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Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those tc^ large to be entirely included in one exposure ai j filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre filmis A des taux de reduction diffirents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul clichA, il est film6 A partir de Tangle supArieur gauche, de gauche d droite. et de haut en bas. en prenant le nombre d'images nAcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 WffrK ■^'- ■ '^ .r— ■.-'■•"r-r -r)^ ' ■'.W^jpifwwiii" ,-,..111^1^ "^J»,^-- - mm^^ ■»!''Wi'»li||Pii!|ppp^^^»W^Pfli^WfflpiP ■"" ""TpnwiBi^ppipwtfwiw (•P""»*IH« THE / ROMANCE OF INDIAN LIFE. BT 1^ [li. lii^[EV [HI. l^iTl^i^. W| it|fr tts, SELECTIONS FROM THE IRIS, AN ILLUMINATED SOUVENIR. . . . . .. .^, ;. ., ... • • I w* . • • .• . ••• . • • • . • • : • • • . • • • • • •. .1 J . * . . • . • • • • • • PHILADELPHIA: LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO. 1868. PIPWIIIB""WI"T' ^.•4IHlt» 111" .!W'.>-"H""|"i,""""»"i"Wii w iwii>(.;"«'wj»«i»"n,i»»i i.ni I ii!iHJ,,mi,fi^|j| STO.i Kntored, according to Act of Congregg, In the year 1852, UV l.lt'1'INOOTT, ORAMIIO A 00., Ill the Clerk's Office of the Dintrlct Court for the Kasturn District of I'eunKylTaoia. . • • * t * • . • • •• • ••••• •*••• • I I' , • .. 1 o I f • • • « • • • • • U. «riKIIMAN, l>RI>rTKtl, 19 Hi. James litrpct. mmfKmmmmm |PpHp|^nn^p*«a^i!^-'V^iii«p>i<-7«.«'VTi>in«|ppf^)|pp^[^pr->'>ui u^ijii ■n^miraipiv>JI| ^ublls[ier0' i^bprtbtmmL The attractive and beautiful stories of Indian Life, contained in this elegantly illustrated volume, were written by the author during a residence with her husband, Captain Eastman, of over seven years, on our northwestern frontier, and in immediate contact with the red man of the forest. They are not, therefore, mere ideal pictures, but Indian romances, in the strictest sense ; giving us, as they do, in skilfully-wrought fictions, glimpses of aboriginal life in its deeply interesting phases, — a life fast dying out, and soon to fail forever in the suffocating atmosphere of encroaching civilization. They possess, in consequence, an intrinsic value, for tjey picture the Indian in all the varied circumstances of his wild and wander- ing life, and show him as influenced by the varied passions of love, joy, grief, anger, jealousy, and revenge. In these sketches, Mrs. Eastman has performed a good service. They will be referred to hereafter, when opportunities of personal observation become few or altogether impossible, as accurate delineations of Indian customs, superstitions, and social habits, — none the less true because the writer has chosen to weave them into a web of romance. 79216 I.llplil.l.llll1l^tfljll«l^pllp^ .1 I lfi|iUiiWP'SET ON THE DELAWARE. - FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY. CASTLE-BUILDING. THE LOVER'S LEAP, OR WENONA'S ROCK. THE INDIAN MOTHER. .... THE WOOD SPIRITS AND THE MAIDEN. ALICE HILL. AutnoK. SARAH* ROBERTS. THE 2DIT0R. FREDRIKA BREMER. • MRS. MARY EASTMAN. • MRS. MARY EASTMAN. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. - MRS. MARY EASTMAN. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. • MRS. MARY EASTMAN. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. - MRS. MARY EASTMAN. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. ■ MRS. MARY EASTMAN. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. • MRS. MARY EASTMAN. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. - ELIZA L. SPROAT. ELIZABETH WETHERELL. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. EDITH MAY. MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR. J. I. PEASE. - S. A. H. • JAMES T. MITCHELL. - MRa MARY EASTMAN. MRS. MARY EASTMAN. - MRS. MARY EASTMAN. MRS. M. E. W. ALEXANDER I'AOB 19 ■Jl 26 SO 84 91 95 101 104 lis 117 124 127 136 139 151 165 156 177 17S 130 185 191 194 190 XVI CONTENTS. RUDJtXT. DR. VANDOUSKN AND TIIK YOUNQ WIDOW. A CKNOTAPII. A IIALLAD OF NATUAN IIALK. TUB DKEAMKK. WHITK MOON AND FIERY MAN. THE RAIN-DKOP. A PLEA FOR A CHOICE PICTURE. - LOST AND WON. THE MISTRUSTED GUIDE. - A NIOIIT IN NAKARETH. .... TEARS. INCONSTANCY. CROSSING TUK TIDE. .... Al'Tlllilt. PAOK ANN E. PORTER. • 20M ERASTU8 W. ELLSWORTH. •225 MARY E, HEWITT. - 244 MRS. MARY EASTMAN. 24r> MISS E. W. BARNES. . . 270 MISS L. S. HALL. • 279 CAROLINE EUSTIS. - - 2S1 A WESTERN MISSIONARY. 2K;i MARY YOUNG. - - 2'.M) CHARLES D. OARDETTK, M.D. 2'.i:; E. M. . • . - • Lit,'. MISS PIKEME CAREY. 2»7 L I I'.IP THE IRIS. PEOEM. BY 8ABAH ROBERTS. They have christened me Iris; and why? oh, why? Because, like the rainbow so bright, I bring my own welcome, and tell my own tale, And am hailed by all hearts with delight : And this, this is why I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky. The rainbow, it cometh 'mid sunlight and tears, — The tears it. SQQucUaseth awaj'^; I banish all ^^&'f©i>*
R. (Soo the Fronti8pk>cv.) S The first landing of William Penn at Newcastlo. in 1G82, is one of those striking historical events that are peculiarly suited for pictorial illustration. The late Mr. Duponceau, in one of his discourses, first suggested the idea of makiu']!; it the subject of an historical painting. This idea h seized wit 1 1 avidity by Mr. Dixon, the most recent biographer of the great Quaker, and the circumstances of the landing are given accordingly, with much minuteness. The artist who designed the picture that forms the frontispiece to the pre- sent volume has had this description in view. I cannot do better, therefore, than to quote the words of Mr. Dixon as the best possible commentary upon the picture. "On the 27th of October, nine weeks after the departure from Deal, the Welconie moored off Newcastle, in the terri- tories lately ceded by the Duke of York, and William Penn first set foot in the New World.* His landing made a * "Watson, 16; Day, 299. The landing of Penn in America is com- memorated on the 24th of Optober, that being the date given by Clarkson ; but the diligent antiquary, Mr. J. F. Watson, has found in the records of Newcastle the original entry of his arrival. ^ 22 THE IRIS. general holiday in the town ; young and old, Welsh, Dutch, English, Swedes, and Germans, crowded down to the land- ing-place, each eager to catch a glimpse of the great man who had come amongst them, less as their lord and governor than as their friend. In the centre of the foreground, only distinguished from the few companions of his voyage who have yet landed, by the nobleness of his mien, and a light blue silken sash tied round his waist, stands William Penn ; erect in stature, every motion indicating courtly grace, his countenance lighted up with hope and honest pride, — in every limb and feature the expression of a serene and manly beauty."' The young officer before him, dressed in the gay costume of the English service, is his lieutenant, Markham, come to welcome his relative to the new land, and to give an account of his own stewardship. On the right stand the chief settlers of the district, arrayed in their national cos- tumes, the light hair and quick eye of the Swede finding a good foil in the stolid look of the heavy Dutchman, who doffs his cap, but doubts whether he shall take the pipe out of his mouth even to say welcome to the new governor. A little apart, as if studying with the intenbo eagerness of In- dian skill the physiognomy of the ruler who has come with his children to occuj)y their hunting-grounds, stands the wise and noble leader of the Red Men, Taminent, and a party of the Lenni Lenape in their picturesque paints and costume. Behind the central figure are grouped the principal compa- nions of his voyage ; and on the dancing waters of the Dela- ware rides the stately ship, while between her and the shore * "The portrait by West is I'tterly spurious and unlike. Granville Penn, MSS." uwjIP.iajjLliilD/iij ...1 11, infill 1 1 THE LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN. 23 a multitude of light canoes dart to and fro, bringing the pas- Hcngers and merchandise to land. Part of the background whowH an irregular line of streets and houses, the latter with the pointed roofs and fantastic gables which still delight the artist's eye in the streets of Ley den or Rotterdam; and further on the view is lost in one of those grand old pine and cedar forests which belong essentially to an American scene." I take much pleasure in quoting also, in this connexion, another scene of somewhat similar character, though greatly miHrcprescnted in the ordinary pictures of it heretofore given. Pcnn's personal appearance has been even more miHapprehendcd than his character. He was, indeed, one of the most handsome men of his age, and at the time of his first coming to America he was in the very prime of life. West makes him an ugly, fat old fellow, in a costume half a century out of date. So says Mr. Dixon. The passage referred to, and about to be quoted, is from a description of the celebratpd Treaty with the Indians at Shackamaxon. " This conference has become one of the most striking HceiioH in history. Artists have painted, poets have sung, philoHophers have applauded it; but it is nevertheless clear, that ill words and colours it has been equally and generally miHrepreHcnted, because painters, poets, and historians have choH(!n to draw on their own imaginations for the features r)f a scene, every marking line of which they might have recovered from authentic sources. " The great outlines of nature are easily obtained. There, the dense masses of cedar, pine, and chestnut, stretching far away into the interior of the land; here, the noble river -■ im- mpsfUfft^" 24 THE IRIS. rolling its waters down to the Atlantic Ocean ; along its sur- face rose the purple smoke of the settlers' homestead ; on the opposite shores lay the fertile and settled country of New Jersey. Here stood the gigantic elm which was to become immortal from that day forward, — and there lay the verdant council chamber formed by nature on the sur- face of the soil. In the centre stood William Penn, in cos- tume undistinguished from the surrounding group, save by the silken sash. His costume was simple, but not pedantic or ungainly : an outer coat, reaching to the knees, and covered with buttons, a vest of other materials, but equally ample, trousers extremely full, slashed at the sides, and tied with strings or ribljons, a profusion of shirt sleeves and ruffles, with a liat of the cavalier shape (wanting only the feather), from beneath the brim of which escaped the curls of a new peruke, were the chief and not ungraceful ingre- dients.'^' At his right hand stood Colonel Markham, who had met the Indians in council more than once on that identical spot, and was regarded by them as a firm and faithful friend ; on his left Pearson, the intrepid companion of his voyage ; and near his person, but a little backward, a band of his most attached adherents. When the Indians approached in their old forest costume, their bright feathers sparkling in the sun, and their bodies painted in the most gorgeous manner, the governor received them with the easy dignity of one accustomed to mix with European courts. As soon as the reception was over, the sachems retired to a short distance, and after a brief consultation among them- * " Penn. Hist. Soc. 3Iem., iii. part ii. 7G." 4- THE LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN. 25 selves, Taminent, the chief sachem or king, a man whose virtues are still remembered by the sons of the forest, ad- vanced again a few paces, and put upon his own head a chaplet, into which was twisted a small horn : this chaplet was his symbol of power ; and in the customs of the Lenni Lenape, whenever the chief placed it upon his brows the spot became at once sacred, and the person of every one present inviolable. The venerable Indian king then seated himself on the ground, with the older sachems on his right and left, the middle-aged warriors ranged themselves in the form of a crescent or half-moon round them, and the younger men formed a third and outer semicircle. All being seated in this striking and picturesque order, the old monarch an- nounced to the governor that the natives were prepared to hear and consider his words. Penn then rose to address them, his countenance beaming with all the pride of man- hood. He was at this time thirty-eight years old ; light and graceful in form; the handsomest, best-looking, most lively gentleman she had ever seen, wrote a lady who was an eye- witness of the ceremony." them- ' DIFFERENT IMPRESSIONS. BY FREURIKA BREMER. I WAS in company With men and women, And heard small talk Of little things, Of poor pursuits And narrow views Of narrow minds. I rushed out To breathe more freely, To look on nature. The evening star Rose grave and bright, The western sky Was warm with light. And the young moon Shone softly down Among the shadows Of the town. DIFFERENT IMPRESSIONS. "WLere whispering trees And fragrant flowers Stood hushed in silent, Balmy bowers. All was romance, All loveliness. Wrapped in a trance Of mystic bliss. I looked on In bitterness, And sighed and asked. Why the great Lord Made so rich beauty For such a race Of little men? I was in company With men and women, Heard noble talk Of noble things. Of noble doings, And manly suffering And man's heart beating For all mankind. 27 The evening star Seemed now less bright. The western sky Of paler light, t 28 THE IRIS. All nature's beauty And romance, So lovely To gaze upon, Retired at once, A shadow but to that of man ! ■PPBWMMPPiNMimimiBHPi mm / ■IP mmmm v^' ■^A^-'K:^: mm lH^^^w ^^^IWf^mp', 1WBI(.ilii.ii. I , ' -J "" . 1 1 «n I .'miw^ ^PW^pptlPIW""""'^^"'''' WE-HAR.KA, OR, THE RIVAL CLANS. BY MBS. MART EASTMAN. The Indian settlement, the opening scene of our story, presented a different appearance from what we call an Indian village at the present day. The lodges were far more nume- rous, and the Indians were not drooping about, without energy, and apparently without occupation. The long line of hills did not echo the revels of the drunkard, nor were the faces of the people marked with anxiety and care. The untaught and untamo- dispositions of the red men were as yet unaffected by the evil influences of the degenerate white man. The Sioux* were in their summer-houses, and the village stretched along the bank of the river for a quarter of a mile. It reached back, too, to the foot of a high hill, and some of the lodges were shaded by the overhanging branches * The names Sioux and Dacota are applied to the same nation ; the In- dians themselves recognising and preferring the latter name. The little that is known of them is given in the introduction to Dacota, or Legends of the Sioux. They have, for many years, been considered a powerful, war- like, and interesting people. They formerly possessed the knowledge of many things of which they are now totally ignorant. They retain the great- est attachment to their country and their religion. w 30 THE IRIS. m of the elm and maple. Above the homes of the living might be seen the burial-place of the dead ; for, on the sum- mit of the hill the enveloped forms of the departed were receiving the last red beams of the retiring sun, whose rising and repose were now for ever unnoticed by them. The long, warm day was closing in, and the Indians were enjoying themselves in the cool breezes that were stirring the waves of the river and the wild flowers that swept over its banks. They were collected in groups in every direction, but the largest party might be found surrounding a mat, on which was seated the old war-chief of the band, who had long dragged a tedious existence, a care to others and a burden to himself The mat was placed near the wigwam, so that the sides of the wigwam supported the back of the aged and infirm warrior. His hair was cut straight over his fore- head, but behind it hung in long locks over his neck. Warm as was the season, the buflfalo robe was wrapped around him, the fur side next to him, while on the outside, in Indian hieroglyphics, might be read many an event of his life. Around the edge of the robe was a row of hands painted in different colours, representing the number of ene- mies he had killed in battle. In the centre of the robe were drawn the sun and morning star, objects of worship among the Sioux, and placed on the robe as a remedy for a severe sickness which once prostrated his vital powers, but was conquered by the efficacious charm contained in the repre- sentation. Oman nts of diflferent kinds adorned his person ; but his limbs werv shrunken to the bone with age, and the time had long sine come to him when even the grasshopper was a burden. WE-HAR-KA. 31 The features of the Sioux were still expressive, though the eyes were closed and the lips thin and compressed ; he was encircled with a dignity, which, in all ages and climes, at- taches itself to an lumourablo old ago. Close by his side, and contrasting strongly with the war- chief, was one of his nearest relations. She was his grand- daughter, the orphan girl of his favourite son. She was at once his companion, attendant, and idol. They were never separated, that old man and young girl ; for a long time he had ))een fed by her hands, and now he never saw the light of the sun he worshipped except when she raised and held open the eyelids which weakness had closed over his eyes. She had just assisted his tottering steps, and seated him on the mat, where he might enjoy the pleasant evening time and the society of those who de- lighted in the strange stories his memory called up, or who were willing to receive the advice which the aged are ever privilegcu to pour into the hearts of the young. The evening meal of the warrior had been a light one, for We-har-ka still held in her small and beautiful hand a bark dish, which contained venison cut up in small pieces, occa- sionally pressing him to eat again. It was evident there was something unusual agitating his thoughts, for he impatiently put aside the hand that fed him, and taking his pipe, the handle of which was elaborately adorned, he held it to have it lighted, then dreamily and quietly placed it in his mouth. He had long been an object of reverence to his people ; though superseded as a warrior and a leader, yet his influence was still acknowledged in the band which he had so long controlled. He had kept this alive in a great measure by ^ 32 THE IRIS. the oft-repeated stories of his achievements, and above all, by the many personal encounters he had had, not only with his enemies, but with the gods, the objects of their devotion and fear. The pipe was soon laid aside, and his low and murmuring words could not be understood by the group, that, attracted by the unusual excitement that showed itself in the war- chief's manner, had pressed near him. After a short communing witli himself he placed his hand upon the head of the girl, who was watching every change in his expressive ^ace. "My daughter," he said, "you will not be alone — the Eagle Eye v*'ill not again see the form of his warrior son : he would have charged him to care for his sister, even as the small ])irds watch and guard around the home of the forest god. " The children of the Great Spirit must submit to his will. My heart would laugh could I again see the tall form of my grandson. I would see once more the fleetncss of his step and the strength of his arm; ])ut it is not to be. Before he shall return, crying, ' It is for my father, the scalp of his enemy,' I shall be roaming over the hunting-grounds of the Great Sjiirit. Do not weep, my daughter; you will be happy in your husband's wigwam, and 3'ou will tell your children how the Eagle Eye loved you, even till his feet started on the warrior's journey. " Your brother will return," he continued, " and it is for him that I lay aside the pipe, which I shall never smoke again ; the drum that I have used since I have been a me- dicine-man, I wish laid near my side when I shall be dead, and wrapped in the buiialo robe which will cover me. I \& WE-HAR-KA. 83 ove all, ly with cvotion •muring ttracted he war- ns hand lange in will not n of his for his und the his will. in of my his step lefore he ,p of his )unds of I will be ell your his feet it is for r smoke jn a me- be dead, ne. " You, my braves, shall know whence I obtained this drum. It hns often brought back life to the dying man, and its wjiind has secured us success in battle. I have often told you that I had seen the God of the Great Deep in my dreams, and fi'om him I obtained power to strike terror to the hearts ol' my enemies. Who has shouted the death-cry oftener tliaii I ? Look at the feathers"'' of honour in my head ! What em'tny ever heard the name of Eagle Eye without trembling? Hut I, terrible as I have been to my enemies, must grow weak like a woman, and die like a child. The waters of tlie rivers rush on; you may hear them and trace their way, hut soon they join the waves of the great deep, and we see tliem no more — so I am about to join the company in the houHo of the Great Spirit, and when your children say, ' Where is Eagle Eye?' you may answer, 'The Great Spirit huH called him, we cannot go where he is.' " It was from Unk-ta-he, the god of the great deep, that I received that drum. Before I was born of woman I lived in the dark waters. Unk-ta-he rose up with his terrible eyes, and took me to his home. I lived with him and the other gods of the sea. I cannot to you all repeat the les- sons of wisdom he bus taught me; it is a part of the great medicine words that women should never hear. " There, in the home of the god of the sea, I saw many wonders — the large (.loors through which the water gods [)aHHed when they visited the earth, the giant trees lying in tht; water higher than our mountains. They had lightning * l''or every scalp taken by a Sioux in battle ho is entitled to wear a fV'iidier of the War Eagle. This is an ornament greatly esteemed among thorn. 34 THE IRIS. too, the weapons of the thunder birds ;* when the winds arose, and the sea waved, then did Unk-ta-he hurl the streaked fire to the earth through the waters. " The god of the great deep gave me this drum, and I wish it buried with me ; he told me when I struck the drum my will should be obeyed, and it has been so. " When my son returns, tell him to let his name be terri- ble like his grandfather's. Tell him that my arm was like a child's because of the winters I had seen, but that he must revenge his brother's death; then will he be like the brave men who have gone before him, and his deeds will be remembered as long as the Dacotas hate their enemies. The shadows grow deeper on the hills, and the long night will soon rest upon the head of the war-chief. I am old, yet my death-song sliall call back the spirits of the dead. Where are the Chippeways, my enemies ? See their red scalps scorch- ing in the sun ! I am a great warrior; tell me, where is the enemy who fears me not !" While the voice of the old man now rose with the excite- ment that was influencing, now fell with the exhaustion, which brought big drops of perspiration on his face, the In- dians were collecting in a crowd around him. It was, indeed, a glorious evening for the war-chief to die. The horizon was a mass of crimson clouds, their gor- geous tints were reflected on the river ; the rocky bluffs rose * The Dacotas hcliuvc thunder to be a bird. It would bo impossible to enumerate their gods, they are so numerous; but the thunder is much feared as being one of the most powerful. In living among them you constantly see representations of these gods, drawn and carved on the various articles that arc used among them. WE-HAR-KA. 35 le winds hurl the n, and I mck the I. be terri- was like that he be like eeds will enemies, ng night 1 old, yet Where « scorch- ;re is the e excite- laustion, , the In- -chief to heir gor- tuffs rose possible to luoh feared constantly )U8 articles up hke castle walls around the village, while on the oppo- site shore the deer were parting the foliage with their grace- ful heads and drinking from the low banks. We-har-ka wiped the forehead and brow of her grand- father. There was something of more than ordinary inte- rest about the appearance of this young person : her features were regularly formed, their expression mild ; her figure light and yielding as a young tree ; her hair was neatly parted and gathered in small braids over her neck ; her dress well calculated to display the grace of her figure ; a heavy neck- lace of wampum* covered her throat and neck, and on her bosom was suspended the holy cross ! Her complexion was lighter than usual for an Indian girl, owing to the confinement occasioned by the charge of her infirm relative; a subdued melancholy pervaded her fea- tures, and even the tone of her voice. There was a pause, for the warrior slept a few moments, and again his voice was heard. Death was making him mindful of the glorious achievements of his life. Again he was brandishing his tomahawk in circles round the head of his fallen foe ; again he taunted his prisoner, whose life he had spared that he might enjoy his sufferings under the torment ; again, with a voice as strong as in early manhood, * Wampum is a long bead made of the inside of a shell, white and of dark purple colour J it is very much valued by the Indians, used as necklaces j the women esteem nothing more highly than a string or two of wampum. It has frequently been used as currency among the different tribes; but in making treaties it is strung and made into a belt, and at the close of a speech is presented to the other party as a pledge of good faith- 3 i 36 THE IRIS. he shouted the death-cry — it was his own, for not another sound, not even a sigh escaped him. sjs ^ Sx* H* ^ ^* *)* Gently they moved him into the wigwam. We-har-ka stood by his head. There was no loud wailing, for he had outlived almost all who were bound to him by near ties. Those who stood around heaped their most cherished pos- sessions on his feet : the knife, the pipe, and the robe were freely and affectionately offered to the dead. Wc-har-ka gazed earnestly upon him : large tears fell on her bosom and on the old man's brow. Some one drew near and respectfully covered his venerable face : the drum was placed, as he requested, at his side. One of the men said, " Eagle Eye takes proud steps as he travels towards the land of souls. His heart has long been where warriors chase the buffalo on the prairies of the Great Spirit." We-har-ka drew from her belt her knife, and cut long, deep gashes on her round arms; then, not heeding the wounds,* she severed the braids of her glossy hair, and cut- ting them off with the knife, red with her own blood, she threw them at her feet. How did the holy cross find its way to the wilds of a new country ? A savage, yet powerful nation, idolaters at heart and in practice, bending to the sun, the forests, and the sea — * Among the Sioux it is customary to inflict wounds, sometimes deep and severe ones, upon themselves on the occasion of the death of a friend. The arms of aged people are frequently seamed with scars. ^^p WE-HAR-KA. 37 >t another * iV^e-har-ka or he had ir ties, ished pos- robe were irs fell on drew near drum was teps as he long been the Great e, and cut ceding the ', and cut- blood, she 3 of a new s at heart the sea — letimes deep of a fricud. how was it that the sign of the disciple of Jesus lay glitter- ing on the bosom of one of the women of this heathen race ? Did the Christian hjmn of praise ever rise with the soft and silvery vapours of morning to the heavens ? Had the low and earnest Christian's prayer ever sounded among the bluffs tliat towered and the islands that slept ? Never, and yet the emblem of their faith was there. . But, to what region did not the Jesuit penetrate ? Hardly were the resources of our country discovered, before they were upon its shores. They were there, with their promises and penances, their soft words and their Latin prayers, with purposes not to be subdued in accomplishing the mission for which they were sent. Was it a mission of faith, or of gain ? Was it to ex- tend the hopes and triumphs of the cross, or to aggrandize a Society always overflowing with means and with power? Witness the result. Yet they poured like rain into the rich and beautiful countrj^ of Acadie.* See them passing through forests where the dark trees bent to and fro " like giants possessing fear- ful secrets," enduring hunger, privation, and fatigue. See them again in their frail barks bounding over the angry waters of Huron, riding upon its mountain waves, and often cast upon its inhospitable rocks. Folldw them as they tread the paths where the moccasin- step alone had ever been heard, regardless of danger and of death, planting the cross even in the midst of a Dacota village. Could this be for aught save the love of the Saviour? * Acadia, or Acadie, was the ancient name for what is now called Nova Scotia. Before the latter name was used in the act of incorporation by the British Parliament, Acadie was within the jurisdiction of Lower Canada. 38 THE IRIS. Those who know the history of the Society founded by Loyola, best can tell. Among the ranks of the Jepuit were found the Christian and the martyr, as, among the priesthood of Rome, in her darkest days, were here and there those whose robes have, no doubt, been washed in the blood of the Lamb. Those hearts that were really touched with the truth divine, drew nearer to the path of duty by the solemn spec^ tacle of man, standing on the earth, gay and beautiful as if light had just been created, yet not even knowing of the existence of his great Creator. I Not far from the wigwam of the dead chief, Father Blanc knelt before the altar which he had erected. He wore the black robe of his order, and as he knelt, the strange words he uttered sounded stranger still here. On the altar were the crucifix and many of the usual ornaments carried by the wandering Romish priests. Flowers too were strewn on the altar, flowers large and beautiful, such as he had never seen even 'n la helle France. He chaunted the vespers alone, and had but just risen from his devotions when the dying cry of the war-chief rung through the village. The priest walked slowly to the scene of death. Why was he not there before with the cross and the holy oil ? Ah ! the war-chief was no subject for the Jesuit faith — he had wor- shipped too long Wakinyan-Unk-ta-he to listen to the words of the black robe. There were no baptisms, no chauntings of the mass here ; there was no interest at stake to induce the haughty Sioux to the necessity of yielding up his house- hold gods. They were not a weaker party warrmg with WE-HAR-KA. 39 nded by Christian e, in her »es have- he truth mn spec-^ tiful as if ig of the ler Blanc wore the ge words itar were xried by irge and e France. sen from lief rung Why was Ah! the had wor- he words launtings induce lis house- •mg with the French, and obliged from motives of policy to taste the consecrated wafer. Contrasted with the Indian's ignorance was his native dignity. When Father Blanc told them there was but one religion and that was the Eoman Catholic, and that the time would come when all would be subject to the man who was in God's place upon the earth, who lived at Rome, then would the Sioux laugh, and say, " As long as the sun shines, the Dacotas will keep the medicine feast." In vain were the pictured prayer-book and the holy relics exhibited. What were they to the tracks of Haokah the giant, or the gods' house, under the hill which reared itself even to the clouds, under which the gods rested themselves from their battles. The priest wept when he thought of the useless sacrifice he had made : he could not even gain the love of the strange beings for whose sake he had endured so much. They were not like the Abnakis, " those men of the east," who so loved and obeyed the fathers who sojourned among them. And the useless life he was leading, how long might it last? Restrained, as the Sioux were, only by the laws of hospitality and the promise they had made to the Indians who conducted him hither, how soon might these influences cease to afiect them? We-har-ka alone spoke gently and kindly to him. She knew that his heart, like hers,* vibrated beneath a load of care ; she found too a strange interest in his stories, — the woman's love of the marvellous was roused; the miracles of the saints delighted her as did the feats of the gods. But only so far was she a Christian ; though she wore a gift from the Jesuit, the consecrated sign. Perhaps in the 40 THE IRIS. after accounts of his converts she was reckoned among them. We are told by one of the Jesuit fathers of the true conver- sion and Christian death of a Canada Indian. " While I related to him," said he, " the scene of the crucifixion, 'Oh ! that I had been there,' exclaimed the Indian, * I would have brought away the scalps of those Jews.' " The war-chief was arrayed in his choicest clothing ; and, but for the silence in the wigwam, and the desolate appeai- ance of the young person who was alone with her dead, one would have supposed that he slept as usual. The charms were still to be left about his person for protection. The body was wrapped in skins: they were as yet laid but loosely about him, ready for their final arrangement, when, with the face towards the rising sun, the warrior should be laid upon the scaffolding, to enjoy undisturbed repose. But a few hours had elapsed since he sat and talked among them ; but now each of the group had returned to his usual occupation. Even his daughter sat with her face drooping over her hands, forgetting for the moment her grief at his loss, and endeavouring to anticipate her own fate. The twilight had not yet given way to night, but the sudden death that had occurred had hushed all their usual noisy amusements. Nothing was heard but the subdued voices of the warriors as they dwelt on the exploits of Eagle Eye, or speculated on the employments that engaged him, now that their tie with him was sundered. Sometimes the subject was changed for another of more exciting interest. A party that had gone in search of the Chii)peways,* who * The Sioux and Chippcways seem to be natural enemies. Peace has been declared between the two nations time and again, but never has it been sub- Jifi WE-HAR-KA. 41 ng them. 3 conver- ' While I 'Oh! on, uld have ng; and, B appeal- lead, one charms m. The laid but it, when, fiould be ose. d talked umed to her face nent her her own t, but the leir usual subdued 1 of Eagle ged him, times the interest. -ys,* who cc lias been it been sus- had been hovering near their village, was e^vpected to return, and there was some little anxiety occasioned by their pro- longed stay. Among the most noted of the party was the brother of We-har-ka and a young brave called the Bearer. These two young men, aspirants for glory and the preference which, among the Indians, is awarded to bravery, cunning, and the virtues, so considered among them, belonged to diffe- rent clans. The rivalry and hatred between these clans raged high, more so at this time than for some years previous. The Indian lives only for revenge ; he has neither arts nor learning to occupy his mind, and his religion encourages rather than condemns this passion. The daring showed by the Chippeways had only stimu- lated them to greater acts of bravery ; they were determined that the tree of peace, now torn up by the roots, should never be jjlanted again on the boundaries of the two countries. "We-har-ka had arisen from her recumbent attitude, and stood by the side of her dead relative. She had not time to reflect on the loneliness of her position. She had only laid her hard on the cold forehead where Death had so recently set his seal, when the well-known tri- umphant voice of her brother echoed through the village. Hardly had she turned towards the door when another yell of triumph, sounding even louder than the first, was heard. She knew that voice too, for the colour mounted to her cheeks, and her breath came short and quickly. A chorus of yells now rent the air, answered by the In- dians who had joyfully started up to meet the party. How tained, although the United States Government has made every effort to induce, and even compel them to forego their ancient enmity. 42 THE IRIS. every eye shone with delight, every feature working with convulsive excitement; all the fierce passions of their nature were aroused. Those prolonged and triumphant shouts had prepared them for what was to come. Already they longed to see the blood-dyed scalps, and, it might be, the face of some prisoner in whose sufferings they were to revel. The figures of the successful war-party soon made them- selves visible in the moonlight. One by one they turned the winding trail that led to the village. Over their heads they bore the fresh scalps; and as they came in view, a piercing universal shout arose from all. The eagerness of the women induced them to press forward, and when it was impossible to gain a view, from the great crowd in advance, they as- cended the nearest rock, where they could distinctly see the approaching procession. After the scalps and their bearers were recognised, another deafening shout arose. The prisoners were descried as they neared : it was seen there were two men and a woman. The arms of the men were pinioned back between their shoulders. Nearer still they come, but the shouting is over : intense curiosity and anxiety have succeeded this eager delight. The prisoners and scalps were their enemies, but over every heart the question passed. Have they all returned ? Has each husband been restored to his family, each child to the parent ? But not long did these softer feelings influence the conduct of the Sioux. They had now nearly met, and the war-party, with the prisoners, had reached the outskirts of the village. Here the confusion had returned and at- tained its greatest height; welcomes had been said, and the crowd pressed around the scalps to feast their eyes on the king with eir nature houts had ley longed lie face of i^el. ide them- umed the eads they I piercing lie women mpossible , they as- ly see the I, another d as they an. The houlders. : intense light, but over eturned ? I child to influence met, and outskirts and at- , and the ;s on the WE-HAR-KA. 48 precious sight. There were but four, and they had been takt'ii in the hurry of flight : they were round pieces, torn from the top of the head, and from one of them fell the long, glossy hair of a woman. There was nothing in the carriage of the prisoners to de- note their condition, their attitude and demeanour pro- claiming the conqueror instead of the conquered — the haughty determination of their looks, the bold freedom of their steps, their gait as erect as possible, with their hands bound behind them. Even the insolence of their language, in reply to the taunts of their victors, showed they were pre- pared for what was inevitable. The calm, pale face of the young Chippeway girl showed that she had determined to brave the blood-loving Sioux, and let them see that a woman could meet death as well as a warrior. The procession stopped, and one of the Sioux women called for her husband. " Where is he, warriors ? give me back my husband." " You will not weep," said one of the men ; " here is the Chippeway who killed him," pointing to the younger of the male prisoners. "You may stone him, and then you may sing while the fire is burning under his feet." A loud laugh of defiance was heard from the prisoner. " The Sioux are dogs," he said ; "let them hurry; I am in haste to go to the land of souls." The words were not ut- tered ere a dozen spears pricked his body. There was no cry of pain ; he only laughed at the nnger he had excited. The attention of the Indians was now withdrawn from their prisoners, for "We-har-ka was rapidly walking towards 44 THE IRIS. thorn. Even the arrangement of her dross was distinctly visible as she approached them : her long and glossy hair disarranged purposely, to mark the intensity of her grief; the blood was still trickling from her arms ; her pale face looking even paler than it was, by the moonlight and its broad shadows. She was hastening to meet her brother, yet she did not offer him one congratulation on his safe return. " My brother," she cried, "your grandfather is dead. He lies cold and still, as the large buffalo when he has ceased to struggle with our hunters. Go to his lodge and tell him of your prisoners, and your scalps. For me, I will go myself to shed tears. I will follow the fresh tracks of the deer, and by the wakeen-stone,* in the prairie, I will sit and weep where no eye can see me but the Great Spirit's. While the moon walks through the sky, the spirits shall hear my voice." She was listened to in silence, for the Indians always showed respect to We-har-ka; her being constantly with the war-chief had made them look upon her almost with reverence, as if she might have obtained from him some supernatural power. " The Sioux listen to the words of a woman," said the old prisoner, as We-har-ka turned towards the prairie. " Why do they not make her a war-chief, and let her take them to battle ?" " We will," answered her brother, " when we go again to * Wakccn-stone. The Sioux choose stones as objects of worship. We find them frcf^uently on their thoroughfares; they never pass these without stopping to smoke, or to make some slight ofiering, such as tobacco, a feather, an arrow, or a trinket. WE-nAR-KA. 45 [li-stinctly oHsy hair icr grief; pale face ) and its c did not I. " My lie lies ceased to 11 him of nyself to leer, and nd weep \rhile the ly voice." 3 always itly with lost with im some d the old "Why them to again to ship. We 3SC without tobacco, a bring home old men. I would not have been troubled with your old carrion, but I thought to let my father return the kind treatment you once gave him ; and I would kill you now, but that I would rather the women would do it." " The Sioux are brave when their prisoners arc bound," again ti mted the prisoner ; " let them do their will : the Chippeway fears neither fire nor death." The rage of the Sioux was unbounded ; the cold uncon- cern of their prisoner almost destroyed the pleasure of vic- tory. The women clamorously demanded that he might be delivered over to them. They seized him, and moved for- ward to a large tree, whose massive trunk indicated its strength. Hero they bound him with strong sinews and pieces of skin. His hands were tied in front, and a strong cord was passed about his waist, and with it he was fastened to the tree. This was all the work of the women, and they evinced by their expedition and hideous laughs the pleasure they found in their employment. The Sioux then went to see the body of their venerated chief; on their return they found their victim firmly secured to the tree. The son was bound at some little distance from the father, while the daughter was sitting, hiding her face between her hands, weeping for her father's situation. Pride had all gone, only affection occupied her heart. The old Chippeway was convinced now of his immediate sufferings ; he had been tranquil and unmoved until the return of the warriors. Suddenly he shouted, in a loud voice, the wild notes of his death-song. There was no failing in his voice ; even his daughter turned 46 THE IRIS. towards him with satisfaction as he extolled his life, and expressed pleasure at the prospect of seeing the hunting- grounds of the Great Spirit. As he ceased, Chashe told him he must rest from his journey ere he commenced his long way to the land of souls. "A great many winters ago," said the young Sioux, "my father was in your country ; you took him prisoner, you bound him, and you told him what a good warm fire he was to have to die by. " You said you loved him too well to let him be cold ; but while you were binding him he was too strong for you. Unk-ta-he had made him brave; he bounded from your grasp in sight of your warriors. He flew; your bravest men chased him in vain. He came home and lived to an age greater than yours. " The old war-chief is gone, or he would tell you how welcome you are to his village. He was always hospitable and loved to treat brave men well. But we must eat first, or we cannot enjoy ourselves while you are so comfortable with your old limbs burning." Expressions of approbation followed this speech on the part of the Sioux, but there was no notice taken of it by the Chippeway, who was now occupied in contemplating his daughter. He had before seemed to be unconscious of her presence. No bodily torture could equal the pang of the father, who saw the utterly helpless and unhappy situation of his child. His own fate was fixed — that causea him no uneasiness. There was even a feeling of enthusiasm in the prospect of WE-HAR-KA. 47 5 life, and 3 hunting- from his d of souls. 3UX. ((■ ■> my oner, you m fire he be cold ; 5 for you. 'om your Lvest men an age you how ospitable eat first, afortable 1 on the it by the ting his is of her iier, who is child, easiness, •spect of nhowing his enemies how slight was their power over him ; how little he cared for any tortures they might inflict. But his young daughter, who would have been safe now arriong her own people, but for her aflfection for him, which iridnoed her to remain by his side, refusing the opportunity of escape. The Sioux saw his concern and rejoiced that this pang was added to the torture: not only his own fate to bear, but the consciousness that he had caused the destruction of both his children. His son was surrounded while endeavouring U) protect his father. Thus will nature assert her right in the hearts of all her children ; but the Chippeway closed his eyes to all, save the eflbrt of appearing indifferent to his sufferings. Again he sung his death-song, while the Sioux stretched themselves upon the grass, eating the tender venison which had been l)r(!pared for them, occasionally offering some to the Chippe- way, advising him to eat and be strong, that he might bravely walk on his journey to the land of souls. While the Dacotas were eating and resting themselves, the Chippeway chaunted his death-song; his son, appa- rently, was unmoved by his own and his father's desperate situjition, but the daughter no longer endeavoured to re- strain her grief. Exhausted from fatigue and flisting, she would gladly have known her own fate, even if death were to be her mode cfider.^e from her distressing position. The Indians frequently offered her food. Chashe tried to persuade her to eat: she indignantly rejected the attention, her rt'hole soul absorbed in her father's painful situation. She saw there was no hope : even had she not understood 48 THE IRIS. their language, she could have read all in the fierce glaring eyes of her enemies, the impatient gestures of the men, and the eager, energetic movements of the women. The latter were not idle : they were making arrangements for the burn- ing of the prisoner. Under his feet they piled small round pieces of wood, with brush conveniently placed, so as to kindle it at a moment's warning when all should be ready. To their frequent taunts their victim paid no attention : this only increased their anxiety to hasten his sufferings, young and old uniting their strength. One woman struck him with the wood she was about to lay at his feet, another pierced him with the large thorn she had taken from the branch she held; but the loudest cries of merriment and applause greeted the appearance of an old creature, almost bowed together with the weight of a load she was carrying, large pieces of fat and skin, which she was to throw in the blaze at different times when it should be kindled. The glare of day could not have made more perceptible the horrid faces of the savages than did the brilliant moon- light. Every sound that was uttered was more distinct, from the intense cpiiet that pervaded all nature. The face of the victim, now turned to the sky, now bent in scorn over his encmiies ; that of his son, pale, proud, and indilferent ; the unrestrained grief of the girl, who only raised her head to gaze at her father, then trembling, with sobs, hid it deeper in her bosom ; the malignant triumph of the Sioux men, the excitement and delight of the women ; — all these were dis- tinctly visible in the glowing brightness of the night. Was there no hope for the aged and weary old man ? no WE-HAR-KA. 49 rce glaring i men, and The latter r the burn- nail round , so as to be ready, iitiou: this igs, young s about to i thorn she idest cries of an old of a load ;h she was should be erceptible mt moon- 1 distinct, The face icorn over different ; her head it deeper men, the were dis- ht. man? no chance that these stern, revengeful spirits might relent? Will not woman, with her kind heart and gentle voice, ask that his life may be spared? Alas! it is woman's work that we are witnessing : they bound his limbs, they have beaten him, and even now arc they disputing for the privilege of lighting the fire which is to consume him. Loud cries arise, but the contention is soon quelled, for the deep bass voice of the medicine-man is heard above theirs, and he says that the newly made widow, and she alone, shall start the blaze, and then all may join in adding fuel to the lire, and insult to the present disgrace of the Chippeway warrior. And now the brush is piled round the wood and touches the victim's feet, and the men lie still on the grass, knowing their work will be well done, and the women who are crowded together make a way for the widow to advance. See her ! the tears are on her cheek, yet there is a smile of exultation too^the blood is streaming from her bosom and her arms. With her left hand she leads her young son forward. In her right she holds a large and flaming torch of pine. The red light of the burning wood contrasts strangely with the \viiit<3 light of the moon; the black smoke rises and is lost i i ti.'^ fleecy clouds that are flying through the air. Tiie ."ilence is broken only by the heart-breaking sobs of tiie Oirippeway girl. The Sioux woman kneels, and care- fully holds the torch under the brush and kindling-wood. She withdraws her hand, and soon there is something beside soIjs breaking the stillness. The dry branches snap, and tlie women shout and laugh as they hear the crackling sound. The men join in a derisive laugh; but above all is 50 TUE IRIS. heard the loud, full voice of the victim. His death-chaunt drowns all other sounds, yet there is not a tone of pain or impatience in the voice ; it is solemn and dignified ; there is even a note of rapture as he shouts defiance to his enemies and their cruelty. The dry twigs snap apart, and the smoke curls around the limbs of the prisoner : now the bright red flames embrace his form. The warrior is still ; he is collecting his energies and chal- lenging his powers of endurance. Cliashe stood 'r> " My father," said he, "fled from the fire of the Cliippe\ s; but you like the fire of the Dacotas, for you stand still." " The Sioux are great warriors," replied the Chippeway, "when they fight old men and children," looking at the same time towards his daughter. " But, is he an old man or a girl ?" asked Cliashe, point- ing to the younger Chippeway. " He is a great warrior," said the father, " but he was one against many. He could not see his father and sister scalped before his eyes. Had he fought man to man he would have showed you the sharp edge of his tomahawk ; but he is a Chippeway, and knows how to sufler and to die." The noise of the fire drowned the old man's words, for the women were amusing themselves by throwing on small pieces of dry wood and portions of deer-fat, which, crackling as it burned, rapidly consumed the body of the unfortunate man. No suffering had, as yet, forced from him any cry of pain ; it was evident that nature would soon relieve him of his ^ ■w ■»'• WE-HAR-KA. 61 ath-cliaunt of pain or J; there is lis enemies rls around 3s embrace i! and clial- i from the e Dacotas, liippewaj, ng at the ihe, point- e was one or scalped 3uld have t he is a vords, for on small crackling fortunate ^ of pain ; m of his agony. His heart had nigh ceased "beating its funeral march." Even he, an untutored savage, felt that " Dust thou art, to dust rcturnest, Was not spoken of the soul." His fortitude to endure was increased by the thought that soon the brilliant but mysterious future would be opened to him. The Sioux were disappointed at his courage, and longed to have their gratification completed by some acknowledg- ment of his agony. An old and fierce-looking woman drew her knife from her belt, and springing upon the high roots of the tree, cut a deep gash Ijetween the shoulders of the prisoner, then stooping, she raised in her hand a flaming torch, which she applied to the fresh wound she had just made. This .igony was unendurable : a death-like struggle convulsed the heroic countenance of the sufferer; he uttered a sharp and jwercing cry ; then, as if apologizing for his want of firmness, exclaimed, "Fire is strong!" This sufficed for his enemies, and shouts of joy echoed through the village, while the agonized daughter, unable longer, to endure the dreadful sight, sunk insensible on the grass at her brother's feet. It was not long ere mcther shout announced the relief of the Chippejvjay. ' Thc'S^yeet hours of night had passed awaj- while they watched his noble .firmness, and awaited his last breathi ; During. thp last hour. Jong, low, black clouds had been deepening in the far west ; now and then a disiant murmur was heard, and faint flashes gleamed ath^vart the water. A slight murmuring of the waves witnessed the f»9 THE IRIS. rising of the wind, and the Sioux separated to take a rest, which they all neiMled. Seeing that their other prisoner was securely bound, they left him to face the storm and the hideous spectacle of his father's remainn. Chashc raised the lifeless form of the girl and carried her to his sister's wigwam. We-har-ka had taken no interest in the scene that had been enacting ; she slept soundly, fatigued with her wander- ings on the prairie jind the indulgence of her grief. Chashe laid his unconscious burden by the side of his sister. Ene- mies as they were, the looker-on might observe a strong bond of sympathy between them. Their young faces were shadowed by grief, — that link which should unite, heart to heart, every child of earth. li: Ht H: 4: ^ H: The low sigh with which the Chippeway girl awoke from her deathlike trance, did not awaken We-har-ka. Starting up, she in a moment recalled the sad tragedy which had just been enacttnl before her eyes, yet she could not account for her being where she was. The wigwam was dark, ex- cept when illuminated by vivid flashes of lightning, which showed her the few articles of furniture and comfort that adorned an InH Some recollections of the time passed among the North- western Indians are very delightful to me, but many are equally sad — none more so than the history of a poor idiot creature with whom ^ve were well acquainted. 0-ko-pee, " The Nest." I have often reflected upon his eventful life, and melancholy death — his patience and hu- mility, the muscular strength of his form, and the passion- less expression of his features. The mortal tenement was able and healthful when I first knew him, but the spiritual no longer animated it ; indeed, as a companion he was no better than the game he hunted, for his mind was gone. When overcome with hunger he w^ould tell us how very long it was since he had eaten. He knew, too, when he was cold, for he would direct our attention to his threadbare clothing. Like the prairie deer or buftalo. he would seek shelter from the storm or burning sun ; but though he might once have reflected upon the occupations of a disembodied sjiirit, when it should be released from the shackles of earth, he had long since ceased to do so. His mind floated on the stormy waves of life, like the wreck at sea, flir alike from light, hope, or help. 74 THE IRIS. His life was an eventful one for an Indian's. Born when the Sioux were not dependent upon white people, he trod his native earth with the consciousness of owning it. He routed up the timid grouse from the prairies, and brought down the red-head and wood-duck on the wing, never fear- ing that they and he would be chased from the haunts they loved. Often, when a small boy, would he kill the plover and woodcock in numbers, carrying them to his mother as trophies of his skill. How gaily he laughed as for the first time he stayed the fleet course of the wild deer, and watched her panting, as she lay beside the brook, looking for the last time at her own image in its clear waters, longing to suage the liiirst of death with its refreshing coolness. His bones were still tender and his frame small when he sped his wild horse among the buflfalo, sending his lance into their sides, and shouting as they tore up the earth, roaring in their agony. Was he in danger from the res- tiveness of his horse ? he knew he had only to fix his black eye upon the revengeful bufialo, and, by the power of the soul speaking there, subdue his rage. The eye of man meet- ing the eye of beast, never turning or yielding its glance, would quell the passions of the animal, and he would be safe. He could not stay in the wigwam, even for an hour: child of the woods and prairies, he needed only their com- panionship. The streams, the rocks, and hills were the friends whose society he loved. Among them he could " commune with his own heart, and be still." Threading the passes among the hills, or stepping from point to point on the dangerous rocks by the shore, he ever 0-KO-PEE. 75 took the lead in the chase, and early gained the reputation of being the most famous hunter among the Sioux. How he obtained the soubriquet of " The Nest"* I know not, but he retained it through all the varying events of his life on earth, and it has followed him to the Indian's unhallowed grave, over which hovers no spirit of hope, but the dark and fallen angels of ignorance and superstition. As 0-ko-pee approached to manhood, the English claimed and obtained jurisdiction over the Sioux. But the hunter, well acquainted with his own laws, showed no inclination to meddle with those of another nation, who showed the might of right. Perhaps he did not feel with the many, who were more sensitive and less happy, the soul-destroying anticipation of slavery. So long as he had his lance and bow and arrow, what cared he for innovation ? and he was too ignorant of the economy of nations to recognise the fact that when a people loses the right of self-government, it yields for ever the power of advancing in strength or happiness. Living in his own world, turning his eyes in adoration to the sun he worshipped, he believed the Great Spirit would not interfere with his concerns farther than to punish him should he neglect to celebrate the feasts and customs of his nation, or turn from the faith of his ancestors. Never was he happier than when listening to the flapping of the wings * It is customary, when an Indian advances towards manhood, for him to lose the name bestowed upon him in childhood, obtaining another by some peculiarity of appearance or conduct, some daring action or violent passion ; thus, Sleepy Eyes, is the name of a chief among the Sioux, from the drowsy expression of his countenance. 76 THE IRIS. of the niischievoiiB tlumder-lnrtliK, the gods of his nation, ats they roused thernwelveH at the bright and forked streaks in the heavy cU)udH. There were many, however, among the Sioux who would not willingly yield to the oppressions of the English, as they now would gladly resent, had they the power to do so, the encroachments of the people of the United States. Thus, a Dacota, who luul received a personal injury from an Englishman, determined to take an opportunity of resent- i.-<5 it; he did so, according to Indian rules of strategy. He watched when his victim was unawares, and took aim successfully, then jdunging into the thick forests, was lost to the search of his foes, as was the dead English- man, to the distress of his family. The English pursued a system then which has since been adopted by our own coimtrymen ; a system sometimes productive of great in- justice, yet, under the pecidiar circumstances, the best one that could l)e fixed on, 1 allude to that of taking hostages, and retaining them until the offender should be given up. O-ko-jwe, who had dreamed away his childhood among the most beautiful s(!enes of nature, found himself a pri- soner, torn from the olyects which were dear to him as life ; nay, they were his life, for deprived of them he sunk to the level of the jjeasts of the forests. Immured in a prison, far from the refreshing air of his native hilh, shut in hy the bars he vainly strove to loosen or to break, seeing no more the bear, the buffalo, the otter, or the deer, his heart was broken. After many years of imprisonment, useless, for the real murderer never was found, he was turned loose, like an ani- 0-KO-PEE. 77 mal from whence the owner can no longer derive either amusement or profit : he returned mechanically to his for- mer occupation. Once again free in the woods, he was soon a laughing-stock for the Sioux. " He has no heart since he was prisoner to the white man !" they cried, as he passed to the prairies, with his vacant look and humbled demeanour. \yhere was the proud glance and the free step ? Ask those who with the iron arm of power punished the innocent for the guilty. Still, as ever, he followed the chase — thirteen deer did he kill in one day, and never tired of hunting, even as age ad- vanced seemed to increase his passion for roaming. Often has he come to us with every variety of game, never breaking his word, whatever might be the state of the weather. But in coming or going, giving or receiving, his demeanour and countenance never changed ; his eyes were wandering in vacancy, save when the fire-water, given by the white man in exchange for the soft furs he brought him, would tinge his sallow cheeks with the flush of madness, and lighten his eye with the glances of a fiend, and change from the sober quiet and calmness of the unhappy idiot to the noisy, reeling, hellish figure, which seemed a visitant from the world of darkness rather than a suffering inhabi- tant of earth. 0-ko-pee is dead. It is not mine to say whether or not, in another state of existence, he enjoys happiness sufficient in degree to make up for the heavy trials of life : I have only to do with him here ; and as I have said he lived a sacrifice to the all-conquering and indomitable spirit of the Saxon race, so did he die. 78 THE IRIS. Some years ago, a band of Sioux, distant from Fort Snell- ing, attacked a party of Winnebagoes, taking fourteen scalps. Hearing that the scalps were carried from village to village, and danced round day after day, there was a party sent from the Fort to take these scalps from the Indians, as there was a fear lest the hot blood of the young warriors should be roused, and serious difficulties would then occur between the two tribes. So the scalps were brought into the Fort ; the affair was reported at Washington. The Winnebagoes asked for indemnity for the injuries they had received, and the authorities at Washington decided that four thousand dollars should be paid to the Winnebagoes out of the annui- ties received by the Sioux from our own government. It was in the summer : the Indian potato, hard and indigesti- ble, was just ripening: the corn was green. The Sioux were without flour and other provisions ; even if game had been abundant, they had neither powdei^^ nor shot. They pined away by fever and weakness ; der.ih stalked among them like a giant, laughing as he crushed to earth men who were like children beside him. Was there no help for them? the mandate had gone forth. The children fell to the ground dying for want of nourish- ment; the strong man clung to the trees for support, and the gray-haired leaned against the insensible rocks. Few there were who could bring down the game with their bows and arrows as did their forefathers, and the white people were crowding in their country and driving the game back where they were too feeble to pursue it. Then came forward the kind missionaries to the aid of their unhappy friends. How liberally they shared with 0-KO-PEE. 79 f'; them all that they possessed, striving too to quiet their minds, agitated by burning fever. They gave them medi- cine and food, supporting the dying mother and taking charge of the infant and the aged. They sought to assuage the agonies of exhausted nature, directing in its flight the restless spirit standing upon the borders of life to that happy place where hunger and sickness are unknown. It was on one of the warmest days of summer when my little children, with their father, crossed the St. Peter's, and advanced towards the trading establishment at Mendota. On the shores of the river one wigwam was placed, and, at- tracted by the groans of anguish which proceeded from it, they entered. It was 0-ko-pee dying ; yes, dying as he had lived, a sacrifice to the white man's rule — dying as he had lived, alone. No friend supported his aching head, which was burning with fever, or chafed the cold limbs covered with ashes. Indeed, his head was pillowed on a bed of ashes. He recog- nised his visiters, and seeing their young faces solemnized by what they had never before witnessed, the presence of death, he spoke to them by name, said he was sick, and asked them for medicine. It was too late for medicine or sympathy; in another hour 0-ko-pee, the hunter of the Sioux, was gone for ever from the earth. CHEQUERED CLOUD. THE AGED SIOUX WOMAN. I WOULD tell you of a friend of mine : She's neither rich nor fair ; The snows of many winters Have bleached her raven hair. The brightness of her large black eye Has been dimmed for many years; And the furrows in her cheek were made By time and shedding tears. She is an Indian woman, And me has often told Traditions of her native land, And legends sung of old; Of battles fiercely fought and won, Of the warrior as he fell, While he tried to shield from a fearful death The wife he loved so well. Ask her whence her nation came : With a smile she will reply, " The Dacotas aye have owned this land. Where the eagle soars so high ; CHEQUERED CLOUD. Where Mississippi's waters flow, Through bluffs and prairies wide ; Where by Minesota's sandy shore The wild rice grows beside." Ask her of her warrior sons, Who rose up by her side — Enah ! in the fearful battle. And by sickness they have died — And of her gentle daughter : See the tear steals lowly down, As the memory of the slaughter Of that frightful night comes on. Many have been her sorrows. While ever to her breast Sickness or want or suffering came, Like a familiar guest. Yet, she says there was a time When her step was light and free. And her voice as joyous as the bird That sings in the forest tree. I said she was my friend :■ — I am not one of those. Who from the wealthy or the great Companionship would choose. The soul that animates her frame Is as gifted and as free. And will live for ever, — like the one That God has given me. 81 82 THE IRIS. She worships the Great Spirit, Yet often does she tell Of the fairies that inhaV'^ Mountain, river, rock, and dell. She will say to kill a foe Of religion is a part; Yet underneath her bosom beats A kind and noble heart. She has ever loved to listen To the savage shout and dance ; To see the red knife glisten O'er the dying Chippeway's glance. To watch the prisoner, burning, Confronting at the stake His enemies, who vainly strive His spirit proud to break. Judge her kindly,— and remember. She was not taught in youth To bend the knee and lift the heart To the God of love and truth. "Love ye your foes," said He who brought To us the golden rule ; But "eye for eye," was the maxim taught In the ancient Jewish school. We know it was a beggar Who in Abraham's bosom slept,— And, haply, her ancestors By Babylon's waters wept. CHEQUERED CLOUD. 88 While poor, like Lazarus, it may be, From Israel's stock has come The red man, tracing out on earth His God-forgotten doom. Well I knew, when last we parted, That, if ever we met more, 'Twould be when life's sweet sympathies And painful cares are o'er. She said, while down her aged face The tears coursed rapidly, " Many a white woman have I known, But you were kind to me." Not half as dear to the miser Is the yellow gold he saves, — Or the pearl, to the venturous diver, Which he seeks beneath the waves, Or the summer breeze, to the drooping flower, Fresh from the balmy South, As those grateful words which slowly came From the Indian woman's mouth. She has struggled with the ills of life; For her no parent's prayers Have risen to the throne of God, To sanctify life's cares. But God will judge her kindly : He sees the sparrow fall ; And, through his Son's atoning blood, May he mercy show to all ! FIRE-FACE. BT MRS. Ma;:v EASTMAN. Fire-face was willing to die, he said, but not until he had killed another white man. He was sincere in acknow- ledging hatred towards the people of the United States. There was no doubt but he had stained his hands with the blood of one white man ; but this did not satisfy him : let him take the life of another, and he was willing to be made prisoner, and to meet what punishment might be designed for him. The mantle of Cain had indeed fallen upon him ; his heart was turned even from his own people, and angry threatenings were ever upon his lips, against those with whom he had grown up side by side. Wabashaw, chief of one of the bands of Sioux on the Mississippi, left his home, where the prairies stretch out to the distance, without even a hill to relieve the level sameness, or trees to shelter them from the short but intense heat of the summer, to encamj), by permission, on the St. Peter's River, opposite Fort Snel- ling. Fire-face, one of the band, was with them, accom- panied by his two wives. He was feared by all of the band ; even the brave chief Wabashaw, whose life he had threatened, turned from the fierce gaze of the man, over whom had been cast a spell from the spirits of evil, for he frowned alike upon friend and foe. Only his wives seemed easy when he was near, FIRE-FACE. 85 and they not only feared but loved the strange being, who^ie hand was against every man's. He passed the most of his time seated near his lodge, with his medicine-bag hanging near ; his implements of war and hunting glistening in the light, and his loaded gun ever by his side. Many efforts had been made to apprehend this desperate man, yet he had always eluded the pursuit of the soldiers ; and now, although aware of the da :iger he was in, when living so near the garrison, he appeared to be perfectly unconcerned, saying, he knew the soldiers would make every effort to arrest him; but that he would never be taken until another of the pale faces had fallen by his arm. Wabashaw, the chief, frequently visited the Fort, always accompanied by his late friend Many Lightnings, and on every occasion he pressed the necessity of taking Fire-face prisoner. " He was a bad Indian," said Wabashaw, " who loved to see blood ; and, if allowed to go at liberty, some one would be murdered by him." The chief said that he did not sleep at night in his own lodge, but v. ent for safety to the near village of Men- doto, where he remained until the sun was high in the heavens ilie next day. In consequence of these representa- tions, a party of soldiers was sent to arrest him, and the Indians were to assist in the capture. Fire-face was on the lookout : he appeared to show himself in the way of danger for the pleasure of overcoming it. He would remain at ease until the party was near him ; and then, like an arrow from the bow, he would fly through the village, no man daring to stay him : and you might as well have 86 THE IRIS. attempted to catch the sunbeam on the waters as the hunted man. Pursuit was unavailing, and the soldier? each time returned disappointed to the Fort. He would soon come back to the encarapment. What a courage was his, thus purposely throwing himself in the way of danger, knowing too that he had not one friend to whom he could turn. His frightened, helpless family alone cared for him. It was evidently a pleasure to him to be in a situation of peril, to show his adroitness in extricating himself. About ten o'clock one night he sat in his lodge, gloomily meditating on his position. Could he eventually escape the pursuit of his enemies ? Was he not a doomed man, when the bands of friendship were severed between him and those with whom he had fought, and whose lives had been tracing an even course with his ? The children's heavy breathing was the only sound that could be heard. His Avives sat mute in the lodge. He had been hunted to the death, and now sleep was overcoming him, and his watchfulness was yielding to his fatigue ; while he thought to lay his tomahawlc beside him, and seek re- pose, the door of his lodge was turned aside, and the long- knives (as the soldiers were called) were upon him. Their exulting looks were met by his calmest demeanour : he offered no resistance ; but when the soldiers placed their hands upon his wrists to secure the captive, he glided from their grasp as easily as a serpent might pass from the touch of a child ; he bounded from their HJght, and again they vainly sought the strange man : the protecting shades of night were about him, and he knew full well the hiding- :, FIRE-FACE. 87 places of the neighbourhood. When out of their reach he laughed as he looked at his oiled hands and arms, for tliere was the secret of his escape. Morning found him again in his lodge, oalm, fearless as ever. The Sioux thought he must wear a charmed life, and they kept from the reach of his arm : and the children, even his own, played where they could not see his dark face as he watched their amusements. There is a spell, however, that few Indians can resist; it is to them an unfailing quietus for care : they can fancy they are free when hre-water quickens the coursing of their veins. They curse the white man from the heart, and hope and look forward to the time when the red man shall have his own again. They then forget that the outstretched arms of desolation are ready to clasp them, and that de- struction, like the night-bird, is hovering over their heads with its hoarse cry sounding to their hearts. Fire-face could not refuse the charm. The Indians pressed it upon him, and then informed the soldiers that they were going out with the intention of hunting, as Fire-face thought, that on this occasion he might be followed and taken. The party went on their route, stopping occasionally to drink and to smoke. Fire-face, overcome by the liquor he had drank, could hardly keep up with them. His gun swung carelessly from his shoulder, and his usual gravity was changed for a loud and boisterous cheerfulness. " The white people fear me," he said, laughing ; " well they may, for my arm is strong, and before I die I will kill another of them. I have already murdered a white man, and should be satisfied if one of their women died by my 88 THE IRIS. tomahawk. I should like to take her scalp with the long light hair hanging from it. The Indians still encouraged him to drink, and as the morning advanced he became the more unfitted to pursue his way. From a state of passion and excitement he had passed into one of stupor : at length he rested himself against a tree, and alternately muttered and dozed. In the mean time soldiers were following him up. Wa- bashaw gave information of the path Fire-face had taken, and they were soon upon him. He was a prisoner at last, and that consciousness sobered him. His hands were bound. One of the Sioux, indignant at this proceeding, attempted to cut the straps, but was pushed off. After a slight delay, the soldiers returned with him to the garrison. He continually reproached himself with his own unwatch- fulness, telling the soldiers that he had always intended killing one of them ere he should be in their power. He mournfully said it was too late now to accomplish his pur- pose. At about six o'clock in the afternoon he was brought into the Fort. The news of his capture had reached the en- campment of Wabashaw on the opposite side of the river, and as he approached the guard at the gate of the Fort, a number of Sioux were seen watching him. His two wives stood there, and as their husband's figure passed, guarded and bound, they literally lifted up their voices and wept. Fire-face, in the mean time, was turned over to the tender mercies of the guard, and he was soon seated at the grated window of >is cell. I had heard a great deal of the man. FIRE-FACE. 89 and thought that one who combined so many terrible traits of character must show it in his countenance : in order to see this singular being, I determined to visit him in his cell. We passed the guard-room and entered his dark and dreary- looking place of coniinement. His back wag to us, as he was looking through the bars of his window towards his home. Hearing some one approach, he turned to us with an expression of face entirely mild ; there was neither passion nor murder portrayed in his features, not even a restlessness in his manner — only a quiet dignity, a calm unconcern. He begged of the commanding officer to be shot at once, deprecating the thought of imprisonment— only let him die or be free. It was in vain to remind him of his offences : the laws of the white man were not for him. He then said that he wished to see his wives. The request was granted : they were sent for, and after a little while they, trembling with fear, passed the terrible-looking guard and entered their husband's cell, with their faces covered with their blankets. The next day a council was held at the council-house, and I could not resist the wish I had to be present. I longed to see the aborigines of my country presiding as it were in their own halls of legislature. There was always a charm and freshness in listening to their unstudied eloquence. When I reached the council-house the speaking was nearly over, but the scene repaid me for the trouble I had taken to witness it. The warriors were seated in rows round the room on the floor, with the exception of Wabashaw, Many Lightnings, and a few of the principal men, — these occupied a bench. Their dresses were very rich ; their fans were of large 90 THE IRIS. feathers, stained in many colours. " The Owl" was looking grave, for he hod been reproved for interfering with the soldiers, by attempting to cut the prisoner's straps. One old man was in mourning, and he looked particularly en dkhahille, his clothing (and there was little of it) was dirty in the extreme. His face he had painted perfectly black; his hair he had purposely disarranged, to the greatest degree. Thus he presented a r.triking contrast to the elaborately adorned warriors around him. Many Lightnings was dressed with scrupulous care. He had been presented with an old uniform-coat, which he wore with the utmost complacency. We noticed the war- riors were almost all young : we asked where were all their old men. Wabashaw said, they were all carried off by the small-pox, which had nearly destroyed their band some years before. Several of them, besides the chief, were deeply marked from this disease. When we left Fort Snelling, Fire-face was still in con- finement, but was soon to go to Dubuque for trial. I learned some months after, that he had escaped : I thought then, his long-cherished wish might still be gratified. DEATH-SONG OP AN INDIAN PRISONER, FOR A LONG TIME CONFINED AT FORT SNELLING. BY MBS. MAEY EASTMAN. Hep 1, in these hated walls A prisoner I ; Vainly my young wife calls, As night-winds sigh. Brightly the white stars shine : Upwards I gaze, Seeking this soul of mine From earth to raise. Strong Wind, my comrade brave. Looks sternly by, Watching the death-film dim His brother's eye. Chained are these useless hands ; Cold is my heart ; Soon to the spirits' land Must I depart. Pacing my prison dark, Arms do I s; e, — 92 THE IBIS. While measured the sentry's step, Glance gleamingly. Once, like the wild deer, Or eagle, as free, — Now, closely guarded here, Prisoners we ! When has the red man felt Woman's weak fears ? But from these wearied eyes Fall warriors' tears. Father of Waters, I Ne'er shall see more,— List to its waves pass by, Beating the shore. Sleeps my brave comrade now?- Dreams he of home? See, o'er his haughty brow Dark shadows come. Like me, he fain would be Where, from the bow. Piercing the wild deer's side. Swift arrows go. When from the waters bright Fades the red sun. Following the evening light. Darkness comes on. DEATH-SONG. 93 So has my spirit drooped, Since from my home Traced I my weary steps, Ne'er to return. Hark ! in the evening air Low voices come, — Bring they to this sad heart Breathings of home. Now do the whispers rise, Mighty the sound, Like the thunder-bird,* from the skies Hurled to the ground. " Come to our hunting-lands ! Proudly we roam Here, where the white man Never may come. From our forests on earth Oft driven back, We are free now, and follow The buffalo's track. " Here is the bright glance, From maiden's dark eye ; * This is an allusion to the battles of the gods of the Dacotas. The Thunder (believed to be a bird) is sometimes conquered and cast to the earth by the god of the woods or the god of the waters. 94 THE IRIS. While the song of the feast and dance Rings through the sky. Here do we wait thy step, While soon, for thee, Bursted the prison bars, The warrior free !" THE FALSE ALARM. BT MB8. HABT EASTMAN. "Yes," said Weharka, who had outlived children and grandchildren, whose face and neck were covered with wrinkles, but who still could walk with the youngest and strongest, " the old woman must pick up what she can get to eat. I hate the white people. Have I forgotten the death of my son ? Do I not see him now as he fell dead by the gate of the Fort ? What if the Dacotas had killed some Chippeways ! The Dacotas have a right to kill their enemies. Enah ! I hate the Chippeways too. If I were a warrior, I would ever be tracking them and shooting them down, and I would laugh when I saw their blood flow." " The white people caused the death of your son," said Harpen. "I hate them both," replied Weharka. "My son and two others killed some Chippeways, and they were taken, prisoners, to the Fort, because the long-knives had said we must not kill our enemies. Then the Chippeways wanted the Dacotas who murdered their friends, that their women might cut them in pieces. So the long-knives told the Dacotas they might start from the gate of the Fort, and run for their lives; but they told the Chippeways to be there too, and they might fire at them and kill them if 9i ^^ «V IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 4^ ^/ kf :/. 1.0 I.I tea 128 |2.5 ^ IM 12.2 Mi yk WUU '•25 r-^ 1'-^ .<- 6" ► y] i4v %^ 7 Photographic Sciences Corporation ?3 WIST WEBSTEC (71*) MAIN i IHiT \ Y. USiO 872-4503 :«^4^ % ^ "WP!>^WI!IP'P""W" 96 THE IRIS. they could. The Chippeways fired, and the three Dacotas fell. The Chippeways shouted and were glad, and the Dacota women wept. I lay on the ground many days, with my limbs bleeding. See the scars on my arms ! With this very knife did I make these wounds. I, a widow, and childless, who has there been to give me food since? "When Beloved Hail was killed," continued the old woman, " the white men would not let our warriors go to war against the Chippeways. Red-boy, too, was wounded by the Chippeways, and even he could not go out to fight them. Our warriors are like children before the white men." " Red-boy was badly wounded," said Harpen. " Yes, he was badly wounded : I saw him at the time. If I were Red-boy, I would only live to revenge myself on those who had tried to take my life." Whilo the woman talked, little Wanska sat by them, playing with her wooden doll. " Grandmother," said she, "may I take your canoe and go over to the village? You can come home with the others. I want to talk to my mother about Red-boy." "Go, go," said Weharka, "our brave men may no longer do brave deeds, and by the time that you are a woman, there will be no more warriors. It has been five winters since Beloved Hail was killed and Red-boy wounded, and no one has avenged them yet." The child entered th^ canoe and paddled towards the village, thinking all the while of what she had heard. "Grandmother says, by the time I am a woman, there will be no more warriors : what will I do then for a husband ?" THE FALSE ALARM. 97 and thus divided between the disgrace of not being mar- ried, and the remembrance of Bed-boy's wound, which she thought had occurred recently , she entered the village in a state of trepidation, which was yet exceeded by the con- dition in which her mother was thrown, on hearing the announcement that Bed-boy was badly wounded by the Ghippeways ; that Weharka had seen the wound ; that all the old women were very angry with the Ghippeways and white people; then, bursting into tears, the girl of ten years added : " Mother, the Ghippeways and white men are going to kill all the Dacota warriors, so that, when I am a woman, I can never have a husband !" Up rose the eyes and hands of the mother, and down went the moccasins she was making to the ground; and up and down she made her way through the village, giving the alarm, that Bed-boy was killed by the Ghippeways ! Shall I tell of the scene that followed ? Oh ! for a pen of magic, to describe how Bed-boy*s relations cried, and how everybody's relations cried with them ; how the children ran to their mothers, sheltering themselves under their oJcendokendaa.* How the dogs yelped and howled, and sprung on the children's backs, ready to go wherever prudence might dictate. How the old men started from sleeping in the lazy summer's sun, and held their toma- hawks as firmly as if time were made to be laughed at, and the young men throwing away the pebbles with which ""An Okondokenda is a part of an Indian woman's dress, somewhat resembling tlie sack worn by ladies at the present time, more open, dis- playing the throat and chest. It is generally made of bright-coloured calico. '■""•f^WPPpPBPW^ ^IDPlppfniiipiiju 1,1 III 1.11 III 98 THE IRIS. they were playing a game of chance, walked swiftly on, bent on avenging Eed-boy. How the wind all at once began to rise, and the very fish leaped out of the water, as if they would like to fight too ; while already, Indian runners were far on their way to tell the news at Man-in-the-cloud's and Good-road's villages, and to give the word to those whom they might meet, who would take up the cry, and rush forward with revenge on their lips, and murder in their hearts. On they went, until they reached the house of the Inter- preter, near Fort Snelling, and then he went with them, to report to the officers at the Fort of the outrage ; that Red- boy was killed, and that the Dacota warriors wished to go and avenge the death of their friend. This was, of course, considered an infringement of the treaty of peace then existing between the two tribes; and the Chippeways had showed their daring by committing a murder so near the walls of the Fort. It was immediately determined to send a detachment of soldiers to arrest the offenders. In ten minutes a number of men were on the parade- ground, ready to march, looking as fiercely at the officers' quarters as if they were about to enter into mortal combat with the doors and windows ; obeying the word of command as quickly as it was reiterated, while the ringing noise of their ramrods sounded through the garrison. The Dacotas were perfectly satisfied with the promise made them, that the Chippeways should be punished in a manner satisfactory to themselves, for the death of Red-boy. We women felt quite solemn in the Fort. The Chip- THE FALSE ALARM. 99 peways might resist: in fact, there was no saying what they might, or what they might not do. The command in garrison was very small : we felt as if we had been " through seven wars, and this was the worst of all." Retreat, the assembling of the command at sundown, came — the evening gun was fired, and the flag was lowered — and nothing was heard of the war-party, white or Indian. Tattoo had come, the soldier's bed-time, and our anxieties were not at rest. Towards twelve o'clock the men returned with their officer, without having had even a show of fight. To their intense mortification and disappointment. Red-boy had been seen, and talked with, large as life. He had eaten a saddle of venison that day, without any assistance, and was, accordingly, in a good state of preservation, having re- ceived no wound since the one of five years' standing, the scar of which he showed. Now, we know that among white people, as well as In- dians, women have the credit of raising all the false reports, and circulating all the scandal that is going the rounds. Most unjust charge ! and all men, red skins and pale faces, are defied to prove it. Among the Indians women have no chance whatever. Is an Indian charged with stealing pork from the traders ? It was not the warrior who did it, but his wife. Has a party of Indians been admitted into the Fort, and some loaves of bread and pieces of meat been abstract- ed ? Somehow or other the women are sure to be in fault. Has the garrison been alarmed, and a party of soldiers sent out uselessly ? As usual, the women made the trouble. Yet, with a sigh from my heart, I must confess that ap- pearances are against the sex. 7 p^Minwi 100 THE IRIS. There were many threats of vengeance made against We- harka in the present instance, for the trouble which her longings for vengeance had occasioned; but she was not afraid : she had taken care of herself for nearly a hundred years, and would be apt to do so during the short remnant of her life. Indian women will talk of their wrongs as long as they feel them, and that will be until the heart has ceased to beat, and the tongue is silent for ever. Weharka lives on the memory of her sorrows. She holds them to her heart, as does the mother her child of a day old. They are dear to her as would be the hope of ven- geance. I say she lives, but I know not. Seasons have gone since I bade adieu to her home, and it may be, she is all uncon- scious that winter is gone, and that summer's breath is waving the green boughs of the forest trees as they lift up their branches to the heavens. It must be soon, if not now, that her form, covered with garments of poverty and misery, and perhaps shielded from the gaze of passers-by by the tattered blanket of some friend poor as she, reposes quietly near the river bank. Would you not like to have heard her talk of her amuse- ments as a child, and her happiness when a maiden — of the scenes of pleasure she remembers, and of terror from which she has tied — of the pains, the hunger, the watcliings she has endured^-of the storms and sunshine of a life passed away ? lippppi ^imm '■w " I ifliiMM r II I n^^a^ ^mfmm^ mm/^^mn^mmmm^mm ■II M IJIHmiUMI INDIAN COURTSHIP. BT MR8. HART EASTMAN. Show nie a brighter scene On our beautiful earth, or where fairies dream ! HH :!« H: Id H« Tell me where, rocked by the billows high. The sea-bird pierces the gorgeous sky, Where the moonbeams rest on the ocean wave — Where dies the sun o'er the crystal cave. Where the bell sounds sweet o'er the desert sand, Like matins that ring in a far-off land. Where the mountain heaves with its angry voice. And the lava speeds with its fiercest course; Where the glaciers glance by the sunbeam's ray, And the avalanche bursts with resistless sway. Yet show me a brighter, a fairer scene On our beautiful earth, or where spirits dream, Than here ! where the leaves of the large trees lave. As their boughs are bent to the river's wave ; Than here ! where night and the white stars come, Their watch to keep o'er the Indian's home. Now o'er the waters bright Glides his canoe, 102 THE IRIS. Throbbing his warrior heart. Maiden! for you. Roused from your dreamy sleep, Bend low and list ; Not once has his well-known tread Your loving heart missed. Not far from the wigwam door Rests he awhile — But from far has he journeyed To meet your bright smile. He speaks to your heart By the flute's slightest sound, And its low notes are echoed By that heart's wildest bound. He knows if you love him You'll surely come forth, And modestly plight him A maiden's pure tro^ '. Then come ! he will talk Of his sweet forest home, Which you will make brighter ; Come ! maiden, come ! You move not. Ah ! woman. He will not despair : He has medicine tied In the braids of his hair. Love-medicine, bound In the white deer's soft breast. INDIAN COURTSHIP. 'Twill charm you at last On his bosom to rest. Should he wait for your coming This fair night in vain, No faint heart has he — He will charm you again. A spell he will cast On your slight graceful form ; Then, wrapped in your blanket-robe, Maiden, you'll come. To your parents he'll pres" .ts give: Bright things and new — Ah ! young wives are bought and sold Among Indians too. Then, from the mother's side You will go forth, The star of a warrior's home. The light of his hearth. 103 Come ! ere the morning star Lures him away ; He must meet with the wise men When breaks the blue day. Your soft voice must greet him Ere homeward he turn. Then close to his throbbing heart Come, maiden, come ! THE SACRIFICE. BY MRS. MAKY EASTMAN. Far away in one of the fair valleys of the WeHt, svUcrv dark forests frown alike in summer, when the richly ihul boughs wave to the passing breeze, and in winter, when the bare maple and thick evergreens are eoven'd witli snow, — far away, just on the borders of the valley, vhni* by the huge rocks which rear their heads above the bliillH that hang over the water, — an Indian village, with itn many-sized lodges rising here and there, reponeil, an it were, without fear from storm, or the sun's heat, or the aggw^H- sions of enemies. Sometimes, indeed, the mighty thunder rolled angrily towards it, and the streaked lightning eallcd over and over again, to the many hills around, to foiine up the tardy storm-spirits; but they loved not to linger here. Their voices could be heard in angry murmurn, then they would pass on in the river's course, with many a wild Hhoiit, to seek some spot less lovely on which to spend their wrath. A very few miles below the village, an Indian might Ik* seen, slowly paddling his canoe over the phicicl watern. The dark lines of his face were fixed in dee[) thought. His countenance was pale, though the hue of bin mvA; wnw there ; his nostrils large, and quivering with the rt>niainH of passion; his eyes bright and lustrous, as if with fever; but THE SACRIFICE. 105 around his mouth might be traced an expression which seemed to indicate that grief as well as passion was strug- gling with him. As he slowly touched with his paddle the passive waters, he looked around him with a bewil- dered air. Sudderdy, he started, as his eye fell upon something that lay in the bottom of the canoe ; he raised it : 'twas the arrow of his child. How came it there ? and why should the father, forgetting all, as he dropped unconsciously the paddle into the waters, cover his face with both his hands, and while the tears forced their way through his fingers, tremble with remembrances too strong even for him, the Iron Heart, to bear ? All was quiet and peace. Not a voice was heard ; even nature's was still. No human eye looked upon the warrior as he wept. Silence and solitude surrounded him. The vast prairie that stretched abroad might have recalled to his mind the unending future, which he was to spend in the society of the honoured dead. The soft vapoury clouds of evening that hung over him, might have told him, as they have told many, that it is not far from the wretched to the land of spirits. The waters, on which his canoe rested al- most motionless, might have called to his remembrance, that life was a sea, sometimes troubled and sometimes calm, over which the mortal must pass to reach immortality. But no such tranquillizing thoughts calmed the tempest which was raging in his bosom; his bare chest heaved with emotion ; but at length he raised his head, and taking another paddle from the bottom of his canoe in his right hand, witLi the other he threw the small arrow that had immimm mmm* 106 THE IRIS. occasioned him so many painful thoughts, and watching till the waters closed over it, he made his way towards the bend in the river, where lowlands and prairies were no more to be sc^n, and an hour's time brought him in sight of the village, and soon he was clambering over the rocks towards it. When he met his friends, there was a stem coldness in his manner, and he replied fiercely to the greeting saluta- tions of his younger wives, and called for his daughter Wenona, whose mother had long since been dead, to pre- pare him some food. Wenona obeyed with alacrity her father's commands, at the same time glancing uneasily towards her two step- mothers, whose smothered wrath she knew would break forth at some future time. They sat silent on the ground in seeming submission to the will that wrested from them their rights, in favour of the child of a dead rival ; but those accustomed to read the writing on a woman's countenance, could see they were rebelliously inclined, but were forced to conceal their vexation under a calm demeanour. It was in August, "the moon that corn is gathered." Wenona had during the long day paid the penalty of her father's love ; she had toiled unceasingly, though the sun scorched her face and bosom; the watchful eyes of her father's wives were upon her, and when he was absent, they hardly allowed her a moment's rest. Her young companions wondered at the little spirit she showed; but Wenona was of a peace-making disposition, and preferred submission to contention. The large bundles of corn she had gathered during the day were hanging outside the ■^mnwmppM THE SACRIFICE. 107 wigwam to dry. Not even had she allowed herself time to join the other girls, who were diving at noon in the cool waters, and raising their heads up to call Wenona, looking like mermaids as the water flowed from their long, un- braided hair. It was not long before she placed before Iron Heart his evening meal, venison and boiled corn — while her face was so good-humoured, and her motions so easy and graceful, that one would suppose the wrath of the evil spirits them- selves would have been disarmed, much less the anger of those to whose children she so often sung sweet lullabies. Iron Heart did not relish his food ; but tasting the venison, then lighting his pipe, he appeared lost to what passed be- fore him : he often looked in Wenona's face, with a strange repentant look, as if he had done her an injury, but sought to conceal it in his own bosom. After a while he rose, and joined a group of warriors, who were seated without the wigwam, Wenona following in his protecting shadow, out of the reach of complaint or re- proof The group that Iron Heart joined was composed of the principal men of the band, who were listening to the words of one of their wisest men. No one interrupted him, as he boasted of the feathers he had won, as he told of the bears and buffaloes he had destroyed ; no one showed impatience as he dwelt upon the time when he was young, and all ad- mired his feats of valour and strength. Respect and atten- tion were on every countenance, as the white hair of the old man was lifted from his brow by the evening breeze. He told them they had loujg b(;en at peace with the Chip- 108 THE IRIS. peways ; their young men were becoming like women, with- out the ennobling and exciting employment of war. That the edge of the tomahawk was blunted for want of use. He said the Chippeways had again intruded on their hunt- ing-grounds, and it was time that the war-cry of the Daco tas should be heard, to show their enemies their power. The old man, who had lived nearly a century, ceased speaking, and The Buffalo, who leaned against a tree near the others, turned towards them, as if he, too, would speak. " My words are not good, like the words of the aged ; my voice is low, like the sound of the waters in a small stream, but the wise speak, and the sound of the Father of many Waters is in your ears. But our brave men say they are at peace with the Chippeways: they promised they would bury the hatchet deeper than the roots of our tallest trees ; they said we would live together like friends, and that the war-cry only should be heard when we joined together against our enemies." The old man prepared to answer him : his limbs shook with rage and excitement ; he raised his finger, and pointed towards The Buffalo, then, when the crimson blood dyed his cheeks, he said, " Shame on the coward who fears his ene- mies : go gather corn with the women, and the old and feeble man will die with his tomahawk raised against those who hate his nation." In vain The Buffalo essayed to speak : they would not hear him ; and he left the council amid the sneers of all. War was decided upon ; and night was fast approaching when Wenona, with pale and agitated looks, pressed for- l*llll^pllll.lll,IIIJI THE SACRIFICE. 109 ward among the warriors. " My father," said she, "where is my brother ?" Iron Heart started ; but recovering himself, he replied, " I know not. Seek him yourself, if you would find him." "I have sought him," she said, "but the old woman. Flying Cloud, tells me I may seek him no more, for she saw his body floating down the river, as she came up in her canoe. She laughed, too, and said I would see him one day in the land of spirits." All looked towards Iron Heart, but he made his way among them, and returned to the wigwam. In vain We- nona wept, and besought him to go in search of her brother; not even would he inquire of Flying Cloud. " I will go, then, and look for him myself," said the girl. " Is he not my brother, my mother's son ?" 'Cease your noise," said her father, sternly. "If the Great Spirit have called my son, is he not already a brave warrior in the city of spirits ?" Wenona was quiet at her father's rebuke, but her heart was ill at ease. She hoped he would return in the night. She remembered that Flying Cloud was always bitter and ill-tempered ; and besides, was not her brother at home on the water ? Could he not swim as easily as he could tread down the grass on the prairie ? She reasoned herself into the hope that Chaske had been tired, and had laid down to rest: and she fell asleep with the expectation that his merry voice would arouse her at break of day. And how did he sleep in whose heart lay the secret of the death of his son ? in whose ear was sounding the voice of that son's blood ? 110 THE IRIS. * « * In vain might we seek to follow Wenona in her untiring search for her brother — she knew all his accustomed haunts — at one time making her way over rock and crag, to find out the eagle's home ; at another, pushing her small canoe up the stream, where the beavers made their houses ; weep- ing, yet hoping too. Day after day passed thus : and ever as she returned to the village would Flying Cloud tell her she must go beyond the clouds to seek him. Iron Heart neither assisted in the search for the boy, nor spoke of his loss. He was calm as usual : yet in the last four days he seemed to have lived as many years. He employed himself sharpening the instruments he was soon to use against the Chippeways, while hanging near the medicine-sack, which was attached to a pole outside the wigwam, was a knife which glittered in the sun, which was only touched or moved by himself Days and weeks passed by : Wenona ceased to look for her brother, or hope for his return ; yet still she wept. The heart of the motherless girl clung ever in thought to him who had been not only her companion, but her charge from his birth. She had taken him from her mother's bosom when dying ; she had watched his childish sports, and sung to him the legends of her people. Could she have closed his eyes, and wept at his feet, her grief would not have been so hopeless. It often occurred to her that her father was not unacquainted with the circumstances of his death. 4: Hi ill Hi Ht >H Strange and solemn was the secret of the death of the In- ■Pi THE SACRIFICE. Ill dian boy. Dearly loved by his father, they stood together one day by the river's side. " Did you not say, my father," said the boy, " that we would go to the forest for the deer ? Let us go now ; my arrows are swift and strong, and to-morrow the girls will come and help us drag them in. Come, my father, your looks have been sad for many days, but you will laugh when you see the red deer fall as we strike them. The old woman. Flying Cloud," continued the boy, "says she knows what is going to happen to me. She says I will never go to war against the Chippeways ; that my knife shall never sever the scalps from the head of my enemy; that my voice shall not be heard in the council, nor shall my wife ever stand at the door of her lodge to wait my coming. But I laughed at her: she is old and poor; she loves not the young and happy. See her now, my father, as she stands upon that high rock, waving her arms to me. What have you done to her that she hates you so ? She says she has cast a spell upon our race." " Flying Cloud is not of our clan, my son," replied Iron Heart ; " her son died, and she says my mother caused his death. She says she cannot die till my mother is childless like herself But come, before the night we must kill many deer." "Is your knife sharp?" said the boy; "you know we must draw the skins off while they are warm. My sister will work our moccasins and leggins. She says she is never so happy as when she is sewing for me." Shall we follow them — shall we penetrate the deep forests to see the father raise his knife to pierce from side to side the strong, healthy frame of his son ! 112 THE IRIS. Not in anger did he take the life that was dearer to him than his own. Was the burden of his sins lying heavily against his heart ? Who shall tell his agony when he saw the blood flow ! Who shall say how his soul was wrung with grief as the reproachful face of his much-loved child was turned towards him in death ! The wild deer flew past, but he saw them not. The serpent glided by as it did in Paradise, but its stealthy mo- tion was unobserved. The sweet song-birds raised their notes to the sky, but they all fell unheeded on the ear of the father who had taken the life of his son. Raising the form of the boy in his arms, he bore it care- fully to the shore, and casting it where the current hurried impetuously on, the dead boy was borne along to share the lot of many who will rest in their ocean grave, till the land and the sea shall alike give up their dead. When I reflect on the tradition of the Sioux, that once only has human life been offered in sacrifice, and then a father took the life of his son — when in the quiet night I mind me of those whose destiny seems now to be in our power for good or evil, I remember that when the world was new, Abraham, in holy faith, yet with a breaking heart, led his much-loved child — the child of hope and promise, to sacrifice his life in obedience to the command of God. Can you not see his lip quiver and his cheek turn pale as he lays him on the altar? Can you not hear the throbbings of his heart as he binds him to the wood ? Abraham's son was spared, but I mind me of another sacrifice, where God spared not his own Son, but yielded him, the pure and sinless, a sacrifice for the guilt of all. I'^»" A LULLABY. BT MRS. MART KA8THAN. Lo ! by the river-shore "Wenona weeping, Lashed to its cradle-bed her young child sleeping, While 'neath the forest trees the dead leaves lying, Mournful, and sad, and low, the autumn winds are sighing. Lists she to hear his footstep proud advancing ? Gazes, to see his tomahawk brightly glancing ? Watching the tossing waves, weary and lonely. Faithful her breaking heart, loving him only. Raising her drooping form, hearing her infant cry, Pressing him to her breast, sings she a lullaby. Sleep on, my warrior son ! Ne'er to his childhood's home. Waiting our greeting smile. Will thy brave father come. Shouting the loud death-cry With the grim warrior band. Singing the giant's songs. Dwells he in spirit land. Turning from brave to brave. See his keen eye 114 THE IRIS. Ah ho glances around him, And smiles scornfully. I knew when he left me, (The strawberries grew On the prairies green, And the wild pigeon flew Swift o'er the spirit lakes,) Then o'er my heart Came a dark shadow Ne'er to depart. I watched, from the door Of my tupee,* the band As they turned from their home To the Chippeways' land. I watched and I wept. As thy father, the last Of the many tall braves. From my tearful gaze passed. Wake not, my young son. For thy father sleeps sound. And his stiffened corse lies On his enemy's ground. Wake not, my brave child, Thou wilt wrestle, too soon. With the miseries of life, — 'Tis the red man's dark doom. * Tupcc is the Dacota word for house or wigwam. »»llll"'" A LULLABY. O'er the fate of the Indian The Great Spirit has cast The spell of the white man — His glory is past. Like the day that is dying As fades the bright sun, Like the warrior expiring When the battle is done. Soon no more will our warriors Meet side by side, To talk of their nation, Its power and pride. 'Tis the white man who rules us And tramples us down ; We are slaves, and must crouch When our enemies frown. Sleep on, my young son, I'd fain have thee know As the warrior departs Did thy brave father go. He feared not the white man. While the Chippeway knew He could boast when he scalped The Dacota he slew. Sleep on, to our desolate Tupee we go ; Soon the winter winds come. And the cold and the snow. 8 115 116 H THE IRIS. He is gone who would bring To us covering warm. Would supply us with food, And would shield us from harm. I have listened full oft, As the white woman told Of the city of life, Where the bright waters rolled; Where tears never come, Where the night turns to day, — I gladly would go there. But know not the way. Ah ! ye who have taken From the red man his lands. Who have crushed his proud spirit, And bound his strong hands ; If ye see our sad race In ignorance bowed down, And care not to see it, Ye have hearts made of stone. Sleep on, my young son, For soon will we laiow If to the heaven of the white man The Dacota may go. We are children of earth. We must meekly toil on 'Till the Great Spirit call us. My warrior son ! oyTup' K »stn ' f^V»f*l»'>' 1/ r e I •-/i' ?>»' The f hijjjjrw.'i Ij/f^vn W" ,:.w ?)}• mmm SOUNDING WIND; OR, THE CUIl'l'EWAY UUAVE. BY HB8. HABY KAHTMAN. Hast tbou mourned I oh mourn no tongor : Death Is gtrong, but Iut* Ik utronKiir. The amnesties that have been made between the Sioux and Chippeways for many yearn have; Ixjen of short duration : it appears now that the two nations will be friendly only when the lion and the lamb shall lie down together, should the two nations exist at that happy period. The sight of each other's blood is as precious to a Chippeway or Sioux as would be the secret of perpetual youth to an octogenarian, who eagerly grasps his tenure for life, loving, and fearing to lose it to the last. At the time of my story, a longer peace than usual had existed between the two nations. They hunted and danced, and even married together. Many a. child, that had never trembled at hearing the war- whoop, wondered at the old men's stories, that invariably closed with the triumph of the Dacota tomahawk over the weaker blade of the enemy : but that child grew to be a man only to hate a Chippeway, as his father had done in youth ; one offence had brought on another, and the slum- bering spirit of vengeance that had reposed in the hearts of the red men was roused up, and with a double vengeance mmmv^ 118 THE IRIS. foe sought foe. In vain were the women and children hid- den in the holes of the earth at night for safety ; they were hunted out, as the starving wolf scents its prey : after the desperate fight was over, when the strong were laid low, then were the aged and the infants dragged from their hiding-places. The red morning sun, parting the sullen clouds, hid again from the sight of the blood that was covering the ground, and dyeing the very stream where but yesterday the village belle, seated by its fair banks, listened to the words that every maiden loves to hear. A sad scene was presented at the village of Gray Eyes : the old chief lay helpless among those who had obeyed his slightest word, the glaze of death dimming an eye that for more than eighty winters had watched the snow, as it drifted from vale to vale. Life had not yet departed : you could feel the pulse still flutter, and the heart faintly beat, but the thoughts of the chief were in spirit-land, and his soul hasted to burst its prison bars, that it might renew the combat where the Dacotas would aye be the victors. A gleam of life and consciousness passed over his faded features, as an Indian girl advanced towards him : it was a child he dearly loved, soon to be left without a protector. " My daughter," said the old man feebly, as the maiden threw herself on the ground beside him, and covered with her tears his cold hands ; then raising herself, as she saw the wound still bleeding, she tore a piece from her okendo- kenda, and endeavoured to staunch it. " It is too late, my child ; the soul of your father longs to join the warriors who live in the land of spirits. Where are your brothers ?" UIJIIjlllvll.MI.^IHJIfl JMIMKJIWIU'ijaillfH •"mf^w mmmir,!mmi-m'i n»wyHlWWW»^"i^P)pH SOUNDING WIND. 119 " There !" said the weeping girl, pointing to the dead bodies that lay across each other. " And your mother ?" " There too," she answered ; " all are gone, my father, but you and me. I knew how the rocks lay, and where I could hide myself, and there I stayed, hearing my mother's cries, and my brothers' sliouts, as they died. I saw, too, the Chippeways, as they carried away the scalps. When you are gone what will become of me ? Who will care for We- nona?" " Not Wenona," said her father, " but ' The Lonely One.' That will be your name when you will have neither father nor brother left. But see," continued the old man, " our enemies' blood! Your brothers fought well: they have already passed the warriors' road to the City of Spirits." His breath came quickly — big drops stood on his forehead — another struggle — a last sigh — and Wenona was indeed " the lonely one." The attack of the night before had not been unexpected. The Sioux had placed pickets around their village, and a guard had been kept ; but their enemies were too wily for them. The violent storm that raged during the battle was favourable to the Chippeways ; they were upon the Sioux ere the watches had heard the slightest sound, except the wind, and the peals of thunder that shook the earth. Some escaped with their families from the lower end of the vil- lage, but almost all who remained to fight for their families were raassncred with them. While Wenona awaited the struggle, she was overcome with fear and excitement ; but now she was as one without i I 120 THE IRIS. hope. The blow had been struck. Chii)pc\v.ay and Sioux had fallen in the death-struggle, locked in the embrace which bound foe to foe. She had give.j her heart's devoted love to one Avhoin she must now consider sis her enemy. Sounding Wind, a noble young Ohippeway, handsome in person, and already favoured among his own people, had jiromised to take her to his wigwam when the two nations were at peace, though there were many then who foreboded the strife that would rend the ties of friendship between the nations. Even after hostilities had commenced, Sounding Wind had sworn to himself the woman he loved slioidd be his wife, though every brave in the nation might stand between him and the accomplishment of his vow. Wenona, as she rose from her father's body, ga./ing npon the scene of terror before her, looked like the Hower beside her, which still reared its head, though its fair companions were all crushed to the earth by the storm of the night. Silence and death reigned here — nature was as tranquil as the hearts of her children. Near by swep*^ the lake of the thousand isles : undisturbed were its waters ; there was no requiem for the dead, even in the passing breeze. " My heart weeps," murmured the girl; "but shall the bodies of my friends remain until night brings the wolves and hungry birds? Sounding Wind has forgotten the maiden who loves him. He told me our village should be safe ; that he would talk like a wise man ; that he would lead the Chip- peways fiir away from us : that, as the little islands sleep peacefully in the lake through the h)ng summer's day, so might I rest from fear for myself and for my friends. " I will go alone and find our people, that they may come SOUNDING WIND. 121 and help rae bury our dead. Why should I fear, when all who have loved me are gone, and he who once loved me would take my life as he would pierce the deer on tlie prairie ?" Wearily she turned her steps, intending to go to the nearest village, avoiding the dead bodies at every step : yet her moccasins were red with blood, which, as she pursued her w.ay, crimsoned the earth at her feet. The reverence that every Indian woman feels for all things connected with death, gave her courage to undertake the task before her. Every change in the scene brought with it some remini- scence : grief for the dead were connected with each, but there were thoughts of the living hard to bear. Here had she sat with her mother, working with porcu- pine quills gay garments for her brothers. Here had she stood and watched the canoe of her lover; here had he given her the charm which she still wore about her neck : it was to secure her from any accident till she had left her friends, and until the gods that the Chippeways worshipped were hers. She pursued her way ; but as the waters became bright with the warm rays of the sun, and the pleasant breezes were wafted to the shore, a sense of oppression and fatigue overcame her. In vain she essayed to rouse herself to the task before her : it was, indeed, in vain, for at last she threw herself under a large tree, and yielded to the repose which exhausted nature demanded. She slept on tor hours as calmly as if she could only remember and look forward to joy. Bright eyes were glancing before her — laughter greeted her ears. 'Ill ipPViiiililiPiil 122 THE IRIS. she was a child again in her dreams, and passing over the gay waters with her boy lover by her side. Sounding Wind, we have said, was already a man of con- sequence in his tribe; but he had refused to accompany the war-party of the preceding night, nor did he seek to hide his reasons. They had lived peaceably with the band that lived near the Lake of the Thousand Isles. While he was willing to resent the aggressions of the band that by treach- erous acts had broken their faith, he Avould not assail those who had given them no cause of offence. A better reason was in his heart : the love he bore to We- nona was strong, even stronger than death ; and could he raise a murderous tomahawk against her family? He was anxious to know the result of the attack on the Sioux. He met the Chippeways as, taking the trail by the river, they were on their way home. Shortly after he joined them, they seated themselv^es by the great tree whose branches sheltered Wenona. They were resting and eating. Sounding Wind stood by them : no one interfered with his gloomy mood — there was that in him that kept them in control. They were all silent, when suddenly a sigh of grief and fatigue was uttered near them. Startled by it, each warrior rose to his feet and grasped his knife and tomahawk. Sounding Wind sprung over the bushes that were between them and the spot from whence the sigh issued. At his feet, just rousing from slumber, was the girl who was dearer to him than home or friends. One gleam of joy at seeing her again, one shade of terror at her probable fate, and the young man, placing himself between her and the SOUNDING WIND. 123 Chippeways who had followed him, showed himself ready to protect her so long as his arm could wield the tomahawk that glistened in the sun. " Come not towards her," he said to them, for they had recognised her by her dress, " she is my prisoner. I first touched her — I claim her before you all. I am your chief. I have led you against the Sacs and Foxes, and I will lead you against the Dacotas, who have become our enemies, but this girl's life shall be spared, for she is to be my wife. " I have taken her prisoner : I shall spare her life. Am I not a Chippeway ? and shall I forget my promise to her, to make her my wife ?" Wenona had covered her face with her hands, every moment expecting the blow that would terminate her sorrows; but no one offered to touch her. They were many and strong in the love of revenge. Sounding Wind was but one ; but stronger than a host was the love that made him brave the stern spirits before him. She arose at the bidding of her lover. She eat of their food, and pursued, without fear of harm, her journey to her new home. There, amid the struggles of the Sioux arid Chippeways, she was ever safe. And happy, too, save when the remembrance of the fotc of her family came between her and the bright visions that cheer and gladden even an Indian woman's home, when the love of her husband and children hallow it. ■Ilpp AN INDIAN BALLAD. D» Mn8. MABY EASTMAN. " Take me away," sairl one they called the "Drooping Eye," " Bear me where stoops the deer to drink at eve." She would behold the clouds of heaven float gently by, And iiear the birds' sweet song ere earth to leave. (Jlose is the wigwam,— oh! give her light and air; Say, can her spirit wing itself for flight, Losing the perfume borne from flowers fair. As comes on them and her the gloom of night? On them and her,— but they will bloom again. When ])rt!aks the day on earth, by sleep spellbound,— Refreshed by morning winds, or summer's rain. Gilding with colours bright the dewy ground. Oh! bear her gently; lay her feeble form Close by the lake, where beam the waters bright : Oft has she watched from here the coming storm. And oft, as now, the glow of evening's light. Why weep her friends that fails her parting breath. That cold the pressure of her powerless hand ! wm^wmi^i'^w^ AN INDIAN BALLAD. 125 List ! — Ye may hear from far the voice of death, Calling from earth her soul to spirits' land. Well do they know the fairies of the lake, That with its waves have mingled oft her tears, Here would she nature's solemn silence break With the death-song of woman's hopes and fears. I go,— I go, Where is heard no more The cry of sorrow or pain ; I will wait for you there. Where skies are fair, But I come not to earth again. Mother, you weep ! Yet my body will sleep Right near you, by night and by day : And, when comes the white snow, You will still weep, I know. That the summer and I've passed away. When the storm-spirit scowls, When the winter-wind howls, Oh ! crouch not in cowardly fear. Not unwatched, then, the form That with ^if:, once was warm, — My spirit will ever be near. 126 THE inis. Mv sisters ! full well A dark tale I could tell, IIow my lover iu death slumbers sound : My brother's strong arm, Made the life-blood flow warm : And he laughed as it covered the ground I heard his deep sigh, I saw his closed eye, I knew that life's struggle was .past. When his heart ceased to beat, Then I wept at his feet, — My first love, my only, my last. Well my proud brother knew That my heart was as true To my love as the bird to its mate. I go to him there. Where flowers bloom fair : Will his spirit the Drooping Eye wait ? Comes quickly my breath ! The dampness of death, Oh ! wipe from my bro\r with thy hand. Earth's sorrows Jiit o'er, I may weep never more, — Tears are not in that bright spirits' land. OLD JOHN. THE MEDICINE-MAN. BY MRS. MART EASTMAN. If ever " life was a fitful fever," it was with Old John, the Medicine-Man. Coining to the Fort at times when you would not suppose any human being would expose himself to the elements, — always laughing, always hungry — seating himself before the fire to sleep, and starting up the moment his eyelids closed over his restless, twinkling eyes — talking for ever and singing in the same breath — troublesome and intrusive, yet always contriving to be of use. And useful he often was to an artist who was with us ; for he v/ould stand, sit, or lean, assuming and retaining the most painful attitudes, looking good-humoured all the time, and telling of his many wonderful adventures and hairbreadth escapes. He came to us one day in the middle of winter, for the picture of the medicine-feast was in progress, and he had promised to show how the priest was to be represented, that the white people might know in very truth how were conducted the sacred ceremonies of the Dacotas. While he w^arms himself, and eats, and smokes, he has as usual a great deal to say, and this in a half-muttered rS^ 128 THE IRIS. tone ; for he is a little drowsy from the effect of the tire on his chilled limbs. He takes from his head the throe-cornered cloth h(jod which is worn by the men in severe weather, and thrown his blanket a little fiom his shoulders, diHphiyin^ hin hand- somely embroidered coat. There is the strongest odour of smoke and ntale fobarco from his dress, and he laughs heartily aw we throw open the doors and windows for the benefit of the freMh «i.ir. How many strange stories he has of tlie diflltntnt medi- cine-feasts, and in each he figures largely. About Mome portions of the dance he is silent ; you may queMtion him closely, but you get no satisfactory answer. He tells that the feast commences when there Ih mo 8un in the heavens; at midnight, when often even the moon and stars are hiding their light. He cannot tman passed round the room, looking after him as if he were something supernatural, instead of being a compound of art and wickedness. He was now going to embrace the opportunity that had pre- sented itself to convince us of the ease with which he could excite the superstitious fears of these women. He continued going round the room in measured time, and it was impossible not to observe the increasing awe which was stealing upon the women. He kept perfect time to his own music, stopping the while, as if absorbed in the thoughts attendant on the celebration of a religious cere- mony — ^when suddenly he sprang towards the women, hold- ing the bag close in the face of one of them. The woman sank to the ground : a severe and stunning blow could not have had a more immediate effect on her system than the terror into which she had been thrown. She lay on the ground motionless, with her hands pressed over her eyes. Old John, perfectly satisfied with the result of his experiment, laid down his medicine-bag, and seated liimself on the carpet. We spoke to the woman, and endeavoured to rouse her. For some nf/nutes she appeared not to hear; but, after arising, she looked as pale and ill as if she had indeed been in the presence of an evil spirit ; and she was at that very time, for I doubt if in the Sioux or any other country a 132 THE IRIS. more determined and hopeless reprobate could be found than Old John. I wondered to observe the trepidation into which a female of so strong and healthy a frame could be thrown. To what could it be ascribed, but to the influence of an all- powerful superstition on a mind chained by ignorance to its natural estate of dark degradation? Among the most curious ideas of the Sioux are those concerning the Aurora Borealis, which is considered a kind of goddess of v f Old John will tell you all about her; for not only is h 'villed in all that relates to the mys- teries of his religion, but, if you will take his word for it, he has seen all kinds of visions. He will tell you how the gods look — ^for he has seen them at different times — and to no better person could you apply for information about the Aurora (as they call her, Waken-kedan, the old woman). He will tell you that she is one of their chief objects of worship ; that her favour and protection are invoked as a necessary preparation for going to war. Old John declares he has had several visions of the god- dess. When she has appeared to him, she has given him the most minute directions as to the hiding-places of the enemy. Sometimes she insures success to the party ; — if, however, she predicts misfortune, it is sure to occur. The goddess, he says, wears little hoops on her arms. When she appears to the war-chief, if they are to be suc- cessful, she throws as many of these hoops on the ground as they are to take scalps. These hoops resemble the hoops that the Indians use in stretching the scalps of their enemies, when they are preparing for the scalp dance. OLD JOHN. 133 But, should the goddess throw broken arrows on the ground, woe to the war-party ! for this tells the chief how many of his comrades are to be scalped, an arrow for a scalp. Sometimes, when the successful party is on its return, it is made more triumphant by the appearance of the goddess. She does not then take the form of a woman, but quietly enfolds the heavens with her robe of light. This they interpret as a favourable omen. The heavens, they say, are rejoicing on their account; the stars shine out brighter in honour of their victory; while, to use the Indian war- rior's own words, it is as if their goddess said to them, "Rejoice and dance, my grandchildren, for I have given you victory." " The old woman," he says, wore a cap, on the top of which were little balls or knots, of the same kind with which warriors adorn themselves after having killed an enemy. She held in her hand an axe, with a fringe fastened to the handle: this represents an axe that has killed an enemy, as it is a universal custom among the Sioux to attach a strip of some kind of animal to the im- plement that was used in battle. The Aurora appears and disappears at the pleasure of the goddess, or as she is sometimes called, "the old woman who sits in the north." It is not to be wondered at that the minds of this people should be thus impressed with the bril- liant flashing of the Aurora, in their far northern home. Her appearance is not always considered a favourable omen. Sometimes it is a warning of coming danger. The mind, overwhelmed with ignorance and superstition, is apt to read darkly the signs of nature ; while a prospect of sue- <' 134 THE IRIS. cess in any contemplated undertaking will change the inter- pretation. * « * * * * Old John loves to tell of another of his gods, the meteor; of this god they stand in great awe, calling him Waken-ne- ken-dah, or man of fire. He strides through the air to punish recreant Indians, who forget the claims of the Great Spirit upon them. Around this god is ever a circle of fire, while small meteors flow from this "great fiery man." In each hand he holds a war-club of bone, and every blow is fatal to that Sioux who deserves his condemnation. He is said to be very wily, attacking the Indians when they are asleep. On this account Sioux are often timid about sleeping out of doors ; they have traditions of Indians having been car- ried oif by these errant meteors. Old John thinks the " great fiery man" does not deserve a reputation for bravery, as he never attacks a waking foe. He says there was once a Sioux who, tired and sleepy, laid down, rolling himself in his blanket, though the weather was hot, for the musquitoes were biting him, and rendering it impossible that he should obtain any rest. The first thing of which he was conscious was the sensation of being whirled through the air, passing over miles of prairies and forests with the speed of light. All at once they approached a. small pond, which was full of mallard duck. The appearance of the meteor threw the inhabitants of the lake into the greatest trepidation, and in consequence a most unearthly quacking took place. The fiery man not being aware of the cause of this commotion, OLD JOHN. 135 never having seen a duck, dropped his affrighted burden, gladly making his way back to the regions of space. But it will be impossible to get anything more from Old John to-day : the savoury fumes of the kitchen have reached our sitting-room. He has done with the arts and with reli- gion ; he is enough of a philosopher to take the goods " the gods provide :" and the hearty dinner that he ate showed that the mystical attributes of a medicine-man did not pro- hibit him from the indulgence of his appetite ; while the Sioux women were well repaid for their venison and their fright by some gaudy calico, for okendokendas, and a few needles, thread, and some other " notions," of great value among them. A REMONSTRANCE. BY ELIZA L. 8PB0AT. While the warm, sweet earth rejoices, And the forests, old and dim. Populous with little voices. Raise their trilling hymn, — Chime our notes in joyous pleading With the million-toned day ; We are young, and Time is speeding — Sweet Time, stay ! We would hold the hasty hours, Ope them to the glowing core, Leaf by leaf, like folded flowers, Till they glow no more. We are mated with the Present, Bosom friends with dear To-day : Loving best the latest minu.;e. Sweet Time, stay ! Sovereign Youth ! all dainty spirits Wait on us from earth and air; From the common life distilling But its essence rare. A REMONSTRANCE. 137 Golden sounds, to Age so leaden, Eden sights, to Age so drear : Sweet illusions, subtle feelings, Age would smile to hear. Happy Youth ! when fearless bosoms With their wealth of follies rare. Loose their thoughts, like summer blossoms, To the generous air, When we sit and mock at sorrow. Looking in each other's eyes ; Greeting every new to-morrow With a new surprise. Father Time, if thou wert longing For a luxury of rest, I know where the moss is greenest, Over toward the west : I rt'ould hide thee where the shadows Cheat the curious eye of day ; I would bury thee in blossoms — Sweet Time, stay ! Where the bees are ever prosing. Lulling all the air profound ; Where the wanton poppies, dozing, Hang their heads around ; Where the rill is tripping ever. Trilling ever on its way, Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, All the happy day. 138 THE IRIS. I would keep thee softly dreaming, Dreaming of eternity, Till the birds forget their sleeping In the general glee ; Till the stars would lean from heaven In the very face of day. Looking vainly for the even — Sweet Time, stay ! Hope is with us, chaunting ever Of some fair untried to be ; Lurking Love hath prisoned never Hearts so glad and free : Yet, unseen, a fairy splendour O'er the prosing world he flings; Everywhere we hear the rushing Of his rising wings. As the tender crescent holdeth All the moon within its rim, So the silver present foldeth All the future dim : Oh ! the prophet moon is sweetest, And the life is best to-day ; Life is best when Time is fleetest — Sweet Time, stay ! A FINE ART DISREGARDED. BT ELIZABETH WETHERELL, AUTHOR or "THK WIDE, WIDI WORLD." " A man that looks on glass On it may stay his eye ; Or, if he pleasetb, through it pass : And then the heaTen espy." I TOOK a walk with my father last evening. Now the pleasure of this walk was so great that I will even jot down some notes of its history. It was just the pretty time of a summer's day, — the sun's "parting smile," when he has a mind to leave a pleasant impression behind him : the hot hours were past ; the remnant of a sweet north wind, which had been blow- ing all day, just filled the sails of one or two sloops, and carried them lazily down the bay; and the sun, having taken up his old trade of a painter, coloured their white caiivass for the very spots it filled in the picture : the same witching pencil was upon a magnificent rose-bush at the foot of the lawn, tinting its flowers for fairy-land ; and had laid little stripes of fairy light across the lately-mown grass ; and, through a slight haze of the delicious atmo.'jout and went down the walk again. " False heart's-ease !" said my father. A FINE ART DISREGARDED. 143 "What a different thing all this scene is to those eyes, and to ours, papa." "Yes," said my father. "Poor woman! — she carries a portable kitchen and store-closet in her head, I believe, and everything she sees goes into the one or the other." "Poor Mrs. Roberts!" said I, laughing. "Now that is the want of cultivation, papa." "Not entirely, perhaps. There must be soil first to cultivate, Gary." " Well, her want is the same. And how much is lost for that want !" "Lost? — ^what is lost?" said another voice behind us; and turning, we welcomed another and a very different neighbour, in our old friend Mr. Ricardo. "What is lost?" "Happiness," said I. "Forthe want of what?" " For the want of a cultivated taste." " Pshaw !" said Mr. Ricardo, letting go my hand. " That has nothing to do with happiness." "Do you think so, sir?" "Certainly. What can a cultivated taste do for you, but create imaginary wants, that you would do just as well without?" "If you have not them, you htive not the exquisite pleasure of gratifying them." " Well, and what if you haven't ? How are you the worse oflf? The want that is not known is not felt." " But the range of pleasure is a very different thing with- out them," said I. 144 THE IBIS. "And character is a very different thing," yaid my father. " Character ?" said Mr. Ricardo. " Yes," said my father. " I should like to hear you make thai out." "And so should I," said I. "I was arguing only for enjoyment — I did not venture so far as that." " Well, enjoyment," said Mr. Ricardo. " Do you think you have more enjoyment here now, than one of the plain sons of the soil, who would see nothing in roses but roses, and who would call 'Viola tricolor' a * Johnny-jump-up?' " "In the first place, learning is not taste; and, in the second place, you do not mean what you say, Mr. Ricardo. You know what Dr. Johnson says of the quart pot and the pint pot — both may be equall; full, but the one holds twice as much as the other." "Ah, Dr. Johnson!" said Mr. Ricardo, with an odd little flourishing wave of his hand; "you delude yourself! The quart pot is twice as likely to be spilled. If you have some pleasures that other peopla haven't, you have pains of your own, too, that they are exempt from. Now I suppose a little mal-adjustment of proportions — a little deviating from the exquisite line of correctness in men or things — would overturn your whole cup of enjoyment, while his or mine would stand as firm as ever." " But perhaps a sip of mine would be worth his entire cupful." "Now," said Mr. Ricardo, not minding me, "I fell in with a family once — it was at the West, when I was travel- ling there. They were good, plain, sensible, excellent people, happy in each other, and contented with the rest A FINE ART DISREGARDED. 145 of the world. They had everything within themselves, and lived in the greatest comfort, and harmony, and plenty. I was with them several days, and it occurred to me that people could not be happier than they were." "But for your bringing them up as instances, I sup- pose their having * everything within themselves' did not include the pleasures of a cultivated intelligence ?" "Well, I don't suppose they would have quoted Dr. Johnson to me. But now of what use to them would be all that extra cultivation?" " Of what use to you," said my father, " is that window you had cut in your library this spring, that looks to the west?" " Of very little use," said Mr. llicardo, " for my wife sits in it all the time." "Ah, Mr. Ricardo!" said I, laughing. "Well, now," said he, but his face gave way a little, "how arc you any better ofi'than thoscj people?" "I don't wish to make myself m oxiimple, sir; but put them down here this evening, and vvliat would they see in all this that we have been enjoying ?" " They would see what you see, I suppose. They luid reasonably good eyes — they were not microscopes or tele- scopes." "Precisely," said my father. "They would see what mere ordinary vision couhl take in, witJumt the quick dis- cernment of finely trained sensibiHtlcs, and without the far- reaching and wide views of a mind rich in knowledge and associations. Where cultivated senses find a rare mingling 146 THE IRIS. of flavours, theirs would at best only perceive the difference of stronger or fainter— of more or less sweet." " Senses literal or figurative, do you mean ?" " Both," said my father. '" You rarely find the one culti- vated without the other." "You may find the other without the one," said Mr. Ricardo. "I knew a man once who had no aptness for anything but judging of wines, and he was curious at that. He did it mostly by the sense of smell, too. All the mind the man had seemed to reside in his nose." " That is an instance of morbid development," said my father, smiling, "not in point." " You would have thought it was in point, if you had seen him," said Mr. Ricardo, glancing at my father. " But the pleasures of a cultivated taste, Mr. Ricardo," said I, " may be constantly enjoyed ; and they are some of the purest, and most satisfying, and most unmixed that we have." " And, I maintain, of the most useful," said my father. " To the character," said Mr. Ricardo. " But I do not believe that, where they most prevail, are to be found in general the strongest minds or the most hopeful class of our population." " My good sir," said my father, " do not confound things that have nothing to do with each other. That may be true, and it may be equally true of sundry other matters, such as correct pronunciation and the usages of polite society, Mocha coJQfee and fine broadcloth, — none of which, I hope, have any deleterious effect upon mind." A FINE ART DISREGARDED. 147 " Well, go on," said Mr. Ricardo, without looking at him, '' let us hear how you make out your case." •' Learning to draw nice distinctions, to feel shades of dif- ference, becoming alive to the perception and enjoyment of most fine and delicate influences, the mind acquires a habit of being which will discover itself in other matters than those of pure taste. This faculty of nice discrimination and quick feeling cannot be in high exercise in one department alone, without being applied more or less generally to other subjects. It will develope itself in the ordinary intercourse and relations of social and domestic life, and the temkncf/ will be to the producing or perfecting of that nice sense of pro- prieties, that quick feeling of what is due to or from others, which we call tact." " But tact cannot be given, papa," said I. " And how is it useful if it could ?" said Mr. Ricardo. " Useful ?" said my father, meditating — " why, sir, the want of it is a death-blow to I know not what proportion of the efforts that are made after usefulness. How many an appeal from the pulpit has been ruined, simply by bringing in a coarse or unhappy figure, which the speakers want of cultivation did not allow him to appreciate ! How many a word, intended for counsel or kindness, has fallen to the ground, because the kindly person did not know how to work out his intentions !" " But, you cannot give tact, father," I repeated. " No, Cary — that is true — tact cannot be given; it is the growth only of minds endowed with peculiarly fine sensibi- lities; but the mind trained to nice judging in one set of matters can exercise the same acumen upon others, so soon 10 148 THE IRIS. as its attention is fairly called out to them. Taste is a thing of particular growth and cultivation in each sejDarate branch ; hut certainly the mind that has attained high excellence in one is finely jDrepared to take lessons in another." '• There may be something in that," said Mr. Kicardo, as if he thought there wasn't much. " But, beyond that," said my father, " the cultivation of taste opens truly a new world of enjoyment utterly closed to every one destitute of it. Nature's stores of beauty and wonder, the fine analogies of moral truth that lie hidden under them, the new setting forth of nature which is Art's beautiful work, — how numberless, how measureless the sources of pleasure to the mind once quickened to see and taste them ! Once quickened, it will not cease to rejoice in them, and more and more. And as the mind always assimi- lates itself to those objects with which it is very conversant, and as these sources of pleasure are all pure, it follows, that not only a refined but a purifying influence also is at work in all this ; and the result should be, if nothing untoward coun- teract, that everything gross, everything improper, in the strict sense of the word, everything unseemly, unlovely, im- pure, becomes disgustful, and more and more. And what- ever is the reverse of these meets with a juster appreciation, a keener relish, a truer love than could be felt for them by a mind not so cultivated. This refining and purifying effect will be seen in the whole character. It will make those solid qualities, which are, indeed, more worth in themselves, show with yet new lustre and tell with higher eflfect, and not th<' outward attire only, but the very inward graces of the mind will be worn with a more perfect adjustment." A FINE ART DISREGARDED. 149 " Hum— well," said Mr. Ricardo, about a minute after my father had done speaking, "you have made a pretty fair case of it." My father smiled, and we all three paced up and down the walk in silence. I thought we had done with the subject. " That's a beautiful sky !" said Mr. Ricardo, coming to a stand, with his face to the west. " Look down yonder," said my father. In the southwestern quarter lay a beautiful fleecy mass of cloud : the under edges touched with exquisite rose-colour, sailing slowly down the sky — pushed by that same faint north wind. Just over it— just over it, sat a little star, shining at us with its unchanging ray. " Would your Tennessee friends see enough there to hold their thoughts for half a minute ?" said I, when we had looked as long ; but Mr. Ricardo did not answer me. " That painted cloud," said my father, " is like the plea- sures of earth — catching the eye with fair hues ; the star, like the better pleasures, that have their source above the earth. That light fills, indeed, it may be, a much smaller space in our eye, or our fancy, than the colours on the cloud ; biit mark, — it is pure, bright, and undying, while the other is a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then va- nisheth away." I looked at the star, and I looked at my father, and my heart was full. I thought Mr. Ricardo had got enough, and I think he thought so too, for when we reached the far end of the walk, he left us, with a very hearty shake of the hand, indeed. 150 THE IRIS. My father and I walked then, without talking any more, till glow after glow passed away and night had set in. The little cloud had lost all its fair colours, and had drifted far down into the southern sky, a soft rack of gray vapour, and the star was shining steadily and brightly as ever in the deepening blue. 1 1 are, rhe far and the I m.mmiwm^ ^^^^^ l^lr ■•'■■ ■ ■ ■Wm' J :mm I llil.W|iMij .gpi II # -•I THE MISSION CHURCH OF SAN JOSE/ BY MRS. K\nv EASTMAN. Not far from San Antonio, Stands the Church of San Jos^ ; Brightly its walls are gilded With the sun's departing ray. The long grass twines the arches through, And, stirred by evening air, Wave gracefully the vine's dark leaves. And bends the prickly pear. High, from its broken, mouldering top, The holy cross looks down. While round the open portals stand Figures of saints in stone. * San Jos6 is the most interesting of the ruins of the mission chapels in Texas. There arc five of them, — the chapel of the Alamo, at San Antonio; Chapel of Conception, two miles from San Antonio; Chapel of San Jose, five miles from San Antonio; Chapel of San Juan, ten miles from the same place; and one other near Goliad. These chapels were built by the Jesuits, at the time when they contemplated Christianizing the Indians of Mexico. The Indians were obliged to assist in the labour. The chapels are all in a state of ruin. On the top of San Jose, near the large cross at its foot, a peach tree grows. Occasionally there is some sort of service performed ir them. There is a great deal of carving about them, and remains of former splendour; but they have become refuges for the bats and owls, which are for ever flying in and about them. 152 THE IRIS. And round its ancient spires, In the turrets wide and high, While you watch the night-birds flap their wings, You hear their piercing cry. And ever and anon the bats. In clusters, seek their homes. As night, with shrouding mantle. On the Mission Chapel comes. Oh ! 'twas not thus, when Jesuit priostH Their chaunt at evening sung, As, echoing o'er the river's shores, The vesper bells were rung. Now, while we linger round its walls, Its history would we learn ? — How San Josh's walls and spires rose up ? — To its legends we must turn. In learning high, and cunning deep. With wealth and numbers, come — Christians to make the red men all — These haughty priests of Home. Did they tell them they were IjrutherM? That every human heart Was a link in love's great chain — Of salvation's scheme a part? Not they : they bade them hew the stoiu*. And bear its heavy weight; And, while they used the Indian's strength, They gained his fiercest hate. IMPI.WJWMIWIWPWJ THE MISSION CHURCH OF SAN JOSE. But towers, and spires, and steeples rise. And the Church of San Jos^ Arrests the traveller, who kneels, Then passes on his way. Turning once more, to bend before The Virgin and her Son, The Cherubim and Seraphim From his strained gaze are gone. No converts from the red men Made these haughty priests of Rome ; But still on ignorance and vice The holy cross looked down, Though Jesus, with the crown of thorns. The ofiering made for sin. And the vase of holy water. Borne by angels, stood within. Rich tapestries, and gilded signs, And images stood forth. And the patron saint, San Jose — Were all these nothing Avorth? " The red man's heart is adamant," Thus do the Jesuits say ; " Unmoved they see these splendours- Unchanged they turn away." Not under stern and unjust rule The red man's heart will melt. But l)y such gentle, sorroAving love, As Christ for mortals felt. 153 I l«,"JWB»»» ihmul him- self, when far advanced in life, stripped of ilie fortune he had acquired by his own hard exertionH in earlic'r years, and utterly destitute. He sank benoatli the blow, and for weeks I hung over his couch, fearing e^icU night that the next rising sun would °«e me an orphan. " He rose at length from that bed of Hun'uring, but oh, how changed ! His hair, which had before but lightly felt the touch of time, was white as snow; bin once i'rc('t fonn was bent and trembling; his eye had lost its luHtn', and what was far more sad than all, his mental vigour had departed, and he was as imbecile and feeble as a littic' (thild. Accus- tomed as I had ever been to lean upon hin Mtrotig arm for support, to look to him for guidance and direction in all things, I was now obliged to summon all my fortitude, and be to him in turn protector and guardian. " The whole of our property was gone, our ruin was com- plete, and for a time I was overwhelmed by the ncjw and strange cares that were pressing so heavily upon Trie. But I soon found that it was time for me to o/f, rather than mourn, and I began to look around me for Home means by which to obtain a comfortable livelihood for my poor father. I might have obtained a situation as govrayi'd, and strongly as my own heart seconded his ctilreati^'s, I could not yield. I had thought that it was to ))e my bU-ssed privilege to aid and assist him I loved ; to place him where it would no longer I 170 THE IRIS. be necessary for him to confine his noble mind to close and ceaseless drudgery, and constant toil for his daily bread. And how could I now consent to be a drawback upon his efforts, and to burden him with the care of my helpless parent ? " ' No, no, Walter,' said I, in reply to his oft-repeated solicitations; 'urge me no longer. For the present our paths must be separated. Your task will be hard enough, while you are taking the first steps towards acquiring a name and a competence, even if you have no interests but your own to regard. Were I alone in the world, I would joyfully link my fate with yours, and we would toil to- gether, side by side. But as it is, it may not be. My father cannot understand why he need be deprived of any of his accustomed luxuries. Be it my care that he misses them not. I will labour for his sustenance and my own, until you are so circumstanced that, without detriment to your own prospects, you can relieve me of the charge. Then come to me, and the hand pledged to you in l)rigliter days shall be yours !' " A }ear passed not unhappily away in the earnest and faithful discharge of the now duties devolving upon me. My school flourished beyond my expectations. I had gained the esteem and confidence of those around me, and I found no difficulty in supplying our rlaily wants. Elmore was in an adjacent citj-, in the oflice of an eminent lawyer, who. it was imagined, would ere long make him a partner in his business. During the last few months his visits had l)ecn less frequent than of yore. Rumour told strange tales of a voung and exceedinglv lieautiful girl, the sister of his HILLSIDE COTTAGE. 171 employer, who was playing the mischief with the hearts and brains of half the young men in M , and more than hinted that my lover was among the number of her ad- mirers. Things went on thus for some time. I fancied that, when we met, which was rarely, his manner was cold and reserved, and that he seemed to shrink from my pre- sence. I now know that my own jealous fancies threw a false colouring over all his actions, and that, if there was any coldness in his demeanour, it sprang from the unusual, and, in fact, unintended reserve of mine. " At last I heard, from the lips of one whose veracity and friendship I thought I could not question, that his leisure hours were all spent in the society of my supposed rival, and that, when rallied by some of his associates with regard to myself, he had denied our engagement, and spoken lightly and contemptuously of the ' school-mistress.' " A thousand contending passions were striving for the mastery in my breast, when, upon the evening of that day, after its weary labours were over, I threw myself upon a low seat in the room that served alike as school-room and parlour. Woman's pride — and who does not know that 'there is not a high thing out of heaven her pride o'er- mastereth not?' — was all aroused. Memory was wide awake, bringing back the recollection of b}'-gone days, when my liand had been sought l)y the proudest in the land. Then came thoughts of our earlv love — of the ex- quisite happiness that had filled my heart, when I had so rejoiced that wealth was at my command, and tliat I could place it all at the feet of one whom \ deemed so noble and so pure — and of a later period, when, rather than place the ; % 172 THE IRIS. slightest barrier in his way to fame and fortune, I had re- sisted all his entreaties, and confined myself to close and unremitting toil. It was at this very moment when I was half maddened by the retrospect, that the door opened, and Walter Elmore entered. " Hastily rising, with every appearance of calmness, I re- ceived him with a cold and stately courtesy, surprising even to myself. " 'What means this, Mary?' said he; and I could see that his lip quivered, and the hand he had extended trembled. ' Why do you greet me thus coldly?' " ' Let your own heart answer the question, Mr. Elmore. To that and to your own words I refer you for reasons why we must hencefortli be strangers.' " ' You speak enigmas to-night, my dear Mary. My heart tells me no tale that can enable me to comprehend this un- looked-for change in 30U. It will take more than your simple assertion that we are strangers, to render us such ;' and he again attempted to take my hand. '■' I drew back more haughtily than before, and words that I cannot now repeat burst from my lips. I can only tell you that they were harsh, stinging words — words fraught with contempt and bitterness — words that a proud spirit like Elmore's could not brook. " He sought no farther explanation. ' Be it as you will,' he said, and his manner Avas as stern as my own ; ' I have asked you to account lor this change, and you refuse com- pliance, couching that refusal in terms that I can hear twice from no one, not even from yourself We meet no more ; l)ut remember, Mary Atherton, the words you have this i 1 n\ HILLSJDE COTTAGE. 173 day uttered will ring in your ear until it is closed to all earthly sounds. You have given hoed to some idle tale of calumny, and have wantonly flung away a heart that was filled but with your image — a heart that had centred upon you its every dream and wish for the far future — that lived but in the hope of one day calling you its own — and that looked forward to that period as to the commencement of a better and a happier existence. The hour will come when you will feel that this is true, and then will you bewail the step you have now taken !' — and without one farewell look he rushed .Vom the room. " This prophecy was fulfilled almost before the echo of his departing footsteps had died away. I felt that I was labouring under some strange delusion, and bursting into tears, I wept long and bitterly. I would have given worlds to recall him ; but his fleet steed was bearing him from me, as on the wings of the wind. Yet, hope whis- pered : ' We shall surely meet again. My harsh words angered him ; but he has loved me so long and so fondly, that he will not resign me thus easily. All will yet be explained.' " But day after day passed and he came not ; and my heart was as if an iron hand was resting upon it, pressing it downward to the very earth. The excitement of passion had died away, and I could now see how greatly I had erred, in not telling him frankly the tale that had reached my ears, and thus giving him an opportunity to exculpate himself from the charge. Alas ! for pride and anger, how often does the shadow of one unguarded moment darken our life-paths for ever ! 174 THE IRIS. "Two weeks had elapsed; and one night, after vain attempts to sleep, I rose from my couch and threw open the lattice. The glare of daylight was wanting ; but the moon poured forth such a flood of radiance that the mi- nutest object was distinctly visible. All heaven and earth were still ; the very leaves upon the trees hung motionless as those pointed upon canvass. The perfect silence was becoming painfully oppressive, when a low sound, like dis- tant footsteps, fell upon my ear. Nearer and still nearer it came, and I could distinguish a faint murmur, as of half- suppressed voices. Then a group of men approached. They walked slowly and heavily, and as they drew near I perceived that they bore a dark object. Soon, by their reverential mien, and by the unyielding, uneven nature of their burden, the stiff outlines of which were discernible beneath the mantle thrown over it, I knew they were bearing the dead. " They were passing directly beneath my window, when a sudden movement of the bearers disarranged the pall, and the moonbeams fell clear and soft upon the uncovered features. I leaned forward, and — oh, God ! it was the face of Walter Elmore ! " With a shriek that rang out fearfully upon the night- air, I rushed forth, and threw myself upon the motionless form. The men paused in astonishment; but 1 heeded them not ; I lifted the wet, dark locks from his forehead : more than living beauty rested upon it ; but it was cold, icy cold, — so cold that the touch chilled my very life-blood. I placed my hand upon his heart : but it beat no longer. I kissed his pale lips again and again, and wildly called HILLSIDE COTTAGE. 175 him by name, and prayed that he would speak to me once, only once more ; but he answered not. They thought I was mad, and attempted to raise me, and Ijcar tlie body on ; but I clung to it with a frenzied clasp, exclaiming : ^ You shall not separate us, — he is mine, — he is mine !' Then, suddenly, in thunder tones, a voice from the depths of my own spirit sounded in my ears : ' He is not yours : your own hand severed the ties that bound you. What dost thou here ?' and I fell senseless to the ground. " When I next awoke to consciousness, the snow had rested for many weeks upon the grave of Walter Elmore. " I cannot dwell longer upon this theme. Years have fled since that name has passed my lips, until this evening ; but my brain whirls, even now, when I recall the agony of that moment. Elmore had been crossing a narrow bridge, when his foot slipped, and he was precipitated into the water beneath. The current was strong; and his body was found, by some travellers, washed on shore some dis- tance below. " I learned, before many months had passed, that the tale to which I had given credence was an entire fabrication, having its origin solely in jealousy and malice. He had never swerved from his fidelity, even for one moment ; but I, — oh ! would to God that my spirit might but for once hold communion with his, that I might humble myself before him, and implore forgiveness for the injustice and coldness of our last interview ! " Little more remains to be told. Shortly after, my father sank to his rest ; and the death of a distant relative placed me in possession of a small annuity, which enabled 176 THE IRIS. rnc U) purchase this cottage. Here I shall probably live until called to rejoin my loved ones in a happier clime." Aunt Mary's story was ended. My heart was too full for utterance, and silently I pressed my lips upon her pale forehead, and wended my way homewards. The next morning I left Elmwood. When I again re- visited my early home, a plain slab of marble in the churchyard bore the name of Mary Atherton. SUNSET ON THE RIVER DELAWARE. A SONNET, TO "SIBYL.' BY J. I. PEASE. A DAT of storms ! — But, at its latest close, Beyond the cloud, comes forth the glowing sun, Kissing the waves to dimples, one by one, O'er which our homeward bark serenely goes. The blue expanse with tremulous lustre glows, As the warm hues of evening fade to dun ; And the still twilight hour comes softly down, Like blessed eyelids, for the day's repose. And thus our day ! — The heavy clouds rolled past, The dark eclipse of doubt and fear is o'er; The tides of life flow calmly as before, And love's pure tranquil moon shines clear at last. Oh, may this hour of beauty and of rest Bring peace undreaming to thy troubled breat^t. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) /. & 1.0 1.1 1^ 12.8 ■ 50 l"^" 2.5 22 2.0 18 L25 i 1.4 i 1.6 ^. % % 0% ^^ 7 ^/ '> > '/ ^ Photograpliic Sciences Corporation 23 V/eST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716)872-4503 iV 'w ., .Jji5F«.iiii|BiiByMWiw FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY. BY 8. A. H. I SAW a noble bark upon the angry main — The foamy billows pressed upon her track ; Now high, now low, I saw her timbers strain, As forth she bounded o'er the waters block. But ever, as a deeper plunge she gave, Phosphoric brightness gleamed along the wave : And thus, I said, wide o'er Life's stormy sea, Glances the light of Faith, so pure and free. I marked a threatening cloud hang o'er the western sky, And throw its blackness o'er the laiidscjipe fair, Whence lightnings flashed, whence pealed the thunder high, And wide re-echoed through the trembling air. The sun broke forth, and all its dark array Was gilded with the hues of parting day : And thus, I said, can Hope's bright rays illume, And richly paint the darkest days of gloom. 1 saw, at twilight eve, a snowy flower — It closed its leaves and drooped its tender bud ; Gold came the dew, and blightingly the shower Swept o'er the plant in swift destructive flood. \ ^mmmmmmmm mmmmimmmi FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY. 179 But, bending o'er its tender charge its leaves,* Bows the strong branch, and needed shelter gives: And thus, I said, does Charity descend, And proves to every drooping one a friend. * The tamarind plant, which closes its leaves over its young fruit and flowers. 12 mmmmmmmmmm ■^" CASTLE-BUILDING. BY JAMES T. MITCHELL. At twilight, when the deepening shades Of humid night are closing fast, When o'er bright fields and green arcades The dazzling beams of gold are cast, Another day its weary round Of mingled joys and pains has run. And clouds, with golden fringes bound, In beauty veil the setting sun, — A silence, pleasing, calm, profound, Falls soothing on the raptured brain ; The hum of busy life is drowned, On crowded street and lonely plain ; The soul, in dreamy reveries lost. To shadowy realms far distant roves. In stormy waves of ether tost. Then wandering wild in heavenly groves. And cloud-built castles, towering high, O'er gorgeous scenes that fancy rears. Where laughing orbs illume the sky. Seem mansions for our future years ; CASTLE-BUILDING. 181 And, while the spirit gazing stands, Enwrapt with pleasure at the scenes Which fill Imagination's lands With palaces for fairy queens, The view is changing — all is gone — The castles, fading slow away, As misty shapes at early dawn, Vanish before the coming day ; And storm-clouds now are lowering round; Wild demon shapes are flitting by; Fierce flames are rising from the ground. And lurid lightnings cleave the sky. Bleak snow-capped mountains o'er us frown, While, gray and grim, through darkened air, Towers and turrets, looking down From rocky heights o'erhanging there, Seem prisons for the wandering brain. Within whose deep and caverned walls 'Tis doomed for ever to remain, 'Mid shrieks as from demoniac halls. But pyramids above these rise. Whose summits, gleaming gaily bright, Inspire with hope the fainting eyes. As bathed they stand in golden light, Lifting their peaks high o'er the dark, Like shining spots, that on the breast Of darkened Luna, seem to mark Some towering Etna's blazing crest. 182 fa, THE IRIS. Perched on these lofty granite piles, Rise adamantine domes of power, Secure from treachery, force, or wiles, Reared in Ambition's happy hour. When, having left the storm behind. Of raging battles, fears, and hates. He spurns their threats as empty wind. Himself the guardian of the gates. Here in these grand, but lonely halls, — Unmingling with the crowd below. And all unharmed by what befalls Poor wanderers in this world of woe, — Ambition, well-directed, dwells. While songs of sorrow, care, and grief. Give place to martial music's swells. Which proudly hail the victor chief. Yet not alone — ^without a friend To share his toil-bought honours great. And by congenial spirit lend New splendour to his regal state — Celestial Hope dwells ever near, And Happiness, her sister gay ; And thus they live, while year on year With rapid pinions rolls away. But gazing from these lofty walls, A landscape rises bright and fair, Where happy light serenely falls On scenes of gorgeous beauty there. ■ f CASTLE-BUILDING. Hero crystal founts, 'mid orient flowers, Wlii(!h radiunt shine in varied hues, Flow joyous t!irou (o) ^ ;'^3 « 5) ,Q •/>••; !Si ■55? 44 :'-^ ■RiipilfflilinWiiJMVWii I r «"'M-.w»B^^ ■■t.>,Y iwwuM-rj^-^--^ nppp^ipp mimmmm THE LOVER S LEAP. 189 and hear the traditions of each band; how many have loved and died. Learn of the sacrifices that only woman can make— of the devotion that only woman can feel — of the sorrows that only woman can endure. You may see one, who, though past her youth, still attracts you by the full and expressive glances of her dark and brilliant eyes. Her hair (a marvel among Indians), waves along her forehead — and when damp from heat or bathing, divides itself into locks, that would with any pains be formed into ringlets. Her smile lights up her counte- nance, for her white teeth shine, and her mouth, though large, is expressive. She will not open her heart to a stranger, but to one she loves, she told all. She had seen but fourteen summers when she left her mother to go to her husband's lodge. She loved to dwell upon that time, for no bride ever boasted greater adorn- ment, and her marriage was celebrated according to the old and venerated customs.* She was a whole morning preparing herself, for her mother loved her, and was proud of her. She hod obtained from the traders gay beads of every colour, and brooches in numbers, too. Her father was a favourite of the traders. He carried them so many beautiful furs — for he was a great hunter — thi.t they gave him trinkets for her in abundance. They gave him, besides, fire-water; and then she and her mother * The marriage custom of the Sioux is given in << Dacota, or Legends of the Sioux." The ancient form, as represented in the illustration, is still venerated, and frequently, though not always celebrated. "-7^ >» ■ 190' THE IIII8. used to leave the wigwam and hide, for fear he would kill her. When nhe waH ready to go to her husband's lodge, her father and two of her brothers attended her. Her cousin, Whistling Wind, came to meet her, and, taking her upon his back, carried her in and placed her by her husband's side. Slie was very happy at first, for her hnsliand loved her; but many mmttiH passed away, and she had no child. Her husband reprojiched her, and she could only weep — and no infant's voice was heard in their lodge. At last her husband brought home another wife, and she was forgotten. Soon the watched him as he carved the thunder-bird on his son's cradle ; and the second wife laughed at her, because she could not be a happy mother like herself. He has beaten her sometimes — for he drinks fire-water too. She might return to her mother, for her family is a powerful ojie, but she cannot leave her husband. She can- not forget the love of her early youth. She stays by him, for he is often sick, and she can take better care of him than his other wife, who has many young children. Wherever is man, with his proud, exacting spirit, there is woman, with her devoted and enduring love. There are many instances of heroic affection, not recorded in the traditionary annals of the Sioux ; but Wenona's Rock will stand, as long as the world lasts, a monument in memory of woman's love. mmimmmmmmmmtm ^mmmmmfmrnmn^mm THE INDI4N MOTHER, AND THE SONQ OF THE WIND. BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN. Softly the Indian mother* sings— " Woman's heart is strong, When she works for those she loves, Through the summer's day so long. Hark! to the wind's wild voice, my babe— What may its story be. Stirring thy cradle-bed, securely laid In the arms of the forest tree?" " We have travelled afar, but we come again; We have passed o'er the couch of weakness and pain; We have seen the gifted from earth depart; • We have fanned the brow of the broken heart; We have fled from the shrieks of the mighty in death, From the battle's rage and the victor's breath ; * Indian women take great interest in listening to instruction connected with religious subjects. They often deplore the difference in their po.sition from that of the white woman, desiring for themselves and their children the thousand comforts and advantages they observe the wives and children of the white man possess. Only can they ever hope to enjoy them when their nation becomes a Christian one. 192 THE IRIS. We have been at the grave— at the infant's birth; We know all the cares of the children of earth. •' Our wail is heard o'or the mighty deep, In whose breast the loved and lost ones sleep, When, sweeping in rage, the hurricane blast Tosses to heaven the waters vast. When we bear o'er the foaming and dashing main The voices that ne'er will be heard again ; Yet we come and go at His will, who said To the sea 'Be still!' and its waves obeyed. " The air was still as we stayed our breath. While the mother wept o'er her young child's death- A fatherless child; 'twas peacefully laid, So placid and calm, 'neath the curtain's shade. Yet, pressing the clay to her throbbing breast, 'Oh! when,' she cried, 'will I be at rest?' We sang for the child a requiem low. And the mother's to sing on our way we go. " But why should we chaunt of sorrow and gloom. Of night and the tempest, of tears and the tomb? Those who are parted shall meet again — The sea yield her victims, the earth her slain ; Our mission we haste o'er ocean to bear ; We tell of his glory whose servants we are. We quell with our tidings the idol's dark power. That the cries of its victims be heard never more. THE INDIAN MOTHER. I93 " We raiHc from the earth the spirit crushed ; At the sight of the cross its murmurs are hushed. Our voice k heard, and the wandering son In spirit turns to his long-left home. He remembers his father's voice in prayer, And he kneels by the side of his mother there ; And he cries, while his steps are homeward trod, ' Oh I be thou mine, my father's God !' '' Alike is the charge and the mission given To the faithful heart and the winds of heaven, To tell how the Saviour came to earth. How i)oor he was from the hour of his birth : His own griefs unheeded, for others he sighed; Of the life that he lived, of the death that he died. To earth's farthest shore these tidings we bear- All glory to Him whose servants we are." Again the Indian mother sings " Woman's heart is strong, When she works for those she loves. Through the summer's day so long. I would know what the wild winds said, my babe— Wluit could their story be, Stirring thy cradle-bed, securely laid In the arms of the forest tree?" THE WOOD SPIRITS AND THE MAIDEN. BY MBS. MABY EASTMAN. Tho«e who have lived among the Intllani are accuntomcd to tholr faith In the protecting power of the Spirits of Nature. Especially powerful Is the god of the woods and furusta. Day with its gorgeous light passes away, Shadows of coming night darken the way. Who is the wanderer With the long braided hair ? 'Mid the tall evergreens, She like a fairy seems j Know ye the maiden young, Wood Spirits, say ? Know we the maiden young— mark well her form. Like the tall pine tree, when rages the storm. How like the dark bird's wing Glistens her braided hair. When watching o'er her birth. Sang we a song of earth, We were her guardians made, She was our child. Soon o' r her body cold, chaunt we her funeral hymn, Wild branches, torn and old, timing the requiem. THE WOOD SPIRITS AND THE MAIDEN. 105 Why does slie wander hero, With the long braided hair? Why is the maiden pale — Why does her breathing fail ? Now, by the moonbeams fair, See her dimmed eye. She loved as maiden loves, she wept as woman weeps. Soon will her restless frame sleep where her lover sleeps Then to our far-off groves Will we her spirit bear. When heaves her parting sigh, When closed her lustrous eye, We will her guardians be, — She is our child. mn. ALICE HILL. BY MKS. M. E. W. AliEXANDER. Fast by a brook, whose murmuring streams Reflected heaven in angel dreams, E: Josomed in a quiet wood, An old and storm-rent school-house stood. All brown with age and worn by rains, Rude winter shook the shattered jmnes. That shivered in their casements light. Like goblins' teeth on windy night. But when the sun shone down the hill, On smiling field and gushing rill, And by the school-house danced the brook, Through hidden course or leafy nook. On shattered panes in casement light Its summer rays streamed clear and bright. Of pleasant ways and knowledge fair, Blithe Alice Hill reigned mistress there, — Nor birchen rod nor oaken rule In terror held this woodland school ; Love awed the spirits bold and wild, Love won the most rebellious child, — 0, Alice Hill! just sweet sixteen. Of pleasant ways and courteous mien, ALICE UILL. With glowing cheeks and eyes of blue, And glossy hair of golden hue, God 1 that I should over live. Such sad account of thee to give ! In Morcland vale brown Autumn's tilthe, Impatient waits the reaper's scythe : Where, scattered with a bounteous hand, Luxuriant harvests thickly stand. The sunlight bathes the waving grain, That sweetly smiles to sun again ; The landscape lies in green and gold, And purple clouds in ether rolled. Or gentle blue now smile above This earthly scene of Eden love. With dashing wheels and flying steed, Nor whip nor spur to urge their speed. To view his land Fitch Morcland came. The eldest of his honoured name. And heir of all, the green-crowned wood, In which the low-roofed school-house stood, riic wide-spread fields, the meadows broad. Vim fruitful land and grassy sward, And near embraced with roses wild The old brown house that through them smiled, Where Alice Hill had passed her days Unnoticed by a flatterer's gaze ; And Rudolph Hill, a farmer skilled. The fields had reaped, the lands had tilled, Fit(!h Moreland's tenant, prompt to pay His rent and taxes gathering day. 'n rv 197 "wmmgHif^^ 198 THE IRIS. Just free from school, with Hhont and song. Fitch Moreland met a joyouH throng, And joined their sports, with heart us gay. As boyhood had not passed away ; Till seated in a fairy glade, Beneath an elm tree's grateful shade, Sweet Alice Hill fell on his sight, With glowing cheeks and ((yes of light : Around her neck, her hair unbound. In floating tresses swept the ground, And pupils kneeling at lier side, Wild flowers in graceful garlands tied, A coronal as fresh and gay As ever crowned " the Queen of May." With courteous words and city mien. Fitch Moreland joined tlio rustic scene. Quick beat the heart of Alice Hill, Her pulses woke a music thrill : Her glowing cheek with crimson flushed, And in her heart tumultuous gushed A spring of thought, so sweet and rare, It might have claimed the name of air, Its unseen visions canie so ])right, To shed on life a holier light. ye who wear love's gentle spell, And bless the bondage, can ye tell Blithe Alice Hill if this was Love, — That like a homeless, wandering dove. Beat at her fluttering heart, and sought An altar for his blissful thought? ■P mm ALICE HILL. No longer now, like placid streams, Life passes by in quiet dreams ; But hurried, feverish pulses shake The beating heart they may not break, — Hope, fear, desire, and all that stored The spring of life, hung on his word : There was no life without his smile, Nor dreamed she that a heart of guile Beat in so fair and smooth a shrine. That other eyes for him might shine, And softer voices breathe his name ! 0, Alice Hill, love's vestal flame Hath many a false, misguiding light, To cheat young hearts, with promise bright. And strew life's shores with dearer wrecks Than perish from our wave-washed decks. The fowler laid a cunning snare : The timid bird was fluttering there. And paused on half-suspended wing. To hear the subtle charmer sing ; Close to the brink, with dizzy sense, She hung upon his eloquence ; Lured by the magic of his eje. She quite forgot her power to fly, Till reeling, powerless with the spell, She lost her fragile hold and fell. 199 The fowler saw his kvely spoil Entangled in the dazzling toil. 200 THE IRIS. A few frail threads of woven gauze, But deadly as the lion's jaws. Not till her golden wings were shorn, The timid bird escaped forlorn — To soar with flocks of grosser mould, An alien from the heavenly fold. The timid bird, a human heart — The snare, a smooth seducer's art — HovV^ can my pitying pen rehearse The burden of its mournful verse, Since he who triumphed in his power To crush so meek and low a flower. Contemptuous spurned it from his path, To die a lone neglected death, And to the winds his bauble tost — Left Alice Hill, betrayed and lost. And, Alice Hill, his haughty name Will never hide thy maiden shame — And though he swear it on his life, Thou'lt never be Fitch Moreland's wife ! " Farewell, my own, my waiting bride ! Though I am wandering from thy side, And from these favourite haunts afar, I see thine eyes in every star, I hear thy voice in every breeze. That floats through summer's radiant trees ; And thou shalt wear our bridal ring. And wear it as a holy thing. ALICE HILL. 201 Till, to the sacred altar led, It be the seal by which we wed." Years rolled down Time's resistless tides Where Time, Eternity divides ; Fitch Moreland, high in hall and state, Cared not that by the elm tree sate Poor Alice Hill, to reason lost, Like oarless bark on ocean tost ; Not wildly crazed to tear her hair, But mute and sad, as if despair Had worn away life's tuneful strings. And sealed to Thought its gushing springs. But on that ring mute Alice Hill For ever looks, as if a thrill Of reason shot across her brain, And darted gleams of mental pain. Bold Winter lay on Moreland Vale. His bearded crown of ice and hail. And columns wreathed in feathery snow, How childhood dreams of glory show. Fast by these piles, on reeking steed, A post-boy checked his furious speed. And whispered to a gaping wight, " Fitch Moreland takes a wife to-night." Mute Alice Hill the echo caught, — With stealthy steps the town she sought, That three leagues off in beauty lay Along Wamphassock's lovely bay — ' 'i^M"iWiiP!ipp*n,IiHpi ii.liiilJinii«|lll|HI 202 THE IRIS. With hair arranged and graceful dress, None would have dreamed such loveliness Concealed a heart ■• o reason lost, Like oarless bark on ocean tost. Light, glorious light, streamed clear and wide. Through the proud dome of Moreland's bride. And mirth and music chid the hours Lost in a maze of thornless flowers. His eye erect in manly pride, Fitch Moreland stood beside his bride. Nor dreamed he that his Eden bough Hung on a false and perjured vow. The holy priest in scarf and bands With holy words had joined their hands. And as to make more strong an oath. When each had pledged their plighted troth, A gleaming ring in diamonds set, That hid a lock of glossy jet, The fragile finger graceful pressed, As sunlight lies on ocean's crest. A maddened brain, a spirit strong, Has pressed aside that startled throng. With glaring eyes and purple cheeks. Fitch Moreland's side a woman seeks. While o'er her half-ethereal frame The altar sheds its holy flame. The grasp on Moreland's arm was light, But those wild eyes, so wildly bright, mrse'.s hridle, th(* other pointed a pistol to his heart, and demanded his money. lie had two hundred dollars hy him, Aviiich he was then taking to a man he owed. It was all the spare mon(!y Ik; had; you know the Doctor is just connneneing his profession, and he does not wish to urge his debtors too hard at jjresent. But he was too brave to yield at once ; h<} knocked the pistol aside, but it went ofl', grazing his arm ; but after a hard fight with his opponents, he found they were too much for him, and after resigning all his money he came back home. Isn't it too bad, so industrious and prud(nit as he seems to bo ?" " Jt is a hard case surely; but for the life of me I cannot imagine liow robbers dared come so near the town ; the pistol-shot must have been heard at Gassoway's." " No, it was midnight, and they were sound asleep, pro- bably. I wish they had heard and gone in pursuit." TIk! next day was Sunday, and, as usual, I went to jneeting in the evening. Lizzy complained of slight indis- position, and did not accompany us; but when we returned we found the two invalids together, and one at least looking very agreeable, though Lizzy's face expressed embarrass- ment whenever Biie caught my eye. The next morning the good old lady called me into her room a little while before the hour of schooi, r«,nd, bidding me sit down by her side, said affectionately, but seriously, " My child, do you love the Doctor?" Though not naturally mirthful, I could scarce refrain ^ I 222 THE IRIS. from laughing in the old lady's face. Respect forbade, and I answered, with all the seriousness I couhl Comnumd, " Dear Aunty, because you and Lizzy wished it, I have tried hard to do so; but I do not love him, and I am con- vinced I never can." The good woman looked relieved, and said, "I am glad it is so; you are far away from home and friends, and I should be sorry to have you in trouble while with us. Come to me at all times with your sorrows, and I will try and be a mother to you." The smiles were now exchanged for tears. What in the world does any one wish to cry for, when they are grateful ? But some seem to have that unfortunate propensity. *' I was only to add," said the old lady, " that the Doctor loves Lizzy; and I feared," she said, "it might make one heart sad. We fancied you felt more interest in the Doc* than you are willing to acknowledge." " I now give you a solemn promise," I said, and it was sealed with a kiss, " that I will always speak the truth to yourself" This conversation only gave me new cause for regret. I could not see my dear Lizzy married to the Doctor, so long as I was unable to shake off my own dislike to him, and my own mouth was fettered by the suspicions concerning myself. For two days I was pondering in my own mind what could be done ; and learning that Mr. Warner would permit no engagement to take place at present, concluded that time and patience would bring all right. Thus I mused, with my book open, but my mind wan- dering, when Lizzy burst into the room. f DR. VANDORSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW. 223 "Heigh-ho! my little hypocrite, you never can keep a secret, you say. Is that the truth ?" And she held a card towards me. " I never had any secrets to keep, Lizzy, so I don't know how much strength I possess." "Well here, then— * Joseph Dushey, St. Louis, Mo.' " "Upon my word, Lizzy, I know no more about this gentleman than yourself. Does he wish to see me?" " That he does, and is waiting your ladyship's presence in the parlour." " Some business relating to the school," I said. " I must not keep him waiting." So to the parlour I went, and soon found myself in the presence of a gentleman upon whom nature had put her unmistakeable sign of nobility. His address and manner were those of one accustomed to refined society, and his ease and suavity quite overcame my own timidity. But, after a few minutes' general conversation, it was his tuni to become embarrassed; and, after apologizing for inter- ference in my private affairs, he said that, hearing that an engagement of marriage existed between myself and Dr. Vandorsen, he had felt it his duty to expose the character of the Doctor. It was painful, but it seemed to him an act of justice and mercy. He then related the history of this adventurer — a reckless swindler, ingratiating himself into the favour of others, and then repaying kindness with black ingratitude. "I have often," he said, "from regard to his father, helped him to money. He is owing me now; and, learning that I was in the vicinity, he invented the account of the sham robbery, which he says took place on Saturday ii.|il9i|IUIu,.|iil.lfP|IM(i|t 224 THE IRIS. evening He then placed in ray hands the papers contain- ing proofs of that which he had asserted, and again, with much delicacy, apologized for his intrusion. I thanked him most sincerely for what he had done, and assuring him that no such engagement existed between us, yet these papers were valuable as guarding against future trouble for others. He allowed me to retain them. On going to my room I sat down and examined them carefully, and blessed God that I had it in my power to save Lizzy from a dreadful sacrifice. I laid them aside, determined to place them in the hands of Mr. Warner in the morning. When morning came, the Doctor's office was found de- serted ; the key hung upon the outside, his valuables were removed, and from that time to this I have heard nothing from Dr. Vandorsen, nor has my good mother Warner or her fiimily. Neither have the two hundred dollars, which they at different times loaned him, ever been returned. Lizzy is most delightfidly situated, and I know of but one drawback to her perfect happiness, viz., that her hus- band is one of the most amiable of men, never allowing his temper to conquer his reason, and never likely to allow ambition to overpower the deep affection he bears his wife. A CENOTAPH. AUGUST, 1776. U Y K B A H T i; >; W. K M- S W O R T 11 . "It *»< II lii/lii.n of tliii Biicifntii, thiit If o:;.) iM-rinlmd nt w«, or whore hix brxjy could not b« fouml, the only WMy to propiire rcponi! for him wnn to tmllj nn empty tomb, and by certain rites and iiivo (•uttentt, t'lili lilfl dplrlt to tli« habitation prcparBd for It." KsCIIKMlURG. I, The memory of Nathan Hale, Who, in the days of strife, For freedom of our native land, Laid down hin noble life. Lord Howe, Cornwallis, Percy earl Were come in wide array, And from Long Island to New York Had pushed our guns away. Our Father looked across the Sound, Disaster groan* -i behind. And many dubious, anxious thoughts Were labouring in his mind. JHJiv ii.ppii.i 226 THE IRIS. " Knowlton," said lie, " I need a man, Such as is hard to meet, A trusty, brave, and loyal man. And skilful in deceit. " The British, now in Brooklyn lodged, May divers plans pursue : Find me a man to go and spy What Howe intends to do." Said Knowlton, " Sir, I make no doubt Many apt men have we." He went. At nightfall he returned \ With Hale in company. 2. " Young friend," said Washington to Hale, " It much imports to know What mirchief Howe is brooding on; Which way intends to go. " But though you might, with help of Grace, Unmask his schemes of ill, I will not risk your generous blood Without your perfect will." "Grave Sir," said Hale, " 1 left my home. Not for the love of strife. But for my country's cause resolved. Knowing 1 risked my life. A CENOTAPH. " Between my duty and my will, In service light or sore, It is not now for me to choose, For that was done before. " Let not your Excellency poise What may to me ensue j But weigh the service to be done, And judge my power to do." '' Well said ; then briefly thus : — Put on Some other self-disguise — And b}' to-morrow morning be Among our enemies. 227 '• Go safely curious how you will, And spy whate'er you may. Of how their troops have borne the bruise They gave us y 4erday. *• And deeper else— our chief concern. And study at this hour — Find if their guns are hither aimed : Or, with divided power, " Cleft from the rearward of their force. While we stand here attent ; Or farther south, or farther north. They mean to make descent. 16 ""^^miPiPiiPinp ■n\ iv>"^nFni"P'!K^P!ff^"^ 228 THE IRIS. '' Brooklyn to them is vantage-ground. Find what you can. To know The mischief in a foeman's thought Is half to foil a foe. •' The moon goes down" — " By nine," said Halo. Said Knowlton : " Nay, at ten." '' Can you be off so soon as that ?" " I hardly think by then : " Nor would — for let me plead that I, Herein, may yield my breath ; And mine affairs I would devise As if before my death. '• God knows what hearts may crack tor this. But failure, or no fail, To-morrow morning I'll be there. As I am Nathan Hale." '' Bravely, my boy ! Such soul as this Is better than a host. To dare is little, if to dare Unmindful of the cost." The night was broadly overcast, And the scant moon and stars. From the dim dungeons of the clouds, Looked through their iron bars. i»,w ifftm*:twifwww<'w A CENOTAPH. " My worthy lad," said Washington, " We seek without despair. Although we find, in all yon arch. No sign of morning there." " And know whose gracious hand it is That times the darkest sky," Said Hale. " Adieu !" said Washington, " God keep you, — go, — good-bye !" 220 IL The flitting Hours, with golden brands Once more adorned with flame. Beheld our land in busy act. Where war was all the game. Out of his cups of deep carouse. That reeled till morning shine, Tlie Provost of the Lion camp Came forth the tented line. An ugly man, — a tiger soul. Lodged in a human house, — With whiskey fuming from his hide, And hair about his brows. And Hale had hid his skiflf, and now Was coming by the shore. Thinking of many serious things He never thought before. 230 THE IRIS. He mused of all the hard assays Of this our mortal state ; The bitter bruise, and bloody blows Of Virtue matched with Fate. He heard the larks and robins sing, And tears came in his eyes. To think how man, and man alone. Was cast from Paradise. 2. '' Well Hodge, how's turnips ? What's in this ?" " Now who be you ?" said Hale, " I aint no Hodge, — taint turnips, — stop, — Let go, — this here's for sale." " Powder and grog ! be quiet, lad. Tobacco ! by my soul ! Rebel, we've come to take the land, — Hands off! — I seize the whole." The Provost wheeled towards the camp. Hale followed with a cry : " Give me my pack — now — come — ^you sir !" " Clod-shoes, get home ! — not I." But epaulettes were on the road, — The trick was getting worse. The Provost dumped the pack aside. With a substantial curse. A CENOTAPH. 231 " Wa'al, mister, that's the han'some thing ! That are tobakcr's prime. I knowed you didn't mean to grab, — 1 knowed it all the time. " I'm p;oin' to peddle, up to camp, And if you only would Cio HiiackH, and help me sell, you might, (/'ome, I should say you could." " Yorky, pick up your pack, hook on, Hook on, we'll make it even." Tfie lines were passed, the countersign, — " Whither away," — was given. " I see," said Hale, within himself, " Tliis man's internal shape, — The Devil can do a gracious turn, Tu shy a graceless scrape." 3. Gay was the camp with liveried men ; Some trimmed the gun and blade. Homo (diatted in the morning sun. Homo slept ahmg the shade. And some bore out the soldier dead On his luifollowed bier — The soldier dead, the hapless dead, Who died without a tear. 232 THE IBIS. So lately wopt from England's shore, And winged with prayers afar, To feel the piercing thunder-shock, Gored by the horns of War. 4. Cried Hale, "Who buys? who buys? who buys? Hearts! Boys! My lads! Hooraw! Thrippence a junk, Britannia rule — Don't any of you chaw?" And all the while his wily eye Was taking curious notes Of men, and anus, and sheeted carts, And guns with stoppered throats. "Boys, what you goin' to doin' on? Hello! — this way tluvt beer. You goin' to captivate New York? Pine-sliillin' piece — look here — " "Sing us a song." "'Bout what?" said Hale. "Sing us 'All in the Doons' — 'Britannia Rule' — 'God save the King'" — Said Hale, "Don't know the tunes." Cornwallis now came walking by, — "TheCapting, hey?" "It is." Hale folded up an ample slice : "D'ye s'pose he'd 'xcept of this?" A CENOTAPH. Mad with the thought, to see the clown Break his own pate with fun, •• Do it," said they. Said Hale, " I will." "Jerry's respects" — 'twas done. And back he came with open grin ; "Took it like ile!" said he. •' I swow ! I done the handsome thing — He done it, too, to me." III. 233 Sins are like waters in a gap ; Like flames to leap a check ; If cable Conscience crack a strand, A man may go to wreck. Sins never shut the doors of hearts That give good cheer to sin, lit always leave them open wide, For others to come in. Disdaining ours, for England's camp. There lurked a man about, Who, flushed with shame and rage of heart, Like Judas, had gone out. He left us, and he swore revenge. And vengeance did not fail. The courteous fiend, who led his steps, Conducted him to Hale — 234 THE i?TS. His kinsman — one whose generous hand. Impelled hy bold desire, Had saved him once, and still endured The seal of it in fire. He met him coming from the camp ; He saw — he knew the hand — He saw the whole — and in the road He made a sudden stand. "Hum! ha! — It's Captain Hale, I think. Nathan, how do you do? Sorry I am to sec you here — Sorry I am for you." Off from the sudden heart of Hale All his disguises fell : '' Cousin ! good God ! — go back with me. And all shall yet be well." •'It cannot be. You came to dare, And you must take the rod." Said Hale, "This hand, at Judgment day Will fan the wrath of God." '' Speak not of God," the traitor said ; "A good French faith have I — •No man hath seen Him,' Scripture saith. And ' all is vanity.' " A CENOTAI'H. Halo, finding how the scoundrel leurcd Nor Cod's nor man's award, Looked for a handy stick or stone. To (|uickcn his regard. But, tiger-soon, the renegade Had gripped his arms around: "Ah, ha! — yes, yes — help! help!" he cried. And crushed him to the groinid. 2. Fettered on straw, with soldier giuirds, The tent-lamp trembling low, The morrow was his day of doom, That night a night of woe. And half the night the gallows sound Of hammers filled his ears. Like strokes upon v passing-bell. Telling his numbered years. Ilis numbered years — alas! how brief! And Memory searched them back. Like one who searches, with a ligiit, Upon a midnight track. 235 The fields, the woods, the humming school, The idly-pondered lore. And the fair-fingered girl that sharcid His dinner at the doorj 23C THE IRIS. His room, l)cncatli tlio liomc«tGa(l eaves, Wherein he laid his head ; His mother, come to take the light. And sec him warm in bed. These, and their like, distinct and bright, Came back, and lired his hrain With visions, all whose sweetness now Was but exalted pain. IV. 1. Ere silence droops her tluttering wing. The pang may all be past ; And oft, of good men's latter hours. The easiest is their last. The morn was up, the flickering morn Of summer, towards the fall. " Bravely is all," the guardsman said ; Said Hale, "God's grace is all." And now the Provost-Marshal came With soldiers — all was ripe ; But out of Halo's tobacco, first, He filled and smoked a pipe. Forth passed the man, through all disguise, With look so sweet and high ; He showed no sort of dread, at all. Of what it was to die. A CENOTAPH. 237 (vome to the cart, wIiohc doleful plaiikn IJencath his I'eet did creak, He Ijowed, and looked about, and stood In attitude lo speak. •• Holloa! hoa! diiimmer, bring your drum, Play Yankee Doodle here — Play, while we crack the rebel's nock." Earl Percy then drew near : •' Provost," said he, " I shame at this. Let the lad have his say. Or you shall find who rules the camp ;" And so he walked away. " Soldiers," said Ilale, "you see a man Whom Death must have and keep; And things there are, if I should think, 1 could not help but weep. •' But since in darkness, evermore, God's providences hide. The bravely good, in every age. By faith have bravely died. •' That man who scorns his present case, For glorious things to be, I hold that in his scorn he shows His soul's nobility. 238 THE IRIS. i " Though George the Third completely scourge Our groaning lives away, It cannot, shall not be in vain That I stand here to-day. •' Oh take the wings of noble thought ! Run out the shapes of Time, To where these clouds shall lift, nor leave A stain upon the clime. •' Behold the crown of ages gone, Sublime and self-possessed ; In empire of the floods and shores None so completely blest. " This land shall come to vast estate, In freedom vastly grow. And I shall have a name to live, Who helped to build it so. •' Ye patriots, true and sorely tried. When the dark days assail, I seem to see what tears ye shed. At thought of Nathan Hale. •' Where is that man among ye all, Who come to see me die. That would not glory in his soul. If he had done as I ? •' Judge, then, how I have wrecked my life. And in what cause begun. A CENOTAPH. 239 I Horrow l)ut in one regret, That I c.iu loHe but one. " In Thee, O Clirist ! I now repose — Thou art my All to me ; And unto Thee, thou Triune God — Oh make my country free !" Then turning to a guard, who wept Like sudden April rain, And Hcattercd from his generous eyes The drops of holy pain. "' Unto your honest tears I trust Those letters to convey." Then, to the Provost-Marshal, Hale Did mildly turn, and say : '' Before from underneath my feet The latal cart is gone, 1 lain would hear the chaplain pray ; 8ir Provost have you none ?" As when a dreadful lion roams The torrid sands, and sees A fawn among the valleys driidc, IJeneath the tuneful trees ; If, 'chance, he sees the tender hind Just move behind an oak, 240 THE litis. He snaps his tootli, and snaps his tail, And makes the i he saw her eyes droop and her cheek mantle when the warriors danced — when he watched her and niiirktul fhiii she only looked at one — when he incjuircd, am) IciinuMJ that to that one was she destined, then did he jiuuk her for his own ; he was as WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN. 251 : cool and determined as if he had been aiming his arrow at the frightened grouse ; as sure of his prey as if the bird lay already bleeding at his feet. He went to her mother, and showed her the rich crimson cloth he had received from the traders on his way. Other presents he laid before her, very valuable then ; for traders were just coming in the country, and articles for use or adorning were rare among the Sioux. The mother told him her child was promised, — that White Moon loved the noble young Avarrior she was to marry, and she could not break her daughter's heart. The father came in, and Fiery Man showed him his new gun, — they were scarce then, and were deemed wakun (supernatural). Fiery Man enlarged upon its merits, and he pressed on the foolish old man the advantages of secur- ing him as a friend, by giving him his daughter in marriage. White Moon's mother interfered, saying, " her daughter was a good girl, and deserved to be happy. She was not like the other girls, always running away to look among the rocks in the water for young beavers; but she was steady and industrious, and should make herself happy by marrying the man she loved." Fiery Man stamped, and his eyes were bloodshot with rage. He showed the parents his medicine-bag ; he would make them know what it was to refuse a medicine-man; he would charm them ; he would dry up the red rivers of life ; he would make their steps feeble. xVlready would White Moim have trembled, had she been present. Fiery Man saw bis advantage, and continued : he was -^iiil.«^npH<9ip«iRifr.«« I'Jiv yj^t- "i*jPH^Hin.'i*^^»'-'»w'^""»^m^w"i'i' i 252 THE IRIS. the friend of Chat-o-tee-dah, the forest god, and he could go where no other Indian could, protected by this powerful friend. He was strong and brave, and it was well for the woman who married him, and for her family too. The old man had kept his eyes fixed on the gun. Fiery Man told him to follow him ; he did so, but could hardly keep pace with the strides of the tall warrior. Fiery Man led him towards the lowlands, where, among the trees, the woodcock were in numbers. They seated themselves on a mound, the work of their more enlightened ancestors ; they were quiet at first, only listening to the passing of the birds through the low trees. Fiery Man pointed the gun, and fired ; the birds fell to the ground. The old man laughed, and Fiery Man showed him the powder and shot. He took the gun and explained to his companion the mode of preparing it to fire. " Ha !" said ho, " you cannot shoot as well as I ; but try and bring down one." The old man pointed, and fired; his aim was sure : again a bird fell before his astonished gaze. " It is yours, said Fiery Man, and the girl is mine. We will go back and tell her mother what we have agreed upon." Again he led the way, and the old man followed him back to the wigwam. There they found mother and daughter. There were tears upon the cheek of the latter ; she was soon to know how vainly they were shed. She turned away from the gaze of her tall lover, and hid her face against her mother's bosom. *' Tell her," said Fiery Man to White Moon's father ; but WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN. 253 the old man knew of the bitter dregs he would stir up in the fountain of life before him : he could not find words to tell the young maiden her doom. Fiery Man could not brook the delay. He laid his brawny hand on the young head that had not yet been lifted frori its refuge-place. " She is mine," he said to the mother; "I have bought her. That wakun gun is her father's, that red cloth is yours. White Moon must go with me to my lodge : she must give me warriors like myself for sons. She will be obedient and happ}^, because her husband is powerful, and feared." White Moon raised her head and looked in his ftice ; for hope ? as well might she have asked it in the glancing of the tomahawk of a Chippeway. That dark, stern face was softened, it is true : but it was from the contemplation of her attractive features ; pride was changed to satisfaction : but it was because he knew that the graceful figure which clnng to her mother for protection would soon lean only on him. She sighed and turned away her face ; she tremljled and sank upon the mat with weakness ; no hope — all her bright visions changed : darkness and gloom had come where day had presided in all her brightness. A short time saw Fiery Man lead to his wigwam his sad young wife, wearied to death with her long journey. Could love have consoled her, she had been happy : for she was as dear as life to the heart of the passionate, overbearing man. As he led her into the wigwam, he pointed to its present occupant. He said she was his sister, but the first glance did the f mother could destroy her infant, — no such WHITE MOON AND FIEIIY .MAN. 259 Hentimcnt could reach her understanding or her heart. Yet ttgani and again did her sister repeat the charge, dwelHng uj)on the impossibility of the child's dying without a cause. No one, she said, had been with the infant during her ab- sence ; the young girl, who had promised to take care of it, having gone off soon after White Moon left. She then iiisiHted, that as White Moon had been forced to marry her brother, she had thus resented upon him her wrong. She had killed his child, forgetting it was her own. Till! despairing woman was roused by a sense of the injustice done her. She saw, too, her position, — the dan- ger in which she stood. She felt, in anticipation, the re- proaches, the hot anger of her husband. She was roused even to madness. Her many wrongs stood up in witness against the woman who, in her deep sorrow, thus goaded her. Her slight frame expanded ; the gentle and obedient wife, the submissive woman, had be- come a murderer ; her knife lay in the heart of her hus- band's sister, — the strong had bowed before the weak ! The act was so instantaneous, that White Moon stood alone to behold the consequences of her passion. It was during the hottest part of the day, and their lodge stood apart from the rest. Most of the men were on the hunt with B'iery Man; the women, some sleeping away the sultry hours, others off at their different employments. The hoarse groans of the dying woman were not heard outside the lodge, so that White Moon was not detected. On one of the mats lay the embroidered dress of a young warrior that Fiery Man's sister had just finished. She immediately determined upon making her escape, and 17 A# ^> IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 11.25 -1^ 12.5 2.0 1^ U4 U 11.6 Photographk: Sciences Corporation n \M>!'>T MAIN STRUT VtliBSTiR.N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4903 '