“Waugh!” exclaimed the father at last, regarding the skeleton of his meal with a sad look, as if grieved that all was over.
“Hough!” responded the son with a sigh of satisfaction, as he wiped his fingers on the grass and sheathed his scalping-knife. Then, searching in their little pouches, which contained flint steel, tinder, etcetera, they drew forth two little stone pipes with wooden stems, which they filled and began to smoke.
The first whiff seemed to break the magic spell which had hitherto kept them silent. With another emphatic “Waugh!” the elder savage declared that the goose was good; that it distended him pleasantly, and that it warmed the cockles of his heart—or words to that effect. To which the son replied with a not less emphatic “Hough!” that he was entirely of the same opinion. Thus, whiffing gently, letting the smoke slowly out of their mouths and trickling it through their nostrils, so as to get the full benefit—or or damage!—of the tobacco, those sons of the wilderness continued for some time to enjoy themselves, while the sun sank slowly towards the western horizon, converting every lake and pond, and every river and streamlet, into a sheet, or band, or thread of burnished gold. At last the elder savage removed his pipe and sent a final shot of smoke towards the sky with some vigour as he said, rather abruptly,—“Mozwa, my brother must be dead!”
“I hope not, father,” returned the youth, whose name, Mozwa, signifies in the Cree language “moose-deer,” and had been given to the lad because he possessed an unusual power of running great distances, and for long periods, at a sort of swinging trot that left all competitors of his tribe far behind.
“I also hope not,” said his father, whose name was Maqua, or “bear,” “but I am forced to think so, for when Big Otter promises he is sure to perform. He said to Waboose that he would be home before the berries were ripe. The berries are ripe and he is not home. Without doubt he is now chasing the deer in the happy hunting-grounds with his fathers.”
Waboose, to whom this promise had been made, was a favourite niece of Big Otter, and had been named Waboose, or “rabbit,” because she was pretty innocent, soft, and tender.
“My father,” said Mozwa, rather solemnly, “Big Otter has not broken his word, for all the berries are not yet ripe.”
He plucked a berry which chanced to be growing near his hand, as he spoke, and held it up to view.
“Waugh!” exclaimed the elder savage.
“Hough!” returned the younger.