“Mary never knew, till she was ten years old, but that she was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Gray. At this time her mother thought best to inform her how she had been brought to them. She was grieved, at first, and cried very hard; but she could not comprehend how it was possible that they who had watched her—nursed her—loved and supported her from earliest infancy, should not be her own father, and mother, and brother; and, instead of indulging childish curiosity respecting her real parents, she treated the whole as an unpleasant story, and strove to forget it; and, with her sweet, happy disposition, she was not long in doing this; and very soon she smiled as sweetly—and sang as merrily—and danced as gaily over the meadows, as she had done before. About this time a distressing war broke out, called ‘King Philip’s War;’ and the times were more distressing than you, my dear children, can well imagine. There is no correct history of those times; but the most considerable account you will find in Captain ‘Church’s History of Philip’s War.’ The Indians, when they took any of the white people prisoners, treated them very cruelly; and, sometimes, put them to death with great torture.”
“I’ve read all about that, and I don’t blame the Indians at all!” said George Gray, starting to his feet with much earnestness, while his eyes almost flashed fire; “what right had the white people to come here and cheat them—and rob them of their lands—and drive them from their houses? Philip was a noble fellow! If I had lived then I would have been on his side—at any rate—I would!!”
“And, brother,” said Ann, catching some of his warmth, “don’t you remember what our last fourth of July orator said of Philip?”
“Yes,” returned George, quickly, “these were his very words: ‘Philip, the hero of Mount Hope, though a savage, was a man—and a noble man—and had he lived in other times and other circumstances, he might have been a Cæsar—an Alexander—a Napoleon:—and what is saying more, and the most that can be said of any man—a Washington!’” and the boy walked the room quickly, while his burning cheek and flashing eye told that his spirit was getting too strong for his young bosom.
“We will not dispute now whether the English or the Indians were right or wrong,” said the prudent grandmother. “Doubtless they were both to blame. Well, when Mary Wallace was about ten years old, and her brother fifteen, Mr. Gray and William went to join the forces of Captain Church. Mary it was who buckled on their knapsacks and pinned their collars on the morning of their first departure. She would not have cried a single tear if she could have avoided it, because her mother was so much distressed; but it was such a dreadful thing to see them going away, and to think they might never return, that poor Mary sobbed and wept as if her heart was breaking; and when they said ‘farewell, Mary!’ her heart was so full she could not speak; and when they stepped from the threshold, poor Mary hid her face in her mother’s lap, because she could not bear to see them go. But after she had wept a while, Mrs. Gray wiped away her tears and got the Bible and bade her read; and they were comforted.
“Every morning and evening Mary Wallace knelt by her little bedside and prayed to God for the safe return of her father and brother. They came home occasionally, but for the space of two years they were gone most of the time. They met, however, with no serious accident; and Mary and her mother had much reason to be thankful.
“One pleasant day during the second summer of the war, Mary had taken her little basket, and calling Hunter, a large dog, she went to gather berries; but, not finding the fruit plenty, she wandered farther into the woods than she should have done at that dangerous time. She was very busy picking some nice large berries, which she had found in great abundance, when, presently, she thought she heard a groan; and, without waiting to think there might be danger, she swung her basket on her arm and skipped through the bushes, followed by Hunter. Very soon she saw a large Indian seated upon a flat rock and leaning against a tree behind him, with a tomahawk and a bundle of arrows laid at his side. Almost any little girl would have been frightened, and have run away crying; and, indeed, Mary Wallace herself felt that it might be wrong to approach him when she thought of her poor, lone mother; and she was just going to turn back and run home with all her might, when she saw that the poor man was pale and faint, and could not sit upright but for the tree against which he leaned. But what, in reality, could Mary have to fear? She was known to most of the tribes around, very few of whom had not, at some time or other, felt her kindness. Her little room was decorated with numerous tokens of Indian gratitude, in the shape of wampum belts and baskets, curious shells and stones, and many other things; and the Indians called her ‘the child of Sunshine’—‘the Flower’—‘the Lily,’ and many other endearing names; but mostly, ‘the Bird of Peace.’ Instead of running away, as she had at first thought to do, Mary drew near the Indian and saw that he was asleep, or had fainted from loss of blood, which was flowing fast from a large wound in his leg. The sight of blood naturally made Mary feel sick and dizzy; but, without hesitation, she took a little shawl from her neck and bound it round the limb. The dog, as soon as he smelt the blood, began to bark furiously; and this, together with the pain caused by binding the wound, aroused the Indian, who, thinking, probably, that the enemy had fallen upon him, clenched his tomahawk and uttered a fearful cry. Mary trembled an instant, as if she already felt the blow; but she saw that he was still very faint; and, taking courage, she caught his arm and said, in the Indian tongue, ‘Fear not, father, it is Mary!’ and as he looked upon her, she pointed to the limb which she had nearly bandaged. He appeared very grateful when he saw what she had done, but he was too weak and faint to say much; and he only whispered, as he placed his hand on the child’s head, ‘Welcome, daughter of Heaven!’
“Little Mary then ran home as fast as she could, and told her mother about the poor wounded man, and asked her for some food; and her mother gave her some new milk, and some beer, and bread. Mrs. Gray went out with her and carried a blanket to cover him; and she bound up the wound better than Mary could, putting on some healing balsam. They persuaded him to partake of the food; and, afterward, assisted him to a shelter under a rock, where they left him quite comfortable.
“The next day Mary asked permission to go and carry food to the sick Indian; and, calling Hunter, she took the basket her mother gave her, and went to the woods. When she arrived at the rock she found that the sick man had risen and was seated on the top of the rock; and by his side an Indian woman, who was caressing him with much affection. Little Mary had come quite near before they saw her; for she stepped very lightly; but as soon as the old man did perceive her, he said in English, ‘Behold the Bird of Peace!’ As he spoke the woman looked earnestly at Mary for several minutes, and then she cried out, ‘My lily! my blossom! my babee!’ and, springing from the rock, she caught the child in her arms and almost suffocated her with tears and caresses.
“Little Mary alarmed and strangely agitated, whispered, ‘Let me go home to my mother—do let me go home!’