A TAME SEAL.
Many years ago, before the great River Moisie was resorted to by cod
fishermen and others, the harbor seals used to come up the stream in
great numbers for the purpose of bringing forth their young in its
quiet upper pools. After staying with their young for a couple of
weeks, the mother seals would return down the river, and a few days
later the little baby seals would drift down with the current and be
carried out to sea, there to hunt and grow big, and in their turn
become father and mother seals and visit their native river.
Many a calm evening I have stood on the gallery outside the house and
listened to the infant-like cry of the poor little seals as they
drifted on the river past the post. One evening, toward the end of
"the run" we heard one crying in a most pitiful and heart-rending
way. Every now and then we could see the snow-white mite as he
floated on the surface near mid-stream.
I got a large salmon scoop and joined the man on the beach. We waited
till the seal had floated past us, then quietly pushed out the boat.
The man headed obliquely down stream to come up with the baby from
behind, while I took a position in the bow, ready to land it in the
boat. In a few minutes we were up to him. The poor little deserted
fellow was pawing about in the water much after the manner of a blind
puppy and uttering plaintiff cries, startlingly like a real baby. I
skipped the scoop well under him, and in a moment he was safely
landed in the bottom of the boat.
I fixed up an extemporary feeding bottle, made of a piece of rubber
tubing, a cork and an empty soda water bottle, which we filled with
some nice warm milk. We got him comfortable on a sheepskin alongside
the kitchen stove, and with a little instruction he very soon knew
how to work his end of the tube. The warmth of the stove and the
bottle of milk very quickly sent him into sweet forgetfulness.
My first intention was to keep him only a few days, until he got a
little larger and stronger, and then let him continue his journey to
the sea. But the little fellow became such a pet and evidently liked
his surroundings so well that it would have been heartless in the
extreme to send him away; so Jack, as the cook christened him, became
one of the family, and grew and waxed strong, and followed me about
between the buildings with his flopping gait in a most ridiculous
manner.
In September, numbers of fine sea trout used to come in the river
each tide and go out with the ebb. We placed a stand of old useless
salmon nets near the last sand point to create a back-water, from
which to fly-fish. Jack used to accompany me on these fishing tours,
and he very soon came to understand what my whipping the water was
for.
One day he wabbled down to the very edge of the river, gazed up and
down and across the water, and the next instant dived in, with a
greasy, sliding motion. The waters closed over him, and I paused in
my pastime to see what would happen next. I looked about in all
directions for Jack, but not a ripple disturbed the placid waters. He
could not have been meshed in the folds of the net, because I would
have seen the floats vibrate. So I stood there pondering, my thoughts
partly perplexed and partly sorrowful for the possible loss of our
pet.
All at once I heard heavy breathing almost at my feet, and looking
down, there was Jack with a fine 3 1/2 lb. sea trout crossways in his
mouth, which, on my calling his name, he deposited at my feet. Then
you may be sure I petted the dear young fellow, and he seemed to
understand that what he had done was appreciated by his master, for
after rolling himself for a few moments on the sand he made another
dive, and another, and another, always with the same successful
results, and the best part of his fishing was that he only selected
the largest and fattest fish. We went home, both very proud in our
own way--Jack for having been made so much of, and I because of the
useful accomplishment of my pet.
As long as the run of fish continued, Jack and I used to resort each
day to the eddy. He brought the fish ashore and I put them in the
basket. What we could not consume at the house, the cook salted for
winter use. Yes, the winter was coming on, and the thought occurred
to me several times what we would do with Jack. Jack, however, made
no attempt to take his freedom and forsake us. On the contrary, he
manifested greater affection for us all, and, as the days became
shorter and the nights colder and longer in that northern latitude,
he used to sleep for many hours on a stretch, huddled up with the
dogs in the kitchen, only going out of doors for an occasional slide
in the snow once or twice during the course of each day.
Even the long winter of the North comes to an end in time, and once
again we had open water; the last-bound river was again free from
ice, and Jack used to take long swims, but he always came back.
Finally the run of salmon struck the river, and I took Jack down to
the bight of the sandbars to fly him at bigger game than the trout.
He made one or two dives and came ashore empty-mouthed. He saw there
were no caresses for Jack, so he tried again.
This time his efforts were crowned with success, for he landed with a
12 lb. salmon struggling in his strong jaws. He received my pating
and expressions of satisfaction with unbounded joy and seemed to know
he had done something to be proud of, for he ambled up the sandbank
and slid down to the water several times in rapid succession.
Soon it was the season for the seals to enter the river as in past
years, and the Indians were shooting them from their canoes whenever
they had a chance. Jack used to go so far afield now, probably trying
to find the mother that had so shamefully deserted him last year,
that we feared he might be shot by the Indians by mistake; so we tied
a piece of blue worsted gartering about his neck to distinguish him
from the other seals. But alas for the poor Knight of the Garter. One
day Jack was out among the other seals off the mouth of the river,
and in some way the blue garter must have been detached from his
neck, for an Indian shot him.
The man brought him ashore and told us of the mishap. As soon as he
handled him to put him in the canoe, he knew at once from the
roughness of his coat it was poor Jack. And thus ended our
intelligent and useful pet.
We buried him near the flagstaff and put up a board bearing the
inscription "Jack."
* * *
Seeing a small shark brought ashore the other day by one of the
salmon fishermen, who had found it rolled up in his net, put me in
mind of an exciting adventure I had many years ago. Both at the east,
as well as the west side of the mouth of the great River Moisie, sand
banks run out to sea for a distance of two or three miles. These are
covered at high tide, but being of almost a uniform height, the
falling tide runs off of them in a very short space of time, and
leaves them dry with the exception of some odd places where pools of
water remain. The banks are dry the last two hours of the ebb and the
first two hours of the flood tide.
The great river continually deposits on these sands such quantities
of vegetable matter, that they are a resort for many kinds of small
fishes; and numerous waterfowl come there at certain stages of the
tide to feed on the fish.
I was only about eighteen at the time, and had gone out in a
birch-bark canoe to shoot ducks on the banks. My companion, an
Indian boy, even younger than myself in years, but several times
older in experience, was to steer the canoe. The last words his
father said to us before leaving, were, "Don't go too far out, or the
'Ma-thcie-ne-mak' will cut your canoe and eat you."
The sea that morning was as calm as a pond, and perfectly glassy from
the strong May sun striking straight down on it. We had been out for
a couple of hours, and had had pretty fair luck with sea-ducks and
loons, and were just about starting for the shore before the tide
left us dry on the banks. If such a thing had happened, it would have
entailed on us the labor of carrying our canoe a mile or so to the
beach, over soft yielding sand.
"We better go," the boy was saying when his words were cut short in
his mouth. With the remains of that breath he screeched
"Ma-tchie-ne-mak!" and started to paddle like one possessed. I admit
that his fright was infectious, and coupled with the dread name of
shark, it so quickened my stroke, that Hanlon's sixty-a-minute were
very slow compared to the way I worked my paddle. I have read, and
heard from old whalesmen, that as long as one kept the water churned
up, there was no danger of the shark getting in his work. Twice the
boy called out, "There he is!" Once I caught a glimpse of the monster
a few yards off on our port beam, heading to the shore also, but
evidently watching for a chance to attack us.
The tide was now running out, and consequently the more we neared the
shore, the shoaler the water got. The shark had not stopped to
consider this in his mad rush to catch us. At last our canoe grounded
on the sands and we looked back with relief at our narrow escape.
But, ah! what is that about a couple of acres astern, surely not the
shark! But it was, and he was floundering about in shallow water, in
one of the pools, and every minute the water was getting less.
"Hoop-la! we will now hunt the shark," I said to little Moses, as I
started off toward him over the now dry sands.
Yes, there he was, the great, ugly beast, flopping about in a basin
surrounded by banks, out of which it was impossible for him to
escape. From the shore the boy's father and one of my men saw what
was going on and came out with a handful of bullets and their guns.
In the meantime I was employing the time with good results, by
pouring into the shark charge after charge of AAA shot at close
range.
By the time the men reached us the fish was pretty sick, and apart
from snapping his immense jaws, was lying perfectly still. The first
bullet from a distance of ten feet put an end to him. When the tide
came in again we towed him into the river and cut him up and salted
the chunks in barrels to feed the dogs the next winter. From the
liver we rendered out three gallons of oil as clear as water. This of
itself was of value to us the next winter in our lamps, it gave a
clear light and emitted no smoke. Those were the days before coal oil
came into general use. Our only lights at the post were home-made
tallow candles, or a cotton rag from a tin spout fed by seal-oil.
This, combined with the burning rag, gave off a heavy, dense, black
smoke, which was, if not injurious, very unpleasant to inhale during
the long winter evenings. The shark-oil being so much superior, I
kept it for my own private lamps, and the teeth ornamented the
mantlepiece.