As when of old my childhood’s glances met
This bright expanse, fair bay! I see thee still—
The laughing ripple’s curl, the wood-crowned hill,
The deep green shore rising in graceful sweep,
The wide smooth waters in their sun-bright sleep,
Scorning the change wrought by each passing year,
In loveliness unfading, still are here.
Lovely thou art, sweet bay!—when first the beam
Of morning glances on the silvery stream
Which seeks thy bosom—when the south winds break
Thy water’s glassy slumber, and awake
A thousand sparkling eddies—when the sky
At noon gleams blue and distant from on high—
When winds are hushed in peace, the flagging sail
Wooing in vain from Heaven the wished-for gale—
Or at bright eve, when the rich sunset’s pride
Has gemmed with shining gold their glancing tide—
No fairer spot, I ween, the radiant sun
In his broad path of light has looked upon;
And the pale moon in all her midnight round
No place of holier loveliness has found.
Nature is here in wildness. Yonder isles,
Upon whose wooded verge the sunlight smiles
To meet the glittering wave, know scarce a tread,
Save of the lonely huntsman. Yet ’tis said,
One hero on their shore has found a grave.
He died in fight the death that fits the brave,
And sleeps unheeded there:—the mound which swells
So greenly near, his place of burial tells.
Peaceful thou art—the tempests wild that sweep
The lake, are powerless to disturb thy sleep.
Thou hear’st the voices of thy parent main,
Speaking in thunders;—but their warning strain
Wakes no stern echo here—in safety still
The fisherman may guide his bark at will,
And smile to hear the billows’ angry roar,
Chafing in rage upon the neighboring shore.
Farewell! I found, and leave thee, calm and bright,
And changeless still!—and thus, when starless night
Has closed on eyes which loved to look on thee,
Wilt thou smile on—then, too, as quietly
Yon towering banks will look into thy face
On their unbroken shade. Thou in the embrace
Of this wide shore as sweetly shalt repose—
As brightly gleam at evening’s fervid close.
Thou hast no part in fleeting years that tell
Of human ills! My native shore—farewell!
E. F. E.
MARY WALLACE.
A JUVENILE STORY.
“Now for a story!” said Henry Jackson, as he put the last piece to a
dissected map, which lay on the table before him; “Grandmother, do you
remember you promised to give us one of your best to-night, if I could
put this new map together; and see, here it is, every bit in its
place—all right!”
“Not quite so fast,” said George Gray, an intelligent youth of fourteen,
who, with his sister Ann, was spending Christmas-week with his cousins
in town; “not quite so fast, Henry; see, here is a part of the Hudson
spliced on to the Connecticut; and New York and New Haven have fairly
changed places!”
“What of that!” returned Henry, biting his lips with vexation, as he saw
his mistake; “I don’t care for that!”
[Illustration:
_Engraved by Cha^s. Phillips, New York, after a Picture by Sir Joshua
Reynolds, P.R.A._
_Simplicity._
]
“Never say you _don’t care_,” said the grandmother, laying her book and
spectacles, at once, aside, “never allow yourself to say, I don’t care;
for, besides being generally a falsehood, it always shows a bad
disposition; and no good ever came of it.”
“But George needn’t feel so smart because he’s a little quicker and more
forward than I am,” replied the boy. “I guess, if I lived out of town, I
could learn to put dissected maps together, too; why he’s nothing to do,
from morning till night, but to study out puzzles!”
“I think,” said Ann, with true womanly spirit taking the aggrieved side,
“I think our George _ought_ to know something about it, for he was a
whole evening, only last week, putting together the dissected picture
uncle William gave me; and I am sure it plagued him just twice as much
as this map has you, cousin Henry; but I do not think he meant to be
unkind to you, either; and I don’t know why he should, you are always so
kind to us: and I’m sure you’re full as forward, and quick to learn any
thing as he is; and you know you are about my age, almost two years
younger than George.”
“You are a good girl, cousin Ann—and I love you,” said Henry, wiping the
tears from his brightening eyes; “you always have such a way to put one
in good humor, and reconcile every thing. Now, George, give me your
hand; I will acknowledge I was wrong in getting vexed with you, and
speaking as I did, especially now you are visiting me; and I ought to do
every thing to make your time pass pleasantly. I was wrong, too, in
saying I did not care; for I _did_ care. Grandmother, I hope _you_ will
forgive me?”
“With all my heart, my child,” said the good woman, folding her arms
round the affectionate boy; “God grant you may always be as ready to
acknowledge your faults!”
“And now brother is sorry for doing wrong, and has made it all up with
cousin George, you _will_ tell us a story, won’t you, dear grandmother?”
said Helen, a child of seven years, who was leaning over the arm of Mrs.
Gray’s chair.
“And do tell one pitty long,” said little Mary, a lisping infant of
three years, laying her curly head in her grandmother’s lap.
“Now that peace is restored, my children,” said Mrs. Gray, looking
fondly upon each one of the little flock that gathered round her, “I
will tell you a story of one from whom we are all descended.”
“Was her name Gray?” asked Ann, eagerly.
“Not at the period to which our story refers; though afterwards it
became so.”
“We are in haste for you to begin,” said Henry, hurrying books, maps,
and pictures, without any order, into a table drawer.
“Don’t be impatient, child—old folks never like to be hurried,” said
Mrs. Gray; “and I’ve a good will not to tell you any story at all, just
for huddling up your things in such a slovenly manner.”
“Forgive poor Henry once again,” said the good-natured Ann, “and I will
put them all nice;” and she took the things all out of the drawer, and
placed the books neatly in the book-case, and laid the maps and pictures
into a portfolio; and when she had done she said, “Now, grandmother, are
you not ready?”
“Not quite yet,” said Mrs. Gray, with an affectionate smile; “you, my
dear Ann, are such a neat little girl, I’m sure you will be willing to
wait till Sally has swept the hearth and replenished the fire.”
“Replenished is among my definitions,” said little Helen; “but I didn’t
know that it had any thing to do with making a fire.”
“Making a fire!” repeated George; “didn’t I tell you only yesterday,
that we cannot _make_ fire, but only kindle it?”
“Yes, you did tell me so, to be sure; but I didn’t believe you. I guess
if you had been here the other night when the Universalist Chapel was
burnt, you would think somebody could make a fire—and a pretty large
one, too.”
“Can you tell me the meaning of the word replenish?” asked Mrs. Gray.
“Why, replenish means—it means—to fill up, I believe; but I don’t see as
that has anything to do with fire, after all.”
“Why if we add wood to the fire, and so fill up, or nearly fill up, the
fireplace, may it not be called replenishing? You commence the critic
early, child,” said the grandmother; but she was far from being angry
with little Helen for her remarks; “for it is right and proper for
children to inquire, and understand, and learn all they can.”
“But, grandmother,” said George, “I have placed your chair in the
warmest corner—the fire _is_ replenished, if Miss Helen will allow me to
say so—the hearth is swept—Sally has got her knitting, and is going to
sit down with us—and we are all ready, and impatient to hear you.”
“I wish father and mother would be out at a party every night,” said
little Helen, as the circle of happy and inquisitive children took their
respective seats, and drew around Mrs. Gray; “for you, dear grandmother,
always sit with us when they are out; and so do brother, and cousin Ann,
and George—and we have such happy times!”
The good lady drew the youngest child to her arms; and, taking the hand
of Helen, who had drawn her little chair very close to her grandmother,
thus began:
“It was a cold night in December, 1664. The winter wind was howling
among the bare forest-trees, and whistling through the heavy and open
casements of a few small houses, which stood in the midst of the
wilderness, upon a spot then mostly known as the Plantations. It was
Sabbath evening. The family belonging to one of the most comfortable
looking houses rose up slowly from their usual evening devotions, and
drew round a large and blazing fire. The snow and hail beat furiously
against the one window of the room, and for some minutes no one spoke:
and then they heard a low groan as of one in the agonies of death; and
this was followed by a faint screech and a moan of distress.
“‘The Indians! the Indians!’ cried a boy about six years old, and he hid
his little head in his mother’s lap.
“‘Nobody shall hurt my boy!’ said the father, patting his head, ‘nobody
shall harm thee, child;’ and he rose up, and putting on a broad-brimmed
hat turned up at the sides, and taking an iron-headed cane, he began to
unfasten the door.
“‘Thou wilt not, Simon Gray,’ said the wife, laying a hand on his arm,
‘thou wilt not open our dwelling to the enemy?’
“‘Thy fears are natural, Rebecca,’ said the husband, turning with
momentary hesitation, ‘for verily, hath the cunning enemy been as a
snake in the grass to the Lord’s people.’
“‘Look forth from the window, first, then,’ said the wife; ‘hast thou
lived so long in the wilderness and not learned that the wicked one is
full of snares?’ But a succession of low groans, apparently near the
house, overcame his fears; and hastily unfastening and throwing open the
narrow door, he said, ‘Farewell, Rebecca—the arm of the Lord is forever
with his children!’
“‘Forsake me not, Simon,’ said Mrs. Gray, lifting the little boy to her
arms, ‘I will go with thee;’ but he had already passed the threshold and
thrown open the gate that led from the little enclosure around their
dwelling. He paused; listened again; and passed into the street. The
cries were repeated, but not so loud or so frequently as they had been.
He paused again and looked around, but still saw nothing but the thick
falling snow, which beat so heavily as to obscure almost everything;
besides, it was very dark.
“Who was it, grandmother?” whispered Helen, “who was it?”
“Hush, sister!” said Henry, “she was just going to tell.”
“Again,” resumed Mrs. Gray, “again he heard the same low cry; and just
as his wife came up, he stumbled upon a human figure crouched at the
foot of a very large snow-bank. It proved to be an Indian woman, almost
perished with cold and hunger.
“‘The Lord be praised! and bless thee, Simon Gray!’ said Rebecca, as she
assisted her husband to lift the poor creature from the earth; ‘the Lord
be magnified!’
“‘Leave Namoina, take de baby!’ said the poor creature in broken
English, and she pointed to a dark heap at a little distance; but at the
instant William had reached the spot, and, as his mother came up, he
uncovered the face of a sleeping infant. The little creature was wrapped
in a thick covering of blankets, and was sleeping as peacefully amid the
snow as if it was lying in its own mother’s bosom.
“Rebecca knelt beside the little one, and blessed God that she had been
the instrument of saving its life. The falling snow, and the cold wind
blowing upon the child’s face, awoke it; and as it opened its eyes it
looked up in the face of Rebecca, who was kneeling beside it with a
lantern in her hand, and smiled, and lifted up its little arms.
“‘The Lord has sent thee to me,’ said Mrs. Gray, while her heart was
filled with tenderness. ‘The Lord has sent thee to me, to lie in my
bosom and be unto me instead of my own little buried Rebecca!’
“The good man and his wife were not long in removing the poor Indian
woman and the child to the house, and, for some time, the poor creature
did not appear to know what was passing around her; but after having
taken some hot drink she seemed to revive, and cried out, ‘Me baby! me
flower!’ and she looked wildly round for the child. Mrs. Gray laid it on
the mat beside her, and the little one sat up and twisted its little
fingers in her wet black hair, and then nestled close to the Indian
woman’s bosom till she slept. Mrs. Gray then carefully removed the
child, and fed it with some warm milk. The poor little thing, as if
conscious of her kindness, looked up in her face and softly repeated,
‘Mamma—mamma.’ The imperfect words went to the heart of Rebecca; and she
again resolved that, as the Lord had cast the little stranger upon her
protection, she would be unto it a mother.
“Mr. and Mrs. Gray hoped to learn something of the child when the Indian
woman should be restored, but they were disappointed; for she arose at
the dawn of day, and stealing softly to the bedside of Mrs. Gray, and
taking the child from beside its new mother, she appeared about to carry
it away; but Mrs. Gray, as she awoke, observing her, cried out, ‘Give me
back the babe! give her to me!’
“The Indian woman fixed her piercing black eyes upon the face of Rebecca
for several minutes, then closing them, she appeared to be reasoning
with herself; for, upon lifting them again, she said, solemnly, ‘The God
of the white man calleth for his child. The rose cannot bloom in the
desert. The lily springeth not in the wilderness.’
“Thus saying, she chanted a kind of prayer in the Indian tongue, and
folding the babe an instant to her bosom, she replaced it beside Mrs.
Gray; and before any one could speak or prevent her, she had thrown open
the door and passed swiftly from the cottage.
“‘Rise, Simon Gray!’ said the kind-hearted Rebecca, ‘rise and follow the
poor creature, and persuade her to stay till the storm is past, and
offer her food.’ But though the good man made all possible haste in
dressing, the woman had reached the summit of a high hill which lay
toward the Bay colony ere he got into the street; and soon she was lost
in the distance and the thick falling snow, which was still beating down
with great violence.”
“Did she freeze to death, grandmother?” asked Helen.
“Did she never return?” inquired Henry.
“You’ll both get answered when grandmother has finished her story,” said
George Gray, with a shrewd look to his cousins.
“Yes, all in good time, children,” said Mrs. Gray, as she resumed. “They
could not possibly find out how the Indian woman came by the child, or,
for certainty, who she was; yet by her calling herself Namoina, they
supposed she must be a woman who was called by her tribe cunning, and
revered as a prophetess, though the white people knew that the poor
creature was at times crazy; for she had seen her husband and child
bleed, both in one day; the first fell and died while defending his
home; the other was inhumanly murdered by wretches who deserved not the
name of men! And so poor Namoina, or, as the white people called her,
Rachel, went crazy.
“Mrs. Gray found, by a medal that hung round the infant’s neck, that her
name was Mary Wallace; and Mary Wallace she was called. She appeared to
be about a year old. She was a fine, healthy child, and soon grew
nicely, and Mr. and Mrs. Gray were very fond of her; and William called
her his little sister, and taught her to walk, and gave her more than
half of all the nice things he had—(they did not have sugarplums and
candy then, but children were better off without them, and a great deal
more healthy)—and he would tell her pretty stories, and drag her in his
little wagon; and he loved her dearly. She was a sweet-tempered and
lovely child, and very seldom did any thing to displease her parents;
and when she did she would grieve very much, and she never could be
happy till she was forgiven. When she was twelve years old, there was
not a fairer or lovelier child in the whole Providence Plantations, than
Mary Wallace. Her eyes were bright and blue; her long, light brown hair
fell in beautiful curls upon her shoulders, and her voice had such a
sweet and happy tone, and her countenance such an amiable expression,
that the young loved her without envy, and the old never passed her
without a blessing. The lark did not rise earlier than Mary Wallace. The
first thing in the morning she would be seen with a basket on her arm,
tripping lightly over the grass, with her little white feet scattering
the dew, and singing sweetly and merrily as the birds themselves. No one
in the Plantations had not felt her kindness; she always had an arm for
the aged—some little delicacy for the sick—tears for the suffering—songs
and smiles for the happy—and bread, and beer, and pity, even for the
poor Indian. In short, the good people of the Plantations believed,
that, by a special mercy of Divine Providence, she had been sent among
them. She was of great assistance to her parents. They believed that
they could not do without her. In the spring she helped plant the corn
and beans—weeded the vegetable beds in the garden—and, through all the
warm season, she drove home the cows at night—fed the sheep and pigs—and
took care of the hens, ducks, geese, and their little ones. In the
summer she gathered berries and laid in herbs for winter. In autumn she
helped harvest the corn—gathered the dry beans and peas, and did a great
many other useful things; and in the winter she sat, for the most part,
by the fireside, knitting stockings for the family, and mending her own
and William’s clothes—or she read the Bible, of a long Sabbath evening,
to her father and mother: she was never idle.
“Mary never knew, till she was ten years old, but that she was the
daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Gray. At this time her mother thought best to
inform her how she had been brought to them. She was grieved, at first,
and cried very hard; but she could not comprehend how it was possible
that they who had watched her—nursed her—loved and supported her from
earliest infancy, should not be her own father, and mother, and brother;
and, instead of indulging childish curiosity respecting her real
parents, she treated the whole as an unpleasant story, and strove to
forget it; and, with her sweet, happy disposition, she was not long in
doing this; and very soon she smiled as sweetly—and sang as merrily—and
danced as gaily over the meadows, as she had done before. About this
time a distressing war broke out, called ‘King Philip’s War;’ and the
times were more distressing than you, my dear children, can well
imagine. There is no correct history of those times; but the most
considerable account you will find in Captain ‘Church’s History of
Philip’s War.’ The Indians, when they took any of the white people
prisoners, treated them very cruelly; and, sometimes, put them to death
with great torture.”
“I’ve read all about that, and I don’t blame the Indians at all!” said
George Gray, starting to his feet with much earnestness, while his eyes
almost flashed fire; “what right had the white people to come here and
cheat them—and rob them of their lands—and drive them from their houses?
Philip was a noble fellow! If I had lived then I would have been on his
side—at any rate—_I would_!!”
“And, brother,” said Ann, catching some of his warmth, “don’t you
remember what our last fourth of July orator said of Philip?”
“Yes,” returned George, quickly, “these were his very words: ‘Philip,
the hero of Mount Hope, though a savage, was a man—and a _noble man_—and
had he lived in other times and other circumstances, he might have been
a Cæsar—an Alexander—a Napoleon:—and what is saying more, and the most
that can be said of any man—a Washington!’” and the boy walked the room
quickly, while his burning cheek and flashing eye told that his spirit
was getting too strong for his young bosom.
“We will not dispute now whether the English or the Indians were right
or wrong,” said the prudent grandmother. “Doubtless they were both to
blame. Well, when Mary Wallace was about ten years old, and her brother
fifteen, Mr. Gray and William went to join the forces of Captain Church.
Mary it was who buckled on their knapsacks and pinned their collars on
the morning of their first departure. She would not have cried a single
tear if she could have avoided it, because her mother was so much
distressed; but it was such a dreadful thing to see them going away, and
to think they might never return, that poor Mary sobbed and wept as if
her heart was breaking; and when they said ‘farewell, Mary!’ her heart
was so full she could not speak; and when they stepped from the
threshold, poor Mary hid her face in her mother’s lap, because she could
not bear to see them go. But after she had wept a while, Mrs. Gray wiped
away her tears and got the Bible and bade her read; and they were
comforted.
“Every morning and evening Mary Wallace knelt by her little bedside and
prayed to God for the safe return of her father and brother. They came
home occasionally, but for the space of two years they were gone most of
the time. They met, however, with no serious accident; and Mary and her
mother had much reason to be thankful.
“One pleasant day during the second summer of the war, Mary had taken
her little basket, and calling Hunter, a large dog, she went to gather
berries; but, not finding the fruit plenty, she wandered farther into
the woods than she should have done at that dangerous time. She was very
busy picking some nice large berries, which she had found in great
abundance, when, presently, she thought she heard a groan; and, without
waiting to think there might be danger, she swung her basket on her arm
and skipped through the bushes, followed by Hunter. Very soon she saw a
large Indian seated upon a flat rock and leaning against a tree behind
him, with a tomahawk and a bundle of arrows laid at his side. Almost any
little girl would have been frightened, and have run away crying; and,
indeed, Mary Wallace herself felt that it might be wrong to approach him
when she thought of her poor, lone mother; and she was just going to
turn back and run home with all her might, when she saw that the poor
man was pale and faint, and could not sit upright but for the tree
against which he leaned. But what, in reality, could Mary have to fear?
She was known to most of the tribes around, very few of whom had not, at
some time or other, felt her kindness. Her little room was decorated
with numerous tokens of Indian gratitude, in the shape of wampum belts
and baskets, curious shells and stones, and many other things; and the
Indians called her ‘the child of Sunshine’—‘the Flower’—‘the Lily,’ and
many other endearing names; but mostly, ‘the Bird of Peace.’ Instead of
running away, as she had at first thought to do, Mary drew near the
Indian and saw that he was asleep, or had fainted from loss of blood,
which was flowing fast from a large wound in his leg. The sight of blood
naturally made Mary feel sick and dizzy; but, without hesitation, she
took a little shawl from her neck and bound it round the limb. The dog,
as soon as he smelt the blood, began to bark furiously; and this,
together with the pain caused by binding the wound, aroused the Indian,
who, thinking, probably, that the enemy had fallen upon him, clenched
his tomahawk and uttered a fearful cry. Mary trembled an instant, as if
she already felt the blow; but she saw that he was still very faint;
and, taking courage, she caught his arm and said, in the Indian tongue,
‘Fear not, father, it is Mary!’ and as he looked upon her, she pointed
to the limb which she had nearly bandaged. He appeared very grateful
when he saw what she had done, but he was too weak and faint to say
much; and he only whispered, as he placed his hand on the child’s head,
‘Welcome, daughter of Heaven!’
“Little Mary then ran home as fast as she could, and told her mother
about the poor wounded man, and asked her for some food; and her mother
gave her some new milk, and some beer, and bread. Mrs. Gray went out
with her and carried a blanket to cover him; and she bound up the wound
better than Mary could, putting on some healing balsam. They persuaded
him to partake of the food; and, afterward, assisted him to a shelter
under a rock, where they left him quite comfortable.
“The next day Mary asked permission to go and carry food to the sick
Indian; and, calling Hunter, she took the basket her mother gave her,
and went to the woods. When she arrived at the rock she found that the
sick man had risen and was seated on the top of the rock; and by his
side an Indian woman, who was caressing him with much affection. Little
Mary had come quite near before they saw her; for she stepped very
lightly; but as soon as the old man did perceive her, he said in
English, ‘Behold the Bird of Peace!’ As he spoke the woman looked
earnestly at Mary for several minutes, and then she cried out, ‘My lily!
my blossom! my babee!’ and, springing from the rock, she caught the
child in her arms and almost suffocated her with tears and caresses.