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Updated: June 2, 2025
"You'll have to do with the fish," he replied; "but I'll give you a tin of condensed milk for the papoose." "Ah, ah! Him good stuff!" exclaimed Sacobie. Archer considered the provisions for a second or two. Then, going over to a dunnage bag near his bunk, he pulled its contents about until he found a bright red silk handkerchief and a red flannel shirt. Their colour was too gaudy for his taste.
He sprang across the cabin and pulled open the door. A short, stooping figure shuffled in and reeled against him. A rifle in a woollen case clattered at his feet. "Mer' Christmas! How-do?" said a weary voice. "Merry Christmas, brother!" replied Archer. Then, "Bless me, but it's Sacobie Bear! Why, what's the matter, Sacobie?" "Heap tired! Heap hungry!" replied the Micmac, sinking to the floor.
After a while Sacobie Bear opened his eyes and gazed up at Archer. "Good!" he said. "John Archer, he heap fine man, anyhow. Mighty good to poor Injun Sacobie, too. Plenty tobac, I s'pose. Plenty rum, too." "No more rum, my son," replied Archer, tossing what was left in the mug against the log wall, and corking the bottle. "And no smoke until you have had a feed. What do you say to bacon and tea?
But Sacobie, with his head down and his round snowshoes padding! padding! like the feet of a frightened duck, raced with death toward the haven of Archer's cabin. Archer was dreaming of a Christmas-time in a great faraway city when he was startled by a rattle of snowshoes at his threshold and a soft beating on his door, like weak blows from mittened hands.
"Sacobie no kill himself now," replied the Micmac, as he bolted a brown slice and a mouthful of hard bread. "Sacobie more like to kill himself when he empty. Want to live when he chock-full. Good fun. T'ank you for more tea." Archer filled the extended mug and poured in the molasses "long sweet'nin'" they call it in that region.
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