Of all the vices incident to the aborigines of this country, from their
intercourse with the whites, that of lying is, probably, not among the
least. Some years anterior to the independence of the United States,
one Tom Hyde, an Indian famous for his cunning, went into a tavern in
Brookfield, Massachusetts, and after a little chat told the landlord he
had been hunting, and had killed a fine fat deer, and if he would give
him a quart of rum he would tell him where it was. Mine host, unwilling
to let slip so good an opportunity of obtaining venison, immediately
struck the bargain and measured the Indian his quart of rum, at the same
time asking where the deer was to be found. ‘Well,’ says Tom, ‘do you
know where the great meadow is?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, do you know the great
marked maple tree that stands in it?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, there lies the deer.’
Away posted the landlord with his team, in quest of his purchase. He
found the meadow and the tree, it is true; but all his searching after
the deer was fruitless, and he returned home no heavier than he went,
except in mortification and disappointment. Some days after, mine host
met the Indian, and feeling indignant at the deception practised on him,
accused him in no gentle terms of the trick. Tom heard him out—and, with
the coolness of a stoic, replied—‘Did you not find the meadow, as I
said?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And the tree?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And the deer?’ ‘No.’ ‘Very good,’
continued he, ‘you found _two truths for one lie, which is very well for
an Indian_.’