THE RHYMING GAME.--ORIKAMA, OR THE WHITE WATER LILY, AN INDIAN TALE.
Great was the chagrin of our young party on the following morning, to
find that a storm had set in, giving no prospect of amusements out of
doors for the day: the rain came down in a determined manner, as if it
had no intention of clearing up for a week, and the winds whistled and
scolded in every variety of note; even the boys, who prided themselves
upon a manly contempt for wind and weather, agreed that the chimney
corner was the best place under the circumstances, and that they must
try to make themselves as agreeable as possible at home. Cornelia
quoted, for the benefit of the rest, a receipt she had somewhere met
with for the "manufacture of sunshine," which she thought would be
especially valuable on such a darksome day: "Take a good handful of
industry, mix it thoroughly with family love, and season well with
good-nature and mutual forbearance. Gradually stir in smiles, and jokes,
and laughter, to make it light, but take care these ingredients do not
run over, or it will make a cloud instead of what you wish. Follow this
receipt carefully, and you have an excellent supply of sunshine,
warranted to keep in all weathers."
Accordingly, it was resolved to make sunshine, and Aunt Lucy offered to
provide the industry, if they would furnish the other materials. Soon
were heaps of flannel and other stout fabrics produced from her "Dorcas
closet," as she called it, in which her provisions for the poor were
laid up, in nice order; for even in our happy land does it hold true
that "the poor ye have always with you, and whensoever ye _will_ ye may
do them good," and kind Aunt Lucy was not one to neglect this duty. On
the day preceding Christmas, according to her principle of making as
many happy as possible, she had ordered a barrel of flour to be baked
into cakes and pies, and had distributed them, along with a turkey and a
bushel of potatoes to each, among all the poor families of the
neighborhood; and this was only one specimen of the numerous kindly acts
by which she drew together the hearts of all around her, and made them
realize the Christian brotherhood of man. Where there were children, she
made them happy by the present of a few penny toys; a very cheap
investment, yielding a large return of rapture! She could never deny
herself the pleasure of giving these little offerings of love with her
own hands, and wishing her poor neighbors a "Happy Christmas;" and on
this occasion she had learnt the destitution of a poor widow, who
struggled hard to support her young family and to maintain a decent
appearance, but who was now laid up with sickness, and unable to provide
clothing and fuel for herself and her little ones. Mr. Wyndham had
immediately sent her a load of wood, and his wife was now anxious to
furnish the necessary garments. The young girls were rejoiced to aid in
the good work, and soon all fingers were busy, and needles were in swift
operation; while the boys took turns in the entertainment of the sewers,
by alternately reading aloud from a pleasant book. Tom Green was an
excellent reader; his agreeable tones of voice made it a pleasure to
listen to him, and his clear articulation and varied expression added
greatly to the interest of the narrative. Why is it that this desirable
accomplishment, which promotes so much the happiness of the home
circle, is not more cultivated?
After dinner, Charlie Bolton proposed some games, as he said that quite
enough of industry and gravity had been put into the preparation, and he
feared the sunshine would not be properly made without the smiles,
jokes, and laughter spoken of in the receipt. "How do those lines of
Milton run, Ellen, in L'Allegro? my favorite piece--before the old
fellow got to be so very sublime, as he is in the Paradise Lost."
"You irreverent jackanapes! to speak so of the immortal bard! I suppose
you mean,
'But come, thou goddess fair and free,
In Heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing mirth;
Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful jollity,
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods and becks, and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek:
Sport, that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter, holding both his sides.'"
"That is the passage I mean, and that is the very company I should like
to invite, if the rest have no objection."
All approved of the suggestion, and soon the whole party was busily
engaged in various lively games, "Graces," "Battledore and Shuttlecock,"
"Hunt the Slipper," etc., which combined bodily exercise with healthful
excitement of the mirthful organs, which some philosophers assert to be,
after all, the distinguishing trait of mankind. Some call man a
"thinking animal," but this is so self-evident a slander upon the great
majority of the species, that no words are needed to refute it: one
attempted to define him as "a biped without feathers," but when a
plucked fowl was brought forward as a specimen of his man, he was
obliged to give up that definition. Others again describe him as "a
cooking animal," but while dogs can act as turnspits, and monkeys can
roast chestnuts, he cannot claim this lofty epithet as peculiarly his
own; besides, some savages have been found so degraded as to be
unacquainted with the use of fire. But wherever man is found, whether
under the heats of an African sun, or shivering in the cold of a Lapland
winter, upon the steppes of Tartary, or the pampas of South America, his
joyful laughter shows that he is a man, intended for social life and for
happiness. 'Tis true, we read of the _hyena laugh_, but we protest
against such a misapplication of terms: the fierce, mocking yell of that
ferocious creature has nothing in common with hearty, genial, human
laughter: other animals can weep, but man alone can laugh. And how great
a refreshment is it! It relieves the overtasked brain, and the heart
laden with cares; it makes the blood dance in the veins of youth, and
gives a new impetus to the spirits; work goes on more briskly, when a
gay heart sets the active powers in motion. Well did the Wise King say,
"A merry heart doeth good like a medicine:" it keeps off gray hairs and
wrinkles, better than any cosmetic that ever was invented. The ancient
Greeks realized its value, when they placed a jester in the society of
their gods upon Olympus: as their deities were clothed with human
attributes, they did not omit to provide for their amusement.
The young ladies were not too dignified and fastidious, nor Aunt Lucy
too wise to join in the sports, and the old lady's spectacles and cap
did not feel at all insulted when the handkerchief was tied round them
in "Blind Man's Buff," and the hall rang with the jocund shouts of the
children, whose greater activity eluded her grasp. When even the
youngest acknowledged that they had enjoyed enough romping for one day,
Mary proposed a new amusement of a quieter character, which she had just
heard of, entitled "the Rhyming Game." As it was found very pleasant, I
will give a specimen, that the reader may try it of a winter's evening.
One person thinks of a word, but instead of naming it, mentions another
with which it rhymes; the next thinks of another rhyme, which is to be
_described_, not spoken, and then the leader of the game, guessing from
the description what word is meant, says it is, or it is not, such a
thing. And so all round the circle.
"I've thought of a word that rhymes with _sat_," said Mary.
"Is it that sly animal of the tiger species which is domesticated by
man, and delights to steal the cream and to torture poor little mice?"
said Amy.
"No, it is not a _cat_."
"Is it that useful article which covers the floor in summer, that is on
the dinner-table every day in the year, and may be seen behind or before
almost every front door?" said Cornelia.
"No, it is not a _mat_."
"Is it that nondescript winged quadruped, something like a bird,
something like a mouse, something like a kangaroo, which troubles us
sometimes of a summer's evening, by flying about the room and entangling
itself in our hair?" said Ellen.
"No, it is not a _bat_."
"Is it that other agreeable creature, which infests old houses, but is
prudent enough to leave them when they begin to fall down: that is very
voracious, and sometimes eats babies' noses off?" said Tom.
"No, it is not a _rat_."
"Is it a very gentle slap, indicative of love?"
"No, it is not a _pat_."
"Is it one of the wooden pieces of which blinds are composed?"
"No, it is not a _slat_."
"Is it a manly covering for the head?"
"No, it is not a _hat_."
"Is it that word sometimes applied to a disagreeable child?"
"No, it is not a _brat_."
"Is it the opposite of leanness?"
"No, it is not _fat_."
"Is it that covering for the head occasionally worn by young misses, and
also a frequent quality of their conversation?" said Charlie Bolton.
"No, insulting sir, it is _not_ a _flat_."
"Is it that amiable insect, so anxious to discover whether all are made
of the same blood, which pays such particular attention to visitors
among pine forests?"
"No, it is not a _gnat_."
"Is it a large receptacle used in the brewery and tannery?"
"No, it is not a _vat_."
"Is it an ornamental way of dressing the hair?" said Gertrude.
"Yes, it is a _plait_. Now it's your turn, Gertrude."
"I've thought of a word that rhymes with _rock_."
"Is it an important part of woman's attire?"
"No, it is not a _frock_."
"Is it an article of infants' clothing?"
"No, it is not a _sock_."
"Is it the thing that brokers buy and sell?"
"No, it is not _stock_."
"Is it a common weed, and also the place where ships are built?"
"No, it is not a _dock_."
"Is it a collection of sheep?"
"No, it's not a _flock_."
"Is it a German wine, highly prized by connoisseurs?"
"No, it is not _hock_."
"Is it a rap at the door?"
"No, it is not _knock_."
"Is it a curious instrument that has hands, but no eyes or ears, and
that always weighs its actions, but never does any thing but reprove
other people's laziness?"
"No, it is not a _clock_."
"Is it that word, which followed by head, shows what we all are, for not
guessing it sooner?"
"Yes, you are right, it is a _block_."
In the evening, Mary was appointed by general consent to tell that
eagerly-desired Indian story.
"And mind you give us scalping enough," said Charlie Bolton; "I'm a
little afraid you are too tender-hearted to give your story the proper
dramatic effect. It's worth nothing unless there is a great deal of
blood spilt, and a whole string of scalps."
"Horrible, Charlie! how can you bear such things! However, I needn't be
afraid, if Cousin Mary is to tell the tale," said Amy.
"How can I possibly please the taste of both?" replied Mary; "I plainly
see that only one way is left for me; to suit myself--so, if you'll
excuse me, that's the thing I'll do."
"We'll be compelled to excuse you, I suppose," said Charlie with a
shrug: "well, go on then, and be as merciful as your weak woman's nature
compels you to be."
Accordingly, with this encouraging permission, Mary began her story,
which she called
Orikama, or the White Water-Lily:
AN INDIAN TALE.
Nearly a hundred years ago, when the greater part of Pennsylvania was
still covered with forests, and was peopled chiefly by wild deer and yet
wilder Indians, there might have been seen, upon the banks of the
beautiful Susquehanna, a log cottage of very pretty appearance. It
consisted of two stories, and was surrounded by a piazza, whose pillars,
trunks of trees unstripped of their bark, were encircled by a luxuriant
growth of ivies and honeysuckles, which ran up to the roof, and hung
down in graceful festoons. The house was situated so as to command the
finest prospect of the river and the distant hills, and gave the
traveller the impression that it was erected by people of more
refinement than the common settlers of that region, rough backwoodsmen,
who thought of little else than the very necessary work of subduing the
wild, planting corn and potatoes, and shooting bears and deer. And so it
was: James Buckingham, who with his young wife had settled there, having
purchased land in that vicinity, was a man accustomed to a more polished
state of society, and had received a college education in New England.
But having become deeply attached to a young girl whose parents refused
consent to their union, the impetuosity of his character prevailed over
his sense of filial piety, and he persuaded the beautiful Ellen
Farmington to leave her home and duty, and to give him a husband's right
to protect her. In all probability, patience and submission might have
prevailed upon her parents to give up an opposition, which was in
reality unreasonable and groundless, as Buckingham was a young man in
every way calculated to make their daughter happy; but this rash act of
youthful folly had embittered their feelings, and the young couple were
forbidden ever to show their faces in the old homestead, lest a parent's
curse should light upon their heads. Too proud to show any repentance,
even if he felt it, James Buckingham determined to settle in another
State, where nothing should recall the past, and where his small amount
of capital, and large stock of energy and industry, might be employed to
advantage; accordingly, he fixed his lot among the pioneers of Penn's
colony, and chose a romantic situation upon the Susquehanna for his
dwelling.
Very toilsome were the first years of their settlement, and great their
privations; but they were young and happy, and willing hands and loving
hearts made toil a pleasure. In a few years, woods were cleared, fields
inclosed, barns built, and then, agreeably to Solomon's advice, the
Buckinghams thought of building a commodious dwelling. "Prepare thy work
without, and make it fit for thyself in the field, and afterwards build
thy house." The aid of neighbors, ever ready for such an undertaking,
was called into requisition, and soon they removed from the small and
only too well ventilated hut, through the chinks of which the sun shone
in by day and the moon by night, and the rain penetrated whenever it
would, to the ample, pleasant home already described. Here it was that
little Emily Buckingham, their only child, first saw the light; and then
the cup of their happiness seemed only too full for mortals to quaff. As
the child daily grew in beauty, and her engaging ways filled their
hearts with delight, then first did they realize the absorbing nature of
a parent's love, and regret that _they_ were separated from those who
had so felt to Emily's mother, when she lay, a helpless infant, in their
arms. Yet pride prevailed, and no overtures were made to those whom they
still thought severe and unrelenting.
Few, and scattered far, were the farmers in that region, for they were
on the very outskirts of civilization. At a short distance rose a
primeval forest, untouched by the axe of the settler, where the deer
roamed freely, unless shot by the Indian hunter; and many were the
friendly Indians who visited the cottage, and exchanged their game,
their baskets, and their ornamented moccasins, for the much-coveted
goods of civilized life. Frequent among these guests was Towandahoc,
Great Black Eagle,--so called from his first boyish feat, when, riding
at full gallop, he had shot down an eagle on the wing, so unerring was
his aim; and its feathers now adorned his head. Towandahoc was a great
hunter, and did not disdain to traffic with the "pale faces," not only
for rifles and gunpowder, but for many domestic comforts to which most
Indians are indifferent. But Great Black Eagle, although fearless as the
bird whose name he bore, was a humane man, more gentle in character than
most of his race, and a great friend of the whites, the brethren of the
good Onas, as the red men called the man who laid the foundations of our
commonwealth in peace, by a treaty which, in the language of Voltaire,
"is the only one never confirmed by an oath, and never broken."
Especially was Towandahoc attached to the Buckingham family, who ever
treated him kindly, and to the little girl who played with his bow and
arrows, and tried in her artless prattle to pronounce his name. Unbroken
peace had hitherto prevailed between the red men and the pale faces,
owing to the just and friendly treatment the natives had experienced;
but symptoms of another spirit began now to appear. The war waged
between England and France had extended to the colonies, and the French
were unremitting in their efforts to gain the Indians to their side. A
line of fortifications was erected by them, extending from Canada to the
Ohio and Mississippi, and they were strongly intrenched at Fort Du
Quesne, the site of the city of Pittsburg. Braddock's expedition and
memorable defeat had just taken place; and it was thought by many that
the Pennsylvania tribes, enraged by the honorable refusal of the
Assembly to accept their tomahawks and scalping-knives in the war, and
courted, on the other hand, by the French, were cherishing a secret, but
deep hostility. Many of Mr. Buckingham's neighbors erected blockhouses,
protected by palisades, to which they might retreat in case of an
attack, and stored them with arms, ammunition, and provisions; but his
confidence in the good disposition of the aborigines was too great to
allow him to appear suspicious of those who came backward and forward to
his dwelling in so much apparent friendship.
Such was the posture of affairs when Emily had reached her fourth year:
dear as she was to her parents, the return of her birthday found her
unspoilt, and as sweet and well-trained a child as any in the colony. It
was worth a walk to see her: her golden curls fell upon a neck of
alabaster, and her delicate, regular features were illuminated by dark
vivacious eyes: she strongly resembled her mother, who had one of those
faces which once seen, are never forgotten, and that seem to ripen
merely, not to change, from youth to old age. But this extreme
loveliness of person formed but the setting of the gem; Emily herself
combined so much sweetness and liveliness of disposition, was so
affectionate, gentle, and docile, that it was no wonder her parents made
her the centre of all their plans and enjoyments. It was she who must
always outstrip her mother, in welcoming her father in from the field,
"And climbed his knee, the envied kiss to share,"
and to listen to the delightful tale, that could never be repeated too
often: she must bring his slippers, and place his seat near the fire in
winter. And she must "help mamma" in all her concerns; and although such
help was only a delicious kind of hindrance, her bright face and winsome
ways made all tasks light and pleasant. Never had she looked so lovely
in her mother's eyes as she did on the evening of her birthday, when in
her little white night-slip, with bare feet and folded hands, she knelt
down to recite the simple prayer she had been taught that day, as a
reward for good conduct; the setting sun streamed in at the window, and
as its rays lingered among her curls, as if they belonged there, and
were reluctant to leave, the mother thought of a kneeling cherub, with a
glory encirling her head--but blessed God that her child was yet upon
the earth. Long did that picture dwell upon her memory.
After singing her to sleep with a gentle lullaby, such as a mother only
can employ, she imprinted a tender kiss upon the sleeping child, and
having seen that all things were well and safely arranged in the house,
she and her husband left, intending to spend the evening with Mr.
Markley and his family, who lived at a distance of five or six miles.
They were on more intimate terms with them than with any other
neighbors, and took back with them Roland Markley, a boy of ten, who had
spent the day with little Emily, his especial friend and pet, whom he
was never weary of assisting and amusing. It was a pleasure to see the
children together: the little girl looked up to him as almost a man, and
he made her every whim a law. For her he would make the trip little
vessel, and launch it upon the water; for her he would construct the
bridge of stones across the brook, and guide her little feet safely to
the other side.
The conversation at Mr. Markley's house was of an alarming character; it
was said that sure information had been received of a speedy rising of
the Indians, and the Buckinghams were urged instantly to remove to that
more thickly settled spot, where a large blockhouse was erected, and all
preparations were made to give the enemy a warm reception. The addition
of even one able-bodied man to their force was desirable, and they
strove to impress upon their neighbors the imminent peril of their
exposed situation. So earnest were they, and so probable did the news
appear, that Mr. Buckingham resolved to comply with their wishes, and to
remove on the morrow; and with hearts heavier than when they left home,
they started to return to it.
"Do you perceive the smell of smoke? If it should be our cottage!" said
Ellen Buckingham, first breaking the silence in which they rode along.
"The woods may be on fire again: do not be alarmed; the conversation
this evening has unnerved you," replied her husband; but he could not
conceal the tremor of his own voice, as a horrible fear entered into his
heart; a fear, soon to become a more horrible certainty!
As they drew near, the air became thick with smoke, and when they
entered the cleared ground and looked for their home, no home was there!
Instead, burning rafters and smoking ruins: around, the ground was
trodden down by many feet of moccasined men. Partly consumed by the
fire, lay the bodies of two farm-servants who had been in Mr.
Buckingham's employ; a tomahawk, smeared with fresh blood, lay among the
smoking embers; and a golden curl singed by fire, was near it--all they
could discover of little Emily!
The murderers had left, doubtless disappointed that, their prey was so
small; and in the first moments of agony, the bereaved parents wished
that they too had fallen victims to their fiendish rage. Emily was dead,
certainly dead! The fresh blood, the lock of hair, proved it only too
clearly; her body had been consumed by the flames. The light of their
lives had been put out, the glory had passed away from their sky, and
they must now go mourning all their days; they felt as did a parent in
the olden time, whose words are recorded in Scripture, "If I am bereaved
of my children, I am bereaved." One little hour had changed the aspect
of the whole earth to them.
And yet, broken-hearted as they were, they must act: not now could they
fold their hands in despair. Soon was the news of the Indian rising
spread among the settlers; and while all flew to arms, and joined in the
necessary preparations, tears fell from eyes that were never known to
weep before, and rough men spoke soothing words to the mourners; for
little Emily was known and loved by all for miles around, and many said
"she need not change much to be made an angel." It was agreed that with
the earliest dawn, when the women and children were safely disposed of,
they should meet at the ruins of the Hopedale Cottage, so was it called,
and follow the trail of the savages through the woods; some sanguine
spirits, chief among whom was little Roland Markley, still asserted that
Emily might live, and have been carried away into captivity; but her
parents could not so deceive themselves--that lock of hair had convinced
them of her death; hope could not enter their hearts, it had died with
Emily.
One entire day did the Indian-hunters follow in the trail and came upon
the spot where their enemies had encamped; and there, three trails in
different directions, looked as if the savages had scattered. What was
to be done? To follow all was impossible, as their own force was a small
one; and meantime night had come on, wrapping all things in her mantle
of secrecy, and fatigue required them to rest their weary frames.
Setting a watch, and lighting a fire, with loaded rifles within reach,
they slept; such a sleep as men can take, when they dream of a red hand
at their throats, and a tomahawk glancing before their eyes. Light
hearts make heavy sleep; but such a deed as had been committed in the
midst of them, makes men start from their slumbers if but a cricket
chirps, or a withered leaf falls to the ground.
During the night, heavy rains began to fall, and when morning light
appeared, all traces of the pathway of their enemy had disappeared; the
leaves fell abundantly from the trees, and no mark was left upon the
earth to show where they had passed. The baffled party did not give up
the search for several days, but nothing transpired to throw any light
upon the subject; and they were obliged reluctantly to return, in order
to defend their own homes and families from a similar fate. Few doubted
little Emily's death; but some still clung to the hope that she was in
the land of the living, and might yet be recovered.
But her father and mother hoped nothing: grief entirely filled up their
hearts. And with the grief arose a new feeling--bitter and poignant
remorse. "This is the just punishment," they thought, "that offended
Heaven has inflicted upon us, for having wrung _our_ parents' hearts
with anguish. Now we feel a parent's agony: now can we realize what we
made them suffer. This was the tender spot on which a wound would
penetrate to the heart; and here it is that a retributive Providence has
struck us. The arrows of the Almighty have pierced us--shall we any
longer strive against our Maker? We will humble ourselves in the dust, O
righteous Judge, and will return to duty: if it be not yet too late--if
our parents still live--incline their hearts to forgive!"
And their pitying God heard their prayer, and brought them in safety to
their childhood's home, and prepared for them pardon and peace of
conscience. For Ellen Buckingham's father had been brought to the brink
of the grave by sudden illness, and the stern old man wept like a child,
when the village pastor, a faithful minister of the Gospel, told him
that the most faultless creed would not avail him if he cherished a
hardened, unforgiving spirit, and exhorted him to pardon and bless his
exiled son and daughter. His iron heart was subdued within him, and when
his wife, whose gentler nature had long since pined for a
reconciliation, joined her entreaties to the commands of religion, then,
like the sudden breaking up of the ice upon a noble river, his feelings
gushed forth beyond control; all coldness and hardness vanished. At this
moment it was that James and Ellen Buckingham arrived: they had come in
the spirit of the Prodigal Son, not thinking themselves worthy to be
called the children of those they had offended; and they were greeted
with the same tenderness and overflowing affection described in the
parable--their confessions of guilt were stopped by kisses and embraces,
and soon they were weeping and recounting their loss, with arms
encircling their long-estranged parents.
When the doctor paid his next visit, he said that a greater physician
than he had interfered, and had administered a new medicine, not very
bitter to take, which threw all his drugs into the shade: it was called
_heart's ease_, and nothing more was wanting to his patient's recovery,
than very tender nursing, and daily applications of the same dose. And
tender nursing indeed did he receive from his daughter Ellen, and
proudly did he lean on the strong arm of his son, when sufficiently
convalescent to venture abroad: it seemed as if the affection,
restrained within their bosoms for so long a time, now gushed forth more
fully and freely than if there had never been a coldness. And thus did
sorrow on one side, and sickness on the other, guided by an overruling
Providence, join together long severed hearts, purify affections too
much fixed upon the earth, and lead all to look upward to Him who ruleth
in the affairs of mankind. Truly, "he doth not afflict _willingly_ nor
grieve the children of men."
At the earnest request of Ellen's parents, her husband agreed to
continue with them, acting in all respects as their son, and taking off
from them the burdens of life: and their latter years were made happy by
religion and filial piety. After their death, the Buckinghams removed
once more to their farm upon the Susquehanna, and rebuilt their cottage,
in all respects as it was before its destruction. Soon again did the
vines clamber up the pillars, and hang in beautiful festoons from the
roof; but where was she, the beloved one, who had so wound herself round
their feelings, that death itself could not unclasp the tendrils? Joy
had vanished with her, and no portion remained for them in this life but
peace, which will ever follow the diligent discharge of duty: the hope
of happiness they transferred to that better world, where little Emily
awaited to welcome them.
What, meantime, had been her fate? On that eventful evening she lay upon
her little crib, in a darkened corner of the room, buried in the sweet
slumber of childhood and innocence. The savage yells did not disturb
her, she peacefully slept on; angels must have guarded her bed when a
fierce Indian, with bloody tomahawk in hand, rushed into the room, but
saw her not in her little nest, and returned to his comrades, reporting
that all the rest of the inhabitants had fled. Determined to do all the
mischief in their power, they set fire to the house and barns, and then
pushed off into the woods, to seek new victims in the unoffending
Moravian settlement of Guadenhutten. Little Emily was first awakened by
a suffocating heat and smoke, and by the crackling of the flames: she
screamed aloud to her father for help, and tried to approach the stairs,
but the blinding smoke and the quickly spreading fire drove her back.
Just then, a tall and noble form, arrayed in Indian garb, forced a
passage through the raging flames and among the falling rafters, and
guided by her cries, sought her chamber, caught her in his arms, and
rushed down to the outer air. Not without peril to both: the arm which
encircled her was burnt so as to bear the scar ever after, but still it
sustained its precious burden, and the little girl was unharmed, save
that some of her long golden tresses, hanging loosely behind her, were
severed from her head by the fire: hence the lock of hair that remained
unconsumed, convincing her friends of her death.
And who was her brave preserver? Towandahoc, Great Black Eagle, the
friend of the pale faces! The secret plans of his tribe had been kept
from his ears, from the fear that he might betray them to the
unsuspecting whites; and it was not until after the expedition had
departed for the banks of the Susquehanna, that he learned their hostile
intentions towards his friends. He lost no time, but followed rapidly in
their steps, hoping by his representations to induce his people to give
up their murderous purpose, or perhaps, by a short but difficult route
through the mountains, to reach the cottage of Hopedale before them. But
hate is as swift as love in its flight, and as he approached the spot,
and saw the flames mounting up to the sky, he thought himself too late,
and the work of murder and of destruction complete. Just then he heard
little Emily's cries, and rushed in at the peril of his life, to save
the child.
Supposing her parents to be dead, he resolved to take the helpless
little one to his wigwam, and to adopt her as his own. His home was at
the distance of several days' journey from the Susquehanna, in a retired
valley of the Alleghany mountains, and thither, through a dense forest,
he bent his steps. The greater part of the way he carried the child, her
white arm wound round his dusky neck, her fair head lying upon his
shoulder; he dried her tears, he picked berries in the wood to refresh
her, and strove to comfort her little heart, which was very heavy with
sorrow. At last they arrived at his wigwam; his wife Ponawtan, or Wild
Rose, ran out to meet her husband, and great was her wonder at the sight
of his beautiful burden. He said to her:--
"Ponawtan, I have brought you home a child, as the Great Spirit has
taken away our own, and sent them to the good hunting grounds, where
forever they hunt the deer. Take good care of the child, for she is like
a white water-lily, encircled by troubled waters: in our wigwam may she
find rest and peace."
Ponawtan, with a woman's tenderness, took into her arms the trembling,
weeping child, who, with the quick instinct of childhood, soon learned
that she was a friend. The Indian woman understood not even the few
words of English by which Towandahoc made his kind intentions
intelligible, but the language of the heart is a universal one, and in
that she was a proficient. Well was it for little Emily--or Orikama,
White Water-Lily, as she was henceforth called, that she had fallen into
such good hands. Ponawtan was a kind, affectionate being, who had deeply
mourned the loneliness of her cabin; and now that a child was given her,
that a little motherless, homeless outcast was thrown upon her love, she
was happy, and her sweet voice was again heard singing snatches of wild
Indian melodies at the door of her hut, and about her work.
For some weeks Orikama drooped her head, and her pale cheek looked
indeed like the flower whose name had been given her; and Ponawtan
grieved when she beheld her languid step, and the sad expression in her
large speaking eyes, or when she found her weeping in a corner of the
hut. But childhood is happily elastic in its feelings, and again the
merry glance came back to her eye, and the little feet danced upon the
green grass, and the soft baby voice caught up the Indian words she
heard, and learned to call her kind protectors by the holy name of
father and mother.
And was the memory of the past blotted out from her mind? Not
so--indelibly painted there, was the image of a whitewashed cottage,
overgrown with vines, near which a noble river rolled, seen through an
opening of the trees; and of a kind father, who wore no plumes in his
hair, who bore no bow and arrows, whom she had run to greet, and on
whose knee she daily sat, listening to beautiful tales. And of a sweet,
pretty mother, in whose face she loved to look, who taught her to say a
prayer, kneeling with clasped hands; especially did she think of her as
she appeared on that last evening, when she kissed her good-night, and
sang her to sleep with a gentle lullaby. And never did she forget to
kneel down, before she lay upon her bed of sweet grass, and with folded
hands and reverent look to recite her evening prayer. What though the
full meaning of the words did not enter into her mind--with childlike
piety she looked upward to her Maker, and impressions of purity and
goodness were made upon her heart. In the beautiful language of Keble,
"Oh, say not, dream not, heavenly notes
To childish ears are vain,
That the young mind at random floats,
And cannot reach the strain.
Dim or unheard, the words may fell,
And yet the heaven-taught mind
May learn the sacred air, and all
The harmony unwind.
And if some tones be false or low,
What are all prayers beneath,
But cries of babes, that cannot know
Half the deep thoughts they breathe.
In his own words we Christ adore,
But angels, as we speak,
Higher above our meaning soar
Than we o'er children weak:
And yet His words mean more than they,
And yet he owns their praise:
Why should we think, He turns away
From infants' simple lays?"
Towandahoc and Ponawtan wondered when they saw her kneeling in prayer,
but did not interfere with the lovely child; and doubtless this daily
habit not only kept up within her mind purer notions of God and duty
than she could otherwise have entertained, but enabled her to cherish a
more vivid remembrance of the parents she believed to be dead, and of
the beautiful home of her infancy. Never hearing aught spoken but the
Indian tongue, the little girl would soon have entirely forgotten her
native language, had it not been for this daily practice, which kept at
least some words of English fresh in her memory.
Among the indistinct, but most pleasing recollections of the home of her
early childhood, was one of a boy with curly black hair and smiling
face, who brought her beautiful flowers, and made for her rabbits out of
his handkerchief, and pretty little boats out of nut-shells. She
remembered eagerly leaning over the water, watching the tiny bark till
it got out of sight, while he held her hand tightly, for fear she should
fall into the water. Another scene, of a different character, was
imprinted upon her mind, never to be erased--that fearful waking, when
the flames crackled and roared around her, and the thick smoke filled
the air, when she called upon her father for help, but no father was
there; and when her dark-skinned father Towandahoc rushed in to her
rescue. When she thought of this night of horror, she instinctively
clasped her hands before her eyes, to shut out the fearful sight.
These remembrances, however, did not hinder the bright and lively child
from being very happy in her new life. And why not? True, here were none
of the conveniences or refinements of civilized life, but the little
girl grew up without the feeling of their loss, and
"Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."
No mirrors reflected her erect and graceful figure, unspoiled by corset
or by long, wearisome hours of confinement at the school-bench; it was
lithe and well-proportioned as one of Diana's nymphs; but instead, she
arranged her golden tresses, and decked her head with a wreath of
wild-flowers, bending over a small mountain lake, which she had
appropriated to her own use, and which served her as bathing-house,
dressing-room, and looking-glass, all in one. No Turkey or Persian
carpets were spread upon the floor, no sofa with rich carving and velvet
seat invited her to indolence; but instead, she trod upon soft green
moss, sweet grass and flowers, and when weary, reposed upon such seat as
Dame Nature provides for her children in her beautiful mansion--the old
stump, the mossy bank, the well-washed rock, or the tree prostrated by a
storm. No sparkling fountain rose into the air, and fell into its
ornamented basin, to please her taste; but the mountain waterfall, of
which this is but a feeble imitation, rushed down the rocks in
snow-white foam, near her cabin; and she would gaze upon it for hours
with delight. To the imaginative mind, to the eye and the ear open to
the impressions of beauty, nature has many school-books, unopened in the
great city, and amid the busy haunts of men; and her ready scholars may
gain many a lesson from the great common mother, undreamt of amid the
cares of business, the dreams of ambition, and the bustle of fictitious
wants. To Orikama the world was one vast temple: instead of marble
pillars with Corinthian capitals, instead of Gothic aisles and dark
Cathedrals, her eye rested with admiration upon the nobler, loftier
columns of trees that had grown for centuries, crowned with graceful
spreading foliage; upon long avenues, whose overlapping branches formed
a natural arch, imitated long since by man, and called an invention;
upon the deep recesses of forests, with their "dim religious light," or
with their sudden, glorious illumination, when the last rays of the sun
stream in lengthwise, with coloring as rich as any painted window can
furnish. Her choristers were the birds; her incense the sweet perfume
which the grateful earth and her innocent children the flowers
continually offer up to their Maker: instead of the gaudy chandelier,
she gazed upon the full-orbed moon, hanging like a silver lamp from its
dome of blue, and forcibly recalling the Divine Hand which placed it
there. All nature had a voice and a meaning to her, and in the absence
of the ordinary means of education, and of the invaluable aids of the
Christian ministry, her pure and religious soul
"Found tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing."
Living thus constantly in the open air, while her mind expanded in
tranquil beauty, she grew up a blooming, healthful maiden, whose kindly,
candid nature shone out through a countenance of rare loveliness.
"Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self."
None were there to flatter the young girl, and to awaken that uneasy
vanity which fills the mind with the consciousness of observation, and
gives awkwardness to the timid, and affectation to the self-possessed.
Seeing herself so different from those she loved the best, the fair
Water-Lily often wished she could darken her skin and hair, that she
might more resemble others. Nor think that Orikama was totally
unaccomplished; her kind mother Ponawtan taught her all she herself
knew--to fear and love the Great Spirit; to be obedient, kind, and
patient; to speak the truth, and to bear pain without a murmur. She
learned that important part of the Indian woman's duty, to raise the
vegetables needed for their simple repasts, and to prepare savory dishes
of venison and other game; to fabricate their garments, ornamenting them
with uncommon skill and taste, and to manufacture baskets of exquisite
workmanship. These were her tasks: and when they were accomplished, how
joyfully did she bound off to the woods, or up the hills, to gather
herbs and barks, such as observation and tradition taught the children
of the forest to employ in the cure of diseases: she knew all the
trees, shrubs, and roots which grew in that region, and was skilled in
domestic surgery, such as woman has ever practised where medical
colleges are unknown. In her frequent and distant excursions for this
purpose, she had attained one accomplishment not to be taught in
schools; her voice was one of exquisite tone and great compass,
peculiarly rich and mellow; and she had learned to imitate the birds in
their varied warblings, so that frequently answers would be returned to
her from the deceived songsters of the wood. Then, louder still would
ring the notes, and the feathered tribe were excited to emulation by the
young girl, singing in the gayety of her heart.
Thus passed the early youth of Orikama, in intercourse with sweet
nature, under the kind protection of two of the best specimens of the
Indian tribes, and almost debarred from any other society. Seldom did a
moccasined hunter enter their wigwam, yet seldomer did a squaw pass
through that lonely valley; and a white man, never. When she had
attained the age of thirteen, a change occurred, which threw a shadow
over her young life, and was greatly regretted by Towandahoc and
Ponawtan. A detachment of their tribe having determined to migrate,
fixed upon that beautiful and fertile vale for the place of their
settlement, and soon an Indian village arose, where before had rested
the holy, maiden calmness of a region almost untrod by man. Now, all was
dirt, confusion, discord: the vices of civilized life were added to
those of the savage, without the decency or refinement which seeks to
throw a veil over their deformity. Orikama woke up as from a beautiful
dream, to find that those whom she would love to think of as brethren,
were vile and degraded: she saw lazy, drunken men, lounging about at the
doors of smoky huts, or administering chastisement to yelping curs, or
to women as noisy, reduced by ill-treatment and domestic drudgery to be
the cunning, spiteful slaves they were. Every thing shocked the noble
and pure spirit of Orikama: there were none here that she could make
companions and friends, nor would Towandahoc and Ponawtan have been
pleased to have her associate with them. It could not be expected that
she should be a favorite with the young girls of the tribe, who were
jealous of her superior attractions, and hated her for her reserve; and
their conduct made her feel sensibly that she was of another race, and
of another nature. Their malice was perhaps quickened by the fact, that
some slight hostilities had again arisen between the red men and the
pale faces, in which their tribe had been very prominent.
So unpleasantly changed did the whole family find their beautiful
valley, that it was resolved to remove to some distant spot, where they
should not be crowded out by uncongenial companionship. Accordingly,
Towandahoc departed for an absence of some weeks, to choose a situation
for settlement; the less reluctantly, as all the warriors of the tribe
had already left upon an expedition, which he had reason to suspect was
aimed against the whites. None remained behind but old men, squaws, and
pappooses, not to forget the Indian dogs, ever ready by their snarl to
recall their unwelcome existence to your mind. One day during her
husband's absence, Ponawtan departed early in the morning, with a view
to gather some herbs which grew upon one spot alone, a marsh at a
considerable distance: she left Orikama to take charge of the wigwam
till her return, which would not be before nightfall. Soon after she had
left, the crack of the rifle was heard, and the Indian village was
startled from its repose by the shout of the white man, and armed
backwoodsmen rushed in, expecting to meet their enemies: but the
warriors were absent, and the rough but generous foe disdained to wreak
vengeance upon old men, women, and children. All were taken prisoners,
and the cabins were fired: but how great was their amazement, upon
coming to the larger, handsomer wigwam of Towandahoc, which they
concluded from its appearance to belong to a sachem, to see there,
shrinking back with terror, a fair young girl of their own blood! Few
words could she speak in English, and but little could she understand of
that tongue which for ten years she had not heard spoken, except by
herself in prayer; she had even forgotten her own former name. Great was
the excitement when the news flew through the band, that a lost or
stolen child was recovered, and all rushed eagerly to see her. And she,
what mingled feelings filled her heart! Childish memories of just such
men crowded into her mind. She was lost in wonder and vague remembrance.
Just then, full of ardor, there rushed forward a youth of twenty, who
exclaimed the moment his eyes fell upon her, "It _is_ she! I knew she
was living! It is little Emily Buckingham!" As she gazed upon his open
brow, round which the crisp black curls were clustered, and heard the
long-forgotten name, she was troubled--she thought of the boy who held
her hand as she leaned over the edge of the stream to watch the mimic
boat, and with faltering tongue she repeated her name.
"The voice and all! Do you not see, comrades, how she resembles her
mother, Ellen Buckingham? Oh, hasten homeward, to give joy to the hearts
of her father and mother!"
"Father, mother, dead. Towandahoc, Ponawtan, Indian father, mother."
After some difficulty, Roland Markley, for it was really he, succeeded
in explaining to her that her parents still lived: and against her tears
and prayers, determined at once to break all bonds with her Indian
home, they tore her away, without waiting for the return of Towandahoc
and Ponawtan; but left their wigwam standing, out of gratitude for the
care they had taken of the child. The Indians had made an incursion into
the territory of the whites, and committed many ravages, and it was with
the intention of breaking up their villages, and driving them away, that
this expedition had been undertaken. The prisoners they had captured
were ransomed on condition of their removal, and the whole tribe passed
to the other side of the Alleghanies.
As the band travelled homeward, and first came across the beautiful
Susquehanna, Orikama--or Emily, as we should again call her--started,
and gazed eagerly around her: the broad stream called up memories of the
past. And when they arrived at the cottage of Hopedale, and she beheld
the house and grounds, the river and the woods, and the distant hills,
she recognized her home, and her earliest recollections were vividly
recalled. Soon was she folded in the arms of her mother, who so long had
mourned for her; and by her father she was welcomed back as one from the
grave. The news spread far and wide, and great was the gathering of
friends and neighbors to wish joy to the parents, and to welcome back
the pride of Hopedale: much to the confusion and distress of poor Emily.
All noticed the strong likeness she bore her mother, in person, voice,
and countenance; and if now she resembled her, how much more was this
the case when she had exchanged her Indian garb for one more suitable to
the American maiden! Soon were the bonds of love knit together most
closely between the parents and their recovered treasure; her tongue
relearned the lost language of her childhood, and happiness again
brightened the hearth at Hopedale; the birds sang more sweetly to her
mother's ears, and the sun shone more cheerfully than it had done for
years. Amidst all her new joys, Emily very often thought of her beloved
Indian parents, Towandahoc and Ponawtan, and longed to see them again;
but Indian life, as developed in the village, was abhorrent to her very
soul, and here she enjoyed all the freedom and communion with nature she
had once so highly prized, with society, and advantages for mental
cultivation she was now at an age to appreciate. All were delighted to
teach the docile and intelligent girl, so ready to take up ideas, so
judicious in the application of them; but Roland Markley, the playmate
of her childhood, installed himself as head tutor, and soon every
setting sun saw him on the way to the cottage, eager to apply himself to
the task.
Ten other years have passed; and near the cottage of Hopedale stands
another, within whose porch, overgrown by the Prairie rose, at her
spinning wheel, sits a beautiful young matron; perfect contentment is
enthroned upon her brow, and happiness beams out from her radiant smile;
golden curls cluster gracefully around her well-shaped head, and dark,
lustrous eyes follow lovingly a little girl at play, although her
skilful fingers do not forget their task.
"What is the matter, my little Ellen?" she said, as the child ran to
hide her face in her lap.
"An Indian, mamma! An Indian, coming out of the wood!"
At these words Emily springs up; she will ever love the red man for the
sake of those who nourished her childhood, and never will a son of the
forest be sent away uncheered from her door. But times have greatly
changed since her father built the neighboring cottage: seldom now does
the Indian visit that comparatively thickly settled spot; his course is
still westward, and ever onward, with the setting sun. When Emily
emerged from the thickly shaded porch, she saw indeed a red man approach
from the forest; he was old, but his majestic figure was still erect,
his eye bright and piercing; black eagle plumes adorned his stately
head--it was Towandahoc!
He was soon clasped in the embrace of his long-lost Water-Lily, and
Indian though he was, the old man wept over his recovered darling. He
told her how Ponawtan had returned by nightfall, to find her daughter
gone, and the village in ashes: their own wigwam had caught fire from
the flying cinders, and was entirely consumed. She had lingered around
the spot of her former happiness till his return; after a little time,
as they could hear no news of Orikama, they had removed far away from
the scene of desolation, to the valley of the Mohawk. Grief for the loss
of her daughter had injured the health of Ponawtan, although time had
now somewhat reconciled her to it: but Towandahoc said that the Wild
Rose was drooping, that her leaves were withered, and her flowers
falling one by one; and much he feared that another winter would lay her
low in the dust.
When little Ellen understood that this was the dear Indian grandpa of
whom she had so often heard, her shyness passed away, and soon she drew
near to the aged hunter, handling his bow and arrows, and even presuming
to climb up and scrutinize the feathers, that were at once her
admiration and her dread. The old man took her upon his knee, and was
showing her his bow, when Roland returned home; he eagerly seconded his
wife's persuasions, to induce Towandahoc to remain with them for some
time, and then to return for Ponawtan, that both might pass the remnant
of their days within their daughter's dwelling. But the aged hunter
shook his head:
"It cannot be," he said; "the Great Spirit has made the pale faces to
dwell in houses, to plough the fields, and to listen to the voice which
comes from the printed book, held up before his eyes; but he has made
the red man to hunt the deer, and to live alone in the open air. When
the Great Spirit created man, he made his red child first, out of the
best clay: he then made the pale faces; and lastly, out of what was left
he made the black man. And he placed before them three boxes; and
because his red child was the favorite, he told him to choose which he
would have. So he chose the box containing a bow and arrows, a tomahawk,
and a pipe. Then the pale face chose; and he took the box which held a
plough, carpenters' tools, a gun, and a book. And the black man took
what was left: in his box was an overseer's whip, a spade, and a hoe.
And this has been the portion of each ever since. I am a red man, and I
cannot breathe where men are thicker than trees: to me belong the bow
and arrows, the wild deer, and the open sky. The old man has returned to
visit the graves of his ancestors; but soon, far away from them, he will
drop to the ground, like the ripe persimmon after a frost. Orikama has
returned to the ways of her fathers, and I do not blame her, for she is
a pale face. But the old man cannot change, like a leaf in October; soon
will his sun set in yonder western heaven, and he must now keep on his
course. I have said."
When the moon arose, Towandahoc left the house, bending his steps to the
forest: but he did not go without passing his word that he would bring
Ponawtan to see her daughter. Before the winter set in, they arrived,
and Emily's tender heart was grieved as she gazed upon the wasting form
of her who had so often sheltered her in her arms: it was only too
evident that another summer would not see her upon the earth. Ponawtan
was greatly cheered by her visit; but could only be prevailed upon to
stay for a few days, when she departed, never more to return. In the
spring, Towandahoc came alone; his sorrowful face and drooping form told
the tale of sorrow before he opened his lips: his energy and vital
powers seemed to have died with Ponawtan. He never came again; and
doubtless he soon found a resting-place by the side of her who had been
his life-long companion.
"So, you didn't kill any of your people off, but the two farm-servants,
for whom we do not care a fig!" cried Charlie Bolton.
"Not I," replied Mary; "I'm not very partial to blood and murder; I
would not have put them out of the way, except to please you; I lay the
manslaughter at your door, Cousin mine."
"I'm very willing to bear the penalty: if it's a hanging matter, please
to imagine that my neck has paid the forfeit--just consider me hung--as
the man said at the crowded dinner table, when an irritable fool took
offence at something he had spoken, and being too far off to throw his
glass of wine in his face, told him '_to consider the wine as thrown at
him_.' 'Very well, I will,' replied the first; 'and do you consider this
sword as run through your body.'"
"A very good retaliation! And what did they do then? Did they fight?"
"Not they! They did much better--they laughed, shook hands, and were
good friends ever after."
"And their honor was as well satisfied as if they had made targets of
their bodies, I dare say: it was much more sensible."
"But, Cousin Mary," said Amy thoughtfully, "I've been trying to find out
the reason why Towandahoc did not take little Emily to the nearest white
settler, instead of carrying her off into the wild woods; I think it
would have been much better for the poor child."
"What do you think was the reason?" replied Mary.
"I know!" cried George. "The Indians are such dunces, that old
Thunder-Gust, or whatever his name is, hadn't the sense to do such a
straightforward thing as that, but must drag the child off through the
woods, scratching her finely with the blackberry and whortleberry
bushes, no doubt. I'll warrant she screamed and tried to get away,
although Cousin Mary does try to made her out so gentle--I know I
would."
"I declare you do not know how to appreciate my fine sentiment! Are you
boys made of different stuff from us, I want to know?"
"I rather suppose we are," said George, laughing. "Well, am I right in
my explanation?"
"Not in the least; some one else must try."
"I concluded," said Alice, "that it was the natural kindness of his
heart, and his fondness for the little girl, which made him wish to have
her for his own child. Of course, he did not realize that he was only a
savage, and not fit to bring her up rightly."
"That's nearer the truth than the other guess," rejoined Mary. "But none
of you have mentioned the great reason why Towandahoc carried her off."
"What can it be?"
"Simply this--if he had not, what would have become of my story, I'd
like to know? I made him take her home with him, on the same principle
that novel writers place their heroines in a thousand distressing
situations--that they may extricate them from their difficulties, and
make a longer tale."
"But what's the moral of your story?" said practical, matter-of-fact
John. "I don't see much use in a tale, unless there's a regular drawn
moral in it, that everybody can discover at once."
"Oh nonsense! I do hate morals!" said Cornelia. "Just as if we were to
be instructed the whole livelong day, and never to have amusement
without a good reason being given! That's too tiresome! I always skip
the morals and the _good talk_, when I read stories--if they're
pleasant, that's enough: I hate to be cheated into a sermon when I want
a story. I feel something as the man did who was fishing for a pike: he
caught a cat-fish instead, and throwing it back into the river,
exclaimed, 'When I go a-catting, I go a-catting; but when I go a-piking,
I go a-piking.'"
"I'm afraid a good many people think as you do, Cornelia," said Mrs.
Wyndham, laughing. "But perhaps we can find a moral for John, if we look
sharply enough. Let's see--there are good, kind people in every race, of
every complexion; and if we only make the most of our opportunities,
there are means of education open to all who have eyes and ears, and
willing minds. Do you see any other moral?"
"Oh yes, indeed!" replied Ellen. "When the Buckinghams were deprived of
their child, it was a sort of punishment to them for disobedience to
their parents; and they understood it in that way."
"True enough," said Mr. Wyndham. "And I have often noticed that
disobedient children are punished in after life, by means of their own
offspring: either by their suffering or death, or, still more
frequently, by their ingratitude and disrespectful conduct. And then
they feel themselves, as their parents did before them,
'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is,
To have a thankless child!'"
"I have often remarked this also," rejoined Mrs. Wyndham. "And it
appears to be consistent with all the dealings of the Disposer of
events: He himself says that He will treat us as we treat our
fellow-creatures: 'With the merciful thou wilt show thyself merciful,
and with the just thou wilt show thyself just, and with the froward thou
wilt show thyself froward.'"
"And, when we notice these coincidences, is it not an argument for a
superintending Providence?" said Tom Green.
"Undoubtedly it is," replied his uncle; "and although evil conduct here
is frequently unpunished, being left for the more perfect retributions
of eternity, yet it is so often followed by unhappiness, and by a reward
in kind, that no thinking mind can doubt the moral government of God.
And it appears to me that of all the commandments, that one which says
'Honor thy father and thy mother, that it may be well with thee,' is the
one taken under the especial protection of Providence. I have ever
noticed that dutiful children are honored by the world, and honored in
their own family circle, and that, on the other hand, it is ill with the
rebellious and unthankful."
"Then there is another thing I was thinking of," said Amy; "the good
uses of sorrow: you know it brought the Buckinghams to repentance; and
Ellen's father being taken ill, he repented too--I think he had as much
need of it as they. I'm glad my father is not cross and severe."
"So am I, heartily. Would you run off, Amy, if he were?" said Cornelia.
"Oh! I hope not! I should think
'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is,
To have a thankless child.'
I shall not forget that passage, uncle, as long as I live: who wrote
it?"
"Shakspeare: and as a general rule you may conclude, when you meet a
particularly striking passage, that it is either in Shakspeare or
Milton. But it is getting late: will Mary be kind enough to bring the
Bible, for it will then be time to say, Good-night to you all!"