"Hame, hame, hame,
Hame I soon shall be--
Hame, hame, hame,
In mine own countrie"
--_Scotch Ballad_
Old Jacob and Catharine, who had been mute spectators of the scene so
full of interest to them, now presented themselves before the Ojebwa
chief and besought leave to depart. The presents were again laid
before him, and this time were graciously accepted. Catharine, in
distributing the beads and cloth, took care that the best portion
should fall to the grand-daughter of the chief, the pretty,
good-humoured "Snow-bird." The old man was not insensible to the noble
sacrifice which had been made by the devoted Indiana, and he signified
his forgiveness of her fault by graciously offering to adopt her as
his child, and to give her in marriage to one of his grandsons, an
elder brother of the "Snow-bird;" but the young girl modestly but
firmly refused this mark of favour, for her heart yearned for those
whose kindness had saved her from death, and who had taught her to
look beyond the things of this world to a brighter and a better state
of being. She said "she would go with her white sister, and pray to
God to bless her enemies, as the Great Spirit had taught her to do."
It seems a lingering principle of good in human nature that the
exercise of mercy and virtue opens the heart to the enjoyment of
social happiness. The Indians, no longer worked up by excitement to
deeds of violence, seemed disposed to bury the hatchet of hatred, and
the lodge was now filled with mirth and the voice of gladness,
feasting, and dancing. A covenant of peace and good-will was entered
upon by old Jacob and the chief, who bade Catharine tell her brothers
that from henceforth they should be free to hunt the deer, fish, or
shoot the wild-fowl of the lake whenever they desired to do so, "he,
the Bald Eagle, had said so."
On the morrow, with the first dawn of day, the old trapper was astir;
the canoe was ready, with fresh cedar boughs strewed at the bottom. A
supply of parched rice and dried fish had been presented by the Indian
chief for the voyage, that his white brother and the young girls might
not suffer from want. At sunrise the old man led his young charges to
the lodge of the Bald Eagle, who took a kindly farewell of them. The
"Snow-bird" was sorrowful, and her bright, laughing eyes were dimmed
with tears at parting with Catharine. She was a gentle, loving thing,
as soft and playful as the tame fawn that nestled its velvet head
against her arm. She did not let Catharine depart without many tokens
of her regard, the work of her own hands,--bracelets of porcupine
quills cut in fine pieces, and strung in fanciful patterns, moccasins
richly wrought, and tiny bark dishes and boxes, such as might have
graced a lady's work-table, so rare was their workmanship.
Just as they were about to step into the canoe, the "Snow-bird"
reappeared, bearing a richly worked bark box, "From the Great
Medicine," she said in a low voice, "to the daughter of the Mohawk
brave." The box contained a fine tunic, soft as a lady's glove,
embroidered and fringed, and a fillet of scarlet and blue feathers,
with the wings and breast of the war-bird as shoulder ornaments. It
was a token of reconciliation and good-will worthy of a generous
heart.
The young girl pressed the gifts to her bosom and to her lips
reverentially, and the hand that brought them to her heart, as she
said in her native tongue, "Tell the Great Medicine I kiss her in my
heart, and pray that she may have peace and joy till she departs for
the spirit land."
With joyful heart they bade adieu to the Indian lodges, and rejoiced
in being once more afloat on the bosom of the great river. To
Catharine the events of the past hours seemed like a strange
bewildering dream. She longed for the quiet repose of home; and how
gladly did she listen to that kind old man's plans for restoring
Hector, Louis, and herself to the arms of their beloved parents. How
often did she say to herself, "Oh that I had wings like a dove, for
then would I flee away and be at rest!"--in the shelter of that dear
mother's arms whom she now pined for with a painful yearning of the
heart that might well be called home-sickness. But in spite of anxious
wishes, the little party were compelled to halt for the night some few
miles above the lake. There is on the eastern bank of the Otonabee a
pretty, rounded knoll, clothed with wild cherries, hawthorns, and
pine-trees, just where a creek half hidden by alder and cranberry
bushes works its way below the shoulder of the little eminence. This
creek grows broader and becomes a little stream, through which the
hunters sometimes paddle their canoes, as a short cut to the lower
part of the lake near Crook's Rapids.
To this creek old Jacob steered his little craft, and bidding the
girls collect a few dry sticks and branches for an evening fire on the
sheltered side of the little bank, he soon lighted the pile into a
cheerful blaze by the aid of birch bark, the hunter's tinder--a sort
of fungus that is found in the rotten oak and maple trees--and a knife
and flint. He then lifted the canoe, and having raised it on its side,
by means of two small stakes which he cut from a bush hard by, he
spread down his buffalo robe on the dry grass.
"There is a tent fit for a queen to sleep under, _mes cheres filles_,"
he said, eying his arrangements for their night shelter with great
satisfaction.
He baited his line, and in a few minutes had a dish of splendid bass
ready for the fire. Catharine selected a large flat block of limestone
on which the fish when broiled was laid; but old Jacob opened his wide
mouth and laughed when she proceeded to lay her bush table with large
basswood leaves for platters. Such nicety he professed was unusual on
a hunter's table. He was too old a forester to care how his food was
dished, so that he had wherewithal to satisfy his hunger.
Many were the merry tales he told and the songs he sung, to while away
the time, till the daylight faded from the sky, and the deep blue
heavens were studded with bright stars, which were mirrored in
countless hosts deep deep down in that calm waveless river, while
thousands of fire-flies lighted up the dark recesses of the forest's
gloom. High in the upper air the hollow booming of the night-hawk was
heard at intervals; and the wild cry of the night-owl from a dead
branch, shouting to its fellow, woke the silence of that lonely river
scene.
The old trapper, stretched before the crackling fire, smoked his pipe
or hummed some French _voyageur's_ song. Beneath the shelter of the
canoe soundly slept the two girls; the dark cheek of the Indian girl
pillowed on the arm of her fairer companion, her thick tresses of
raven hair mingling with the silken ringlets of the white maiden. They
were a lovely pair--one fair as morning, the other dark as night.
How gaily did they spring from their low bed, wakened by the early
song of the forest birds! The light curling mist hung in fleecy
volumes on the river, like a flock of sheep at rest; the tinkling
sound of the heavy dew-drops fell in mimic showers upon the stream.
See that red squirrel, how lightly he runs along that fallen trunk!
how furtively he glances with his sharp bright eye at the intruders on
his silvan haunts! Hark! there is a rustling among the leaves; what
strange creature works its way to the shore? A mud turtle: it turns,
and now is trotting along the little sandy ridge to some sunny spot,
where, half buried, it may lie unseen near the edge of the river. See
that musk-rat, how boldly he plunges into the stream, and, with his
oar-like tail, stems the current till he gains in safety the sedges on
the other side.
What gurgling sound is that?--it attracts the practised ear of the old
hunter. What is that object which floats so steadily down the middle
of the stream, and leaves so bright a line in its wake?--it is a noble
stag. Look at the broad chest with which he breasts the water so
gallantly; see how proudly he carries his antlered head! He has no
fear in those lonely solitudes--he has never heard the crack of the
hunter's rifle--he heeds not the sharp twang of that bow-string, till
the arrow rankles in his neck, and the crimson flood dyes the water
around him. He turns, but it is only to present a surer mark for the
arrow from the old hunter's bow. And now the noble beast turns to bay,
and the canoe is rapidly launched by the hand of the Indian girl. Her
eye flashes with the excitement; her whole soul is in the chase; she
stands up in the canoe, and steers it full upon the wounded buck,
while a shower of blows is dealt upon his head and neck with the
paddle. Catharine buries her face in her hands: she cannot bear to
look upon the sufferings of the noble animal. She will never make a
huntress; her heart is cast in too soft a mould. See they have towed
the deer ashore, and Jacob is in all his glory. The little squaw is an
Indian at heart--see with what expertness she helps the old man. And
now the great business is completed, and the venison is stowed away at
the bottom of the canoe. They wash their hands in the river, and come
at Catharine's summons to their breakfast.
The sun is now rising high above the pine-trees; the morning mist is
also rising and rolling off like a golden veil as it catches those
glorious rays; the whole earth seems wakening into new life: the dew
has brightened every leaf and washed each tiny flower-cup: the pines
and balsams give out their resinous fragrance: the aspens flutter and
dance in the morning breeze, and return a mimic shower of dew-drops to
the stream; the shores become lower and flatter; the trees less lofty
and more mossy; the stream expands, and wide beds of rushes spread out
on either side; what beds of snowy water-lilies: how splendid the rose
tint of those perseicarias that glow so brightly in the morning sun;
the rushes look like a green meadow, but the treacherous water lies
deep below their grassy leaves; the deer delights in these verdant
aquatic fields: and see what flocks of redwings rise from among them
as the canoe passes near--their bright shoulder-knots glance like
flashes of lightning in the sunbeams.
This low swampy island, filled with drift-wood; these gray hoary
trees, half choked and killed with gray moss and lichens, those
straggling alders and black ash, look melancholy; they are like
premature old age, gray-headed youths. That island divides the channel
of the river: the old man takes the nearest, the left hand. And now
they are upon the broad Rice Lake, and Catharine wearies her eye to
catch the smoke of the shanty rising among the trees: one after
another the islands steal out into view; the capes, bays, and shores
of the northern side are growing less distinct. Yon hollow bay, where
the beaver has hidden till now, backed by that bold sweep of hills
that look in the distance as if only covered with green ferns, with
here and there a tall tree, stately as a pine or oak,--that is the
spot where Louis saw the landing of the Indians: now a rising
village--Gore's Landing. On yon lofty hill now stands the village
church,--its white tower rising amongst the trees forms a charming
object from the lake; and there, a little higher up, not far from the
plank road, now stand pretty rural cottages: one of these belongs to
the spirited proprietor of the village that bears his name. That
tasteful garden before the white cottage, to the right, is Colonel
Brown's, and there are pretty farms and cultivated spots; but silence
and loneliness reigned there at the time of which I write.
Where those few dark pines rise above the oak groves like the spires
of churches in a crowded city, is Mount Ararat. The Indian girl steers
straight between the islands for that ark of refuge, and Catharine's
eyes are dimmed with grateful tears as she pictures to herself the
joyful greeting in store for her. In the overflowings of her gladness
she seizes the old man's rugged hand and kisses it, and flings her
arms about the Indian girl and presses her to her heart, when the
canoe has touched the old well-remembered landing-place, and she finds
herself so near, so very near her lost home. How precious are such
moments--how few we have in life! They are created from our very
sorrows; without our cares our joys would be less lively. But we have
no time to moralize. Catharine flies with the speed of a young fawn to
climb the cliff-like shoulder of that steep bank; and now; out of
breath, she stands at the threshold of her log-house. How neat and
nice it looks compared with the Indians' tents! The little field of
corn is green and flourishing. There is Hector's axe in a newly-cut
log: it is high noon; the boys ought to have been there taking their
mid-day meal, but the door is shut. Catharine lifts the wooden latch,
and steps in. The embers are nearly burned out to a handful of gray
ashes. Old Wolfe is not there--all is silent; and Catharine sits down
to still the beating of her heart, and await the coming of her slower
companions, and gladdens her mind with the hope that her brother and
Louis will soon be home. Her eye wanders over every old familiar
object. All things seem much as she had left them; only, the maize is
in the ear, and the top feather waves gracefully in the summer breeze.
It promises an abundant crop. But that harvest is not to be gathered
by the hands of the young planters: it was left to the birds of the
air and the beasts of the field--to those humble reapers who sow not,
neither do they gather into barns, for the heavenly Father feedeth
them. While the two girls busied themselves in preparing a fine roast
of venison, old Jacob stalked away over the hills to search for the
boys, and it was not long before he returned with Hector and Louis.
I must not tell tales, or I might say what tears of joy were mingled
with the rapturous greetings with which Louis embraced his beloved
cousin; or I might tell that the bright flush that warmed the dusky
cheek of the young Indian and the light that danced in her soft black
eyes owed their origin to the kiss that was pressed on her red lips by
her white brother. Nor will we say whose hand held hers so long in
his, while Catharine related the noble sacrifice made for her sake,
and the perils encountered by the devoted Indiana, whose eyes were
moistened with tears as the horrors of that fearful trial were
described; or who stole out alone over the hills, and sat him down in
the hush and silence of the summer night to think of the acts of
heroism displayed by that untaught Indian girl, and to dream a dream
of youthful love: with these things, my young readers, we have nothing
to do.
"And now, my children," said old Jacob, looking round the little
dwelling, "have you made up your minds to live and die here on the
shores of this lake, or do you desire again to behold your fathers'
home? Do your young hearts yearn after the hearth of your childhood?"'
"After our fathers' home!" was Louis's emphatic reply. "After the home
of our childhood!" was Catharine's earnest answer. Hector's lips
echoed his sister's words, while a furtive troubled glance fell upon
the orphan stranger; but her timid eye was raised to his young face
with a trusting look, as if she would have said, "Thy home shall be my
home, thy God my God."
"Well, I believe, if my old memory fails me not, I can strike the
Indian trail that used to lead to the Cold Springs over the pine
hills. It will not be difficult for an old trapper to find his way."
"For my part, I shall not leave this lovely spot without regret," said
Hector. "It would be a glorious place for a settlement--all that one
could desire--hill and valley, and plain, wood, and water. I will try
and persuade my father to leave the Cold Springs, and come and settle
hereabouts. It would be delightful--would it not, Catharine?--especially
now we are friends with the Indians."
With their heads full of pleasant schemes for the future, our young
folks laid them down that night to rest. In the morning they rose,
packed up such portable articles as they could manage to carry, and
with full hearts sat down to take their last meal in their home--in
that home which had sheltered them so long--and then, with one accord,
they knelt down upon its hearth, so soon to be left in loneliness, and
breathed a prayer to Him who had preserved them thus far in their
eventful lives; and then they journeyed forth once more into the
wilderness. There was one, however, of their little band they left
behind this was the faithful old dog Wolfe. He had pined during the
absence of his mistress, and only a few days before Catharine's return
he had crept to the seat she was wont to occupy, and there died. Louis
and Hector buried him, not without great regret beneath the group of
birch-trees on the brow of the slope near the corn-field.