The three that remained at the cottage retired to rest. As the blaze of
the fire in front of the cottage died away, young Mayall discovered that
the Indian chief became restless and uneasy, and would suddenly awake
from sleep and grasp his rifle and then peer out into the dark
surrounding forest, as if some monster of the wood was about to make a
deadly leap towards him. After straining his eyes for naught he would
again resume his rustic bed.
As soon as sleep began to steal over his troubled brain he would spring
from his bed and grasp his weapons of war. The night gradually wore
away, and the great luminary of the world began to light up the East.
Esock Mayall and the Indian chief rose from their restless beds and
finished dressing their bears, and got the wagon and goods, with his
father, mother and the three children that wore on the opposite side of
the creek, over to the cottage, whilst the young bride was preparing
their breakfast.
Breakfast being over, the Indian chief said he must be up and away
before the sun licked up the morning dew. He had lodged in that cottage
the first and last night; that thrice in his sleep he had dreamed of
death and a dishonored tomb, when no phantom of the night was near, not
even the sound of waters or the whisper of the breeze was heard among
the lonely trees; and yet the dream was thrice repeated. Esock Mayall
told him he must wait a short time, and his wife would prepare him some
provisions, and he would let him have a horse to ride as far as the
Mohawk River, and that would carry him beyond danger. The chief
consented to wait a short time for the horse and provisions, but said
there was danger in delay.
Whilst the young bride was preparing her father's provision, Wolf-hunter
cast his keen eye up the creek in the direction of the bear fight, and
saw three strange Indian hunters approaching with their silver-mounted
rifles, armed with tomahawks and hunting-knives. They came rapidly
forward until they reached the place where they killed the mammoth bear,
then halted, viewed the meat that hung on the branches of some trees,
and then came directly towards the cottage. The Indian chief began to
retreat, when Wolf-hunter cried out:
"No danger. Face the music."
This Esock Mayall understood to mean, "Never fear, but be ready," and
sat his gun down by his side, and Wolf-hunter did the same. The three
Indians came near the fire, when Wolf-hunter addressed them in the
Oneida tongue:
"Good-morning, brothers."
They replied: "Good-morning, brother. We have followed the trail of
three bears, and we find you have killed them, and we want some of the
meat."
Wolf-hunter told them to be seated near the fire and they would bring
them some; the three Indians sat down their rifles and came near the
fire. As the young bride came out of the cottage with a large piece of
bear's meat in a long handled pan, and placed it over the fire, the
three Indians stared at her in amazement, and then turned and looked at
each other. One of the Indians said: "She looks just as her mother did
before she was murdered. She is a Wan-nut-ha."[2]
[Footnote 2: A beauty.]
They paused a while, and one of the Indians called her Dora, to which
she made no reply. He then called her Dora in a louder tone. To which
the maiden replied:
"My name is Blanche."
"Well," said the Indian, "your name was Dora. Twelve years have passed
away since I saw your sunny face, and looked upon your silky flaxen
hair; you have changed to a graceful young lady squaw, and when I now
look upon you--
"Your sparkling eyes and glossy flaxen hair
Seem the same your mother used to wear
When the lake lay calm with silver breast
Beneath pale Luna's beams at rest.
And when the lurid morn arose,
And flashed her light on land and sea,
The silvery foam beat on the lonely shore
Where Dora and her mother used to roam.
Death had hushed the voice of her fond mother,
The Indian's war-axe parted her fair locks,
The bloody tide ran down her snowy neck,
Her ivory bosom dyed with crimson gore,
Then fled with Dora to the forest wild.
There a captive in the chieftain's tent,
Whilst twelve successive years went by;
But now a hunter's young and lovely bride,
And cooks the savory venison, night and morn,
Upon the streamlet's flow'ry banks,
Where the woodland choir with melody of song
Chant the praise of God that watch'd o'er all,
And saw the sparrow in his lonely fall.
When spring, with balmy air, bids vegetation rise,
And all the flowers put on their bloom;
The emerald reeds, along the sandy bay
Washed by the blue waves, beat upon the shore,
Then Dora, with her loving mate,
Will walk in summer's golden days,
By Cynthia's evening silver light,
And call to mind those infant days
When her fond mother led her by the hand,
And her little feet made impress on the sand;
And plant a flower beside the monumental stone
In yonder church-yard, o'er her mother's tomb,
Then ramble o'er the green and flow'ry lawn,
Leaning fondly on her lover's buoyant arm,
The valiant, happy man, who Fate ordained
To write his name, in love, upon her heart
And fondly claim her for his own."
Dora was delighted with her new name, believing it to be the name given
her by her parents, whom she had so often seen in her dreams, whilst
sleeping in the Indian's tent. And then it seemed so familiar to her--it
seemed like the voice of her mother floating in music-tones upon the
morning air. And the Indians seemed to her sent by the Great Spirit to
inform her of the place of her birth, of the Eden of her childhood, and
the path that would conduct her to her once-loved home, which now came
up in grand review before her youthful mind, as the Indians related the
sad story of the death of her mother, the capture of her lovely child,
and the curling flames that consumed their earthly home.
The picture set forth by the Indians was forcibly impressed upon the
mind of Dora, and she persuaded her husband to accompany her on foot
through a dense forest, for more than a hundred miles, following a blind
Indian war-path which she had been trained to follow through other
forests by her tutors, in other days. This war-path led them to the lake
shore, where they obtained a boat, with a skillful oarsman, to land them
on the shore of that lovely bay which Dora had so often seen in her
dreams, whilst sleeping in the Indian chief's wigwam. When they arrived
at the birthplace and youthful home of Dora, she could only find the
place by the remains of part of the burnt and cracked walls of the
foundation, and a few trees that had escaped the fury of the flames.
Here Dora called to mind the scene that occurred when the Indian's
war-axe parted the fair forehead of her mother. She seemed to see the
crimson tide run down her neck, her ivory bosom stained, as her parental
life-blood ebbed away. She wept long and loud for her fond mother. She
lingered round the fatal spot until the sinking sun began to cast her
last rays in lengthened shade over the waters of the lake below. She
then hurried to the nearest house with her husband, where her neighbor
recognized her and called her Dora. Like the Indian, he said he knew her
by the hair her mother used to wear, and her being the exact likeness of
her mother.
Here she first learned of the death of her father, who, feeling the
heavy loss of his wife and the unknown fate of his darling child,
grieved so immoderately over their loss that Disease laid her fatal
hands upon him, and in one short year they laid him down gently to sleep
by her mother, until Gabriel's trump shall awake them again at the
resurrection morn. Here they tarried for the night--but the night
appeared long and sleepless to Dora--and in the early morn was
accompanied by their friend and neighbor to the church-yard where lay
the remains of her father and mother, unmarked, except by a rude stone,
to guide them to the place where their kind neighbors had gently laid
them down to rest from the turmoil of life's uneven ways. The summer
months were spent among strangers and the scenes of her early childhood,
and visiting the burial-place of her parents weekly, to water the
moss-rose and the eglantine she had planted on their graves, and scatter
the most beautiful flowers that bloomed in that region upon their graves
at the hour of falling dews, to wanton and perfume the surrounding air.
As summer wore away Dora and her husband became tired of fashionable
life, and longed to return to the shades of forest life, for which they
had a fondness--to feast again on the rich and savory dishes of venison,
wild fowls and fish, and rest in tranquillity at their own cottage home,
surrounded by shady bowers. Dora had paid the last debt of gratitude to
her deceased parents at the earliest opportunity, and then started with
her husband by the same route they came for their forest home, again to
retrace their steps, guided by a blind Indian war-path, long since
abandoned by the Indians.
After a weary march of several days they arrived at their forest home,
and were warmly greeted by the elder Mayall and his learned and
accomplished wife, who received them more warmly on account of some good
books Esock Mayall had purchased for his mother, to repay her for his
early education, which she had superintended in her own cottage, when
her husband was absent on the chase. When they arrived at their forest
home, Autumn, with all her charms, with yellow and crimson loaf and
falling fruit, charmed the young hunter and his faithful and devoted
wife, as they looked with pride upon their forest home, surrounded with
all the charms which Nature has so wisely lavished upon the untarnished
works of his adorable hand. They came to the conclusion that Contentment
and Modesty were two beautiful flowers that flourished only in secret
and retired places, where the God of Nature reigned.
"Dora again, in her wild forest home,
Where, in wavy masses fondly flowing
Droops the graceful mountain vine,
And the yellow sunbeams, glowing
Cross the shadows line on line;
Where the zephyrs, softly sighing,
Woo the gently pearling rills;
Where the feathered songsters, vieing,
Each a different measure trills;
Where the echoes, now replying,
Die amid the distant hills;
Where the skies are ever changing;
Where the slanting moonbeams quiver
On the noisy mountain streams:
Where the placid flowing river
Like a thread of silver gleams.
Oh, my heart is ever yearning
For the sweet, remembered ones,
Where magic roses blossom
In the evening golden light,
And tender, enchanting songs
Float on the balmy breeze at night."
THE END.
[Transcriber's Note: The original edition of this book did not contain a
Table of Contents. A Table of Contents has been created for this
electronic edition.]