APPENDIX C.
Page 113.—“... as civilization advances.”
Formerly the Rice Lake Plains abounded in deer, wolves, bears, raccoons, wolverines, foxes, and wild animals of many kinds. Even a few years ago, and bears and wolves were not unfrequent in their depredations; and the ravines sheltered herds of deer; but now the sight of the former is a thing of rare occurrence, and the deer are scarcely to be seen, so changed is this lovely wilderness, that green pastures and yellow cornfields now meet the eye on every side, and the wild beasts retire to the less frequented depths of the forest.
From the undulating surface, the alternations of high hills, deep valleys, and level table-lands, with the wide prospect they command, the Rice Lake Plains still retain their picturesque beauty, which cannot be marred by the hand of the settler even be he ever so devoid of taste; and many of those who have chosen it as their home are persons of taste and refinement, who delight in adding to the beauty of that which Nature had left so fair.
APPENDIX D. Page 157, note.
“I will now,” says our Indian historian, “narrate a single circumstance which will convey a correct idea of the sufferings to which Indians were often exposed. To obtain furs of different kinds for the traders, we had to travel far into the woods, and remain there the whole winter. Once we left Rice Lake in the fall, and ascended the river in canoes as far as Belmont Lake. There were five families about to hunt with my father on his ground. The winter began to set in, and the river having frozen over, we left the canoes, the dried venison, the beaver, and some flour and pork; and when we had gone further north, say about sixty miles from the white settlements, for the purpose of hunting, the snow fell for five days in succession, to such a depth, that it was impossible to shoot or trap anything; our provisions were exhausted, and we had no means of procuring any more. Here we were, the snow about five feet deep, our wigwam buried, the branches of the trees falling all about us, and cracking with the weight of the snow.
“Our mother (who seems, by-the-bye, from the record of her son, to have been a most excellent woman) boiled birch-bark for my sister and myself, that we might not starve. On the seventh day some of us were so weak they could not guard themselves, and others could not stand alone. They could only crawl in and out of the wigwam. We parched beaver skins and old mocassins for food. On the ninth day none of the men could go abroad except my father and uncle. On the tenth day, still being without food, the only ones able to walk about the wigwam were my father, my grandmother, my sister, and myself. Oh, how distressing to see the starving Indians lying about the wigwam with hungry and eager looks!—the children would cry for something to eat! My poor mother would heave bitter sighs, of despair, the tears falling profusely from her cheeks as she kissed us! Wood, though in plenty, could not be obtained on account of the feebleness of our limbs. My father would at times draw near the fire and rehearse some prayer to the gods. It appeared to him that there was no way of escape; the men, women, and children, dying; some of them were speechless, the wigwam was cold and dark, and covered with snow!
“On the eleventh day, just before daylight, my father fell into a sleep; he soon awoke, and said to me: ‘My son, the good Spirit is about to bless us this night; in my dream I saw a person coming from the east walking on the tops of the trees; he told me we should obtain two beavers about nine o’clock. Put on your mocassins, and go along with me to the river, and we will hunt beaver, perhaps, for the last time.’ I saw that his countenance beamed with delight and hope; he was full of confidence. I put on my mocassins and carried my snow-shoes, staggering along behind him about half a mile. Having made a fire near the river, where there was an air-hole through which the beaver had come up during the night, my father tied a gun to a stump with the muzzle towards the air-hole; he also tied a string to the trigger, and said, ‘Should you see the beaver rise pull the string, and you will kill it.’ I stood by the fire, with the string in my hand; I soon heard the noise occasioned by the blow of his tomahawk; he had killed a beaver and brought it to me. As he laid it down, he said, ‘Then the great Spirit will not let us die here;’ adding, as before, ‘if you see the beaver rise, pull the string;’ and he left me. I soon saw the nose of one, but I did not shoot. Presently, another came up; I pulled the trigger, and off the gun went. I could not see for some moments for the smoke. My father ran towards me with the two beavers, and laid them side by side; then, pointing to the sun,—‘Do you see the sun?’ he said; ‘the great Spirit informed me that we should kill these two about this time in the morning. We will yet see our relatives at Rice Lake. Now let us go home, and see if our people are yet alive.’ We arrived just in time to save them from death. Since which we have visited the same spot the year the missionaries came among us.
“My father knelt down, with feelings of gratitude, on the very spot where we had nearly perished. Glory to God! I have heard of many who have perished in this way far up in the woods.”—Life of George Copway, written by himself, p. 44.