Bo Jou!" (Bon Jour).
A chorus of Bo Jous came back from the hill.
George called to them in Indian, "We are strangers and are passing
through your country."
The sound of words in their own tongue reassured them and they ran
down to the landing. As we drew near we could hear them talking.
I, of course, could not understand a word of it, but I learned
later from George what they said.
"Who are they?"
"See the man steering looks like an Indian."
"That surely is an Indian."
"Why, there is an English woman."
"Where have they come from?"
As the canoe glided towards the landing, one, who was evidently the
chief, stepped forward while the others remained a little apart.
Putting out his band to catch the canoe as it touched the sand he
said, "Of course you have some tobacco?"
"Only a little," George replied. "We have come far."
Then the hand was given in greeting as we slipped ashore.
It was a striking picture they made that quiet Sabbath morning, as
they stood there at the shore with the dark green woods behind them
and all about them the great wilderness of rock and river and lake.
You did not see it all, but you felt it. They had markedly Indian
faces and those of the older men showed plainly the battle for life
they had been fighting. They were tall, lithe, and active looking,
with a certain air of self-possession and dignity which almost all
Indians seem to have.
