that when he `can't help it he guesses he'll jist grin an' bear it.'
And there's an old Irish trapper that's bin in the mountains nigh forty
years now, and who's alive at this day--if he bean't dead--that used to
say to himself when ill luck came upon him, `Now, Terence, be aisy, boy;
an' av ye can't be aisy, be as aisy as ye can.' So you see, Mr
Bertram, we have got a few sparks of wisdom in these diggins."

"Now, then, stop yer feelosophy," cried Bounce, hitching his shoulders
so as to induce his light load to take up a more accommodating position.
"Ye didn't use to be a slow feller, March; wot's to do? Ye ain't
a-goin' to cave in 'cause we're gettin' nigh the redskins, are ye?"

To this March deigned no reply, but, swinging his bundle over his
shoulder, set off at a pace that speedily left his laughing comrades far
behind. When, in the course of an hour after, they overtook him, he was
discovered lying flat on his back, with his head resting on his bundle,
and smoking his pipe with an air of perfect satisfaction.

During the course of that day the trappers walked about thirty miles.
Towards the afternoon they came to a large river, along the banks of
which they pursued their way, led by Redhand, who seemed as familiar
with the country as if he had dwelt there from infancy. The old
trapper's kindly visage was lighted up with a smile of recognition, ever
and anon, when some new and striking feature of the landscape opened up
to view, as if he had met with and were greeting some personal friend.
He spoke occasionally in a low tone to March, who usually kept close to
his side, and pointed to spots which were associated in his memory with
adventures of various kinds. But Redhand's observations were few. He
preferred to listen to the conversations of his comrades, as they
plodded steadily along, enlivening their march with many an anecdote and
legend.

At last Redhand called a halt, and gazed inquiringly around him, as if
in search of some object.

"Wot's up?" inquired Bounce earnestly.

"It was hereabouts, somewhere," muttered Redhand, to himself rather than
to his friend; then added quickly, as he threw down his pack, "Ay, there
it is--never touched. Now that's what I call luck."

"_Wot's_ luck?" inquired Waller.

"Ah, dat is de keevestion," added Gibault with a look of surprise.

"You must know, lads," said Redhand, turning to his comrades, who
observed his movements with considerable astonishment; "you