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 take us north. And I want to warn you, don't put yourself in
reach of them until they get acquainted with you. They're not pets, you
know; I guess they'd appreciate petting just about as much as they would
boiled fish, or poison. There's nothing on earth like a husky or an
Eskimo dog when it comes to lookin' you in the eye with a friendly and
lovable look and snapping your hand off at the same time.
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