“So says Mistress Standish. I told her, as indeed I tell her most matters; but when she had listened, her first word was, ‘I hope neither you nor the governor will noise this story abroad, for it might do much harm, and could do no good.’ A prudent woman is”—
“From the Lord,” said Bradford. “And you and I have cause to thank Him for the gift.”
The talk drifted to other matters; and as the weeks and months went on, the subject was not resumed until March came in with all the chilly rigor of a New England seashore spring, and yet with certain fitful gleams and promises of better things in store. It was in the midst of one of those tempestuous storms incident to March, and always reminding one of a fascinating naughty child’s passionate burst of temper, that Hobomok appeared at the Fort, escorting a stranger Indian.
“Weetonawah wants head chief,” announced he succinctly.
The captain looked up from his Cæsar, and laid down his pipe.
“Weetonawah is welcome,” said he in the Pokanoket dialect, which he had acquired in perfection. “But Hobomok should not bring him here. The head chief’s wigwam is below the hill.”
“Pokanokets like The-Sword-of-the-White-Men best,” replied the stranger in a final sort of manner, and Hobomok’s suppressed “Hugh!” seemed to indorse the sentiment. Standish smiled,—for who does not love to be trusted above his fellows?—and, rising, he threw his cloak about his shoulders, saying,—
“Well, we will seek the head chief together, and take counsel upon thy matters, Weetonawah.”
So, unmindful of the rain, as men who live close to Nature will still become, the three went down the hill, and found Bradford in his study reading the Georgics, until such time as the weather would permit him to plough his own fields; for now that “oxen strong to labor” had immigrated, their fellow-colonists were able to improve upon the earlier methods of agriculture, and the plough had superseded the hoe whose rude labors had slain John Carver. Laying aside the book, but with its pleasant influence upon his face, Bradford received his guests, gave a cup of metheglin to each of the Indians, who would rather it had been Nantz, and asked Standish what he would take, but the captain shook his head.
“I’ve had my noon meat, and care for nothing until night. Now, Weetonawah, tell out your tidings to the head chief.”