Virginia.
In a prosperous settlement in Western Virginia lived a wealthy planter
named Rogers. His family consisted of himself, his wife and two young
sons. One quiet evening in early fall, the boys were allowed to go for
the cows unaccompanied by the servant who ordinarily acted as body
guard. The beautiful autumn woods were aglow with color, and the
children's exuberance of spirits burst forth in shouts and other noisy
demonstrations.
As little Henry lingered to seize a brilliant spray of rich-tinted
foliage, two hideous black-painted savages sprang from the bushes and
caught him before he had time to call for assistance. The frightened
child was borne hastily away, through the forest, over the mountains, to
an Indian village where Black Fish received him with open arms, saying:
"Don't be afraid; you are now my son--my Chinwa. Here, take his bow and
arrows; here are his gun and knapsack. Some day you will be a great
chief."
Henry was adopted into the tribe, and forgetting his former home,
learned to be content with the wild life of the Shawnees. A fine horse
and saddle were a constant source of pleasure, and persistent practice
made the boy expert in the use of bow and arrows.
As he grew older, Chinwa became a successful hunter, and was looked upon
with pride and admiration by his sisters. The youngest of these, pretty
little Chelatha, was sought in marriage by many braves; but old Black
Fish, waiting for the day when Chinwa should declare his love, repulsed
their advances with disdain. At length the young chief could no longer
conceal his regard from the object of his affection, and implored her to
become his bride. She replied with indignation:
"You are my brother. I could not be my brother's wife."
After a long conference with Watmeme, the mother, in which the entire
circumstances were explained, Chelatha said:
"If father says so, I will marry Chinwa."
Amid great rejoicing, the pale-face took her to his habitation, and the
tribe celebrated the event with feasting and strange ceremonies.
Excitement prevailed in the Rogers household when Henry was captured,
and a search had been prosecuted wherever a clue could be obtained. Long
years after the disappearance of her younger son, sorrow still reigned
in the heart of the bereaved mother; and it was with fear and trembling
at last, that the older brother, receiving tidings of the lost one,
traced him over the mountain ranges, into the beautiful blue-grass
country, to the land of Daniel Boone.
The meeting was a happy one, though marked by some constraint--the
result of years of separation and widely different surroundings. Henry
was persuaded to leave his western home and repair to the aged mother,
now prostrated by severe illness. Once more within the confines of
civilization, he abandoned the insignia of savage life, and adopted the
garb of his own people. Unusual festivities followed; the mother,
recovering strength, employed every art to retain him, but without
success. In vain the pretty maidens of the village exerted all their
power to please. Memories of a happy life in the wilderness were always
present, and he said:
"Mother, I have learned to love the Indians; there I am free. I love my
two children and my dark-haired wife."
The next morning the colored servant was commanded to bring his horse,
and Chinwa, the warrior, in all the splendor of beads and buckskin, bade
farewell to the home of his infancy. How fresh and sweet was the breath
of the woods, as he dashed into her depths! The delicate blossoms of
spring lifted their dainty heads and scattered perfume along the narrow
trail. The cloudless sky and the distant mountains seemed to beckon him
on to the loved ones who at that moment were waiting, longing for the
wanderer's return.
Time sped by on rapid wings, and soon Chelatha--sitting lonely in her
doorway, said to her little ones:
"Listen, I hear the voice of your father."
Again the faint call was borne through the distance and reverberated in
her anxious heart. Then its beatings responded to the sound of horse's
hoofs, and the next moment, Chinwa, the brave, sprang to the ground and
caught her in his arms, saying:
"I have come home--home to my Chelatha, never to leave her more."
[Illustration: CHE-LA-THA.]
All the pleasures, all the riches which the world can give are as
nothing when weighed in the balance against the sincere love of one
devoted heart.
The Shawnees, like other Indian tribes, were firm believers in evil
spirits; and when it was thought that one had become possessed of a
demon, did not hesitate to employ heroic measures to drive it out. To
such superstitions may be ascribed
THE TRAGIC DEATH OF THE SON OF CHIEF LAY-LAW-SHE-KAW.
When the present site of the city of Topeka was the hunting-ground of
the Shawnee Indians there was a fierce war with the Pawnees.
Chief Lay-law-she-kaw (He Who Goes Up the River) had been successful in
many battles and pursued the enemy far into their own territory. At
length, in desperation, the Pawnees gathered strength, and making a
final effort for the preservation of their homes, surprised the
victorious Shawnees while encamped among the hills along the river.
In the thick of the fight, Pa-che-ta, the son of Lay-law-she-kaw, sprang
to the side of the old chief, just as a powerful warrior raised his
tomahawk to cleave his skull. In another moment the leader would have
fallen, had not the young brave, with the utmost coolness, lifted his
rifle, taken quick aim and fired. With a horrible yell, the Pawnee sank
to the ground. Attracted by his cry, three others appeared. Again the
rifle did sudden duty, while Lay-law-she-kaw engaged the nearest enemy.
Two more were despatched, and now Pa-che-ta turned to face the
remaining Pawnee, who had approached too near for rifles, and
endeavored to use the tomahawk. This was dashed from his hand. The two
grappled fiercely, each striving to get the knife out of his belt. At
last Pa-che-ta succeeded in holding down his adversary, and plunged the
knife deep into his heart. Blinded by the blood, which spurted up into
his face, the Shawnee staggered to his feet and ran forward a short
distance, only to find himself in the midst of the attacking Indians.
Desperately he fought his way out, striking right and left, wounded and
faint. Then, seeing a gulley surrounded with bushes, he rolled into it,
and creeping painfully to the edge of a pond, waded into the water.
The Pawnees lost the trail. They looked here and there while the main
body pursued old Lay-law-she-kaw and his braves to the country of the
Kaws. Night fell; and still Pa-che-ta lay concealed in the lake among
the tall grass. At the end of the second day the search was abandoned.
Then the prisoner, half starved and half demented, dragged himself
slowly homeward. A few berries and roots had been his sole food, and the
burning rays of the sun had beaten down upon his head, until reason
tottered.
The people went wild with enthusiasm when their hero, emaciated but
triumphant, appeared in the village. He was taken to Lay-law-she-kaw's
habitation and provided with nourishment, but sank into a stupor from
which the medicine men, with all their skill, could not arouse him.
After many days he awakened; great was the rejoicing. His father
appointed a day of feasting; and the tribe gathered to do honor to him
who had fought so bravely in the face of defeat. Cattle were
slaughtered, fires were kindled, and strange dances were in progress
when Pa-che-ta approached. Demonstrations of joy greeted his appearance.
Among the children on the outer edge of the circle, stood little
N-tha-thah, gazing proudly at the big brother who would one day be his
chief. As the excitement increased, his heart swelled with pride, and
the next moment found him, bow and arrows in hand, the center of the
charmed circle.
Pa-che-ta gazed at the child with a strange look in his piercing black
eyes. Then, with a stealthy movement, he turned and slowly reached for
the rifle which rested against the stump of a tree.
Lay-law-she-kaw, keen witted and alert, noticed the sudden change that
came over the face of his eldest son. What was the cause of that cruel,
crafty expression? Had bad spirits entered the brain of Pa-che-ta, whose
noble deeds would ever after be celebrated by the nation? Now the brave
was creeping cautiously toward the little one, who stood motionless, in
round-eyed wonder. Deliberately he placed the weapon to his shoulder and
took aim--but the crack of another rifle broke the awful hush which had
fallen upon the people, and when the smoke cleared away, Pa-che-ta lay
in a pool of blood. The father had fired in time to preserve his young
child.
For many years the old women of the tribe told, in accents of awe, how
evil spirits had gone into the brain of their noblest warrior and looked
out of his eyes with terrible glances of murderous hatred, in the moment
of his greatest triumph. How they had been driven out with a rifle ball,
and Lay-law-she-kaw, _O-kee-nah_ (the chief), sorrowing for his first
born, had that day been called by the Great Spirit to enter the Happy
Hunting Grounds.
* * * * *
The North American Indian was of a strange, somewhat contradictory
character: in war, daring, cunning, boastful, ruthless; in peace,
cheerful, dignified, superstitious, revengeful; clinging as far as
possible, to the customs of his forefathers. Civilization came almost as
a destroyer. Future generations will know him only as a dim, historic
figure, around which clusters the mythology of ancient America.
Whence came these legends and traditions? The children of Nature read
them in the leafy woodlands, on the broad prairie, in the blue vault of
heaven, the crimson sunset, the dark storm-threatening clouds, in every
gentle breeze or sweeping hurricane. Each story lived in the hearts of
the people, and here and there a mighty forest tree bore a quaint
inscription
"Full of hope and yet of heart-break,
Full of all the tender pathos
Of the Here and the Hereafter."
"The stars, and hills and storms are with us now, as they were with
others of old; and it only needs that we look at them with the
earnestness of those childish eyes, to understand the first words spoken
of them by the children of men, and then, in all the most beautiful and
enduring myths, we shall find, not only a literal story of a real
person, not only a parallel imagery of moral principle, but an
underlying worship of natural phenomena, out of which both have sprung,
and in which both forever remain rooted."
_Ruskin._
Transcribers Note:
Several words in this book were inconsistently hyphenated, I have
left all the hyphens as written. In particular the contents tables
often use different hyphenation and accents to the main text.
Some names were also spelt differently in the contents tables and in
the main text. I have left these differences as they were written.