Towandahoc and Ponawtan wondered when they saw her kneeling in prayer, but did not interfere with the lovely child; and doubtless this daily habit not only kept up within her mind purer notions of God and duty than she could otherwise have entertained, but enabled her to cherish a more vivid remembrance of the parents she believed to be dead, and of the beautiful home of her infancy. Never hearing aught spoken but the Indian tongue, the little girl would soon have entirely forgotten her native language, had it not been for this daily practice, which kept at least some words of English fresh in her memory.
Among the indistinct, but most pleasing recollections of the home of her early childhood, was one of a boy with curly black hair and smiling face, who brought her beautiful flowers, and made for her rabbits out of his handkerchief, and pretty little boats out of nut-shells. She remembered eagerly leaning over the water, watching the tiny bark till it got out of sight, while he held her hand tightly, for fear she should fall into the water. Another scene, of a different character, was imprinted upon her mind, never to be erased—that fearful waking, when the flames crackled and roared around her, and the thick smoke filled the air, when she called upon her father for help, but no father was there; and when her dark-skinned father Towandahoc rushed in to her rescue. When she thought of this night of horror, she instinctively clasped her hands before her eyes, to shut out the fearful sight.
These remembrances, however, did not hinder the bright and lively child from being very happy in her new life. And why not? True, here were none of the conveniences or refinements of civilized life, but the little girl grew up without the feeling of their loss, and
"Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."
No mirrors reflected her erect and graceful figure, unspoiled by corset or by long, wearisome hours of confinement at the school-bench; it was lithe and well-proportioned as one of Diana's nymphs; but instead, she arranged her golden tresses, and decked her head with a wreath of wild-flowers, bending over a small mountain lake, which she had appropriated to her own use, and which served her as bathing-house, dressing-room, and looking-glass, all in one. No Turkey or Persian carpets were spread upon the floor, no sofa with rich carving and velvet seat invited her to indolence; but instead, she trod upon soft green moss, sweet grass and flowers, and when weary, reposed upon such seat as Dame Nature provides for her children in her beautiful mansion—the old stump, the mossy bank, the well-washed rock, or the tree prostrated by a storm. No sparkling fountain rose into the air, and fell into its ornamented basin, to please her taste; but the mountain waterfall, of which this is but a feeble imitation, rushed down the rocks in snow-white foam, near her cabin; and she would gaze upon it for hours with delight. To the imaginative mind, to the eye and the ear open to the impressions of beauty, nature has many school-books, unopened in the great city, and amid the busy haunts of men; and her ready scholars may gain many a lesson from the great common mother, undreamt of amid the cares of business, the dreams of ambition, and the bustle of fictitious wants. To Orikama the world was one vast temple: instead of marble pillars with Corinthian capitals, instead of Gothic aisles and dark Cathedrals, her eye rested with admiration upon the nobler, loftier columns of trees that had grown for centuries, crowned with graceful spreading foliage; upon long avenues, whose overlapping branches formed a natural arch, imitated long since by man, and called an invention; upon the deep recesses of forests, with their "dim religious light," or with their sudden, glorious illumination, when the last rays of the sun stream in lengthwise, with coloring as rich as any painted window can furnish. Her choristers were the birds; her incense the sweet perfume which the grateful earth and her innocent children the flowers continually offer up to their Maker: instead of the gaudy chandelier, she gazed upon the full-orbed moon, hanging like a silver lamp from its dome of blue, and forcibly recalling the Divine Hand which placed it there. All nature had a voice and a meaning to her, and in the absence of the ordinary means of education, and of the invaluable aids of the Christian ministry, her pure and religious soul
"Found tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing."
Living thus constantly in the open air, while her mind expanded in tranquil beauty, she grew up a blooming, healthful maiden, whose kindly, candid nature shone out through a countenance of rare loveliness.
"Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self."
None were there to flatter the young girl, and to awaken that uneasy vanity which fills the mind with the consciousness of observation, and gives awkwardness to the timid, and affectation to the self-possessed. Seeing herself so different from those she loved the best, the fair Water-Lily often wished she could darken her skin and hair, that she might more resemble others. Nor think that Orikama was totally unaccomplished; her kind mother Ponawtan taught her all she herself knew—to fear and love the Great Spirit; to be obedient, kind, and patient; to speak the truth, and to bear pain without a murmur. She learned that important part of the Indian woman's duty, to raise the vegetables needed for their simple repasts, and to prepare savory dishes of venison and other game; to fabricate their garments, ornamenting them with uncommon skill and taste, and to manufacture baskets of exquisite workmanship. These were her tasks: and when they were accomplished, how joyfully did she bound off to the woods, or up the hills, to gather herbs and barks, such as observation and tradition taught the children of the forest to employ in the cure of diseases: she knew all the trees, shrubs, and roots which grew in that region, and was skilled in domestic surgery, such as woman has ever practised where medical colleges are unknown. In her frequent and distant excursions for this purpose, she had attained one accomplishment not to be taught in schools; her voice was one of exquisite tone and great compass, peculiarly rich and mellow; and she had learned to imitate the birds in their varied warblings, so that frequently answers would be returned to her from the deceived songsters of the wood. Then, louder still would ring the notes, and the feathered tribe were excited to emulation by the young girl, singing in the gayety of her heart.