GABE BEAR'S BACCY. 



THEODORE ROBERTS. 



Though the Maliseet Indian of the River 

 St. John has, to outward appearances, fal- 

 len from his high estate, beneath his dusky 

 skin still flows the warrior blood of his 

 ancestors. To-day he farms a little and 

 nets salmon in season ; makes bark canoes, 

 snowshoes, and paddles of bird's-eye 

 maple; does some trapping on the upper 

 waters, and guides sportsmen into the 

 wilderness after moose and caribou. He 

 wears the cast off clothes and broken hats 

 of the white man, and his squaw makes 

 baskets of ash splints, trimming them 

 with strands of sweet hay. 



Though his code of honor is strict in 

 many ways, the man who will risk his life 

 for you, facing the wounded bull moose or 

 breasting the rapid, will pocket your to- 

 bacco pouch without a moment's hesitation. 



Across the river from the elm-shaded, 

 peace-girded capital town lies an Indian 

 village, a cluster of weather-beaten cabins 

 by the water side. There dwell the braves 

 and their families who traffic and beg in 

 the town. They are a flat faced, bow 

 legged people, these suburban Maliseets. 

 They build fine canoes for sale, but the 

 craft they use themselves are patched, 

 twisted and stained. During summer they 

 spend much time on the water, catching 

 driftwood, and searching for sweet hay, 

 ash, birch bark and willow. Their jour- 

 neyings seldom take them farther down 

 the river than Gagetown or higher than 

 Savage island. The Nashwaak and Nash- 

 waksis know the soft dip of their paddles, 

 and in spring, when the muskrats are about 

 the thumping reports of their shot guns. 



About 15 miles farther up the river 

 stands an Indian village of a different 

 stamp. There are found snug little inter- 

 vale farms, self respecting canoes, a few 

 "breeds" with French blood in their veins, 

 stalwart Maliseets, a good priest, and a 

 neat chapel. It is called French Village. 



But the red man is everywhere along the 

 valley of the St. John, at Oromocto, at 

 Gagetown and along the Tobique and her 

 sister streams. Soft footed, stolid faced 

 and dirty, the lord of the wilderness steals 

 his white brother's trousers and tobacco, 

 and goes about his ' humble occupations 

 with a grumble, awaiting in sleepy content 

 the return of Gluskap. 



Gabe Bear was cousin to Jim Paul, the 

 chief at French Village. He lived in a 

 small cabin with red door and window 

 frames, just out of reach of the spring 

 freshets. He never had to shave, for in 

 his youth he had, according to the cus- 



267 



torn of his race, destroyed a budding beard 

 by pulling out the hairs one by one. His 

 cousin's eldest son, who had worked a 

 year in a sawmill, bought himself a shaving 

 mug and a razor, and though Gabe was 

 dazzled by the red, blue and gold design 

 on the mug, he scorned the whole outfit. 



"What for all this tomfool?" he said to 

 his nephew, "You ain't no big white man; 

 you common Injun with patch behind!" 



In private he confessed that the razor 

 might make a good knife; but why a 

 young man should scrape his face with it 

 and with no apparent result was more than 

 he could see. Once or twice he borrowed 

 it to cut his tobacco with. The owner did 

 not object; to him a razor was a razor, be 

 it sharp or dull ; but when Gabe skinned 

 3 muskrats with it the youth threw it away 

 in disgust and returned to the sawmill. 



Gabe did not believe in working hard all 

 the year round. He held that a man with 

 eyes and hands bent always on accomplish- 

 ing something misses half of life. The life 

 of the river was the life for him. If he 

 poled and paddled against stiff water some- 

 times, he could forget it when evening fell, 

 remembering only the easy water, the cool 

 shade, and the songs of the birds. If he 

 spent 3 weeks on the Tobique with a 

 sportsman from the city he took a long 

 rest afterward, lying on the clover bank 

 beside his cottage and listening to the bees 

 and the untroubled river. When his tobacco 

 was gone and no more could be borrowed 

 from his cousin, the chief ne would carry 

 his canoe to the river and slip down a few 

 miles and across to Crock's Point. 



Gray and dry lay the beaches under the 

 midsummer sun. In a landlocked pool 

 swam young sturgeon that had been 

 taken from the salmon nets. Pennyroyal 

 and narrow bladed grasses shot up between 

 the hot pebbles' An old red dugout swung 

 in the shallow, amber water. Back of the 

 beach loomed giant willows, with trees 

 of choke cherry and bass wood in their 

 shade, and at the top of the steep bank 

 one might catch a glimpse of outbuildings 

 and apple trees. Gabe crossed the beach 

 and went up the path between the rank 

 growths of snapdragon and milkweed. At 

 the top of the path he reached a little clearing, 

 bordered right and left with cherry trees. 

 Below the right hand bank lay an intervale 

 meadow, ready for the cutting. The sun 

 spun a sleepy haze above the ripe grasses. 



A mowing machine sang like a giant cica- 

 da somewhere in the distance. Gabe made 

 his way to the long open porch of the farm- 



