An
idea struck me, and I pushed the canoe out of the grass, sending the
brood across the lake in wild confusion. There on the black bottom
were a dozen young trout, all freshly caught, and all with the
air-bladder punctured by the mother bird's sharp bill. She had
provided their dinner, but she brought it to a good place and made
them dive to get it.
As I paddled back to camp, I thought of the way the Indians taught
their boys to shoot. They hung their dinner from the trees, out of
reach, and made them cut the cord that held it, with an arrow. Did the
Indians originate this, I wonder, in their direct way of looking at
things, almost as simple as the birds'? Or was the idea whispered to
some Indian hunter long ago, as he watched Merganser teach her young
to dive?
Of all the broods I have met in the wilderness, only one, I think,
ever grew to recognize me and my canoe a bit, so as to fear me less
than another. It was on a little lake in the heart of the woods, where
we lingered long on our journey, influenced partly by the beauty of
the place, and partly by the fact that two or three bears roamed about
there, which I sometimes met at twilight on the lake shore. The brood
were as wild as other broods; but I met them often, and they sometimes
found the canoe lying motionless and harmless near them, without quite
knowing how it came there.
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