Their household goods were few, and those of the plainest kind. They
loaded all their goods, with their children and Mrs. Mayall, into the
wagon, and Mayall and his son Esock performed the journey on foot, each
one carrying his gun in readiness for any emergency, with Mayall in
advance to pilot them through the forest. In their journey they had to
ford streams and climb with difficulty the hills.
Not meeting with anything of importance, the fourth day they encamped
within five miles of the Indian chief's wigwam. After feasting on some
ducks they had killed along their road, they all laid down to rest from
the toils of their journey, and all but Esock slept soundly. He was
meditating on what course to pursue, and what excuse he should make on
arriving at the Indian chief's wigwam, to excuse himself in so grave a
matter. Mayall, his father, had gone thus far in match-making without
his consent, and now he wished the whole affair could be passed by
without seeing the Indian chief or his daughter.
In the morning Esock Mayall resolved to take a different route from his
father and the rest of the family, and pass the Indian chief's wigwam
without being seen, and informed his father of his resolution. Mayall
then told Esock that he was ashamed of having a coward in his family;
said he must go boldly to the chief's wigwam, where they would all stay
over night, and if he was not pleased with the chief's daughter he would
excuse the matter. Esock finally resolved to go forward and brave the
consequences, as his father always had some way to get out of a bad
affair. Their tent was soon taken down, and Mayall and his family
pursued their journey toward the Indian chief's wigwam.
The sun had risen fair, but as they proceeded along their journey dark
clouds began to curtain the heavens. The wind roared among the forest
trees, the lightning flashed from the storm-cloud, the thunders rolled
through the forest with deafening roar, splitting and shivering the
forest trees, whilst the rain at intervals seemed to descend in
torrents. Just as Mayall and his family emerged from the thick woodlands
into a small clearing, where the Indian chief's wigwam stood, he saw the
chief and his daughter stand looking out of the door, for Mayall's
approach had been heralded by an Indian runner the previous day, and
they were prepared to receive him. As they came into the clearing there
was a lull in the storm for a few moments, and the chief's daughter
rushed forward to welcome Mayall to their home. The words had scarcely
dropped from her lips before the lightning began to crash among the
trees and the storm beat down fearfully, and she glided back to the
wigwam with speed that seemed like the flight of a bird.
As she approached Mayall, Esock Mayall was standing in a position that
brought her in full view from her head to her feet. He was struck with a
strange, mysterious spell. Her neck was as pure as the alabaster, her
bosom as white as ivory, her soft blue eyes like liquid orbs adorning
the face of beauty, whilst her fair hair flowed in graceful ringlets
upon her neck and shoulders. Her form was simply perfect; her breath was
like the eglantine, and her cheek wore the morning blush of the
moss-rose. She was a perfect Cleopatra, all but the royal crown, and
that was supplied with plumes--the royal crown of the Indian Queen of
the Poorest.
Esock Mayall stood as one amazed as he viewed the beautiful figure
before him, dressed in a neat flowing dress that came down to her feet,
covered with wampum and such beautiful moccasins, embroidered with the
quills of the porcupine, with a border of the same around the bottom of
her flowing dress. Had he seen one of the fairies of olden times, a
fabled goddess of the sylvan shade, or had he seen a human being in this
image of beauty that appeared before his father and welcomed him to her
home and then glided away to her father, the Indian chief?
Esock Mayall no longer seemed to notice the flashes of lightning, the
roaring of the thunder, nor the pelting of the storm, but kept his eye
upon the departing form of that beautiful angel amid the rushing of the
tempest. Could this be the chief's daughter, her face as white as a pond
lily with the rose's blush upon her cheek and her eyes as blue as the
violets of May, with her flaxen hair flowing in unbound ringlets upon
her shoulders? No, never. No Indian blood ever flowed in the veins of a
being so white and fair. It must be a phantom of his bewildered
imagination. He was sure that when he reached the wigwam he should see
the chief's daughter with her red skin, long, straight black hair and
snaky eyes, just as he had pictured her in his imagination ever since
his father first mentioned her name.
A few moments more and they were unloading from their canvas-covered
wagon before the Indian chief's wigwam, with the same fair being he had
seen retire so hastily to the wigwam amid the fury of the storm, flying
about, leading the children into the wigwam and kindly assisting them in
drying their wet garments; for the fury of the storm had passed by.
After Mayall and his son had taken care of their team they walked to the
wigwam, Mayall leading the way, whilst his son, Esock, walked timidly
behind, straining every nerve lest he should lose his presence of mind
when the chief's daughter appeared before him. He entered the wigwam.
Curiosity stood on tiptoe.
The Indian chief welcomed Mayall and his son to his most ample
hospitality, and then, turning to the fairy queen that stood near him,
he said he was pleased with having an opportunity of making Esock
Mayall, the son of his old friend, acquainted with his adopted daughter.
The maiden stopped gently forward and took young Mayall by the hand. The
secret was out. The vision of beauty constantly appeared before him, by
night and by day.
The Indian chief had taken this young squaw, as he called her, a
prisoner in one of his excursions into Canada during the war of the
Revolution, and adopted her into his family on account of her comeliness
and natural graces.
Their clothes were soon dried by a warm fire, and they all sat down to a
sumptuous dinner of venison and wild fowls, which was a favorite dish
with the Mayalls, and pleased them more than the most sumptuous feast
that could be set upon the President's table at the White House. After
dinner the long pipe was handed round, each taking a few puffs, whilst
the blue smoke curled from the emblem of peace,
Whilst the forms of love are round us
And our hearts with pleasure glow.
The eyes of the lovely Blanche rested on the form of Esock Mayall, when
his first glance met hers, which was often and still oftener as the rose
bloomed brighter on her cheek, her breath grew quicker, her smile more
radiant, and the first blue flower of love bloomed into fondness for the
young hunter, as he gazed upon her rounded waist, her snowy neck,
ornamented with a shower of curls that fell loosely upon her shoulders.