Chapter 9

Priscian a little scratch'd;
'Twill serve.
--Love's Labour Lost.

Having made the reader acquainted with the manner in which Ishmael
Bush had disposed of his family, under circumstances that might have
proved so embarrassing to most other men, we shall again shift the
scene a few short miles from the place last described, preserving,
however, the due and natural succession of time. At the very moment
that the squatter and his sons departed in the manner mentioned in the
preceding chapter, two men were intently occupied in a swale that lay
along the borders of a little run, just out of cannon-shot from the
encampment, discussing the merits of a savoury bison's hump, that had
been prepared for their palates with the utmost attention to the
particular merits of that description of food. The choice morsel had
been judiciously separated from the adjoining and less worthy parts of
the beast, and, enveloped in the hairy coating provided by nature, it
had duly undergone the heat of the customary subterraneous oven, and
was now laid before its proprietors in all the culinary glory of the
prairies. So far as richness, delicacy, and wildness of flavour, and
substantial nourishment were concerned, the viand might well have
claimed a decided superiority over the meretricious cookery and
laboured compounds of the most renowned artist; though the service of
the dainty was certainly achieved in a manner far from artificial. It
would appear that the two fortunate mortals, to whose happy lot it
fell to enjoy a meal in which health and appetite lent so keen a
relish to the exquisite food of the American deserts, were far from
being insensible of the advantage they possessed.

The one, to whose knowledge in the culinary art the other was indebted
for his banquet, seemed the least disposed of the two to profit by his
own skill. He ate, it is true, and with a relish; but it was always
with the moderation with which age is apt to temper the appetite. No
such restraint, however, was imposed on the inclination of his
companion. In the very flower of his days and in the vigour of
manhood, the homage that he paid to the work of his more aged friend's
hands was of the most profound and engrossing character. As one
delicious morsel succeeded another he rolled his eyes towards his
companion, and seemed to express that gratitude which he had not
speech to utter, in looks of the most benignant nature.

"Cut more into the heart of it, lad," said the trapper, for it was the
venerable inhabitant of those vast wastes, who had served the bee-
hunter with the banquet in question; "cut more into the centre of the
piece; there you will find the genuine riches of natur'; and that
without need from spices, or any