“At the time I speak of our brigade of four boats lay moored on the banks of the great Saskatchewan, which river, you know, takes its rise amid the rugged steps of the Rocky Mountains, flows through the great prairies and woodlands of the interior of Rupert’s Land, and discharges into Lake Winnipeg.
“On this morning the men were ashore at breakfast. On a low gravelly point that jutted out into the stream smoked three large fires, over which stood three rudely constructed tripods, from which depended three enormous tin kettles. Robbiboo was the delectable substance contained in these kettles. Pemmican is a compound of dried buffalo meat, melted fat, and hair—the latter being an accidental ingredient. Mix pemmican with flour and water, boil and stir till it thickens, and the result will be ‘robbiboo.’
“Around these kettles stood, and sat, and reclined, and smoked, about thirty of the wildest and heartiest fellows that ever trod the wilderness. Most of them were French Canadians; many were half-breeds; some were Orkney-men; and one or two were the copper-colored natives of the soil. But Canadians, Scotch, and savages they were all employed by the Hudson’s Bay Fur Company; they were all burned to the same degree of brownness by the summer sun; they all laughed and talked, and ate robbiboo more or less—generally more; and they were all clad in the dress of the northwest voyageur. A loose-fitting capote, with a hood hanging down the back; a broad scarlet or parti-colored worsted sash round the waist; a pair of cloth leggings, sometimes blue, sometimes scarlet, occasionally ornamented with bright silk or bead work, and gartered at the knees a pair of chamois leather-like moccasins made of deer skin; a round bonnet or a red nightcap, or a nondescript hat, or nothing.
“‘Ho! ho!’ shouted the gruff voice of the guide, as the men, having emptied the kettles, were hastily filling and lighting their pipes—‘embark, my lads, embark.’
“In five minutes the boats were afloat, and the crews were about to shove off, when the cry was raised, ‘Mr. Berry! hold on—where’s Mr. Berry?’
“Poor Berry! I must tell you about him. He was one of those people that are always late, always missing, always in the wrong place at the right time, and in the right place at the wrong time. His companions—of whom there were two in charge of the boats along with himself—called him an ‘old wife,’ but qualified the title with the remark that he was a ‘good soul,’ nevertheless. And so he was—a beardless youth of twenty-two, with a strong tendency to scientific pursuits, but wofully incompetent to use his muscles aright. He was forever falling into the water, constantly cutting his fingers with his knife, and frequently breaking the trigger of his fowling-piece in his attempts to discharge it at half-cock. Yet he was incomparably superior to his more ‘knowing’ comrades in all the higher qualities of manhood.
“At the moment his name was called, he sprang from the bushes, laden with botanical specimens, and crying, ‘Stop! stop! I’m coming,’ he rushed down to the boat of which he had the special charge, and leaped in. Five minutes more, and the brigade was sweeping down the Saskatchewan, while the men bent hastily to their oars, and filled the shrubbery on the river’s bank and the wide prairies beyond with the ringing tones of one of their characteristic and beautiful canoe songs.
“The sun was flooding the horizon with gold as it sank to rest. The chorus of the boatmen had ceased, and the only sound that broke the stillness of the quiet evening was the slow and regular stroke of the heavy oars, which the men plied unceasingly. On turning one of the bends of the river, which disclosed a somewhat extended vista ahead, several black objects were observed near the water’s edge.
“‘Hist!’ exclaimed the foremost guide, ‘they are buffaloes.’
“‘A terre, a terre!’ cried the men, in a hoarse whisper.