frightened Indian lad stretched on the ground. In a trice, Susan had
propped him up and was feeding him with the stew, which seemed to revive
him. Soon he allowed the children to lead him back to their wigwam, where
he dropped again to the ground. They brought him food from the house, and
then to amuse him they showed their black kettle and pointed out the
Indian Tom had scratched on its side. Though the lad said nothing, his
fear was gone, and his eyes were wide with interest. Suddenly a shadow
fell across the path, and the little Indian's face brightened. There
stood a full-grown Indian of the Piscataqua tribe. It was Nonowit, though
these children did not know him. The little fellow was his son, Assacon,
who had lost his father on this hunting trip and had become exhausted for
want of food.
Not only Nonowit, but other Indians began to arrive at the new
settlement. White men landed on the shore with loads of woolen shirts and
heavy coats like those sent on the English vessels; even iron kettles
were lifted from their boats.
The next day, which was April 3rd, 1638, Wehanownowit, Sagamore of the
Piscataquas, Pummadockyon, his son, and Aspamabough arrived with many of
their tribe. The Squamscot Indians and others gathered together with the
white men in their clearing by the river.
The questioning children begged of their fathers to know what it all
meant. They were told that, as the men of the Plymouth colony had thought
it just and kind to pay the Indians for the use of their lands, so Mr.
Wheelright had urged the men of the New Hampshire settlement to do the
same.
A deed was made out to the Indians, promising the land of a certain
district for settlement by the white men, but reserving the privilege for
the Indians to hunt and fish there. Payment was to be made in money as
well as coats, shirts, and kettles. The white men signed their names, but
the Indians could not write. The children then saw Wehanownowit with the
point of a wild goose quill make his mark of a man holding a tomahawk.
Pummadockyon drew a man with a bow and arrow, and Aspamabough, who also
signed the deed, drew for his mark an arrow and bow. And thus a friendly
feeling was established between the natives and the colonists at the time
of this settlement, which grew to be the town of Exeter, named for the
one in England.
When the coats, the shirts, and the kettles of varying sizes were
shouldered, the Indians started homeward. The children then hurried back
to their camp and soon found that their own play-kettle was gone. After
many inquiries it was learned that in the confusion of things someone had
caught it up and tossed it upon the pile of kettles offered to the
Indians. The children were bitterly disappointed and sorely missed the
loved plaything. Nor could another be spared from the limited home
supply.
Weeks went by, and the children still played in their camp. One day,
while all were gone on a play-search for food, Joseph was left on guard
in a hollow tree with merely a peep-hole through which to watch. He heard
the cracking of a twig; to his surprise, something moved cautiously
through the bushes. It was a real Indian boy. He crept to the wigwam
door, peeped in, and then thrust in his arm. Joseph could not tell
whether it was to take or to leave something. As the lad turned, he
proved to be Assacon. Before Joseph could scramble from the tree, the
Indian was gone, frightened perhaps by the voices of the returning
children. Together they hurried to the wigwam, and there in the center
stood the little black kettle with the same picture that Tom had
scratched upon it. Assacon had found it in his own camp. In some way he
had secured it and, in appreciation of their goodness to him, had
traveled some ten miles to return it.
WINNICUNNET.
In the days when no lines were drawn between Massachusetts and New
Hampshire, the General Court of Massachusetts had an eye open for a
stretch of salt-marsh a few miles north of the Merrimac River, near the
sea. The forests were so thick that feeding places for the cattle were
difficult to find. Here on these marshes salt was added to the food,
which in those days was considered a most valuable possession. For that
reason it was agreed that three men from Newbury and Ipswich should build
a house on the edge of the marsh.
So on an October day in 1638 they went in a shallop up the winding
Winnicunnet River. Where Hampton now stands, they built of logs the Bound
House, to make good the claim of Massachusetts to the marsh.
Soon others followed, and the little settlement of Winnicunnet grew up in
the wilderness, miles from other neighbors, except the Indians who had
pitched their wigwams in the vicinity. Their trails along the river and
over the marshes to the sea were used by the white men in hunting and
fishing.
In this same wilderness Elizabeth dwelt in a cabin of logs, yet not
without playmates or playthings. Chewannick, an Indian boy who lived in a
wigwam, came often to play with her, and the little black lamb that was
born in the spring was given to Elizabeth for her very own. As soon as
she found it was hers, she called Chewannick within the palisade to see
the little black thing with legs like sticks.
"When it is old enough to be sheared," she explained, "I shall help to do
that myself. Then my mother will help me to card its nice black wool, and
we will spin it into long threads. I shall then weave a thick cloth,
which will make me a warm winter cloak."
Chewannick stood with wide-open eyes understanding by Elizabeth's motions
much of what she was telling him. Together they made the little creature
a comfortable bed in the big yard outside the cabin.
It was most necessary to have the high fence built about the house to
protect the garden from foxes and other prowling creatures, and to keep
the wolves and the bears away from the cattle and sheep at night. Through
the day, the gate stood open. The cows and sheep wandered off to the
marsh grass, and the children came and went as they wished, but before
the sun went down, every creature was driven home, and the children were
safely inside when the gate was barred. When Elizabeth petted her little
black lamb at night, she could hear the howl of the wolves through the
woods and often the growl of a bear just outside the enclosure.
One day when the children were outside the palisade, Chewannick attempted
to climb it. Elizabeth laughed and declared he could not do it. He then
fastened a prop between the closely planted posts and tried again, but he
could not spring with enough force to get over. Again and again on
succeeding days he tried, determined at every failure to reach the top
some day.
Late one afternoon as the cows came wandering in at their usual hour, the
children watched the sheep huddle together. Elizabeth noticed that the
little black lamb was not with them.
"And the sheep came from the woods, not the marsh," she added after her
first word of surprise.
"Come, Chewannick, we must find my lamb!"
Unnoticed by her mother, who was busy in the yard, Elizabeth led the
Indian boy over the well trodden path to the woods. Already the sun had
dropped, but on and on the children went until they paused to listen.
From the far-distance came a faint cry like that of a child.
"It is my precious, black woolly lamb!" cried Elizabeth, frantically. "It
is in the thorn bushes!"
Farther still they pushed into the woods, hardly noticing how dark the
shadows were growing. The cry seemed close at hand.
"Yes, here's my darling lamb!" Elizabeth tugged at the poor little thing,
caught by its woolly fleece in the long sharp thorns of a bush.
"Help, Chewannick, pull hard!"
Great tufts of black wool were left on the bush, but the frightened
little creature was freed at last.
The woods seemed very dark by that time, as they half pulled, half
carried the lamb homeward. Darker still it grew. Howls could be heard in
the distance. The children hurried on. Suddenly a wolf barked on their
very trail. They were then within sight of the house, but with horror
they saw that the gate was closed. The hastening wolf had caught the
scent of the lamb. The children tried to shout, but they could make no
sound.
Chewannick bounded ahead. With desperate force he sprang upon the fence,
grasped the top, and fairly fell over the other side. He had the door
unbarred for Elizabeth and the lamb, as the fiery eyes of the wolf could
be seen but a few rods up the path. The gate was closed in time to shut
the creature out, while Elizabeth's surprised mother caught up her little
girl as if she feared the wolf might even then spring through the bolted
door.
THE CRYSTAL HILLS.
Those who sailed the sea came always to these shores with accounts of the
white and shining hills seen far back over the land. From other travelers
were gathered wonderful tales of lakes stocked with delicate fish, fine
forests rich in game, and fair valleys abounding in fruits, nuts, and
vines.
The immediate needs of the settlements held most of the colonists close
to their homes, but the spirit of adventure was too strong for Darby
Field. It was soon reported among the few households of Exeter that he
was going to explore the country to the North, an enterprise which was of
great interest to them all. He hoped to find gold and precious stones
added to all the other wonders. It was thought that a trip of a hundred
miles might take him to the river of Canada, or perhaps to the Great
Lakes.
Susan, Edward, Joseph, and all the other children stood about with
wide-eyed wonder at the courage and daring that could carry one so far
into an unknown wilderness. With two Indians as companions, and a pack
strapped to his back, Darby Field waved his good-bye to the group of
settlers and started off.
For some forty miles they traveled past lakes large and small, over
Indian trails, and through pathless forests. From this time on they
seemed to be tramping upward. Field felt sure that they had reached the
lower slopes of the shining hills so often seen from the sea.
[Illustration]
At last they climbed to a moss-grown level. Here they found an encampment
of some two hundred Indians, who proved to be friendly. The travelers
rested and looked about. Not far away appeared [A]"a rude heap of massive
stones, piled upon one another a mile high, on which one might ascend
from stone to stone, like a pair of winding stairs."
Darby Field was moved by the charm of that peak which seemed to be the
highest of all. When he expressed a determination to climb to the top,
the Indians, horrified at the thought, begged him for his life to
refrain. It was, they assured him, Agiochook, the abode of the Great
Spirit whom they could see in the clouds about the summit. His voice
could be heard in the thunder of the storms from cliff to cliff. The
winds were manifestations of His power. His gentleness was revealed
through the sunset colors that lingered on the slopes. This sacred
mountain had never been climbed by an Indian. Now they begged the white
man not to risk his life.
In spite of this warning, Darby Field persisted in his plan. A group of
Indians accompanied him to within eight miles of the top. There they
waited for his return, for this daring act was of great concern to them.
The two Indians who had followed Field from home took courage by his
example and held to the party, which was undoubtedly the first that ever
climbed our Mount Washington.
From the summit they saw waters to the westward, which they thought to be
the great lake from which the Canada river flows. To the North, the
country was said to be [A]"daunting terrible, full of rocky hills as
thick as mole hills in a meadow, and clothed with infinite thick woods."
Perhaps the outlook was too terrible for adventure, for after they had
picked up clear shining stones which proved to be crystals, they
descended the mountain and presented themselves safe to the waiting
Indians. Then instead of continuing their explorations, they decided to
return home.
After an absence of eighteen days, they reached home. On a cold night in
June of 1642, the grown folk and children gathered about a blazing hearth
to hear of the country that lay to the North.
The travelers reported a wonderful trip of at least a hundred miles from
home. They felt sure that their discovery of the Great Lakes [A]"wanted
but one day's journey of being finished," but for lack of sufficient
provisions they had been obliged to return. The glistening stones were
passed on to the wondering children, and Field announced that he had gone
as far as the Crystal Hills,--the name at one time of the White Mountains
of New Hampshire.
[Footnote A: Quoted from Jeremy Belknap's History of New Hampshire,
Chapter I.]
THE DENMARK CATTLE.
The thread dropped from the spinning wheel as Elizabeth earnestly leaned
forward in the firelight, that late afternoon of May in 1643.
"Uncle Richard, is there any school for boys--"
"Sh! here comes your father!" whispered her uncle.
Francis Norton, absorbed in thought, entered the large east room of Mason
Manor house and wandered to the window, where he scanned the ocean
distance for a sail. Elizabeth silently picked up her thread.
"Things have become serious, Richard," exclaimed Norton. "Since Mason's
death, few supplies have come from England, as you know, and the amounts
due the workers here have long been unpaid. I am here to manage the Mason
affairs and consequently get the blame, yet my own interests are at
stake. My boy must be educated--"
"Oh, I say, Father, six cows are missing!" It was a rugged, healthy boy
who burst into the room. "They have wandered off somewhere, and now it's
milking time. Shall I hunt them up?"
Norton continued his conversation, quite ignoring his son, who
respectfully awaited his father's reply.
"There is a school at Cambridge, near Boston. The only one I know of in
New England. A Charlestown minister, John Harvard, left eight hundred
pounds for it a few years ago--"
"Don't lose those cows, Francis," interrupted his brother-in-law. "They
are a valuable lot, a Denmark breed sent over by Mason, while I was a
boy."
Jacob then caught a nod of assent from his father and cast a quick glance
at his sister, Elizabeth, whose wheel was again whirring busily. She
jumped to her feet.
"May I go too, father?" she cried.
He gave his consent absent-mindedly and then turned to the subject in
question.
Meantime the girl and boy chased off together.
"I believe the cows have wandered through the woods to the salt-marsh,"
declared Elizabeth; so they turned in that direction, following a crooked
path for a long time. At last a breaking of the bushes opened a way to
the discovery of five of the cows. The children were pushing on for the
sixth, when a distant shout was heard on the opposite shore of the marshy
stream. There in the mud and mire stood a horse and rider. Each step
plunged them deeper and brought them nearer to the stream.
"Is this the ford?" the stranger called.
Jacob at once saw he had mistaken a cow-path for a trail.
"Back, quick!" cried the frightened children. "You cannot cross there!"
The horse, about to plunge again, turned suddenly, while the children
shouted the direction to the ford, much farther up the stream.
The last cow had by that time appeared. Driving the six ahead, Jacob and
Elizabeth wondered together who the strange rider might be, and then
turned their discussion to family affairs which kept the home atmosphere
constantly clouded.
"Elizabeth, I must find some way to go to school," declared Jacob, "but I
know father cannot send me now. They say all the furs, lumber, and fish
that have been sent from here to England cannot cover the expense of
these people. What can be done?"
"We must find a way, Jacob," replied Elizabeth thoughtfully, "for you to
go to that Cambridge school called Harvard College. All boys ought to be
educated." She gave no thought to herself, for in those days girls were
taught only home interests.
Still deep in conversation, the children reached home to find that the
same stranger, caught so dangerously on the marshes, had arrived at the
Manor. He brought Francis Norton a written message, which had come by way
of Boston from a newly-arrived English ship.
Norton, standing at the door while the rider waited, read the word and
exclaimed--
"So we're to shift for ourselves! The owners of the Mason property can no
longer be responsible for their New Hampshire estate."
Many settlers who had come for the purpose of furthering the interests of
this estate were involved in this crisis. With no returns from England
and back dues long unpaid, the situation seemed hard and serious. Some of
the occupants claimed the land they lived upon; some the creatures they
cared for; but the most daring of all was the plan of Francis Norton.
Jacob heard it first and hurried the astonishing news to Elizabeth, whom
he found at the well.
"Beth, father is going to drive a hundred oxen to Boston, almost sixty
miles! He is to sell them there! What is more, we are all to go with
him!"
This crafty plan was actually carried out. It was a long, slow journey,
but successfully made. The cattle sold in Boston at twenty pounds
sterling a head, the current price of that day, which brought Norton a
snug little sum. He did not return to Strawberry Bank, but established a
home in Charlestown. He was then able to give Jacob an education.
THE CUT OF THE HAIR.
So many settlers had come to New Hampshire that, as early as 1641, the
need of a government was felt, and therefore Massachusetts was asked to
extend her law to this colony. It was then arranged for two deputies to
represent New Hampshire life in the General Court of Massachusetts.
On a summer's day in 1649, at the boat-landing not far from the Great
House, the power of this General Court was under discussion by Jonathan
Low and Thomas Berry, as they threw their lines into the river and waited
for the fish to bite.
"The Court can make a man do anything!" remarked Jonathan. Thomas seemed
to doubt it.
"My father has told me," continued Jonathan, "that not more than four
years ago Mr. Williams bought an African slave from Captain Smith. The
General Court considered it wrong for a man to own a slave and made Mr.
Williams give him up. Then they sent the black man home to Africa."
"Hush, here comes Mr. Williams now! Who is that with him?"
"That," replied Jonathan, "is Ambrose Gibbons. They are both
magistrates."
Evidently the men were talking on the same subject that was interesting
the boys, for, as Ambrose Gibbons stepped into his boat, he remarked
emphatically, "The Court has the power to control this evil. Hugh Peters
returned to England a few years ago and announced before Parliament that
he had not seen a drunken man, nor heard a profane oath during the six
years he had spent in the colonies. We can surely then control this
ungodly habit that is threatening to corrupt us."
The boys were alert to find out what the evil might be.
"As magistrates," replied Williams, "we control undue pride and levity of
behavior. We oblige the women to wear their sleeves to their wrists and
close their gowns about their throats. Our men must now overcome this
sinful habit of wearing the hair long."
Gibbons picked up his oars, remarking, "We will enforce the law after we
have met the governor and deputies, as is planned." He pushed off his
boat, and Williams walked thoughtfully away, while the boys agreed that
the Court was a power.
For several days the matter remained in Jonathan's mind. He noticed as
never before the trig little cuffs about his mother's wrists, and the
narrow collar that enclosed her throat. He was so troubled by the long
hair that swept his father's shoulders that, at last, one afternoon he
talked the matter over with his mother as she sat by the open door. They
both knew Roger Low to be a determined man and slow to accept new
customs.
Little Mary was playing with her dolls under the spreading lilac bushes.
She glanced at the two as they talked earnestly together and caught bits
of the conversation, but continued with her play. After an early tea
Jonathan and his mother wandered down by the river, while Roger Low, the
father, weary with a hard day's work, settled himself in his big chair
and soon dropped to sleep.
Little Mary had put her dolls to bed and, feeling much alone, snuggled
close to her sleeping father. Looking at the long locks as they hung from
his bent head, she recalled the afternoon's conversation.
"His hair is too long," she thought. "Jonathan says it is not right to
wear long hair."
Stepping to the shelf she took down the scissors and quickly gave a
delicious snip to her father's thick locks. Another snip-snap and more
hair fell. The sleeping man roused a little, but finding only his little
Mary playing about him, nodded off again. His head this time fell in a
more favorable position for Mary to continue the clipping, which she did
most thoroughly.
It was dark when her mother returned and passed her sleeping husband to
put Mary to bed.
Just what happened in that home the next day I cannot tell you, but Roger
Low appeared to the towns-people with closely cut hair, an astonishing
example, just as the proclamation of the magistrates was announced.
It read as follows:
[A]"For as much as the wearing of long hair, after the manner of ruffians
and barbarous Indians, has begun to invade New England, we, the
magistrates do declare and manifest our dislike and detestation against
the wearing of such long hair, as against a thing uncivil, and unmanly,
whereby men do deform themselves and do corrupt good manners. We do,
therefore, earnestly entreat all elders of this jurisdiction to manifest
their zeal against it, that such as shall prove obstinate and will not
reform themselves, may have God and man to witness against them."
[Footnote A: Adams, Annals of Portsmouth. Page 34.]
CYNTHIA'S BEAR
"Yes, we have given up the name of Strawberry Bank," exclaimed Richard
Chadborn, as he settled back before the bright firelight on a sharp
October evening in 1653. His brother Samuel had just returned from his
clearing in Rhode Island, and was eager to know all that had happened in
the years of absence.
"The townsmen petitioned the General Court of Massachusetts," Richard
continued, "to change the name to Portsmouth, 'it being the river's mouth
and good as any in the land'."
But the name of Strawberry Bank had caught the ears of Hannah and small
Sam, who rushed to the spot begging for the story of the first berries
picked there by these very men when they were boys.
Uncle Samuel pulled the two children to his knees, offering instead a
true bear story.
"Now, all this happened," he explained, "to my Cynthia and John, your
cousins, way down in Rhode Island. They had been to the edge of the
clearing and had gathered a basket of fine blackberries for their mother.
"'Just what I want for a pasty,' she told them, 'and so well picked that
I will make you a gingerbread man for dinner.'
"Their eyes shone like the berries, as their mother pulled the molasses
pitcher from the shelf. But there was not a drop in it.
"'Our very last,' she reported, as she looked into the keg in the corner.
"The shine went out of their eyes until Cynthia suggested that she and
John go to the neighbors and borrow some. Their mother hesitated, for the
children had never been there alone, but those little things looked so
disappointed that she let them go.
"Well, they got there all right, I suppose, and had the pitcher filled.
They started home, probably talking about their gingerbread dolls, when
little John called out eagerly, 'See the big dog, sister; he is coming
right to us!'
"Cynthia knew that the creature was a bear. The sight of him so startled
her that she jerked the pitcher and spilled a great spot of molasses on
the ground.
"The bear was very near by that time and ran for the molasses.
"'Run, Johnny, run!' Cynthia cried, pulling him on. She stopped a moment
later to pour out more molasses for the hungry bear, who was already
chasing after them.
"'Run, Johnny, run!' she cried again, anxious not to lose a moment for
those little short legs, and so the two kept on. When the last drop of
molasses was poured out, and Cynthia had dropped the pitcher for the
bear, little John stubbed his toe and fell just before the turn of the
path to the cabin.