From such a luxurious dinner you may suppose that our young voyageurs lived in prime style. But it was not always so. They had their fasts as well as feasts. Sometimes for days they had nothing to eat but the jerked deer-meat. No bread—no beer—no coffee, nothing but water—dry venison and water. Of course, this is food enough for a hungry man; but it can hardly be called luxurious living. Now and then a wild duck, or a goose, or perhaps a young swan, was shot; and this change in their diet was very agreeable. Fish were caught only upon occasions, for often these capricious creatures refused François’ bait, however temptingly offered. After three weeks’ coasting the Lake, they reached the Saskatchewan, and turning up that stream, now travelled in a due westerly direction. At the Grand Rapids, near the mouth of this river, they were obliged to make a portage of no less than three miles, but the magnificent view of these “Rapids” fully repaid them for the toil they underwent in passing them.
The Saskatchewan is one of the largest rivers in America, being full 1600 miles in length, from its source in the Rocky Mountains to its débouchure, under the name of the “Nelson River,” in Hudson’s Bay. For some distance above Lake Winnipeg, the country upon its banks is well wooded. Farther up, the river runs through dry sandy prairies that extend westward to the foot-hills of the Rocky Mountains. Many of these prairies may be properly called “deserts.” They contain lakes as salt as the ocean itself, and vast tracts—hundreds of square miles in extent—where not a drop of water is to be met with. But the route of our voyageurs did not lie over these prairies. It was their intention, after reaching Cumberland House, to turn again in a northerly direction.
One evening, when within two days’ journey of the Fort, they had encamped upon the bank of the Saskatchewan. They had chosen a beautiful spot for their camp, where the country, swelling into rounded hills, was prettily interspersed with bushy copses of Amelanchiers, and Rosa blanda, whose pale red flowers were conspicuous among the green leaves, and filled the air with a sweet fragrance, that was wafted to our voyageurs upon the sunny breeze. The ground was covered with a grassy sward enamelled by the pink flowers of the Cleome, and the deeper red blossoms of the beautiful wind-flower (Anemone). Upon that day our travellers had not succeeded in killing any game, and their dinner was likely to consist of nothing better than dry venison scorched over the coals. As they had been travelling all the morning against a sharp current, and, of course, had taken turn about at the paddles, they all felt fatigued, and none of them was inclined to go in search of game. They had flung themselves down around the fire, and were waiting until the venison should be broiled for dinner.
The camp had been placed at the foot of a tolerably steep hill, that rose near the banks of the river. There was another and higher hill facing it, the whole front of which could be seen by our travellers as they sat around their fire. While glancing their eyes along its declivity, they noticed a number of small protuberances or mounds standing within a few feet of each other. Each of them was about a foot in height, and of the form of a truncated cone—that is, a cone with its top cut off, or beaten down.
“What are they?” inquired François.
“I fancy,” answered Lucien, “they are marmot-houses.”
“They are,” affirmed Norman; “there are plenty of them in this country.”
“Oh! marmots!” said François. “Prairie-dogs, you mean?—the same we met with on the Southern prairies?”
“I think not,” replied Norman: “I think the prairie-dogs are a different sort. Are they not, Cousin Luce?”
“Yes, yes,” answered the naturalist; “these must be a different species. There are too few of them to be the houses of prairie-dogs. The ‘dogs’ live in large settlements, many hundreds of them in one place; besides, their domes are somewhat different in appearance from these. The mounds of the prairie-dogs have a hole in the top or on one side. These, you see, have not. The hole is in the ground beside them, and the hill is in front, made by the earth taken out of the burrow, just as you have seen it at the entrance of a rat’s hole. They are marmots, I have no doubt, but of a different species from the prairie-dog marmots.”
“Are there not many kinds of marmots in America? I have heard so,” said François.
This question was of course addressed to Lucien.
“Yes,” answered he. “The fauna of North America is peculiarly rich in species of these singular animals. There are thirteen kinds of them, well-known to naturalists; and there are even some varieties in these thirteen kinds that might almost be considered distinct species. I have no doubt, moreover, there are yet other species which have not been described. Perhaps, altogether, there are not less than twenty different kinds of marmots in North America. As only one or two species are found in the settled territories of the United States, it was supposed, until lately, that there were no others. Latterly the naturalists of North America have been very active in their researches, and no genus of animals has rewarded them so well as the marmots—unless, perhaps, it may be the squirrels. Almost every year a new species of one or the other of these has been found—mostly inhabiting the vast wilderness territories that lie between the Mississippi and the Pacific Ocean.
“As regards the marmots, the closet-naturalists, as usual, have rendered their history as complicated and difficult to be understood as possible. They have divided them into several genera, because one kind happens to have a larger tubercle upon its tooth than another, or a little more curving in its claws, or a shorter tail. It is true that in the thirteen species some differ considerably from the others in size, colour, and other respects. Yet, for all that, there is such an identity, if I may so express it, about the mode of life, the food, the appearance, and habits of all the thirteen, that I think it is both absurd and ill-judged to render the study of them more difficult, by thus dividing them into so many genera. They are all marmots, that is what they are; and why confound the study of them by calling them spermophiles and arctomys, and such-like hard names?”
“I quite agree with you, Luce,” said the hunter, Basil, who, although not averse to the study of natural history (all hunters, I believe, love it more or less), had no great opinion of the closet-naturalists and “babblers about teeth,” as he contemptuously called them.
“When a family of animals,” continued Lucien, “contains a great many species, and these species differ widely from each other, I admit that it may then be convenient and useful to class them into genera, and sometimes even sub-genera; but, on the other hand, when there are only a few species, and these closely allied to each other, I think nothing can be more ridiculous than this dividing and subdividing, and giving such unpronounceable names to them. It is this that renders the study difficult, because even the committing to memory such a string of unmeaning phrases is of itself no easy task. Take, for example, such a phrase as ‘Arctomys spermophilus Rickardsonii,’ which, although nearly a yard long, means simply the ‘tawny marmot.’ Do not mistake me,” continued Lucien; “I do not object to the use of the Greek or Latin phraseology used in such cases. Some universal language must be adopted, so that the naturalists of different countries may understand each other. But then t............