Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Young Fur Traders by R. M. Ballantyne (funny books to read txt) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Young Fur Traders by R. M. Ballantyne (funny books to read txt) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“Hurrah!” shouted Harry, as he leaped into the space before the fire, and flung the two foxes at Hamilton’s feet. “What do you think of that, old fellow? How are the heels? Rather sore, eh? Now for the kettle. ‘Polly, put the kettle on; we’ll all have—’ My eye! where’s the kettle, Hamilton? have you eaten it?”
“If you compose yourself a little, Harry, and look at the fire, you’ll see it boiling there.”
“Man, what a chap you are for making unnecessary speeches! Couldn’t you tell me to look at the fire, without the preliminary piece of advice to compose myself! Besides, you talk nonsense, for I’m composed already, of blood, bones, flesh, sinews, fat, and—”
“Humbug!” interrupted the accountant. “Lend a hand to get supper, you young goose!”
“And so,” continued Harry, not noticing the interruption, “I cannot be expected, nor is it necessary, to compose myself over again. But to be serious,” he added, “it was very kind and considerate of you, Hammy, to put on the kettle, when your heels were in a manner uppermost.”
“Oh, it was nothing at all; my heels are much better, thank you, and it kept me from wearying.”
“Poor fellow!” said the accountant, while he busied himself in preparing their evening meal, “you must be quite ravenous by this time—at least I am, which is the same thing.”
Supper was soon ready. It consisted of a large kettle of tea, a lump of pemmican, a handful of broken biscuit, and three ptarmigan,—all of which were produced from the small wooden box which the accountant was wont to call his camp-larder. The ptarmigan had been shot two weeks before, and carefully laid up for future use; the intense frost being a sufficient guarantee for their preservation for many months, had that been desired.
It would have done you good, reader (supposing you to be possessed of sympathetic feelings), to have witnessed those three nor’-westers enjoying their supper in the snowy camp. The fire had been replenished with logs, till it roared and crackled again, as if it were endued with a vicious spirit, and wished to set the very snow in flames. The walls shone like alabaster studded with diamonds, while the green boughs overhead and the stems around were of a deep red colour in the light of the fierce blaze. The tea-kettle hissed, fumed, and boiled over into the fire. A mass of pemmican simmered in the lid in front of it. Three pannikins of tea reposed on the green branches, their refreshing contents sending up little clouds of steam, while the ptarmigan, now split up, skewered, and roasted, were being heartily devoured by our three hungry friends.
The pleasures that fall to the lot of man are transient. Doubtless they are numerous and oft recurring; still they are transient, and so—supper came to an end.
“Now for a pipe,” said the accountant, disposing his limbs at full length on a green blanket. “O thou precious weed, what should we do without thee!”
“Smoke tea, to be sure,” answered Harry.
“Ah! true, it is possible to exist on a pipe of tea-leaves for a time, but only for a time. I tried it myself once, in desperation, when I ran short of tobacco on a journey, and found it execrable, but better than nothing.”
“Pity we can’t join you in that,” remarked Harry.
“True; but perhaps since you cannot pipe, it might prove an agreeable diversification to dance.”
“Thank you, I’d rather not,” said Harry; “and as for Hamilton, I’m convinced that his mind is made up on the subject.—How go the heels now?”
“Thank you, pretty well,” he replied, reclining his head on the pine branches, and extending his smitten members towards the fire. “I think they will be quite well in the morning.”
“It is a curious thing,” remarked the accountant, in a soliloquising tone, “that soft fellows never smoke!”
“I beg your pardon,” said Harry, “I’ve often seen hot loaves smoke, and they’re soft enough fellows, in all conscience!”
“Ah!” sighed the accountant, “that reminds me of poor Peterkin, who was so soft that he went by the name of ‘Butter.’ Did you ever hear of what he did the summer before last with an Indian’s head?”
“No, never; what was it?”
“I’ll tell you the story,” replied the accountant, drawing a few vigorous whiffs of smoke, to prevent his pipe going out while he spoke.
As the story in question, however, depicts a new phase of society in the woods, it deserves a chapter to itself.
“Spring had passed away, and York Fort was filled with all the bustle and activity of summer. Brigades came pouring in upon us with furs from the interior, and as every boat brought a CT or a clerk, our mess-table began to overflow.
“You’ve not seen the summer mess-room filled yet, Hamilton. That’s a treat in store for you.”
“It was pretty full last autumn, I think,” suggested Hamilton, “at the time I arrived from England.”
“Full! why, man, it was getting to feel quite lonely at that time. I’ve seen more than fifty sit down to table there, and it was worth going fifty miles to hear the row they kicked up—telling stories without end (and sometimes without foundation) about their wild doings in the interior, where every man-jack of them having spent at least eight months almost in perfect solitude, they hadn’t had a chance of letting their tongues go till they came down here. But to proceed. When the ship came out in the fall, she brought a batch of new clerks, and among them was this miserable chap Peterkin, whom we soon nicknamed Butter. He was the softest fellow I ever knew (far worse than you, Hamilton), and he hadn’t been here a week before the wild blades from the interior, who were bursting with fun and mischief, began to play off all kinds of practical jokes upon him. The very first day he sat down at the mess-table, our worthy governor (who, you are aware, detests practical jokes) played him a trick, quite unintentionally, which raised a laugh against him for many a day. You know that old Mr Rogan is rather absent at times; well, the first day that Peterkin came to mess (it was breakfast), the old governor asked him, in a patronising sort of way, to sit at his right hand. Accordingly down he sat, and having never, I fancy, been away from his mother’s apron-string before, he seemed to feel very uncomfortable, especially as he was regarded as a sort of novelty. The first thing he did was to capsize his plate into his lap, which set the youngsters at the lower end of the table into suppressed fits of laughter. However, he was eating the leg of a dry grouse at the time, so it didn’t make much of a mess.
“‘Try some fish, Peterkin,’ said Mr Rogan kindly, seeing that the youth was ill at ease. ‘That old grouse is tough enough to break your knife.’
“‘A very rough passage,’ replied the youngster, whose mind was quite confused by hearing the captain of the ship, who sat next to him, giving to his next neighbour a graphic account of the voyage in a very loud key—‘I mean, if you please, no, thank you,’ he stammered, endeavouring to correct himself.
“‘Ah! a cup of tea perhaps.—Here, Anderson,’ (turning to the butler), ‘a cup of tea to Mr Peterkin.’
“The butler obeyed the order.
“‘And here, fill my cup,’ said old Rogan, interrupting himself in an earnest conversation, into which he had plunged with the gentleman on his left hand. As he said this he lifted his cup to empty the slops, but without paying attention to what he was doing. As luck would have it, the slop-basin was not at hand, and Peterkin’s cup was, so he emptied it innocently into that. Peterkin hadn’t courage to arrest his hand, and when the deed was done he looked timidly round to see if the action had been observed. Nearly half the table had seen it, but they pretended ignorance of the thing so well that he thought no one had observed, and so went quietly on with his breakfast, and drank the tea! But I am wandering from my story. Well, about this time there was a young Indian who shot himself accidentally in the woods, and was brought to the fort to see if anything could be done for him. The doctor examined his wound, and found that the ball had passed through the upper part of his right arm and the middle of his right thigh, breaking the bone of the latter in its passage. It was an extraordinary shot for a man to put into himself, for it would have been next to impossible even for another man to have done it, unless the Indian had been creeping on all fours. When he was able to speak, however, he explained the mystery. While running through a rough part of the wood after a wounded bird, he stumbled and fell on all fours. The gun, which he was carrying over his shoulder, holding it, as the Indians usually do, by the muzzle, flew forward, and turned right round as he fell, so that the mouth of it was presented towards him. Striking against the stem of a tree, it exploded, and shot him through the arm and leg as described ere he had time to rise. A comrade carried him to his lodge, and his wife brought him in a canoe to the fort. For three or four days the doctor had hopes of him, but at last he began to sink, and died on the sixth day after his arrival. His wife and one or two friends buried him in our graveyard, which lies, as you know, on that lonely-looking point just below the powder-magazine. For several months previous to this our worthy doctor had been making strenuous efforts to get an Indian skull to send home to one of his medical friends, but without success. The Indians could not be prevailed upon to cut off the head of one of their dead countrymen for love or money, and the doctor had a dislike to the idea, I suppose, of killing one for himself; but now here was a golden opportunity. The Indian was buried near to the fort, and his relatives had gone away to their tents again. What was to prevent his being dug up? The doctor brooded over the thing for one hour and a half (being exactly the length of time required to smoke out his large Turkey pipe), and then sauntered into Wilson’s room. Wilson was busy, as usual, at some of his mechanical contrivances.
“Thrusting his hands deep into his breeches pockets and seating himself on an old sea-chest, he began,—
“‘I say, Wilson, will you do me a favour?’
“‘That depends entirely on what the favour is,’ he replied, without raising his head from his work.
“‘I want you to help me to cut off an Indian’s head!’
“‘Then I won’t do you the favour. But pray, don’t humbug me just now; I’m busy.’
“‘No; but I’m serious, and I can’t get it done without help, and I know
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