pi"--a Cree word--and it must be borne in mind
that scarcely any language was spoken throughout this region other
than Cree. A little English or French was occasionally heard; but
the tongue, domestic, diplomatic, universal, was Cree, into which
every half-breed in common talk lapsed, sooner or later, with
undisguised delight. It was his mother tongue, copious enough
to express his every thought and emotion, and its soft accents,
particularly in the mouth of woman, are certainly very musical.
Emerson's phrase, "fossil poetry," might be applied to our Indian
languages, in which a single stretched-out word does duty for
a sentence.

But to the harness. This is simply an adjustment of leather
breast-straps for each man, tied to a very long tracking line,
which, in turn, is tied to the bow of the boat. The trackers,
once in it, walk off smartly along the bank, the men on board
keeping the boats clear of it, and, on a fair path, with good
water, make very good time. Indeed, the pull seems to give an
impetus to the trackers as well as to the boat, so that a loose
man has to lope to keep up with them. But on bad paths and
bad water the speed is sadly pulled down, and, if rapids occur,
sinks to the zero of a few miles a day. The "spells" vary
according to these circumstances, but half an hour is the
ordinary pull between "pipes," and there being no shifts in
our case, the stoppages for rest and tobacco were frequent.
At this rate we calculated that it would take eight or ten
days to reach the mouth of Lesser Slave River. Mr. d'Eschambault
and myself, having experienced the crowded state of the first
and second boats, and foregathered during the trip, decided to
take up our quarters on the scow, which had no awning, but
which offered some elbow room and a tolerably cozy nook amongst
the cases, bales and baggage with which it was encumbered.

We had a study on board, as well, in our steersman, Pierre Cyr,
which partly attracted me--a bronzed man, with long, thin, yet
fine weather-beaten features, frosty moustache and keenly-gazing,
dry, gray eyes--a tall, slim and sinewy man, over seventy
years of age, yet agile and firm of step as a man of thirty.
Add the semi-silent, inward laugh which Cooper ascribes to
his Leather-Stocking, and you have Pierre Cyr, who might
have stood for that immortal's portrait. That he had a history
I felt sure when I first saw him seated amongst his boatmen at
the Landing, and, on seeking his acquai