THE INDIAN AND THE PLANTER.
By the door of his house a planter stood,
In fair Virginia’s clime,
When the setting sun had tinged the wood
With its golden hue sublime.
The lands of this planter were broadly spread,
He lacked not gold or gear,
And his house had plenty of meat and bread
To make them goodly cheer.
An Indian came from the forest deep,
A hunter in weary plight,
Who in humble accents asked to sleep
’Neath the planter’s roof that night.
To the Indian’s need he took no heed,
But forbade his longer stay;
“Then give me,” he said, “but a crust of bread,
And I’ll travel on my way.”
In wrath the planter this denied,
Forgetting the golden rule;
“Then give me, for mercy’s sake,” he cried,
“A cup of water cool.
“All day I have travell’d o’er fen and bog,
In chase of the bounding deer;”
“Away,” cried the planter, “you Indian dog,
For you shall have nothing here.”
The Indian turned to his distant home,
Though hungry and travel sore,
And the planter enter’d his goodly dome,
Nor thought of the Indian more.
When the leaves were sere, to chase the deer,
This self same planter went,
And bewildered stood, in a dismal wood,
When the day was fully spent.
He had lost his way in the chase that day,
And in vain to find it tried,
When a glimmering light fell on his sight,
From a wigwam close beside.
He thither ran, and a savage man
Received him as a guest;
He brought him cheer, the flesh of deer,
And gave him of the best.
Then kindly spread for the white man’s bed,
His softest skins beside,
And at break of day, through the forest way,
Went forth to be his guide.
At the forest’s verge, did the planter urge,
His service to have paid,
But the savage bold refused his gold,
And thus to the white man said:
“I came of late to the white man’s gate,
And weary and faint was I,
Yet neither meat, nor water sweet,
Did the Indian’s wants supply.
“Again should he come to the white man’s home
My service let him pay,
Nor say, again to the fainting man,
You ‘Indian dog, away!’”
THE INDIAN AND THE BASKET.[7]
Among Rhode Island’s early sons,
Was one whose orchards fair,
By plenteous and well-flavored fruit,
Rewarded all his care.
For household use they stored the best,
And all the rest conveyed
To neighboring mill, were ground and press’d,
And into cider made.
The wandering Indian oft partook
The generous farmer’s cheer;
He liked his food, but better still
His cider fine and clear.
And as he quaff’d the pleasant draught,
The kitchen fire before,
He longed for some to carry home,
And asked for more and more.
The farmer saw a basket new
Beside the Indian bold,
And smiling said, “I’ll give to you
As much as that will hold.”
Both laughed, for how could liquid thing
Within a basket stay;
But yet the jest unanswering,
The Indian went his way,
When next from rest the farmer sprung,
So very cold the morn,
The icicles like diamonds hung
On every spray and thorn.
The brook that babbled by his door
Was deep, and clear, and strong,
And yet unfettered by the frost,
Leaped merrily along.
The self-same Indian by this brook.
The astonished farmer sees;
He laid his basket in the stream,
Then hung it up to freeze.
And by this process oft renewed,
The basket soon became
A well-glazed vessel, tight and good,
Of most capacious frame.
The door he entered speedily,
And claim’d the promis’d boon,
The farmer, laughing heartily,
Fulfilled his promise soon.
Up to the basket’s brim he saw
The sparkling cider rise,
And to rejoice his absent squaw,
He bore away the prize.
Long lived the good man at the farm,—
The house is standing still,
And still leaps merrily along,
The much diminished rill.
And his descendants still remain,
And tell to those who ask it,
The story they have often heard
About the Indian’s basket.
