This method of catching beavers was quite new to Bob, who had always
seen his father and the other hunters of the Bay capture them in steel
traps. It was his first lesson in the Indian method of hunting.
That evening the flesh of the beavers went into the kettle, and their
oily tails--the greatest tidbit of all--were fried in a pan. The
Indians made a feast time of it, and never ceased eating the livelong
night. This day of plenty came in cheerful contrast to the cheerless
nights with scanty suppers following the weary days of plodding that
had preceded. The glowing fire in the centre, the appetizing smell of
the kettle and sizzling fat in the pan, and the relaxation and mellow
warmth as they reclined upon the boughs brought a sense of real
comfort and content.
The next day they remained in camp and rested, but the following
morning resumed the dreary march to the westward.
After many more days of travelling--Bob had lost all measure of
time--they reached the shores of a great lake that stretched away
until in the far distance its smooth white surface and the sky were
joined. The Indians pointed at the expanse of snow-covered ice, and
repeated many times, "Petitsikapau--Petitsikapau," and Bob decided
that this must be what they called the lake; but the name was wholly
unfamiliar to him.
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