After his speech the War-chief resumed his seat upon the floor; and as her Majesty could not be supposed to reply to his speech, she called upon the Prince, who thanked them for the amusement they had afforded her Majesty, who felt a deep interest in their welfare, and thankful to the old chief for the noble and religious sentiments expressed in his remarks.
After this the Indians rose and gave their favourite, the Pipe Dance, which seemed to afford much amusement to the Royal party. The Queen and the Prince then graciously bowed and took leave, thanking them, through the interpreter, for the amusement they had afforded them. The Indians at the same moment shouldered their robes and retired, sounding their war-whoop to the amusement of the servants of the household, who had assembled to the amount of some hundreds in the galleries of the hall.
No. 6.
They were now in the waiting-room again, where, to their surprise (and no little satisfaction), they found that the table they had seen so splendidly arranged was intended for their own entertainment, and was now ready for the “set-to.” Mr. Murray announced it as ready, and we all went to work. Mr. Rankin, who had been seated in the gallery during the presentation, having joined the party, had now taken his seat with them at the table. With his usual kindness, Mr. Murray insisted on carving the roast-beef and helping them around, and next in drinking the Queen’s health, which is customary at all public dinners. For this the first bottle of champagne was opened; and when the cork flew and the wine was pouring into glasses, the Indians pronounced the word “Chick-a-bob-boo!” and had a great laugh. A foaming glass of it was set before each Indian; and when it was proposed to drink to Her Majesty’s health, they all refused. I explained to Mr. Murray the promise they were under to drink no spirituous liquor while in the kingdom. Mr. Murray applauded their noble resolution, but said at the same time that this was not spirituous liquor—it was a light wine, and could not hurt them; and it would be the only time they could ever drink to Her Majesty so properly, and Her Majesty’s health could not be refused by Her Majesty’s subjects. When again urged they still refused, saying “We no drink—can’t drink.” They seemed however to be referring it to me, as all eyes were alternately upon me and upon their glasses, when I said to them—“Yes, my good fellows, drink; it will not hurt you. The promise you have made to Mr. Rankin and myself will not be broken—it did not contemplate a case like this, where it is necessary to drink the Queen’s health. And again, this is champagne, and not spirituous liquor, which you have solemnly promised to avoid.”—“How! how! how!” they all responded, and with great delight all joined in “health to the Queen!” And as each glass was emptied to the bottom, they smacked their lips, again pronouncing the word “Chick-a-bob-boo! Chick-a-bob-boo!” with a roar of laughter among themselves.
Mr. Murray and I becoming anxious to know the meaning of chick-a-bob-boo, it was agreed that the War-chief (who had a dry but amusing way of relating an anecdote) should give us the etymology of the word chick-a-bob-boo, which they said was manufactured but a few years since in their country. The old Boy-chief, who was not a stranger to chick-a-bob-boo, nor to good jokes, said that the “War-chief couldn’t tell a story well unless his lips were kept moist;” and he proposed that we should drink Mr. Murray’s health before he commenced. So the champagne was poured again, and, the Hon. Mr. Murray’s health being drank, the War-chief proceeded by saying—that “Only a few years since, when the white men were bringing so much rum and whiskey into the little village where he lives, that it was making them all sick, and killing a great many, the chiefs decided in council that they would tomahawk every keg of whiskey the white men should bring in; and it had the effect of keeping them away, and their people, who had been drunk and sick, were getting well.
“Not long after that,” continued he, “a little old man with red hair, who used to bring us bags of apples, got in the way of bringing in one end of his bag a great many bottles filled with something that looked much like whiskey, but which, when we smelled it, and tasted it, we found was not fire-water, and it was much liked by the chiefs and all; for they found, he said, it was good, and would not make Indians drunk. He sold much of this to the Indians, and came very often; and when he had carried it a great way on his horse, and in the sun, it sometimes became very impatient to get out of the bottles; and it was very amusing to see the little old man turn a crooked wire into the bottle to pull out the stopper, when one was holding a cup ready to catch it. As he would twist the wire in, it would go chee—e—; and when he poured it out, it would say, pop-poo, pop-poo.[8] This amused the women and children very much, and they called it at first chee-pop-poo, and since, chick-a-bob-boo. And this the old man with red hair told us at last was nothing but the juice of apples, though we found it very good; and yet it has made some very drunk.”