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