122 THE ACmONDACK. 



hunter is watching, with knife in hand, the progress of 

 a johnny-cake he is baking in the ashes, giving every 

 now and then a most comical hitch to his waistbands 

 while, as if to keep up the balance, one whole side of 

 his face twitches at the same time. Close by him is 

 my Indian guide whom I obtained yesterday, coldly 

 scrutinizing my new modeled rifle. Taciturn and 

 emotionless as his race always are, he neither smiles 

 nor speaks. 



Knowing that his curiosity was excited, I remarked, 

 " Mitchell, I wish you would try my rifle, for I have 

 some doubts whether it is perfectly correct." With- 

 out saying a word, he took up an axe, and going to a 

 distant tree struck out a chip, leaving a white spot. 

 Returning as silent as he went, he raised my gun to 

 his face, where it rested for a moment immovable as 

 stone, then spoke sharp and quick through the forest. 

 The bullet struck the white spot in the centre. He 

 handed back the rifle without uttering a word — that 

 shot was a better comment on its correctness than 

 anything he could say. 



Our venison and johnny-cake and potatoes were 

 at length done ; and each of us peeling ofl' a bit 

 of clean hemlock bark for a plate, we sat down 



