Far away in the sub-arctic, the sturdy Eskimos live happily—hunting and
fishing for food, trapping for furs to trade for clothing, ammunition
and for such luxuries as tea, sugar, tobacco and jam. They speak only
their own language, and their idea of quantities or numbers is always
very hazy. Some tribes do not seem to be able to count more than ten.
But their remarkable intelligence offsets this weakness.
One year I told an Eskimo, who hunted two hundred miles north of one of
our stations, to report to me, the next summer, how many sea trout he
had caught that spring at the mouth of a certain river where we thought
of establishing an outpost.
The native borrowed a pencil and a sheet of paper from the trader and
departed. The next year he brought in the paper, very much soiled, but
showing exactly how many fish he had killed—1132. For each trout the
Eskimo had drawn a line, varying in length according to the size of the
fish, and for each ten trout he had scrawled a double line. Nobody had
ever taught him that.
[Illustration: Eskimo arithmetic]
Another instance of mathematics was reported to me in the Northwest two
years ago. At a certain post, we were using an Eskimo to trade with a
far away tribe which we could not get in touch with otherwise. In the
fall our trader would put on the man’s sleigh so many articles, telling
him how many articles he ought to give out for each skin. The next
spring the man would return and faithfully turn over the furs with the
balance of the untraded goods. There never was a mistake. But a year
later, our trader noticed that the Eskimo brought back a bundle of furs
of his own which he would trade with us afterwards, and for which it was
difficult to account as the balance of the merchandise returned was
correct and the native himself was not supposed to trap.
The trader finally asked him how it happened, and the Husky’s answer
plainly proved that he had found out by himself the secret of division.
For instance, each article, that ought to have been given out for fur,
the Eskimo cut in two; keeping one half for himself so as to trade it
later on against fur on his own account.
Thus our native friend would trade one-half a pound of sugar instead of
a whole one; half a stick of tobacco, and so on. He went so far as
filing an ordinary file in two, trading one-half for us and the other
for himself.
When our trader told him that he was not very fair to his northern
brothers, he laughed and answered, “They have not learned how to count.
I have.”
Tale XXX: “Caribou”
In the northwest of Canada, far away from civilization, there still
exist huge herds of caribou that roam by tens of thousands. In summer,
they are to be found on the barren lands; in winter, through the wooded
wilderness around Reindeer Lake.
The main body of the herd seems to follow a steady routine of migration.
Each year the natives know exactly where to find it. The Eskimos follow
the caribou during the summer. The Chippewayans lie in wait for them on
their way south in the early fall. From then on until spring those
Indians live on the herd, using the meat for food and the leather for
clothing.
At all times during the year, the grey timber wolves hover around,
cutting out and pulling down the young, the maimed and the weak. Still,
the caribou ranks never seem to dwindle. In countless numbers each year
they move north or south, according to the season, obeying the law of
their kind.
In winter, when one travels through that enormous country which lies
between Cree Lake and Pakatawagan, through Bear Lake, Wollaston Lake,
further north to Nueltin Lake, further southeast to Reindeer Lake, one
is liable to meet, any day, hundreds and hundreds of these deer. In the
depth of the bush one seldom sees them. But they seem to have a fondness
for lakes, over the ice of which they roam aimlessly, in the open,
milling like sheep at the slightest sign of danger.
All men who travel in those regions depend on these deer for food, not
only for themselves but for their dogs. Each team of “huskies” is wise
to what a herd of caribou means as soon as it is sighted. When the
traveller reaches a lake and sees the deer far away on the ice, the dogs
realize what is going to happen, and strain silently and excitedly in
their traces. The deer, foolishly, look around, run about, stop and
stare. Little by little, the sleigh drawn by the straining dogs gets
nearer and nearer.
Finally the man with one short word stops the team, then steps out of
the sleigh, aims and fires. Instantly the dogs are off, baying like
maniacs. The man makes a flying leap, grabs the sleigh and scrambles on
board. The seven dogs are racing madly towards the deer who are running
around in circles.
If the man’s aim has been true, in a few minutes the team of “huskies”
has reached its prey and, in a mad leap, is worrying its throat.
If he has missed, the man calls out a second time. The dogs stop dead
and the rifle barks again.
[Illustration: Hunter pointing rifle from dogsled]