Little Wolf: A Tale of the Western Frontier

by Mary Ann Mann Cornelius

When he came home at night, and the supper was over, and he had, as usual, seated himself by Maria and taken her hand in his, (at which signal I invariably become suddenly sleepy and am obliged to retire,) I stole away from the scene, and sitting down by my little window, looked out into the faint moonlight, and thought much and long upon the joys and sorrows of earth, but most upon its sorrows, for the "whole creation groaneth," and my own heart is always sorrowful.

I do not know why, but it may have been, and probably was, because all the anguish and sorrow that has ever come under my personal observation, has been occasioned by that drink that "biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder," that the scene of the morning mingled with the thought of my cousins below eagerly quaffing their cup of bliss; the sweetest that earth offers to youthful lips. 'Can bitter drops ever mingle there?' thought I. 'Can the honey become wormword and gall, and every joy be forgotten? Can the little speck that I thought I saw this morning on the horizon become a great cloud and overshadow us all?' In imagination I saw lovely cousin Maria pale and faded, and careworn, and cousin John's noble and manly countenance bloated and brutish, as I have seen men become by the use of stimulating drinks, and involuntarily I threw up my hands and cried, 'Is there none to help?'

It may have been a morbid condition of the mind that wrought these sad fancies, and I am sure those who have never realized the danger of the cup would treat them lightly, but you dear friend, know that from just such beginnings the most harrowing sorrows have sprung.

I know cousin John would smile if he knew what a serious matter I have made of a thing that he considers so trifling, and he is so good and kind to me, and his whole soul so free from vice, that I almost regret having put these thoughts on paper. But out of the fulness of my anxious heart I have written as perhaps I ought not.

God grant that all my fears may prove groundless, and that the serpent's sting may never, never more through another's infatuation reach our hearts, or yours.

I was at length aroused from my reverie by our Indian visitor. I caught a glimpse of him just as he emerged from the woods, and before I could go down to announce his coming, he was within, and by his noiseless footfall had taken my cousins greatly by surprise. Maria was smoothing her rumpled hair and looking rather annoyed at the unceremonious intrusion, while cousin John and his visitor were deep in the mysteries of "jargon," which being interpreted by my humble self was truly startling and shocking.

He stated that two "pale faces," were lying a short distance off, frozen to death. His supposition was that they had indulged too freely in "fire water."

Cousin John immediately accompanied him to the spot, and found indeed two men cold and stiff in death, and the empty bottle found upon their persons gave evidence of the cause. The Indian recognized one, having seen him with my dead brother, and said he was "no good pale face," and his name was Prime Hawley. They found in the pocket of the other an old letter addressed to "Hiram Green, Chimney Rock." You may possibly know something about the latter.

"Fanny Green's father, and Mrs. Hawley's husband," ejaculated Little Wolf. "Hark, Louise," she added in a whisper, "they have heard it all."

Sounds of distress were heard in the adjoining room where Mrs. Hawley was engaged in putting her little charge to rest. Both she and Fanny had heard every word of the letter and the news of the unhappy death of the husband of the one, and the father of the other, burst suddenly upon them, and deep and tearless groans of Mrs. Hawley and Fanny's heart breaking sobs mingled together.