The Indian summer, which, in November, comes like breathing space, ere the mighty power of winter sweeps o'er the earth, is beautiful, with its balmy airs and soft bright skies, yet melancholy in its loveliness as a fair face in death—'tis the last smile of summer, and when the last wreath of crimson leaves fall to earth, the erratic birds take their flight to warmer lands—the bear retires to his hollow tree—the squirrel to his winter stores—and man calls forth all his genius to make him independent of the storm king's power. In this country we have a specimen of every climate at its utmost boundary of endurance; in summer we have breathless days of burning heat shining on in shadowless splendour of sunlight; but it is in the getting up of a winter's scene that New Brunswick is perfect. True, a considerable tall sample of a snow-storm can sometimes be enjoyed in England, but nothing to compare with the free and easy sweep with which the monarch of clouds flings his boons over this portion of his dominions. After the first snow-storm the woods have a grand and beautiful appearance, festooned with their garlands of feathery pearls—the raindrops which fall with the earlier snows hang like diamond pendants, and flash in the sun, "As if gems were the fruitage of every bough."
I remember once coming from St. John's by water. The frost set in rather earlier than we expected. The farther from the sea the sooner it commences; so as we proceeded up the river our boat was stopped by the crystal barrier across the stream, not strong enough yet to admit of teaming, and we had nothing for it but a walk of seven miles through the forest,—home we must proceed, though evening was closing in and darkness would soon be around us, the heavy atmosphere told of a coming storm, and ere to-morrow our path would be blocked up. America is the land of invention; and here we were, on the dreary shore, in the dusky twilight—a situation which requires the aid of philosophy. We were something in the predicament of the Russian sailors in Spitzbergen, we wanted light to guide us on the "blaze," without which we could not keep it; but beyond the gleam of a patent congreve, our means extended not. One of our company, however, a native of the country, took the matter easy. Some birch trees were growing near, from which he stripped a portion of the silvery bark, which being rolled into torches, were ignited; each carried a store, and by their brilliant light we set out on our pilgrimage. The effect of our most original Bude on the snow-wreathed forest was magical—we seemed to traverse the palace gardens of enchantment, so strange yet splendid was the scene—the snow shining pure in the distance, and the thousand ice gems gleaming ruby red in the rays of our torches. They are wondrous to walk through, those boundless forests, when one thinks that by a slight deviation from the track the path would be lost; and, ere it could be found again, the spirit grow weary in its wanderings, and, taking its flight, leave the unshrouded brows to bleach on summer flowers or winter snows, in the path where the graceful carraboo bounds past, or the bear comes guided by the tainted breeze to where it lies.
It was on this midnight ramble that the facts of the following lines were related to me, ending not, as such tales generally do, in death, but in what perchance was worse,—civilisation lost in barbarism.
Many years ago two children, daughters of a person residing in this province, were lost in the woods. What had been their fate none knew —no trace of them could be found until, after a long period of time had elapsed, one of them was discovered among some Indians, by whom they had been taken, and with whom this one had remained, the other having joined another tribe. She appeared an Indian squaw in every respect—her complexion had been stained as dark as theirs—her costume was the same, but she had blue eyes. This excited suspicion, which proved to be correct. The story of the lost children was remembered, which event occurred thirty years before. With some difficulty she was induced to meet her mother, her only remaining parent. The tide of time swept back from the mother's mind, and she hastened to embrace the child of her memory, but, alas! the change. There existed for her no love in the bosom of the lost one. Her relatives wishing to reclaim her from her savage life, earnestly besought her to remain with them, but their ways were not as her's—she felt as a stranger with them, and rejoined the Indian band, with whom she still remains.
THE LOST CHILDREN.
At early morn a mother stood,
Her hands were raised to heaven.
And she praised Almighty God
For the blessings He had given;
But far too deep were they
Encircled in her heart,—
Too deep for human weal,
For earth and love must part.
She looked with hope too bright
On the forms that by her bent,
And loved, by far too fondly,
Those treasures God had sent.
They bound her to the earth,
With love's own golden chain,
How were its bright links severed
By the spirit's wildest pain?
She parted the rich tresses,
And kissed each snowy brow,
And where, oh! happy mother,
Was one so blest as thou?
The summer sun was shining
All cloudless o'er the lea,
When forth her children bounded,
In childhood's summer glee.
They strayed along the woody banks,
All fringed with sunny green,
Where, like a silver serpent,
The river ran between.
Their glad young voices rose,
As they thought of flower or bird,
And they sang the joyous fancies
That in each spirit stirred.
Oh! sister, see that humming bird;
Saw ye ever ought so fair?
With wings of gold and ruby,
He sparkles through the air;
Let us follow where he flies
O'er yonder hazel dell,
For oh! it must be beautiful
Where such a thing can dwell.
Yet to me it seemeth still,
That his rest must be on high;
Methinks his plumes are bathed
In the even's crimson sky:
How lovely is this earth,
Where such fair things we see,
And yet how much more glorious
The power that bids them be!
Nay, sister, let us stay
Where those water lilies float,
So spotless and so pure
Like a fairy's pearly boat.
Listen to the melody
That cometh soft and low,
As through the twining tendrils
The water glides below.
Perchance 'twas in a spot like this,
And by a stream as mild,
Where the Jewish mother laid
Her gentle Hebrew child.
Then rested they beneath the trees,
Where, through the leafy shade,
In ever-changing radiance,
The broken sun-light played;
And spoke in words, whose simple truth
Revealed the guileless soul,
Till softly o'er their senses
A quiet slumber stole.
Lo! now a form comes glancing
Along the waters blue,
And moored among the lilies
Lay an Indian's dark canoe.
The days of ancient feud were gone.
The axe was buried deep.
And stilled the red man's warfare,
In unawaking sleep.
Why stands he then so silently,
Where those fair children lie?
And say, what means the flashing
Of the Indian's eagle eye?
He thinks him of his lonely spouse,
Within her forest glade;
Around her silent dwelling
No children ever played.
No voice arose to greet him
When he at eve would come,
But sadness ever hovered
Around his dreary home.
Oh! with those lovely rose-buds
Were my lone hearth-stone blest,
My richest food should cheer them,
My softest furs should rest.
Their kindred drive us onward,
Where the setting sunbeams shine;
They claim our father's heritage,
Why may not these be mine?
He raised the sleeping children,
Oh! sad and dreary day!
And o'er the dancing waters
He bore them far away.
He wiled their hearts' young feelings
With words and actions kind,
And soon the past went fading
All dream-like from their mind.
Oh! brightly sped the beaming sun
Along his glorious way,
And feathery clouds of golden light
Around his parting lay.
In beauty came the holy stars,
All gleaming mid the blue,
It seemed as o'er the lovely earth
A blessed calm they threw.
A sound of grief arose
On the dewy evening air,
It bore the bitter anguish
Of a mortal's wild despair;
A wail like that which sounded
Throughout Judea's land,
When Herod's haughty minions
Obeyed his dark command.
The mourning mother wept
Because her babes were not,
Their forms were gone for ever
From each familiar spot.
Oh! had they sought the river,
And sunk beneath its wave;
Or had the dark recesses
Of the forest been their grave.
The same deep tinge of sorrow,
Each surmise ever bore;
Her gems from her were taken;
Of their fate she knew no more.
Long years of withering woe went on,
Each sadly as the last,
To other's ears the theme became
A legend of the past.
But she, oh! bright she cherished
Their memory enshrined,
With all a mother's fondness
And fadeless truth entwined.
Many a hope she treasured
In sorrow's gloom had burst,
But still her spirit knew
No grieving like the first.
Along her faded forehead
The hand of time had crost,
And every furrow told
Her mourning for the lost.
With such deep love within her,
What words the truth could give,
Howe'er she heard the tidings—
"Thy children yet they live."
But one alone was near,
And with rushing feelings wild,
The aged mother flew
To meet once more her child.
A moment passed away—
The lost one slowly came,
And stood before her there—
A tall and dark-browed dame.
Far from her swarthy forehead
Her raven hair was roll'd;
She spoke to those around her,
Her voice was stern and cold:
"Why seek ye here to bind me,
I would again be free;
They say ye are my kindred—
But what are ye to me?
My spring of youth was past
With the people of the wild:
And slumber in the green-wood
My husband and my child.
'Tis true I oft have seen ye
In the visions of the night;
But many a shadow comes
From the dreamer's land of light.
If e'er I've been among ye,
Save in my wandering thought,
The memory has passed away—
Ye long have been forgot."
And were not these hard words to come
To that fond mother's heart,
Who through such years of agony
Had kept her loving part.
Her wildest wish was granted—
Her deepest prayer was heard—
Yet it but served to show her
How deeply she had err'd.
The mysteries of God's high will
May not be understood;
And mortals may not vainly ask,
To them, what seemeth good.
With spirit wrung to earth,
In grief she bowed her head:
"Oh! better far than meet thee thus,
To mourn thee with the dead."
But, think ye, He who comforted
The widowed one of Nain—
Who bade the lonely Hagar
With hope revive again?
Think ye that mother's trusting love
Should bleed without a balm?
No! o'er the troubled spirit
There came a blessed calm.
Amid the savage relics
Around her daughter flung,
Upon her naked bosom
A crucifix there hung.
And though the simple Indian
False tenets might enthral—
Yet, 'twas the blessed symbol
Of Him who died for all.
And the mourner's heart rejoiced
For the promise seemed to say—
She shall be thine in Heaven,
When the world has passed away.
Tho' now ye meet as strangers,
Yet there ye shall be one;
And live in love for ever,
When time and earth are gone.