The half-caste is generally a
lying, vicious rogue, possessing the worst qualities of both parents
in an eminent degree. We have many of these half-Indians in the
penitentiary, for crimes of the blackest dye.
The skill of the Indian in procuring his game, either by land or
water, has been too well described by better writers than I could
ever hope to be to need any illustration from my pen, and I will
close this long chapter with a droll anecdote which is told of a
gentleman in this neighbourhood.
The early loss of his hair obliged Mr. - - to procure the substitute
of a wig. This was such a good imitation of nature, that none but
his intimate friends and neighbours were aware of the fact.
It happened that he had had some quarrel with an Indian, which had
to be settled in one of the petty courts. The case was decided in
favour of Mr. - -, which so aggrieved the savage, who considered
himself the injured party, that he sprang upon him with a furious
yell, tomahawk in hand, with the intention of depriving him of his
scalp. He twisted his hand in the looks which adorned the cranium of
his adversary, when - horror of horrors! - the treacherous wig came
off in his hand, "Owgh! owgh!" exclaimed the affrighted savage,
flinging it from him, and rushing from the court as if he had been
bitten by a rattlesnake. His sudden exit was followed by peals of
laughter from the crowd, while Mr. - - coolly picked up his wig,
and drily remarked that it had saved his head.
THE INDIAN FISHERMAN'S LIGHT
The air is still, the night is dark,
No ripple breaks the dusky tide;
From isle to isle the fisher's bark
Like fairy meteor seems to glide;
Now lost in shade - now flashing bright
On sleeping wave and forest tree;
We hail with joy the ruddy light,
Which far into the darksome night
Shines red and cheerily!
With spear high poised, and steady hand,
The centre of that fiery ray,
Behold the Indian fisher stand
Prepared to strike the finny prey;
Hurrah! the shaft has sped below -
Transfix'd the shining prize I see;
On swiftly darts the birch canoe;
Yon black rock shrouding from my view
Its red light gleaming cheerily!
Around yon bluff, whose pine crest hides
The noisy rapids from our sight,
Another bark - another glides -
Red meteors of the murky night.
The bosom of the silent stream
With mimic stars is dotted free;
The waves reflect the double gleam,
The tall woods lighten in the beam,
Through darkness shining cheerily!
CHAPTER XVI
BURNING THE FALLOW
There is a hollow roaring in the air -
The hideous hissing of ten thousand flames,
That from the centre of yon sable cloud
Leap madly up, like serpents in the dark,
Shaking their arrowy tongues at Nature's heart.
