As I can’t write music, and can (in my own way) write a story, the readers will acquit me of egotism or partiality, in reporting only my own part of the entertainments; which was generally the mere reading a story or two from my notes which I have with me, or relating some of the incidents of life which my old travelling companion “Batiste” and I had witnessed in former years.
Of these, I read one last evening, that pleased my good friend La Fromboise so exceedingly, that I am constrained to copy it into my Letter and send it home.
This amusing story is one that my man Ba’tiste used to tell to Bogard, and others with great zest; describing his adventure one night, in endeavouring to procure a medicine-bag, which I had employed him to obtain for me on the Upper Missouri; and he used to prelude it thus:—
“Je commence—”
“Dam your commonce, (said Bogard), tell it in English—”
“Pardón, Monsieur, en Americaine—”
“Well, American then, if you please; anything but your darned ‘parlez vous.’”
“Bien, excusez—now Monsieur Bogard, you must know first place, de ‘Medicine-Bags’ is mere humbug, he is no medicine in him—no pills; he is someting mysterieux. Some witchcraft, súppose. You must know que tous les sauvages have such tings about him, pour for good luck. Ce n’est que (pardón) it is only hocus pocus, to keep off witch, súppose. You must know ces articles can nevare be sold, of course you see dey cannot be buy. So my friend here, Monsieur Cataline, who have collect all de curiosités des pays sauvages, avait made strong applique to me pour for to get one of dese medicine-bags for his Collection curieux, et I had, pour moimeme, le curiosité extreme pour for to see des quelques choses ces étranges looking tings was composi.
I had learn much of dese strange custom, and I know wen de Ingin die, his medicine-bags is buried wis him.
Oui, Monsieur, so it never can be got by any boday. Bien. I hap to tink one day wen we was live in de mous of Yellow Stone, now is time, and I avait said to Monsieur Cataline, que pensez vous? Kon-te-wonda (un des chefs du) (pardón, one of de chiefs, of de Knisteneaux) has die tó-day. Il ayait une medicine-bag magnifique, et extremement curieux; il est composé d’un, it is made (pardón, si vous plait) of de wite wolf skin, ornement et stuff wid tousand tings wich we shall see, ha? Good luck! Suppose Monsieur Cataline, I have seen him just now. I av see de medicine-bag; laid on his breast avec his hands crossed ovare it. Que pensez vous? I can get him to-night, ha? If you will keep him, if you shall not tell, ha? ’Tis no harm—’tis no steal—he is dead, ha? Well, you shall see. But, would you not be afraid, Ba’tiste, (said Monsieur Cataline), to take from dis poor fellow his medicines (or mysteries) on which he has rest all his hopes in dis world, and de world to come? Pardón, je n’ai pas peur; non, Monsieur, ne rien de peur. I nevare saw ghost—I have not fear, mais, súppose, it is not right, éxact; but I have grand disposition pour for to obligé my friend, et le curiosité moimeme, pour to see wat it is made of; suppose tó-night I shall go, ha? ‘Well, Ba’tiste, I have no objection (said Monsieur Cataline) if your heart does not fail you, for I will be very glads to get him, and will make you a handsome present for it, but I think it will be a cold and gloomy kind of business.’ Nevare mind, Monsieur Cataline (I said) provide he is well dead, perfect dead! Well, I had see les Knisteneaux when dey ave bury de chap—I ave watch close, and I ave see how de medicine-bags was put. It was fix pretty tight by some cord around his bellay, and den some skins was wrap many times áround him—he was put down in de hole dug for him, and some flat stones and some little dirt was laid on him, only till next day, wen some grand ceremonays was to be pérform ovare him, and den de hole was to be fill up; now was de only time possibe for de medicine-bag, ha? I ave very pretty little wife at dat times, Assinneboin squaw, and we sleep in one of de stores inside of de Fort, de Trade-house, you know, ha?