One warm September day, he made his appearance bare-headed, as usual, and carrying in his hand a great checked bundle.

“Fond of grapes?” said he, putting the said bundle into my hands.  “Fine grapes—­brought them from island, for my friend’s squaw and papouse.”

Glad of the donation, which I considered quite a prize, I hastened into the kitchen to untie the grapes and put them into a dish.  But imagine my disappointment, when I found them wrapped up in a soiled shirt, only recently taken from the back of the owner.  I called Moodie, and begged him to return Snow-storm his garment, and to thank him for the grapes.

The mischievous creature was highly diverted with the circumstance, and laughed immoderately.

“Snow-storm,” said he, “Mrs. Moodie and the children are obliged to you for your kindness in bringing them the grapes; but how came you to tie them up in a dirty shirt?”

“Dirty!” cried the old man, astonished that we should object to the fruit on that score.  “It ought to be clean; it has been washed often enough.  Owgh!  You see, Moodie,” he continued, “I have no hat—­never wear hat—­want no shade to my eyes—­love the sun—­see all around me—­up and down—­much better widout hat.  Could not put grapes in hat—­blanket-coat too large, crush fruit, juice run out.  I had noting but my shirt, so I takes off shirt, and brings grape safe over the water on my back.  Papouse no care for dirty shirt; their lee-tel bellies have no eyes.”

In spite of this eloquent harangue, I could not bring myself to use the grapes, ripe and tempting as they looked, or give them to the children.  Mr. W—–­ and his wife happening to step in at that moment, fell into such an ecstasy at the sight of the grapes, that, as they were perfectly unacquainted with the circumstance of the shirt, I very generously gratified their wishes by presenting them with the contents of the large dish; and they never ate a bit less sweet for the novel mode in which they were conveyed to me!

The Indians, under their quiet exterior, possess a deal of humour.  They have significant names for everything, and a nickname for every one, and some of the latter are laughably appropriate.  A fat, pompous, ostentatious settler in our neighbourhood they called Muckakee, “the bull frog.”  Another, rather a fine young man, but with a very red face, they named Segoskee, “the rising sun.”  Mr. Wood, who had a farm above ours, was a remarkably slender young man, and to him they gave the appellation of Metiz, “thin stick.”  A woman, that occasionally worked for me, had a disagreeable squint; she was known in Indian by the name of Sachabo, “cross eye.”  A gentleman with a very large nose was Choojas, “big, or ugly nose.”  My little Addie, who was a fair, lovely creature, they viewed with great approbation, and called Anoonk, “a star;” while the rosy Katie was Nogesigook, “the northern lights.”  As to me, I was Nonocosiqui, a “humming-bird;” a ridiculous name for a tall woman, but it had reference to the delight I took in painting birds.  My friend, Emilia, was “blue cloud;” my little Donald, “frozen face;” young C—–­, “the red-headed woodpecker,” from the colour of his hair; my brother, Chippewa, and “the bald-headed eagle.”  He was an especial favourite among them.