No Pay No Work
The Old Arm-Chair
Coals of Fire
The Little Hero Of Haarlem
The Grand Falls of the St. John
The Power of Kindness
A Mother's Love
The Abenaqui's Story
Falls of Niagara
Lost In The Woods
The Arctic Regions
THE ABENAQUI'S STORY.
I WAS going along my line of traps when I met an
Indian with a sledge hauled by two dogs. He was a
Montagnais, so that I could not understand much of
his language, but he spoke English a little, and we
could easily make one another out. I said to him,
"You have a heavy load on your sledge."--"A heavy
load," he replied, in a mournful tone.
I saw he did not like to talk, so I asked him to come
to my lodge and pass the night. We got there early
and cooked some supper. The Indian had plenty of
caribou meat with him, and gave me some, which he
took from the sledge. After a smoke he began to talk,
and said he came from Ste. Marguerite, which enters
the Gulf a few miles above Seven Islands.* He had a
nice little pack of furs with him, more than I had;
and the caribou were numerous about seventy miles up
the river; but there was a camp of Nasquapees there
who were killing them off. After a while, just as it
was growing dusk, he asked me if he might bring his
sledge into my lodge, "For," said he, "I have a body
there, and I am afraid the dogs will eat it if it is left
He brought the body in and laid it in the coldest
part of the lodge, where there was a little snow drifted
through a crack.
"Oh !" said the Indian, "if the snow does not melt
here, the body will take no hurt."
We sat and smoked together.
After a while I said, "Did you bring the body
"Six days up the Ste. Marguerite; perhaps eight
days from here. I came across the country with some
Nasquapees, who had come from the Trinity River,
and were following the caribou. The Nasquapees got
enough meat and went back. I came on to go down
the Moisie to Seven Islands, and leave it there till the
"How did he die ?" said I, at length.
The Indian looked at the fire and said nothing. I
knew there was some very sorrowful tale to tell, or he
would have spoken at once.
After a long pause, the Indian said, "He is my
cousin; I am taking him to be buried at the Post. He
asked me--I promised him. It is a long journey in
winter, but he wished it and he will soon be there."
The Indian then began to tell me how it happened.
"He and I," he said, pointing to the body--but he
mentioned no name--"were hunting together; we
came upon the track of a cat."
"By cat you mean lynx, of course," said one of the
"Yes, we always call them cats; many white folk
call them lynx. It's an animal about the size of a big
dog, only lower and stronger, with sharp-pointed ears,
and a tuft at the end of each."