that hideous beast was to be ascribed the eventful step which she had
taken, and which was to decide the future misery or happiness of her
life. Presently the encircling arm of Wawandah, who had reined in her
horse, influenced by a nearly similar feeling, clasping her to his
heart, seemed to admonish her of the intensity of joy he, too, had
derived from the same cause.
That embrace refreshed and invigorated them. Once more, at the gentle
bidding of Wawandah, the Sunflower put her horse into a gallop, and ere
the dawn of day the camp of the Saukies had been left far behind.
PART SECOND.
At the distance of fifteen miles from the encampment of the Saukies, and
on the same stream, was a small post, belonging to the Canadian
North-West Company of that day. As was usual in that region, it was
surrounded with a stockade, as a protection against any sudden attack of
the Indians. The force within consisted principally of voyageurs,
trappers, hunters, and, in fine, of men of such avocations as were
connected with the fur trade, then in its highest stage of prosperity.
The gentleman in charge was a Mr. Hughes, for many years subsequently,
and even at this day, one of the British superintendents of Indian
affairs. Besides the buildings which composed the post, there was a good
deal of spare ground, which had been alloted for the security of horses
and cattle, embraced within the picketings. Around this place the ground
was denuded of trees, and nothing but a mass of shapeless stumps was to
be seen extending for nearly half a mile in every way, except toward the
front, which was bounded by the stream which divides it from the woods
on the opposite bank.
One evening, late at night, an Indian was seen approaching and driving
before him a number of horses, tied by strings of bark, and so disposed
as to keep up the order of what is called the Indian file. Three stout
Canadians were sitting on a sort of elevated platform, which served as a
look-out over the stockade, one cutting with a great clasp knife a piece
of fat pork upon his bread, that served him as a substitute for a plate;
a second puffing a cloud of smoke from a long handled black stone pipe;
and the third lying on his back with his knees drawn up, and singing one
of those plaintive boat songs which were peculiar to the Canadian
voyageur of the commencement of the present century.
“I say, Baptiste, cease that refrain of yours and listen,” said the man
who was eating his supper of pork, and who evidently was at that moment
on duty as look-out. “I am sure I hear the tramp of horses—and sure
enough it is them. See how they come, in file, like a string of dried
peaches. I’ll bet the best beaver I shoot or trap to-morrow, that
scoundrel Filou, the Chippewa, has been at his old work again and stolen
a lot.”
Baptiste finished his singing, as directed, jumped to his feet, and
looked in the direction in which his companions had turned their gaze.
There was a mass of something moving, but whether men or horses the
night was too dark to enable him to distinguish with accuracy.
“Parbleu!” said the man who was smoking, “we had better tell the master.
The Saukies are not over friendly to us, and it may be a party of them
stealing upon us, in the hope of catching us napping.”
“Bah! Latour,” returned the man of the watch, “the Saukies don’t make so
much noise when they move. It’s horses’ hoofs we hear, and not the feet
of men. A bottle of whisky to a blanket it’s Filou with a fresh prize.”
“The odds are certainly long you give,” said Le Marie, after he had
delivered himself of a prolonged puff; “but, sure enough, it is a gang
of horses, and that’s devilish like the Chippewa, who rides the first
and leads the remainder.”
All doubt was soon at rest, by the well-known voice of the Chippewa
asking for admission for himself and horses into the stockade.
“Comment!” said Le Marie, “do you take me for a blancbec, to suppose I
shall do any thing of the sort? You have stolen those horses, Filou, and
no good will ever come to us if we let them in here.”
“Ask captin,” said the Chippewa, in a tone that denoted he expected his
application to be made known to that responsible officer.
The moment was a critical one. The Saukie Indians, as has been before
stated, had manifested a hostile feeling toward the inmates of the post,
and the avoidance of offense had been strictly enjoined, as a matter of
policy, upon the people of the establishment. Filou, more than all the
others, knew of the position and means of defense of the stockade, and
therefore it became particularly a matter of precaution not to offend
him.
“Take the rascal’s message to the chief, Baptiste, and know if he is to
be admitted or not.”
In a few minutes Captain Hughes, in no very good humor, made his
appearance at the look-out, and seeing the large train of horses which
the rascal had stolen, told him, decidedly, that he himself might come
into the fort if he chose to leave his plunder behind him; but that the
latter must remain without.
The Chippewa grumbled a good deal at this decision, told him that he had
lost a good horse, and finally decided on remaining without himself and
keeping watch over the animals.
The night passed away, and it was about an hour before dawn when the
report of a rifle was heard, and soon afterward a second, from a greater
distance. Aroused from their slumbers, Captain Hughes and his people
instantly rose and repaired to the look-out, where the drowsy sentinel
was just awakening from his sleep, and were accosted from without by the
Chippewa, who told them, with an alarmed air, that the enemy were
stealing upon them, and earnestly craved admittance for himself and
horses. This request, after some little hesitation on the part of
Captain Hughes, was granted. His people were kept on the alert during
the remainder of the night, but nothing was to be seen that could
justify an alarm. Toward morning, however, Captain Hughes resolved to go
forth with a party and reconnoitre. He insisted that the Chippewa, who
was extremely unwilling to move, should accompany them, and point out
the direction whence the firing proceeded. In vain he pleaded that he
was tired and wanted rest. They compelled him to lead the way.
Until the day began to dawn, every thing was dark in the extreme—so
much so, indeed, that the undenuded stumps which, scorched and blackened
by fire, had been left to complete their natural decay, were scarcely
visible; but as the mists of night cleared away, the opening of the
forest, about a mile distant from the stockade, was distinctly seen, and
all eyes were turned toward it, as though to a place of danger.
“Hush!” said Le Marie, who the next after the Chippewa headed the party,
making a sign for them at the time to stop. “There is no enemy there,”
he said, “but one, and him I should very much like to put a bullet into.
Look! don’t you see that white bear?”
The whole party looked attentively, and distinctly saw the skin of a
white bear, but its actions were so erratic that none could account for
the singular attitudes into which it appeared to throw itself.
“I’ll soon stop his dancing,” said Le Marie, as he raised his ride, “and
if I don’t finish him, Baptiste, you can follow my shot on the instant.”
“Stop!” said Captain Hughes, striking down the leveled rifle; “pretty
eyes for voyageurs and hunters, you have. Don’t you see that it is only
the loose skin of a white bear, and that there is some one waving it
toward us as a signal?”
“Parbleu, so it is!” said Le Marie, doggedly, for he was annoyed,
priding himself, as he did, on his keenness of sight as a hunter, that
the captain should have noticed his mistake.
As they drew nearer, they could make out, just within the skirt of the
wood, an Indian, reclining against a tree, and waving toward them, as a
signal, the skin of a grizzly bear. Close at his side, and leaning her
head upon her hands, was a woman.
The party approached, still headed by the Chippewa. When they had
arrived within a few yards, the stranger Indian drew up his body, seated
as he was, to his full height, and looking indignantly at the Chippewa,
said:
“That is the man who shot me. The eye of Wawandah is good, and he can
tell his enemy even in the dark.”
“How is this?” asked Captain Hughes, turning to the horse stealer. “You,
then, fired the shot which you pretended to me was that of an enemy
approaching the fort.”
The Chippewa for a moment was confused, but soon he replied, sullenly:
“He came to steal my horses; he had taken two of them, and was going off
when I fired. He fired again, but his ball went into a stump at my side.
Was I right?”
“Never come near the fort again,” said Captain Hughes, angrily, for he
was interested in the condition of the noble featured youth. “You are a
black-hearted villain. You steal horses in droves; and because another
deprives you of one or two, you take his life.”
The eye of Wawandah brightened as he listened to the words of Captain
Hughes, which were, of course, spoken in Indian. “Wah!” he exclaimed, “I
did not steal—I only exchanged horses. Those I left were better than
those I was going to take. They were fresher than my own—I wanted them.
But,” he added, fiercely, “I am not going to die by his hand—he shall
not dance over my scalp. Sunflower,” he asked, after a moment’s pause,
“do you love me still, now that I am going to die and leave you without
a home?”
Deep sobs came from the bosom of the unhappy and guilty woman. She bent
her head over him, and said, gently:
“Oh, should I be here did I not love you, Wawandah?”
“Good!” he answered, pressing her vehemently to his heart. “It is sweet
to me to hear the Sunflower say that she loves the dying Wawandah. The
white chief will take care of you when I am dead.”
“If Wawandah dies, the Sunflower will die too. She cannot live without
him. Her heart is too full to live alone.”
“No, no!” he replied. “The white chief will go with you to the White
Bear. He will say that I am very sorry for the wrong I have done him,
and that the last prayer of Wawandah, who has been so ungrateful to him,
is, that he will take back his wife—the sweetest flower of the Saukie
tribe.”
The Sunflower raised her drooping head, and looked Wawandah steadily in
the face for some moments. She made no remark, but resumed the same
desponding attitude.
Summoning all his remaining strength—for life was fast ebbing away—the
Indian now stretched himself to the utmost tension of his body, and,
shouting out the war-cry of his tribe, drew his knife and plunged it
into his heart—then fell back and expired.
For some moments the Sunflower lay as one unconscious on the bleeding
body of the ill fated Wawandah; then raising herself up, she revealed
her face, the extreme paleness of which was visible even beneath the
dark hue of her skin. She asked the Chippewa to come near her, that she
might communicate to him a message for the White Bear, offering her
silver arm bands as the price of his service.
The cupidity of the Chippewa, more than any remorse he felt, or desire
to assist the Sunflower, induced him to approach and receive the
trinkets and the message; but while he was busily engaged in securing
that which was on her left arm, the Sunflower suddenly drew the knife
from the body of her husband and plunged it into the heart of the
Chippewa, to whom she owed all the bitterness of her fate. He fell dead
at the feet of Wawandah, and before Captain Hughes, or any of his party,
had time to prevent her, or even to understand her intention, she raised
herself to her feet with the reeking knife in her hand, and killed
herself with a single and unfaltering blow.
Deeply shocked and pained by this lamentable catastrophe, Captain Hughes
caused his men to cut litters with their axes and carry the bodies to
the fort. No one felt regret for the just punishment of the Chippewa;
but the fate of the unhappy lovers created a deep sympathy in the hearts
of all—the more so from the surpassing personal beauty of both. Two
graves were dug—one inside and the other on the outside of the
stockade. In the first was placed a rude coffin, lined with a buffalo
skin, which Captain Hughes had substituted for that of the grizzly bear,
were placed the bodies of Wawandah and the Sunflower. A sort of mound
was then raised over it, and at the head was stuck a short pole, the top
of which, for about twelve inches, was painted red. The Chippewa was
thrown unceremoniously, and without coffin, into the grave that had been
dug for him outside.
Some time afterward Captain Hughes, having occasion to visit the
encampment of the Shawnees, on a subject connected with the differences
then existing between them and the North-West Company, took the
opportunity of communicating to the White Bear all that he knew relating
to the flight and death of the unfortunate Sunflower and Wawandah;
adding to the detail the account of the sepulchral rites he had caused
to be accorded to them.
The chief, a good deal emaciated and of much sterner look than when last
introduced to the reader, at first heard him with grave and
imperturbable silence. But when he came to that part of his narrative
which described the remorse of Wawandah for the injury he had done him,
a tear, vainly sought to be hidden by a sudden motion of the head, stole
down his cheek.
“Will my brother smoke?” he said abruptly, handing him his pipe, while
he, with the disengaged hand, pressed that of Captain Hughes with the
utmost cordiality.
“Listen, my brother,” he said, after a pause. “You have done well to the
White Bear. His wigwam is empty without the Sunflower, who used to shed
light upon his hearth. Joy no more can enter it. The White Bear is alone
among the rest of his tribe, like a blasted pine in the midst of a green
forest; but it does good to his heart to hear the son of his friend—the
broken-hearted one that he took into his lodge to soothe and to
heal—was sorry that he stole the flower of his heart, and left but a
thorn in its place. The White Bear is sorry for them both; but they were
young and foolish, and dearly have they been punished. I forgive them,
brother,” again extending his hand, “and I love the white chief, who did
not leave their bodies to be devoured by the wolves, but buried them as
the White Bear would have them buried. I am glad too that you treated
the Chippewa as a dog, without any sign to mark where he lays. I feel
that many moons will not pass over me; but while they do, I will live
less unhappy at my loss, and ever love the white chief.”
Thus terminated their interview; and Captain Hughes heard, not one month
later, of the death of the White Bear.
* * * * *
THE WIFE’S LAST GIFT.
BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.
In the late Hungarian struggle, Count Batthyany was taken
prisoner by the Austrians. He was sentenced to be hung, and his
wife sent him a dagger, that, by taking his own life, he might
escape the ignominy of such a death.
I send a precious gift to thee,
My own, my honored love—
A gift that well I know thou’lt prize,
All gifts of earth above.
’Tis meet and right that it should be
The rarest—’tis the last!
Alas! how o’er me rushes now
The memory of the past!
Do you remember, love, the time
When first within mine ear
Thy deep voice breathed the earnest words
My soul rejoiced to hear?
I gave thee then my heart’s first love,
Its wealth of tenderness;
But ah! the gift I send thee now
Hath greater power to bless.
And when, with claspéd hands, we stood
Before the altar-stone,
And tremblingly I vowed to be
Forever thine alone;
Then by the flushing of thy cheek,
And by thy kindling eye—
By the low tones that thrilled my heart,
And by thy bearing high—
I knew, I knew the little hand
So fondly pressed in thine,
Not all the treasures of a world
Would tempt thee to resign.
But, love, upon Affection’s shrine
I lay an offering now,
Can weave a spell more potent far
Than even wifely vow!
Now lift it from the sheltering folds
That hide it from thy sight—
Nay, dearest, start not to behold
This dagger sharp and bright!
Look thou upon it tranquilly—
Without one hurried breath—
’Tis the last token of a love
That cannot yield to death.
Is’t not a precious gift, beloved?—
’Twill break thy heavy chain;
And prison-bolts, and dungeon-walls,
Shall bar thy way in vain!
The felon’s doom thou need’st not fear,
This talisman is thine:
“Freedom” and “Honor” on the blade—
In glowing letters shine!
Oh! would that I might kneel, mine own,
By thy dear side once more,
And hold thy head upon my breast
Till life’s last pang were o’er!
I would not shrink nor falter,
When I saw thy life-blood flow;
But deathless love should give me strength
Calmly to let thee go!
It may not be! A shadow lies
Darkly upon our way;
I may not hear thy last, low sigh,
Nor o’er thy still form pray.
Oh, God of love, and might, and power!
Shall blood be shed in vain?—
Upon our mountains and our vales
It hath been poured like rain;
Our streams are darkened by its flow—
It taints the very air;
What marvel if our spirits sink
In anguish and despair?
Look Thou upon us! Thou, whose word
Can set the prisoner free!—
So shall the tyrant’s sword no more
Hang over Hungary!
* * * * *
I DREAMED.
BY WM. M. BRIGGS.
I had a dream of sunny hours,
That glided fast away;
I had a dream of starry flowers,
Unwet with tears of falling showers,
Untouched by dark decay;
I foolish dreamt of sunset skies
That slept unchanged amid their gorgeous dies.
I dreamt me of a little boat
Went sailing down a stream,
With stray bright leaves and flowers afloat,
And many a sunbeam’s dusty mote
And painted pebble’s gleam—
I dreamt the barque’s bright goal was won
And still the drifting flowers, the stream flowed on.
I dreamed still that I sad awoke
Upon a desert shore;
The cold, gray morning slowly broke,
An unseen sighing came—it spoke—
“Thus is it evermore,
Thus is it with thy hopes and fears—
Flowers fade, skies darken, and the goal is tears!”
* * * * *
MINNIE DE LA CROIX:
OR THE CROWN OF JEWELS.
BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.
In a large, old-fashioned house, at the pleasant country place of ——,
dwelt a happy and united family, consisting of a father and five
daughters. Through the wide, long hall merry voices were ever heard, and
round and round twinkling feet went dancing on the pleasant gallery that
ran on all sides, that there might be nothing to stop these
light-hearted creatures in their course. Each had her neat,
sweet-looking chamber, wherein, at times, she might retire to while away
leisure hours with some cherished book, or with rapid pen convey to
paper her pure and fresh thoughts—thoughts that were too sacred to be
spoken—that wove themselves into dreams of delight, that were never,
never to be realized. Happy, happy days! when they could weave these
bright fancies, and dared to turn away from reality. The past had but
its pleasures—the present its more rational yet constant enjoyment, and
the future was hid by the rose-colored cloud that floated over its
blessed anticipations.
Mr. de la Croix looked upon his daughters as his crown of jewels, and
the homestead as the humble and unworthy casket that contained it. They
were a host within themselves to drive away dull care, and left him by
the most exemplary of wives to perpetuate her fondly cherished memory.
Dearly loved they to dwell upon her virtues, her unfailing benevolence,
her undying love for them all, and that holy piety that burned like a
precious light throughout her life. Sacred to them were the paths her
footsteps trod, the flowers she loved, and the trees her hand had
planted; and they strove with all their might of youth and inexperience
to supply her place to the husband she had loved and taught them to
love.
“Where are you all—Blanche, Lisa, Kate, Rose and Minnie,” cried Mr. de
la Croix, one morning, coming out of his room. “Who is ready to sew on a
button for me?”
“I, papa,” “and I,” answered the five, hurrying on their dressing-gowns
and opening their doors.
“I am first,” said Rose, coming forward with her thimble and needle. “Go
back, every one of you!” and she pushed them playfully away.
“And what a shame that papa has to call us up for such a thing. Minnie,
this is your week—naughty girl! and you must be scolded for
negligence,” said Lisa, shaking her dignified head at the culprit.
Minnie ran behind her father, peeped into his face as she poked hers
under his arm, and raised her saucy eyes to his. She was the youngest,
and consequently a privileged imp, depending upon every one else to mend
and darn when her turn came.
“Go away, you wild girl,” said her father, smiling. “Rose is the most
industrious of you all, for she is dressed before any of you.”
“Rose is housekeeper, and had to be up, papa; don’t inflate her with
praise she does not deserve. I have been up an hour.”
“An hour! and what were you doing, Miss?”
“_Je flanais_—there’s French for you, in good earnest; and I heard the
first bird that sang this morning,” answered Minnie, with a gay laugh.
“I was making reflections of the most profound nature when you disturbed
me—and thus the world has lost a lesson.”
“And I have been reading La Bruyère before my dressing glass,” said
Blanche, complacently, as soon as the mirth that followed Minnie’s
speech had subsided.
“Well, I have been at work already,” added Lisa, as she drew herself up.
Lisa was the tall one, and had the air of a princess.
“Oh, Lisa! _you_ remind one of the old lady who sat in her rocking chair
and did nothing,
‘From morning till night,
But darn, darn, darn;’”
and Kate’s merry black eyes danced about from one to the other. “Now,
_I_ have been writing verses.”
“Yes, be an authoress—scribbler, and have a mania for dirt, disorder
and ink-stands. Pshaw! look at your fingers,” said Lisa, pointing to
them.
“I’ll wash them—I’ll wash them!” cried Kate, “without mumbling over
ugly spots, like Lady Macbeth. My little nail brush will do more than
all her perfumes.”
And running to her room she went to work to verify her word.
Soon they all met at breakfast, and Lisa presided at the cheerful board,
like the mother bird, while the rest chatted around her. She was not the
eldest but the most thoughtful, and to her all came for assistance and
advice. Her long fingers could fashion dresses, collars, ruffs, bonnets,
if necessary, and her ingenuity trampled upon impossibilities with every
new pattern that appeared. So, while Blanche busied her fine head with
metaphysics, piano, harp and guitar, the three others learned from both
to be agreeable and useful members of society.
Society they cared little for. Blanche had been a belle par excellence
until she became tired and disgusted with admiration and lovers, whose
name was legion. Lisa never liked one or the other. She contemplated
balls and beaux at a distance, and called them absurdities, though
nothing pleased her like dressing her sister, and seeing her courted and
flattered, night after night and day after day.
As for Kate, she had a touch of the romantic; she liked to sing and
dance at home, loved to laugh and be merry with those of her own age,
but thought that home the fairest and best place in the world. So, after
a winter of dissipation, she foreswore the beaumonde, and vowed its
votaries a heartless set.
Rose’s large, soft, dark eyes never wandered farther than the fences
that bounded her father’s enclosures. With something of eccentricity she
loved to steal off and enjoy a lonely hour at the close of each day, and
her piety became a proverb. Nothing could move her out of the reach of
the household gods, and at eighteen she was a child at heart and in
manner.
Minnie was the imp! Minnie loved the world, and longed for a debut, as
the minor “pants for twenty-one.” For her all hands must work—for her
all hands must stop; and thus they were all at home, a bird’s nest of
different nestlings, ready to take wing and fly when the parent bird has
ceased to control their movements.
“Come, daughters, sing and play,” said Mr. de la Croix, as he sat in his
arm chair, at the wide hall door. “What are you all about, eternally
sewing and reading? Give the old house some life, will you?”
Blanche rose and seated herself at the piano, running her little white
hands skillfully over the keys. Kate pulled the harp out of the corner,
and soon a loud, clear voice swelled melodiously through the air. Then
came a chorus of fresh young notes, and the soft strains of the piano,
with the harp’s wild, sweeping music, mingled together, while the father
sat listening to his crown of jewels, full of rapture and pride.