(Excerpts from "Chesuncook")
 I was here first introduced to Joe. He had ridden all the way on the outside
of the stage, the day before, in the rain, giving way to ladies, and was well
wetted. As it still rained, he asked if we were going to ``put it through.'' He
was a good-looking Indian, twenty-four years old, apparently of unmixed blood,
short and stout, with a broad face and reddish complexion, and eyes, methinks,
narrower and more turned-up at the outer corners than ours, answering to the description
of his race. Beside his under-clothing, he wore a red-flannel shirt, woollen pants,
and a black Kossuth hat, the ordinary dress of the lumberman, and, to a considerable
extent, of the Penobscot
Indian. When, afterward, he had occasion to take off his shoes and stockings,
I was struck with the smallness of his feet. He had worked a good deal as a lumberman,
and appeared to identify himself with that class. He was the only one of the party
who possessed an India-rubber jacket. The top strip or edge of his canoe was worn
nearly through by friction on the stage.
 I observed, while he was tracking the moose, a certain reticence or moderation in him. He did not communicate several observations of interest which he made, as a white man would have done, though they may have leaked out afterward. At another time, when we heard a slight crackling of twigs and he landed to reconnoitre, he stepped lightly and gracefully, stealing through the bushes with the least possible noise, in a way in which no white man does, - as it were, finding a place for his foot each time.
 While lying there listening to the Indians, I amused myself with trying
to guess at their subject by their gestures, or some proper name introduced.
There can be no more startling evidence of their being a distinct and comparatively
aboriginal race, then to hear this unaltered Indian language, which the white
man cannot speak nor understand. We may suspect change and deterioration in
almost every other particular, but the language which is so wholly unintelligible
to us. It took me by surprise, though I had found so many arrow-heads, and convinced
me that the Indian was not the invention of historians and poets. It was a purely
wild and primitive American sound, as much as the barking of a chickaree, and
I could not understand a syllable of it; but Paugus, had he been there, would
have understood it. These Abenakis
gossiped, laughed, and jested, in the language in which Eliot's Indian Bible
is written, the language which has been spoken in New England who shall say
how long? These were the sounds that issued from the wigwams of this country
before Columbus was born; they have not yet died away; and, with remarkably
few exceptions, the language of their forefathers still copious enough for them.
I felt that I stood, or rather lay, as near to the primitive man of America,
that night, as any of its discoverers ever did.
"Chesuncook" was first published in the Atlantic Monthly in 1858,
and is about a journey from Bangor to Chesuncook Lake in 1853 with Joe Aitteon,
a Penobscot Indian guide. The Maine Woods was posthumously published
in 1864, edited by the younger W .E. Channing.