“Are we going to see a real Indian woman, Mr. Blake?” asked Sammy, bouncing with excitement. “Lydia said you said so.”
“She will be at the toll-gate where we hitch the horses,” answered Mr. Blake. “At least, she has been there for years, and I suppose she is here this summer, too. In fact, I think she lives near by all the year round.”
Sammy possessed his soul in such patience as he could summon, and strained his eyes up the road for the interesting figure long before it was possible for her to be in sight.
Yes, the Indian woman was standing at the toll-gate, but Sammy was distinctly disappointed when he saw her. Neither did she improve upon closer inspection.
She was merely a swarthy-skinned, black-haired woman, dressed in a checked gingham dress and blue gingham apron, neither particularly clean, and she answered to the name of Mrs. Jones. Fancy an Indian named Jones! Sammy could scarcely conceal his indignation, and stared at the unconscious Mrs. Jones with such resentment in his eye that Miss Martin hurried him swiftly through the toll-gate, and past the cabin where Indian souvenirs were displayed for sale.
The party wandered along over the damp, mossy ground, and proceeded to survey the waterfalls, all of which were fortunately within easy walking distance.
“I choose High Falls,” remarked little Tom, as they wended their way back toward the gate. “It’s so big and high, and dashes down so hard.”
Most of the children had been greatly impressed by the huge, foaming cataract, that continually dashed its white length downward with a dull, booming roar. But Mary Ellen and Polly cast their vote for the delicate Bridal Veil; while Lydia, echoed by Roger, thought Silver Thread Falls the most beautiful of all.
Near the gate were rough wooden tables and benches, and, once seated, Sammy thought somewhat better of Mrs. Jones when she served them with birch beer or sarsaparilla in thick mugs with handles.
“Now,” said Mr. Blake, when the mugs were empty, “each one must choose an Indian souvenir, in memory of the day.”