“Das de feller! Cheokhes steal-um,” yelled Simmo, all excitement, and away he went on the jump. Startled by the thumping behind him, Cheokhes dropped his fish and took to the river, leaving a V-shaped wake trailing behind him as he forged away.
“Keep still, Simmo; let’s watch him,” I cautioned, and we both sat motionless on the bank; but not till the Indian had made sure of a more ample breakfast. His fingers were hooked into the gills of the big trout, his face a study in satisfaction.
The mink circled uneasily a few moments; then he whirled and headed for us, wiggling his pointed nose as he smelled the fish. Simmo was sitting with elbows on knees, the trout hanging down between, when the nervy little beast crossed over my foot, grabbed his prize, and attempted to drag it out of the Indian’s hand.
“By cosh, now, das too cheeky!” said Simmo, and with the tail of the trout he batted Cheokhes over the head. Away he went with a screech and a show of sharp teeth; but in a moment he was back again, and twice attempted to get possession of what he considered his property. Then, as Simmo grew impatient and batted the little thief coming and going, he made off indignantly with an air of, “Well, I know where to find a better one.” Following him up, I took away from him another trout, which he dragged from a pile of drift stuff, and after some search I unearthed two more which he had hidden under a pine stump.
That was all we ever found of our fine catch, and I am still wondering what a creature not much bigger than a rat expected to do with thirty pounds of fresh fish. Indeed, from his unprejudiced viewpoint, what should anybody expect to do with them? They belonged first of all to the river, and then to any light-footed fellow who could appreciate their flavor. But Simmo was wrathy. As we paddled downriver that day, he talked of mink and white men’s children, and read me a little homily on the vice of stealing.
HEALTH AND A DAY
“Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous.”—Emerson.
DURING the night I had been up to watch Tookhees playing in the moonlight. Tookhees is the wood mouse, a dainty and a pretty creature, who is happily ignorant that he is an important item in nature’s food supply. He and his fellows have a way of amusing themselves, as I judge, by creeping up one slope of my tent and tumbling or sliding down the other; and before they come together for play, if such it be, you will hear them drumming in all directions, signaling and answering by tapping on the ground. The wood mice ran away when Kook’skoos, “the mother of the moon,” began a doleful hooting to her owlets; then through the light, dreamless sleep of the woodsman came the first chirping of awakened birds. My day had begun; expectantly I came forth to enjoy its uncovenanted mercies.