assembled guests. The guests clapped their hands and shouted, "Chagon,
Orimha!--Be merry, Pierre!" The Frenchman had been formally adopted as
a Mohawk.


The forests were now painted in all the glories of autumn. All the
creatures of the woodlands shook off the drowsy laziness of summer and
came down from the uplands seeking haunts for winter retreat. Moose
and deer were on the move. Beaver came splashing down-stream to
plaster up their wattled homes before frost. Bear and lynx and marten,
all were restless as the autumn winds instinct with coming storm. This
is the season when the Indian sets out to hunt and fight. Furnished
with clothing, food, and firearms, Radisson left the Mohawk Valley with
three hunters. By the middle of August, the rind of the birch is in
perfect condition for peeling. The first thing the hunters did was to
slit off the bark of a thick-girthed birch and with cedar linings make
themselves a skiff. Then they prepared to lay up a store of meat for
the winter's war-raids. Before ice forms a skim across the still
pools, nibbled chips betray where a beaver colony is at work; so the
hunters began setting beaver traps. One night as they were returning
to their wigwam, there came through the leafy darkness the weird sound
of a man singing. It was a solitary Algonquin captive, who called out
that he had been on the track of a bear since daybreak. He probably
belonged to some well-known Iroquois, for he was welcomed to the
camp-fire. The sight of a face from Three Rivers roused the
Algonquin's memories of his northern home. In the noise of the
crackling fire, he succeeded in telling Radisson, without being
overheard by the Iroquois, that he had been a captive for two years and
longed to escape.