290 LIFE OF AUDUBON. 



a spot for his prayers. ' Because,' answered he, * the sea lies 

 before me, and from it I receire my spring and summer 

 sustenance. When winter approaches I pray fronting the 

 mountains on the Maine, as at that period the caraboos come 

 towards the shore and I kill them, feed on their flesh, and form 

 my bedding of their skins.' I thought the answer reasonable, 

 and, as I longed to know more of him, followed him to his hut. 

 It was low and very small, formed of stones plastered with mud 

 to a considerable thickness. The roof was composed of a sort 

 of thatching made of weeds and moss. A large Dutch stove 

 filled nearly one half of the place ; a small port-hole, then stuffed 

 with old rags, served at times instead of a window ; the bed was 

 a pile of deer-skins ; a bowl, a jug, and an iron pot were placed 

 on a rude shelf; three old and rusty muskets, their locks 

 fastened by thongs, stood in a corner ; and his buck-shot, powder, 

 and flints were tied up in bags of skin. Eight Esquimaux dogs 

 yelled and leaped about us. The strong smell that emanated 

 from them, together with the smoke and filth of the apartment, 

 rendered my stay in it very disagreeable. Being a native of 

 France, the good man showed much politeness, and invited me 

 to take some refreshment, when, without waiting for my assent, 

 he took up his bowl and went off I knew not whither. No 

 sooner had he and his strange dogs disappeared, than I went 

 out also to breathe the pure air and gaze on the wild and 

 majestic scenery around. I was struck with the extraordinary 

 luxuriance of the plants and grasses that had sprung up on the 

 scanty soil in the little valley which the squatter had chosen 

 for his home. Their stalks and broad blades reached my waist. 

 June had come, and the flies, mosquitoes, and other insects 

 filled the air, and were as troublesome to me as if I had been in 

 a Florida swamp. The squatter returned, but he was ' chop- 

 fallen ;' nay, I thought his visage had assumed a cadaverous hue. ' 

 Tears ran down his cheeks, and he told me that his barrel of 

 rum had been stolen by the ' eggers ' or some fishermen. He 

 said that he had been in the habit of hiding it in the bushes to 

 prevent its being carried away by those merciless thieves, who 

 must have watched him in some of his frequent walks to the 

 spot. ' Now,' said he, ' I can expect none till next spring, and 

 God knows what will become of me in the winter.' Pierre Jean 



