THE WILDERNESS, AND OUR INDIAN FRIENDS.
The clouds of the preceding night, instead of dissolving into snow,
brought on a rapid thaw. A thaw in the middle of winter is the most
disagreeable change that can be imagined. After several weeks of clear,
bright, bracing, frosty weather, with a serene atmosphere and cloudless
sky, you awake one morning surprised at the change in the temperature;
and, upon looking out of the window, behold the woods obscured by a
murky haze--not so dense as an English November fog, but more black
and lowering--and the heavens shrouded in a uniform covering of
leaden-coloured clouds, deepening into a vivid indigo at the edge of the
horizon. The snow, no longer hard and glittering, has become soft and
spongy, and the foot slips into a wet and insidiously-yielding mass at
every step. From the roof pours down a continuous stream of water,
and the branches of the trees collecting the moisture of the reeking
atmosphere, shower it upon the earth from every dripping twig. The
cheerless and uncomfortable aspect of things without never fails to
produce a corresponding effect upon the minds of those within, and casts
such a damp upon the spirits that it appears to destroy for a time all
sense of enjoyment. Many persons (and myself among the number) are made
aware of the approach of a thunder-storm by an intense pain and weight
about the head; and I have heard numbers of Canadians complain that
a thaw always made them feel bilious and heavy, and greatly depressed
their animal spirits.
I had a great desire to visit our new location, but when I looked out
upon the cheerless waste, I gave up the idea, and contented myself with
hoping for a better day on the morrow; but many morrows came and went
before a frost again hardened the road sufficiently for me to make the
attempt.
The prospect from the windows of my sister's log hut was not very
prepossessing. The small lake in front, which formed such a pretty
object in summer, now looked like an extensive field covered with
snow, hemmed in from the rest of the world by a dark belt of sombre
pine-woods. The clearing round the house was very small, and only just
reclaimed from the wilderness, and the greater part of it covered with
piles of brushwood, to be burned the first dry days of spring. The
charred and blackened stumps on the few acres that had been cleared
during the preceding year were every thing but picturesque; and I
concluded, as I turned, disgusted, from the prospect before me, that
there was very little beauty to be found in the backwoods. But I came to
this decision during a Canadian thaw, be it remembered, when one is wont
to view every object with jaundiced eyes.
Moodie had only been able to secure sixty-six acres of his government
grant upon the Upper Kutchawanook Lake, which, being interpreted, means
in English, the “Lake of the Waterfalls,” a very poetical meaning, which
most Indian names have. He had, however, secured a clergy reserve of two
hundred acres adjoining; and he afterwards purchased a fine lot which
likewise formed a part of the same block, one hundred acres, for £150.
[Footnote: After a lapse of fifteen years, we have been glad to sell
these lots of land, after considerable clearings had been made upon
them, for less than they originally cost us.] This was an enormously
high price for wild land, but the prospect of opening the Trent and
Otonabee for the navigation of steamboats and other small craft, was
at that period a favourite speculation, and its practicability, and the
great advantages to be derived from it, were so widely believed, as
to raise the value of the wild lands along these remote waters to an
enormous price; and settlers in the vicinity were eager to secure lots,
at any sacrifice, along their shores.
Our government grant was upon the lake shore, and Moodie had chosen for
the site of his log house a bank that sloped gradually from the edge of
the water, until it attained to the dignity of a hill. Along the top of
this ridge, the forest-road ran, and midway down the hill, our humble
home, already nearly completed, stood, surrounded by the eternal forest.
A few trees had been cleared in its immediate vicinity, just sufficient
to allow the workmen to proceed, and to prevent the fall of any tree
injuring the building, or the danger of its taking fire during the
process of burning the fallow.
A neighbour had undertaken to build this rude dwelling by contract, and
was to have it ready for us by the first week in the new year. The want
of boards to make the divisions in the apartments alone hindered him
from fulfilling his contract. These had lately been procured, and the
house was to be ready for our reception in the course of a week. Our
trunks and baggage had already been conveyed by Mr. D---- hither; and in
spite of my sister's kindness and hospitality, I longed to find myself
once more settled in a home of my own.
The day after our arrival, I was agreeably surprised by a visit from
Monaghan, whom Moodie had once more taken into his service. The poor
fellow was delighted that his nurse-child, as he always called little
Katie, had not forgotten him, but evinced the most lively satisfaction
at the sight of her dark friend.
Early every morning, Moodie went off to the house; and the first fine
day, my sister undertook to escort me through the wood, to inspect it.
The proposal was joyfully accepted; and although I felt _rather_ timid
when I found myself with only my female companion in the vast forest, I
kept my fears to myself, lest I should be laughed at. This foolish dread
of encountering wild beasts in the woods, I never could wholly shake
off, even after becoming a constant resident in their gloomy depths,
and accustomed to follow the forest-path, alone, or attended with little
children, daily. The cracking of an old bough, or the hooting of
the owl, was enough to fill me with alarm, and try my strength in a
precipitate flight. Often have I stopped and reproached myself for want
of faith in the goodness of Providence, and repeated the text, “The
wicked are afraid when no man pursueth: but the righteous are as bold
as a lion,” as if to shame myself into courage. But it would not do; I
could not overcome the weakness of the flesh. If I had one of my infants
with me, the wish to protect the child from any danger which might beset
my path gave me for a time a fictitious courage; but it was like love
fighting with despair.
It was in vain that my husband assured me that no person had ever been
attacked by wild animals in the woods, that a child might traverse them
even at night in safety; whilst I knew that wild animals existed in
those woods, I could not believe him, and my fears on this head rather
increased than diminished.
The snow had been so greatly decreased by the late thaw, that it had
been converted into a coating of ice, which afforded a dangerous and
slippery footing. My sister, who had resided for nearly twelve months
in the woods, was provided for her walk with Indian moccasins, which
rendered her quite independent; but I stumbled at every step. The sun
shone brightly, the air was clear and invigorating, and, in spite of the
treacherous ground and my foolish fears, I greatly enjoyed my first walk
in the woods. Naturally of a cheerful, hopeful disposition, my sister
was enthusiastic in her admiration of the woods. She drew such a lively
picture of the charms of a summer residence in the forest that I began
to feel greatly interested in her descriptions, and to rejoice that we
too were to be her near neighbours and dwellers in the woods; and this
circumstance not a little reconciled me to the change.
Hoping that my husband would derive an income equal to the one he had
parted with from the investment of the price of his commission in
the steamboat stock, I felt no dread of want. Our legacy of £700 had
afforded us means to purchase land, build our house, and give out a
large portion of land to be cleared, and, with a considerable sum
of money still in hand, our prospects for the future were in no way
discouraging.
When we reached the top of the ridge that overlooked our cot, my sister
stopped, and pointed out a large dwelling among the trees. “There,
S----,” she said, “is your home. When that black cedar swamp is cleared
away, that now hides the lake from us, you will have a very, pretty
view.” My conversation with her had quite altered the aspect of the
country, and predisposed me to view things in the most favourable light.
I found Moodie and Monaghan employed in piling up heaps of bush near the
house, which they intended to burn off by hand previous to firing the
rest of the fallow, to prevent any risk to the building from fire. The
house was made of cedar logs, and presented a superior air of comfort to
most dwellings of the same kind. The dimensions were thirty-six feet
in length, and thirty-two in breadth, which gave us a nice parlour, a
kitchen, and two small bedrooms, which were divided by plank partitions.
Pantry or storeroom there was none; some rough shelves in the kitchen,
and a deal cupboard in a corner of the parlour, being the extent of our
accommodations in that way.
Our servant, Mary Tate, was busy scrubbing out the parlour and bedroom;
but the kitchen, and the sleeping-room off it, were still knee-deep
in chips, and filled with the carpenter's bench and tools, and all our
luggage. Such as it was, it was a palace when compared to Old Satan's
log hut, or the miserable cabin we had wintered in during the severe
winter of 1833, and I regarded it with complacency as my future home.
While we were standing outside the building, conversing with my husband,
a young gentleman, of the name of Morgan, who had lately purchased land
in that vicinity, went into the kitchen to light his pipe at the stove,
and, with true backwood carelessness, let the hot cinder fall among the
dry chips that strewed the floor. A few minutes after, the whole mass
was in a blaze, and it was not without great difficulty that Moodie
and Mr. R---- succeeded in putting out the fire. Thus were we nearly
deprived of our home before we had taken up our abode in it.
The indifference to the danger of fire in a country where most of the
dwellings are composed of inflammable materials, is truly astonishing.
Accustomed to see enormous fires blazing on every hearth-stone, and to
sleep in front of these fires, his bedding often riddled with holes
made by hot particles of wood flying out during the night, and igniting
beneath his very nose, the sturdy backwoodsman never dreads an enemy in
the element that he is used to regard as his best friend. Yet what
awful accidents, what ruinous calamities arise, out of this criminal
negligence, both to himself and others!
A few days after this adventure, we bade adieu to my sister, and took
possession of our new dwelling and commenced “a life in the woods.”
The first spring we spent in comparative ease and idleness. Our cows
had been left upon our old place during the winter. The ground had to be
cleared before it could receive a crop of any kind, and I had little
to do but to wander by the lake shore, or among the woods, and amuse
myself. These were the halcyon days of the bush. My husband had
purchased a very light cedar canoe, to which he attached a keel a sail;
and most of our leisure hours, directly the snows melted, were spent
upon the water.
These fishing and shooting excursions were delightful. The pure beauty
of the Canadian water, the sombre but august grandeur of the vast forest
that hemmed us in on every side and shut us out from the rest of the
world, soon cast a magic spell upon our spirits, and we began to feel
charmed with the freedom and solitude around us. Every object was new
to us. We felt as if we were the first discoverers of every beautiful
flower and stately tree that attracted our attention, and we gave names
to fantastic rocks and fairy isles, and raised imaginary houses and
bridges on every picturesque spot which we floated past during our
aquatic excursions. I learned the use of the paddle, and became quite a
proficient in the gentle craft.
It was not long before we received visits from the Indians, a people
whose beauty, talents, and good qualities have been somewhat overrated,
and invested with a poetical interest which they scarcely deserve. Their
honesty and love of truth are the finest traits in characters otherwise
dark and unlovely. But these are two God-like attributes, and from them
spring all that is generous and ennobling about them.
There never was a people more sensible of kindness, or more grateful for
any little act of benevolence exercised towards them. We met them with
confidence; our dealings with them were conducted with the strictest
integrity; and they became attached to our persons, and in no single
instance ever destroyed the good opinion we entertained of them.
The tribes that occupy the shores of all these inland waters back of the
great lakes, belong to the Chippewa or Missasagua Indians, perhaps the
least attractive of all these wild people, both with regard to their
physical and mental endowments. The men of this tribe are generally
small of stature, with very coarse and repulsive features. The forehead
is low and retreating, the observing faculties large, the intellectual
ones scarcely developed; the ears large, and standing off from the face;
the eyes looking towards the temples, keen, snake-like, and far apart;
the cheek-bones prominent; the nose long and flat, the nostrils very
round; the jaw-bone projecting, massy, and brutal; the mouth expressing
ferocity and sullen determination; the teeth large, even, and dazzilngly
white. The mouth of the female differs widely in expression from that of
the male; the lips are fuller, the jaw less projecting, and the smile
is simple and agreeable. The women are a merry, light-hearted set, and
their constant laugh and incessant prattle form a strange contrast to
the iron taciturnity of their grim lords.
Now I am upon the subject, I will recapitulate a few traits and sketches
of these people, as they came under my own immediate observation.
A dry cedar swamp, not far from the house, by the lake shore, had been
their usual place of encampment for many years. The whole block of land
was almost entirely covered with maple-trees, and had originally been an
Indian sugar-bush. Although the favourite spot had now passed into the
hands of strangers, they still frequented the place, to make canoes
and baskets, to fish and shoot, and occasionally to follow their old
occupation. Scarcely a week passed away without my being visited by the
dark strangers; and as my husband never allowed them to eat with the
servants, but brought them to his own table, they soon grew friendly
and communicative, and would point to every object that attracted their
attention, asking a thousand questions as to its use, the material of
which it was made, and if we were inclined to exchange it for their
commodities? With a large map of Canada, they were infinitely delighted.
In a moment they recognized every bay and headland in Ontario, and
almost screamed with delight when, following the course of the Trent
with their fingers, they came to their own lake.
How eagerly each pointed out the spot to his fellows; how intently their
black heads were bent down, and their dark eyes fixed upon the map! What
strange, uncouth exclamations of surprise burst from their lips as
they rapidly repeated the Indian names for every lake and river on this
wonderful piece of paper!
The old chief, Peter Nogan, begged hard for the coveted treasure. He
would give “Canoe, venison, duck, fish, for it; and more, by and by.”
I felt sorry that I was unable to gratify his wishes; but the map had
cost upwards of six dollars, and was daily consulted by my husband,
in reference to the names and situations of localities in the
neighbourhood.
I had in my possession a curious Japanese sword, which had been given to
me by an uncle of Tom Wilson's--a strange gift to a young lady; but
it was on account of its curiosity, and had no reference to my warlike
propensities. This sword was broad, and three-sided in the blade, and in
shape resembled a moving snake. The hilt was formed of a hideous carved
image of one of their war-gods; and a more villainous wretch was never
conceived by the most distorted imagination. He was represented in a
sitting attitude, the eagle's claws, that formed his hands, resting
upon his knees; his legs terminated in lion's paws; and his face was a
strange compound of beast and bird--the upper part of his person being
covered with feathers, the lower with long, shaggy hair. The case of
this awful weapon was made of wood, and, in spite of its serpentine
form, fitted it exactly. No trace of a join could be found in this
scabbard, which was of hard wood, and highly polished.
One of my Indian friends found this sword lying upon the book-shelf,
and he hurried to communicate the important discovery to his companions.
Moodie was absent, and they brought it to me to demand an explanation of
the figure that formed the hilt. I told them that it was a weapon that
belonged to a very fierce people who lived in the East, far over the
Great Salt Lake; that they were not Christians, as we were, but said
their prayers to images made of silver, and gold, and ivory, and wood,
and that this was one of them; that before they went into battle they
said their prayers to that hideous thing, which they had made with their
own hands. The Indians were highly amused by this relation, and passed
the sword from one to the other, exclaiming, “A god!--Owgh!--A god!”
But, in spite of these outward demonstrations of contempt, I was sorry
to perceive that this circumstance gave the weapon a great value in
their eyes, and they regarded it with a sort of mysterious awe.
For several days they continued to visit the house, bringing along with
them some fresh companion to look at Mrs. Moodie's _god!_--until,
vexed and annoyed by the delight they manifested at the sight of the
eagle-beaked monster, I refused to gratify their curiosity by not
producing him again.
The manufacture of the sheath, which had caused me much perplexity,
was explained by old Peter in a minute. “'Tis burnt out,” he said.
“Instrument made like sword--heat red-hot--burnt through--polished
outside.”
Had I demanded a whole fleet of canoes for my Japanese sword, I am
certain they would have agreed to the bargain. The Indian possesses
great taste, which is displayed in the carving of his paddles, in the
shape of his canoes, in the elegance and symmetry of his bows, in the
cut of his leggings and moccasins, the sheath of his hunting-knife,
and in all the little ornaments in which he delights. It is almost
impossible for a settler to imitate to perfection an Indian's
cherry-wood paddle. My husband made very creditable attempts, but still
there was something wanting--the elegance of the Indian finish was not
there. If you show them a good print, they invariably point out the most
natural and the best-executed figure in the group. They are particularly
delighted with pictures, examine them long and carefully, and seem to
feel an artist-like pleasure in observing the effect produced by light
and shade.
I had been showing John Nogan, the eldest son of old Peter, some
beautiful coloured engravings of celebrated females; and to my
astonishment he pounced upon the best, and grunted out his admiration in
the most approved Indian fashion. After having looked for a long time at
all the pictures very attentively, he took his dog Sancho upon his
knee, and showed him the pictures, with as much gravity as if the animal
really could have shared in his pleasure. The vanity of these grave men
is highly amusing. They seem perfectly unconscious of it themselves; and
it is exhibited in the most childlike manner.
Peter and his son John were taking tea with us, when we were joined
by my brother Mr. S----. The latter was giving us an account of the
marriage of Peter Jones, the celebrated Indian preacher.
“I cannot think,” he said, “how any lady of propeity and education could
marry such a man as Jones. Why, he's as ugly as Peter here.”
This was said, not with any idea of insulting the red-skin on the score
of his beauty, of which he possessed not the smallest particle, but in
total forgetfulness that our guest understood English. Never shall
I forget the red flash of that fierce, dark eye as it glared upon my
unconscious brother. I would not have received such a fiery glance for
all the wealth that Peter Jones obtained with his Saxon bride. John
Nogan was highly amused by his father's indignation. He hid his face
behind the chief; and though he kept perfectly still, his whole frame
was convulsed with suppressed laughter.
A plainer human being than poor Peter could scarcely be imagined; yet
he certainly deemed himself handsome. I am inclined to think that their
ideas of personal beauty differ very widely from ours. Tom Nogan, the
chief's brother, had a very large, fat ugly squaw for his wife. She
was a mountain of tawny flesh; and, but for the innocent, good-natured
expression, which, like a bright sunbeam penetrating a swarthy cloud,
spread all around a kindly glow, she might have been termed hideous.
This woman they considered very handsome, calling her “a fine
squaw--clever squaw--a much good woman;” though in what her superiority
consisted, I never could discover, often as I visited the wigwam. She
was very dirty, and appeared quite indifferent to the claims of common
decency (in the disposal of the few filthy rags that covered her). She
was, however, very expert in all Indian craft. No Jew could drive a
better bargain than Mrs. Tom; and her urchins, of whom she was the happy
mother of five or six, were as cunning and avaricious as herself. One
day she visited me, bringing along with her a very pretty covered basket
for sale. I asked her what she wanted for it, but could obtain from her
no satisfactory answer. I showed her a small piece of silver. She shook
her head. I tempted her with pork and flour, but she required neither.
I had just given up the idea of dealing with her, in despair, when she
suddenly seized upon me, and, lifting up my gown, pointed exultingly to
my quilted petticoat, clapping her hands, and laughing immoderately.
Another time she led me all over the house, to show me what she wanted
in exchange for _basket_. My patience was well nigh exhausted in
following her from place to place, in her attempt to discover the
coveted article, when, hanging upon a peg in my chamber, she espied a
pair of trowsers belonging to my husband's logging-suit. The riddle
was solved. With a joyful cry she pointed to them, exclaiming “Take
basket.--Give them!” It was with no small difficulty that I rescued the
indispensables from her grasp.
From this woman I learned a story of Indian coolness and courage which
made a deep impression on my mind. One of their squaws, a near relation
of her own, had accompanied her husband on a hunting expedition into the
forest. He had been very successful, and having killed more deer than
they could well carry home, he went to the house of a white man to
dispose of some of it, leaving the squaw to take care of the rest until
his return. She sat carelessly upon the log with his hunting-knife in
her hand, when she heard the breaking of branches near her, and, turning
round, beheld a great bear only a few paces from her.
It was too late to retreat; and seeing that the animal was very hungry,
and determined to come to close quarters, she rose, and placed her back
against a small tree, holding her knife close to her breast, and in a
straight line with the bear. The shaggy monster came on. She remained
motionless, her eyes steadily fixed upon her enemy, and as his huge arms
closed around her, she slowly drove the knife into his heart. The
bear uttered a hideous cry, and sank dead at her feet. When the Indian
returned, he found the courageous woman taking the skin from the carcass
of the formidable brute.
The wolf they hold in great contempt, and scarcely deign to consider him
as an enemy. Peter Nogan assured me that he never was near enough to
one in his life to shoot it; that, except in large companies, and when
greatly pressed by hunger, they rarely attack men. They hold the lynx,
or wolverine, in much dread, as they often spring from trees upon their
prey, fastening upon the throat with their sharp teeth and claws, from
which a person in the dark could scarcely free himself without first
receiving a dangerous wound. The cry of this animal is very terrifying,
resembling the shrieks of a human creature in mortal agony.
My husband was anxious to collect some of the native Indian airs, as
they all sing weil, and have a fine ear for music, but all his efforts
proved abortive. “John,” he said to young Nogan (who played very
creditably on the flute, and had just concluded the popular air of
“Sweet Home”), “cannot you play me one of jour own songs?”
“Yes,--but no good.”
“Leave me to be the judge of that. Cannot you give me a war-song?”
“Yes,--but no good,” with an ominous shake of the head.
“A hunting-song?”
“No fit for white man.”--with an air of contempt.--“No good, no good!”
“Do, John, sing us a love-song,” said I, laughing, “if you have such a
thing in your language.”
“Oh! much love-song--very much--bad--bad--no good for Christian man.
Indian song no good for white ears.” This was very tantalizing, as their
songs sounded very sweet from the lips of their squaws, and I had a
great desire and curiosity to get some of them rendered into English.
To my husband they gave the name of “the musician,” but I have forgotten
the Indian word. It signified the maker of sweet sounds. They listened
with intense delight to the notes of his flute, maintained a breathless
silence during the performance; their dark eyes flashing in fierce light
at a martial strain, or softening with the plaintive and tender.
The affection of Indian parents to their children, and the deference
which they pay to the aged, is a beautiful and touching trait in their
character.
One extremely cold, wintry day, as I was huddled with my little ones
over the stove, the door softly unclosed, and the moccasined foot of
an Indian crossed the floor. I raised my head, for I was too much
accustomed to their sudden appearance at any hour to feel alarmed, and
perceived a tall woman standing silently and respectfully before me,
wrapped in a large blanket. The moment she caught my eye she dropped
the folds of her covering from around her, and laid at my feet the
attenuated figure of a boy, about twelve years of age, who was in the
last stage of consumption.
“Papouse die,” she said, mournfully, clasping her hands against her
breast, and looking down upon the suffering lad with the most heartfelt
expression of maternal love, while large tears trickled down her dark
face. “Moodie's squaw save papouse--poor Indian woman much glad.”
Her child was beyond all human aid. I looked anxiously upon him, and
knew, by the pinched-up features and purple hue of his wasted cheek,
that he had not many hours to live. I could only answer with tears her
agonizing appeal to my skill.
“Try and save him! All die but him.” (She held up five of her fingers.)
“Brought him all the way from Mutta Lake [Footnote: Mud Lake, or Lake
_Shemong_, in Indian.] upon my back, for white squaw to cure.”
“I cannot cure him, my poor friend. He is in God's care; in a few hours
he will be with Him.”
The child was seized with a dreadful fit of coughing, which I expected
every moment would terminate his frail existence. I gave him a
tea-spoonful of currant-jelly, which he took with avidity, but could not
retain a moment on his stomach.
“Papouse die,” murmured the poor woman; “alone--alone! No papouse; the
mother all alone.”
She began re-adjusting the poor sufferer in her blanket. I got her some
food, and begged her to stay and rest herself; but she was too much
distressed to eat, and too restless to remain. She said little, but
her face expressed the keenest anguish; she took up her mournful load,
pressed for a moment his wasted, burning hand in hers, and left the
room.
My heart followed her a long way on her melancholy journey. Think
what this woman's love must have been for that dying son, when she had
carried a lad of his age six miles, through the deep snow upon her back,
on such a day, in the hope of my being able to do him some good. Poor
heartbroken mother! I learned from Joe Muskrat's squaw some days after
that the boy died a few minutes after Elizabeth Iron, his mother, got
home.
They never forget any little act of kindness. One cold night, late in
the fall, my hospitality was demanded by six squaws, and puzzled I was
how to accommodate them all. I at last determined to give them the use
of the parlour floor during the night. Among these women there was one
very old, whose hair was as white as snow. She was the only gray-haired
Indian I ever saw, and on that account I regarded her with peculiar
interest. I knew that she was the wife of a chief, by the scarlet
embroidered leggings, which only the wives and daughters of chiefs are
allowed to wear. The old squaw had a very pleasing countenance, but
I tried in vain to draw her into conversation. She evidently did not
understand me; and the Muskrat squaw, and Betty Cow, were laughing at
my attempts to draw her out. I administered supper to them with my own
hands, and after I had satisfied their wants, (which is no very easy
task, for they have great appetites,) I told our servant to bring in
several spare mattresses and blankets for their use. “Now mind, Jenny,
and give the old squaw the best bed,” I said; “the others are young and
can put up with a little inconvenience.”
The old Indian glanced at me with her keen, bright eye; but I had no
idea that she comprehended what I said. Some weeks after this, as I was
sweeping over my parlour floor, a slight tap drew me to the door. On
opening it I perceived the old squaw, who immediately slipped into my
hand a set of beautifully-embroidered bark trays, fitting one within the
other, and exhibiting the very best sample of the porcupine-quill work.
While I stood wondering what this might mean, the good old creature fell
upon my neck, and kissing me, exclaimed, “You remember old squaw--make
her comfortable! Old squaw no forget you. Keep them for her sake,” and
before I could detain her she ran down the hill with a swiftness which
seemed to bid defiance to years. I never saw this interesting Indian
again, and I concluded that she died during the winter, for she must
have been of a great age.
A friend was staying with us, who wished much to obtain a likeness of
Old Peter. I promised to try and make a sketch of the old man the next
time he paid us a visit. That very afternoon he brought us some ducks
in exchange for pork, and Moodie asked him to stay and take a glass
of whiskey with him and his friend Mr. K----. The old man had arrayed
himself in a new blanket-coat, bound with red, and the seams all
decorated with the same gay material. His leggings and moccasins were
new, and elaborately fringed; and, to cap the climax of the whole, he
had a blue cloth conical cap upon his head, ornamented with a deer's
tail dyed blue, and several cock's feathers. He was evidently very
much taken up with the magnificence of his own appearance, for he often
glanced at himself in a small shaving-glass that hung opposite, with a
look of grave satisfaction. Sitting apart that I might not attract his
observation, I got a tolerably faithful likeness of the old man, which,
after sightly colouring, to show more plainly his Indian finery, I
quietly handed over to Mr. K----. Sly as I thought myself, my occupation
and the object of it had not escaped the keen eye of the old man. He
rose, came behind Mr. K----'s chair, and regarded the picture with
a most affectionate eye. I was afraid that he would be angry at the
liberty I had taken. No such thing! He was as pleased as Punch.
“That Peter?” he grunted. “Give me--put up in wigwam--make dog too!
Owgh! owgh!” and he rubbed his hands together, and chuckled with
delight. Mr. K---- had some difficulty in coaxing the picture from the
old chief; so pleased was he with this rude representation of himself.
He pointed to every particular article of his dress, and dwelt with
peculiar glee on the cap and blue deer's tail.
A few days after this, I was painting a beautiful little snow-bird, that
our man had shot out of a large flock that alighted near the door. I was
so intent upon my task, to which I was putting the finishing strokes,
that I did not observe the stealthy entrance (for they all walk like
cats) of a stern-looking red man, till a slender, dark hand was extended
over my paper to grasp the dead bird from which I was copying, and which
as rapidly transferred it to the side of the painted one, accompanying
the act with the deep guttural note of approbation, the unmusical,
savage “Owgh.”
My guest then seated himself with the utmost gravity in a rocking-chair,
directly fronting me, and made the modest demand that I should paint a
likeness of him, after the following quaint fashion:
“Moodie's squaw know much--make Peter Nogan toder day on papare--make
Jacob to-day--Jacob young--great hunter--give much duck--venison--to
squaw.”
Although I felt rather afraid of my fierce-looking visitor, I
could scarcely keep my gravity; there was such an air of pompous
self-approbation about the Indian, such a sublime look of conceit in his
grave vanity.
“Moodie's squaw cannot do every thing; she cannot paint young men,” said
I, rising, and putting away my drawing materials, upon which he kept his
eye intently fixed, with a hungry, avaricious expression. I thought it
best to place the coveted objects beyond his reach. After sitting for
some time, and watching all my movements, he withdrew, with a sullen,
disappointed air. This man was handsome, but his expression was vile.
Though he often came to the house, I never could reconcile myself to his
countenance.
Late one very dark, stormy night, three Indians begged to be allowed to
sleep by the kitchen stove. The maid was frightened out of her wits at
the sight of these strangers, who were Mohawks from the Indian woods
upon the Bay of Quinté, and they brought along with them a horse and
cutter. The night was so stormy, that, after consulting our man--Jacob
Faithful, as we usually called him--I consented to grant their petition,
although they were quite strangers, and taller and fiercer-looking than
our friends the Missasaguas.
I was putting my children to bed, when the girl came rushing in, out of
breath. “The Lord preserve us, madam, if one of these wild men has not
pulled off his trowsers, and is a-sitting mending them behind the stove!
and what shall I do?”
“Do?-why, stay with me, and leave the poor fellow to finish his work.”
The simple girl had never once thought of this plan of pacifying her
outraged sense of propriety.
Their sense of hearing is so acute that they can distinguish sounds at
an incredible distance, which cannot be detected by a European at all.
I myself witnessed a singular exemplification of this fact. It was
mid-winter; the Indians had pitched their tent, or wigwam, as usual,
in our swamp. All the males were absent on a hunting expedition up the
country, and had left two women behind to take care of the camp and its
contents, Mrs. Tom Nogan and her children, and Susan Moore, a young girl
of fifteen, and the only truly beautiful squaw I ever saw. There
was something interesting about this girl's history, as well as her
appearance. Her father had been drowned during a sudden hurricane,
which swamped his canoe on Stony Lake; and the mother, who witnessed the
accident from the shore, and was near her confinement with this child,
boldly swam out to his assistance. She reached the spot where he sank,
and even succeeded in recovering the body; but it was too late; the man
was dead.
The soul of an Indian that has been drowned is reckoned accursed, and he
is never permitted to join his tribe on the happy hunting-grounds, but
his spirit haunts the lake or river in which he lost his life. His body
is buried on some lonely island, which the Indians never pass without
leaving a small portion of food, tobacco, or ammunition, to supply
his wants; but he is never interred with the rest of his people. His
children are considered unlucky, and few willingly unite them selves to
the females of the family, lest a poition of the father's curse should
be visited on them.
The orphan Indian girl generally kept aloof from the rest, and seemed
so lonely and companionless, that she soon attracted my attention and
sympathy, and a hearty feeling of good-will sprang up between us. Her
features were small and regular, her face oval, and her large, dark,
loving eyes were full of tenderness and sensibility, but as bright and
shy as those of the deer. A rich vermilion glow burnt upon her olive
cheek and lips, and set off the dazzling whiteness of her even and
pearly teeth. She was small of stature, with delicate little hands and
feet, and her figure was elastic and graceful. She was a beautiful child
of nature, and her Indian name signified “the voice of angry waters.”
Poor girl, she had been a child of grief and tears from her birth! Her
mother was a Mohawk, from whom she, in all probability, derived
her superior personal attractions; for they are very far before the
Missasaguas in this respect.
My friend and neighbour, Emilia S----, the wife of a naval officer, who
lived about a mile distant from me, through the bush, had come to spend
the day with me; and hearing that the Indians were in the swamp, and the
men away, we determined to take a few trifles to the camp, in the way
of presents, and spend an hour in chatting with the squaws.
What a beautiful moonlight night it was, as light as day!--the great
forest sleeping tranquilly beneath the cloudless heavens--not a sound
to disturb the deep repose of nature but the whispering of the breeze,
which, during the most profound calm, creeps through the lofty pine
tops. We bounded down the steep bank to the lake shore. Life is a
blessing, a precious boon indeed, in such an hour, and we felt happy in
the mere consciousness of existence--the glorious privilege of pouring
out the silent adoration of the heart to the Great Father in his
universal temple.
On entering the wigwam, which stood within a few yards of the clearing,
in the middle of a thick group of cedars, we found Mrs. Tom alone with
her elvish children, seated before the great fire that burned in the
centre of the camp; she was busy boiling some bark in an iron spider.
The little boys, in red flannel shirts, which were their only covering,
were tormenting a puppy, which seemed to take their pinching and
pommelling in good part, for it neither attempted to bark nor to bite,
but like the eels in the story, submitted to the infliction because
it was used to it. Mrs. Tom greeted us with a grin of pleasure, and
motioned us to sit down upon a buffalo skin, which, with a courtesy so
natural to the Indians, she had placed near her for our accommodation.
“You are all alone,” said I, glancing round the camp. “Ye'es; Indian
away hunting--Upper Lakes. Come home with much deer.”
“And Susan, where is she?”
“By and by,” (meaning that she was coming). “Gone to fetch water--ice
thick--chop with axe--take long time.”
As she ceased speaking, the old blanket that formed the door of the tent
was withdrawn, and the girl, bearing two pails of water, stood in the
open space, in the white moonlight. The glow of the fire streamed upon
her dark, floating locks, danced in the black, glistening eye, and
gave a deeper blush to the olive cheek! She would have made a beautiful
picture; Sir Joshua Reynolds would have rejoiced in such a model--so
simply graceful and unaffected, the very _beau idéal_ of savage life and
unadorned nature. A smile of recognition passed between us. She put down
her burden beside Mrs. Tom, and noiselessly glided to her seat.
We had scarcely exchanged a few words with our favourite, when the old
squaw, placing her hand against her ear, exclaimed, “Whist! whist!”
“What is it?” cried Emilia and I, starting to our feet, “Is there any
danger?”
“A deer--a deer--in bush!” whispered the squaw, seizing a rifle that
stood in a corner. “I hear sticks crack--a great way off. Stay here!”
A great way off the animal must have been, for though Emilia and I
listened at the open door, an advantage which the squaw did not enjoy,
we could not hear the least sound: all seemed still as death. The squaw
whistled to an old hound, and went out.
“Did you hear any thing, Susan?”
She smiled, and nodded.
“Listen; the dog has found the track.”
The next moment the discharge of a rifle, and the deep baying of the
dog, woke up the sleeping echoes of the woods; and the girl started off
to help the old squaw to bring in the game that she had shot.
The Indians are great imitators, and possess a nice tact in adopting
the customs and manners of those with whom they associate. An Indian is
Nature's gentleman--never familiar, coarse, or vulgar. If he take a
meal with you, he waits to see how you make use of the implements on the
table, and the manner in which you eat, which he imitates with a grave
decorum, as if he had been accustomed to the same usage from childhood.
He never attempts to help himself, or demand more food, but waits
patiently until you perceive what he requires. I was perfectly
astonished at this innate politeness, for it seems natural to all the
Indians with whom I have had any dealings.
There was one old Indian, who belonged to a distant settlement, and only
visited our lakes occasionally on hunting parties. He was a strange,
eccentric, merry old fellow, with a skin like red mahogany, and a wiry,
sinewy frame, that looked as if it could bid defiance to every change
of temperature. Old Snow-storm, for such was his significant name, was
rather too fond of the whiskey-bottle, and when he had taken a drop too
much, he became an unmanageable wild beast. He had a great fancy for my
husband, and never visited the other Indians without extending the same
favour to us. Once upon a time, he broke the nipple of his gun; and
Moodie repaired the injury for him by fixing a new one in its place,
which little kindness quite won the heart of the old man, and he never
came to see us without bringing an offering of fish, ducks, partridges,
or venison, to show his gratitude.
One warm September day, he made his appearance bareheaded, as usual, and
carrying in his hand a great checked bundle.
“Fond of grapes?” said he, putting the said bundle into my hands. “Fine
grapes--brought them from island, for my friend's squaw and papouses.”
Glad of the donation, which I considered quite a prize, I hastened into
the kitchen to untie the grapes and put them into a dish. But imagine
my disappointment, when I found them wrapped up in a soiled shirt, only
recently taken from the back of the owner. I called Moodie, and begged
him to return Snow-storm his garment, and to thank him for the grapes.
The mischievous creature was highly diverted with the circumstance, and
laughed immoderately.
“Snow-storm,” said he, “Mrs. Moodie and the children are obliged to you
for your kindness in bringing them the grapes; but how came you to tie
them up in a dirty shirt?”
“Dirty!” cried the old man, astonished that we should object to the
fruit on that score. “It ought to be clean; it has been washed often
enough. Owgh! You see, Moodie,” he continued, “I have no hat--never wear
hat--want no shade to my eyes--love the sun--see all around me--up and
down--much better widout hat. Could not put grapes in hat--blanket-coat
too large, crush fruit, juice run out. I had noting but my shirt, so
I takes off shirt, and brings grape safe over the water on my back.
Papouse no care for dirty shirt; their _lee-tel bellies have no eyes_.”
In spite of this eloquent harangue, I could not bring myself to use the
grapes, ripe and tempting as they looked, or give them to the children.
Mr. W---- and his wife happening to step in at that moment, fell into
such an ecstacy at the sight of the grapes, that, as they were perfectly
unacquainted with the circumstance of the shirt, I very _generously_
gratified their wishes by presenting them with the contents of the large
dish; and they never ate a bit less sweet for the novel mode in which
they were conveyed to me!
The Indians, under their quiet exterior, possess a deal of humour. They
have significant names for every thing, and a nickname for every one,
and some of the latter are laughably appropriate. A fat, pompous,
ostentatious settler in our neighbourhood they called _Muckakee_, “the
bull-frog.” Another, rather a fine young man, but with a very red face,
they named _Segoskee_, “the rising sun.” Mr. Wood, who had a farm above
ours, was a remarkably slender young man, and to him they gave the
appellation of _Metiz_, “thin stick.” A woman, that occasionally worked
for me, had a disagreeable squint; she was known in Indian by the
name of _Sachábó_, “cross-eye.” A gentleman with a very large nose was
_Choojas_, “big, or ugly nose.” My little Addie, who was a fair, lovely
creature, they viewed with great approbation, and called _Anoonk_, “a
star;” while the rosy Katie was _Nogesigook,_ “the northern lights.” As
to me, I was _Nonocosiqui_, a “humming-bird;” a ridiculous name for
a tall woman, but it was reference to the delight I took in painting
birds. My friend, Emilia, was “blue cloud;” my little Donald, “frozen
face;” young C----, “the red-headed woodpecker,” from the colour of his
hair; my brother, _Chippewa_, and “the bald-headed eagle.” He was an
especial favourite among them.
The Indians are often made a prey of and cheated by the unprincipled
settlers, who think it no crime to overreach a red skin. One anecdote
will fully illustrate this fact. A young squaw, who was near becoming
a mother, stopped at a Smith-town settler's house to rest herself. The
woman of the house, who was Irish, was peeling for dinner some large
white turnips, which her husband had grown in their garden. The Indian
had never seen a turnip before, and the appearance of the firm, white,
juicy root gave her such a keen craving to taste it that she very
earnestly begged for a small piece to eat. She had purchased at
Peterborough a large stone-china bowl, of a very handsome pattern, (or,
perhaps, got it at the store in exchange for a _basket_,) the worth of
which might be half-a-dollar. If the poor squaw longed for the turnip,
the value of which could scarcely reach a copper, the covetous
European had fixed as longing a glance upon the china bowl, and she was
determined to gratify her avaricious desire and obtain it on the most
easy terms. She told the squaw, with some disdain, that her man did not
grow turnips to give away to “Injuns,” but she would sell her one. The
squaw offered her four coppers, all the change she had about her. This
the woman refused with contempt. She then proffered a basket; but that
was not sufficient; nothing would satisfy her but the bowl. The Indian
demurred; but opposition had only increased her craving for the turnip
in a tenfold degree; and, after a short mental struggle, in which the
animal propensity overcame the warnings of prudence, the squaw gave
up the bowl, and received in return _one turnip_. The daughter of this
woman told me this anecdote of her mother as a very clever thing. What
ideas some people have of moral justice!
I have said before that the Indian never forgets a kindness. We had a
thousand proofs of this, when, overtaken by misfortune, and withering
beneath the iron grasp of poverty, we could scarcely obtain bread for
ourselves and our little ones; then it was that the truth of the Eastern
proverb was brought home to our hearts, and the goodness of God fully
manifested towards us, “Cast thy bread upon the waters, and thou shalt
find it after many days.” During better times we had treated these poor
savages with kindness and liberality, and when dearer friends looked
coldly upon us they never forsook us. For many a good meal I have been
indebted to them, when I had nothing to give in return, when the pantry
was empty, and “the hearth-stone growing cold,” as they term the want of
provisions to cook at it. And their delicacy in conferring these favours
was not the least admirable part of their conduct. John Nogan, who was
much attached to us, would bring a fine bunch of ducks, and drop them
at my feet “for the papouse,” or leave a large muskinonge on the sill
of the door, or place a quarter of venison just within it, and slip away
without saying a word, thinking that receiving a present from a poor
Indian might hurt our feelings, and he would spare us the mortification
of returning thanks.
When an Indian loses one of his children, he must keep a strict fast for
three days, abstaining from food of any kind. A hunter, of the name of
Young, told me a curious story of their rigid observance of this strange
rite.
“They had a chief,” he said, “a few years ago, whom they called
'Handsome Jack'--whether in derision, I cannot tell, for he was one of
the ugliest Indians I ever saw. The scarlet fever got into the camp--a
terrible disease in this country, and doubly terrible to those poor
creatures who don't know how to treat it. His eldest daughter died. The
chief had fasted two days when I met him in the bush. I did not know
what had happened, but I opened my wallet, for I was on a hunting
expedition, and offered him some bread and dried venison. He looked at
me reproachfully.
“Do white men eat bread the first night their papouse is laid in the
earth?”
“I then knew the cause of his depression, and left him.”
On the night of the second day of his fast another child died of the
fever. He had now to accomplish three more days without tasting food. It
was too much even for an Indian. On the evening of the fourth, he was
so pressed by ravenous hunger, that he stole into the woods, caught a
bull-frog, and devoured it alive. He imagined himself alone, but one of
his people, suspecting his intention, had followed him, unperceived,
to the bush. The act he had just committed was a hideous crime in their
eyes, and in a few minutes the camp was in an uproar. The chief fled for
protection to Young's house. When the hunter demanded the cause of his
alarm, he gave for answer, “There are plenty of flies at my house. To
avoid their stings I came to you.”
It required all the eloquence of Mr. Young, who enjoyed much popularity
among them, to reconcile the rebellious tribe to their chief.
They are very skilful in their treatment of wounds, and many diseases.
Their knowledge of the medicinal qualities of their plants and herbs is
very great. They make excellent poultices from the bark of the bass
and the slippery-elm. They use several native plants in their dyeing of
baskets and porcupine quills. The inner bark of the swamp-alder, simply
boiled in water, makes a beautiful red. From the root of the black
briony they obtain a fine salve for sores, and extract a rich yellow
dye. The inner bark of the root of the sumach, roasted, and reduced to
powder, is a good remedy for the ague; a tea-spoonful given between
the hot and cold fit. They scrape the fine white powder from the large
fungus that grows upon the bark of the pine into whiskey, and take it
for violent pains in the stomach. The taste of this powder strongly
reminded me of quinine.
I have read much of the excellence of Indian cookery, but I never could
bring myself to taste any thing prepared in their dirty wigwams. I
remember being highly amused in watching the preparation of a mess,
which might have been called the Indian hotch-potch. It consisted of
a strange mixture of fish, flesh, and fowl, all boiled together in
the same vessel. Ducks, partridges, muskinonge, venison, and muskrats,
formed a part of this delectable compound. These were literally
smothered in onions, potatoes, and turnips, which they had procured from
me. They very hospitably offered me a dishful of the odious mixture,
which the odour of the muskrats rendered every thing but savoury; but I
declined, simply stating that I was not hungry. My little boy tasted it,
but quickly left the camp to conceal the effect it produced upon him.
Their method of broiling fish, however, is excellent. They take a fish,
just fresh out of the water, cut out the entrails, and, without removing
the scales, wash it clean, dry it in a cloth, or in grease, and cover it
all over with clear hot ashes. When the flesh will part from the bone,
they draw it out of the ashes, strip off the skin, and it is fit for the
table of the most fastidious epicure.
The deplorable want of chastity that exists among the Indian women of
this tribe seems to have been more the result of their intercourse with
the settlers in the country than from any previous disposition to this
vice. The jealousy of their husbands has often been exercised in a
terrible manner against the offending squaws; but this has not happened
of late years. The men wink at these derelictions in their wives, and
share with them the price of their shame.
The mixture of European blood adds greatly to the physical beauty of the
half-race, but produces a sad falling off from the original integrity
of the Indian character. The half-caste is generally a lying, vicious
roguel, possessing the worst qualities of both parents in an eminent
degree. We have many of these half-Indians in the penitentiary, for
crimes of the blackest dye.
The skill of the Indian in procuring his game, either by land or water,
has been too well described by better writers than I could ever hope
to be, to need any illustration from my pen, and I will close this
long chapter with a droll anecdote which is told of a gentleman in this
neighbourhood.
The early loss of his hair obliged Mr.---- to procure the substitute
of a wig. This was such a good imitation of nature, that none but his
intimate friends and neighbours were aware of the fact. It happened that
he had had some quarrel with an Indian, which had to be settled in one
of the petty courts. The case was decided in favour of Mr.----, which so
aggrieved the savage, who considered himself the injured party, that
he sprang upon him with a furious yell, tomahawk in hand, with the
intention of depriving him of his scalp. He twisted his hand in the
locks which adorned the cranium of his adversary, when--horror of
horrors!--the treacherous wig came off in his hand, “Owgh! owgh!”
exclaimed the affrighted savage, flinging it from him, and rushing from
the court as if he had been bitten by a rattlesnake. His sudden exit
was followed by peals of laughter from the crowd, while Mr.---- coolly
picked up his wig, and dryly remarked that it had saved his head.