John Richardson - "Wacousta (Volume I)"

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Edna Ferber - "One Basket [31 Stories]"

G. K. Chesterton - "The Wisdom of Father Brown"

The Arctic Prairies

E >> Ernest Thompson Seton >> The Arctic Prairies




"About 7.30 a pair of Wild Geese (Canada) appeared on a bay. The
boys let off a whoop of delight and rushed on them in canoe and in
boat as though these were their deadliest enemies. I did not think
much of it until I noticed that the Geese would not fly, and it
dawned on me that they were protecting their young behind their own
bodies. A volley of shot-guns and Winchesters and one noble head
fell flat on the water, another volley and the gander fell, then
a wild skurrying, yelling, and shooting for some minutes resulted
in the death of the two downlings.

"I could do nothing to stop them. I have trouble enough in matters
that are my business and this they consider solely their own. It
is nothing but kill, kill, kill every living thing they meet. One
cannot blame them in general, since they live by hunting, and in
this case they certainly did eat every bit of all four birds, even
to their digestive organs with contents; but it seemed hard to have
the devotion of the parents made their death trap when, after all,
we were not in need of meat.

"July 20.--Rose at 4; had trouble on my hands at once. The Indians
would not get up till 5, so we did not get away till 6.20. Beaulieu
was evidently instructing the crew, for at the third breakfast all
together (but perhaps 2) shouted out in English, 'Grub no good!

"I walked over, to them, asked who spoke; no one answered; so, I
reviewed the bargain, pointed out that I had given more than agreed,
and added: 'I did not promise you beans, but will say now that if
you work well I'll give you a bean feast once in a while.'

"They all said in various tongues and ways, 'That's all ri.' Beaulieu
said it several times, and smiled and smiled.

"If the mythical monster that dwells in the bottom of Great Slave
Lake had reached up its long neck now and taken this same half-breed
son of Belial, I should have said, 'Well done, good and faithful
monster,' and the rest of our voyage would have been happier. Oh!
what a lot of pother a beneficent little bean can make.

"At noon that day Billy announced that it was time to give me a
lobstick; a spruce was selected on a slate island and trimmed to
its proper style, then inscribed:


E. T. SETON
E. A. PREBLE
W. C. LOUTIT
20 July
1907


"Now I was in honour bound to treat, the crew. I had neither the
power nor the wish to give whiskey. Tobacco was already provided,
so I seized the opportunity of smoothing things by announcing a
feast of beans, and this, there was good reason to believe, went
far in the cause of peace.

"At 1.30 for the first time a fair breeze sprang up or rather lazily
got up. Joyfully then we raised our mast and sail. The boys curled
up to sleep, except Beaulieu. He had his fiddle and now he proceeded
to favour us with 'A Life on the Ocean Wave,' 'The Campbells are
Coming,' etc., in a manner worthy of his social position and of
his fiddle. When not in use this aesthetic instrument (in its box)
knocks about on deck or underfoot, among pots and pans, exposed in
all weather; no one seems to fear it will be injured.

"At 7 the usual dead calm was restored. We rowed till we reached
Et-then Island at 8, covering two miles more or 32 in all to-day.
I was unwilling to stop now, but the boys, said they would row all
day Sunday if I would camp here, and then added, 'And if the wind
rises to-night we'll go on.'

"At 10 o'clock I was already in bed for the night, though of course
it was broad daylight. Preble had put out a line of mouse-traps,
when the cry was raised by the Indians now eating their 7th meal:
Chim-pal-le! Hurra! Chilla quee!' ('Sailing wind! Hurra, boys!').

"The camp was all made, but after such a long calm a sailing wind
was too good to miss. In 10 minutes every tent was torn down and
bundled into the boat. At 10.10 we pulled out under a fine promising
breeze; but alas! for its promise! at 10.30 the last vestige of
it died away and we had to use the oars to make the nearest land,
where we tied up at 11 P. M.

"That night old Weeso said to me, through Billy, the interpreter:
'To-morrow is Sunday, therefore he would like to have a prayer-meeting
after breakfast.'

"'Tell him,' I said, 'that I quite approve of his prayer-meeting,
but also it must be understood that if the good Lord sends us a
sailing wind in the morning that is His way of letting us know we
should sail.'

"This sounded so logical that Weeso meekly said, 'All right.'

"Sure enough, the morning dawned with a wind and we got away after
the regular sullen grumbling. About 10.20 the usual glassy calm set
in and Weeso asked me for a piece of paper and a pencil. He wrote
something in Chipewyan on the sheet I gave, then returned the pencil
and resumed his pilotic stare at the horizon, for his post was at
the rudder. At length he rolled the paper into a ball, and when I
seemed not observing dropped it behind him overboard.

"'What is the meaning of that, Billy?' I whispered.

"'He's sending a prayer to Jesus for wind.' Half an hour afterward
a strong head-wind sprang up, and Weeso was severely criticised
for not specifying clearly what was wanted.

"There could be no question now about the propriety of landing.
Old Weeso took all the Indians off to a rock, where, bareheaded
and in line, they kneeled facing the east, and for half an hour he
led them in prayer, making often the sign of the cross. The headwind
died away as they came to the boat and again we resumed the weary
rowing, a labour which all were supposed to share, but it did not
need an expert to see that Beaulieu, Snuff, and Terchon merely
dipped their oars and let them drift a while; the real rowing of
that cumbrous old failure of a sailboat was done by Billy Loutit
and Yum Freesay."




CHAPTER XXV

CROSSING THE LAKE--ITS NATURAL HISTORY



All day long here, as on the Nyarling, I busied myself with compass
and sketch-book, making the field notes, sketches, and compass
surveys from which my various maps were compiled; and Preble let no
chance go by of noting the changing bird and plant life that told
us we quit the Canadian fauna at Stony Island and now were in the
Hudsonian zone.

This is the belt of dwindling trees, the last or northmost zone of
the forest, and the spruce trees showed everywhere that they were
living a life-long battle, growing and seeding, but dwarfed by
frost and hardships. But sweet are the uses of adversity, and the
stunted sprucelings were beautified, not uglified, by their troubles.
I never before realised that a whole country could be such a series
of charming little Japanese gardens, with tiny trees, tiny flowers,
tiny fruits, and gorgeous oriental rugs upon the earth and rocks
between.

I photographed one group of trees to illustrate their dainty elfish
dwarfishness, but realising that no one could guess the height
without a scale, I took a second of the same with a small Indian
sitting next it.

Weeso is a kind old soul; so far as I could see he took no part
in the various seditions, but he was not an inspiring guide. One
afternoon he did something that made a final wreck of my confidence.
A thunderstorm was rumbling in the far east. Black clouds began
travelling toward us; with a line of dark and troubled waters below,
the faint breeze changed around and became a squall. Weeso looked
scared and beckoned to Freesay, who came and took the helm. Nothing
happened.

We were now running along the north shore of Et-then, where are to
be seen the wonderful 1,200-foot cliffs described and figured by
Captain George Back in 1834. They are glorious ramparts, wonderful
in size and in colour, marvellous in their geological display.

Flying, and evidently nesting among the dizzy towers, were a few
Barn-swallows and Phoebe-birds.

This cliff is repeated on Oot-sing-gree-ay, the next island, but
there it is not on the water's edge. It gives a wonderful echo which
the Indians (not to mention myself) played with, in childish fashion.

On Sunday, 21 July, we made a new record, 6 meals and 20 miles.

On July 22 we made only 7 meals and 11 miles and camped in the
narrows Tal-thel-lay. These are a quarter of a mile wide and have
a strong current running westerly. This is the place which Back
says is a famous fishing ground and never freezes over, even in the
hardest winters. Here, as at all points, I noted the Indian names,
not only because they were appropriate, but in hopes of serving the
next traveller. I found an unexpected difficulty in writing them
down, viz.: no matter how I pronounced them, old Weeso and Freesay,
my informants, would say, "Yes, that is right." This, I learned,
was out of politeness; no matter how you mispronounce their words
it is good form to say, "That's it; now you have it exactly."

The Indians were anxious to put out a net overnight here, as they
could count on getting a few Whitefish; so we camped at 5.15. It is
difficult to convey to an outsider the charm of the word "whitefish."
Any northerner will tell you that it is the only fish that is
perfect human food, the only food that man or dog never wearies of,
the only lake food that conveys no disorder no matter how long or
freely it is used. It is so delicious and nourishing that there
is no fish in the world that can even come second to it. It is as
far superior in all food qualities to the finest Salmon or Trout as
a first-prize, gold-medalled, nut-fed thoroughbred Sussex bacon-hog
is to the roughest, toughest, boniest old razor-backed land-pike
that ever ranged the woods of Arkansas.

That night the net yielded 3 Whitefish and 3 Trout. The latter,
being 4 to 8 pounds each, would have been reckoned great prizes
in any other country, but now all attention was on the Whitefish.
They certainly were radiantly white, celestial in color; their
backs were a dull frosted silver, with here and there a small
electric lamp behind the scales to make its jewels sparkle. The
lamps alternated with opals increased on the side; the bellies were
of a blazing mother-of-pearl. It would be hard to imagine a less
imaginative name than "white" fish for such a shining, burning
opalescence. Indian names are usually descriptive, but their name
for this is simply "The Fish." All others are mere dilutes and cheap
imitations, but the Coregonus is at all times and par excellence
"The Fish."

Nevertheless, in looking at it I could not help feeling that this
is the fat swine, or the beef Durham of its kind. The head, gills,
fins, tail, vital organs and bones all were reduced to a minimum
and the meat parts enlarged and solidified, as though they were
the product of ages of careful breeding by man to produce a perfect
food fish, a breeding that has been crowned with the crown of
absolute success.

The Indians know, for the best of reasons, the just value of every
native food. When Rabbits abound they live on them but do not
prosper; they call it "starving on rabbits." When Caribou meat is
plenty they eat it, but crave flour. When Moose is at hand they
eat it, and are strong. When Jack-fish, Sucker, Conies, and Trout
are there, they take them as a variant; but on Whitefish, as on
Moose, they can live with out loathing, and be strong. The Indian
who has his scaffold hung with Whitefish when winter comes, is
accounted rich.

"And what," says the pessimist, "is the fly in all this precious
ointment?" Alasl It is not a game fish; it will not take bait,
spoon, or fly, and its finest properties vanish in a few hours
after capture.

The Whitefish served in the marble palaces of other lands is as
mere dish-water to champagne, when compared with the three times
purified and ten times intensified dazzling silver Coregonus as
it is landed on the bleak shores of those far-away icy lakes. So
I could not say 'No' to the Indian boys when they wanted to wait
here, the last point at which they could be sure of a catch.

That night (22d July) five canoes and two York boats of Indians
landed at the narrows. These were Dogribs of Chief Vital's band;
all told they numbered about thirty men, women, and children; with
them were twenty-odd dogs, which immediately began to make trouble.
When one is in Texas the topic of conversation is, "How are the
cattle?" in the Klondike, "How is your claim panning out?" and in
New York, "How are you getting on with your novel?" On Great Slave
Lake you say, "Where are the Caribou?" The Indians could not tell;
they had seen none for weeks, but there was still much ice in the
east end of the lake which kept them from investigating. They had
plenty of dried Caribou meat but were out of tea and tobacco. I had
come prepared for this sort of situation, and soon we had a fine
stock of dried venison.

These were the Indians whose abandoned dogs made so much trouble
for us in the days that followed.

At 4 P. M. of 23d of July we were stopped by a long narrow floe of
broken ice. Without consulting me the crew made for the shore.

It seemed they were full of fears: "What if they should get caught
in that floe, and drift around for days? What if a wind should
arise (it had been glassy calm for a week)? What if they could',
not get back?" etc., etc.

Preble and I climbed a hill for a view. The floe was but half a
mile wide, very loose, with frequent lanes.

"Preble, is there any reason why we should not push through this
floe using poles to move the cakes?"

"None whatever."

On descending, however, I found the boys preparing to camp for "a
couple of days," while the ice melted or drifted away somewhere.

So I said, "You get right into this boat now and push off; we can
easily work our way through." They made no reply, simply looked
sulkier than ever, and proceeded to start a fire for meal No. 5.

"Weeso," I said, "get into your place and tell your men to follow."

The old man looked worried and did nothing, He wanted to do right,
but he was in awe of his crew.

Then did I remember how John MacDonald settled the rebellion on
the river.

"Get in there," I said to Preble and Billy. "Come on, Weeso." We
four jumped into the boat and proceeded to push off with all the
supplies.

Authorities differ as to the time it took for the crew to make up
their minds. Two seconds and eleven seconds are perhaps the extremes
of estimate. They came jumping aboard as fast as they could.

We attacked the floe, each with a lodge-pole; that is, Billy and
Preble did in the bow, while Freesay and I did at the rear; and
in thirty-five minutes we had pushed through and were sailing the
open sea.

The next day we had the same scene repeated with less intensity,
in this case because Freesay sided with me. What would I not give
to have had a crew of white men. A couple of stout Norwegian sailors
would have done far better than this whole outfit of reds.

When we stopped for supper No. 1 a tiny thimbleful of down on two
pink matches ran past, and at once the mother, a Peetweet, came
running in distress to save her young. The brave Beaulieu fearlessly
seized a big stick and ran to kill the little one. I shouted out,
"Stop that," in tones that implied that I owned the heaven, the
earth, the sea, and all that in them is, but could not have saved
the downling had it not leaped into the water and dived out of
sight. It came up two feet away and swam to a rock of safety, where
it bobbed its latter end toward its adversaries and the open sea
in turn.

I never before knew that they could dive.

About eight o'clock we began to look for a good place to camp and
make meal No. 6. But the islands where usually we found refuge
from the dogs were without wood, and the shores were too rugged
and steep or had no dry timber, so we kept going on. After trying
one or two places the Indians said it was only a mile to Indian
Mountain River (Der-sheth Tessy), where was a camp of their friends.
I was always glad of a reason for pushing on, so away we went. My
crew seized their rifles and fired to let their village know we were
coming. The camp came quickly into view, and volley after volley
was fired and returned.

These Indians are extremely poor and the shots cost 5 and 6 cents
each. So this demonstration totalled up about $2.00.

As we drew near the village of lodges the populace lined up on shore,
and then our boys whispered, "Some white men." What a peculiar
thrill it gave me! I had seen nothing but Indians along the route
so far and expected nothing else. But here were some of my own
people, folk with whom I could talk. They proved to be my American
friend from Smith Landing, he whose hand I had lanced, and his
companion, a young Englishman, who was here with him prospecting
for gold and copper. "I'm all right now," he said, and, held up
the hand with my mark on it, and our greeting was that of white
men meeting among strangers in a far foreign land.

As soon as we were ashore a number of Indians came to offer meat
for tobacco. They seemed a lot of tobacco-maniacs. "Tzel-twee" at
any price they must have. Food they could do without for a long
time, but life without smoke was intolerable; and they offered their
whole dried product of two Caribou, concentrated, nourishing food
enough to last a family many days, in exchange for half a pound of
nasty stinking, poisonous tobacco.

Two weeks hence, they say, these hills will be alive with Caribou;
alas! for them, it proved a wholly erroneous forecast.

Y.'s guide is Sousi King Beaulieu (for pedigree, see Warburton
Pike); he knows all this country well and gave us much information
about the route. He says that this year the Caribou cows went north
as usual, but the bulls did not. The season was so late they did
not think it worth while; they are abundant yet at Artillery Lake.

He recognised me as the medicine man, and took an early opportunity
of telling me what a pain he had. Just where, he was not sure,
but it was hard to bear; he would like some sort of a pain-killer.
Evidently he craved a general exhilarator. Next morning we got
away at 7 A. M. after the usual painful scene about getting up in
the middle of the night, which was absurd, as there was no night.

Next afternoon we passed the Great White Fall at the mouth of Hoar
Frost River; the Indians call it Dezza Kya. If this is the Beverly
Falls of Back, his illustrator was without information; the published
picture bears not the slightest resemblance to it.

At three in the afternoon of July 27th, the twelfth day after we
had set out on the "three or four day run" from Resolution, this
exasperating and seemingly interminable voyage really did end, and
we thankfully beached our York boat at the famous lobstick that
marks the landing of Pike's Portage.




CHAPTER XXVI

THE LYNX AT BAY



One of the few rewarding episodes of this voyage took place on the
last morning, July 27. We were half a mile from Charleston Harbour
when one of the Indians said "Cheesay" (Lynx) and pointed to the
south shore. There, on a bare point a quarter mile away, we saw a
large Lynx walking quietly along. Every oar was dropped and every
rifle seized, of course, to repeat the same old scene; probably
it would have made no difference to the Lynx, but I called out:
"Hold on there! I'm going after that Cheesay."

Calling my two reliables, Preble and Billy, we set out in the canoe,
armed, respectively, with a shotgun, a club, and a camera.

When we landed the Lynx was gone. We hastily made a skirmishing line
in the wood where the point joined the mainland, but saw no sign of
him, so concluded that he must be hiding on the point. Billy took
the right shore, Preble the left, I kept the middle. Then we marched
toward the point but saw nothing. There were no bushes except a low
thicket of spruce, some 20 feet across and 3 or 4 feet high. This
was too dense to penetrate standing, so I lay down on my breast
and proceeded to crawl in under the low boughs. I had not gone six
feet before a savage growl warned me back, and there, just ahead,
crouched the Lynx. He glared angrily, then rose up, and I saw, with
a little shock, that he had been crouching on the body of another
Lynx, eating it. Photography was impossible there, so I took a
stick and poked at him; he growled, struck at the stick, but went
out, then dashed across the open for the woods. As he went I got
photograph No. 1. Now I saw the incredible wonder I had heard of--a
good runner can outrun a Lynx. Preble was a sprinter, and before the
timber 200 yards off was reached that Lynx was headed and turned;
and Preble and Billy were driving him back into my studio. He made
several dashes to escape, but was out-manoeuvred and driven onto
the far point, where he was really between the devils and the deep
sea. Here he faced about at bay, growling furiously, thumping his
little bobtail from side to side, and pretending he was going to
spring on us. I took photo No. 2 at 25 yards. He certainly did look
very fierce, but I thought I knew the creature, as well as the men
who were backing me. I retired, put a new film in place, and said:

"Now, Preble, I'm going to walk up to that Lynx and get a close
photo. If he jumps for me, and he may, there is nothing can save
my beauty but you and that gun."

Preble with characteristic loquacity says, "Go ahead."

Then I stopped and began slowly approaching the desperate creature
we held at bay. His eyes were glaring green, his ears were back,
his small bobtail kept twitching from side to side, and his growls
grew harder and hissier, as I neared him. At 15 feet he gathered his
legs under him as for a spring, and I pressed the button getting,
No. 3.

Then did the demon of ambition enter into my heart and lead me
into peril. That Lynx at bay was starving and desperate. He might
spring at me, but I believed that if he did he never would reach
me alive. I knew my man--this nerved me--and I said to him: "I'm
not satisfied; I want him to fill the finder. Are you ready?"

"Yep."

So I crouched lower and came still nearer, and at 12 feet made No.
4. For some strange reason, now the Lynx seemed less angry than he
had been.

"He didn't fill the finder; I'll try again," was my next. Then
on my knees I crawled up, watching the finder till it was full of
Lynx. I glanced at the beast; he was but 8 feet away. I focused
and fired.

And now, oh, wonder! that Lynx no longer seemed annoyed; he had
ceased growling and simply looked bored.

Seeing it was over, Preble says, "Now where does he go? To the
Museum?"

"No, indeed!" was the reply. "He surely has earned his keep; turn
him loose. It's back to the woods for him." We stood aside; he saw
his chance and dashed for the tall timber. As he went I fired the
last film, getting No. 6; and so far as I know that Lynx is alive
and well and going yet.




CHAPTER XXVII

THE LAST OF THAT INDIAN CREW



Carved on the lobstick of the Landing were many names famous in
the annals of this region, Pike, Maltern, McKinley, Munn, Tyrrel
among them. All about were evidences of an ancient and modern
camp--lodge poles ready for the covers, relics and wrecks of all
sorts, fragments of canoes and sleds, and the inevitable stray
Indian dog.

First we made a meal, of course; then I explained to the crew that
I wanted all the stuff carried over the portage, 31 miles, to the
first lake. At once there was a row; I was used to that. There had
been a row every morning over getting up, and one or two each day
about other details. Now the evil face of Beaulieu showed that his
tongue was at work again. But I knew my lesson.

"You were brought to man the boat and bring my stuff over this
portage. So do it and start right now."

They started 3 1/4 miles with heavy loads, very heavy labour I must
admit, back then in four hours to make another meal, and camp.

Next morning another row before they would get up and take each
another load. But canoe and everything were over by noon. And then
came the final scene.

In all the quarrels and mutinies, old Weeso had been faithful to
me. Freesay had said little or nothing, and had always worked well
and cheerfully. Weeso was old and weak, Freesay young and strong,
and therefore he was the one for our canoe. I decided it would pay
to subsidise Weeso to resign in favour of the younger man. But, to
be sure, first asked Freesay if he would like to come with me to
the land of the Musk-ox. His answer was short and final, "Yes,"
but he could not, as his uncle had told him not to go beyond this
portage. That settled it. The childlike obedience to their elders
is admirable, but embarrassing at times.

So Weeso went after all, and we got very well acquainted on that
long trip. He was a nice old chap. He always meant well; grinned
so happily, when he was praised, and looked so glum when he was
scolded. There was little of the latter to do; so far as he knew,
he did his best, and it is a pleasure now to conjure up his face
and ways. His cheery voice, at my tent door every morning, was the
signal that Billy had the breakfast within ten minutes of ready.

"Okimow, To" (Chief, here is water), he would say as he set down
the water for my bath and wondered what in the name of common sense
should make the Okimow need washing every morning. He himself was
of a cleaner kind, having needed no bath during the whole term of
our acquaintance.

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