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 Snowbird. 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 Snowbird; 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 sun-rise 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, [FN: Appendix M] mocassins 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 her brothers 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 light 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, then spread down his buffalo robe on the dry grass. “There is a tent fit for a queen to sleep under, mes chères filles,” he said, eyeing his arrangements for their night shelter with great satisfaction.
He then proceeded to bait his line, and in a few minutes had a dish of splendid bass ready for the coals. 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 wile 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 fireflies 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 lightly did they spring from their low bed, wakened by the early song of the forest birds! The light curling mist hung in fleecy volumes upon 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 sylvan 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 oarlike tail, stems the current till he gains in safety the sedges on the other side.