that Mukoki had to separate
them with his belt-axe; David fancied they must be hard as rock. Thoreau
proceeded to toss these fish to the dogs, one at a time, and one to each
dog. The watchful and apparently famished beasts caught the fish in
mid-air, and there followed a snarling and grinding of teeth and
smashing of bones and frozen flesh that made David shiver. He was half
disgusted. Thoreau might at least have boiled the fish, or thawed them
out. A fish weighing from one and a half to two pounds was each dog's
allotment, and the work--if this feeding process could be called
work--was done. Father Roland watched the dogs, rubbing his hands with
satisfaction. Thoreau was showing his big, white teeth, as if proud of
something.

"Not a bad tooth among them, _mon Pere_," he said. "Not one!"

"Fine--fine--but a little too fat, Thoreau. You're feeding them too well
for dogs out of the traces," replied Father Roland.

David gasped.

"Too _well_!" he exclaimed. "They're half starved, and almost frozen!
Look at the poor devils swallow those fish, ice and all! Why don't you
cook the fish? Why don't you give them some sort of shelter to sleep
in?"

Father Roland and the Frenchman stared at him as if they did not quite
catch his meaning. Then a look of comprehension swept over the
Missioner's face. He chuckled, the chuckle grew, it shook his body, and
he laughed--laughed until the forest flung back the echoes of his
merriment, and even the leathery faces of the Indians crinkled in
sympathy. David could see no reason for his levity. He looked at
Thoreau. His host was grinning broadly.

"God bless my soul!" said the Little Missioner at last. "Starved? Cold?
_Boil_ their fish? Give 'em _beds_!" He stopped himself as he saw a
flush rising in David's face. "Forgive me, David," he begged, laying a
hand on the other's arm. "You can't understand how funny that was--what
you said. If you gave those fellows the warmest kennels in New York
City, lined with bear skins, they wouldn't sleep in them, but would come
outside and burrow those little round holes in the snow. That's their
nature. I've felt sorry for them, like you--when the thermometer was
down to sixty. But it's no use. As for the fish--they want 'em fresh or
frozen. I suppose you might educate them to eat cooked meat, but it
would be like making over a lynx or a fox or a wolf. They're mighty
comfortable, those dogs, David. That bunch of eight over there is mine.
They'll t