THE WAR-SONG.
Mrs. Payson sat sewing in her pleasant room at the hotel. Her thoughts
were far away from the checkered experiences of the frontier, for her
husband--having received by the last mail a new book from an eastern
friend--read while she plied her needle. Baby was in his crib in the
bed-room adjoining, and Fannie and Helen were whispering in a matronly
way in the corner, as with the help of mother's scissors they fitted
their dolls to new dresses. Had you looked in upon the group, you
would not realize that they constituted a pioneer missionary's family;
for the hotel building was tasteful and spacious, and if they lived
and dressed plainly, and often felt the pinchings of poverty, their
appearance betrayed no unhappiness. And then the volume had
transported the father and mother to other and brighter scenes than
those of the uncultured wilderness. The tone of the reader in its
subdued or impassioned modulations attested the interest he felt in
the volume, and the heightened color of the wife showed her sympathy
with the theme. What a magician is a book! It can cause the poor to
forget their poverty, and the wanderer in a distant land to become
oblivious of his exile.
"What was that?" exclaimed the missionary and his wife at once, as
they sprang to their feet in breathless suspense.
Again the horrible cry broke forth, seeming to come from the room
below.
At this moment the fair face of the landlady appeared, and she
said,--
"The Indians are below, and are going to sing for us. Won't you come
down and hear them?"
"Rather discordant music," answered the minister; "but I think we may
as well accept your invitation--don't you, wife?" and taking the
children with them, they descended to the dining-room. Ranged round
the long table were eight savages, and sitting back against the walls
a few boarders,--for most of the household were away. Some of the
Indians held tin pans, and on these, as an accompaniment, they beat
time with iron instruments, their heavy blows making a deafening din,
and their harsh, guttural notes, uttered in unison, made the
diabolical uproar. Mr. Payson's inspection of the performers in this
strange concert was anything but satisfactory to him. The manner of
the savages was impudent and brutal beyond anything he had yet seen in
them, and he fancied that their sneering and malignant grimaces and
serpent-like contortions of the body expressed evil and vengeful
passions that burned within. On the faces of the whites a startled,
anxious look struggled, with an effort to feel at ease, and fear
nothing.
"There is something wrong about these Indians," whispered the minister
to a man near him; "they are plotting mischief; their looks and tones
are full of ugliness; and I am convinced that if they intend no
trouble to-night, they know that some hidden danger threatens us. See
how that chief's eye glares. Observe the murderous leer of the one
beside him. Notice how they mock and insult us to our very faces. Now,
how awfully jubilant their tones, as if they had us at their mercy. Do
you suppose they are secretly armed?" and, rising, he went calmly from
Indian to Indian, lifting the blanket of each, to see if a rifle cut
short, or some other deadly weapon, was not concealed there. But none
was to be found; and at the close of their alarming exhibition, the
chief haughtily arose, bowed to the missionary, who was now seated
again, and passed out; each of his followers imitating him in the
salute as he glided from the room.
"The Indians have taken down their wigwam, and gone away," said Tom to
Mr. Payson, the next day.
"I am glad to hear it," replied the missionary; "they are a dangerous
set, and I have been quite anxious lest the settlers should get into a
quarrel with them. But what makes you look so depressed? Are any of
your folks sick?"
"No," replied Tom, striving to appear calm. "Father came home last
night--"
"Well, that was a pleasant surprise--was it not?" interrupted his kind
friend.
"Yes; but--but--he wants us to remove."
"Remove! Whereto?"
"Near Spirit Lake."
"I am sorry to hear that. I heard this morning that the Sioux are
quite insolent towards the settlers in that vicinity, and threaten an
outbreak. I must see your father, and dissuade him from his project;"
and the minister proceeded to the cabin occupied by the Joneses.
It was near Spirit Lake that Mr. Jones was wounded by the Indian.
This, however, did not deter him from going there again to hunt. Three
promising young settlements had sprung up there, side by side, for the
beauty, fertility, and cheapness of the land had attracted quite an
immigration that way. Mr. Jones had mingled much with the
settlers,--for an entirely _new_ country had special charms for
him,--and his knowledge of all matters most needful to the pioneer
made him a welcome acquaintance. He had become a great favorite with
the inhabitants. The Indians were numerous and bold, but entertained a
wholesome dread of the squatter's rifle and personal courage; and the
whites, although they did not anticipate serious trouble with the
savages, felt so much safer when he was with them, that they offered
him a comfortable cabin, and promised other advantages if he would
dwell among them. Among the Indians Mr. Jones went by the name of
_Long Rifle_, and they expressed great admiration of his marksmanship.
Occasions not unfrequently happened for him to show his superior
qualities in that line. For example, the squatter happened in one day
at a cabin, and found some half dozen Indians there, who had busied
themselves, in the absence of the men, in rummaging the house for
plunder, greatly to the terror of the women and children. As Mr. Jones
appeared, they seated themselves with Indian gravity, refusing to
answer a word, while their faces wore an angry and sullen look. Among
these were some famous for their skill with the rifle, and, knowing
their passion for target-shooting, he proposed at once a trial of
skill. This was eagerly accepted; but the squatter triumphed in the
contest, and the Indians went away much impressed with the result.
When Mr. Jones returned to his family, and mentioned his decision to
remove, the mother heard his account with a foreboding heart, but
made no objection, only saying,--
"We mustn't take Tom away from his studies."
To this the father assented, for he really felt grateful to the
missionary for the interest he took in his son, and proud of the
progress the lad was making in his books.
"Tom," said he, "has a good chance, and it isn't in me to discourage
him."
It was, however, more difficult to persuade Tom to remain behind, than
for his parents to give him up,--hard as it was for them. He had so
long been the staff of his mother, that it seemed like selfish
desertion for him to stay with the missionary, while she went farther
off on the frontier.
"It is your _duty_ to remain, Tom," urged the mother. "God has opened
the way for you to cultivate your mind, and fit yourself for
usefulness; and we shall not be so far away but that you can come to
us at any time, if we need you."
"And are you not afraid to go where there are so many Indians?" asked
Tom.
"Yes," she replied, "I am afraid; and yet I feel strengthened to go.
Your father will be useful there. He is fitted to take the lead in
case of trouble with the savages; the settlers look up to him, and
depend upon him, and I cannot find it in my heart to hold him back;
and if he goes, it is best for me to be with him. If you remain
behind, we shall have in you a friend to assist us if any trouble
should arise. You might be able to do more for us here than if shut up
with us by a common danger."
And so, with many a last farewell by the fond mother, Tom saw them
start for their new home.