lake
is
accomplished—what a feast for a sportsman! There they lie, by hundreds, of a white or rich cream color—either dipping their black bills in the water, or leaning backwards and gently resting with one leg expanded, floating along and basking in the sunshine. The moment that these beautiful birds saw our
vedettes
[i.e., scouts], they started up in immediate apprehension. But the plan of our Indians drove the poorswans the nearer to their fate, the farther they retreated from either shore. Men were placed behind the trees who knew how to take a dead aim, and every shot told. Being divided, three on one side and four on the other, the former hid themselves, and when the birds flew from the latter, they alighted within a good distance of those who had first alarmed them.
What would those English sportsmen—who, after walking a whole day and exploding a pound of powder, march home in great glee holding a partridge by the legs, with a smile on their lips and a very empty stomach—say to this day’s devastation amongst the swans? I saw these beautiful birds floating on the water, their backs downwards, their heads under the surface and their legs in the air, struggling in the last agonies of life to the number of at least fifty, their beautiful skins all intended for the ladies of Europe.
The sport was now over, the sun was nearly even with the tops of the trees, a conch was sounded, and after awhile the squaws appeared, dragging the canoe and moving about in quest of the dead game. It was at last all transported to the river’s edge and we were landed upon the Illinois bank again before dark. The fires were lighted. Each man ate his mess of pecan nuts and bear’s fat and then stretched himself out with feet close to the small heap of coal intended for the night. The females then began their work—it was their duty to skin the birds. I observed them for some time and then retired to rest, very well satisfied with the sports of this day, the 25th of December.
On the following morning I found that a squaw had given birth to beautiful twins during the night. She was at work tanning deerskins. She had cut two vines at the roots of opposite trees, which, having their upper branches twined in the tops of the trees, made a kind of swing; and framed a cradle of bark in which the infants were swung to and fro by a gentle push of her hand. From time to time she gave them the breast and to all appearance seemed as unconcerned as if nothing had taken place. What a difference between this Indian mother and a lady of fashion!
An Indian camp upon ahunting expedition is not, I assure you, a place of idleness, and although the men do little more than hunt, they pursue this task with a degree of eagerness bordering upon enthusiasm. One of their party, a tall and robust man, assured us one morning that he would have some good sport that day, as he had found the
gite
[i.e., the den] of a bear of some size and wished to combat him singly. We all started with him to see him fulfill his bold promise. When we had gone about half a mile from the camp, he said he discerned the bear’s track, although I could positively perceive nothing, and he went on rambling through the thick canebrake until we reached a large decaying log of timber of an immense size. In this he said that the bear was concealed.
I have rarely seen a finer object than this Indian at the moment when he prepared to encounter his prey. His eyes sparkled with joy, the rusty blanket was thrown in an instant from his shoulders, his brawny arms seemed swelling with the blood that rushed through their prominent veins, and he drew his scalping knife with a fantastic gesture that plainly declared
la guerre à l’outrance
[i.e., war to the death]. He ordered me to mount a delicate sapling, which would, he said, be secure from the bear, who could easily ascend a larger tree with the activity of a squirrel, whilst the other two Indians stood at the entrance of the hollow log,
is
accomplished—what a feast for a sportsman! There they lie, by hundreds, of a white or rich cream color—either dipping their black bills in the water, or leaning backwards and gently resting with one leg expanded, floating along and basking in the sunshine. The moment that these beautiful birds saw our
vedettes
[i.e., scouts], they started up in immediate apprehension. But the plan of our Indians drove the poorswans the nearer to their fate, the farther they retreated from either shore. Men were placed behind the trees who knew how to take a dead aim, and every shot told. Being divided, three on one side and four on the other, the former hid themselves, and when the birds flew from the latter, they alighted within a good distance of those who had first alarmed them.
What would those English sportsmen—who, after walking a whole day and exploding a pound of powder, march home in great glee holding a partridge by the legs, with a smile on their lips and a very empty stomach—say to this day’s devastation amongst the swans? I saw these beautiful birds floating on the water, their backs downwards, their heads under the surface and their legs in the air, struggling in the last agonies of life to the number of at least fifty, their beautiful skins all intended for the ladies of Europe.
The sport was now over, the sun was nearly even with the tops of the trees, a conch was sounded, and after awhile the squaws appeared, dragging the canoe and moving about in quest of the dead game. It was at last all transported to the river’s edge and we were landed upon the Illinois bank again before dark. The fires were lighted. Each man ate his mess of pecan nuts and bear’s fat and then stretched himself out with feet close to the small heap of coal intended for the night. The females then began their work—it was their duty to skin the birds. I observed them for some time and then retired to rest, very well satisfied with the sports of this day, the 25th of December.
On the following morning I found that a squaw had given birth to beautiful twins during the night. She was at work tanning deerskins. She had cut two vines at the roots of opposite trees, which, having their upper branches twined in the tops of the trees, made a kind of swing; and framed a cradle of bark in which the infants were swung to and fro by a gentle push of her hand. From time to time she gave them the breast and to all appearance seemed as unconcerned as if nothing had taken place. What a difference between this Indian mother and a lady of fashion!
An Indian camp upon ahunting expedition is not, I assure you, a place of idleness, and although the men do little more than hunt, they pursue this task with a degree of eagerness bordering upon enthusiasm. One of their party, a tall and robust man, assured us one morning that he would have some good sport that day, as he had found the
gite
[i.e., the den] of a bear of some size and wished to combat him singly. We all started with him to see him fulfill his bold promise. When we had gone about half a mile from the camp, he said he discerned the bear’s track, although I could positively perceive nothing, and he went on rambling through the thick canebrake until we reached a large decaying log of timber of an immense size. In this he said that the bear was concealed.
I have rarely seen a finer object than this Indian at the moment when he prepared to encounter his prey. His eyes sparkled with joy, the rusty blanket was thrown in an instant from his shoulders, his brawny arms seemed swelling with the blood that rushed through their prominent veins, and he drew his scalping knife with a fantastic gesture that plainly declared
la guerre à l’outrance
[i.e., war to the death]. He ordered me to mount a delicate sapling, which would, he said, be secure from the bear, who could easily ascend a larger tree with the activity of a squirrel, whilst the other two Indians stood at the entrance of the hollow log,
Similar Books
