The things that once she loved are still the same;
Yet now there needs another name
To give the feeling which they claim,
While she the feeling gives;
She cannot call it gladness or delight;
And yet there seems to be a richer, lovelier light
On e'en the humblest thing that lives.
--WASHINGTON ALLSTON.
The history given by le Bourdon lasted until the canoes reached the
south shore. Glad enough was Dorothy to see them both safe back, for
neither of her companions had yet awoke. It was then midnight, and all
now retired to seek the rest which might be so needful to prepare them
for the exertions of the next day. The bee-hunter slept in his canoe,
while Margery shared the buffalo-skin of her sister.
As perfect security, for the moment at least, was felt by the sleepers,
their slumbers were sound, and reached into the morning. Then le Bourdon
arose, and withdrawing to a proper distance, he threw off his clothes
and plunged into the stream, in conformity with a daily practice of his
at that genial season of the year. After bathing, the young man ascended
a hill, whence he might get a good view of the opposite shore, and
possibly obtain some notion of what the Pottawattamies were about. In
all his movements, however, the bee-hunter had an eye to the concealment
of his person, it being of the last importance that the savages should
not learn his position. With the intention of concealment, the fire had
been suffered to go down, a smoke being a sign that no Indian would be
likely to overlook. As for the canoe and the bivouac of the party, the
wild rice and an intermediate hill formed a perfect cover, so long as
nothing was shown above them.
From the height to which he ascended, the bee-hunter, aided by his
glass, got a very clear view of Whiskey Centre and the parts adjacent.
The savages were already stirring, and were busy in the various
avocations of the red man on a war-path. One party was disposing of
the body of their dead companion. Several were cooking, or cleaning the
wild-fowl shot in the bay, while a group was collected near the spot of
the wished-for spring, reluctant to abandon the hopes to which it had
given birth, at the very moment they were plotting to obtain the scalp
of the “medicine-man.” The beloved “fire-water,” that seduces so many
to their destruction, who have enjoyed the advantages of moral teaching,
and which has been a withering curse on the red man of this continent,
still had its influence; and the craving appetites of several of the
drunkards of the party brought them to the spot, as soon as their eyes
opened on the new day. The bee-hunter could see some of this cluster
kneeling on the rocks, lapping like hounds at the scattered little
pools of the liquor, while others scented around, in the hope of yet
discovering the bird that laid the golden egg. Le Bourdon had now little
expectation that his assumed character could be maintained among these
savages any longer, did accident again throw him in their way. The
chiefs, he saw, had distrusted him all along, but had given him an
opportunity to prove what he could do, in order to satisfy the more
vulgar curiosity of their young men. He wisely determined, therefore, to
keep out of the hands of his enemies.
Although le Bourdon could hold a conversation in the tongue of
the Ojebways, he was not fond of so doing. He comprehended without
difficulty nearly all of what was said by them, and had observed the
previous night that the warriors made many allusions to a chief whom
they styled Onoah, but who he himself knew was usually called Scalping
Peter among the whites of that frontier. This savage had a fearful
reputation at all the garrisons, though he never showed himself in
them; and he was now spoken of by the Pottawattamies present, as if they
expected to meet him soon, and to be governed by his commands or his
advice. The bee-hunter had paid great attention whenever this dreaded
name was mentioned, for he was fully aware of the importance of
keeping clear of an enemy who bore so bad a reputation that it was not
considered prudent for a white man to remain long in his company even
in a time of peace. His English sobriquet had been obtained from the
circumstances of its being reputed that this chief, who seemed to belong
to no tribe in particular, while he had great influence with all, had
on divers occasions murdered the palefaces who fell in his way, and then
scalped them. It was added, that he had already forty notches on his
pole, to note that number of scalps taken from the hated whites. In
short, this Indian, a sort of chief by birth, though of what tribe no
one exactly knew, appeared to live only to revenge the wrongs done his
color by the intruders, who had come from toward the rising sun to
drive his people into the great salt lake on the other side of the Rocky
Mountains. Of course there was a good deal that was questionable in
these reports; a rumor in the “openings” and on the prairies, having
this general resemblance to those that circulate in town, and in
drawing-rooms, and at feasts, that no one of them all can be relied on
as rigidly exact. But le Bourdon was still young, and had yet to learn
how little of that which we all hear is true, and how very much is
false. Nevertheless, as an Indian tradition is usually more accurate
than a white man's written history, so is a rumor of the forest
generally entitled to more respect than the ceaseless gossipings of the
beings who would be affronted were they not accounted civilized.
The bee-hunter was still on the elevated bit of ground, making his
observations, when he was joined by Margery. The girl appeared fresh and
handsome, after a night of sleep, and coming from her dressing-room in
a thicket, and over a stream of sweet running water; but she was sad and
thoughtful. No sooner had le Bourdon shaken her hand, and repeated his
thanks for the succor of the past night, than the full heart of Margery
poured out its feelings, as the swollen stream overflows its banks, and
began to weep.
“Brother is awake,” she said, as soon as her sobs were quieted by a
powerful effect; “but, as is usual with him after hard drinking, so
stupid, that Dolly cannot make him understand our danger. He tells her
he has seen too many Injins to be afraid of these, and that they will
never harm a family that has brought so much liquor into their country.”
“His senses must be at a low ebb, truly, if he counts on Injin
friendship because he has sold fire-water to the young men!” answered
le Bourdon, with a nice understanding of not only Indian nature, but
of human nature. “We may like the sin, Margery, while we detest the
tempter. I have never yet met with the man, pale-face or red-skin, who
did not curse, in his sober moments, the hand that fed his appetite
while intoxicated.”
“I dare say that may be very true,” returned the girl, in a low voice;
“but one has need of his reason to understand it. What will become of us
now, it is hard to say.”
“Why, now, Margery, more than yesterday, or the day before?”
“Yesterday there were no savages near us, and Gershorn had all along
told us he intended to start for the garrison at the head of the lake,
as soon as he got back from his visit to the openings. He is back; but
not in a state to protect his wife and sister from the red man, who will
be looking for us as soon as they can build a canoe, or anything that
will do to cross the river with.”
“Had they even a canoe,” returned le Bourdon, coolly, “they would not
know where to look for us. Thank Heaven! that will be a job that would
take some time; nor is a bark canoe built in a minute. But, Margery,
if your brother be a little dull and heavy, after his debauch, _I_ am
sober, and as much awake as ever I was in my life.”
“Oh! you have no weakness like that of poor brother's, to make you
otherwise; but, Bourdon, you will naturally wish to take care of
yourself and your property, and will quit us the first good opportunity.
I'm sure that we have no right to expect you will stay a minute longer
than it is your interest to do so, and I do not know that I wish it.”
“Not wish it, Margery!” exclaimed the bee-hunter, in the manner of a
disappointed man. “I had supposed you would have wished my company. But,
now I know the contrary, I shall not much care how soon I go, or into
whose hands I fall.”
It is strange how apt are those who ought to understand one another so
readily, to misinterpret each other's thoughts. Margery had never seen
the bee-hunter twenty-four hours before, though she had often heard
of him, and of his success in his art; for the fame of a man of good
reputation and active qualities spreads far on a frontier. The very
individual whose existence would be nearly overlooked in a crowded
region, shall be spoken of, and known by his qualities, a hundred
leagues from his place of residence, when settlements are few and far
apart. In this way, Margery had heard of Boden, or of “Bourdon,” as she
called him, in common with hundreds who, confounding his real name with
his sobriquet, made the mistake of using the last under the impression
that it was the true appellation. Margery had no other knowledge of
French than the few words gleaned in her slow progress among a frontier
on which, it is true, more of that language than of any other was heard,
but heard under circumstances that were not particularly favorable to
the acquisition of a foreign tongue. Had she understood the real meaning
of “Bourdon,” she would have bitten off her tongue before she would have
once called Boden by such an appellation; though the bee-hunter himself
was so accustomed to his Canadian nickname as to care nothing at all
about it. But Margery did not like to give pain to any one; and, least
of all, would she desire to inflict it on the bee-hunter, though he
were only an acquaintance of a day. Still, Margery could not muster
sufficient courage to tell her new friend how much he was mistaken, and
that of all the youths she had ever met she would most prefer to keep
him near her brother and sister in their distress; while the young man,
inspired by a pure and infant passion, was just in the frame of mind to
believe the worst of himself, and of his claims to the attention of her
who had begun to occupy so many of his thoughts.
No explanation occurring, our young people descended from the hill,
misconceiving each other's meaning and wishes, and unhappy under the
influence of an ideal source of misery, when actual circumstances
created so many that were substantial and real. Gershom was found
awake, but, as his sister had described him, stupid and lethargic. The
bee-hunter at once saw that, in his present condition, Whiskey Centre
would still be an incumbrance rather than of any service, in the event
of an occasion for extraordinary exertion. Margery had hinted that it
usually took twenty-four hours to bring her brother entirely round,
after one of his serious debauches; and within that time it was more
than probable that the fate of the family would be decided.
Le Bourdon thought intently, during breakfast, of the condition of his
party, and of the best mode of proceeding, while the pallid and anxious
young creature at his side believed he was deliberating solely on the
best means of extricating himself and his store of honey, from the
savages on the other shore. Had the acquaintance between these young
people been of longer date than it actually was, Margery could not
have entertained a notion so injurious to the bee-hunter, for a single
moment; but there was nothing either violent, or depreciating, in
supposing that one so near being a total stranger would think first of
himself and his own interests, in the situation in which this young man
was now placed.
Little was said during the meal. Dorothy was habitually silent; the
result of grief and care. As for her husband, he was too stupid to
talk, though usually somewhat garrulous; while the Indian seldom did
two things at the same time. This was the hour for acting; when that
for talking should arrive, he would be found equal to its duties.
Pigeonswing could either abstain from food, or could indulge in it
without measure, just as occasion offered. He had often gone for
days without tasting a mouthful, with the exception of a few berries,
perhaps; and he had lain about the camp-fire, a week at a time, gorging
himself with venison, like an anaconda. It is perhaps fortunate for the
American Indian, that this particular quality of food is so very easy of
digestion, since his excesses on it are notorious, and so common to his
habits as almost to belong to his nature. Death might otherwise often be
the consequence.
When the breakfast was ended, it was time to consult about the future
course. As yet, the Pottawattamies had made no new discovery; but the
sagacity of the red man was ever to be feared, when it came to be merely
a question of finding his foe in a forest.
“We have obtained one advantage over the enemy,” said le Bourdon, “by
crossing the river. Water leaves no trail; even had Crowsfeather a
canoe, he might not know where to go in it, in order to find us.”
“Dat not so,” put in the Chippewa, a little dogmatically; “know we hab
canoe--know cross river in him.”
“Why should they know this, Pigeonswing? We may have gone out upon the
lake, or we may have gone up in the oak openings again, for anything the
Pottawattamies can know to the contrary.”
“Tell you, not so. Know don't go on lake, cause wind blow. Know don't
go up river, cause dat hard work; know come here, cause dat easy. Injin
like to do what easy, and pale-face do just what Injin do. Crowsfeather
make raft, pretty soon; den he come look arter scalp.”
“Yes,” said Margery, gently; “you had better load your canoe at once,
and go on the lake, while the savages cannot reach you. The wind is fair
for them that are to go north; and I have heard you say that you are
bound to Mackinaw.”
“I shall load my canoe, and I shall load yours, too, Margery; but I
shall not go away from this family, so long as any in it stand in need
of my services.”
“Brother will be able to help us by afternoon. He manages a canoe well,
when himself; so go, Bourdon, while you can. I dare say you have a
mother at home; or a sister perhaps a wife--”
“Neither,” interrupted the bee-hunter, with emphasis. “No one expects
me; no one has a right to expect me.”
The color stole into pretty Margery's cheeks as she heard these words,
and a ray of comfort gleamed on an imagination that, for the last hour,
had been portraying the worst. Still, her generous temper did not like
the idea of the bee-hunter's sacrificing himself for those who had
so few claims on him, and she could not but again admonish him of the
necessity of losing no time.
“You will think better of this, Bourdon,” the girl resumed. “We are
going south, and cannot quit the river with this wind, but you could
not have a better time to go north, unless the wind blows harder than I
think it does.”
“The lake is a bad water for a canoe, when there is much wind,” put in
Gershom, yawning after he had spoken, as if the effort fatigued him,
“I wonder what we're all doing over on this side of the river! Whiskey
Centre is a good enough country for me; I'm going back to look arter my
casks, now I've breakfasted. Come, Doll; let's load up, and be off.”
“You are not yourself yet, Gershom,” returned the sorrowful wife, “or
you would not talk in this way. You had better listen to the advice of
Bourdon, who has done so much for us already, and who will tell you the
way to keep out of Injin clutches. We owe our lives to Bourdon, Gershom,
and you should thank him for it.”
Whiskey Centre muttered a few half intelligible words of thanks, and
relapsed into his state of drowsy indifference. The bee-hunter saw,
however, that the effects of the brandy were leaving him, and he managed
to get him on one side, where he persuaded the fellow to strip and go
into the water. The bath did wonders for the poor creature, who soon
got to be so far himself again, as to be of use, instead of being an
incumbrance. When sober, and more especially when sober for several
consecutive days, Gershom was a man of sufficient energy, possessing
originally great personal strength and activity, which had been
essentially lessened, however, by his excesses in liquor. It has already
been stated what a different being he became, in a moral point of view,
after having been sober for any length of time.
On his return from the bathing, le Bourdon again joined the females.
Margery had been weeping; but she smiled in a friendly way, on meeting
his eye, and appeared less anxious for his departure than she had been
an hour before. As the day advanced, and no signs of the savages were
seen, a sense of greater security began to steal over the females, and
Margery saw less necessity for the departure of their new friend. It
was true, he was losing a wind; but the lake was rough, and after all
it might be better to wait. In short, now that no immediate danger was
apparent, Margery began to reason in conformity with her wishes, as is
so apt to be the case with the young and inexperienced. The bee-hunter
perceived this change in the deportment of his fair friend, and was well
enough disposed to hope it would admit of a favorable construction.
All this time, the Chippewa had taken little visible interest in the
state of the party to which he had now attached himself. The previous
evening had been fertile in excitement and in gratification, and he had
since slept and ate to his entire content. He was ready to meet events
as they might arise, and began to plot the means of obtaining more
Pottawattamie scalps. Let not the refined reader feel disdisgust at this
exhibition of the propensities of an American savage. Civilized life has
had, and still has, very many customs, little less excusable than that
of scalping. Without dragging into the account the thousand and one sins
that disgrace and deform society, it will be sufficient to look into the
single interest of civilized warfare, in order to make out our case. In
the first place, the noblest strategy of the art is, to put the greatest
possible force on the least of the enemy, and to slay the weaker party
by the mere power of numbers. Then, every engine that ingenuity can
invent, is drawn into the conflict; and rockets, revolvers, shells, and
all other infernal devices, are resorted to, in order to get the
better of an enemy who is not provided with such available means of
destruction. And after the battle is over, each side commonly claims
the victory; sometimes, because a partial success has been obtained in a
small portion of the field; sometimes, because half a dozen horses have
run away with a gun, carrying it into the hostile ranks; and, again,
because a bit of rag has fallen from the hands of a dead man, and been
picked up by one of the opposing side. How often has it happened that a
belligerent, well practised in his art, has kept his own colors out of
the affair, and then boasted that they were not lost! Now, an Indian
practises no such shameless expedients. His point of honor is not a
bit of rag, but a bit of his skin. He shaves his head because the hair
encumbers him; but he chivalrously leaves a scalp-lock, by the aid of
which his conquerors can the more easily carry away the coveted
trophy. The thought of cheating in such a matter never occurs to his
unsophisticated mind; and as for leaving his “colors” in barracks, while
he goes in the field himself, he would disdain it--nay, cannot practise
it; for the obvious reason that his head would have to be left with
them.
Thus it was with Pigeonswing. He had made his toilet for the war-path,
and was fierce in his paint, but honest and fair-dealing in other
particulars. If he could terrify his enemies by looking like a skeleton,
or a demon, it was well; his enemy would terrify him, if possible, by
similar means. But neither would dream, or did dream, of curtailing, by
a single hair, that which might be termed the flag-staff of his scalp.
If the enemy could seize it, he was welcome to the prize; but if he
could seize that of the enemy, no scruples on the score of refinement,
or delicacy, would be apt to interfere with his movements. It was in
this spirit, then, that Pigeonswing came to the canoe, where le Bourdon
was holding a little private discourse with Margery, and gave utterance
to what was passing in his mind.
“Good time, now, get more scalps, Bourdon,” said the Chippewa, in his
clipping, sententious English.
“It is a good time, too, to keep our own, Chippewa,” was the answer.
“Your scalp-lock is too long, to be put before Pottawattamie eyes
without good looking after it.”
“Nebber mind him--if go, go; if stay, stay. Always good for warrior to
bring home scalp.”
“Yes; I know your customs in this respect, Pigeonswing, but ours are
different. We are satisfied if we can keep out of harm's way, when we
have our squaws and pappooses with us.”
“No pappooses here,” returned the Indian, looking around him--“dat your
squaw, eh?”
The reader can readily imagine that this abrupt question brought blushes
into the cheeks of pretty Margery, making her appear ten times
more handsome than before; while even le Bourdon did not take the
interrogatory wholly undisturbed. Still, the latter answered manfully,
as became his sex.
“I am not so fortunate as to have a squaw, and least of all to have
this” said le Bourdon.
“Why no hab her--she good squaw,” returned the literal-minded
Indian--“han'some 'nough for chief. You ask; she hab--now squaw
well--always like warrior to ask him fuss; den say, yes.”
“Aye, that may do with your red-skin squaws,” le Bourdon hastily
replied; for he saw that Margery was not only distressed, but a little
displeased--“but not with the young women of the pale-faces. I never saw
Margery before last evening; and it takes time for a pale-face girl to
know a youth.”
“Just so wid red-skin--sometime don't know, till too late! See plenty
dat, in wigwam.”
“Then it is very much in the wigwams as it is in the houses. I have
heard this before.”
“Why not same?--skin make no difference--pale-face spile squaw,
too--make too much of her.”
“That can never be!” exclaimed le Bourdon, earnestly. “When a pretty,
modest, warm-hearted young woman accepts a youth for a husband, he can
never make enough of her!”
On hearing sentiments so agreeable to a woman's ears, Margery looked
down, but she looked pleased. Pigeonswing viewed the matter very
differently; and being somewhat of a partisan in matters relating
to domestic economy, he had no thought of leaving a point of so much
importance in so bad a way. Accordingly, it is not surprising that,
in pursuing the subject, he expressed opinions in several essentials
diametrically the reverse of those of the bee-hunter.
'“Easy 'nough spile squaw,” rejoined the Chippewa. “What she good for,
don't make her work? Can't go on the warpath--can't take scalp--can't
shoot deer--can't hunt--can't kill warrior--so muss work. Dat what squaw
good for.”
“That may do among red men, but we pale-faces find squaws good for
something else--we love them and take care of them--keep them from the
cold in winter, and from the heat in summer; and try to make them as
comfortable and happy as we can.”
“Dat good talk for young squaw's ears,” returned the Chippewa, a little
contemptuously as to manner; though his real respect for the bee-hunter,
of whose prowess he had so lately been a witness, kept him a little
within bounds “but it bess not take nobody in. What Injin say to squaw,
he do--what pale-face say, he no do.”
“Is that true, Bourdon?” demanded Margery, laughing at the Indian's
earnestness.
“I shall be honest, and own that there may be some truth in it--for the
Injin promises nothing, or next to nothing, and it is easy to square
accounts, in such cases. That white men undertake more than they always
perform, is quite likely to be the fact The Injin gets his advantage in
this matter, by not even thinking of treating his wife as a woman should
be treated.”
“How should treat woman?” put in Pigeonswing with warmth. “When warrior
eat venison, gib her rest, eh? Dat no good--what you call good, den? If
good hunter husband, she get 'nough--if an't good hunter, she don't get
'nough. Just so wid Injin--sometime hungry, sometime full. Dat way to
live!”
“Aye, that may be your red man's ways, but it is not the manner in which
we wish to treat our wives. Ask pretty Margery, here, if she would be
satisfied to wait until her husband had eaten his dinner, and then come
in for the scraps. No-no-Pigeonswing; we feed our women and children
first and come in last, ourselves.”
“Dat good for pappoose--he little; want venison--squaw tough; use to
wait. Do her good.”
Margery now laughed outright, at these specimens of Indian gallantry,
which only too well embody the code of the red man's habits. Doubtless
the heart has its influence among even the most savage people, for
nature has not put into our breasts feelings and passions to be
discarded by one's own expedients, or wants. But no advocate of the
American Indian has ever yet been able to maintain that woman fills her
proper place in his estimate of claims. As for Margery, though so long
subject to the whims, passions and waywardness of a drunkard, she
had reaped many of the advantages of having been born in that woman's
paradise, New England. We are no great admirers of the legacy left
by the Puritan to his descendants, taken as an inheritance in morals,
manners, and customs, and as a whole; though there are parts, in the way
of codicils, that there is no portion of the Christian world which might
not desire to emulate. In particular, do we allude to the estimate put
upon, and the treatment received by their women. Our allusion is not to
the refinements and gracefulness of polished intercourse; for of THEM,
the Blarney Rock of Plymouth has transmitted but a meagre account in the
inventory, and perhaps the less that is said about this portion of the
family property the better; but, dropping a few degrees in the social
scale, and coming down to the level where we are accustomed to regard
people merely as men and women, we greatly question if any other portion
of the world can furnish a parallel to the manly, considerate, rational,
and wisely discriminating care, that the New England husband, as the
rule, bestows on his wife; the father on his daughter; or the brother
on his sister. Gershom was a living, and, all things considered, a
remarkable instance of these creditable traits. When sober, he was
uniformly kind to Dorothy; and for Margery he would at any time risk
his life. The latter, indeed, had more power over him than his own
wife possessed, and it was her will and her remonstrances that most
frequently led him back from the verge of that precipice over which he
was so often disposed to cast himself. By some secret link she bound him
closest to the family dwelling, and served most to recall the days of
youth and comparative innocence, when they dwelt together beneath
the paternal roof, and were equally the objects of the affection and
solicitude of the same kind mother. His attachment to Dorothy was
sincere, and, for one so often brutalized by drink, steady; but Dorothy
could not carry him as far back, in recollections, as the one only
sister who had passed the morning of life with him, in the same homely
but comfortable abode.
We have no disposition to exaggerate the character of those whom it is
the fashion to term the American yeomen, though why such an appellation
should be applied to any in a state of society to which legal
distinctions are unknown, is what we could never understand. There are
no more of esquires and yeomen in this country than there are of knights
and nobles, though the quiet manner in which the transition from the old
to the new state of things has been made, has not rendered the public
mind very sensible to the changes. But, recurring to the class, which is
a positive thing and consequently ought to have a name of some sort or
other, we do not belong to those that can sound its praises without some
large reservations on the score of both principles and manners. Least of
all, are we disposed to set up these yeomen as a privileged class,
like certain of the titular statesmen of the country, and fall down and
worship a calf--not a golden one by the way--of our own setting up.
We can see citizens in these yeomen, but not princes, who are to be
especially favored by laws made to take from others to bestow on them.
But making allowances for human infirmities, the American freeholder
belongs to a class that may justly hold up its head among the tillers
of the earth. He improves daily, under the influence of beneficent
laws, and if he don't get spoiled, of which there is some danger, in the
eagerness of factions to secure his favor, and through that favor his
VOTE--if he escape this danger, he will ere long make a reasonably near
approach to that being, which the tongue of the flatterer would long
since have persuaded him he had already more than got to be.
To one accustomed to be treated kindly, as was the case with Margery,
the Chippewa's theory for the management of squaws contained much to
excite her mirth, as well as her resentment, as she now made apparent by
her remarks.
“You do not deserve to HAVE a wife, Pigeonswing,” she cried,
half-laughing, yet evidently alive to the feelings of her sex--“can have
no gratitude for a wife's tenderness and care. I wonder that a Chippewa
girl can be found to have you?”
“Don't want him,” coolly returned the Indian, making his preparations
to light his pipe--“got Winnebagoe squaw, already; good 'nough for
me. Shoot her t'other husband and take his scalp--den she come into my
wigwam.”
“The wretch!” exclaimed Margery.
But this was a word the savage did not understand, and he continued to
puff at the newly lighted tobacco, with all of a smoker's zeal. When the
fire was secured, he found time to continue the subject.
“Yes, dat good war-path--got rifle; got wife; got TWO scalp! Don't do so
well, ebbery day.”
“And that woman hoes your corn, and cooks your venison?” demanded the
bee-hunter.
“Sartain--capital good to hoe--no good to cook--make deer meat too dry.
Want to be made to mind business. Bye'm by teach him. No l'arn all at
once, like pale-face pappoose in school.”
“Pigeonswing, have you never observed the manner in which the white man
treats his squaw?”
“Sartain--see him make much of her--put her in warm corner--wrap
blanket round her--give her venison 'fore he eat himself--see all dat,
often--what den? DAT don't make it right.”
“I give you up, Chippewa, and agree with Margery in thinking you ought
not to have a squaw, at all.”
“T'ink alike, den--why no get marry?” asked the Indian, without
circumlocution.
Margery's face became red as fire; then her cheeks settled into the
color of roses, and she looked down, embarrassed. The bee-hunter's
admiration was very apparent to the Indian, though the girl did not dare
to raise her eyes from the ground, and so did not take heed of it. But
this gossiping was suddenly brought to an end by a most unexpected cause
of interruption; the manner and form of which it shall be our office to
relate, in the succeeding chapter.