The appearance they cut was most ludicrous. My
young friend pointed to the musk-rats, as she sank down, laughing,
upon one of the skins.
Old Snow-storm, who was present, imagined that she wanted one of
them to eat, and very gravely handed her the unsavoury beast, stick
and all.
"Does the old man take me for a cannibal?" she said. "I would as
soon eat a child."
Among the many odd things cooking at that fire there was something
that had the appearance of a bull-frog.
"What can that be?" she said, directing my eyes to the strange
monster. "Surely they don't eat bull-frogs!"
This sally was received by a grunt of approbation from Snow-storm;
and, though Indians seldom forget their dignity so far as to laugh,
he for once laid aside his stoical gravity, and, twirling the thing
round with a stick, burst into a hearty peal.
"Muckakee! Indian eat muckakee? - Ha! ha! Indian no eat muckakee!
Frenchmans eat his hind legs; they say the speckled beast much good.
This no muckakee! - the liver of deer, dried - very nice - Indian eat
him."
"I wish him much joy of the delicate morsel," said the saucy girl,
who was intent upon quizzing and examining everything in the camp.
