From Chap. 8, 1816

The unbearded one drew out a biscuit, turned to one side, and struck it against the oak tree at his back. This propelled several hard, black bugs out of the bread. They dropped like a handful of buckshot and disappeared into a patch of soft snow, leaving a pattern of small holes. Without checking the biscuit further, the man stuffed it into his mouth. After observing him hitting at his clothing all through lunch, I imagined that if he were to bump himself against a tree, other insects would meet the same fate as their cousins evicted from the biscuit. "If them Indians wasn't so danged lazy," he grumbled through the yellowish contents of his mouth, "they wouldn't need all that land."