et
there: I'll punch that Scotch head of yours till it looks like a
photograph!"

CHAPTER IX.

The Micmac Camp--Indian Church-warden and Broker--Interior of a Wigwam--A
Madonna--A Digression--Malcolm discharged--An Indian Bargain--The Inn
Parlor, and a Comfortable Night's Rest.

The threat had its effect: in a few minutes our boat ran bows-on up the
clear pebbled beach before the Micmac camp.

It was a little cluster of birch-bark wigwams, pitched upon a carpet of
greensward, just at the edge of one of the loveliest harbors in the world.
The fog rolled away like the whiff of vapor from a pipe, and melted out of
sight. Before us were the blue and violet waters, tinged with the hues of
sunset, the rounded, swelling, curving shores opposite, dotted with
cottages; the long, sweeping, creamy beaches, the distant shipping, and,
beyond, the great waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Nearer at hand were
"the murmuring pines and the hemlocks," the tender green light seen in
vistas of firs and spruces, the thin smoke curling up from the wigwams,
the birch-bark canoes, the black, bright eyes of the children, the sallow
faces of the men, and the pretty squaws, arrayed in blue broad-cloth
frocks and leggings, and modesty, and moccasins.

"Now, here we are," said Malcolm, triumphantly, "and wha d'ye thenk o' the
Micmacs? Deil a wan o' the yellow deevils but knows Malcolm, an I'll
introjewce ye to the hail o' em."

"Stop, sir," said Picton, sternly, "we want none of your company. You can
take your boat back," (here I nodded affirmatively), "and we'll walk
home."

It was quite a picture, that of our oarsman, upon this summons to depart.
He had just laid his hand upon the shoulder of a fat, good-natured looking
squaw, to commence the introjewcing; one foot rested on the bottom of an
overturned canoe, in an attitude of command; his old battered tarpaulin
hat, his Guernsey shirt, and salt-mackerel trowsers, finely relieved
against the violet-tinted water; but oh! how chop-fallen were those rugged
features under that old tarpaulin!

The scene had its effect; I am sure Picton and myself would gladly have
paid the quadruple sum on the spot--after all, it was but a trifle--for we
both drew forth a sovereign at the same moment.

Unfortunately Malcolm had no change; not a "bawbee." "Then," said we, "go
back to the inn, and we'll pay you on our return."

"And," said Malcolm, in an unearthly whine that might have been heard all