Whenever It Is Low Water,
Winter Or Summer, Night Or Day, They Must Rise To Pick Shell-Fish
From The Rocks; And The Women Either Dive To Collect
Sea-Eggs, Or Sit Patiently In Their Canoes, And With A Baited
Hair-Line Without Any Hook, Jerk Out Little Fish.
If a seal is
killed, or the floating carcass of a putrid whale is discovered,
it is a feast; and such miserable food is assisted by a few
tasteless berries and fungi.
They often suffer from famine: I heard Mr. Low, a sealing-master
intimately acquainted with the natives of this
country, give a curious account of the state of a party of
one hundred and fifty natives on the west coast, who were
very thin and in great distress. A succession of gales prevented
the women from getting shell-fish on the rocks, and
they could not go out in their canoes to catch seal. A small
party of these men one morning set out, and the other
Indians explained to him, that they were going a four days'
journey for food: on their return, Low went to meet them,
and he found them excessively tired, each man carrying
a great square piece of putrid whale's-blubber with a hole
in the middle, through which they put their heads, like the
Gauchos do through their ponchos or cloaks. As soon as
the blubber was brought into a wigwam, an old man cut off
thin slices, and muttering over them, broiled them for a
minute, and distributed them to the famished party, who
during this time preserved a profound silence.
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