We started early and quit late, and
about as we congratulated ourselves over our evening fire that we had
distanced our followers at last, those three canoes would steal
silently and calmly about the lower bend to draw ashore below us. In
ten minutes the old Indian was delivering an oration to us, squatted in
resignation.
The Red Gods alone know what he talked about. He had no English, and
our Ojibway was of the strictly utilitarian. But for an hour he would
hold forth. We called him Talk-in-the-Face, the Great Indian Chief.
Then he would drop a mild hint for saymon, which means tobacco, and
depart. By ten o'clock the next morning he and his people would
overtake us in spite of our earlier start. Usually we were in the act
of dragging our canoe through an especially vicious rapid by means of a
tow-line. Their three canoes, even to the children's, would ascend
easily by means of poles. Tow-lines appeared to be unsportsmanlike--like
angle-worms. Then the entire nine--including the dogs--would roost on
rocks and watch critically our methods.
The incident had one value, however: it showed us just why these people
possess the marvellous canoe skill I have attempted to sketch. The
little boy in the leading canoe was not over eight or nine years of
age, but he had his little paddle and his little canoe-pole, and, what
is more, he already used them intelligently and well. As for the little
girls--well, they did easily feats I never hope to emulate, and that
without removing the cowl-like coverings from their heads and
shoulders.
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