A few days after this, I was painting a beautiful little snow-bird,
that our man had shot out of a large flock that alighted near the
door. I was so intent upon my task, to which I was putting the
finishing strokes, that I did not observe the stealthy entrance (for
they all walk like cats) of a stern-looking red man, till a slender,
dark hand was extended over my paper to grasp the dead bird from
which I was copying, and which as rapidly transferred it to the side
of the painted one, accompanying the act with the deep guttural note
of approbation, the unmusical, savage "Owgh."
My guest then seated himself with the utmost gravity in a
rocking-chair, directly fronting me, and made the modest demand that
I should paint a likeness of him, after the following quaint
fashion: -
"Moodie's squaw know much - make Peter Nogan toder day on
papare - make Jacob to-day - Jacob young - great hunter - give much
duck - venison - to squaw."
Although I felt rather afraid of my fierce-looking visitor, I could
scarcely keep my gravity; there was such an air of pompous
self-approbation about the Indian, such a sublime look of conceit
in his grave vanity.
