Tales of a Vanishing River

by Earl H. Reed

She cherished the traditions of her people, and their sorrows lingered in her heart. Like shriveled leaves clinging to withered boughs, her memories seemed to rustle faintly when a new breath of interest touched them, and from among these rustlings we culled the arrow’s story.

The little cabin was very old. Its furnishings were in keeping with its occupant and sufficient for her simple needs. There was a rough stone fireplace at one end of the single room. A flat projecting boulder on one side of its interior provided a shelf for the few cooking utensils. They were hung on a rickety iron swinging arm over the wood fire when in use. A much worn turkey wing, with charred edges, lay near the hearth, with which the scattered ashes were dusted back into the fireplace. A bedstead, constructed of birch saplings, occupied the other end of the room. Several coon and fox skins, neatly sewed together, and a couple of gray blankets, laid over some rush mats, completed the sleeping arrangements. With the exception of a few bunches of bright hued feathers, stuck about in various chinks, the rough walls were bare of ornament.

The other furniture consisted of a couple of low stools, a heavy rocking chair and a small pine table. A kerosene lantern and some candles illumined the squalid interior at night.

In an open space near the cabin was a small patch of cultivated ground that produced a few vegetables. Sunflowers and hollyhocks grew along its edge and gave a touch of color to the surroundings.

Waukena

The old settlers and their families, who lived in the river country, provided Waukena with most of her food supplies and the few other comforts that were necessary to her lonely existence.

Many times I studied the rugged old face in the fire light. Among the melancholy lines there lurked a certain grimness and lofty reserve. There was no humility in the modelling of the determined mouth and chin. The features were those of a mother of warriors. The blood of heroes, unknown and forgotten, was in her veins, and the savage fatalism of centuries slumbered in the placid dark eyes. It was the calmed face of one who had defied vicissitude, and who, with head unbowed, would meet finality.

My friend the historian had known her many years, and had made copious notes of her childhood recollections of the enforced departure of her tribe from the river country. She and several others had taken refuge in a swamp until the soldiers had gone. They then made their way north and dwelt for a few years near the St. Joseph, where a favored portion of the tribe was allowed to retain land, but finally returned to their old haunts.

When she was quite young her mother gave her the headless arrow, which she took from one of the recesses in the log wall and showed to us. It was a slender shaft of hickory, perfectly straight, and fragments of the dyed feathers that once ornamented it still adhered to its delicately notched base. At the other end were frayed remnants of animal fiber that had once held the point in place. There were dark stains along the shaft that had survived the years. The old squaw held it tenderly in her hands as she talked of it, and always replaced it carefully in the narrow niche when the subject was changed.