I've knowed fellers a'most die o' home-sickness, an' I'm told they _do_ go under altogether sometimes." "Go onder!" exclaimed Henri; "oui, I vas all but die myself ven I fust try to git away from hom'.

If I have not git away, I not be here to-day." Henri's idea of home-sickness was so totally opposed to theirs that his comrades only laughed, and refrained from attempting to set him right.
"The fust time I wos took bad with it wos in a country somethin' like that," said Joe, pointing to the wide stretch of undulating prairie, dotted with clusters of trees and meandering streamlets, that lay before them.

"I had bin out about two months, an' was makin' a good thing of it, for game wos plenty, when I began to think somehow more than usual o' home.

My mother wos alive then." Joe's voice sank to a deep, solemn tone as he said this, and for a few minutes he rode on in silence.
"Well, it grew worse and worse.

I dreamed o' home all night an' thought of it all day, till I began to shoot bad, an' my comrades wos gittin' tired o' me; so says I to them one night, says I, 'I give out, lads; I'll make tracks for the settlement to-morrow.' They tried to laugh me out of it at first, but it was no go, so I packed up, bid them good-day, an' sot off alone on a trip o' five hundred miles.