140 
THE MAINE WOODS. 
convinced me that the Indian was not the invention of 
historians and poets. It was a purely wild and primitive 
American sound, as much as the barking of a chickaree , 
and I could not understand a syllable of it; but Paugus, 
had he been there, would have understood it. These 
Abenakis gossiped, laughed, and jested, in the language 
in which Eliot’s Indian Bible is written, the language 
which has been spoken in New England who shall say 
how long ? These were the sounds that issued from the 
wigwams of this country before Columbus was born ; 
they have not yet died away; and, with remarkably few 
exceptions, the language of their forefathers is still copi¬ 
ous enough for them. I felt that I stood, or rather lay, 
as near to the primitive man of America, that night, as 
any of its discoverers ever did. 
In the midst of their conversation, Joe suddenly ap¬ 
pealed to me to know how long Moosehead Lake was. 
Meanwhile, as we lay there, Joe was making and try¬ 
ing his horn, to be ready for hunting after midnight. 
The St. Francis Indian also amused himself with sound¬ 
ing it, or rather calling through it; for the sound is made 
with the voice, and not by blowing through the horn. 
The latter appeared to be a speculator in moose-hides. 
He bought my companion’s for two dollars and a quarter, 
green. Joe said that it was worth two and a half at Old- 
town. Its chief use is for moccasins. One or two of 
these Indians wore them. I was told, that, by a recent 
law of Maine, foreigners are not allowed to kill moose 
there at any season ; white Americans can kill them only 
at a particular season, but the Indians of Maine at all 
seasons. The St. Francis Indian accordingly asked my 
companion for a wighiggin , or bill, to show, since he was 
a foreigner. He lived near Sorel. I found that he could 
