“The expression of every face was changed, as if by magic. Several leaped to their feet. Godé, the Canadian, skilled in snow-craft, ran to a bank, and drawing his hand along the combing, shouted back—
“‘C’est vrai; il gèle; il gèle!’
“A cold wind soon after set in, and, cheered by the brightening prospect, we began to think of the fires, that, during our late moments of reckless indifference, had been almost suffered to burn out. The Delawares, seizing their tomahawks, commenced hacking at the pines, while others dragged forward the fallen trees, lopping off their branches with the keen scalping-knife.
“At this moment a peculiar cry attracted our attention, and, looking around, we perceived one of the Indians drop suddenly upon his knees, striking the ground with his hatchet.
“‘What is it? what is it?’ shouted several voices, in almost as many languages.
“‘Yam-yam! yam-yam!’ replied the Indian, still digging at the frozen ground.
“‘The Injun’s right; it’s man-root!’ said Garey, picking up some leaves which the Delaware had chopped off.
“I recognised a plant well-known to the mountain-men—a rare, but wonderful convolvulus, the Iponea leptophylla. The name of ‘man-root’ is given to it by the hunters from the similarity of its root in shape, and sometimes in size, to the body of a man. It is esculent, and serves to sustain human life.
“In an instant, half-a-dozen men were upon their knees, chipping and hacking the hard clay, but their hatchets glinted off as from the surface of a rock.
“‘Look hyar!’ cried Garey; ‘ye’re only spoilin’ yer tools. Cut down a wheen o’ these pine saplin’s, and make a fire over him!’