The white-headed eagle, soaring above the spray of a Tennessean forest,
looks down upon the clearing of the squatter. To the eye of the bird it
is alone visible; and though but a spot in the midst of that immense
green sea, it is conspicuous by the colour of the trees that stand over
it. They stand, but grow not: the girdling ring around their stems has
deprived them of their sap; the ivory bill of the _log-cock_ has
stripped them of their bark; their leaves and twigs have long since
disappeared; and only the trunks and greater branches remain, like
blanched skeletons, with arms upstretched to heaven, as if mutely
appealing for vengeance against their destroyer.
The squatter's clearing, still thus encumbered, is a mere vistal opening
in the woods, from which only the underwood has been removed. The more
slender saplings have been cut down or rooted up; the tangle of
parasitical plants have been torn from the trees; the cane-brake has
been fired; and the brush, collected in heaps, has melted away upon the
blazing pile. Only a few stumps of inferior thickness give evidence,
that some little labour has been performed by the axe.
Even thus the clearing is a mere patch--scarcely two acres in extent--
and the rude rail-fence, that zig-zags around it, attests that the owner
is satisfied with the dimensions of his agricultural domain. There are
no recent marks of the axe--not even the "girdling" of a tree--nothing
to show that another rood is required. The squatter is essentially a
hunter; and hates the sight of an extensive clearing--as he would the
labour of making one. The virgin forest is his domain, and he is not
the man to rob it of its primeval charms. The sound of the lumberer's
axe, cheerful to the lonely traveller, has no music for his ear: it is
to him a note of evil augury--a knell of dread import. It is not often
that he hears it: he dwells beyond the circle of its echoes. His
nearest neighbour--a squatter like himself--lives at least a mile off;
and the most proximate "settlement" is six times that distance from the
spot he has chosen for his cabin. The smoke of his chimney mingles with
that of no other: its tall column ascends to heaven solitary as the
squatter himself.
The clearing is of an irregular semi-circular shape--a deep narrow
stream forming the chord, and afterwards cleaving its way through the
otherwise unbroken forest. In the convexity of the arc, at that point
most remote from the water, stands the cabin--a log "shanty" with
"clapboard" roof--on one side flanked by a rude horse-shed, on the other
by a corn-crib of split rails.
Such a picture is almost peculiar to the backwoods of America. Some may
deem it commonplace. For my part, I cannot regard it in this light. I
have never looked upon this primitive homestead of the pioneer without
receiving from it an impression of romantic pleasure. Something seems
to impart to it an air of vague and mystic grandeur. Perhaps I
associate the picture with the frame in which it is set--the magnificent
forest that surrounds it, every aisle of which is redolent of romance.
Such a scene is suggestive of hunter lore and legend--of perils by flood
and field, always pleasant to be remembered--of desperate deeds of
heroism performed by gallant backwoodsmen or their equally gallant
antagonists--those red warriors who once strode proudly along the
forest-path, but whose upright forms are no longer seen under the
shadows of its trees.
Perhaps it is from reflections of this kind, that I view with interest
the clearing and cabin of the squatter; or it may be from having at one
period of my life encountered incidents, in connection with such a
scene, of a character never to be forgotten.
In spring this picture is transformed--suddenly as by the shifting of a
panoramic view; or, as upon the stage, the Harlequin and brilliant
Columbine emerge from the sober disguisement of their dominoes. If in
winter the scene might be termed rude or commonplace, it now no longer
merits such titles. Nature has girded on her robe of green, and by the
touch of her magical wand, has toned down its rough features to an
almost delicate softness. The young maize--planted in a soil that has
lain fallow, perhaps for a thousand years--is rapidly culming upward;
and the rich sheen of the long lance-like leaves, as they bend
gracefully over, hides from view the sombre hues of the earth. The
forest trees appear with their foliage freshly expanded--some; as the
tulip-tree, the dogwood, and the white magnolia, already in the act of
inflorescence. The woods no longer maintain that monotonous silence
which they have preserved throughout the winter. The red cardinal
chatters among the cane; the blue jay screams in the pawpaw thicket,
perhaps disturbed by the gliding of some slippery snake; while the
mock-bird, regardless of such danger, from the top of the tall
tulip-tree, pours forth his matchless melody in sweet ever-varying
strain. The tiny bark of the squirrel, and the soft cooing of the
Carolinian dove, may be heard among other sounds--the latter suggestive
of earth's noblest passion, as its utterer is the emblem of devotion
itself. At night other sounds are heard, less agreeable to the ear: the
shrill "chirrup" of cicadas and tree-toads ringing so incessantly, that
only when they cease do you become conscious of their existence; the
dull "gluck-gluck" of the great bullfrog; the sharp cries of the heron
and _qua-bird_; and the sepulchral screech of the great horned owl.
Still less agreeable might appear the fierce miaulling of the red
_puma_, and the howl of the gaunt wolf; but not so to the ears of the
awakened hunter, who, through the chinks of his lone cabin, listens to
such sounds with a savage joy.
These fierce notes are now rare and exceptional--even in the backwoods--
though, unlike the war-whoop of the Indian, they have not altogether
departed. Occasionally, their echo may be heard through the aisles of
the forest, but only in its deepest recesses--only in those remote river
"bottoms" where the squatter delights to dwell. Even there, they are
heard only at night; and in the morning give place to softer and sweeter
sounds.
Fancy, then, a fine morning in May--a sunshine that turns all it touches
into gold--an atmosphere laden with the perfume of wild-flowers--the hum
of honey-seeking bees--the song of birds commingling in sweetest
melody--and you have the _mise en scene_ of a squatter's cabin on the
banks of the Obion, half an hour after the rising of the sun. Can such
a picture be called _commonplace_? Rather say it is enchanting.
Forms suddenly appear upon the scene--forms living and lovely--in the
presence of which the bright sunshine, the forest glories of green and
gold, the bird-music among the trees, the flowery aroma in the air, are
no longer needed to give grace to the clearing of the squatter. It
signifies not that it is a morning in the middle of May: were it the
dreariest day of December, the effect would be the same; and this
resembles enchantment itself. The rude hut seems at once transformed
into a palace--the dead trunks become Corinthian columns carved out of
white marble--their stiff branches appear to bend gracefully over, like
the leaves of the recurrent _acanthus_--and the enclosure of carelessly
tended maize-plants assumes the aspect of some fair garden of the
Hesperides!
The explanation is easy. Magic is not needed to account for the
transformation: since there exists a far more powerful form of
enchantment in the divine presence of female beauty. And it is present
there, in its distinct varieties of _dark_ and _fair_--typified in the
persons of two young girls who issue forth from the cabin of the
squatter: more than typified--completely symbolised--since in these two
young girls there appears scarce one point of resemblance, save the
possession of a perfect loveliness. The eye of the soaring eagle may
not discover their charms--as did the bird of Jove those of the lovely
Leda--but no _human_ eye could gaze for a moment on either one, without
receiving the impression that it was looking upon the fairest object on
earth. This impression could only be modified, by turning to gaze upon
the other.
Who are these young creatures? Sisters?
There is nothing in their appearance to suggest the gentle relationship.
One is tall, dark, and dark-haired, of that golden-brown complexion
usually styled _brunette_. Her nose is slightly aquiline, and her eye
of the oblique Indian form. Other features present an Indian character,
of that type observable in the nation of the Chicasaws--the former lords
of this great forest. She may have Chicasaw blood in her veins; but her
complexion is too light for that of a pure Indian.
Her dress strengthens the impression that she is a _sang-mele_. The
skirt is of the common homespun of the backwoods, striped with a
yellowish dye; but the green bodice is of finer stuff, with more
pretensions to ornament; and her neck and wrists are embraced by a
variety of those glancing circlets so seductive in the eyes of an Indian
belle. The buskin-mocassin is purely Indian; and its lines of
bead-embroidery gracefully adapt themselves to the outlines of feet and
ankles of perfect form. The absence of a head-dress is another point of
Indian resemblance. The luxuriant black hair is plaited, and coiled
like a coronet around the head. There are no combs or pins of gold, but
in their place a scarlet plumelet of feathers--from the wings of the red
cardinal. This, set coquettishly behind the plaits, shows that some
little attention has been given to her toilet; and simple though it be,
the peculiar _coiffure_ imparts to the countenance of the maiden that
air usually styled "commanding."
Although there is nothing masculine in this young girl's beauty, a
single glance at her features impresses you with the idea of a character
of no ordinary kind--a nature more resolute than tender--a heart endowed
with courage equalling that of a man. The idea is strengthened by
observing that in her hand she carries a light rifle; while a horn and
bullet-pouch, suspended from her left shoulder, hang under the right
arm. She is not the only backwoods' maiden who may be seen thus armed
and accoutred: many are even skilled in the use of the deadly weapon!
In striking contrast with all this is the appearance of her companion.
The impression the eye receives in looking on the latter is that of
something soft and beautiful, of a glorious golden hue. It is the
reflection of bright amber-coloured hair on a blonde skin, tinted with
vermilion imparting a sort of luminous radiance divinely feminine.
Scrutinise this countenance more closely; and you perceive that the
features are in perfect harmony with each other, and harmonise with the
complexion. You behold a face, such as the Athenian fancy has
elaborated into an almost living reality in the goddess Cytherea.
This creature of golden roseate hue is yet very young--scarcely more
than a child--but in the blue sky above her burns a fiery sun; and in
twelve months she will be a woman.
Her costume is still more simple than that of her companion: a sleeved
dress of the same striped homespun, loosely worn, and open at the
breast; her fine amber-coloured hair the only covering for her head--as
it is the only shawl upon her shoulders, over which it falls in ample
luxuriance. A string of pearls around her neck--false pearls, poor
thing!--is the only effort that vanity seems to have made in the way of
personal adornment. Even shoes and stockings are wanting; but the most
costly _chaussure_ could not add to the elegance of those pretty
_mignon_ feet.
Who are they--these fair flowers of the forest?
_Let_ the mystery end. They _are_ sisters--though not the children of
one mother. They are the daughters of the hunter--the owner of the
cabin and clearing--his only children.
Happy hunter! poor you may be, and your home lowly; it can never be
lonely in such companionship. The proudest prince may envy you the
possession of two such treasures--beyond parallel, beyond price!