The setting sun was casting long shadows of oak and weeping elm athwart the
waters of the river; the light dip of the paddle had ceased on the water,
the baying of hounds and life-like stirring sounds from the lodges came
softened to the listening ear. The hunters had come in with the spoils of a
successful chase; the wigwam fires are flickering and crackling, sending up
their light columns of thin blue smoke among the trees; and now a goodly
portion of venison is roasting on the forked sticks before the fires. Each
lodge has its own cooking utensils. That jar embedded in the hot embers
contains sassafras tea, an aromatic beverage, in which the squaws delight
when they are so fortunate as to procure a supply. This has been brought
from the Credit, far up in the west, by a family who have come down on a
special mission from some great chief to his brethren on the Otonabee, and
the squaws have cooked some in honour of the guests. That pot that sends up
such a savoury steam is venison pottage, or soup, or stew, or any name you
choose to give the Indian mess that is concocted of venison, wild rice, and
herbs.
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