“I know a lake where the cool waves
break,
And softly fall on the silver sand,
And no stranger intrudes on that solitude,
And no voices but ours disturb the strand.”
-- IRISH SONG
The breeze had sprung up, and had
already brought the fire down as far as the creek.
The swamp had long been on fire, and now the flames
were leaping among the decayed timbers, roaring and
crackling among the pines, and rushing to the tops
of the cedars, springing from heap to heap of the
fallen branches, and filling the air with dense volumes
of black and suffocating smoke. So quickly did
the flames advance that Hector and Louis had only
time to push off the canoe before the heights along
the shore were wrapped in smoke and fire. Many
a giant oak and noble pine fell crashing to the earth,
sending up showers of red sparks, as its burning trunk
shivered in its fall. Glad to escape from the
suffocating vapour, the boys quickly paddled out to
the island, enjoying the cool, fresh air of the lake.
Reposing on the grass beneath the trees, they passed
the day, sheltered from the noonday sun, and watched
the progress of the fires upon the shore. At night
the girls slept securely under the canoe, which they
raised on one side by means of forked sticks stuck
in the ground.
It was a grand sight to see the burning
plains at night, reflected on the water. A thousand
naming torches flickered upon its still surface, to
which the glare of a gas-lighted city would have been
dim and dull by contrast.
Louis and Hector would speculate on
the probable chances of the shanty escaping from the
fire, and of the fence remaining untouched. Of
the safety of the root-house they entertained no fear,
as the grass was already springing green on the earthen
roof; and below they had taken every precaution to
secure its safely, by scraping up the earth near it.
Catharine lamented for the lovely
spring-flowers that would be destroyed by the fire.
“We shall have neither huckleberries nor strawberries
this summer,” she said, mournfully; “and
the pretty roses and bushes will be scorched, and
the ground black and dreary.”
“The fire passes so rapidly
over that it does not destroy many of the forest trees,
only the dead ones are destroyed; and that, you know,
leaves more space for the living ones to grow and thrive
in,” said Hector. “I have seen, the
year after a fire has run in the bush, a new and fresh
set of plants spring up, and even some that looked
withered recover; the earth is renewed and manured
by the ashes; and it is not so great a misfortune
as it at first appears.”
“But how black and dismal the
burnt pine-woods look for years!” said Louis;
“I do not think there is a more melancholy sight
in life than one of those burnt pine-woods. There
it stands, year after year, the black, branchless
trees pointing up to the blue sky, as if crying for
vengeance against those that kindled the fires.”
“They do, indeed, look ugly,”
said Catharine; “yet the girdled ones look very
nearly as ill.”
At the end of two days the fires had
ceased to rage, though the dim smoke-wreaths to the
westward showed where the work of destruction was
still going on.
As there was no appearance of any
Indians on the lake, nor yet at the point (Andersen’s
Point, as it is now called), on the other side, they
concluded the fires had possibly originated by accident, some
casual hunter or trapper having left his camp-fire
unextinguished; but as they were not very likely to
come across the scene of the conflagration, they decided
on returning back to their old home without delay;
and it was with some feeling of anxiety that they
hastened to see what evil had befallen their shanty.
“The shanty is burned!”
was the simultaneous exclamation of both Louis and
Hector, as they reached the rising ground that should
have commanded a view of its roof. “It
is well for us that we secured our things in the root-house,”
said Hector.
“Well, if that is safe, who
cares? we can soon build up a new house, larger and
better than the old one,” said Louis. “The
chief of our fence is gone, too, I see; but that we
can renew at our leisure; no hurry, if we get it done
a month hence, say I. Come, ma belle, do not
look so sorrowful. There is our little squaw
will help us to set up a capital wigwam, while the
new house is building.” “But the nice
table that you made, Louis, and the benches and shelves!”
“Never mind, Cathy, we will
have better tables, and benches, and shelves too.
Never fear, ma chère, the same industrious Louis
will make things comfortable. I am not sorry
the old shanty is down; we shall have a famous one
put up, twice as large, for the winter. After
the corn is planted we shall have nothing else to
do but to think about it.”
The next two or three days was spent
in erecting a wigwam, with poles and birch bark; and
as the weather was warm and pleasant, they did not
feel the inconvenience so much as they would have done
had it been earlier in the season. The root-house
formed an excellent store-house and pantry; and Indiana
contrived, in putting up the wigwam, to leave certain
loose folds between the birch-bark lining and outer
covering, which formed a series of pouches or bags,
in which many articles could be stowed away out of
sight.
While the girls were busy contriving
the arrangements of the wigwam, the two boys were
not idle. The time was come for planting the corn;
a succession of heavy thunder-showers had soaked and
softened the scorched earth, and rendered the labour
of moving it much easier than they had anticipated.
They had cut for themselves wooden trowels, with which
they raised the hills for the seed. The corn
planted, they next turned their attention to cutting
house-logs; those which they had prepared had been
burned up; so they had their labour to begin again.
The two girls proved good helps at
the raising; and in the course of a few weeks they
had the comfort of seeing a more commodious dwelling
than the former one put up. The finishing of
this, with weeding the Indian corn, renewing the fence,
and fishing, and trapping, and shooting partridges
and ducks and pigeons, fully occupied their time this
summer. The fruit season was less abundant this
year than the previous one. The fire had done
this mischief, and they had to go far a-field to collect
fruits during the summer months.
It so happened that Indiana had gone
out early one morning with the boys, and Catharine
was alone. She had gone down to the spring for
water, and on her return was surprised at the sight
of a squaw and her family of three half-grown lads,
and an innocent little brown papoose.
In their turn the strangers seemed equally astonished
at Catharine’s appearance.
The smiling aspect and good-natured
laugh of the female, however, soon reassured the frightened
girl, and she gladly gave her the water which she
had in her birch dish, on her signifying her desire
for drink. To this Catharine added some berries,
and dried venison, and a bit of maple sugar, which
was received with grateful looks by the boys; she patted
the brown baby, and was glad when the mother released
it from its wooden cradle, and fed and nursed it.
The squaw seemed to notice the difference between
the colour of her young hostess’s fair skin and
her own swarthy hue; for she often took her hand,
stripped up the sleeve of her dress, and compared
her arm with her own, uttering exclamations of astonishment
and curiosity; possibly Catharine was the first of
a fair-skinned race this poor savage had ever seen.
After her meal was finished, she set the birchen dish
on the floor, and restrapping the papoose in its cradle
prison, she slipped the basswood-bark rope over her
forehead, and silently signing to her sons to follow
her, she departed. That evening a pair of ducks
were found fastened to the wooden latch of the door,
a silent offering of gratitude for the refreshment
that had been afforded to this Indian woman and her
children.
Indiana thought, from Catharine’s
description, that these were Indians with whom she
was acquainted she spent some days in watching the
lake and the ravine, lest a larger and more formidable
party should be near. The squaw, she said, was
a widow, and went by the name of Mother Snow-storm,
from having been lost in the woods, when a little child,
during a heavy storm of snow, and nearly starved to
death. She was a gentle, kind woman, and, she
believed, would not do any of them hurt. Her
sons were good hunters; and though so young, helped
to support their mother, and were very good to her
and the little one.
I must now pass over a considerable
interval of time, with merely a brief notice that
the crop of corn was carefully harvested, and proved
abundant, and a source of great comfort. The rice
was gathered and stored, and plenty of game and fish
laid by, with an additional store of honey.
The Indians, for some reason, did
not pay their accustomed visit to the lake this season.
Indiana said they might be engaged with war among some
hostile tribes, or had gone to other hunting grounds.
The winter was unusually mild, and it was long before
it set in. Yet the spring following was tardy,
and later than usual. It was the latter end of
May before vegetation had made any very decided progress.
The little loghouse presented a neat
and comfortable appearance, both within and without.
Indiana had woven a handsome mat of bass bark for
the floor; Louis and Hector had furnished it with very
decent seats and a table, rough, but still very respectably
constructed, considering their only tools were a tomahawk,
a knife, and wooden wedges for splitting the wood
into slabs. These Louis afterwards smoothed with
great care and patience. Their bedsteads were
furnished with thick, soft mate, woven by Indiana
and Catharine, from rushes which they cut and dried;
but the little squaw herself preferred lying on a mat
or deer-skin on the floor before the fire, as she
had been accustomed.
A new field had been enclosed, and
a fresh crop of corn planted, and was now green and
flourishing. Peace and happiness dwelt within
the loghouse; but for the regrets that
ever attended the remembrance of all they had left
and lost, no cloud would have dimmed the serenity of
those who dwelt beneath its humble roof.
The season of flowers had again arrived, the
earth, renovated by the fire of the former year, bloomed
with fresh beauty, June, with its fragrant
store of roses and lilies, was now far advanced, the
anniversary of that time when they had left their beloved
parents’ roofs, to become sojourners in the
lonely wilderness, had returned. Much they felt
they had to be grateful for. Many privations,
it is true, and much anxiety they had felt; but they
had enjoyed blessings above all that they could have
expected, and they might, like the Psalmist when recounting
the escapes of the people of God, have said, “Oh
that men would therefore praise the Lord for his goodness,
and the wonders that he doeth for the children of
men.” And now they declared no greater
evil could befal them than to lose one of their little
party, for even Indiana had become as a dear and beloved
sister; her gentleness, her gratitude and faithful
trusting love, seemed each day to increase. Now,
indeed, she was bound to them by a yet more sacred
tie, for she knelt to the same God, and acknowledged,
with fervent love, the mercies of her Redeemer.
She had made great progress in learning their language,
and had also taught her friends to speak and understand
much of her own tongue; so that they were now no longer
at a loss to converse with her on any subject.
Thus was this Indian girl united to them in bonds of
social and Christian love.
Hector, Louis, and Indiana had gone
over the hills to follow the track of a deer which
had paid a visit to the young corn, now sprouting and
showing symptoms of shooting up to blossom. Catharine
usually preferred staying at home, and preparing the
meals against their return. She had gathered
some fine ripe strawberries, which, with plenty of
stewed rice, Indian meal cake, and maple sugar, was
to make their dinner. She was weary and warm,
for the day had been hot and sultry. Seating herself
on the threshold of the door, she leaned her tack
against the doorpost, and closed her eyes. Perhaps
the poor child’s thoughts were wandering back
to her far-off, never-to-be-forgotten home, or she
might be thinking of the hunters and their game.
Suddenly a vague, undefinable feeling of dread stole
over her mind: she heard no steps, she felt no
breath, she saw no form; but there was a strange consciousness
that she was not alone that some unseen
being was near, some eye was upon her. I have
heard of sleepers starting from sleep the most profound
when the noiseless hand of the assassin has been raised
to destroy them, as if the power of the human eye
could be felt through the closed lid.
Thus fared it with Catharine:
she felt as if some unseen enemy was near her; and,
springing to her feet, she cast a wild, troubled glance
around. No living being met her eye; and, ashamed
of her cowardice, she resumed her seat. The tremulous
cry of her little grey squirrel, a pet which she had
tamed and taught to run to her and nestle in her bosom,
attracted her attention.
“What aileth thee, wee dearie?”
she said, tenderly, as the timid little creature crept,
trembling, to her breast. “Thy mistress
has scared thee by her own foolish fears. See
now, there is neither cat-a-mount nor weasel here
to seize thee, silly one;” and as she spoke she
raised her head, and flung back the thick clusters
of soft fair hair that shaded her eyes. The deadly
glare of a pair of dark eyes fixed upon her met her
terrified gaze, gleaming with sullen ferocity from
the angle of the door-post, whence the upper part
of the face alone was visible, partly concealed by
a mat of tangled, shaggy, black hair. Paralysed
with fear, the poor girl neither spoke nor moved;
she uttered no cry; but pressing her hands tightly
across her breast, as if to still the loud beating
of her heart, she sat gazing upon that fearful appearance,
while, with stealthy step, the savage advanced from
his lurking-place, keeping, as he did so, his eyes
riveted upon hers, with such a gaze as the wily serpent
is said to fascinate his prey. His hapless victim
moved not; whither could she flee to escape one whose
fleet foot could so easily have overtaken her in the
race? where conceal herself from him whose wary eye
fixed upon her seemed to deprive her of all vital energy?
Uttering that singular, expressive
guttural which seems with the Indian to answer the
purpose of every other exclamation, he advanced, and
taking the girl’s ice-cold hands in his, tightly
bound them with a thong of deer’s hide, and
led her unresistingly away. By a circuitous path
through the ravine they reached the foot of the mount,
where lay a birch canoe, rocking gently on the waters,
in which a middle-aged female and a young girl were
seated. The females asked no questions, and expressed
no word indicative of curiosity or surprise, as the
strong arm of the Indian lifted his captive into the
canoe, and made signs to the elder squaw to push from
the shore. When all had taken their places, the
woman, catching up a paddle from the bottom of the
little vessel, stood up, and with a few rapid strokes
sent it skimming over the lake.
The miserable captive, overpowered
with the sense of her calamitous situation, bowed
down her head upon her knees, and concealing her agitated
face in her garments, wept in silent agony. Visions
of horror presented themselves to her bewildered brain all
that Indiana had described of the cruelty of this
vindictive race, came vividly before her mind.
Poor child, what miserable thoughts were thine during
that brief voyage!
Had the Indians also captured her
friends? or was she alone to be the victim of their
vengeance? What would be the feelings of those
I beloved ones on returning to their home and finding
it desolate! Was there no hope of release?
As these ideas chased each other through her agitated
mind, she raised her eyes all streaming with tears
to the faces of the Indian and his companions with
so piteous a look, that any heart but the stoical
one of an Indian would have softened at its sad appeal;
but no answering glance of sympathy met hers, no eye
gave back its silent look of pity not a
nerve or a muscle moved the cold apathetic features
of the Indians, and the woe-stricken girl again resumed
her melancholy attitude, burying her face in her heaving
bosom to hide its bitter emotions from the heartless
strangers.
She was not folly aware that it is
part of the Indian’s education to hide the inward
feelings of the heart, to check all those soft and
tender emotions which distinguish the civilized man
from the savage.
It does indeed need the softening
influence of that powerful Spirit, which was shed
abroad into the world to turn the hearts of the disobedient
to the wisdom of the just, to break down the strongholds
of unrighteousness, and to teach man that he is by
nature the child of wrath and victim of sin, and that
in his unregenerated nature his whole mind is at enmity
with God and his fellow-men, and that in his flesh
dwelleth no good thing. And the Indian has acknowledged
that power, he has cast his idols of cruelty
and revenge, those virtues on which he prided himself
in the blindness of his heart, to the moles and the
bats; he has bowed and adored at the foot of the Cross; but
it was not so in the days whereof I have spoken.