughtering deer and buffalo by
hundreds, taking out only the tongues, and recklessly leaving the flesh
to the wolves!  In winter the very same Indians may be seen without a
pound of meat in their encampment--the lives of themselves and their
families depending upon the success of a single day's hunt!

But let us return to the snow-shoes.  Let us see what they are, and
learn how they are made.

Any boy who has snared sparrows in snow-time, has, no doubt, done so by
tying his snares upon a hoop netted across with twine or other small
cord.  Now, if he will conceive his hoop bent into an oblong shape--
something like what the figure of a boat turned on its mouth would make
in snow--and if he will also fancy the netting to consist of thongs of
twisted deer-hide woven somewhat closely together, he will get a very
good idea of an Indian snow-shoe.  It is usually from three to four feet
long, by about a foot wide at the middle part, from which it tapers
gently to a point, both at the heel and toe.  The frame, as I have said,
is like the hoop of a boy's bird-snare.  It is made of light, tough
wood, and, of course, carefully bent and polished with the knife.  The
slender branches of the "scrub-pine" (_Pinus Banksiana_) are esteemed
excellent for this purpose, as their wood is light, flexible and tough
in its fibres.  This is also a favourite tree, where it grows, to make
tent-poles, canoe-timbers, and other implements required by the Indians;
and these people use so much of it for their arrows, that it has
received from the Canadian voyageurs the name of _bois de fleche_
(arrow-wood).

Well, then, the frame of the snow-shoes being bent to its proper shape,
two transverse bars are placed across near the middle, and several
inches from each other.  They are for the foot to rest upon, as well as
to give strength to the whole structure.  These being made fast, the
netting is woven on, and extends over the whole frame, with the
exception of a little space in front of the bars where the ball of the
foot is to rest.  This space is left free of netting, in order to allow
play to the toes while walking.  The mesh-work is made of thongs usually
cut from the parchment-skin of a deer, and twisted.  Sometimes twisted
intestines are used, and the netting exactly resembles that seen in
"racquets" for ball play.

The snow-shoe, when finished, is simply fastened upon the foot by means
of straps or thongs; and a pair of them thus placed, will present a
surface to the snow of nearly six square feet--more, if required, by
making them larger.  But this is enough to sustain the heaviest man upon
the softest snow, and an Indian thus "shod" will skim over the surface
like a skater.

The shoes used by all tribes of Indians are not alike in shape.  There
are fashions and fancies in this respect.  Some are made--as among the
Chippewa Indians--with one side of the frame nearly straight; and these,
of course, will not do for either foot, but are "rights and lefts."
Generally, however, the shape is such that the snow-shoe will fit either
foot.

The snow-shoes having now become a necessary thing, our young voyageurs
set about making a complete set for the whole party--that is, no less
than four pairs.  Norman was the "shoemaker," and Norman knew how.  He
could splice the frames, and work in the netting, equal to an Indian
squaw.  Of course all the others assisted him.  Lucien cut the
moose-skin into fine regular strips; Basil waded off through the snow,
and procured the frames from the wood of the scrub-pine-trees where he
had encountered the porcupine; and then he and Francois trimmed them
with their knives, and sweated them in the hot ashes until they became
dry, and ready for the hands of the "shoemaker."

This work occupied them several days, and then each had a pair of shoes
fitted to his size and weight.

The next consideration was, to lay in a stock of meat.  The moose had
furnished them with enough for present use, but that would not last
long, as there was no bread nor anything else to eat with it.  Persons
in their situation require a great deal of meat to sustain them, much
more than those who live in great cities, who eat a variety of
substances, and drink many kinds of drinks.  The healthy voyageur is
rarely without a keen appetite; and meat by itself is a food that
speedily digests, and makes way for a fresh meal; so that the ration
usually allowed to the _employes_ of the fur companies would appear
large enough to supply the table of several families.  For instance, in
some parts of the Hudson's Bay territory, the voyageur is allowed eight
pounds of buffalo-meat _per diem_!  And yet it is all eaten by him, and
sometimes deemed barely sufficient.  A single deer, therefore, or even a
buffalo, lasts a party of voyageurs for a very short time, since they
have no other substance, such as bread or vegetables, to help it out.
It was necessary, then, that our travellers should use all their
diligence in laying up a stock of dried meat, before the winter became
too cold for them to hunt.  There was another consideration--their
clothing.  They all had clothing sufficient for such weather as they had
yet experienced; but that would never do for the winter of the Great
Slave Lake, and they knew it.  Many deer must be killed, and many hides
dressed, before they could make a full set of clothing for all, as well
as a set of deerskin blankets, which would be much needed.

As soon as the snow-shoes were finished, therefore, Basil and Norman
went out each day upon long hunting expeditions, from which they rarely
returned before nightfall.  Sometimes they brought with them a deer, of
the caribou or reindeer species, and the "woodland" variety, which were
plenty at this place.  They only carried to camp the best parts with the
skin, as the flesh of the woodland caribou is not much esteemed.  It is
larger than the other kind--the "Barren Ground caribou," weighing about
one hundred and fifty pounds; but both its venison and hide are of
inferior quality to those of the latter species.  Sometimes our hunters
killed smaller game; and on several occasions they returned without
having emptied their guns at all.  But there was one day that made up
for several--one grand day when they were extremely successful, and on
which they killed a whole herd of moose, consisting of five
individuals--the old bull, a spike buck--that is, a young buck, whose
horns had not yet got antlers upon them--the cow, and two calves.  These
they had tracked and followed for a long distance, and had succeeded, at
length, in running into a valley where the snow was exceedingly deep,
and where the moose became entangled.  There had been a shower of rain
the day before that had melted the surface of the snow; and this had
again frozen into an icy crust, upon which the deer lacerated their
ankles at every plunge, leaving a track of blood behind them as they
ran.  Under these circumstances they were easily trailed, and Basil and
Norman, skimming along upon their snow-shoes, soon came up with them,
and shot first one and then another, until the whole herd were stretched
in the valley.  They then butchered them, and hung the hides and
quarters upon high branches, so as to secure them from wolves and
wolverenes.  When the job was finished, the whole place looked like a
great slaughter-yard!  Next day a rude sledge was constructed; and the
voyageurs, returning in full force, transported the meat to camp.  Huge
fires were kindled outside the hut, and several days were spent in
cutting up and drying the flesh.  Had our travellers been certain that
the frost would have continued all winter, this would not have been
necessary--since the meat was already frozen as hard as a brick.  But
they knew that a sudden thaw would spoil it; and, as there was plenty of
good firewood on the spot, they were not going to run the risk of losing
it in that way.

They had now enough provision to last them for months; and hunting
became no longer necessary, except to obtain fresh meat--which was, of
course, preferable to the dry stock.  Hunting, also, gave them exercise
and amusement--both of which were necessary to their health; for to
remain idle and inactive in a situation such as that in which they were
placed is the worst possible plan, and is sure to engender both sickness
and _ennui_.  Indeed, the last grew upon them, notwithstanding all the
pains they took to prevent it.  There were days on which the cold was so
extreme, that they could not put their noses out of the door without the
danger of having them frost-bitten--although each had now a complete
suit of deerskin clothing, made by Lucien, the "tailor" of the party.
Upon such days they were fain to remain shut up in their hut; and,
seated around their huge log-fire, they passed the time in cleaning
their guns, mending their nets, stitching their clothes, and such-like
employments.  These days were far from being their dullest; for, what
with the varied and scientific knowledge of Lucien, which he took
pleasure in imparting to his companions--what with the practical
experience of Norman amid scenes of Arctic life, and the many "voyageur
tales" he could tell--what with Francois' merry jokes and _bon mots_--
and what with Basil's _talent for listening_--not the least important
element in a good _conversazione_,--our _quartette_ of young voyageurs
found their indoor days anything but dull.

This was all well enough for a while.  For a month or two they bore
their odd kind of life cheerfully enough; but the prospect of nearly six
months more of it began to appal them, when they reflected upon it; and
they soon found themselves longing for a change.  Hunting adventures,
that at other times would have interested them, now occurred without
creating any excitement; and the whole routine of their employments
seemed monotonous.  Nearly all of them were boys of an active character
of mind; and most of them were old enough to reason about the value of
time.  Their idea of such a long isolation from civilised life, and,
above all, the being debarred from following any useful pursuit, began
to impress some of them forcibly.  Others, as Francois, could not be
contented for a very great stretch of time with any sort of life; so
that all of them began to sigh for a change.

One day, while conversing upon this theme, a bold proposal was made by
Basil.  It was, that they should "strike camp," and continue their
journey.  This proposal took the others by surprise, but they were all
just in the frame of mind to entertain and discuss it; and a long
consultation was held upon the point.  Francois chimed in with the
proposal at once; while Lucien, more cautious, did not exactly oppose,
but rather offered the reasons that were against it, and pointed out the
perils of the undertaking.  Norman, of course, was appealed to--all of
them looking to him as one whose advice, upon that question at least,
was more valuable than their own.

Norman admitted the dangers pointed out by Lucien, but believed that
they might overcome them by a proper caution.  On the whole, Norman
approved of the plan, and it was at length adopted.  Perhaps Norman's
habitual prudence was to some extent influenced on this occasion by the
very natural desire he had of returning to what he considered his home.
He had now been absent nearly two years, and was desirous of once more
seeing his father and his old companions at the Fort.  There was another
feeling that influenced nearly all of them: that was _ambition_.  They
knew that to make such a journey would be something of a feat, and they
wished to have the credit of performing it.  To minds like that of
Basil, even the danger had something attractive in it.  It was resolved
then to break up the encampment, and continue their journey.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

TRAVELLING ON SNOW-SHOES.

Once their resolution was taken, they lost but little time in making
preparations to carry it out.  Most of the articles required for such a
journey were already in their hands.  They had the proper dresses--
snow-shoes, skin-blankets, and gloves.  They had prepared for themselves
sets of "snow spectacles."  These were made out of red cedar-wood.  Each
pair consisted of two small thin pieces, that covered the eyes, joined
together and fastened on by thongs of buckskin.  In each piece an oblong
slit served for the eye-hole, through which the eye looked without being
dazzled by the snow.  Without this, or some like contrivance, travelling
in the Arctic regions is painful to the eyes, and the traveller often
loses his sight.  Indeed, one of the most common infirmities of both the
Indians and Esquimaux of these parts is blindness or soreness of the
eyes, caused by the reflexion of the sunbeams from the crystals of the
frozen snow.  Norman was aware of this, and had made the spectacles to
guard against this peril.  Out of their spare skins they had made a
small tent.  This was to be carried along by Marengo in a light sledge,
which they had long since constructed, and taught the dog to draw.
Nothing else remained but to pack their provisions in the smallest bulk
possible, and this was done, according to the custom of the country, by
making "pemmican."  The dry meat was first pounded until it became a
powder; it was then put into small skin bags, made for the purpose, and
the hot melted fat was poured in and well mixed with it.  This soon
froze hard, and the mixture--that resembled "potted meat,"--was now
ready for use, and would keep for an indefinite time without the least
danger of spoiling.  Buffalo-beef, moose-meat, or venison of any sort,
thus prepared, is called "_pemmican_," and is more portable in this
shape than any other.  Besides no further cooking is required--an
important consideration upon those vast prairie deserts, where firewood
is seldom to be procured without the trouble of carrying it a great
distance.

Norman, who was the maker of the pemmican, had produced a superior
article upon this occasion.  Besides the pounded meat and fat, he had
mixed another ingredient with it, which rendered it a most delicious
food.  This third ingredient was a small purple- berry--of which
we have already spoken--not unlike the whortleberry, but sweeter and of
a higher flavour.  It grows through most of the Northern regions of
America; and in some places, as upon the Red River and the Elk, the
bushes that produce it are seen in great plenty.  When in flower, they
appear almost white, so thickly are they covered with blossoms.  The
leaves are small, and generally of an oval shape; but there are several
varieties of the bush, some of them having the dimensions and form of
trees, of twenty-five feet in height.  The berries have received
different names in different parts of America.  They are known as
"shadberries", "June-berries", "service-berries," and by the Canadian
voyageurs they are called "le poire."  Even the botanists have given
them a great variety of names, as _pyrus, mespilus, aronia, crataegus_,
and _amelanchier_.  No matter which may be the best name, it is enough
to know that these little berries are delicious to eat when fresh, and
when dried, after the manner of currants, are excellent to mix in
puddings, as well as in pemmican.

Previous to the setting in of winter, our voyageurs had collected a
large bagful upon the banks of the Elk, which they had dried and stored
away--expecting to stand in need of them for this very purpose.  They
now came into use, and enabled Norman to make his pemmican of the very
choicest quality.  Five bags of it were put up, each weighing over
thirty pounds.  One of these was to be drawn upon the sledge, along with
the tent, the axe, and a few other articles.  The rest were to be
carried by the voyageurs themselves--each shouldering one, which, along
with their guns and accoutrements, would be load enough.

These arrangements being at length complete, the party bid adieu to
their log-hut--gave a parting look to their little canoe, which still
rested by the door--and then, shouldering their guns and bags of
pemmican, set out over the frozen surface of the snow.

Of course before starting they had decided upon the route they were to
take.  This decision, however, had not been arrived at until after much
discussion.  Lucien advised that they should follow the shore of the
lake until they should reach the Mackenzie River--which of course was
now frozen up.  Its channel, he argued, would then guide them; and, in
case their provisions should run short, they would be more likely to
find game upon its banks than elsewhere, as these were wooded almost to
the sea--in consequence of its head-waters rising in southern latitudes,
and carrying with them a warmer climate.

There was plausibility in Lucien's argument, combined with much
prudence.  Norman, however, advised a contrary course.  He said that
they would have to make a considerable journey westward before reaching
the place where the Mackenzie River flows out of the lake; and,
moreover, he knew that the river itself was very crooked--in some places
winding about in great curves, whose ends come near meeting each other.
Should they keep the course of the river, Norman believed it would
almost double their journey.  A much shorter route, he said, would be
obtained by striking across the country in a north-westerly direction,
so as to reach the Mackenzie near where another great stream--the River
of the Mountains--empties into it from the west.  This would certainly
be a more direct route, and they would avoid the windings of the river
channel.

Norman's reasoning prevailed.  Basil and Francois readily agreed to his
plan, and Lucien at length also gave his assent, but with some
reluctance.  Norman knew nothing whatever of the route he was advising
them to take.  His former journeys up and down the Mackenzie had been
made in summer, and of course he had travelled by canoe, in company with
the traders and voyageurs.  He only knew that to strike across the
country would be the shorter way.  But "the shortest way is not always
the nearest," says the proverb; and although Lucien remembered this
prudent maxim, the others did not give it a thought.  Before the end of
their journey they received a practical lesson of its wisdom--a lesson
they were not likely to forget.  But they knew not what was before them,
and they started off in high spirits.

Their first three or four days' journeys were without any event worth
being chronicled.  They travelled full twenty miles each day.  The
Southerners had become quite skilful in the management of their
snow-shoes, and they skimmed along upon the icy crust at the rate of
three or four miles an hour.  Marengo and his sledge gave them very
little trouble.  There was full sixty pounds weight upon it; but to the
huge dog this was a mere bagatelle, and he pulled it after him without
any great strain.  His harness was neatly made of moose-skin, and
consisted of a collar with a back strap and traces--the traces meeting
behind, where they were attached to the head of the sledge.  No
head-gear was necessary, as Marengo needed not to be either led or
driven.  The sledge consisted of two or three light planks of smooth
wood, laid alongside each other, and held together by transverse bands.
In front it turned up with a circular sweep, so as not to "plough" the
snow; and at the top of this curved part the traces were adjusted.  The
load was, of course, carefully packed and tied, so that the overturning
of the vehicle did no damage whatever, and it could be easily righted
again.  Marengo required no one to guide him, but followed quietly in
the tracks of the snow-shoes, and thus avoided the trees, rocks, and
other inequalities.  If a rabbit or other creature started up, Marengo
knew better than to go galloping after it; he felt that he had a more
important duty to perform than to throw away his time upon
rabbit-hunting.  Each night a spot was chosen for the camp by the side
of some lake or stream, where wood could be obtained for their fire.
Water was got by breaking a hole in the ice, and the little tent was
always set up in a sheltered situation.

Upon the fifth day after leaving the log-hut the woods began to grow
thinner and more straggling; and towards night of the same day they
found themselves travelling through a country, where the timber only
grew here and there in small clumps, and the individual trees were small
and stunted.  Next day still less timber was seen upon their route; and
when camping-time came, they were obliged to halt at a spot where
nothing but willows could be procured for their fire.  They had, in
fact, arrived upon the edge of that vast wilderness, the Barren Grounds,
which stretches in all its wild desolation along the Northern half of
the American continent, (from the Great Slave Lake even to the shores of
the Arctic Sea on the north, and to those of Hudson's Bay on the east).
This territory bears an appropriate name, for, perhaps, upon the whole
surface of the earth there is no tract more barren or desolate--not even
the Sahara of Africa.  Both are deserts of immense extent, equally
difficult to cross, and equally dangerous to the traveller.  On both the
traveller often perishes, but from different causes.  On the Sahara it
is _thirst_ that kills; upon the Barren Grounds _hunger_ is more
frequently the destroyer.  In the latter there is but little to be
feared on the score of water.  That exists in great plenty; or where it
is not found, snow supplies its place.  But there is water everywhere.
Hill succeeds hill, bleak, rocky, and bare.  Everywhere granite, gneiss,
or other primitive rocks, show themselves.  No vegetation covers the
steep declivities of the hills, except the moss and lichen upon the
rocks, a few willows upon the banks of streams, the dwarf birch-tree
(_Betula nana_), or the scrub-pines, rising only to the height of a few
inches, and often straggling over the earth like vines.  Every hill has
its valley, and every valley its lake--dark, and deep, and silent--in
winter scarce to be distinguished under the snow-covered ice.  The
prospect in every direction exhibits a surface of rocks, or bleak hills,
half covered with snow.  The traveller looks around and sees no life.
He listens and hears no sound.  The world appears dead and wrapped in
its cold winding-sheet!

Amidst just such scenes did our voyageurs find themselves on the seventh
day after parting from the lake.  They had heard of the Barren
Grounds,--had heard many fearful stories of the sufferings of travellers
who had attempted to cross them; but the description had fallen far
short of the actual reality.  None of them could believe in the
difficulties to be encountered, and the desolateness of the scene they
were to witness, until now that they found themselves in its midst; and,
as they proceeded on their journey, getting farther and farther from the
wooded region, their apprehensions, already aroused by the wild aspect
of the country, grew stronger and stronger.  They began to entertain
serious fears, for they knew not how far the barren tract extended along
their route.  On calculation they found they had provisions enough to
last them for a month.  That in some measure restored their confidence;
but even then, they could not help giving way to serious reflections.
Should they get lost or retarded in their course by mountains, or other
obstacles, it might take them longer than a month to reach some place
where game was to be met with.  Each day, as they advanced, they found
the country more hilly and difficult.  Precipices often bounded the
valleys, lying directly across their track; and as these could not be
scaled, it was necessary to make long _detours_ to pass them, so that
some days they actually advanced less than five miles upon their
journey.

Notwithstanding these impediments, they might still have got over the
Barren Grounds without further suffering than the fatigue and necessary
exposure to cold; but at this time an incident occurred, that not only
frustrated all their calculations, but placed them in imminent danger of
perishing.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

THE BARREN GROUNDS.

The Barren Grounds are not entirely destitute of animal life.  Even in
winter--when they are almost covered with snow, and you would suppose
that no living creature could procure subsistence upon them--even then
they have their denizens; and, strange to say, there are many animals
that choose them for their home.  There is no part of the earth's
surface so sterile but that some animated being can find a living upon
it, and such a being Nature adapts to its peculiar situation.  For
instance, there are animals that prefer the very desert itself, and
would not thrive were you to place them in a country of mild climate and
fertile soil.  In our own species this peculiarity is also found--as the
Esquimaux would not be happy were you to transplant him from his icy hut
amidst the snows of the Arctic regions, and give him a palace under the
genial skies of Italy.

Among other creatures that remain all winter upon the Barren Grounds,
are the wolves.  How they exist there is almost a question of the
naturalists.  It is true they prey upon other animals found at times in
the same district; but wolves have been met with where not the slightest
traces of other living creatures could be seen!

There is no animal more generally distributed over the earth's surface
than the wolf.  He exists in nearly every country, and most likely has
at one time existed in all.  In America there are wolves in its three
zones.  They are met with from Cape Horn to the farthest point northward
that man has reached.  They are common in the tropical forests of Mexico
and South America.  They range over the great prairies of the temperate
zones of both divisions of the continent, and in the colder regions of
the Hudson's Bay territory they are among the best known of wild
animals.  They frequent the mountains, they gallop over the plains, they
skulk through the valleys, they dwell everywhere--everywhere the wolf
seems equally at home.  In North America two very different kinds are
known.  One is the "prairie" or "barking" wolf, which we have already
met with and described.  The other species is the "common" or "large"
wolf; but it is not decided among naturalists that there are not several
distinct species of the latter.  At all events, there are several
varieties of it--distinguished from each other in size, colour, and even
to some extent in form.  The habits of all, however, appear to be
similar, and it is a question, whether any of these varieties be
_permanent_ or only _accidental_.  Some of them, it is well-known, are
accidental--as wolves differing in colour have been found in the same
litter--but late explorers, of the countries around and beyond the Rocky
Mountains, have discovered one or two kinds that appear to be
specifically distinct from the common wolf of America--one of them, the
"dusky wolf," being much larger.

This last is said to resemble the wolf of Europe (the Pyrenean wolf,
_Canis lupus_) more than the other American wolves do--for there is a
considerable difference between the wolves of the two continents.  Those
of the Northern regions of America have shorter ears, a broader snout
and forehead, and are of a stouter make, than the European wolves.
Their fur, too, is finer, denser, and longer; their tails more bushy and
fox-like; and their feet broader.  The European wolf, on the contrary,
is characterised by a gaunt appearance, a pointed snout, long jaws, high
ears, long legs, and feet very narrow.  It is possible, notwithstanding
these points of difference, that both may be of the same species, the
difference arising from a want of similitude in the circumstances by
which they are surrounded.  For instance, the dense wool of the Hudson's
Bay wolf may be accounted for by the fact of its colder habitat, and its
broader feet may be the result of its having to run much upon the
surface of the snow.  The writer of this little book believes that this
peculiar adaptation of Nature--which may be observed in all her
kingdoms--may explain the difference that exists between the wolves of
the Northern parts of America and those of the South of Europe.  He
believes, moreover, that those of the Southern parts of the American
continent approximate more nearly to the Pyrenean wolves, as he has seen
in the tropical forests of Mexico some that possessed all that "gaunt"
form and "sneaking" aspect that characterise the latter.  It would be
interesting to inquire whether the wolves of Siberia and Lapland,
inhabiting a similar climate to that of the Northern parts of America,
do not possess the same peculiarities as the North American kind--a
point which naturalists have not yet considered, and which you, my boy
reader, may some day find both amusement and instruction in determining
for yourself.

With regard to colour the wolves of both continents exhibit many
varieties.  In North America there are more than half-a-dozen colours of
them, all receiving different names.  There is the "grey wolf," the
"white," the "brown," the "dusky," the "pied," and the "black."  These
trivial names will give a good enough idea of the colours of each kind,
but there are even varieties in their markings.  "Yellow" wolves, too,
have been seen, and "red" ones, and some of a "cream colour."  Of all
these the grey wolf is the most common, and is _par excellence the
wolf_; but there are districts in which individuals of other colours
predominate.  Wolves purely black are plenty in many parts, and white
wolves are often seen in large packs.

Even those of the same colour differ in size, and that to a considerable
extent.  And, what is also strange, large wolves will be found in one
district of country, while much smaller ones _of the same colour and
species_ inhabit another.  The largest in size of American wolves are
about six feet in length, the tail included; and about three feet in
height, measuring to the tips of the standing fur.  The tail is usually
about one-third of the whole length.

The habits of the American wolf are pretty much like those of his
European cousin.  He is a beast of prey, devouring all the smaller
animals he can lay hold of.  He pursues and overtakes the deer, and
often runs down the fox and makes a meal of it.  He will kill and eat
Indian dogs, although these are so near his own species that the one is
often taken for the other.  But this is not all, for he will even eat
his own kind, on a pinch.  He is as cunning as the fox himself, and as
cowardly; but at times, when impelled by hunger, he becomes bolder, and
has been known to attack man.  Instances of this kind, however, are
rare.

The American wolves burrow, and, like the fox, have several entrances to
their holes.  A litter of young wolves numbers five puppies, but as many
as eight are often produced at one birth.

During their journey through the Barren Grounds our voyageurs had
frequently observed wolves.  They were mostly grey ones, and of great
size, for they were travelling through a district where the very largest
kind is found.  At times they saw a party of five or six together; and
these appeared to be following upon their trail--as each night, when
they came barking about the camp, our travellers recognised some of them
as having been seen before.  They had made no attempt to shoot any of
them--partly because they did not want either their skins or flesh, and
partly because their ammunition had been reduced to a small quantity,
and they did not wish to spend it unnecessarily.  The wolves, therefore,
were allowed to approach very near the camp, and howl as much as they
liked--which they usually did throughout the livelong night.  What they
found to allure them after our travellers, the latter could not make
out; as they had not shot an animal of any kind since leaving the lake,
and scarcely a scrap of anything was ever left behind them.  Perhaps the
wolves were _living upon hope_.

One evening our travellers had made their camp on the side of a ridge--
which they had just crossed--and under the shelter of some rough rocks.
There was no wood in the neighbourhood wherewith to make a fire; but
they had scraped the snow from the place over which their tent was
pitched, and under it their skins were spread upon the ground.  As the
tent was a very small one, Marengo's sledge, with the utensils and
pemmican bags, was always left outside close by the opening.  Marengo
himself slept there, and that was considered sufficient to secure all
these things from wolves, or any other creatures that might be prowling
about.

On the evening in question, the sledge was in its usual place--the dog
having been taken from it--and as our voyageurs had not yet had their
supper, the pemmican bags were lying loosely about, one or two of them
being open.  There was a small rivulet at the foot of the ridge--some
two hundred paces distant--and Basil and Francois had gone down to it to
get water.  One of them took the axe to break the ice with, while the
other carried a vessel.  On arriving near the bank of the rivulet, the
attention of the boys was attracted to a singular appearance upon the
snow.  A fresh shower had fallen that morning, and the surface was still
soft, and very smooth.  Upon this they observed double lines of little
dots, running in different directions, which, upon close inspection,
appeared to be the tracks of some animal.  At first, Basil and Francois
could hardly believe them to be such, the tracks were so very small.
They had never seen so small ones before--those of a mouse being quite
double the size.  But when they looked more closely at them, the boys
could distinguish the marks of five little toes with claws upon them,
which left no doubt upon their minds that some living creature, and that
a very diminutive one, must have passed over the spot.  Indeed, had the
snow not been both fine-grained and soft, the feet of such a creature
could not have made any impression upon it.

The boys stopped and looked around, thinking they might see the animal
itself.  There was a wide circle of snow around them, and its surface
was smooth and level; but not a speck upon it betrayed the presence of
any creature.

"Perhaps it was a bird," said Francois, "and has taken flight."

"I think not," rejoined Basil.  "They are not the tracks of a bird.  It
is some animal that has gone under the snow, I fancy."

"But I see no hole," said Francois, "where even a beetle could have gone
down.  Let us look for one."

At Francois' suggestion, they walked on following one of the dotted
lines.  Presently they came to a place, where a stalk of long grass
stood up through the snow--its seedless panicle just appearing above the
surface.  Round this stalk a little hole had been formed--partly by the
melting of the snow, and partly by the action of the wind upon the
panicle--and into this hole the tracks led.  It was evident that the
animal, whatever it was, must have gone down the culm of the grass in
making its descent from the surface of the snow!  They now observed
another track going from the hole in an opposite direction, which showed
that the creature had climbed up in the same way.  Curious to know what
it might have been, the boys hailed Lucien and Norman, telling them to
come down.  These, followed by Marengo, soon arrived upon the spot.
When Lucien saw the tracks, he pronounced them at once to be those of
the little shrew-mouse (_Sorex parvus_), the smallest of all the
quadrupeds of America.  Several of them had evidently been out upon the
snow--as there were other dotted lines--and the tops of many stalks of
grass were seen above the surface, each of which had formed a little
hole around it, by which the mice were enabled to get up and down.

Norman, who had seen these little animals before, cautioned his
companions to remain quiet awhile, and perhaps some of them might come
to the surface.  They all stopped therefore, and stood some time without
moving, or speaking to one another.  Presently, a little head not much
bigger than a pea was seen peeping up, and then a body followed, which
in size did not exceed that of a large gooseberry!  To this a tail was
suspended, just one inch in length, of a square shape, and tapering from
root to point, like that of any other mouse.  The little creature was
covered with a close smooth fur, of a clove-brown colour above, but more
yellowish upon the belly and sides; and was certainly, as it sat upon
the even surface of the snow, the most diminutive and oddest-looking
quadruped that any of the party had ever beheld.

They were just whispering to one another what means they should use to
capture it, when Marengo, whom Basil had been holding quiet, all at once
uttered a loud bay; and, springing out of the hands of his master,
galloped off towards the camp.  All of them looked after, wondering what
had started the dog; but his strange behaviour was at once explained,
and to their consternation.  Around the tent, and close to its entrance,
several large wolves were seen.  They were leaping about hurriedly, and
worrying some objects that lay upon the ground.  What these objects were
was too plain.  They were _the bags of pemmican_!  Part of their
contents was seen strewed over the snow, and part was already in the
stomachs of the wolves.

The boys uttered a simultaneous shout, and ran forward.  Marengo was by
this time among the wolves, and had set fiercely upon one of them.  Had
his masters not been at hand, the fierce brutes would soon have settled
the account with Marengo.  But the former were now close by, and the
wolves, seeing them, ran off; but, to the consternation of the boys,
each of them carried off a bag of the pemmican in his mouth with as much
lightness and speed as if nothing encumbered them!

"We are lost!" cried Norman, in a voice of terror.  "Our provisions are
gone!--all gone!"

It was true.  The next moment the wolves disappeared over the summit of
the ridge; and although each of the boys had seized his gun, and ran
after, the pursuit proved an idle one.  Not a wolf was overtaken.

Scarce a scrap of the pemmican had been left--only some fragments that
had been gnawed by the ravenous brutes, and scattered over the snow.
That night our travellers went to bed supperless; and, what with hunger,
and the depression of spirits caused by this incident, one and all of
them kept awake nearly the whole of the night.



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

THE ROCK-TRIPE.

They left their skin-couch at an early hour, close after daybreak.
Hunger and anxiety drove them out of their tent.  Not a morsel of
anything for breakfast!  They looked abroad over the country, in order,
if possible, to descry some living creature.  None could be seen--
nothing but the wilderness waste of snow, with here and there the side
of a steep hill, or a rock showing cold and bleak.  Even the wolves that
had robbed them were no longer to be seen, as if these creatures knew
that they had got all that was worth having, and had now taken
themselves off to hunt for plunder elsewhere.

The situation of our travellers was really one of extreme peril,
although it may be difficult for you, young reader, to conceive why it
should be so.  They, however, knew it well.  They knew that they might
travel for days through that inhospitable region, without falling in
with anything that would make a single meal for them.  But less time
than that would suffice to starve them all.  Already they felt the pangs
of hunger--for they had not eaten since their breakfast of the preceding
day, the wolves having interrupted their preparations for dinner.

It was of no use remaining where they were; so, striking their tent once
more, they travelled forward.  It was but poor consolation to them that
they travelled much lighter than before.  They had nothing to carry but
their guns, and these they had got ready for work--so that their journey
partook somewhat of the character of a hunting excursion.  They did not
even follow a direct course, but occasionally turned to one side or the
other, wherever a clump of willows, or any other roughness on the
ground, looked like it might be the shelter of game.  But during that
whole day--although they travelled from near sunrise to sunset--not a
living thing was seen; and for the second night they went supperless to
bed.

A man will bear hunger for many days--some more, some less--without
actually dying of it; but at no period will his sufferings be greater
than during the third or fourth day.  He will grow more feeble
afterwards, but the pain which he endures will not be greater.

On the third day the sufferings of our party were extreme.  They began
to chew pieces of their skin-tent and blankets; but although this took
the sharp edge off their appetites, it added nothing to their strength;
and they still craved for food, and grew feebler.

To use a poetical phrase, Marengo now became the "cynosure of every
eye."  Marengo was not very fat.  The sledge and short rations had
thinned him down, and his ribs could be easily traced.  Although the
boys, and Basil in particular, would have suffered much before
sacrificing him, yet starvation will reconcile a man to part with his
best friend.  In spite of their friendship for Marengo, his masters
could not help scanning him from time to time with hungry looks.
Marengo was an old dog, and, no doubt, as tough as a piece of
tan-leather; but their appetites were made up for anything.

It was near midday.  They had started early, as on the day before.  They
were trudging wearily along, and making but little progress.  Marengo
was struggling with his sledge, feeble as any of the party.  Basil saw
that the eyes of his companions were from time to time bent upon the
dog; and though none of them said anything, he understood the thoughts
that were passing within them.  He knew that none of them wished to
propose it--as Basil was the real master of Marengo--but their glances
were sufficiently intelligible to him.  He looked at the downcast
countenance of the once merry Francois,--at the serious air of Norman--
at the wan cheek and sunken eye of Lucien, whom Basil dearly loved.  He
hesitated no longer.  His duty to his companions at once overcame his
affection for his faithful dog.

"We must kill him!" said he, suddenly stopping, and pointing to Marengo.

The rest halted.

"I fear there's no help for it," said Norman, turning his face in every
direction, and sweeping the surface of the snow with hopeless glances.

Francois also assented to the proposal.

"Let us make a condition," suggested Lucien; "I for one could walk five
miles farther."  And as Lucien said this, he made an effort to stand
erect, and look strong and brave; but Basil knew it was an effort of
_generosity_.

"No," said he,--"no, dear Luce.  You are done up.  We must kill the
dog!"

"Nonsense, Basil, you mistake," replied the other; "I assure you I am
far from being done up.  I could go much farther yet.  Stay!" continued
he, pointing ahead; "you see yonder rocks?  They are about three miles
off, I should think.  They lie directly in our course.  Well, now, let
us agree to this condition.  Let us give poor Marengo a chance for his
life.  If we find nothing before reaching those rocks, why then--"

And Lucien, seeing Marengo gazing up in his face, left the sentence
unfinished.  The poor brute looked up at all of them as though he
understood every word that they were saying; and his mute appeal, had it
been necessary, would not have been thrown away.  But it did not require
that to get him the proposed respite.  All agreed willingly with
Lucien's proposition; and, shouldering their pieces, the party moved on.

Lucien had purposely understated the distance to the rocks.  It was
five, instead of three miles; and some of them made it full ten, as they
were determined Marengo should have the benefit of every chance.  They
deployed like skirmishers; and not a brake or brush that lay to the
right or left of the path but was visited and beaten by one or other of
them.  Their diligence was to no purpose.  After two hours' weary work,
they arrived among the rocks, having seen not a trace of either
quadruped or bird.

"Come!" cried Lucien in his now feeble voice, still trying to look
cheerful, "we must pass through them.  There is a chance yet.  Let him
have fair play.  The rocks were to be the limit, but it was not stated
what part of them.  Let us pass through to the other side--they do not
extend far."

Encouraged by the words of Lucien, the party entered among the rocks,
moving on separate paths.  They had gone only a few paces, when a shout
from Norman caused the rest to look to him for an explanation.  No
animal was in sight.  Had he seen any?  No; but something that gratified
him certainly, for his voice and manner expressed it.

"What is it?" inquired the others, all speaking at the same time.

"_Tripe de roche_!" answered he.

"_Tripe de roche_?"

"Yes," replied Norman, "look there!" and he pointed to one of the rocks
directly ahead of them, at the same time moving forward to it.  The
others hastened up after.  On reaching the rock, they saw what Norman
had meant by the words _tripe de roche_ (rock-tripe).  It was a black,
hard, crumply substance, that nearly covered the surface of the rock,
and was evidently of a vegetable nature.  Lucien knew what it was as
well as Norman, and joy had expressed itself upon his pale cheeks at the
sight.  As for Basil and Francois they only stood waiting an
explanation, and wondering what value a quantity of "rock moss," as they
deemed it, could be to persons in their condition.  Lucien soon informed
them that it was not a "moss," but a "lichen," and of that celebrated
species which will sustain human life.  It was the _Gyrophora_.  Norman
confirmed Lucien's statement, and furthermore affirmed, that not only
the Indians and Esquimaux, but also parties of voyageurs, had often
subsisted upon it for days, when they would otherwise have starved.
There are many species,--not less than five or six.  All of them possess
nutritive properties, but only one is a palatable food--the _Gyrophora
vellea_ of botanists.  Unfortunately, this was not the sort which our
voyageurs had happened upon, as it grows only upon rocks shaded by
woods, and is rarely met with in the open barrens.  The one, however,
which Norman had discovered was the "next best," and they were all glad
at finding even that.

The first thing to be thought of was to collect it, and all four set to
peeling and scraping it from the rocks.  The next thought was to make it
ready for eating.  Here a new difficulty stared them in the face.  The
_tripe de roche_ had to be boiled,--it could not be eaten else,--and
where was the fire? where was the wood to make one?  Not a stick was to
be seen.  They had not met with a tree during all that day's journey!

They were now as badly off as ever.  The _tripe de roche_ would be of no
more use to them than so much dry grass.  What could they do with it?

In the midst of their suspense, one of them thought of the sledge--
Marengo's sledge.  That would make a fire, but a very small one.  It
might do to cook a single meal.  Even that was better than none.
Marengo was not going to object to the arrangement.  He looked quite
willing to part with the sledge.  But a few hours before, it came near
being used to cook Marengo himself.  He was not aware of that, perhaps,
but no matter.  All agreed that the sledge must be broken up, and
converted into firewood.

They were about taking it to pieces, and had already "unhitched" Marengo
from it, when Basil, who had walked to the other side of the rocky
jumble, cried back to them to desist.  He had espied some willows at no
great distance.  Out of these a fire could be made.  The sledge,
therefore, was let alone for the present.  Basil and Francois
immediately started for the willows, while Norman and Lucien remained
upon the spot to prepare the "tripe" for the pot.

In a short time the former parties returned with two large bundles of
willows, and the fire was kindled.  The _tripe de roche_, with some
snow--for there was no water near--was put into the pot, and the latter
hung over the blaze.

After boiling for nearly an hour, the lichen became reduced to a soft
gummy pulp, and Norman thickened the mess to his taste by putting in
more snow, or more of the "tripe," as it seemed to require it.  The pot
was then taken from the fire, and all four greedily ate of its contents.
It was far from being palatable, and had a clammy "feel" in the mouth,
something like sago; but none of the party was in any way either dainty
or fastidious just at that time, and they soon consumed all that had
been cooked.  It did not satisfy the appetite, though it filled the
stomach, and made their situation less painful to bear.

Norman informed them that it was much better when cooked with a little
meat, so as to make broth.  This Norman's companions could easily
credit, but where was the meat to come from?  The Indians prefer the
_tripe de roche_ when prepared along with the roe of fish, or when
boiled in fish liquor.

Our weary voyageurs resolved to remain among the rocks for that night at
least; and with this intent they put up their little tent.  They did not
kindle any fire, as the willows were scarce, and there would be barely
enough to make one or two more boilings of the rock-tripe.  They spread
their skins within the tent, and creeping in, kept one another as warm
as they could until morning.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

THE POLAR HARE AND GREAT SNOWY OWL.

Of course hunger kept them from sleeping late.  They were up and out of
the tent by an early hour.  Their fire was re-kindled, and they were
making preparations for a fresh pot of rock-tripe, when they were
startled by the note of a well-known bird.  On looking up, they beheld
seated upon the point of a rock the creature itself, which was the
"cinereous crow" (_Garrulus Canadensis_), or, as it is better known, the
"whiskey Jack."  The latter name it receives from the voyageurs,
on account of the resemblance of its Indian appellation,
"whiskae-shaw-neesh," to the words "whiskey John."  Although sometimes
called the "cinereous crow," the bird is a true jay.  It is one of the
most inelegant of the genus, being of a dull grey colour, and not
particularly graceful in its form.  Its plumage, moreover, does not
consist of webbed feathers, but rather more resembles hair; nor does its
voice make up for the plainness of its appearance, as is the case with
some birds.  On the contrary, the voice of "whiskey Jack" is plaintive
and squeaking, though he is something of a mocker in his way, and
frequently imitates the notes of other birds.  He is one of those
creatures that frequent the habitations of man, and there is not a fur
post, or fort, in all the Hudson's Bay territory, where "whiskey Jack"
is not familiarly known.  He is far from being a favourite, however, as,
like his near relative the magpie, he is a great thief, and will follow
the marten-trapper all day while baiting his traps, perching upon a tree
until the bait is set, and then pouncing down, and carrying it off.  He
frequently pilfers small articles from the forts and encampments, and is
so bold as to enter the tents, and seize food out of any vessel that may
contain it.  Notwithstanding all this, he is a favourite with the
traveller through these inhospitable regions.  No matter how barren the
spot where the voyageur may make his camp, his tent will hardly be
pitched, before he receives a visit from "whiskey Jack," who comes, of
course, to pick up any crumbs that may fall.  His company, therefore, in
a region where all other wild creatures shun the society of man, endears
him to the lonely traveller.

At many of their camps our voyageurs had met with this singular bird,
and were always glad to receive him as a friend.  They were now doubly
delighted to see him, but this delight arose from no friendly feelings.
Their guest was at once doomed to die.  Francois had taken up his gun,
and in the next moment would have brought him down, had he not been
checked by Norman.  Not that Norman intended to plead for his life, but
Norman's eye had caught sight of another "whiskey Jack,"--which was
hopping among the rocks at some distance--and fearing that Francois'
shot might frighten it away, had hindered him from firing.  It was
Norman's design to get both.

The second "whiskey Jack," or, perhaps, it was the whiskey "Jill," soon
drew near; and both were now seen to hop from rock to rock, and then
upon the top of the tent, and _one of them actually settled_ upon the
edge of the pot, as it hung over the fire, and quietly looking into it,
appeared to scrutinise its contents!

The boys could not think of any way of getting the birds, except by
Francois' gun; and it was at length agreed that Francois should do his
best.  He was sure of one of them, at least; so telling the others to
get behind him, he fired at the more distant one where it sat upon the
tent, and took the other on the wing.

Both shots were successful.  The two jays fell, and were soon divested
of their soft, silky, hair-like plumage, and dropped into the boiling
pot.  They did not weigh together more than about six or seven ounces;
but even that was accounted something under present circumstances; and,
with the _tripe de roche_, a much better breakfast was made than they
had anticipated.

No more of the lichen could be found.  The rocks were all searched, but
only a few patches--not enough for another full meal--could be obtained.
The travellers had no other resource, therefore, but to continue on,
and passing through the rocky ground, they once more embarked upon the
wilderness of snow.

During that whole day not a living creature gladdened their eyes.  They
saw nothing that was eatable--fish, flesh, fowl, or vegetable.  Not even
a bit of rock-tripe--in these parts the last resource of starving men--
could be met with.  They encamped in a plain, where not a tree stood--
not even a rock to shelter them.

Next morning a consultation was held.  Marengo was again the subject of
their thoughts and conversation.  Should they kill him on the spot or go
a little farther?  That was the question.  Lucien, as before, interposed
in his favour.  There was a high hill many miles off, and in their
proper course.  "Let us first reach yonder hill," proposed Lucien.  "If
nothing is found before that, then we must part with Marengo."

The proposal was agreed to, and, striking their tent, they again set
out.

It was a toilsome long way to that hill--feeble and weary as they all
were--but they reached it without having observed the slightest trace of
animal life.

"Up the hill!" cried Lucien, beckoning to the others, and cheering them
with his weak voice, "Up the hill!"

On they went, up the steep declivity--Marengo toiling on after them.
The dog looked downcast and despairing.  He really appeared to know the
conditions that had been made for his life.  His masters, as they crept
upward, looked sharply before them.  Every tuft that appeared above the
snow was scrutinised, and every inch of the ground, as it came into
view, was examined.

At length they crossed the escarpment of the hill, and stood upon the
summit.  They gazed forward with disappointed feelings.  The hill-top
was a sort of table plain, of about three hundred yards in diameter.  It
was covered with snow, nearly a foot in depth.  A few heads of withered
grass were seen above the surface, but not enough to subdue the uniform
white that prevailed all over.  There was no creature upon it; that was
evident.  A bird as big as a sparrow, or a quadruped as large as a
shrew-mouse, could have been seen upon any part of it.  A single glance
satisfied all of them that no living thing was there.

They halted without proceeding farther.  Some of them could not have
gone another mile, and all of them were tottering in their tracks.
Marengo had arrived upon the summit, and stood a little to one side,
with the sledge behind him.

"_You_ must do it!" said Basil, speaking to Norman in a hoarse voice,
and turning his head away.  Lucien and Francois stepped aside at the
same time, and stood as if looking down the hill.  The countenances of
all three betokened extreme sorrow.  There was a tear in Basil's eye
that he was trying to wipe away with his sleeve.

The sharp click of Norman's gun was heard behind them, and they were all
waiting for the report, when, at that moment, a dark shadow passing over
the white declivity arrested their attention!  It was the shadow of a
bird upon the wing.  The simultaneous exclamation of all three stayed
Norman's finger--already pressing upon the trigger--and the latter,
turning round, saw that they were regarding some object in the air.  It
was a bird of great size--almost as large as an eagle, but with the
plumage of a swan.  It was white all over--both body and wings--white as
the snow over which it was sailing.  Norman knew the bird at a glance.
Its thick short neck and large head--its broad-spreading wings, of milky
whiteness, were not to be mistaken.  It was the "great snowy owl" of the
Arctic regions.

Its appearance suddenly changed the aspect of affairs.  Norman let the
butt of his rifle fall to the ground, and stood, like the rest, watching
the bird in its flight.

The snowy owl (_Strix nyctea_) is, perhaps, the most beautiful, as it is
one of the most powerful birds of its genus--of which there are more
than a dozen in North America.  It is a bird of the Polar regions--even
the most remote--and in the dead of winter it is found within the Arctic
circle, on both Continents--although at the same season it also wanders
farther south.  It dwells upon the Barren Grounds as well as in wooded
districts.  In the former it squats upon the snow, where its peculiar
colour often prevents it from being noticed by the passing hunter.
Nature has furnished it with every protection from the cold.  Its
plumage is thick, closely matted, and downy, and it is feathered to the
very eyes--so that its legs appear as large as those of a good-sized
dog.  The bill, too, is completely hidden under a mass of feathers that
cover its face, and not even a point of its whole body is exposed.

The owl is usually looked upon as a night-bird, and in Southern
latitudes it is rarely seen by day; but the owls of the Northern regions
differ from their congeners in this respect.  They hunt by day, even
during the bright hours of noon.  Were it not so, how could they exist
in the midst of an Arctic summer, when the days are months in duration?
Here we have another example of the manner in which Nature trains her
wild creatures to adapt themselves to their situation.

At least a dozen species of owls frequent the territory of the Hudson's
Bay Company--the largest of which is the cinereous owl, whose wings have
a spread of nearly five feet.  Some species migrate south on the
approach of winter; while several, as the snowy owl, remain to prey upon
the ptarmigan, the hares, and other small quadrupeds, who, like
themselves, choose that dreary region for their winter home.

Our travellers, as I have said, stood watching the owl as it soared
silently through the heavens.  Francois had thrown his gun across his
left arm, in hopes he might get a shot at it; but the bird--a shy one at
all times--kept away out of range; and, after circling once or twice
over the hill, uttered a loud cry and flew off.

Its cry resembled the moan of a human being in distress; and its effect
upon the minds of our travellers, in the state they then were, was far
from being pleasant.  They watched the bird with despairing looks, until
it was lost against the white background of a snow-covered hill.

They had noticed that the owl appeared to be just taking flight when
they first saw it.  It must have risen up from the hill upon which they
were; and they once more ran their eyes along the level summit, curious
to know where it had been perched that they had not seen it.  No doubt,
reflected they, it had been near enough, but its colour had rendered it
undistinguishable from the snow.

"What a pity!" exclaimed Francois.

While making these reflections, and sweeping their glances around, an
object caught their eyes that caused some of them to ejaculate and
suddenly raise their guns.  This object was near the centre of the
summit table, and at first sight appeared to be only a lump of snow; but
upon closer inspection, two little round spots of a dark colour, and
above these two elongated black marks, could be seen.  Looking steadily,
the eye at length traced the outlines of an animal, that sat in a
crouching attitude.  The round spots were its eyes, and the black marks
above them were tips of a pair of very long ears.  All the rest of its
body was covered with a soft white fur, hardly to be distinguished from
the snow upon which it rested.

The form and colour of the animal, but more especially its long erect
ears, made it easy for them to tell what it was.  All of them saw it was
a hare.

"Hush!" continued Norman, as soon as he saw it, "keep still all of you--
leave it to me."

"What shall we do?" demanded Basil.  "Can we not assist you?"

"No," was the reply, uttered in a whisper, "stay where you are.  Keep
the dog quiet.  I'll manage puss, if the owl hasn't scared her too
badly.  That scream has started her out of her form.  I'm certain she
wasn't that way before.  Maybe she'll sit it out.  Lucky the sun's
high--don't move a step.  Have the dog ready, but hold him tight, and
keep a sharp look out if she bolts."

After giving these instructions, that were all uttered quickly and in an
under tone, Norman moved off, with his gun carried across his arm.  He
did not move in the direction of the hare, but rather as if he was going
from her.  His course, however, bent gradually into a circle of which
the hare was the centre--the diameter being the full breadth of the
summit level, which was about three hundred yards.  In this circle he
walked round and round, keeping his eye fixed upon the crouching animal.
When he had nearly completed one circumference, he began to shorten the
diameter--so that the curve which he was now following was a spiral one,
and gradually drawing nearer to the hare.  The latter kept watching him
as he moved--curiosity evidently mingling with her fears.  Fortunately,
as Norman had said, the sun was nearly in the vertex of the heavens, and
his own body cast very little shadow upon the snow.  Had it been
otherwise, the hare would have been frightened at the moving shadow, and
would have sprung out of her form, before he could have got within
range.

When he had made some four or five circuits, Norman moved slower and
slower, and then stopped nearly opposite to where the others were.
These stood watching him with beating hearts, for they knew that the
life of Marengo, and perhaps their own as well, depended on the shot.
Norman had chosen his place, so that in case the hare bolted, she might
run towards them, and give them the chance of a flying shot.  His gun
was already at his shoulder--his finger rested on the trigger, and the
boys were expecting the report, when again the shadow of a bird flitted
over the snow, a loud human-like scream sounded in their ears, and the
hare was seen to spring up, and stretch her long legs in flight.  At the
same instant the great snowy owl was observed wheeling above, and
threatening to pounce upon the fleeing animal!

The hare ran in a side-direction, but it brought her as she passed
within range of the party by the sledge.  The owl kept above her as she
ran.  A dozen leaps was all the hare ever made.  A loud crack was heard,
and she was seen to spring up and fall back upon the snow, dead as a
doornail.  Like an echo another crack followed--a wild scream rang
through the air, and the great white owl fell fluttering to the earth.
The reports were not of a rifle.  They were the louder detonations of a
shot-gun.  All eyes were turned towards Francois, who, like a little
god, stood enveloped in a halo of blue smoke.  Francois was the hero of
the hour.

Marengo rushed forward and seized the struggling owl, that snapped its
bill at him like a watch-man's rattle.  But Marengo did not care for
that; and seizing its head in his teeth, gave it a crunch that at once
put an end to its flapping.

Marengo was reprieved, and he seemed to know it, as he bounded over the
snow, waving his tail, and barking like a young fool.

They all ran up to the hare, which proved to be the "Polar hare" (_Lepus
glacialis_), and one of the largest of its species--not less than
fifteen pounds in weight.  Its fur, soft and white like swan-down, was
stained with red blood.  It was not quite dead.  Its little heart yet
beat faintly, and the light of life was still shining from its beautiful
honey- eyes.  Both it and the owl were taken up and carried to
the sledge, which was once more attached to Marengo, as the party
intended to go forward and halt under the shelter of the hill.

"There must be some wood in this quarter," remarked Norman: "I never
knew this sort of hare far from timber."

"True," said Lucien, "the Polar hare feeds upon willows, arbutus, and
the Labrador tea-plant.  Some of these kinds must be near."

While they were speaking, they had reached the brow of the hill, on the
opposite side from where they had ascended.  On looking into the valley
below, to their great joy they beheld some clumps of willows, and
good-sized trees of poplar, birch, and spruce-pine (_Pinus alba_), and
passing down the hill, the travellers soon stood in their midst.
Presently was heard the chipping sound of an axe and crash of falling
timber, and in a few moments after a column of smoke was seen soaring up
out of the valley, and curling cheerfully towards the bright blue sky.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

THE JUMPING MOUSE AND THE ERMINE.

Large as the hare was, she would have made but a meal for our four
hungry voyageurs, had they eaten at will.  By Lucien's advice, however,
they restrained themselves, and half of her was left for supper, when
the "cook" promised to make them hare-soup.  The head, feet, and other
spare bits, fell to Marengo's share.  The owl, whose flesh was almost as
white as its plumage, and, as Norman well knew, most delicate eating,
was reserved for to-morrow's breakfast.

They had pitched their tent with the intention of remaining at that
place all night, and continuing their journey next day; but, as it still
wanted several hours of sunset, and the strength of all was considerably
recruited, they resolved to hunt about the neighbourhood as long as they
had light.  It was of great importance that they should procure more
game.  The owl would make but a spare breakfast, and after that where
was the next meal to come from?  They had had a temporary relief, and
while their strength lasted, they must use every effort to procure a
further supply.  The valley in which their new camp was placed looked
well for game.  It was a sort of oasis in the Barren Grounds.  There was
a lake and a considerable skirting of timber around it--consisting, as
we have said, of willows, poplars, spruce-pine, and dwarf birch-trees
(_Betula nana_).  The Alpine arbutus, whose berries are the food of many
species of animals, also grew upon the side of the hills; and the
Labrador tea-plant (_Ledum palustre_) was found upon the low ground
around the lake.  The leaves of this last is a favourite food of the
Polar hare, and our voyageurs had no doubt but that there were many of
these animals in the neighbourhood.  Indeed, they had better evidence
than conjecture, for they saw numerous hare-tracks in the snow.  There
were tracks of other animals too, for it is a well-known fact that where
one kind exists, at least two or three others will be found in the same
habitat--all being connected together by a "chain of destruction."

A singular illustration of this was afforded to Lucien, who remained at
the camp while the rest went out hunting.  He had gathered some of the
leaves of the Labrador tea, and was drying them over the coals,
intending to cheer his comrades with a cup of this beverage after
supper.  The hare-soup was boiling, and the "cook" sat listening to the
cheerful sounds that issued from the pot--now and then taking off the
lid to examine its savoury contents, and give them a stir.  He would
then direct his attention to the tea-leaves that were parching in the
frying-pan; and, having shifted them a little, felt himself at liberty
to look about for a minute or two.

On one of these occasions, while glancing up, his attention was
attracted to an object which appeared upon the snow at a short distance
from where he sat.  A wreath of snow, that had formed under the shelter
of the hill, extended all around its base, presenting a steep front in
every direction.  This front was only two or three feet in height; but
the top surface of the wreath was many yards wide--in fact, it extended
back until it became blended with the <DW72> of the hill.  It was smooth
and nearly level, but the hill above was steep, and somewhat rough and
rocky.  The steep front of the wreath came down within half-a-dozen
paces of the fire where Lucien was seated; and it was upon the top or
scarpment of it that the object appeared that had drawn his attention.
It was a small creature, but it was in motion, and thus had caught his
eye.

A single glance showed him that the little animal was a mouse, but of a
somewhat singular species.  It was about the size of the common mouse,
but quite different in colour.  The upper half of its body was of a
light mahogany tint, while the lower half, including the legs and feet,
were of a milky whiteness.  It was, in fact, the "white-footed mouse"
(_Mus leucopus_), one of the most beautiful of its kind.

Here and there above the surface of the snow protruded the tops of
arbutus-trees; and the little creature was passing from one of these to
the other, in search, no doubt, of the berries that remain upon these
trees all the winter.  Sometimes it ran from point to point like any
other mouse, but now and then it would rear itself on its hind-legs, and
leap several feet at a single bound!  In this it evidently assisted
itself by pressing its tail--in which it possesses muscular power--
against the snow.  This peculiar mode of progression has obtained for it
the name of the "jumping mouse," and among the Indians "deer"-mouse,
because its leap reminds them of the bounding spring of the deer.  But
there are still other species of "jumping mice" in America that possess
this power to a greater degree even than the _Mus leucopus_.

Lucien watched its motions without attempting to interfere with it,
until it had got nearly out of sight.  He did not desire to do injury to
the little creature, nor was he curious to obtain it, as he had already
met with many specimens, and examined them to his satisfaction.  He had
ceased to think of it, and would, perhaps, never have thought of it
again, but, upon turning his eyes in the opposite direction, he observed
another animal upon the snow.  This creature had a far different aspect
from the mouse.  Its body was nearly a foot in length, although not much
thicker than that of the other!  Its legs were short, but strong, and
its forehead broad and arched convexly.  It had a tail more than half
the length of the body, hairy, and tapering like that of a cat.  Its
form was the well-known form of the weasel, and it was, in fact, a
species of weasel.  It was the celebrated _ermine (Mustela erminea_),
celebrated for its soft and beautiful fur, so long prized as an ornament
for the robes of the rich.  It was white all over, with the exception of
its tail; and that, for about an inch or so at the tip, was covered with
black silky hair.  On some parts of the body, too, the white was tinged
with a primrose yellow; but this tinge is not found in all animals of
this species, as some individuals are pure white.  Of course it was now
in its winter "robes;" but in the summer it changes to a colour that
does not differ much from that of the common weasel.

When Lucien first saw it, it was running along the top of the wreath,
and coming from the same direction from which the mouse had come.  Now
and then it paused awhile, and then ran on again.  Lucien observed that
it kept its nose to the ground, and as it drew nearer he saw that it was
following on the same path which the other had taken.  To his
astonishment he perceived that it was _trailing the mouse_!  Wherever
the latter had doubled or made a _detour_, the ermine followed the
track; and where the mouse had given one of its long leaps, there the
ermine would stop, and, after beating about until it struck the trail
again, would resume its onward course at a gallop.  Its manoeuvres were
exactly like those of a hound upon the fresh trail of a fox!

Lucien now looked abroad to discover the mouse.  It was still in sight
far off upon the snow, and, as Lucien could see, busily gnawing at the
arbutus, quite unconscious that its _greatest_ enemy was so near.  I say
greatest enemy, for the _Mus leucopus_ is the _natural_ prey of the
_Mustela erminea_.

The mouse was soon made aware of the dangerous proximity, but not until
the ermine had got within a few feet of it.  When it perceived the
latter it shrunk, at first, among the leaves of the arbutus; but seeing
there would be no protection there--as the other was still springing
forward to seize it--it leaped up, and endeavoured to escape by flight.
Its flight appeared to be in alternate jumps and runs, but the chase was
not a long one.  The ermine was as active as a cat, and, after a few
skips, its claws were struck into the mouse.  There was a short, slender
squeak, and then a "crunch," like the cracking of a hazel-nut.  This
last sound was produced by the teeth of the ermine breaking through the
skull of its victim.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

THE ARCTIC FOX AND WHITE WOLF.

Lucien turned round to get hold of his rifle, intending to punish the
ermine, although the little creature, in doing what it did, had only
obeyed a law of nature.  But the boy had also another design in killing
it: he wished to compare it with some ermines he had seen while
travelling upon Lake Winnipeg, which, as he thought, were much larger--
one that he had caught having measured more than a foot in length,
without including the tail.  He wished, also, to make some comparison
between it and the common weasel; for in its _winter dress_, in the
snowy regions, the latter very much resembles the ermine; and, indeed,
the trappers make no distinction between them.

With these ideas Lucien had grasped his gun, and was raising himself to
creep a little nearer, when his eye was arrested by the motions of
another creature coming along the top of the wreath.  This last was a
snow-white animal, with long, shaggy fur, sharp-pointed snout, erect
ears, and bushy tail.  Its aspect was fox-like, and its movements and
attitudes had all that semblance of cunning and caution so
characteristic of these animals.  Well might it, for it _was_ a fox--the
beautiful white fox of the Arctic regions.

It is commonly supposed that there are but two or three kinds of foxes
in America; and that these are only varieties of the European species.

This is an erroneous idea, as there are nearly a dozen varieties
existing in North America, although they may be referred to a less
number of species.  There is the Arctic fox, which is confined to the
cold Northern regions, and which in winter is white.

The "sooty fox" is a variety of the "Arctic," distinguished from it only
by its colour, which is of a uniform blackish brown.

The "American fox" (_Vulpes fulvus_), or, as it is commonly called, the
"red fox," has been long supposed to be the same as the European red
fox.  This is erroneous.  They differ in many points; and, what is
somewhat curious, these points of difference are similar to those that
exist between the European and American wolves, as already given.

The "cross fox" is supposed by the Indians and some naturalists to be
only a variety of the last.  It derives its name from its having two
dark stripes crossing each other upon the shoulders.  Its fur from this
circumstance, and perhaps because the animal is scarce, is more prized
than that of the red variety.  When a single skin of the latter is worth
only fifteen shillings, one of the cross fox will bring as much as five
guineas.

Another variety of the red fox, and a much more rare one, is the
"black," or "silver" fox.  The skins of these command six times the
price of any other furs found in America, with the exception of the
sea-otter.  The animal itself is so rare that only a few fall into the
hands of the Hudson's Bay Company in a season; and Mr Nicholay, the
celebrated London furrier, asserts that a single skin will fetch from
ten to forty guineas, according to quality.  A remarkable cloak, or
pelisse, belonging to the Emperor of Russia, and made out of the skins
of silver-foxes, was exhibited in the Great London Exposition of 1851.
It was made entirely from the neck-part of the skins--the only part of
the silver-fox which is pure black.  This cloak was valued at 3400
pounds; though Mr Nicholay considers this an exaggerated estimate, and
states its true value to be not over 1000 pounds.  George the Fourth had
a lining of black fox-skins worth 1000 pounds.

The "grey fox" is a more southern species than any already described.
Its proper home is the temperate zone covered by the United States;
although it extends its range into the southern parts of Canada.  In the
United States it is the most common kind, although in that district
there is also a "red fox," different from the _Vulpes fulvus_ already
noticed; and which, no doubt, is the red fox of Europe, introduced by
the early colonists of America.

Still another species, the smallest and perhaps the most interesting of
any, is the "kit fox."  This little creature is an inhabitant of the
prairies, where it makes its burrows far from any wood.  It is extremely
shy, and the swiftest animal in the prairie country--outrunning even the
antelope!

When Lucien saw the fox he thought no more of the ermine, but drew back
and crouched down, in hopes he might get a shot at the larger animal.
He knew well that the flesh of the Arctic fox is highly esteemed as
food, particularly by persons situated as he and his companions were,
and he hoped to be able to add it to their larder.

When first seen it was coming towards him, though not in a direct line.
It was engaged in hunting, and, with its nose to the snow, was running
in zig-zag lines, "quartering" the ground like a pointer dog.  Presently
it struck the trail of the ermine, and with a yelp of satisfaction
followed it.  This of course brought it close past where Lucien was;
but, notwithstanding his eagerness to fire, it moved so rapidly along
the trail that he was unable to take sight upon it.  It did not halt for
a moment; and, as Lucien's gun was a rifle, he knew that a flying shot
would be an uncertain one.  In the belief, therefore, that the fox would
stop soon--at all events when it came up with the ermine--he restrained
himself from firing, and waited.

It ran on, still keeping the track of the ermine.  The latter, hitherto
busy with his own prey, did not see the fox until it was itself seen,
when, dropping the half-eaten mouse, it reared up on its hindquarters
like a squirrel or a monkey, at the same time spitting as spitefully as
any other weasel could have done.  In a moment, however, it changed its
tactics--for the open jaws of the fox were within a few paces of it--and
after making a short quick run along the surface, it threw up its
hindquarters, and plunged head-foremost into the snow!  The fox sprang
forward, and flinging his brush high in air, shot after like an arrow!

Both had now disappeared from Lucien's sight.  For a moment the surface
of the snow was disturbed above the spot where they had gone down, but
the next moment all was still, and no evidence existed that a living
creature had been there, except the tracks, and the break the two
creatures had made in going down.  Lucien ran forward until he was
within a few yards of the place, and stood watching the hole, with his
rifle ready--thinking that the fox, at least, would soon come up again.

He had waited for nearly five minutes, looking steadily at this point,
when his eye was attracted by a movement under the snow, at a
considerable distance, quite fifty paces, from where he stood.  The
frozen crust was seen to upheave; and, the next moment, the head of the
fox, and afterwards his whole body, appeared above the surface.  Lucien
saw that the ermine lay transversely between his jaws, and was quite
dead!  He was about to fire, but the fox, suddenly perceiving him, shot
off like an arrow, carrying his prey along with him.  He was soon out of
reach, and Lucien, seeing that he had lost his chance, was about to
return to the fire, when, all at once, the fox was observed to stop,
turn suddenly in his tracks, and run off in a new direction!  Lucien
looked beyond to ascertain the cause of this strange manoeuvre.  That
was soon ascertained.  Coming down from among the rocks was a large
animal--five times the fox's size--but in other respects not unlike him.
It was also of a snow-white colour, with long hair, bushy tail, and
short erect ears, but its aspect was not to be mistaken.  It was the
great _white wolf_.

When Lucien first saw this new-comer, the latter had just espied the
fox, and was about stretching out into a gallop towards him.  The fox,
_watching backwards_ as he ran, had not seen the wolf, until the latter
was within a few springs of him; and now when he had turned, and both
were in full chase, there was not over twenty yards between them.  The
direction in which they ran would bring them near to Lucien; and so they
came, and passed him--neither of them seeming to heed his presence.
They had not got many yards farther, before Lucien perceived that the
wolf was fast closing on the fox, and would soon capture him.  Believing
he would then stop, so as to offer him a fairer chance for a shot,
Lucien followed.  The wolf, however, had noticed him coming after, and
although the next moment he closed his great jaws upon the fox, he did
not pause for a single instant, but, lifting the latter clear up from
the ground, ran on without the slightest apparent diminution of speed!

Reynard was seen to struggle and kick, while he squeaked like a shot
puppy; but his cries each moment grew feebler, and his struggles soon
came to an end.  The wolf held him transversely in his jaws--just as he
himself but the moment before had carried the ermine.

Lucien saw there was no use in following them, as the wolf ran on with
his prey.  With some disappointment, therefore, he was about to return
to the fire, where, to add to his mortification, he knew he would find
his tea-leaves parched to a cinder.  He lingered a moment, however, with
his eyes still fixed upon the departing wolf that was just about to
disappear over the crest of a ridge.  The fox was still in his jaws, but
no longer struggling.  Reynard looked limber and dead, as his legs swung
loosely on both sides of the wolf's head.  Lucien at that moment saw the
latter suddenly stop in his career, and then drop down upon the surface
of the snow as if dead!  He fell with his victim in his jaws, and lay
half doubled up, and quite still.

This strange action would have been a difficult thing for Lucien to
explain, but, almost at the same instant in which he observed it, a puff
of blue smoke shot up over the ridge, and quickly following was heard
the sharp crack of a rifle.  Then a head with its cap of raccoon skin
appeared above the snow, and Lucien, recognising the face of Basil, ran
forward to meet him.

Both soon stood over the body of the dead wolf, wondering at what they
saw; but Basil, far more than Lucien--for the latter already knew the
circumstances of that strange scene of death.  First there was the great
gaunt body of the wolf stretched along the snow, and quite dead.
Crossways in his mouth was the fox, just as he had been carried off; and
across the jaws of the latter, lay the long worm-like body of the
ermine, still retaining between its teeth the half-devoured remains of
the white-footed mouse!  A very chain of destroyers!  These creatures
died as they had lived, preying one upon the other!  Of all four the
little mouse alone was an innocent victim.  The other three, though
morally guilty by the laws of man, yet were only acting in obedience to
the laws of Nature and necessity.  Man himself obeys a similar law, as
Basil had just shown.  Philosophise as we will, we cannot comprehend why
it is so--why Nature requires the sacrifice of one of her creatures for
the sustenance of another.  But although we cannot understand the cause,
we must not condemn the fact as it exists; nor must we suppose, as some
do, that the destruction of God's creatures for our necessities
constitutes a crime.  They who think so, and who, in consistency with
their doctrines, confine themselves to what they term "vegetable" food,
are at best but shallow reasoners.  They have not studied Nature very
closely, else would they know that every time they pluck up a parsnip,
or draw their blade across the leaf of a lettuce, they cause pain and
death!  How much pain we cannot tell; but that the plant feels, as well
as the animal, we can clearly _prove_.  Probably it feels less, and it
may be each kind of plant differs from others in the amount, according
to its higher or lower organism.  Probably its amount of pleasure--its
capability of enjoyment--is in a direct proportion to the pain which it
endures; and it is highly probable that this double line of ratios runs
in an ascending scale throughout the vegetable kingdom, gradually
joining on to what is more strictly termed the "animal."  But these
mysteries of life, my young friend, will be interesting studies for you
when your mind becomes matured.  Perhaps it may be your fortune to
unravel some of them, for the benefit of your fellow-men.  I feel
satisfied that you will not only be a student of Nature, but one of her
great teachers; you will far surpass the author of this little book in
your knowledge of Nature's laws; but it will always be a happiness to
him to reflect, that, when far advanced upon the highway of science, you
will look back to him as one you had passed upon the road, and who
_pointed you to the path_.

Though Basil had shot the wolf, it was plain that it was not the first
nor yet the second time he had discharged his rifle since leaving the
camp.  From his game-bag protruded the curving claws and wing-tips of a
great bird.  In one hand he carried a white hare--not the Polar hare--
but a much smaller kind, also an inhabitant of these snowy regions; and
over his shoulders was slung a fierce-looking creature, the great
wild-cat or lynx of America (_Lynx Canadensis_).  The bird in his bag
was the golden eagle (_Aquila chrysaetos_), one of the few feathered
creatures that brave the fierce winter of a northern climate, and does
not migrate, like its congeners the "white-head" and the osprey, to more
southern regions.

Basil had returned alone--for the three, Basil, Norman, and Francois,
had taken different directions at setting cut.  This they had done, in
order to have as great a number of chances as possible of finding the
game.  Norman came in a few minutes after, bearing a whole deer upon his
shoulders--a glad sight that was--and, a short interval having passed,
Francois's "hurrah" sounded upon their ears, and Francois himself was
seen coming up the valley loaded like a little donkey with two bunches
of large snow-white birds.

The camp now exhibited a cheering sight.  Such a variety was never seen
even in the larder of a palace kitchen.  The ground was strewed with
animals like a dead menagerie.  There were no less than a dozen kinds
upon it!

The hare-soup was now quite ready, and was accordingly served up by
Lucien in the best style.  Lucien had dried a fresh "grist" of the
tea-leaves, and a cheering cup followed; and then the party all sat
around their log-fire, while each of them detailed the history of his
experience since parting with the others.

Francois was the first to relate what had befallen him.



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

THE JERFALCON AND THE WHITE GROUSE.

"Mine," began Francois, "was a bird-adventure, as you all see--though
what kind of birds I've shot I can't tell.  One of them's a hawk, I'm
sure; but it's a _white_ hawk, and that I never saw before.  The rest, I
suppose, are _white_ partridges.  Everything appears to be white here.
What are they, Luce?"

"You are right about this first," answered Lucien, taking up one of the
birds which Francois had brought back with him, and which was white all
but a few spots of clove-brown upon its back.  "This is a hawk, as you
may tell, by its appearance, or rather I should say a `falcon,' for you
must know there is a difference."

"What difference?" demanded Francois, with some eagerness of manner.

"Why the principal difference is the formation of their beaks or bills.
The bills of the true falcons are stronger, and have a notch in the
lower mandible answering to a tooth in the upper one.  Their nostrils,
too, are differently formed.  But another point of distinction is found
in their habits.  Both feed on warm-blooded animals, and neither will
eat carrion.  In this respect the hawks and falcons are alike.  Both
take their prey upon the wing; but herein lies the difference.  The
hawks capture it by skimming along horizontally or obliquely, and
picking it up as they pass; whereas the true falcons `pounce' down upon
it from above, and in a line nearly vertical."

"Then this must be a true falcon," interrupted Francois, "for I saw the
gentleman do that very thing; and beautifully he did it, too."

"It is a falcon," continued Lucien; "and of the many species of hawks
which inhabit North America--over twenty in all--it is one of the
boldest and handsomest.  I don't wonder you never saw it before; for it
is truly a bird of the Northern regions, and does not come so far south
as the territory of the United States, much less into Louisiana.  It is
found in North Europe, Greenland, and Iceland, and has been seen as far
north on both continents as human beings have travelled.  It is known by
the name of `jerfalcon,' or `gyrfalcon,' but its zoological name is
_Falco Islandicus_."

"The Indians here," interposed Norman, "call it by a name that means
`winter bird,' or `winterer'--I suppose, because it is one of the few
that stay in these parts all the year round, and is therefore often
noticed by them in winter time.  The traders sometimes call it the
`speckled partridge-hawk,' for there are some of them more spotted than
this one is."

"True," said Lucien; "the young ones are nearly of a brown colour, and
they first become spotted or mottled after a year or two.  They are
several years old before they get the white plumage, and very few
individuals are seen of a pure white all over, though there are some
without a spot.

"Yes," continued the naturalist, "it is the jerfalcon; and those other
birds which you call `white partridges,' are the _very_ creatures upon
which it preys.  So _you_ have killed both the tyrant and his victims.
They are not partridges though, but grouse--that species known as
`willow-grouse' (_Tetrao saliceti_)."

And as Lucien said this, he began to handle the birds, which were of a
beautiful white all over, with the exception of the tail-feathers.
These last were pitch-black.

"Ho!" exclaimed Lucien, in some surprise, "you have two kinds here!
Were they all together when you shot them?"

"No," answered Francois; "one I shot along with the hawk out in the open
ground.  All the others I killed upon a tree in a piece of woods that I
fell in with.  There's no difference between them that I can see."

"But I can," said Lucien, "although I acknowledge they all look very
much alike.  Both are feathered to the toes--both have the black
feathers in the tail--and the bills of both are black; but if you
observe closely, this kind--the willow-grouse--has the bill much
stronger and less flattened.  Besides, it is a larger bird than the
other, which is the `rock-grouse' (_Tetrao rupestris_).  Both are
sometimes, though erroneously, called `ptarmigan;' but they are not the
true ptarmigan (_Tetrao mutus_)--such as exist in North Europe--though
these last are also to be met with in the Northern parts of America.
The ptarmigan are somewhat larger than either of these kinds, but in
other respects differ but little from them.

"The habits of the `rock' and `willow' grouse are very similar.  They
are both birds of the snowy regions, and are found as far north as has
been explored.  The willow-grouse in winter keep more among the trees,
and are oftener met with in wooded countries; whereas the others like
best to live in the open ground, and, from your statement, it appears
you found each kind in its favourite haunt."

"Just so," said Francois.  "After leaving here, I kept down the valley,
and was just crossing an open piece of high ground, when I espied the
white hawk, or falcon as you call it, hovering in the air as I'd often
seen hawks do.  Well, I stopped and hid behind a rock, thinking I might
have a chance to put a few drops into him.  All at once he appeared to
stand still in the air, and, then closing his wings, shot down like an
arrow.  Just then I heard a loud `_whur-r-r_,' and up started a whole
covey of white partridges--grouse, I should say--the same as this you
call the `rock-grouse.'  I saw that the hawk had missed the whole of
them, and I marked them as they flew off.  They pitched about a hundred
yards or so, and then went plunge under the snow--every one of them
making a hole for itself just like where one had poked their foot in!  I
guess, boys, this looked funny enough.  I thought I would be sure to get
a shot at some of these grouse as they came out again; so I walked
straight up to the holes they had made, and stood waiting.  I still saw
the hawk hovering in the air, about an hundred yards ahead of me.

"I was considering whether I ought to go farther on, and tramp the birds
out of the snow; for I believed, of course, they were still under the
place where the holes were.  All at once I noticed a movement on the
crust of the snow right under where the hawk was flying, and then that
individual shot down to the spot, and disappeared under the snow!  At
the same instant, the crust broke in several places, and up came the
grouse one after another, and whirred off out of sight, without giving
me any sort of a chance.  The hawk, however, had not come up yet; and I
ran forward, determined to take him as soon as he should make his
appearance.  When I had got within shooting distance, up he fluttered to
the surface, and--what do you think?--he had one of the grouse
struggling in his claws!  I let him have the right barrel, and both he
and grousy were knocked dead as a couple of door-nails!

"I thought I might fall in with the others again; and kept on in the
direction they had taken, which brought me at last to a piece of
woodland consisting of birches and willow-trees.  As I was walking along
the edge of this, I noticed one of the willows, at some distance off,
covered with great white things, that at first I took for flakes of
snow; but then I thought it curious that none of the other trees had the
same upon them.  As I came a little nearer, I noticed one of the things
moving, and then I saw they were birds, and very like the same I had
just seen, and was then in search of.  So I crept in among the trees;
and, after some dodging, got within beautiful shooting distance, and
gave them both barrels.  There, you see the result!"

Here Francois triumphantly pointed to the pile of birds, which in all,
with the jerfalcon, counted four brace and a half.

One was the rock-grouse, which the falcon had itself killed, and the
others were willow-grouse, as Lucien had stated.  Francois now remained
silent, while Basil related his day's adventure.



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

THE HARE, THE LYNX, AND THE GOLDEN EAGLE.

"Frank," began he, "has called his a `bird-adventure.'  I might give
mine somewhat of the same title, for there was a bird mixed up with it--
the noblest of all birds--the eagle.  But you shall hear it.

"On leaving the camp, I went, as you all know, up the valley.  After
travelling for a quarter of a mile or so, I came upon a wide open
bottom, where there were some scattered willows and clumps of dwarf
birch-trees.  As Luce had told me that such are the favourite food of
the American hare, or, as we call it in Louisiana, `rabbit,' I looked
out for the sign of one, and, sure enough, I soon came upon a track,
which I knew to be that of `puss.'  It was fresh enough, and I followed
it.  It kept me meandering about for a long while, till at last I saw
that it took a straight course for some thick brushwood, with two or
three low birches growing out of it.  As I made sure of finding the game
there, I crept forward _very_ quietly, holding Marengo in the leash.
But the hare was not in the brush; and, after tramping all through it, I
again noticed the track where she had gone out on the opposite side.  I
was about starting forth to follow it, when all at once an odd-looking
creature made its appearance right before me.  It was that fellow
there!"  And Basil pointed to the lynx.  "I thought at first sight,"
continued he, "it was our Louisiana wild-cat or bay lynx, as Luce calls
it, for it is very like our cat; but I saw it was nearly twice as big,
and more greyish in the fur.  Well, when I first sighted the creature,
it was about an hundred yards off.  It hadn't seen me, though, for it
was not running away, but skulking along slowly--nearly crosswise to the
course of the hare's track--and looking in a different direction to that
in which I was.  I was well screened behind the bushes, and that, no
doubt, prevented it from noticing me.  At first I thought of running
forward, and setting Marengo after it.  Then I determined on staying
where I was, and watching it a while.  Perhaps it may come to a stop,
reflected I, and let me creep within shot.  I remained, therefore,
crouching among the bushes, and kept the dog at my feet.

"As I continued to watch the cat, I saw that, instead of following a
straight line, it was moving in a circle!

"The diameter of this circle was not over an hundred yards; and in a
very short while the animal had got once round the circumference, and
came back to where I had first seen it.  It did not stop there, but
continued on, though not in its old tracks.  It still walked in a
circle, but a much smaller one than before.  Both, however, had a common
centre; and, as I noticed that the animal kept its eyes constantly
turned towards the centre, I felt satisfied that in that place would be
found the cause of its strange manoeuvring.  I looked to the centre.  At
first I could see nothing--at least nothing that might be supposed to
attract the cat.  There was a very small bush of willows, but they were
thin.  I could see distinctly through them, and there was no creature
there, either in the bush or around it.  The snow lay white up to the
roots of the willows, and I thought that a mouse could hardly have found
shelter among them, without my seeing it from where I stood.  Still I
could not explain the odd actions of the lynx, upon any other principle
than that it was in the pursuit of game; and I looked again, and
carefully examined every inch of the ground as my eyes passed over it.
This time I discovered what the animal was after.  Close in to the
willows appeared two little parallel streaks of a dark colour, just
rising above the surface of the snow.  I should not have noticed them
had there not been two of them, and these slanting in the same
direction.  They had caught my eyes before, but I had taken them for the
points of broken willows.  I now saw that they were the ears of some
animal, and I thought that once or twice they moved slightly while I was
regarding them.  After looking at them steadily for a time, I made out
the shape of a little head underneath.  It was white, but there was a
round dark spot in the middle, which I knew to be an eye.  There was no
body to be seen.  That was under the snow, but it was plain enough that
what I saw was the head of a hare.  At first I supposed it to be a Polar
hare--such as we had just killed--but the tracks I had followed were not
those of the Polar hare.  Then I remembered that the `rabbit' of the
United States also turns white in the winter of the Northern regions.
This, then, must be the American rabbit, thought I.

"Of course my reflections did not occupy all the time I have taken in
describing them.  Only a moment or so.  All the while the lynx was
moving round and round the circle, but still getting nearer to the hare
that appeared eagerly to watch it.  I remembered how Norman had
manoeuvred to get within shot of the Polar hare; and I now saw the very
same _ruse_ being practised by a dumb creature, that is supposed to have
no other guide than instinct.  But I had seen the `bay lynx' of
Louisiana do some `dodges' as cunning as that,--such as claying his feet
to make the hounds lose the scent, and, after running backwards and
forwards upon a fallen log, leap into the tops of trees, and get off in
that way.  Believing that his Northern cousin was just as artful as
himself," (here Basil looked significantly at the "Captain,") "I did not
so much wonder at the performance I now witnessed.  Nevertheless, I felt
a great curiosity to see it out.  But for this curiosity I could have
shot the lynx every time he passed me on the nearer edge of the circle.
Round and round he went, then, until he was not twenty feet from the
hare, that, strange to say, seemed to regard this the worst of her
enemies more with wonder than fear.  The lynx at length stopped
suddenly, brought his four feet close together, arched his back like an
angry cat, and then with one immense bound, sprang forward upon his
victim.  The hare had only time to leap out of her form, and the second
spring of the lynx brought him right upon the top of her.  I could hear
the child-like scream which the American rabbit always utters when thus
seized; but the cloud of snow-spray raised above the spot prevented me
for a while from seeing either lynx or hare.  The scream was stifled in
a moment, and when the snow-spray cleared off, I saw that the lynx held
the hare under his paws, and that `puss' was quite dead.

"I was considering how I might best steal up within shooting distance,
when, all at once, I heard another scream of a very different sort.  At
the same time a dark shadow passed over the snow.  I looked up, and
there, within fifty yards of the ground, a great big bird was wheeling
about.  I knew it to be an eagle from its shape; and at first I fancied
it was a young one of the white-headed kind--for, as you are aware,
these do not have either the white head or tail until they are several
years old.  Its immense size, however, showed that it could not be one
of these.  It must be the great `_golden' eagle_ of the Rocky Mountains,
thought I.

"When I first noticed it, I fancied that it had been after the rabbit;
and, seeing the latter pounced upon by another preying creature, had
uttered its scream at being thus disappointed of its prey.  I expected,
therefore, to see it fly off.  To my astonishment it broke suddenly out
of the circles in which it had been so gracefully wheeling, and, with
another scream wilder than before, darted down towards the lynx!

"The latter, on hearing the first cry of the eagle, had started, dropped
his prey, and looked up.  In the eagle he evidently recognised an
antagonist, for his back suddenly became arched, his fur bristled up,
his short tail moved quickly from side to side, and he stood with
glaring eyes, and claws ready to receive the attack.

"As the eagle came down, its legs and claws were thrown forward, and I
could then tell it was not a bald eagle, nor the great `Washington
eagle,' nor yet a fishing eagle of any sort, which both of these are.
The fishing eagles, as Lucien had told me, _have always naked legs_,
while those of the true eagles are more feathered.  So were his, but
beyond the feathers I could see his great curved talons, as he struck
forward at the lynx.  He evidently touched and wounded the animal, but
the wound only served to make it more angry; and I could hear it purring
and spitting like a tom-cat, only far louder.  The eagle again mounted
back into the air, but soon wheeled round and shot down a second time.
This time the lynx sprang forward to meet it, and I could hear the
concussion of their bodies as they came together.  I think the eagle
must have been crippled, so that it could not fly up again, for the
fight from that time was carried on upon the ground.  The lynx seemed
anxious to grasp some part of his antagonist's body--and at times I
thought he had succeeded--but then he was beaten off again by the bird,
that fought furiously with wings, beak, and talons.  The lynx now
appeared to be the attacking party, as I saw him repeatedly spring
forward at the eagle, while the latter always received him upon its
claws, lying with its back upon the snow.  Both fur and feathers flew in
every direction, and sometimes the combatants were so covered with the
snow-spray that I could see neither of them.

"I watched the conflict for several minutes, until it occurred to me,
that my best time to get near enough for a shot was just while they were
in the thick of it, and not likely to heed me.  I therefore moved
silently out of the bushes; and, keeping Marengo in the string, crept
forward.  I had but the one bullet to give them, and with that I could
not shoot both; but I knew that the quadruped was eatable, and, as I was
not sure about the bird, I very easily made choice, and shot the lynx.
To my surprise the eagle did not fly _off_, and I now saw that one of
its wings was disabled!  He was still strong enough, however, to scratch
Marengo severely before the latter could master him.  As to the lynx, he
had been roughly handled.  His skin was torn in several places, and one
of his eyes, as you see, regularly `gouged out.'"

Here Basil ended his narration; and after an interval, during which some
fresh wood was chopped and thrown upon the fire, Norman, in turn,
commenced relating what had befallen him.



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

THE "ALARM BIRD" AND THE CARIBOU.

"There wasn't much `adventure' in my day's sport," said he, "though I
might call it a `bird-adventure' too, for if it hadn't been for a bird I
shouldn't have had it.  I shot a deer--that's all.  But maybe it would
be curious for you to know how I came to find the animal, so I'll tell
you.

"The first thing I did after leaving here was to climb the hill
yonder,"--here Norman pointed to a long hill that sloped up from the
opposite shore of the lake, and which was the direction he had taken, as
Basil and Francois had gone right and left.

"I saw neither bird, beast, nor track, until I had reached the top of
the hill.  There I got a good view of the country ahead.  I saw it was
very rocky, without a stick of timber, and did not look very promising
for game.  `It's no use going that way,' I says to myself; `I'll keep
along the ridge, above where Frank's gone.  He may drive some varmint
out of the hollow, and I'll get a crack at it, as it comes over the
hill.'

"I was about to turn to the left when I heard the skreek of a bird away
ahead of me.  I looked in that direction; and, sure enough, saw one
wheeling about in the air, right above the rocky jumble with which the
country was covered.

"Now it's a mighty curious bird that I saw.  It's a sort of an owl, but,
I should say myself, there's a sprinkling of the hawk in it--for it's as
much like the one as the other."

"No doubt," interrupted Lucien, "it was one of the day owls of these
Northern regions, some of which approach very near to the hawks, both in
shape and habits.  This peculiarity arises from the fact of the long
summer day--of weeks in duration--within the Arctic circle, requiring
them to hunt for their prey, just as hawks do; and therefore Nature has
gifted them with certain peculiarities that make them resemble these
birds.  They want the very broad faces and large tufted heads of the
true owls; besides the ears, which in the latter are remarkable for
their size, and also for being operculated, or with lids, in the former
are not much larger than in other birds of prey.  The small hawk-owl
(_Strix funerea_), which is altogether a Northern bird, is one of this
kind."

"Very well," continued Norman, "what you say may be very true, cousin
Luce; I only know that the bird I am speaking about is a mighty curious
little creature.  It ain't bigger than a pigeon, and is of a
mottled-brown colour; but what I call it curious for is this:--Whenever
it sees any creature passing from place to place, it mounts up into the
air, and hovers above them, keeping up a constant screeching, like the
squalling of a child--and that's anything but agreeable.  It does so,
not only in the neighbourhood of its nest--like the plover and some
other birds--but it will sometimes follow a travelling party for hours
together, and for miles across the country.  From this circumstance the
Indians of these parts call it the `alarm bird,' or `bird of warning,'
because it often makes them aware of the approach either of their
enemies or of strangers.  Sometimes it alarms and startles the game,
while the hunter is crawling up to it; and I have known it to bother
myself for a while of a day, when I was after grouse.  It's a great
favourite with the Indians though--as it often guides them to deer, or
musk-oxen, by its flying and screaming above where these animals are
feeding.

"Just in the same way it guided me.  I knew, from the movements of the
bird, that there must be something among the rocks.  I couldn't tell
what, but I hoped it would turn out to be some creature that was
eatable; so I changed my intention, and struck out for the place where
it was.

"It was a good half-mile from the hill, and it cost me considerable
clambering over the rocks, before I reached the ground.  I thought to
get near enough to see what it was, without drawing the bird upon
myself, and I crouched from hummock to hummock; but the sharp-eyed
creature caught sight of me, and came screeching over my head.  I kept
on without noticing it; but as I was obliged to go round some large
rocks, I lost the direction, and soon found myself wandering back into
my own trail.  I could do nothing, therefore, until the bird should
leave me, and fly back to whatever had first set it a-going.  In order
that it might do so, I crept in under a big stone that jutted out, and
lay quiet a bit, watching it.  It soon flew off, and commenced wheeling
about in the air, not more than three hundred yards from where I lay.
This time I took good bearings, and then went on.  I did not care for
the bird to guide me any longer, for I observed there was an open spot
ahead, and I was sure that there I would see something.  And sure enough
I did.  On peeping round the end of a rock, I spied a herd of about
fifty deer.  They were reindeer, of course, as there are no others upon
the `Barren Grounds,' and I saw they were all does--for at this season
the bucks keep altogether in the woods.  Some of them were pawing the
snow to get at the moss, while others were standing by the rocks, and
tearing off the lichens with their teeth.  It so happened that I had the
wind of them, else they would have scented me and made off, for I was
within a hundred yards of the nearest.  I was not afraid of their taking
fright, so long as they could only see part of my body--for these deer
are so stupid, or rather so curious, that almost anything will draw them
within shot.  Knowing this, I practised a trick that had often helped me
before; and that was to move the barrel of my gun, up and down, with the
same sort of motion as the deer make with their horns, when rubbing
their necks against a rock or tree.  If I'd had a set of antlers, it
would have been all the better; but the other answered well enough.  It
happened the animals were not very wild, as, likely, they hadn't been
hunted for a good while.  I bellowed at the same time,--for I know how
to imitate their call--and, in less than a minute's time, I got several
of them within range.  Then I took aim, and knocked one over, and the
rest ran off.  That," said Norman, "ended my adventure--unless you call
the carrying a good hundred pounds weight of deer-meat all the way back
to camp part of it.  If so, I can assure you that it was by far the most
unpleasant part."

Here Norman finished his narration, and a conversation was carried on
upon the subject of reindeer, or, as these animals are termed, in
America, "caribou."

Lucien said that the reindeer (_Cervus tarandus_) is found in the
Northern regions of Europe and Asia as well as in America, but that
there were several varieties of them, and perhaps there were different
species.  Those of Lapland are most celebrated, because they not only
draw sledges, but also furnish food, clothing, and many other
commodities for their owners.  In the north of Asia, the Tungusians have
a much larger sort, which they ride upon; and the Koreki, who dwell upon
the borders of Kamschatka, possess vast herds of reindeer--some rich
individuals owning as many as ten or twenty thousand!

It is not certain that the reindeer of America is exactly the same as
either of the kinds mentioned; and indeed in America itself there are
two very distinct kinds--perhaps a third.  Two kinds are well-known,
that differ from each other in size, and also in habits.  One is the
"Barren Ground caribou," and the other, the "Woodland caribou."  The
former is one of the smallest of the deer kind--the bucks weighing
little over one hundred pounds.  As its name implies, it frequents the
Barren Grounds, although in winter it also seeks the shelter of wooded
tracts.  Upon the Barren Grounds, and the desolate shores and islands of
the Arctic Sea, it is the only kind of deer found, except at one or two
points, as the mouth of the Mackenzie River--which happens to be a
wooded country, and there the moose also is met with.  Nature seems to
have gifted the Barren Ground caribou with such tastes and habits, that
a fertile country and a genial clime would not be a pleasant home for
it.  It seems adapted to the bleak, sterile countries in which it
dwells, and where its favourite food--the mosses and lichens--is found.
In the short summer of the Arctic regions, it ranges still farther
north; and its traces have been found wherever the Northern navigators
have gone.  It must remain among the icy islands of the Arctic Sea until
winter be considerably advanced, or until the sea is so frozen as to
allow it to get back to the shores of the continent.

The "Woodland caribou" is a larger variety--a Woodland doe being about
as big as a Barren Ground buck--although the horns of the latter species
are larger and more branching than those of the former.  The Woodland
kind are found around the shores of Hudson's Bay, and in other wooded
tracts that lie in the southern parts of the fur countries--into which
the Barren Ground caribou never penetrates.  They also migrate annually,
but, strange to say, their spring migrations are southward, while, at
the same season, their cousins of the Barren Grounds are making their
way northward to the shores of the Arctic Sea.  This is a very singular
difference in their habits, and along with their difference in bulk,
form, etcetera, entitles them to be ranked as separate species of deer.
The flesh of the Woodland caribou is not esteemed so good an article of
food as that of the other; and, as it inhabits a district where many
large animals are found, it is not considered of so much importance in
the economy of human life.  The "Barren Ground caribou," on the other
hand, is an indispensable animal to various tribes of Indians, as well
as to the Esquimaux.  Without it, these people would be unable to dwell
where they do; and although they have not domesticated it, and trained
it to draught, like the Laplanders, it forms their main source of
subsistence, and there is no part of its body which they do not turn to
some useful purpose.  Of its horns they form their fish-spears and
hooks, and, previous to the introduction of iron by the Europeans, their
ice-chisels and various other utensils.  Their scraping or currying
knives are made from the split shin-bones.  The skins make their
clothing, tent-covers, beds, and blankets.  The raw-hide, cleared of the
hair and cut into thongs, serves for snares, bow-strings, net-lines, and
every other sort of ropes.  The finer thongs make netting for
snow-shoes--an indispensable article to these people--and of these
thongs fish-nets are also woven; while the tendons of the muscles, when
split, serve for fine sewing-thread.  Besides these uses, the flesh of
the caribou is the food of many tribes, Indians and Esquimaux, for most
of the year; and, indeed, it may be looked upon as their staple article
of subsistence.  There is hardly any part of it (even the horns, when
soft) that is not eaten and relished by them.  Were it not for the
immense herds of these creatures that roam over the country, they would
soon be exterminated--for they are easily approached, and the Indians
have very little difficulty, during the summer season, in killing as
many as they please.

Norman next gave a description of the various modes of hunting the
caribou practised by the Indians and Esquimaux; such as driving them
into a pound, snaring them, decoying and shooting them with arrows, and
also a singular way which the Esquimaux have of taking them in a
pit-trap built in the snow.

"The sides of the trap," said he, "are built of slabs of snow, cut as if
to make a snow-house.  An inclined plane of snow leads to the entrance
of the pit, which is about five feet deep, and large enough within to
hold several deer.  The exterior of the trap is banked up on all sides
with snow; but so steep are these sides left, that the deer can only get
up by the inclined plane which leads to the entrance.  A great slab of
snow is then placed over the mouth of the pit, and revolves on two axles
of wood.  This slab will carry the deer until it has passed the line of
the axles, when its weight overbalances one side, and the animal is
precipitated into the pit.  The slab then comes back into a horizontal
position as before, and is ready to receive another deer.  The animals
are attracted by moss and lichens placed for them on the opposite side
of the trap--in such a way that they cannot be reached without crossing
the slab.  In this sort of trap several deer are frequently caught
during a single day."

Norman knew another mode of hunting practised by the Esquimaux, and
proposed that the party should proceed in search of the herd upon the
following day; when, should they succeed in finding the deer, he would
show them how the thing was done: and he had no doubt of their being
able to make a good hunt of it.  All agreed to this proposal, as it
would be of great importance to them to kill a large number of these
animals.  It is true they had now provision enough to serve for several
days--but there were perhaps months, not days, to be provided for.  They
believed that they could not be far from the wooded countries near the
banks of the Mackenzie, as some kinds of the animal they had met with
were only to be found near timber during the winter season.  But what of
that?  Even on the banks of the great river itself they might not
succeed in procuring game.  They resolved, therefore, to track the herd
of deer which Norman had seen; and for this purpose they agreed to make
a stay of some days at their present camp.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

A BATTLE WITH WOLVES.

Next morning they were up by early daybreak.  The days were now only a
few hours in length, for it was mid-winter, and they were but three or
four degrees south of the Arctic circle.  Of course they would require
all the day for the intended hunt of the caribou, as they might have to
follow the track of the herd for many miles before coming up with the
animals.  Lucien was to remain by the camp, as it would never do to
leave the animals they had already lulled without some guard.  To have
hung them on the trees, would have put them out of the reach of both
wolves and foxes; but the lynx and wolverene are both tree-climbers, and
could easily have got at them there.  They had reason to believe there
were wolverenes about; for these fierce and destructive beasts are found
in every part of the fur countries--wherever there exist other animals
upon which they can prey.  Eagles, hawks, and owls, moreover, would have
picked the partridges from the branches of the trees without difficulty.
One proposed burying them in the snow; but Norman assured them that the
Arctic foxes could scent them out, and dig them up in a few minutes.
Then it was suggested to cover them under a pile of stones, as there
were plenty of these lying about.  To this Norman also objected, saying
that the wolverene could pull off any stones they were able to pile upon
them--as this creature in its fore-legs possesses more than the strength
of a man.  Besides, it was not unlikely that one of the great brown
bears,--a species entirely different from either the black or grizzly
bears, and which is only met with on the Barren Grounds--might come
ranging that way; and he could soon toss over any stone-heap they might
build.  On the whole it was better that one of the four should remain by
the camp; and Lucien, who cared less about hunting than any of them,
willingly agreed to be the one.

Their arrangements were soon completed, and the three hunters set out.
They did not go straight towards the place where Norman had found the
deer upon the preceding day, but took a cross-cut over the hills.  This
was by Norman's advice, who guided himself by the wind--which had not
changed since the previous day.  He knew that the caribou in feeding
always travel _against_ the wind; and he expected therefore to find them
somewhere in the direction from which it was blowing.  Following a
course, which angled with that of the wind, they kept on, expecting soon
to strike the trail of the herd.

Meanwhile Lucien, left to himself, was not idle.  He had to prepare the
flesh of the different animals, so as to render it fit to be carried
along.  Nothing was required farther than to skin and cut them up.
Neither salting nor drying was necessary, for the flesh of one and all
had got frozen as stiff as a stone, and in this way it would keep during
the whole winter.  The wolf was skinned with the others, but this was
because his fine skin was wanted.  His flesh was not intended to be
eaten--although only a day or two before any one of the party would have
been glad of such a meal.  Not only the Indians, but the voyageurs and
fur-traders, while journeying through these inhospitable wilds, are
often but too delighted to get a dinner of wolf-meat.  The ermine and
the little mouse were the only other creatures of the collection that
were deemed uneatable.  As to the Arctic fox and the lynx, the flesh of
both these creatures is highly esteemed, and is white and tender, almost
as much so as the hares upon which they feed.  The snowy owl too, the
jerfalcon, and the eagle, were looked upon as part of the larder--the
flesh of all being almost as good as that of the grouse.  Had it been a
fishing eagle--such as the bald-head--the case would have been
different, for these last, on account of their peculiar food, taste rank
and disagreeable.  But there was no danger of their falling in with a
fishing eagle at that place.  These can only exist where there is _open_
water.  Hence the cause of their annual migrations to the southward,
when the lakes and rivers of the fur countries become covered with their
winter ice.

Though Lucien remained quietly at the camp he was not without adventures
to keep him from wearying.  While he was singeing his grouse his eye
happened to fall upon the shadow of a bird passing over the snow.  On
looking up he saw a very large bird, nearly as big as an eagle, flying
softly about in wide circles.  It was of a mottled-brown colour; but its
short neck and great round head told the naturalist at a glance that it
was a bird of the owl genus.  It was the largest of the kind that Lucien
had ever seen, and was, in fact, the largest known in America--the
"great cinereous owl" (_Strix cinerea_).  Now and then it would alight
upon a rock or tree, at the distance of an hundred yards or so from the
camp; where it would watch the operations of Lucien, evidently inclined
to help him in dissecting some of the animals.  Whenever he took up his
gun and tried to approach within shot, it would rise into the air again,
always keeping out of range.  Lucien was provoked at this--for he
wished, as a naturalist, to examine the bird, and for this purpose to
kill it, of course; but the owl seemed determined that he should do no
such thing.

At length, however, Lucien resolved upon a plan to decoy the creature
within shot.  Taking up one of the grouse, he flung it out upon the snow
some thirty yards from the fire.  No sooner had he done so, than the
owl, at sight of the tempting morsel, left aside both its shyness and
prudence, and sailed gently forward; then, hovering for a moment over
the ground, hooked the grouse upon its claws, and was about to carry it
off, when a bullet from Lucien's rifle, just in the "nick of time," put
a stop to its further flight, and dropped the creature dead upon the
snow.

Lucien picked it up and brought it to the camp, where he passed some
time in making notes upon its size, colour, and other peculiarities.
The owl measured exactly two feet in length from the point of the bill
to the end of the tail; and its "alar spread," as naturalists term it,
was full five feet in extent.  It was of a clove-brown colour,
beautifully mottled with white, and its bill and eyes were of a bright
gamboge yellow.  Like all of its tribe that winter in the Arctic wilds,
it was feathered to the toes.  Lucien reflected that this species lives
more in the woods than the "great snowy owl," and, as he had heard, is
never found far out on the Barren Grounds during winter.  This fact,
therefore, was a pleasant one to reflect upon, for it confirmed the
testimony which the travellers had already obtained from several of the
other creatures they had killed--that is to say, that they must be in
the neighbourhood of some timbered country.

Lucien had hardly finished his examination of the owl when he was called
upon to witness another incident of a much more exciting nature.  A
hill, as already mentioned, or rather a ridge, rose up from the opposite
shore of the lake by which the camp was pitched.  The declivity of this
hill fronted the lake, and sloped gradually back from the edge of the
water.  Its whole face was smooth and treeless, covered with a layer of
pure snow.  The camp commanded a full view of it up to its very crest.

As Lucien was sitting quietly by the fire a singular sound, or rather
continuation of sounds, fell upon his ear.  It somewhat resembled the
baying of hounds at a distance; and at first he was inclined to believe
that it was Marengo on a view-hunt after the deer.  On listening more
attentively, however, he observed that the sounds came from more than
one animal; and also, that they bore more resemblance to the howling of
wolves than the deep-toned bay of a bloodhound.  This, in fact, it was;
for the next moment a caribou shot up over the crest of the hill, and
was seen stretching at full gallop down the smooth declivity in the
direction of the lake.  Not twenty paces in its rear followed a string
of howling animals, evidently in pursuit of it.  There were a dozen of
them in all, and they were running exactly like hounds upon the "view
holloa."  Lucien saw at a glance they were wolves.  Most of them were
dappled-grey and white, while some were of a pure white colour.  Any one
of them was nearly as large as the caribou itself; for in these parts--
around Great Slave Lake--the wolf grows to his largest size.

The caribou gained upon them as it bounded down the <DW72> of the hill.
It was evidently making for the lake, believing, no doubt, that the
black ice upon its surface was water, and that in that element it would
have the advantage of its pursuers, for the caribou is a splendid
swimmer.  Nearly all deer when hunted take to the water--to throw off
the dogs, or escape from men--and to this habit the reindeer makes no
exception.

Down the hill swept the chase, Lucien having a full view both of
pursuers and pursued.  The deer ran boldly.  It seemed to have gathered
fresh confidence at sight of the lake, while the same object caused its
pursuers a feeling of disappointment.  They knew they were no match for
a caribou in the water, as no doubt many a one had escaped them in that
element.  It is not likely, however, that they made reflections of this
sort.  There was but little time.  From the moment of their appearance
upon the crest of the hill till the chase arrived at the edge of the
lake, was but a few seconds.  On reaching the shore the caribou made no
stop; but bounded forward in the same way as if it had been springing
upon water.  Most likely it expected to hear a plunge; but, instead of
that, its hoofs came down upon the hard ice; and, by the impulse thus
given, the animal shot out with the velocity of a skater.  Strange to
say, it still kept its feet; but, now seemingly overcome by surprise,
and knowing the advantage its pursuers would have over it upon the
slippery ice, it began to plunge and flounder, and once or twice came to
its knees.  The hungry pursuers appeared to recognise their advantage at
once, for their howling opened with a fresh burst, and they quickened
their pace.  Their sharp claws enabled them to gallop over the ice at
top speed; and one large brute that led the pack soon came up with the
deer, sprang upon it, and bit it in the flank.  This brought the deer
upon its haunches, and at once put an end to the chase.  The animal was
hardly down upon the ice, when the foremost wolves coming up
precipitated themselves upon its body, and began to devour it.

It was about the middle of the lake where the caribou had been
overtaken.  At the time it first reached the ice, Lucien had laid hold
of his rifle and run forward in order to meet the animal halfway, and,
if possible, get a shot at it.  Now that the creature was killed, he
continued on with the design of driving off the wolves, and securing the
carcass of the deer for himself.  He kept along the ice until he was
within less than twenty yards of the pack, when, seeing that the fierce
brutes had torn the deer to pieces, and perceiving, moreover, that they
exhibited no fear of himself, he began to think he might be in danger by
advancing any nearer.  Perhaps a shot from his rifle would scatter them,
and without further reflection he raised the piece, and fired.  One of
the wolves kicked over upon the ice, and lay quite dead; but the others,
to Lucien's great surprise, instead of being frightened off, immediately
sprang upon their dead companion, and commenced tearing and devouring
it, just as they had done the deer!

The sight filled Lucien with alarm; which was increased at seeing
several of the wolves--that had been beaten by the others from the
quarry--commence making demonstrations towards himself!  Lucien now
trembled for his safety, and no wonder.  He was near the middle of the
lake upon slippery ice.  To attempt running back to the camp would be
hazardous; the wolves could overtake him before he had got halfway, and
he felt certain that any signs of fear on his part would be the signal
for the fierce brutes to assail him.

For some moments he was irresolute how to act.  He had commenced loading
his gun, but his fingers were numbed with the cold, and it was a good
while before he could get the piece ready for a second fire.  He
succeeded at length.  He did not fire then, but resolved to keep the
charge for a more desperate crisis.  Could he but reach the camp there
were trees near it, and one of these he might climb.  This was his only
hope, in case the wolves attacked him, and he knew it was.  Instead of
turning and running for this point, he began to back for it stealthily
and with caution, keeping his front all the while towards the wolves,
and his eyes fixed upon them.  He had not got many yards, when he
perceived to his horror, that the whole pack were in motion, and _coming
after him_!  It was a terrible sight, and Lucien, seeing that by
retreating he only drew them on, stopped and held his rifle in a
threatening attitude.  The wolves were now within twenty yards of him;
but, instead of moving any longer directly towards him, they broke into
two lines, swept past on opposite sides of him, and then circling round,
met each other in his rear.  _His retreat was cut off_!

He now stood upon the ice with the fierce wolves forming a ring around
him, whose diameter was not the six lengths of his gun, and _every_
moment growing shorter and shorter.  The prospect was appalling.  It
would have caused the stoutest heart to quail, and Lucien's was
terrified.  He shouted at the top of his voice.  He fired his rifle at
the nearest.  The brute fell, but the others showed no symptoms of fear;
they only grew more furious.  Lucien clubbed his gun--the last resort in
such cases--and laid around him with all his might; but he was in danger
of slipping upon the ice, and his efforts were feeble.  Once down he
never would have risen again, for his fierce assailants would have
sprung upon him like tigers.  As it was, he felt but little hope.  He
believed himself lost.  The teeth of the ferocious monsters gleamed
under his eyes.  He was growing weaker and weaker, yet still he battled
on, and swept his gun around him with the energy of despair.  Such a
struggle could not have continued much longer.  Lucien's fate would have
been sealed in a very few minutes more, had not relief arrived in some
shape or other.  But it did come.  A loud shout was heard upon the hill;
and Lucien, glancing suddenly towards it, saw several forms rushing
downward to the lake!  It was the hunting party returned, and in a
moment more they were crossing the ice to his rescue.  Lucien gaining
confidence fought with fresh vigour.  The wolves busy in their attack
had either not heard or were regardless of the new-comers; but the
"crack, crack" of the guns--repeated no less than four times--and then
the nearer reports of pistols, made a speedy impression upon the brutes,
and in a short while half their number were seen tumbling and kicking
upon the ice.  The rest, uttering their hideous howls, took to flight,
and soon disappeared from the valley; and Lucien, half dead with
fatigue, staggered into the arms of his deliverers.

No less than seven of the wolves were killed in the affray--two of which
Lucien had shot himself.  One or two were only wounded, but so badly,
that they could not get away; and these were handed over to the tender
mercies of Marengo, who amused himself for some time after by worrying
them to death.

The hunting party had made a good day of it.  They had fallen in with
the caribou, and had killed three of them.  These they were bringing to
camp, but had dropped them upon the hill, on perceiving the perilous
position of Lucien.  They now went back, and having carried the deer to
their camping-place, were soon engaged in the pleasant occupation of
eating a savoury dinner.  Lucien soon recovered from his fright and
fatigue, and amused his companions by giving an account of the
adventures that had befallen him in their absence.



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

END OF THE "VOYAGE."

Our party remained several days at this place, until they had made a
fresh stock of "pemmican" from the flesh of the caribou, several more of
which they succeeded in killing; and then, arranging everything anew,
and taking with them such skins as they wanted, they continued their
journey.

They had two days' hard travelling through a rocky mountainous country,
where they could not find a stick of wood to cook their meals with, and
were exposed to cold more than at any other place.  Both Francois and
Lucien had their faces frost-bitten; but they were cured by Norman, who
prevented them from going near a fire until he had well rubbed the parts
with soft snow.

The rocks through which they passed were in many places covered with the
_tripe de roche (Gyrophora_) of several species; but our voyageurs cared
nothing about it so long as their pemmican lasted, and of that each of
them had nearly as much as he could carry.

In the most dreary part of the mountains they chanced upon a herd of
those curious animals, the musk-oxen, and shot one of them; but the meat
tasted so rank, and smelt so strongly of musk, that the whole of it was
left to the wolves, foxes, and other preying creatures of these parts.

On the third day, after leaving their camp by the lake, a pleasant
prospect opened before them.  It was the valley of the Mackenzie,
stretching to the west, and extending north and south as far as the eye
could reach, covered with forests of pine and poplar, and other large
trees.  Of course the landscape was a winter one, as the river was bound
up in ice, and the trees themselves were half-white with frozen snow;
but after the dreary scenery of the Barren Grounds, even this appeared
warm and summer-like.  There was no longer any danger they should be
without a good fire to cook their dinners, or warm themselves at, and a
wooded country offers a better prospect of game.  The sight, therefore,
of a great forest was cheering; and our travellers, in high spirits,
planted their tent upon the banks of the great Northern river.  They had
still many hundred miles to go before arriving at their destination; but
they determined to continue their journey without much delay, following
the river as a guide.  No more "near cuts" were to be taken in future.
They had learned, from their recent experience, that "the shortest way
across is sometimes the longest way round," and they resolved to profit
by the lesson.  I hope, boy reader, you too will remember it.

After reaching the Mackenzie the voyageurs halted one day, and upon the
next commenced their journey down-stream.  Sometimes they kept upon the
bank, but at times, for a change, they travelled upon the ice of the
river.  There was no danger of its giving way under them, for it was
more than a foot in thickness, and would have supported a loaded waggon
and horses, without even cracking.

They were now drawing near the Arctic circle, and the days grew shorter
and shorter as they advanced.  But this did not much interfere with
their travelling.  The long nights of the Polar regions are not like
those of more Southern latitudes.  They are sometimes so clear, that one
may read the smallest print.  What with the coruscations of the aurora
borealis, and the cheerful gleaming of the Northern constellations, one
may travel without difficulty throughout the livelong night.  I am sure,
my young friend, you have made good use of your globes, and need not be
told that the length of both nights and days, as you approach the pole,
depends upon two things--the latitude of the place, and the season of
the year; and were you to spend a whole year _leaning against the pole
itself_, (!) you would _live but one day and one night_--each of them
six months in length.

But no doubt you know all these things without my telling you of them,
and you are impatient to hear not about that, but whether the young
voyageurs safely reached the end of their journey.  That question I
answer briefly at once--they did.

Some distance below the point where they had struck the Mackenzie, they
fell in with a winter encampment of Dog-rib Indians.  Some of these
people had been to the Fort to trade; and Norman being known to them, he
and his Southern cousins were received with much hospitality.  All their
wants were provided for, as far as it lay in the power of these poor
people to do; but the most valuable thing obtained from the Indians was
a full set of dogs and dog-sledges for the whole party.  These were
furnished by the chief, upon the understanding that he should be paid
for them on his next visit to the Fort.  Although the reindeer of North
America are not trained to the sledge by the Esquimaux and Indians,
several kinds of dogs are; and a single pair of these faithful creatures
will draw a full-grown man at a rate that exceeds almost every other
mode of travelling--steam excepted.  When our voyageurs, therefore,
flung away their snow-shoes, and, wrapped in their skin cloaks, seated
themselves snugly in their dog-sledges, the five hundred miles that
separated them from the Fort were soon reduced to nothing; and one
afternoon, four small sledges, each carrying a "young voyageur," with a
large bloodhound galloping in the rear, were seen driving up to the
stockade fence surrounding the Fort.  Before they had quite reached the
gate, there was a general rush of trappers, traders, voyageurs,
_coureurs-des-bois_, and other _employes_, to reach them; and the next
moment they were lost in the midst of the people who crowded out of the
Fort to welcome them.  This was their hour of happiness and joy.

To me there is an hour of regret, and I hope, boy reader, to you as
well--the hour of our parting with the "Young _Voyageurs_."

THE END.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Young Voyageurs, by Mayne Reid

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