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 bowstring, 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 of 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 are 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 eat her 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 red-wings rise from among them as the canoe passes near—their bright shoulder-knots glance like flashes of lightning in the sun-beams.
This low swampy island, filled with driftwood, these grey hoary trees, half choked and killed with grey moss and lichens—those straggling alders and black ash look melancholy—they are like premature old age, grey-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, and 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—Gores’ 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 belong 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. [FN: Appendix N.] 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 steep cliff-like shoulder of that steep bank, and now, out of breath, 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 grey ashes—old Wolfe is not there—all is silent—and Catharine sits down to still the beating of her heart and await the coming up 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 with 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 their 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 its 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; but 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 father’s 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 she would have said. “Thy home shall be my home, thy God my God.”
“Well, mon ami, 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. Well, 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 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.