Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 3

by James Athearn Jones

Several seasons had passed away; the little girl, who had so kindly interposed to feed the miserable Indians, had grown to womanhood, and had become the wife of that boy and a mother. Her husband was a cultivator of the soil, and with the disposition to seek new lands, and try untried regions, which every where belongs to white men, he had built himself a cabin very far from the spot where he and his wife drew their breath. On the banks of a distant river, on a pleasantly situated little hill, which enjoyed the bright morning sun, he erected his cabin and sowed his wheat. He went not, however, to the wilderness alone: many other white men went with him, and, for protection against the red men of the forest, whose wrongs had stirred them to bitter hatred and revenge, they built a fort, to which they might retreat in case of danger. The cabin of the benefactors of the starving Indian family was at a distance of a mile from the fort—the husband being the first who had ventured to reside at such a distance from a garrison or fortified house.

"I shall return before dark," said he one day to his affectionate wife, as he was preparing to go down to the fort on some business. "There is no danger, my beloved," continued he, as he took up his little son, and, kissing him, laid him in his fond mother's arms.

"But my dreams, my husband—my frightful dreams of tall savages and shrill war-whoops!" said she.

"Oh! that should not frighten you," he replied. "Remember, you had been listening all the evening to dark and terrific stories of what had been done by the native warrior when he raised his arm in defence of his birth-place. Dreams are caused by that which most engrosses our thoughts—particularly just as we are going to sleep. There have not been any traces of the Indians discovered this season, and I should be sorry to raise an alarm among our friends merely upon account of a dream."

"But you know, my husband," said she, "that they are a secret, as well as a terrible enemy—they are, you know, eagles for daring, panthers for fierceness, adders for secrecy, and foxes for cunning." And she raised her mild eyes to her husband's face with that pleading expression when tears seem ready to start, and are yet checked by the fear of giving pain to the one beloved. A fond husband finds it impossible to withstand the tears of his wife, and he said, quickly, "I will not go to the garrison to-day."

"But you promised your father, and he will expect you," answered she. "You must go. I know my fears are the fears of a child, but they shall not make me wicked. I am too apt to think my security depends on your presence. I forgot that the One mighty to save can defend me, and that trust in Him is a shield to the believer. You must go."

"But I will not go without you," said her husband, who now began to feel the fears she was endeavouring to shake off. "Come, prepare the child, and we will go down together. If there has been any alarm, we will not return to-night, but pass it under the protection of the fort."

The wife paused a few moments, as if considering what she should do. I need not tell you, for you know that nothing is so difficult to explain—nothing so contradictory as the feelings and wishes of the human heart. A few moments since she would have thought that if she could accompany her husband she should be perfectly safe—that his presence would obviate every danger ere it arose. But now other considerations presented themselves to her mind. If he went not to the council, he might incur reproof for listening to a woman's fears and dreams; and dread of ridicule prevented her from accompanying him.

"I will have more fortitude," said she, smiling. "I will not make a fool of you, though I appear like one myself—you shall not have reason to be ashamed of your wife—I will not go." And she sat down resolutely, determined to conquer her fears. It was in vain that her husband urged her to accompany him. The more she saw his affectionate anxiety on her account, the more she laboured to suppress her fears, till finally she persuaded him, and herself too, that she felt no uneasiness at all from the prospect of passing a lengthened period alone, and he departed.

But she had affected resolution which she was far from feeling. She felt a presentiment that danger was nigh, and it weighed heavily on her heart. But she saw him depart without tears, and, after watching him from the door till he entered the forest, betook herself to the usual duties of a woman in the house of her husband. Yet she could not forbear going frequently to the door, and sometimes she would wander forth, and gaze all around their little field, and then watch the progress of the sun, with an expression of countenance, that, to an observer, would instantly have revealed the agitation and anxiety which her heart was suffering. But she saw nothing to inspire fears—indeed there was much to tranquillize them. Every thing abroad was in perfect quiet. There was scarcely a breath of air perceptible; and the waters of the beautiful Merrimack flowed without a ripple. The calm sky of the last month of summer looked of a deeper and more heavenly blue, seen as it was by her from a spot circumscribed by tall trees, now clothed with such a fulness of foliage as made the forest appear dark and almost impenetrable. Close around the house were planted corn and vegetables; and a field of wheat, in front of the dwelling, stretched in unbroken green to the river's brink. There was not a sound to be heard—save the chirping of a robin that had built her nest on a lofty chesnut which stood close to the south-east corner of the house—the only tree suffered to grow within the enclosure. The young birds were fully fledged, and, under the guidance of the parents, were about quitting their nest. The lovely wife watched their movements; the old birds now encouraging, now seeming to chide, their timid offspring, till finally they reached the woods, and all disappeared. Slight as the circumstance was, it touched her with a feeling of loneliness. "Even the birds have left me," said she to herself, and, pressing her boy closer to her bosom, she burst into tears. She might well be excused these tears and feelings, for, though a wife and mother, she had seen the leaves fall but seventeen times.