own great love of learning made it an easy and delightful task to help
others as he had longed to be helped. His innocent and tender nature
made all children love him, and gave him a remarkable power over them;
so when the first hard months were past, and his efforts began to bear
fruit, he found that what had seemed an affliction was a blessing, and
that teaching was his special gift. Filial duty sweetened the task, a
submissive heart found happiness in self-sacrifice, and a wise soul
showed him what a noble and lovely work it was to minister to little
children,--for of such is the kingdom of heaven.
For years Eli taught, and his school grew famous; for he copied the
fashions of other countries, invented new methods, and gave himself so
entirely to his profession that he could not fail of success. The
mortgage was paid off, and Eli made frequent pilgrimages to the dear
old mother, whose staff and comfort he still was. The sisters married
well, the brothers prospered, and at thirty, the schoolmaster found a
nobler mate than pretty Lucinda, and soon had some little pupils of his
very own to love and teach.
There his youth ends; but after the years of teaching he began to preach
at last, not in one pulpit, but in many all over the land, diffusing
good thoughts now as he had peddled small wares when a boy; still
learning as he went, still loving books and studying mankind, still
patient, pious, dutiful, and tender, a wise and beautiful old man, till,
at eighty, Eli's education ended.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ONAWANDAH
"What in the world have _I_ chosen?" exclaimed Geoff, as he drew out a
manuscript in his turn and read the queer name.
"A story that will just suit you, I think. The hero is an Indian, and a
brave one, as you will see. I learned the little tale from an old woman
who lived in the valley of the Connecticut, which the Indians called the
Long River of Pines."
With this very short preface, Aunt Elinor began to read, in her best
manner, the story of
ONAWANDAH.
Long ago,--when hostile Indians haunted the great forests, and every
settlement had its fort for the protection of the inhabitants,--in one
of the towns on the Connecticut River, lived Parson Bain and his little
son and daughter. The wife and mother was dead; but an old servant took
care of them, and did her best to make Reuben and Eunice good children.
Her direst threat, when they were naughty, was, "The Indians will come
and fetch you, if you don't behave." So they grew up in great fear of
the red men. Even the friendly Indians, who sometimes came for food or
powder, were regarded with suspicion by the people. No man went to work
without his gun near by. On Sundays, when they trudged to the rude
meeting-house, all carried the trusty rifle on the shoulder; and while
the pastor preached, a sentinel mounted guard at the door, to give
warning if canoes came down the river or a dark face peered from the
wood.
One autumn night, when the first heavy rains were falling and a cold
wind whistled through the valley, a knock came at the minister's door,
and, opening it, he found an Indian boy, ragged, hungry, and foot-sore,
who begged for food and shelter. In his broken way, he told how he had
fallen ill, and been left to die by enemies who had taken him from his
own people, months before; how he had wandered for days till almost
sinking; and that he had come now to ask for help, led by the hospitable
light in the parsonage window.
"Send him away, master, or harm will come of it. He is a spy, and we
shall all be scalped by the murdering Injuns who are waiting in the
wood," said old Becky, harshly; while little Eunice hid in the old
servant's ample skirts, and twelve-year-old Reuben laid his hand on his
cross-bow, ready to defend his sister if need be.
But the good man drew the poor lad in, saying, with his friendly smile:
"Shall not a Christian be as hospitable as a godless savage? Come in,
child, and be fed: you sorely need rest and shelter."
Leaving his face to express the gratitude he had no words to tell, the
boy sat by the comfortable fire and ate like a famished wolf, while
Becky muttered her forebodings and the children eyed the dark youth at a
safe distance. Something in his pinched face, wounded foot, and eyes
full of dumb pain and patience, touched the little girl's tender heart,
and, yielding to a pitiful impulse, she brought her own basin of new
milk and, setting it beside the stranger, ran to hide behind her father,
suddenly remembering that this was one of the dreaded Indians.
"That was well done, little daughter. Thou shalt love thine enemies, and
share thy bread with the needy. See, he is smiling; that pleased him,
and he wishes us to be his friends."
But Eunice ventured no more that night, and quaked in her little bed at
the thought of the strange boy sleeping on a blanket before the fire
below. Reuben hid his fears better, and resolved to watch while others
slept; but was off as soon as his curly head touched the pillow, and
dreamed of tomahawks and war-whoops till morning.
Next day, neighbors came to see the waif, and one and all advised
sending him away as soon as possible, since he was doubtless a spy, as
Becky said, and would bring trouble of some sort.
"When he is well, he may go whithersoever he will; but while he is too
lame to walk, weak with hunger, and worn out with weariness, I will
harbor him. He cannot feign suffering and starvation like this. I shall
do my duty, and leave the consequences to the Lord," answered the
parson, with such pious firmness that the neighbors said no more.
But they kept a close watch upon Onawandah, when he went among them,
silent and submissive, but with the proud air of a captive prince, and
sometimes a fierce flash in his black eyes when the other lads taunted
him with his red skin. He was very lame for weeks, and could only sit in
the sun, weaving pretty baskets for Eunice, and shaping bows and arrows
for Reuben. The children were soon his friends, for with them he was
always gentle, trying in his soft language and expressive gestures to
show his good-will and gratitude; for they defended him against their
ruder playmates, and, following their father's example, trusted and
cherished the homeless youth.
When he was able to walk, he taught the boy to shoot and trap the wild
creatures of the wood, to find fish where others failed, and to guide
himself in the wilderness by star and sun, wind and water. To Eunice he
brought little offerings of bark and feathers; taught her to make
moccasins of skin, belts of shells, or pouches gay with porcupine quills
and colored grass. He would not work for old Becky,--who plainly showed
her distrust,--saying: "A brave does not grind corn and bring wood; that
is squaw's work. Onawandah will hunt and fish and fight for you, but no
more." And even the request of the parson could not win obedience in
this, though the boy would have died for the good man.
"We can not tame an eagle as we can a barnyard fowl. Let him remember
only kindness of us, and so we turn a foe into a friend," said Parson
Bain, stroking the sleek, dark head, that always bowed before him, with
a docile reverence shown to no other living creature.
Winter came, and the settlers fared hardly through the long months, when
the drifts rose to the eaves of their low cabins, and the stores,
carefully harvested, failed to supply even their simple wants. But the
minister's family never lacked wild meat, for Onawandah proved himself a
better hunter than any man in the town; and the boy of sixteen led the
way on his snow-shoes when they went to track a bear to its den, chase
the deer for miles, or shoot the wolves that howled about their homes in
the winter nights.
But he never joined in their games, and sat apart when the young folk
made merry, as if he scorned such childish pastimes and longed to be a
man in all things. Why he stayed when he was well again, no one could
tell, unless he waited for spring to make his way to his own people. But
Reuben and Eunice rejoiced to keep him; for while he taught them many
things, he was their pupil also, learning English rapidly, and proving
himself a very affectionate and devoted friend and servant, in his own
quiet way.
"Be of good cheer, little daughter; I shall be gone but three days, and
our brave Onawandah will guard you well," said the parson, one April
morning, as he mounted his horse to visit a distant settlement, where
the bitter winter had brought sickness and death to more than one
household.
The boy showed his white teeth in a bright smile as he stood beside the
children, while Becky croaked, with a shake of the head:--
"I hope you mayn't find you've warmed a viper in your bosom, master."
Two days later, it seemed as if Becky was a true prophet, and that the
confiding minister _had_ been terribly deceived; for Onawandah went away
to hunt, and that night the awful war-whoop woke the sleeping villagers,
to find their houses burning, while the hidden Indians shot at them by
the light of the fires kindled by dusky scouts. In terror and confusion
the whites flew to the fort; and, while the men fought bravely, the
women held blankets to catch arrows and bullets, or bound up the hurts
of their defenders.
It was all over by daylight, and the red men sped away up the river,
with several prisoners, and such booty as they could plunder from the
deserted houses. Not till all fear of a return of their enemies was
over, did the poor people venture to leave the fort and seek their
ruined homes. Then it was discovered that Becky and the parson's
children were gone, and great was the bewailing, for the good man was
much beloved by all his flock.
Suddenly the smothered voice of Becky was heard by a party of visitors,
calling dolefully:--
"I am here, betwixt the beds. Pull me out, neighbors, for I am half dead
with fright and smothering."
The old woman was quickly extricated from her hiding-place, and with
much energy declared that she had seen Onawandah, disguised with
war-paint, among the Indians, and that he had torn away the children
from her arms before she could fly from the house.
"He chose his time well, when they were defenceless, dear lambs! Spite
of all my warnings, master trusted him, and this is the thanks we get.
Oh, my poor master! How can I tell him this heavy news?"
There was no need to tell it; for, as Becky sat moaning and beating her
breast on the fireless hearth, and the sympathizing neighbors stood
about her, the sound of a horse's hoofs was heard, and the parson came
down the hilly road like one riding for his life. He had seen the smoke
afar off, guessed the sad truth, and hurried on, to find his home in
ruins, and to learn by his first glance at the faces around him that his
children were gone.
When he had heard all there was to tell, he sat down upon his door-stone
with his head in his hands, praying for strength to bear a grief too
deep for words. The wounded and weary men tried to comfort him with
hope, and the women wept with him as they hugged their own babies closer
to the hearts that ached for the lost children. Suddenly a stir went
through the mournful group, as Onawandah came from the wood with a young
deer upon his shoulders, and amazement in his face as he saw the
desolation before him. Dropping his burden, he stood an instant looking
with eyes that kindled fiercely; then he came bounding toward them,
undaunted by the hatred, suspicion, and surprise plainly written on the
countenances before him. He missed his playmates, and asked but one
question:--
"The boy, the little squaw,--where gone?"
His answer was a rough one, for the men seized him and poured forth the
tale, heaping reproaches upon him for such treachery and ingratitude. He
bore it all in proud silence till they pointed to the poor father, whose
dumb sorrow was more eloquent than all their wrath. Onawandah looked at
him, and the fire died out of his eyes as if quenched by the tears he
would not shed. Shaking off the hands that held him, he went to his good
friend, saying with passionate earnestness:--
"Onawandah is _not_ traitor! Onawandah remembers! Onawandah grateful!
You believe?"
The poor parson looked up at him, and could not doubt his truth; for
genuine love and sorrow ennobled the dark face, and he had never known
the boy to lie.
"I believe and trust you still, but others will not. Go, you are no
longer safe here, and I have no home to offer you," said the parson,
sadly, feeling that he cared for none, unless his children were restored
to him.
"Onawandah has no fear. He goes; but he comes again to bring the boy,
the little squaw."
Few words, but they were so solemnly spoken that the most unbelieving
were impressed; for the youth laid one hand on the gray head bowed
before him, and lifted the other toward heaven, as if calling the Great
Spirit to hear his vow.
A relenting murmur went through the crowd, but the boy paid no heed, as
he turned away, and with no arms but his hunting knife and bow, no food
but such as he could find, no guide but the sun by day, the stars by
night, plunged into the pathless forest and was gone.
Then the people drew a long breath, and muttered to one another:--
"He will never do it, yet he is a brave lad for his years."
"Only a shift to get off with a whole skin, I warrant you. These varlets
are as cunning as foxes," added Becky, sourly.
The parson alone believed and hoped, though weeks and months went by,
and his children did not come.
* * * * *
Meantime, Reuben and Eunice were far away in an Indian camp, resting as
best they could, after the long journey that followed that dreadful
night. Their captors were not cruel to them, for Reuben was a stout
fellow, and, thanks to Onawandah, could hold his own with the boys who
would have tormented him if he had been feeble or cowardly. Eunice also
was a hardy creature for her years, and when her first fright and
fatigue were over, made herself useful in many ways among the squaws,
who did not let the pretty child suffer greatly; though she was
neglected, because they knew no better.
Life in a wigwam was not a life of ease, and fortunately the children
were accustomed to simple habits and the hardships that all endured in
those early times. But they mourned for home till their young faces
were pathetic with the longing, and their pillows of dry leaves were
often wet with tears in the night. Their clothes grew ragged, their hair
unkempt, their faces tanned by sun and wind. Scanty food and exposure to
all weathers tried the strength of their bodies, and uncertainty as to
their fate saddened their spirits; yet they bore up bravely, and said
their prayers faithfully, feeling sure that God would bring them home to
father in His own good time.
One day, when Reuben was snaring birds in the wood,--for the Indians had
no fear of such young children venturing to escape,--he heard the cry of
a quail, and followed it deeper and deeper into the forest, till it
ceased, and, with a sudden rustle, Onawandah rose up from the brakes,
his finger on his lips to prevent any exclamation that might betray him
to other ears and eyes.
"I come for you and little Laroka" (the name he gave Eunice, meaning
"Wild Rose"). "I take you home. Not know me yet. Go and wait."
He spoke low and fast; but the joy in his face told how glad he was to
find the boy after his long search, and Reuben clung to him, trying not
to disgrace himself by crying like a girl, in his surprise and delight.
Lying hidden in the tall brakes they talked in whispers, while one told
of the capture, and the other of a plan of escape; for, though a
friendly tribe, these Indians were not Onawandah's people, and they must
not suspect that he knew the children, else they might be separated at
once.
"Little squaw betray me. You watch her. Tell her not to cry out, not
speak me any time. When I say come, we go--fast--in the night. Not ready
yet."
These were the orders Reuben received, and, when he could compose
himself, he went back to the wigwams, leaving his friend in the wood,
while he told the good news to Eunice, and prepared her for the part she
must play.
Fear had taught her self-control, and the poor child stood the test
well, working off her relief and rapture by pounding corn on the stone
mortar till her little hands were blistered, and her arms ached for
hours afterward.
Not till the next day did Onawandah make his appearance, and then he
came limping into the village, weary, lame, and half starved, after his
long wandering in the wilderness. He was kindly welcomed, and his story
believed; for he told only the first part, and said nothing of his life
among the white men. He hardly glanced at the children when they were
pointed out to him by their captors, and scowled at poor Eunice, who
forgot her part in her joy, and smiled as she met the dark eyes that
till now had always looked kindly at her. A touch from Reuben warned
her, and she was glad to hide her confusion by shaking her long hair
over her face, as if afraid of the stranger.
Onawandah took no further notice of them, but seemed to be very lame
with the old wound in his foot, which prevented his being obliged to
hunt with the men. He was resting and slowly gathering strength for the
hard task he had set himself, while he waited for a safe time to save
the children. They understood, but the suspense proved too much for
little Eunice, and she pined with impatience to be gone. She lost
appetite and color, and cast such appealing glances at Onawandah, that
he could not seem quite indifferent, and gave her a soft word now and
then, or did such acts of kindness as he could perform unsuspected. When
she lay awake at night thinking of home, a cricket would chirp outside
the wigwam, and a hand slip in a leaf full of berries, or a bark-cup of
fresh water for the feverish little mouth. Sometimes it was only a
caress or a whisper of encouragement, that re-assured the childish
heart, and sent her to sleep with a comfortable sense of love and
protection, like a sheltering wing over a motherless bird.
Reuben stood it better, and entered heartily into the excitement of the
plot; for he had grown tall and strong in these trying months, and felt
that he must prove himself a man to sustain and defend his sister.
Quietly he put away each day a bit of dried meat, a handful of parched
corn, or a well-sharpened arrowhead, as provision for the journey; while
Onawandah seemed to be amusing himself with making moccasins and a
little vest of deer-skin for an Indian child about the age of Eunice.
At last, in the early autumn, all the men went off on the war-path,
leaving only boys and women behind. Then Onawandah's eyes began to
kindle, and Reuben's heart to beat fast, for both felt that their time
for escape had come.
All was ready, and one moonless night the signal was given. A cricket
chirped shrilly outside the tent where the children slept with one old
squaw. A strong hand cut the skin beside their bed of fir-boughs, and
two trembling creatures crept out to follow the tall shadow that flitted
noiselessly before them into the darkness of the wood. Not a broken
twig, a careless step, or a whispered word betrayed them, and they
vanished as swiftly and silently as hunted deer flying for their lives.
Till dawn they hurried on, Onawandah carrying Eunice, whose strength
soon failed, and Reuben manfully shouldering the hatchet and the pouch
of food. At sunrise they hid in a thicket by a spring and rested, while
waiting for the friendly night to come again. Then they pushed on, and
fear gave wings to their feet, so that by another morning they were far
enough away to venture to travel more slowly and sleep at night.
If the children had learned to love and trust the Indian boy in happier
times, they adored him now, and came to regard him as an earthly
Providence; so faithful, brave, and tender was he,--so forgetful of
himself, so bent on saving them. He never seemed to sleep, ate the
poorest morsels, or went without any food when provision failed; let no
danger daunt him, no hardship wring complaint from him, but went on
through the wild forest, led by guides invisible to them, till they
began to hope that home was near.
Twice he saved their lives. Once, when he went in search of food,
leaving Reuben to guard his sister, the children, being very hungry,
ignorantly ate some poisonous berries which looked like wild cherries,
and were deliciously sweet. The boy generously gave most of them to
Eunice, and soon was terror-stricken to see her grow pale, and cold, and
deathly ill. Not knowing what to do, he could only rub her hands and
call wildly for Onawandah.
The name echoed through the silent wood, and, though far away, the keen
ear of the Indian heard it, his fleet feet brought him back in time, and
his knowledge of wild roots and herbs made it possible to save the child
when no other help was at hand.
"Make fire. Keep warm. I soon come," he said, after hearing the story
and examining Eunice, who could only lift her eyes to him, full of
childish confidence and patience.
Then he was off again, scouring the woods like a hound on the scent,
searching everywhere for the precious little herb that would counteract
the poison. Any one watching him would have thought him crazy, as he
rushed hither and thither, tearing up the leaves, creeping on his hands
and knees that it might not escape him, and when he found it, springing
up with a cry that startled the birds, and carried hope to poor Reuben,
who was trying to forget his own pain in his anxiety for Eunice, whom he
thought dying.
"Eat, eat, while I make drink. All safe now," cried Onawandah, as he
came leaping toward them with his hands full of green leaves, and his
dark face shining with joy.
The boy was soon relieved, but for hours they hung over the girl, who
suffered sadly, till she grew unconscious and lay as if dead. Reuben's
courage failed then, and he cried bitterly, thinking how hard it would
be to leave the dear little creature under the pines and go home alone
to father. Even Onawandah lost hope for a while, and sat like a bronze
statue of despair, with his eyes fixed on his Wild Rose, who seemed
fading away too soon.
Suddenly he rose, stretched his arms to the west, where the sun was
setting splendidly, and in his own musical language prayed to the Great
Spirit. The Christian boy fell upon his knees, feeling that the only
help was in the Father who saw and heard them even in the wilderness.
Both were comforted, and when they turned to Eunice there was a faint
tinge of color on the pale cheeks, as if the evening red kissed her; the
look of pain was gone, and she slept quietly, without the moans that had
made their hearts ache before.
"He hears! he hears!" cried Onawandah, and for the first time Reuben saw
tears in his keen eyes, as the Indian boy turned his face to the sky,
full of a gratitude that no words were sweet enough to tell.
All night Eunice lay peacefully sleeping, and the moon lighted
Onawandah's lonely watch, for Reuben was worn out with suspense, and
slept beside his sister.
In the morning she was safe, and great was the rejoicing; but for two
days the little invalid was not allowed to continue the journey, much as
they longed to hurry on. It was a pretty sight, the bed of hemlock
boughs spread under a green tent of woven branches, and on the pillow of
moss the pale child watching the flicker of sunshine through the
leaves, listening to the babble of a brook close by, or sleeping
tranquilly, lulled by the murmur of the pines. Patient, loving, and
grateful, it was a pleasure to serve her, and both the lads were
faithful nurses. Onawandah cooked birds for her to eat, and made a
pleasant drink of the wild-raspberry leaves to quench her thirst. Reuben
snared rabbits, that she might have nourishing food, and longed to shoot
a deer for provision, that she might not suffer hunger again on their
journey. This boyish desire led him deeper into the wood than it was
wise for him to go alone, for it was near nightfall, and wild creatures
haunted the forest in those days. The fire, which Onawandah kept
constantly burning, guarded their little camp where Eunice lay; but
Reuben, with no weapon but his bow and hunting knife, was beyond this
protection when he at last gave up his vain hunt and turned homeward.
Suddenly, the sound of stealthy steps startled him, but he could see
nothing through the dusk at first, and hurried on, fearing that some
treacherous Indian was following him. Then he remembered his sister, and
resolved not to betray her resting-place if he could help it, for he had
learned courage of Onawandah, and longed to be as brave and generous as
his dusky hero.