One M’Dougal, a native of Argyleshire, having emigrated to Upper Canada,
from anxiety to make the most of his scanty capital, or some other
motive, he purchased a location, where the price of land is merely
nominal, in a country thinly peopled, and on the extreme verge of
civilization. His first care was to construct a house, and plant in the
wild. This task finished, he spent his whole time, early and late, in the
garden and the fields. By vigorous exertions, and occasional assistance,
he brought a few acres of ground under crop; acquired a stock of cattle,
sheep and hogs; made additional inroads on the glade and the forest,
and, though his toils were hard, gradually and imperceptibly became, in
a rough way, “well enough to live,” as compared with the poverty he had
abandoned at home.
His greatest discomforts were, distance from his neighbours, the church,
markets, and even the mill; and, along with these, the suspension (or
rather, the enjoyment) after long intervals of time, of those endearing
charities and friendly offices, which lend such a charm to social life.
On one occasion, M’Dougal had a melder of corn to grind, and as the
distance was considerable, and the roads none of the smoothest, this
important part of his duty could only be performed by starting with the
sun, and returning with the going down of the same. In his absence, the
care of the cattle devolved on his spouse, and as they did not return
at the usual hour, the careful matron went out in quest of them. Beyond
its mere outskirts, the forest was, to her, _terra incognita_, in the
most emphatic sense of the term; and with no compass, or notched trees
to guide, it is not to be wondered at that she wandered long and wearily
to very little purpose. Like alps on alps, tall trees arose on every
side—a boundless continuity of shade—and, fatigued with the search,
she deemed it prudent to retrace her steps, while it was yet time. But
this resolution was much easier formed than executed; returning was as
dangerous as “going o’er,” and, after wandering for hours, she sunk on
the ground, her eyes swollen and filled with tears, and her mind agitated
almost to distraction. But here she had not rested many minutes, before
she was startled by the sound of approaching footsteps, and, anon, an
Indian hunter stood before her, “a stoic of the woods, a man without
fear.” Mrs. M’Dougal knew that Indians lived at no great distance, but
as she had never seen a member of the tribe, her emotions were those
of terror—quickening, it may be said, every pulse, and yet paralyzing
every limb. The Indian’s views were more comprehensive; constantly on
the look out, in search of the quarry, and accustomed to make circuits,
comprising the superficies of many a highland mountain and glen, he had
observed her, without being observed himself, knew her home, recognized
her person, comprehended her mishap, divined her errand, and immediately
beckoned her to follow him. The unfortunate woman understood his signal,
and obeyed it, as far as terror left her power; and, after a lengthened
sweep, which added not a little to her previous fatigue, they arrived at
the door of an Indian wigwam.
Her conductor invited her to enter, by signs: but this she sternly
refused to do, dreading the consequence, and preferring death in the open
air to the tender mercies of cannibals within. Perceiving her reluctance,
and scanning her feelings, the hospitable Indian darted into the wigwam,
and communed with his wife, who, in a few minutes, also appeared: and,
by certain signs and sympathies, known only to females, calmed the
stranger’s fears, and induced her to enter their lowly abode. Venison was
instantly prepared for supper, and Mrs. M’Dougal—though still alarmed at
the novelty of her situation, found the viands delicious, and had rarely,
if ever, partaken of so savoury a meal. Aware that she was wearied, the
Indians removed from their place near the roof, two beautiful deer skins,
and, by stretching and fixing them across, divided the wigwam into two
apartments. Mats were also spread in both, and next, the stranger was
given to understand, that the further dormitory was expressly designed
for her accommodation. But here again her courage failed her, and to the
most pressing intreaties, she replied by signs, as well as she could,
that she would prefer to sit and sleep by the fire. This determination
seemed to puzzle the Indian and his squaw sadly. Often they looked at
each other, and conversed softly in their own language: and, at last,
the Red took the White woman by the hand, led her to her couch, and
became her bedfellow. In the morning she awoke greatly refreshed, and
anxious to depart, without further delay—but the Indian would on no
account permit it. Breakfast was prepared—another savoury and well-cooked
meal—and then the Indian accompanied his guest, and conducted her to the
very spot where the cattle were grazing. These he kindly drove from the
wood, on the verge of which Mrs. M’Dougal descried her husband, running
about every where, hallooing and seeking for her, in a state of absolute
distraction. Great was his joy, and great his gratitude to her Indian
benefactor, who was invited to the house, and treated to the best the
larder afforded, and presented, on his departure, with a suit of clothes.
In about three days he returned, and endeavoured, by every wile, to
induce Mr. M’Dougal to follow him into the forest. But this invitation
the other positively declined—and the poor Indian went on his way,
obviously grieved and disappointed. But again he returned; and, though
words were wanting, renewed his intreaties—but still vainly, and
without effect: and then, as a last desperate effort, he hit upon an
expedient, which none, save an Indian hunter, would have thought of.
Mrs. M’Dougal had a nursling only a few months old—a fact the Indian
failed not to notice. After his pantomimic eloquence had been thrown
away, he approached the cradle, seized the child, and darted out of
the house with the speed of an antelope. The alarmed parents instantly
followed, supplicating and imploring, at the top of their voices. But the
Indian’s resolves were as fixed as fate—and away he went, slow enough
to encourage his pursuers, but still in the van by a good many paces,
and far enough ahead to achieve the secret purpose he had formed—like
the parent-bird, skimming the ground, when she wishes to wile the enemy
from her nest. Again and again Mr. M’Dougal wished to continue the chase
alone—but maternal anxiety baffled every remonstrance; and this anxiety
was, if possible, increased, when she saw the painted savage enter the
wood, and steer, as she thought, his course towards his own cabin. The
Indian, however, was in no hurry;—occasionally, he cast a glance behind,
poised the child almost like a feather, treading his way with admirable
dexterity, and kept the swaddling clothes so closely drawn around it,
that not even the winds of heaven were permitted to visit it roughly.
It is, of course, needless to go into all the details of this singular
journey, further than to say, that the Indian, at length, called a halt
on the margin of a most beautiful prairie, teeming with the richest
vegetation, and comprising many thousands of acres. In a moment the child
was restored to its parents—who, wondering what so strange a procedure
could mean, stood, for some minutes, panting for breath, and eyeing one
another in silent and speechless astonishment.
The Indian, on the other hand, appeared overjoyed at the success of his
manœuvre—and never did a human being frisk about and gesticulate with
greater animation. We have heard, or read, of a professor of signs: and
supposing such a character were wanted, the selection could not—or, at
least should not—be a matter of difficulty, so long as even a remnant
remains of the aborigines of North America. All travellers agree in
describing their gestures as highly dignified, eloquent, and intelligent:
and we have the authority of Mr. M’Dougal for saying, that the hero of
the present strictly authentic tale, proved himself to be a perfect
master of the art. The restoration of the child—the beauty and wide
extent of the prairies, and various other circumstances combined—flashed
across our countryman’s mind—operating conviction where jealously and
distrust had lurked before. Mr. M’Dougal, in a trice, examined the soil,
and immediately saw the propriety of the advice given by the _untutored
one_. By a sort of tacit agreement, a day was fixed for the removal of
the materials of our countryman’s cabin, goods and chattels;—and the
Indian, true to his word, brought a detachment of his tribe to assist
in one of the most romantic “flittings” that ever was undertaken either
in the old or new world. In a few days a roomy log-house was fashioned,
and a garden formed in a convenient section of the beautiful prairie,
from which the smoke was seen curling, and the woodpecker tapping at
no great distance. M’Dougal was greatly pleased at the change—and no
wonder, seeing that he could almost boast of a body-guard as bold as the
bowmen of Robin Hood. His Indian friend speedily became a sort of foster
brother, and his tribe as faithful as the most attached Tail of Gillies
that ever surrounded a Highland chieftain. Even the stupid kine lowed, on
finding themselves suddenly transferred to a boundless range of richest
pasture:—and, up to the date of the last advices, were improving rapidly
in condition, and increasing in numbers.
The little garden was smiling like a rose in the desert—grass,
overabundant, was gradually giving way to thriving crops, and the kine
so well satisfied with their _gang_, that the herds and enclosures were
like unheeded to keep them from the corn. The Indians continued friendly
and faithful—occasionally bringing presents of venison and other game,
and were uniformly rewarded from the stores of a dairy, overflowing with
milk, butter, and cheese.
Attached as the Red man was to his own mode of life, he was induced
at length to form a part of the establishment, in the capacity of
grieve, or head shepherd—a duty he undertook most cheerfully, as it
still left him opportunities of meeting and communing with his friends,
and reconnoitering the altering denizens of the forest. Let us hope,
therefore, that no untoward accident will occur to mar this beautiful
picture of sylvan life; that the M’Dougal colony will wax stronger, till
every section of the prairie is forced to yield tribute to the spade and
the plough.