The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 09, July, 1858 eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 311 pages of information about The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 09, July, 1858.

The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 09, July, 1858 eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 311 pages of information about The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 09, July, 1858.

After a progress of about five miles, I found I had very materially widened the distance between myself and Zach, who, encumbered by the baggage, and by the spring snow which each moment accumulated in wet heavy cakes upon his snow-shoes, was now a good mile in my rear.  This I was surprised at, as he generally outwalked me, even when carrying on his back a heavy load, with perhaps a canoe on his head, cocked-hat fashion, as he was often obliged to do in our fishing-excursions to the northern lakes.  It now occurred to me, however, that I had incautiously left the brandy-flask in his charge, and when he came up with me I gathered from his fishy eye, and the thick dribblings of his macaronic gibberish,—­which was compounded of sundry Indian dialects and French-Canadian patois, coarsely ground up with bits of broken English,—­that the modern Circe, who changes men into beasts, had wrought her spells upon him; a circumstance at which I was terribly annoyed, as foreboding an ignominious entry into the city by back-lane and sally-port, instead of my long-anticipated triumphal progress up St. Louis Street, bearded in splendor, bristling with knife and rifle, and followed by my wild Indian coureur-des-bois, drawing my antlered trophies after him upon the tobaugan as upon a festival car.

“Kaween nishishin! kaw-ween!” howled the big monster, in his mixed-pickle macaronio,—­“je me sens saisi du mal-aux-raquettes, je ne pouvons plus.  Why you go so dam fast, when hot sun he make snow for tire, eh?  Sacr-r-re raquettes! il me semble qu’ils se grossissent de plus en plus a chaque demarche.  Stop for smoke, eh?—­v’la! good place for camp away there, kitchee hogeemaus endaut, big chief’s house may-be!” grinned he, as he indicated with Indian instinct and a wavering finger a structure of some kind that peered through the fog at a short distance on our left.

We were now within about a mile of Quebec.  The Indian’s intoxication had increased to a ludicrous extent, so that to have ventured into the town with him must have resulted in a reckless exposure of myself to the just obloquy and derision of the public; while, on the other hand, if I left him alone upon the wide world of ice, and dragged the tobaugan to town myself, the unfortunate brule must inevitably have stepped into some treacherous snow-drift or air-hole, and thus miserably perished.  So I made up my mind for a camp on the ice; and, diverging from our course in the direction pointed out by the Indian, we soon arrived at the object indicated by him, which proved to be a stout framework about twelve feet square, constructed of good heavy timber solidly covered with deal boarding, and conveying indubitable evidence, to my thinking, of the remains of one of the cabanes or shanties commonly erected on the ice by those engaged in the “tommy-cod” fishery,—­portable structures, so fitted together as to admit of being put up and removed piecemeal, to suit the convenience

Copyrights
Project Gutenberg
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 09, July, 1858 from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.