"There was a little maiden sitting at the door of the cabin—she was not grown to womanhood, nor dreamed yet of tender lovers—she was a fawn in its second season, a tree wanting but a few more suns to be clothed with the blossoms of maturity. By her side sat a boy, who might be two or three harvests older. The little maiden rose from the smooth sward where she sat, and throwing her white arms around the neck of her father, begged hard for the strangers. The boy came, and joined her in her prayers. The hardhearted man granted to the entreaties of his children what compassion would not bestow. The Indian was fed—his wife was fed—his babe was fed. Dost thou hear?"
"I hear," said the delighted hunter, grasping the hand of the noble warrior, while tears streamed down his sun-burnt cheek.
"That boy was the prisoner, whom the Pequods, four suns since, carried away from yonder vale—and the famished hunter was he who unbound thy limbs, and who saved that compassionate maiden, by the song he poured into the ears of his brothers, of an angry spirit, seen by the light of the blazing cabin among the boughs of the chesnut-tree.
"Learn, pale face, that an Indian can be grateful. A crust of bread, and a draught of water, bestowed upon the red man, or those he loves, weigh down the memory of a thousand wrongs—a kind look dispels the frown from his brow—a kind word checks the purpose of vengeance, which, unchecked, is like a fire carried by a high wind to a field of dry grass. Thou and thine did me a deed of kindness—preserved the life of her whose bright eyes are the light of my cabin—and of the boy who will, one day, bend the bow of a hunter, and be taught to utter the cry of vengeance on the hills—fear not, thou art safe in the land whence his fathers were banished. Thou and thine did this for the Son of Annawan, the Fleet Foot of his tribe, and he will never forget it—till the stars forget to shine, and the moon to become the lamp of the dark hours. Say, in the ears of the Fair Hair that I gave her cabin to the devouring flames, before I knew it was hers. But the season will soon come when the beaver will be sleek and glossy; and an otter worth more than an arrow—the spoils of the Fleet Foot's winter hunt shall rebuild the cabin of the flower of the the pale faces."
So saying, the Son of Annawan, the great chief, who once was the lord of those boundless regions, disappeared in the forest, and was seen no more among white men.
NOTE.
Pity, or compassion, or gratitude, or love.—p. 270.
The Indians are extremely cool and circumspect in every word and action; there is nothing that hurries them into any intemperate warmth, but that inveteracy to their enemies, which is rooted in every Indian heart, and can never be eradicated. In all other instances they are cool, and remarkably cautious, taking care not to betray on any account their emotions. If an Indian has discovered that a friend is in danger of being intercepted and cut off by one to whom he has rendered himself obnoxious, he does not inform him in plain and explicit terms of the danger he runs by pursuing the track near which the enemy lies in wait for him, but he drily asks him which way he is going that day, and, having received his answer, with the same indifference tells him that he has been informed that a dog lies near the spot, which might probably do him a mischief. This hint proves sufficient.
This apathy often shows itself on occasions that would call forth the fervour of a susceptible heart. If an Indian has been absent from his family and friends many months, either on a war or hunting party, when his wife or children meet him at some distance from his habitation, instead of the affectionate sensations that would naturally arise in the breasts of more refined beings, and be productive of mutual congratulations, he continues his course without paying the least attention to those who surround him, till he arrives at his home.
He there sits down, and, with the same unconcern as if he had not been absent a day, smokes his pipe; those of his acquaintance who have followed him do the same, and perhaps it is several hours before he relates to them the incidents which have befallen him during his absence, though perhaps he has left a father, brother, or son, on the field, whose loss he ought to have lamented.