We bounded down the steep bank to the lake shore.
Life is a blessing, a precious boon indeed, in such an hour, and we
felt happy in the mere consciousness of existence - the glorious
privilege of pouring out the silent adoration of the heart to the
Great Father in his universal temple.
On entering the wigwam, which stood within a few yards of the
clearing, in the middle of a thick group of cedars, we found Mrs.
Tom alone with her elvish children, seated before the great fire
that burned in the centre of the camp; she was busy boiling some
bark in an iron spider. The little boys, in red flannel shirts which
were their only covering, were tormenting a puppy, which seemed to
take their pinching and pummelling in good part, for it neither
attempted to bark nor to bite, but, like the eels in the story,
submitted to the infliction because it was used to it. Mrs. Tom
greeted us with a grin of pleasure, and motioned to us to sit down
upon a buffalo-skin, which, with a courtesy so natural to the
Indians, she had placed near her for our accommodation.
"You are all alone," said I, glancing round the camp.
"Ye'es; Indian away hunting - Upper Lakes. Come home with much deer."
"And Susan, where is she?"
"By and by. (Meaning that she was coming.) Gone to fetch water - ice
thick - chop with axe - take long time."
As she ceased speaking, the old blanket that formed the door of the
tent was withdrawn, and the girl, bearing two pails of water, stood
in the open space, in the white moonlight. The glow of the fire
streamed upon her dark, floating locks, danced in the black,
glistening eye, and gave a deeper blush to the olive cheek! She
would have made a beautiful picture; Sir Joshua Reynolds would have
rejoiced in such a model - so simply graceful and unaffected, the
very beau ideal of savage life and unadorned nature. A smile of
recognition passed between us. She put down her burden beside Mrs.
Tom, and noiselessly glided to her seat.
We had scarcely exchanged a few words with our favourite, when the
old squaw, placing her hand against her ear, exclaimed, "Whist!
whist!"
"What is it?" cried Emilia and I, starting to our feet. "Is there
any danger?"
"A deer - a deer - in bush!" whispered the squaw, seizing a rifle that
stood in a corner. "I hear sticks crack - a great way off. Stay
here!"
A great way off the animal must have been, for though Emilia and
I listened at the open door, an advantage which the squaw did not
enjoy, we could not hear the least sound: all seemed still as death.
The squaw whistled to an old hound, and went out.
"Did you hear anything, Susan?"
She smiled, and nodded.
"Listen; the dog has found the track."
The next moment the discharge of a rifle, and the deep baying of the
dog, woke up the sleeping echoes of the woods; and the girl started
off to help the old squaw to bring in the game that she had shot.
The Indians are great imitators, and possess a nice tact in adopting
the customs and manners of those with whom they associate. An Indian
is Nature's gentleman - never familiar, coarse, or vulgar. If he take
a meal with you, he waits to see how you make use of the implements
on the table, and the manner in which you eat, which he imitates
with a grave decorum, as if he had been accustomed to the same
usages from childhood. He never attempts to help himself, or demand
more food, but waits patiently until you perceive what he requires.
I was perfectly astonished at this innate politeness, for it seems
natural to all the Indians with whom I have had any dealings.
There was one old Indian, who belonged to a distant settlement, and
only visited our lakes occasionally on hunting parties. He was a
strange, eccentric, merry old fellow, with a skin like red mahogany,
and a wiry, sinewy frame, that looked as if it could bid defiance to
every change of temperature.
Old Snow-storm, for such was his significant name, was rather too
fond of the whiskey-bottle, and when he had taken a drop too much,
he became an unmanageable wild beast. He had a great fancy for my
husband, and never visited the other Indians without extending the
same favour to us. Once upon a time, he broke the nipple of his gun;
and Moodie repaired the injury for him by fixing a new one in its
place, which little kindness quite won the heart of the old man, and
he never came to see us without bringing an offering of fish, ducks,
partridges, or venison, to show his gratitude.
One warm September day, he made his appearance bare-headed, as
usual, and carrying in his hand a great checked bundle.
"Fond of grapes?" said he, putting the said bundle into my hands.
"Fine grapes - brought them from island, for my friend's squaw and
papouse."
Glad of the donation, which I considered quite a prize, I hastened
into the kitchen to untie the grapes and put them into a dish. But
imagine my disappointment, when I found them wrapped up in a soiled
shirt, only recently taken from the back of the owner. I called
Moodie, and begged him to return Snow-storm his garment, and to
thank him for the grapes.
The mischievous creature was highly diverted with the circumstance,
and laughed immoderately.
"Snow-storm," said he, "Mrs. Moodie and the children are obliged to
you for your kindness in bringing them the grapes; but how came you
to tie them up in a dirty shirt?"
"Dirty!" cried the old man, astonished that we should object to the
fruit on that score.
