THE INDIAN LODGE.
Spring on a north-western prairie. What a glorious scene! Suddenly,
you scarcely know when, the snow has disappeared, leaving the long,
dead grass lying in matted unsightliness, and you would think it was
dead forever; but soon, in little clusters of from three to seven, you
see dotting the landscape a purple flower, a tough, membranous, hairy
sheath protecting each floweret from the chilling winds, for it opens
at once to your gaze. Then, as the weather waxes genial, the blossoms
shoot up from their hirsute guardianship, and nod brightly in the
breeze. It is the "spring beauty,"--as the frontier folk call it,--the
first vegetation of the season, presenting the phenomenon of rich
blooming flowers, while yet the lifeless turf shows no signs of
vitality. But life is there; for at once, as if by magic, the whole
expanse is green with verdure, growing with marvellous rapidity,
decked with flowers.
"Garden without path or fence,
Rolling up its billowy blooms."
Then you rise some soft morning, and the air is vocal with the cooing
of myriad birds. If you are just from the east, you will think that
thousands of turtle doves are announcing that spring has come. They
seem close about you; but you cannot see them. They are not in the
groves near by; you follow the sounds through the waving prairie grass
for a long distance, and you find them not, and will be surprised when
your western friend tells you that these are the voices of the prairie
hens, miles away, holding their annual convention, the queer cuckooing
not being loving sounds, but notes of war--abortive attempts at
crowing, which the rival males set up as they prepare to do battle
with each other.
And now from the blue expanse overhead come down the varied cries of
the migratory birds returning from the south. Line upon line of wild
geese, in military order, follow their leader, while the trumpet
blasts of the sand-hill cranes--the ostrich of the American
prairie--ring out clear and shrill, and their long white bills glisten
in the sunlight from afar, like bristling bayonets of ivory.
Tom stood in front of the hotel, enjoying the spring sights and sounds
with unusual zest. The two winters now past had been eventful to him.
Mr. Payson, the missionary, who had taken a great interest in Tom,
had, the winter before, kept school in his own cabin; and Tom and his
sister Eliza had attended much of the time, their tuition being paid
by such assistance as Tom might be able to render Mr. Payson in his
outdoor work.
Eliza had grown to be a sedate and interesting young woman, and was
making good headway with her studies, when one day she gave notice
that she should not be able to attend school any longer; and to her
teacher's inquiries she returned only blushes in reply, and he could
get no further light until the next day, when an enterprising young
man from a "neighboring village," twenty miles distant, called to
invite Mr. Payson to join himself and "Miss Eliza" in marriage.
The last winter the missionary's family had occupied rooms at the
hotel. Mrs. Payson had been growingly unhappy from dread of the
Indians, and often said to her husband,--
"Our lot is just such a place as they would be likely to come to
first."
Mr. Payson did not share this fear; but, on account of her feelings,
the generous-hearted landlord offered them rooms for the winter rent
free.
The winter had gone by without any adverse occurrence. Tom had been
prospering in his studies under the missionary's direction, working
for his board in the family of one of the town owners, just opposite
the hotel; so it was but a step for him to the missionary's when he
wished to recite.
"Will you be able to hear my recitation this afternoon?" asked Tom, as
Mr. Payson came down the hotel steps.
"Yes," replied the missionary. "I am called away this morning, but I
think I shall get back in season."
That afternoon, as Tom sat in the missionary's front room, absorbed in
a book, the furious barking of a dog disturbed him. He glanced out of
the window, and saw, to his surprise, an Indian. The savage had
turned, facing the hotel, rifle in his hand, and, with flashing eyes,
was driving back a large mastiff that had attacked him. Tom was struck
with the singular intelligence and beauty of the young savage. He was
a shade lighter than most of his race, had large, dark, expressive
eyes, regular and finely-cut features, a symmetric form, and his
luxuriant black hair, which was of great length, was dressed with most
elaborate care, and the ornaments that he wore about his person, and
his blanket, were better than those usually worn by Indians.
From the Indian's manner, Tom concluded that he suspected the dog was
set upon him by some white person. The bearing of the red man was
lofty, collected, and defiant. In an instant Tom sprang down the
front stairs, and called the dog off. The Indian, glancing at the lad,
went stolidly on his way, up the main street, through the village,
till he was hidden from view by the trees on the missionary's land.
Mrs. Payson and her children stood at the window, watching the
retreating figure of the Indian with mingled fear and admiration.
"Isn't he handsome?" exclaimed the elder of the little girls.
"He certainly is very intelligent looking," remarked her mother; "a
noble specimen of the red man."
"Did you see that Indian?" inquired the landlady, a calm, dignified
woman, as she stepped into the room. "One of the boarders says there
is quite a company of them encamped on your husbands land. The have a
large wigwam, and seem to be making themselves as much at home as if
they owned the place."
The missionary's wife shuddered, and remarked,--
"It is just as I foreboded."
"But these are _friendly_," returned the landlady. "The chief has a
letter from the government agent, recommending him to the confidence
and charity of the settlers. It has been a long and hard winter, and
the agent says there has been much suffering among the Indians."
"Is that young Indian the chief?" asked Mrs. Payson.
"No; I wish he were. He is the finest-looking savage I ever saw. I
don't think I should be afraid to trust him. But the chief looks
frightfully; he is as cruel and treacherous as a snake, or I do not
read his face aright."
"Then you have seen him?" said the other, in surprise.
"Yes; I was riding through the woods with husband, and we met him. The
young Indian seems to belong to the company, and yet holds himself
somewhat aloof from the others, as if he feels conscious of being
superior to them, and finds it difficult to fellowship their low ways.
To-morrow a party of us are going to call on the Indians at their
wigwam, and I stepped in to invite you to go. There will be a good
many of us; so you needn't fear being tomahawked!" she added,
laughing.
The visit to the Indians the next day was full of interest to the
missionary's family, for, although they had seen numbers of the
half-civilized Indians of the Eastern States, they had never before
seen the red man in his native wilds, with habits and customs
unchanged from their primitive character. The wigwam was large and
well constructed, erected in a sheltered and romantic spot, convenient
at once to the village, the woods, and the river. Within were
squatted four or five of the company on the ground, playing a game of
chance, in which employment the Indian men spend most of their time,
when not hunting, fishing, or at war. There were no women with them,
and therefore the men had, besides the cooking, to do the drudgery
usually assigned to the squaws, such as gathering and bringing in the
wood, and dressing the skins of the wild animals.
The Indians did not lift their eyes as the whites entered through the
narrow opening which served as door, and ranged themselves around the
sides of the lodge as best they might. Nor did they answer any
questions, not appearing to understand a word of English, their faces
remaining as stolid under the remarks of the whites as if nothing had
been said; and taking it for granted that the Indians were as ignorant
of civilized speech as they appeared, some of the inquisitive
pale-faces indulged themselves in quite uncivilized speeches, for they
had a traditional contempt and hatred of their tawny brothers.
"You had better not express yourself quite so freely," said Mr.
Caswell, the landlord, aside to a settler; "these fellows understand
every word you say, and it's better to have the good will than the ill
will of a dog, as the old saying is."
Curious, however, to see what the effect would be, those who disliked
the Indians the most made them presents with the rest. Tobacco, skeins
of cotton, brass buttons, cakes, crackers, cents, sticks of candy,
bits of ribbon, were received by the Indians without a word or nod of
acknowledgment. No sign of consciousness of visitor or presents was
evinced, save that a grimy hand would deftly clutch the article tossed
within its reach, and convey it to the head, quickly and ingeniously
twisting it in the hair, the game proceeding the while, without a
pause. The young Indian played with his companions; and from his
beauty and princely bearing drew much attention and a large share of
the gifts to himself; yet even in receiving the presents he seemed
different from the other savages. His was the only face in the swarthy
group that betrayed "the workings of the soul;" and although he
fastened the trinkets in his raven locks, drops of sweat stood on his
brow, and it seemed as if it cost him a struggle to be treated as an
object of charity.
Tom, with the others, was much struck with the appearance of the young
Indian, and made a number of unsuccessful attempts to converse with
him. Finding that the "confusion of tongues," or some other barrier,
had made talking together impossible, in various ingenious ways he
tried to direct the Indian's attention to himself, but without avail;
game succeeded game in Indian silence, the talking and advancing
towards acquaintanceship remaining wholly on the side of the whites.
"How many belong to this company?" asked Mr. Payson of the landlord.
"There are nine of them: the rest are out hunting, I suppose," was the
reply.
"And do all these chaps manage to sleep in this little hut?" asked a
settler.
"A nice time they must have of it on the ground, especially when it
rains," added another, pointing up through the roof, which was open,
to let out the smoke.
"But," said the missionary, "everything is in remarkable order here.
Don't you see that each man has his place, and on the side of the
lodge a snug chance to stow away or hang up his personal effects. We
whites could scarcely arrange the little space with more fairness and
mathematical precision, so as to make the most of the room."
It was indeed so; and much did the callers marvel at the intelligent
system that prevailed.
"Some one has had a hand in the ordering of affairs here, who has more
intellect than we are accustomed to attribute to the red man;" and
the minister glanced at the young Indian, as if to say, "It must be
due to him."
But twilight was falling, and the villagers started on their way home.
Scarcely, however, had they passed the hedge of elders and the rows of
young oaks that hid the abode of the Indians from view, when from
within the wigwam there went up a startling whoop and yell, mingled
with derisive laughter.
Mrs. Payson stood still, pale with terror, as if expecting to see the
savages rush out to massacre them. But they kept within their tent,
their horrible whoopings and mockings continuing until the whites were
well away.
"I do not like the sound of those yells," said the missionary,
soberly.
"O, the Indians are only amusing themselves by trying to scare the
women and children," replied Mr. Caswell, merrily.
"There is more than that intended," returned the minister. "There was
the bitterest irony and hatred expressed in those tones. If the
authors of them dared, or it was in their plan to do so now, they
would spring upon us with the eagerness of so many beasts of prey."
The next day eight of the Indians walked into the village, one after
the other, as is the Indian way, and called at the hotel to beg. They
had found their tongues over night, and could manage, not only to
understand, when it was for their interest, what was said to them, but
in broken English make reply. They were a fine set of men,
physically--tall, broad-chested, erect; and, wrapped in their white
and red blankets, they made a formidable appearance. There was no
touch of fawning or crouching in their manner. They demanded the
articles given them, rather than begged. You would have thought them
lords of the soil, come to collect rent of tardy tenantry.
The young Indian, however, still preserved his individuality, and
various romantic conjectures were conjured up in imaginative heads
concerning him. Some went so far as to assert that he had no Indian
blood in him, and started the theory that he must have had white
parentage, and that he might have been stolen, when a child, from some
noble white family. But the more experienced of the pioneers set that
at rest by affirming that they could tell the pure, unmixed Indian,
and that he was one.
Tom lingered much about him.
"O," said he to the missionary, "if I could only talk with him, how I
would love to teach him how to read, and speak to him of the blessed
things in the Bible!"
"That is on my mind most of the time, Tom," replied the good man. "I
am often asking myself. Can I not, in some way, lead these benighted
souls to the Lamb of God? But how inaccessible they are! What an
impassable barrier between them and us! and, with the exception of the
youngest of them, how brutal and low! To see such splendidly-formed
men spend their time squatted on the earth, playing jack-straws, or
some equally silly game, from morning to night, is pitiful. And then
their yelling and laughter are more like wild beasts or demons than
human beings. These people seem to me the lowest, meanest, most
treacherous, and hardened of the human race. I do not wonder that it
is so difficult to civilize or Christianize them."
Weeks went by, and the Indians remained in their lodge, daily growing
bolder and more intrusive, till they had become obnoxious to the most
benevolent of the settlers. It had come to be not over pleasant to the
women of the neighborhood to look up from their domestic duties, and
see that a grim savage had stolen into the house, and, unasked, seated
himself in a chair, ready, as soon as he thought best, to nod, in a
dictatorial way, towards some coveted article, in a manner which
meant,--
"Hand that to me!"
Meanwhile Tom and the young Indian--who, whether that was his real
Indian name or not, was called _Long Hair_--had become quite
intimate. Nevertheless, not many words passed between them, for Long
Hair was more reticent, if possible, than the rest of his company. But
without word-signs they managed to understand each other. Long Hair,
indeed, appeared to read Tom's thoughts intuitively, and Mrs. Payson
was often made anxious for Tom, because he would be gone so long in
the woods with Long Hair. The latter had selected a tree for a canoe,
and Tom, with his sharp-edged axe, cut it down for him, and helped him
dig it out and shape it. A strange sympathy had grown up between them,
and one evening, as Tom was on his way to the prayer-meeting, chancing
to meet Long Hair, he invited the latter to accompany him, trying,
with great earnestness, to make him comprehend the object of the
gathering. Long Hair seemed to gain a dim perception of what his
friend meant, and, after much persuasion, entered with Tom the cabin
in which the meeting was to be held. The Indian's face gave evidence
of great excitement as the services progressed; the deep solemnity of
the prayers, and the devout strains of Christian song, took powerful
hold of the red man's feelings. Doubtless he understood little of the
scene in which, for the first time, he mingled; but a potent influence
went along with it, and so affected was he, that his hand sought
Tom's, and he held it in a strong, tender grasp till the meeting
closed, his frame trembling with emotion. And yet Tom could not
converse with him afterwards; and what the nature of the emotion was
that shook him so,--what thoughts were stirred, and with what result
for eternity in the bosom of that silent son of the prairie, who, for
the first time, had attended Christian worship,--no one knew. Tom
could not induce him to attend again, and yet he did not seem offended
at what he had heard; but when his white friend alluded to it, his eye
gleamed with a new light, and his face looked thoughtfully, doubtfully
serious.
Nearly every day Tom and Long Hair were together, the latter keeping
but little in the wigwam, and seldom going with the other Indians.
When they filed into town, and besieged the houses, trying the doors,
peeping into the windows, accosting the street-passers, Long Hair was
not with them; and when at evening they returned exultant from a
successful hunt, singing their strong-lunged song of triumph,--their
wild and scarcely human "Hi yar! hi yar!" growing nearer, till,
entering the village, they sang their way through to their lodge, Long
Hair was not of their number.
One day Tom, chancing to visit the wigwam, found Long Hair there,
shivering with a violent attack of ague. He was alone, and had been
for two days.
How bare and cheerless appeared the Indian's life to Tom's sympathetic
nature then! for an Indian, when sick, has few comforts. Solitary he
sits wrapped in his blanket, or lies on the ground, with no one to
nurse or care for him; no nice dishes to tempt his feeble appetite, no
hand to bathe his fevered brow, no medicines to assuage his pain or
drive disease away.
"Why, Long Hair," cried Tom, "why didn't you let me know that you were
sick?"
But Long Hair sat shaking in his blanket, and, as usual, heard, but
made no answer, only with his expressive eyes.
Tom brought in wood, and started the fire, and saying, "Mother'll know
just what to do for you, Long Hair; I'll go and tell her how you are,"
he ran to his mother's cabin, and, quickly making some nourishing
gruel, and putting up a store of simples that she used in fever and
ague, she returned with Tom to the lodge. What a treasure is a loving,
experienced woman in sickness, whether in a palace, a log house, or
beneath the rude shelter of an Indian's moving home--ever gentle,
exhaustless in resources, untiring in her ministrations! It seemed a
marvel to Tom how readily his mother knew just what to do for Long
Hair, intuitively adapting herself to his Indian peculiarities; and,
for the week that his illness lasted, she nursed him with great
tenderness, often remarking to Tom,--
"He is one of God's children, Tom; for the Bible says, 'God has made
of one blood all the nations of men to dwell upon the face of the
earth,' and Jesus died for the red man as much as for the white."
Through all this womanly care of him by Mrs. Jones, and brotherly
attention of Tom, the Indian, while shivering with the chill, or
burning and panting with the fever, made no acknowledgments of
kindness shown him, or uttered a word of complaint as he suffered,
and, when he recovered, returned in silence to his Indian
occupations.
"I wouldn't give one of the red skins a glass of water to save his
life!" exclaimed a settler who had lost by the depredations of the
Indians. "There isn't a particle of gratitude in one of 'em. Give any
of them all you have, and ten to one he'll steal upon you out of a
bush, and take your scalp."
"It is too true of most of the Indians, I admit," said Mrs. Jones,
"and perhaps Long Hair will prove ungrateful; but I only did as the
Bible directs, and I am contented."
But, some days after, as Long Hair strode into her cabin with a
freshly-killed deer on his shoulder, which he deposited at her feet,
saying, as he left,--for he tarried not to sit down,--"White squaw,
much good; Long Hair bring venison," Mrs. Jones wiped the tears from
her eyes, rejoicing more to find that there was gratitude even in an
Indian's heart, than at receiving his generous gift.
[Illustration: LONGHAIR AND HIS PRESENT. Page 186.]