Glance into the forest-glade! It is an opening in the woods--a
_clearing_, not made by the labour of human hands, but a work of Nature
herself: a spot of earth where the great timber grows not, but in its
place shrubs and tender grass, plants and perfumed flowers.
About a mile distant from the cabin of Hickman Holt just such an opening
is found--in superficial extent about equal to the squatter's
corn-patch. It lies in the midst of a forest of tall trees--among which
are conspicuous the tulip-tree, the white magnolia, cotton-woods, and
giant oaks. Those that immediately encircle it are of less stature:
graduating inward to its edge, like the seats in an amphitheatre--as if
the forest trees stooped downward to kiss the fair flowers that sparkle
over the glade.
These lesser trees are of various species. They are the sassafras
laurel, famed for its sanitary sap; the noble Carolina bay, with its
aromatic leaves; the red mulberry: and the singular Osage orange-tree
(_Maclura aurantica_), the "bow-wood" of the Indians. The pawpaw also
is present, to attest the extreme richness of the soil; but the
flowering plants, that flourish in profuse luxuriance over the glade,
are sufficient evidence of its fertility. Why the trees grow not there,
is one of Nature's secrets, not yet revealed to man.
It is easier to say why a squatter's cabin is not there. There is no
mystery about this: though there might appear to be, since the
_clearing_ is found ready to hand. The explanation is simple: the glade
is a mile distant from water--the nearest being that of the creek
already mentioned as running past the cabin of the squatter. Thus
Nature, as if jealous of this pretty wild-wood garden, protects it from
the defilement of man.
Nevertheless, the human presence is not unknown to it. On this very
morning--this fair morning in May, that has disclosed to our view the
cabin and clearing of the squatter--a man may be observed entering the
glade. The light elastic step, the lithe agile form, the smooth face,
all bespeak his youth; while the style of his dress, his arms and
equipments proclaim his calling to be that of a hunter.
He is a man of the correct size, and, it may be added, of the correct
shape--that is, one with whose figure the eye finds no fault. It is
pleased at beholding a certain just distribution of the members
promising strength and activity for the accomplishment of any possible
physical end. The countenance is equally expressive of good mental
qualities. The features are regular and open, to frankness. A
prominent chin denotes firmness; a soft hazel eye, gentleness; and a
full rounded throat, intrepid daring. There is neither beard upon the
chin, nor moustache upon the lip--not that the face is too young for
either, but both have been shaven off. In the way of hair, a
magnificent _chevelure_ of brown curls ruffles out under the rim of the
cap, shadowing over the cheeks and neck of the wearer. Arched eyebrows,
a small mouth, and regular teeth, give the finish to a face which might
be regarded as a type of manly beauty.
And yet this beauty appears under a russet garb. There is no evidence
of excessive toilet-care. The brush and comb have been but sparingly
used; and neither perfume nor pomatum has been employed to heighten the
shine of those luxuriant locks. There is sun-tan on the face, that,
perhaps with the aid of soap, _might_ be taken off; but it is permitted
to remain. The teeth, too, might be made whiter with a dentifrice and
brush; but in all likelihood the nearest approach to their having ever
been cleansed has been while chewing a piece of tough deer-meat.
Nevertheless, without any artificial aids, the young man's beauty
proclaims itself in every feature--the more so, perhaps that, in gazing
upon his face, you are impressed with the idea that there is an
"outcome" in it.
In his dress, there is not much that could be altered for the better.
The hunting-shirt of the finest buckskin leather with its fringed cape
and skirt, hangs upon his body with all the grace of an Athenian tunic;
while its open front permits to be seen the manly contour of his breast,
but half concealed under the softer fawn-skin. The wrappers of green
baize, though folded more than once around his legs, do not hide their
elegant _tournure_; and an appropriate covering for his feet is a pair
of strong mocassins, soled with thick leather. A coon-skin cap sits
high upon his head slightly slouched to the right. With the visage of
the animal turned to the front, and the full plume-like tail, with its
alternate rings, drooping to the shoulder, it forms a head-dress that is
far from ungraceful. A belt around the waist--a short hunting-knife in
its sheath--a large powder-horn hanging below the arm-pit--a
bullet-pouch underneath, and _voila tout_! No, not all, there remains
to be mentioned the rifle--the arm _par excellence_ of the American
hunter. The portrait of Frank Wingrove--a dashing young backwoodsman,
whose calling is the chase.
The hunter has entered the glade, and is advancing across it. He walks
slowly, but without caution--without that habitual stealthy tread that
distinguishes the sons of Saint Hubert in the West. On the contrary,
his step is free, and the flowers are crushed under his feet. He is not
even silent; but humming a tune as he goes. Notwithstanding that he
appears accoutred for the chase, his movements are not those of one in
pursuit of game. For this morning, at least, he is out upon a different
errand; and, judging from his jovial aspect, it should be one of
pleasure. The birds themselves seem not more gay.
On emerging from the shadow of the tall trees into the open glade
effulgent with flowers, his gaiety seems to have reached its climax: it
breaks forth in song; and for some minutes the forest re-echoes the
well-known lay of "_Woodman spare that tree_." Whence this joyous
humour? Why are those eyes sparkling with a scarce concealed triumph?
Is there a sweetheart expected? Is the glade to the scene of a
love-interview--that glade perfumed and flowery, as if designed for such
a purpose? The conjecture is reasonable: the young hunter has the air
of one who keeps an assignation--one, too, who dreams not of
disappointment. Near the edge of the glade, on the side opposite to
that by which the hunter has come in, is a fallen tree. Its branches
and bark have long since disappeared, and the trunk is bleached to a
brilliant white. In the phraseology of the backwoods, it is no longer a
tree, but a "log." Towards this the hunter advances. On arriving at
the log he seats himself upon it, in the attitude of one who does not
anticipate being for long alone.
There is a path that runs across the glade, bisecting it into two nearly
equal parts. It is a tiny track, evidently not much used. It conducts
from the stream on which stands the cabin of the squatter Holt, to
another "fork" of the same river--the Obion--where clearings are
numerous, and where there is also a large settlement bearing the
dignified title of "town." It is the town of Swampville--a name perhaps
more appropriate than euphonious. Upon this path, where it debouches
from the forest, the eye of Frank Wingrove becomes fixed--not in the
direction of Swampville, but towards the clearing of the squatter. From
this, it would appear probable that he expects some one; and that the
person expected should come from that side. A good while passes, and
yet no one answers his inquiring glance. He begins to manifest signs of
impatience. As if to kill time, he repeatedly rises, and again reseats
himself. With his eye he measures the altitude of the sun--the watch of
the backwoodsman--and as the bright orb rises higher in the heavens, his
spirits appear to sink in proportion. His look is no longer cheerful.
He has long since finished his song; and his voice is now heard again,
only when he utters an ejaculation of impatience. All at once the
joyous expression is restored. There is a noise in the woods, and it
proceeds from the right direction--a rustling of dead leaves that litter
the path, and occasionally the "swish" of recoiling branches. Some one
approaches the glade. The young hunter springs to his feet, and stands
listening.
Presently, he hears voices; but he hears them rather with surprise than
pleasure--as is indicated by another quick change passing over his
countenance. The cheerful aspect has again given place to a look of
disappointment--this time approaching to chagrin. "Thar's talk goin'
on;" mutters he to himself. "Then she's not alone! Thar's someb'dy
along wi' her. Who the darnation can it be?"
After this characteristic soliloquy, he remains silent listening far
more eagerly than before. The noises become more distinct, and the
voices louder. More than one can be distinguished mingling in the
conversation.
For some seconds, the hunter maintains his attentive attitude--his eye
sternly fixed upon the _embouchure_ of the path. His suspense is of
short duration. Hearing the voices more plainly, he recognises their
tones; and the recognition appears to give another sudden turn to his
thoughts. The expression of chagrin gives place to one of simple
disappointment. "Bah!" exclaims he, throwing himself back upon the
dead-wood. "It ain't _her_, after all! It's only a gang o' them rovin'
red-skins. What, in Old Nick's name, fetches 'em this way, an' jest at
the time when they ain't wanted?"
After a moment's reflection, he starts up from the log, continuing to
mutter: "I must hide, or they'll be for havin' a parley. That 'ud never
do, for I guess _she_ can't be far off by this. Hang the crooked luck!"
With this elegant finish, the speaker glides rapidly round the end of
the fallen tree, and makes for the nearest underwood--evidently with the
design of screening himself from sight. He is too late--as the "Ugh"
uttered on the opposite side of the glade convinces him--and changing
his intention, he fronts round, and quietly returns to his former
position upon the log.
The hunter's conjecture has proved correct. Bronzed faces show
themselves over the tops of the bushes on the opposite edge of the
glade; and, the moment after, three Indians emerge into the open ground.
That they are Indians, their tatterdemalion dress of coloured blankets,
leggings, and mocassins would indicate; but their race is even
recognisable in their mode of march. Though there are but three of
them, and the path runs no longer among trees, they follow one another
in single file, and in the true typical "trot" of the red aboriginal.
The presence of Indians in these woods requires explanation--for their
tribe has long before this time been transported to their new lands west
of the Mississippi. It only needs to be said that a few families have
preferred to remain--some from attachment to the scenes of their youth,
not to be severed by the prospect of a far happier home; some from
associations formed with the whites; and some from more trivial causes--
perhaps from being the degraded outcasts of their tribes. Throughout
the whole region of the backwoods, there still exists a sparse
population of the indigenous race: dwelling, as their ancestors did,
under tents or in the open air; trafficking in small articles of their
own manufacture; in short, performing very much the same _metier_ as the
Gitanos in Europe. There are other points of resemblance between these
two races--amounting almost to family likeness--and which fairly
entitles the Indians to an appellation sometimes bestowed upon
them--_the Gipsies of the New World_.
The three Indians who have entered the glade are manifestly what is
termed an "Indian family" or part of one. They are father, and mother,
and daughter--the last a girl just grown to womanhood. The man is in
the lead, the woman follows, and the young girl brings up the rear.
They are bent upon a journey, and its object is also manifest. The
pannier borne upon the back of the woman, containing fox and coon-skins,
with little baskets of stained wicker--and the bead-embroidered
mocassins and wampum belts that appear in the hands of the girl--bespeak
a purposed visit to the settlement of Swampville.
True to the custom "of his fathers," the Indian himself carries
nothing--if we except a long rusty gun over his shoulder, and a small
hatchet in his belt: rendering him rather a formidable-looking fellow on
his way to a market.