"No, Waboose," I replied, as I recharged my gun, "it is by no means
usual; but when a man has no other weapon at hand, he is compelled to
use his fists. And let me tell you," I added, for I was somewhat
nettled by the obvious laugh that nestled in the girl's blue eyes,--"let
me tell you that we English are pretty good at using our fists."
"I know that," she replied, becoming suddenly very grave as we walked
on.
"You know that?" I repeated in surprise; "how came you to know that?"
"My dear father was English," she answered in a low sad tone that smote
me to the heart for having felt nettled--though I believe I did not show
the feeling on my face or in my tone.
"Ah! Big Otter told me that," said I, in an earnest tone of sympathy.
"If it does not hurt her feelings too much to recall the past, I should
like Waboose to tell me about her father."
The girl looked at me in surprise. I had a fancy, at the time, that
this was the result of the novel sensation of a man having any
consideration for her feelings, for Indian braves are not, as a rule,
much given to think about the feelings of their women. Indeed, from the
way in which many of them behave, it is probable that some red-men think
their women have no feelings at all.
In a low, melodious voice, and with some of that poetic imagery which
marks the language, more or less, of all North American Indians, the
girl began to speak--raising her eyes wistfully the while to the sky, as
if she were communing with her own thoughts rather than speaking to me.
"My father was good--oh! _so_ good and kind," she said. "When I was
small, like the foolish rabbit when it is a baby, he used to take me on
his shoulders and run with me over the prairie like the wild mustang.
Sometimes he put me in his bark canoe and skimmed with me over Lake
Wichikagan till I fancied I was a grey-goose or a swan. Ah! those were
happy days! No one can ever understand how much my father loved me. My
mother loves me much, but she is not like my father. Perhaps it is the
nature of the pale-faces to love more deeply than the red-men."
Waboose uttered this last sentence as if she were questioning the sky on
the point. I felt at the time that there was at least one pale-face who
loved her better than all the red-men or women on earth, but a sense of
justice caused me to repudiate the general idea.
"No, Waboose," said I, firmly, "that is a mistake. Rough surroundings
and a harsh life will indeed modify the heart's affections, but the mere
colour of the skin has nothing to do with it. The heart of the redskin
can love as deeply as that of the white man--both were made by the same
Great Master of Life."
The girl cast her eyes meditatively on the ground and murmured simply,
"It may be so."
The reader must not suppose that I expressed my meaning in the Indian
tongue during this conversation as clearly as I have set it down in
English. No doubt I mangled the sentences and confused the ideas sadly,
nevertheless Waboose seemed to have no difficulty in understanding me.
I had certainly none in comprehending her.
I was about to ask Waboose to relate the circumstances of her father's
death while in the act of rescuing her mother, but feeling that it might
cause her needless pain, and that I could get the details as easily from
some of the Indians, I asked her instead where her father came from.
She looked at me sadly as she replied--
"I cannot tell. My dear father had nothing to conceal from me but that.
On all other things his heart was open. He spoke to me of all the
wonders of this world, and of other places that my people know nothing
of, and of the great Master of Life, and of His Son Jesus, who came to
save us from evil, and of the countries where his white brothers live;
but when I asked him where he came from, he used to pat my head and
smile, and say that he would perhaps tell me one day, but not just then.
I shall never know it now."
"At all events you must know his name, Waboose?"
"His name was Weeum," replied the girl quickly.
"Was that all?"
"All," she replied with a quick look, "was not that enough?"
"Well, perhaps it was," I replied, scarce knowing what to say. "And why
did he give you the name of Waboose?" I asked.
"Because when I was small I was round and soft," replied the girl, with
a slight smile, "like the little animal of that name. He told me that
in his own language the animal is called rubbit."
"Rabbit, not rubbit," said I, with a laugh.
"My father taught me rubbit," returned Waboose, with a simple look, "and
he was _always_ right."
I felt that it would be useless to press my correction, and therefore
changed the subject by asking if her father had never tried to teach her
English. Immediately she answered, with a somewhat bashful air--
"Yes, a leetil."
"Why, you can _speak_ English, Waboose," I exclaimed, stopping and
looking down at her with increasing interest.
"No--note mush, but me un'erstan' good--deal," she returned, with a
hearty laugh at my expression.
I found on trial, however, that the girl's knowledge of English was so
slight that we could not readily converse in it. We therefore fell back
on the Indian tongue.
"I wish I had known your father, Waboose," I said earnestly. "He must
have been a very good man."
She looked at me gratefully.
"Yes," she returned, "he was _very_ good."
As she said this Waboose cast on me a look which I could not understand;
it was so intense, as if she were trying to read my thoughts, and at the
same time seemed mingled with doubt. Then, with some hesitation, she
said--
"My father left a secret with me. He told me never to show it to my
tribe, as they could not understand it--not even to my mother."
"What is the secret, Waboose?" I asked, seeing that she hesitated again
and looked at me with another of her searching glances.
"I do not know," she replied.
"It must indeed be a secret, if none of your people know it, and you
don't know it yourself," I returned with a peculiar smile.
"It is a written secret, I believe, but I--I--do not know. He told me
never to show it to any but a white man--to one whom I felt that I could
trust. May I trust _you_?" she asked, looking me full in the face.
The question naturally surprised as well as flattered me.
"You may trust me, Waboose," I said earnestly, laying my hand
involuntarily on my heart, "I would die rather than deceive or injure
you."