The Saskatoons, big brother to the Huckleberry, were drying on the bush where they had ripened; the Raspberries had grown red in their time and gladdened the heart of Muskwa, the Bear; the Currants clustered like strings of black pearls in the cool beds of lazy streams, where pin-tailed Grouse, and Pheasant in big, red cravat, strutted and crouked in this glorious feeding-ground so like a miniature vineyard; the Cranberries nestled shyly in the moss; and the Wolf and Willow-berries gleamed like tiny white stars along the banks of the swift-running, emerald-green Saskatchewan and Athabasca. All this was in the heritage land of Black Fox, and Muskwa, and Mooswa.
It was at this time, in the full Autumn, that Whisky-Jack flew North and South, and East and West, and called to a meeting the Dwellers that were in the Boundaries. This was for the choosing of their King, a yearly observance, and for the settling of other matters.
When they had gathered, Black Fox greeted the Animals:--
"Good Year to you, Subjects, and much eating, each unto his own way of life!"
Whisky-Jack preened his mischievous head, ruffled his blue-gray feathers, broke into the harsh, cackling laugh of the Jay, and sneered, "Eating! always of eating; and never a more beautiful song to you, or--"
"Less thieving to you, eh, Mister Jay," growled Muskwa. "You who come by your eating easily have it not so heavily on your mind as we Toilers."
"Well, let me see," continued Black Fox, with reflective dignity, "here Ye have all assembled; for form’s sake I will call your names."
From Mooswa to Wapoos each one of the Dwellers as his name was spoken stepped forward in the circle and saluted the King.
"Jack has been a faithful messenger," said Black King; "but where are Cougar, and Buffalo, and Eagle?"
"They had notice, thank you, Majesty, for your praise. Cougar says the mountain is his King, and that he wouldn’t trust himself among a lot of Plain Dwellers."
"He’s a Highway Robber and an Outlaw, anyway, so it doesn’t matter," asserted Carcajou.
"You wouldn’t talk that way if he were at your throat, my fat little Friend," lisped Whisky-Jack. "Buffalo is afraid of Man, and won’t come; nearly all his brothers have been killed off, and he is hiding in the Spruce woods near Athabasca Lake."