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THE

ROMANCE OF INDIAN LIFE.

[li. lii^[EV [HI. l^iTl^i^.

W| it|fr tts,

SELECTIONS FROM THE IRIS, AN ILLUMINATED SOUVENIR.

. . . . .. .^, ;. .,

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• • • • • •

PHILADELPHIA:
LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.

1868.

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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.

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U. «riKIIMAN, l>RI>rTKtl,

19 Hi. James litrpct.

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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

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CONTENTS

PROEM.

THE LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN. -
DIFFERENT IMPRESSIONS. - . . -

WE-IIAR-KA, OR THE RIVAL CLANS. -
TUB LAUGHING WATERS. . . - .

0-KO-PEE, A HUNTER OF THE SIOUX.
CHEQUERED CLOUD, THE AGED SIOUX WOMAN.

\ FIRE-FACE.

DEATH-SONG OF AN INDIAN PRISONER. -
THE FALSE ALARM. ....

INDIAN COURTSHIP.

THE SACRIFICE.

AN INDIAN LULLABY. . . . .

SOUNDING WIND, THE CHIPPEWAY BRAVE.

AN INDIAN BALLAD.

OLD JOHN, THE MEDICIS^-MAN.

A REMONSTRANCE.

A FINE ART DISREGARDED.

MISSION CHURCH OF SAN 30Sf:. -

HAWKING.

HILLSIDE COTTAGE.

SU>'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

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

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>*<h6 5i(5a;r-tUat is passed,
And'ltoe futurfe- ^n:'sunliglit uiTav :
: : ; : ; ; ;. Anji. thi.«f, tjh^e, i^ . why :
I am named for the beautiful bovr in the sky.

The rainbow, it telleth of promise and love,
Of hope, with its gay, golden wing ;

THE IRIS.

It ■whispers of peacefiilness, purity, heaven, —
Of these lofty themeH do I sing :
And this, this is why
I am named for the beautiful bow in the sky.

The rainbow is painted in colours most fair,
By the hand of ilie Father of love ;

So the genius and talent my pages bespeak.
Are inspired by the Great Mind above :
And this, this is why

I am named for the beautiful l)ow in the sky.

-1

THE LANDING OF WlLLIAxM PENN.

BY THE G I) 1 T <> R.

(Soo the Fronti8pk>cv.)

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.

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.

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

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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."

THE LANDING OF WILLIAM PENN.

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.

The evening star

Seemed now less bright.
The western sky

Of paler light,

THE IRIS.

All nature's beauty

And romance,

So lovely

To gaze upon,

Retired at once,

A shadow but to that of man !

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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.

THE IRIS.

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.

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

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.

WE-HAR-KA.

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.

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.

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-

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.

>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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

[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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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 In<lian woman's home.

The occasional pealing of tjin :thunder» and We-har-ka's
breathing, were the only.Bounds.«h^ -heard.- . A thousand
painful thought;4 vlroye slumber • from her eyelids. Her
father she knew waii gofl^c sh^i jj-'ess^d h^r \xQ.rd before her
eyes to recall, and then to chase away, the dreadful memory
that tortured her. She was spared; it might be for a slave,
or to b(i the wife of some one of her enemies. Her brother.

WE-HAR-KA.

ake a rest,

:)iind, they
[icle of his
of the girl

that had
sr wander-
'. Chashe
ter. Ene-
) a strong-
faces were
3, heart to

woke from
Starting
which had
ot account
3 dark, ex-
ing, which
nfort that

^e-har-ka's
• thousand
lids. Her
before her
il memory
or a slave,
jr brother,

she had no doubt, was still living : he had been reserved for
protracted tortures. Overcome by these thoughts she sank
again upon the ground, but not to sleep.

Could nothing be suggested to give her comfort? She
cautiously raised the door of the wigwam, and by the red
lightning she saw her brother bound as she had left him.
Despair had nearly overpowered her once more, but the
natural energy of her mind returning, she looked again to
her own heart, to see if there was any hope. Should she
ne er see again the home so dear to her ! Were she and
her bold brother to die by the hands of her father's mur-
derers ! Oh ! that she possessed a sharp knife, to sever the
thongs that bound him, how soon would they flee away as
the birds do when winter's winds are heard from the north !

The idea once prominent in her mind, there was hope.
Another flash showed her the most minute objects in the
wigwam. Another directed her to the knife of We-har-ka,
which lay glittering by her breast. A few moments of in-
tense thought decided her : nerved by a sense of her own
and her brother's danger, she no longer hesitated. What
horrors could be greater than those by which she was sur-
rounded ! What if she were detected and murdered at once !
Far better than to witness her brother's fate, and endure
her own.

She placed herself near We-har-ka, then gently endea-
voured to remove the knife she coveted. The young heart
throbbed against her hand. Again she endeavoured to slide
the knife from its place. We-har-ka turned upon her side
as if disturbed. After a few moments had elapsed she once
more made the effort; and now, as it is clasped in her hand,

THE IRIS.

her senses have well-nigh left her, for this time she is suc-
cessful.

But, well she knew there was no time for delay, nor even
for consideration. The deepest darkness of night was now
upon them ; before long the morning twilight would be again
resting over the earth.

The perfect and unusual repose of the Sioux was in her
favour ; and, excited even to desperation, she determined to
endeavour to free her brother, and secure his and her own
escape.

She first endeavoured to recall the situation of the prin-
cipal objects in the village. She did not, however, require
any effort of memory, for she could see distinctly where her
brother was bound, and the path that led to this point. The
storm's spirits were her friends : without the lightning she
could have accomplished nothing.

There was a turn in the path that led through the village,
and once or twice she was at a loss how to proceed. She
would not be dismayed, though at times she feared her ene-
mies would hear the loud beatings of her heart. Guided by
the lightning, and resting for a moment when she feared her
footfall would give the alarm, she at length reached the spot.

There had been no rest for the younger Chippeway. With
the heart-crushing spectacle before bis eyes, he had only
given way to a horror at his father's sufferings, far more
dreadful to witness than to endure. There was, besides,
the anticipation of his own.

Again and again he looked at the strong cords that bound
him. Could he for a short time possess the knife his ene-
mies had wrested from him !

WE-HAR-KA.

■;lic is suc-

, nor even
: was now
1 be again

as in her

rmined to

her own

the prin-
r, require
vhere her
int. The
tning she

le village,
sed. She
I her ene-
luided by
eared her
[ the spot.
ly. With
had only
far more
!, besides,

lat bound
'i his ene-

Uscloss, indeed, to him, without assistance !

Softer feelings, too, came in turn. His wife had Ijeen
murdered before his eyes, his young son crushed under the
feet of those who now lay sleeping tranquilly around him.

The weary night was wearing on. There would be no
breaking of the day to him. There was no hope, but that
which pointed to the unkno^vn future ; no light but that
which glimmered from the silent land.

A slight noise arouses his acute senses, and he turns his
head to that part of the A'illage where were the greatest
number of lodges. It might be that the footstep was that
of some one of his foes, determined alone to enjoy the sight
of his death. Oh ! what joy thus to be saved the reproaches
of his enemies, the laughing of the women, the sneers of all.
Eagerly he peers through the darkness, and the first bril-
liant flash shows him the pale face of his sister, as she ad-
vances towards him.

Very near him slept, in a wigwam, two warriors who had
the charge of him. They might awake : this thought made
the very pulses of his life stand still.

For at once he understood his sister's intention. He
knew her courage ; he also knew that without an object she
would not be thus incurring the risk of arousing their ene-
mies.

Another flash, and she stood close by his side — her hand
was upon his, as she felt for the thongs that bound him.
One by one they were cautiously severed — slowly, for the
slightest noise might be fiital.

It was hard work, too, for the maiden, for the sinews
were like iron, and her strength failed her under the re-

THE IRIS.

peated efforts she was obliged to make. There was no word
uttered, — their hearts silently conversed with each other.
Time passed, and he was almost free ; he was himself sever-
ing the last bond that detained him.

It yielded. Once more he could stretch out his muscular
arm. Grasping his sister to his side, covered by the dark-
ness and the thunder, and the heavily commencing rain,
they made their way under the edges of the bluffs. The
young Chippeway knew the route : a short peace had exist-
ed between the tribes, and he had more than once passed
through the village.

At first their progress was slow and deliberate. There
was no faltering, though. They were without weapons,
with the exception of We-har-ka's knife. Hunger and
faintness were oppressing them, but the danger they were
in braced their hearts. As they began to leave the Sioux
village in the distance, hope gave vigour to their frames.

After the day broke, the clouds were scattering, and the
sunbeams were dotting the hills that lay between them and
their foes. Still they could not rest. The wild plum was
their only nourishment ; nor was it until night had again
shrouded the earth, and the young man laid his sister
in the hospitable lodge of a Chippeway village, that he
realized that he had been a prisoner and was again free.

It were impossible to describe the rage of the Sioux on
ascertaining the escape of their prisoners. Chashe v/ent
soon after their flight to his sister's wigwam. His sleep
had been restless, he thought of his dead relative, but he
thought more of the Chippeway girl, whom he had resolved to

^^P-

WE-HAR-KA.

IS no word
ich other,
iself sever-

muscular
the dark-
cing rain,
iffs. The
had exist-
ice passed

3. There
weapons,
nger and
they were
the Sioux
'rames.
, and the
them and
plum was
lad again
his sister
, that he
ti free.
Sioux on
she \ient
His sleep
e, but he
^solved to

adopt* in place of his young wife, who had died recently.
Seeing his sister alone, he anxiously inquired of her what had
become of the girl. What was his surprise when she told him
there had been no one there ; that when she arose, the storm
was passing over, but it was still dark, but that no one had
been in the lodge since then. Her brother, much irritated,
contradicted her, using the most violent language ; yet it was
evident to him that his sister was unconscious of his having
laid the girl by her side.

He turned away, and sought the scene of the last night's
torture. There were the burnt fagots, and the ghastly
remains. The smoke still curled and slowly rose from the
ashes, but neither of the prisoners was to be seen. The
thongs with which he had been bound lay on the ground.

There was no room for doubt : brother and sister had fled ;
and they lived so near the borders of the Chippeway country
that there was every reason to believe they were beyond
the reach of recovery.

Disappointment and rage overspread his features. He
threw up the door of the lodge where the sentinels still
slept calmly. Pushing the foremost over with his foot,
" Where is your prisoner ?" said he. " You are brave men,
that cannot take care of one Chippeway !"

Starting to their feet, the s&ntinels at once became aware
of what had occurred. " Where is the girl ?" they asked of
Chashe.

* Young persons taken prisoners in battle are often adopted, in the place
of some lost relative. They are then treated with the kindness usuallj-
shown towards a dear and valued friend.

THE IRIS.

" Tlicy are both gone," said ho, '' and they must both
have passed near you."

" And where were you when the girl went ?" rcpHed one
of the sentinels. " You took her ofl' with you, and if wo
could not keep the man, you could not keep the woman."

The inmates of the different lodges came forward to learn
what had happened. Here advances a brave, followed by
his young sons. The women throw down their bundles of
sticks, to feast themselves with a sight of the Chippeways
ere they commenced their usual avocations ; but they only
expressed their sorrow by groans of disappointment. It was
decided that the fugitives should be jjursued. A party of
the younger men set out without delay ; they were warned,
however, not to go too near their enemy's country.

Glowing with the expectation of recapturing the prisoners,
and, it might be, of bringing home more scalps, they were
anxious to set out. The old medicine-men reminded them
of their duty, gave them advice suitable to the occasion, and
then, with uplifted hands, called upon Wakeen Tonca,
Gioat Spirit, Father, to help them against their enemies.

The close of another evening found the Sioux quiet, and
busy in drying venison, and the usual occupations of the
season. With the day, however, were closing their labours.
Often a cry of lamentation was heard from the lodge of the
Sioux who had recently been killed in battle.

The body of Eagle Eye was deposited upon a high scaf-
folding. His two children w^ere still engaged at the burial-
ground. All cries of sorrow, usual at such times, were
liushed. The sides of the high hills were tinged with gold
and crimson. Some of these "mountains rose high, high

WE-IIAR-KA.

lUst both

plied one

nd if we

Oman."

to learn

owed by

undies of

ppeways

lioy only

. It was

party of

warned,

risoners,
ley were
ed them
don, and
Tonca,
miies.
liet, and
s of the
labours,
e of the

gh scaf-
j burial-
!S, were
ith gold
h, high

up, until they could look into the heavens and hear God in
the storm." The river was as calm as if no sscenc of cruelty
had ever been enacted on its banks.

Round the frame where Eagle Eye's form was laid hung
his medicine-bag. Chashti placed a vessel of water near the
body. We-har-ka lightly lifted the bark dish of buflalo-meat*
and wild rice, where the soul of the departed warrior could
take it, and be refreshed when tired and hungry. Very
near him was buried his wife. Her bones had been ga-
thered and buried under the ground ; branches of trees and
solid pieces of wood had been placed crosswise over her
grave, to protect it from the wolves.

The graves and scaffolds were continued to the very edge
of the bluff, while flowers of the most brilliant hue sprung
up at the feet of the mourners, and clung to tlie low small
bushes that grew on the hilltop. The brotlier and sister
were preparing to come down, when We-har-ka perceived
the priest seated by one of the graves, apparently uncon-
scious of all that was passing around him. She approached
him, and softly laid her hand upon his shoulder. He
turned to her slowly, as if aroused from a dream of long
past years, and followed them to the village.

His lodge was near hers, and she listened to his full rich
voice as he chaunted the vespers. Totally ignorant of what
he said, she was yet soothed by the sweet sounds, and after
they had ceased, unobserved by others, she sought him in

* The Sioux believe in the duality of the soul, — one going to the land of
spirits, while one hovers round the grave, requiring nourishment. Some
few of their wise people believe that each body claims more than two souls,
assigning an occupation for each; but this is not the prevailing opinion.

THE IRIS.

his lodge, and night was closing over the earth as the
voices of the two mingled in earnest conversation.

H: H: ^ H: :{: #

The Jesuit had long been anxious to take advantage of
the first opportunity that offered to return to Canada.
Here, his time was wasted and his health impaired to no
purpose. He had succeeded in learning the language of the
savages, so as to converse with them tolerably; but his mis-
sion was as useless here as it would have been among the
wild beasts of Africa.

Constantly exposed to danger, without the means of
living, except what he received from We-har-ka, and occa-
sionally from others, his time unoccupied, his life was a
burden. His health was not strong enough to enable him
to join in the hardy exercises and sports of the red men.
How anxiously, then, did he await the means of deliverance.

There was an occasional intercourse with the tribes that
lived in the region of the great lakes : in this way he had
come among the Sioux, and he hoped thus to return to
Acadie. He passed hour after hour watching the approach
of canoes, hoping to recognise the tall, gaunt forms of the
Hurons, or some of those with whom the Sioux were on
friendly t )rms. Over but one human being, We-har-ka,
had he acquired the slightest influence. We have before
alluded to the rivalry of the two young men, Chashe and
the Beaver, for the disputed honour of being the war-chief of
the band. They belonged io opposite clans, which were
almost equally divided. It appeared evident that it could
only be decided by some act of bravery performed by one
of the parties.

as the

atage of
Canada,
d to no
?e of the
his mis-
ong the

eans of
id occa-
! was a
)le him
id men.
Iterance.
»es that
he had
turn to
)13roach
! of the
^ere on
har-ka,
! before
ihe and
3hiefof
li were
; could
by one

'I*

WE-HAR-KA.

The aspirants had equal claims. They were each daring
in the greatest degree. Young, athletic^ inured to fatigue
and hardships, thirsting like the war-horse for tht battle.
Clmshe owed his reputation in »ome degree to the reputa-
tion of his grandfather, while on the other hand the Beaver's
courage made him feared by his own and the opposite clan.

The long-continued feud between th(j two clans had been
more violent than ever since the death of the younger bro-
ther of Chashe. His sickness was attributed to a spell
having been cast upon him by some one of the other clan.
Eagle Eye attributed his death to the family of the Beaver;
and so great was the hatred of the two clans* that murder
after murder occurred, and every sickness and disaster was
charged upon some individual, and thus revenge was con-
stantly sought.

Especially was Eagle 'Eye dreaded ; his powers as a me-
dicine-man were rated so high, that in passing by him many
avoided his observation — they dreaded lest he should, by an
undefined power, bring upon them the wrath of an evil
spirit. And each warrior wore beneath his richly embroi-
dered hunting-dress a charm, to protect him from a machi-
nation that he feared.

Yet did the Beaver love the sister of his rival, and he
had induced her to defy her brother's hot temper, and pro-
mise him all her young affection. Love had made him elo-
quent, and he persuaded her out of all the opinions she had

* In a Sioux village there are diflFcrent clans, known by the peculiar me-
dicijic that each uses, each clan claiming superior power, resting in a spell,
which the medicine man or woman can throw upon those of the opposite
party.

„•••«'•'•"'

THE IRIS.

imbibed from the time she was capable of forming one ; while
he, blind to the attractions of all others, could only see
grace in her person.

It was not likely his life would be safe should he marry
her, and remain among his own people ; and could he yield
the chances of his high position among the braves with
whom he had grown up to the love of woman ? He knew
that We-har-ka would leave all for him. The only ques-
tion was, could he make the sacrifice ?

They had closely kept their secret. We-har-ka had been
promised to a young man of her grandftither's clan. She
had from time to time delayed the marringe, by her influence
over the old man. The husband they had chosen for her
was the tried friend of her brother, styled among the In-
dians, a comrade. Weil did Y e-har-ka know how deter-
mined was her brother's tamper, and that he would force
her into the marriage after her grandfather's death, and
that, unless by some groat effort, there was no hope.

On the night of the return of the party, and the burning
of the prisoner, she had, indeed, gone to the prairies to weep;
but it was as much over the difficulties of her position as
the death of her relative. It was not without an object that
she had come forward to meet the war-party, and told them
her intention. When the excitement of the burning of the
Chippeway was at its height, her lover had left the group
of young men, and a short time brought him to We-har-ka s
side. After a few moments passed in the joy of reunion,
We-har-ka told him that her fate must soon be decided, and
implored him to take her away from their home, as their
only chance of happiness. They could go, she said, among

■^^n

WE-nAR-KA.

the Sioux who lived on the Missouri, and there live free
from care.

The young man did not answer her at first, and We-har-ka,
startled with the boldness of her own proposal, awaited his
iinswer, standing. Her arms were clasped over her breast,
and her eyes bent to the ground : the moonlight glittered
on the wampum which lay on her bosom, and flashed from
the silver cross suspended from her neck.

At length the Indian broke out into angry abuse of her
brother and all connected with her. The colour varied in
her cheek, and her lips were more firmly compressed when
he charged them with cowardice, but still she spoke not.
She had counted the cost of his love, and knew, that to retain
it, she must resign even the natural impulses of her heart.

She waited until the torrent of his passion had ceased,
then pointing to the dark clouds that were gathering in the
west, reminded him that they would l.)e missed. The shout
that came from the village warned them too of the necessity
of separation. He then marked the agitation of her manner,
bade her return home, telling her that, aiicr her father was
buried, he would come to the lodge of the Jesuit : at what
time he could not say, but not until some amusements should
engage the Sioux: then he would tell her his determination.
We-har-ka, overpowered with fatigue on her return to her
lodge, slept soundly, even with the Chippeway girl by her
side.

We-har-ka sat in the wigwam of the Jesuit, listening to
the accounts of the grandeur of the churches and the mag-
nificence of the altars in the country where Father Blanc

THE IRIS.

had passed his youth. He pointed to the small figure of
Christ, on the altar of cedar wood, which he had con-
structed, then told her of the large one of gold which he
had often knelt before in assisting in the ceremonies of the
church. We-har-ka, whose thoughts had been wandering
in quest of her lover, asked him again of the ever interest-
ing story of the death and sufferings of the Saviour. Like
those who witnessed the crucifixion, she wondered that that
Great Being should submit to such indignities. Her religion
would have justified resenting them. Yet she did not believe
it was true, loving still to hear it told over and over again ;
especially was it agreeable to her now to while away the
hour until her lover, under pretence of speaking to the
priest, should find a chance of acquainting her with the
plans he had formed. She looked again at the familiar
objects on the altar. Again, as ever, she told the priest he
was good and kind, but that she knew the Great Spirit was
the father of all. Father Blanc's insinuating eloquence
touched her feelings, but her heart was unaffected : yet the
father, glad of a listener, even in the untutored Indian girl,
dwelt on scenes long past, and it might be forgotten by all
but him.

When the moon rose they sat outside the lodge on a mat.
They were now both silent. The thoughts of the Jesuit
wandered far and wide: memory transported him to the
forests of Languedoc.

There he pursued his studies, full of high hope and youth-
ful happiness. He wandered through the most beautiful
scenes of nature, and there was one by his side ; her smile
was bent upon him, as she parted the long ringlets from her

.it

■<*■

WE-HAR-KA.

figure of
lad con-
^hich he
3s of the
iindering
interest-
r. Like
hat that
' religion
t believe
r again ;
way the
f to the
i^ith the

familiar

•

)riest he
)irit was
oquence
yet the
[an girl,
a by all

L a mat.

a Jesuit

to the

I youth-
eautiful
ir smile
om her

brow. He gazed again as he was wont when he bade her
o-ood night, and wondered if angels smiled so sweetly when
they bore the dead to the regions of Paradise. Memory
changes the scene. Death and desolation are met ; dark-
ness and beauty are blended strangely. Those angel eyes
are closed, but the sweet smile is there.

Hushed lips bend over the bier where roses are lavishly
strewed. Echoes of grief are heard along the halls, as they
pass on with their beautiful burden to the house of death.
Then come the long nights of sorrow, the vigils of despair,
the renouncing of the hopes and pleasures of life : then the
morbid restlessness, the wish for death and forgetfulness.
Afterwards, the solitary life of the student, then the seclu-
sion of the cloister, and the longing to wear out life under a
different sky. He traced again his course, until he sat here,
a wanderer, by the side of the Indian girl.

Her eyes were wandering over the brilliant scenes. The
stars seemed almost to rest on the body of her relative, as
she looked towards the burial-ground where she had passed
the day.

The branches of the large trees were in perfect repose :
there. was no wind to disturb them ; and the gorgeous reflec-
tion of the moon on the river seemed almost to illuminate
the village.

Richly endowed with the poetry of nature, the anxious
girl felt calmed by the beauty and tranquillity of the scene.
The evening was passing away, and he had not come. Con-
fident of his affection, she determined to be patient. Some-
times her friends would pass along and converse with her ;
but they knew her heart was sad, deprived of the afifectionate

THE IRIS.

caresses of her relative. Her brother she had not seen since
they had returned together from the burial-ground, but she
supposed he was in one of the groups which were enjoying
the lovely quiet of the evening.

Suddenly a wild and piercing cry arrests her attention.
Starting to her feet, almost frantic for a moment, she re-
cognised her brother's voice. Again it fell in one long, rich,
full cry on her ear.

There was something unusual in that sound. There was
no^ defiance, no fear, no excitement in the voice. It was as
if the bald eagle, long watching and hovering over its prey,
had at length planted her talons in its side, and was fleeing
away far from human hope or protection. So clear was the
sound, so long its echo, that some doubted if it were indeed
a human voice.

Not so with We-har-ka: pressing her clasped hands
tightly over her heart, turning her marble face to the
heavens, she knew it all. That was not the cry indicating
the presence of enemies ; her heart would not have quailed
before it as it did now : it was the announcement of the
gratification of a long-cherished revenge. Her lover's ab-
sence was explained. Only a moment, however, was given
to conflicting thoughts. The young girl moved forward, and,
as it were, pioneered the others to the quarter from whence
the sound proceeded. There was no shrinking in her slight
form : she might have been taken for some spirit returned
to earth to accomplish some high purpose, unconscious of
aught save its own mission.

Passing on to a rock, whence you could see the beautiful
valle; that spread out before them, the whole story was told
in a moment.

■JM

Jen since
but she
enjoying

ttention.
, she re-
ng, rich,

lere was
t was as
its prey,
s fleeing
was the
3 indeed

I hands
to the
dicating
quailed
t of the
er's ab-
ts given
rd, and,
whence
r slight
Jturned
;ious of

autiful
as told

WE-HAR-KA.

Chash6 stood as if expecting witnesses ; in his bearing
there was a frightful exultation that ill accorded with the
other circumstances of his position. In his hand he held the
knife, from which drops of blood were slowly falling on his
dress. He watched them with a savage laugh of delight.
His figure seemed taller, by half, in the moonlight, its long
shadow fell so darkly over the grass. He was not alone,
for easily could all recognise the manly and noble form of
the man he hated, at his feet. Well they know that it was
death alone that could keep him there. The blood w(is
oozing from his heart : and they could, even at the distance
from whence they first saw him, distinguish the marble
paleness of his features.

A loud shout now arose from the Indians as they pressed
forward. They were divided as to the interest in this scene.
The friends of Chashe exulted with him, and those of the
other clan called for revenge. It seemed uncertain how the
excitement of the crowd would show itself, when it was
diverted for a moment by the appearance of We-har-ka.
She rapidly slid down the rocks, which it was necessary to
pass, in order to reach the two young men. None of them
could keep up with her, so quick and shadowy were her
movements.

Throwing herself on the ground beside her lover, she made
the most frantic efibrts to staunch the flowing of the wound.
She tore up the grass, and pressing it together, placed it
against the wound ; but the blood continued to flow in spite
of all her efforts. Her bearing, calm and collected at first,
now changed with the evident hopelessness of the case ; her
wild and frantic screams pierced the air as she threw herself

THE IRIS.

upon his body. Her brother seized her roughly by the arm,
indignant at this show of affection ; but she shrank from his
touch, and again springing to his side, before he could divine
her purpose, she had wrested the knife from his grasp and
pierced it deep in her own breast. Chash^ caught it from
her ere she could a second time bury it in her bosom ; but
she glided from him and ascended the bluff over which she
had passed to reach the dreadful spot. A stream of blood
follows in her path. Now she has reached the edge of the
precipice : she springs, and the noise of the dashing waves
mingles with the cry of horror that arises from the witnesses
of her self-destruction.

The Indians were obliged to return to their village in
order to arrive at the place where were their canoes. Every
effort was made, but in vain, to recover the body of the un-
fortunate girl. She was never seen again.

Father Blanc soon after returned to Acadie with a party
who were going that route. He was thankful to leave the
scene of such accumulated horrors. He had become warmly
attached to the young Sioux maiden, whose early sorrows
had been impressed on his memory. The horrors of that
night were written in characters of blood : nor did he ever
relate the incident without trembling at the recollection.
He found in the Canada Indians more tractable scholars, —
at least, when they feared the cannon of the French.

There is reason to conclude that the efforts of the Jesuits
among the aborigines of our country left no abiding impres-
sion of good : but, like the waters which the tall ships have
passed over, they were agitated for a while from their usual
course, then rt turned to their restless surging as before.

7 the arm,
k from his
iild divine
grasp and
t it from
som; but
ivhich she
L of blood
Ige of the
ng waves
witnesses

t^illage in
. Every
)f the un-

li a party
leave the
e warmly
Y sorrows
's of that
I he ever
oUection.
holars, —
3h.

le Jesuits
g impres-
lips have
leir usual
jfore.

■4

.A^

"gwipipp

Thd'ee miles below Trie Palls of S^Anthony.

r. <;

"^im

•a i-

THE LAUGHING WATERS.

BY MBS. MAET EASTMAN.

A few miles ftom the Falls of St. Anthony are The Little Falls, or, as the Sioux call them, The

Laughing Waters.

Do you know where the waters laugh ?

Have you seen where they playfully fall ?
Hid from the sun by the forest trees green,
(Though its rays do pierce the vines between,)
Dancing with joy, till, night-like, a screen
Comes down from the heavens at the whippoorwill's call.

Come with me, then, we will tread

On a carpet of long grass and flowers.
The wild lady's slipper we'll pluck as it droops.
We will watch the proud eagle, as from heaven she stoops,
A seat we will take by the dark leafy nooks.
Where a fairy might while away summer's bright hours.

From on high, the gay waters come !

At first, how they lazily creep
O'er embedded rocks, while agates so bright
Here and there greet the sun, by noonday's strong light.

THE IRIS.

And again dimly glance when stars come at night,
To watch where the Father of Waters' waves sleep.

How mildly they laugh as they haste !

Now they near the spot where they will spring,
Lightly clearing the distance to the pebbles below.
Where, tired with the effort, more calmly they flow.
While the glistening spray, and the foam white as snow,
Their light o'er the rocks and the dancing waves fling.

At evening how often will come

The wild deer to drink and to rest ;
Till frightened away by the nighthawk's loud scream,
They flee to the shades where the wood spirits dream,
And sink to repose by the moonUght's fair beam,
Like the babe by its mother's soft smile lulled to rest.

And here does the tall warrior stand,

With the maiden he loves by his side !
He tells her to list while the fairies do quaff"
Their cupful, and shout, and then wildly laugh.
For they know that she leans on his love like a staff",
Which will ever support her in life's changing tide.

'Twould be well, did ye weep, waters bright !

Soon no more to thy banks will they come, —
The maiden who loves, or the warrior so brave,
The wild deer at eve, in thy waters to lave.
The song-bird to dip its bright wing in thy wave.
When the shadows that fall with the night are all gone.

THE LAUGHING WATERS.

The Indian's reproach ye might hear,

Did ye listen, fair waves, to the sound !
Are you gay, when you know of the tears we have shed,
When profaned are the graves of our fathers long dead,
When haunted our lands, by the white man's proud tread,
As he passes o'er rock and o'er prairie and mound ?

For ages we've loved thy fair stream !

No more can we claim thee, no more
Will the warrior sing his war-song in thy ears,
Will the mother who comes for her child to shed tears,
Will the maiden who prays to the spirit she fears,
Gaze on thy bright waves, or rest by thy shore ?

O-KO-PEE.

A MIGHTY HUNTER OF THE SIOUX.

BT MnS. MARY EASTMAN.

■a

.*
.»
*

It is impossible for one possessed of kind and generous
feelings to pass a grave without mournful reflections.
Though a stately monument rise over it, it covers the work
of death. The mouldering form was once as full of joy and
care, of tears and rejoicings, as we; — a being who per-
formed his part in the theatre of life, but who has now.
for ever, taken his place behind the closed curtain. And if
it Ije the resting-place of the poor and unknown, we must
feel too : the rude stone at the head, the weeds springing
up, the indifference of the merry children as they pla}'
around it, do not take from the claim that was once pos-
sessed by the form that is fast mingling with its native
earth, to have been one of the many toilers after a happiness
never obtained, a rest never enjoyed on earth ! How have
passed away many of the nations of the earth. Some have
noble monuments. Egypt, Greece, Rome, Palmyra, and
the Aztecs, who flourished upon our own shores — gems of
wealth and learning are heaped upon their graves ; the un-
dying wreath of fame crowns their memory. The older the
world, the better they will be known. As time advances,

'■$

0-KO-PEE.

I
J

SO will increase our knowledge of their history and laws —
their hieroglyphics will be understood, throwing light upon
things hitherto a mystery to us.

But not so with our Indian nations ; they must depart
with hardly a memorial of their existence. Few now care
to learn aught that one day may be spoken in memory
of a noble people passed away ; few now reflect that the
ci.ul of this people stands winged for its flight.

H: H: :S: 4t 4: >H

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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, —

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.

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.

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

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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.

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

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.

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.

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 ?

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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

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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.

115

116

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 ?)}•

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

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 t<!ll white
people what occurs then, nay, even the uninitiated Indiann
would not dare intrude themselves upon the Mcene; only
the medicine-men and women are allowed to Im/ prenent.
Neither entreaties nor bribes have any effect: he will not
intrust to your keeping the solemn secret. All we may
know of this part of it is, that the feast in given in honour
of some dei)arted friend, and these ceremonieH am taking
place near where lies the body. A converHation Ih carried
on with the dead, and food is placed near, tliat the spirit
may eat.

" Bury my dead out of my sight." ThiM Ih not the sen-
timent of the Dacota mourner. The niotlier wantM her
child to rest on the boughs of the tree, under which she
has sat and lulled it to sleep in her annn. H<;re, whiU?

OLD JOHN.

129

she works, she can see its form swayed by the branches,
rocked by the summer winds : its innocent spirit, according
to her faith, must still guard the decaying frame. She
feels not the separation so keenly, when she fancies the
soul of her firstrborn is hovering round her. She steals
away from the noisy revelling in the wigwam to weep.
She can hardly recall the bright eye and healthy glow,
which once belonged to the lost one, but the suffering
countenance and wasting frame are ever before her; and
in the loud call of the night-bird, she often fancies she
hears again the cry with which her young child yielded up
its life.

Old John is telling of the medicine-feast. He shows us
the medicine-bag which he uses : it is an otter skin, though
sometimes a mink, a swan, or even a snake, is used, and
often has he performed wonderful cures, or executed ter-
rible vengeance, by the power of this medicine-bag.

He will not say what is the medicine which the skin
contains ; whether it is a root, or the leaf of a tree, a pre-
cious gum, a mineral substance, or the bone of some animal
which has been preserved for centuries. He says that he
breathed into the nostrils of the dead animal, and thus
imparted to it qualities which made it sacred. Thus has
he often restored to life the dying man, and by the same
power has he cast the spell of misfortune, disease, and even
death, upOL one he hated. This is why he is so much
feared.

Feared by all, but most by the women. Old John's eyes
twinkled until you could only see a black line, when he told
how he could frighten the women in the dance, by holding

■jpif.^wiffrnf'

WllHJlfP^LWlfl^, I

130

THE IRIS.

towards them the skin which contained the medicine of his
clan.

As if to afford him an opportunity of proving the truth
of his statements, two or three squaws had just brought
venison to the kitchen, and we sent for them to pay them,
and, at the same time, to give them the chance of talking
a little — a privilege of which all women are glad to avail
themselves.

The picture was half done ; the medicine-man was to be
represented jumping towards the women, with his dreaded
medicine-bag ; and Old John assured us it was invariably
the case that the person he selected from the crowd fell
down as if in a fit. This, he insisted, was purely the effect
of his medicine. He offered to prove this by exercising his
prerogative as a medicine -man upon the women who had
just entered the room. The women were much fatigued,
and glad of a chance to rest. They little expected to see
any part of a medicine-feast celebrated in a white man's
house.

The artist seated himself before his easel, and com-
menced sketching the figure of the medicine-man. Old
John stoops, and holds the bag with both hands, as if ready
to dart it towards some person. You wonder how he can
retain his painful position so long a time. The veins in his
temple swell, and his hands tremble, yet he does not offer
to move until the sketch is made. Then, when told he is
at liberty to sit down, he gives a merry, mischievous look
towards us, and commences going round the room, singing
with a loud voice, holding the bag as if about to avenge on
some one present a long-remembered injury.

OLD JOHN.

131

The women were taken completely by surprise. From
the moment Old John commenced his performance in ear-
nest^ they showed every symptom of terror, now covering
their faces with their hands, and crying "Enah! Enah!"
and again, as the medicine>man 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.'j<hore, the
hills were mellowed to a painter's wish.

My father and I strolled down the walk, and took one or
two turns almost in silence, tasting all this too keenly at
first to say much about it. There were beauties near hand

140

THE IRIS.

too. The rose-trees had shaken out all their luxuriance,
and defied the eye to admire aught else. Yet, but for
them, there was enough to be admired. The pure Cam-
panulas looked modestly confident of attractions ; little
Gilias filled their place in the world passing well; the
sweet double pinks gave us a most good-humoured face as
we went by; the tall white lily-buds showed beautiful
indications; and some rare geraniums, and my splendid
English heart's-ease quietly disdained or declined competi-
tion. And in that evening-light, even the flowers of hum-
bler name and lower pretension, looked as if they cared not
for it. Sprawling bachelor's-buttons, and stiff sweet-wil-
liams, and pert chrysanthemums, all were pretty under the
sun's blessing ; I think none were overlooked.

" How much pleasure we take in at the eye !" said my
father.

" Where the eye has been opened," said I.

"Ay. How many people go through the world with
their eyes tight shut; — not certainly to every matter of
practical utility, but shut to all beautiful ends."

" Oh, those practical eyes ! — the eyes that have no vision
but for the useful, — what wearisome things they are !"

" It is but a moderate portion of the useful that they
see," said my father ; — " it was not an empty gratuity that
things were made * pleasant to the eyes.' "

" But how the eye needs to be educated," said I.

"Rather the mind, Cary," said my father. "Let the
mind be educated to bring its faculty and taste into full
play, and it will train its own spies fast enough."

A FINE ART DISREGARDED.

141

" It was that I meant, papa, — that cultivation of taste ; —
I was thinking, before you spoke what a blessing it is."

" Why, yes," said my father ; " with that piece to bring
down game, one is in less danger of mental starvation. But
hush ; here comes somebody that won't understand you."

And as he spoke, I saw the trim little figure of Mrs.
Roberts, one of our neighbours, come in sight round a turn
in the shrubbery.

" What a lovely evening, Mrs. Roberts," said I, as we met.

"Delicious! — such charming weather for the grass and
the dairy, and everything. It was so fine, I told Mr.
Roberts I would just run down and see your mamma for a
minute ; I wanted to ask her a question. I shall find her
at home, shan't I?"

I satisfied Mrs. Roberts on that point, and my father and
I turned to walk back to the house with her, thinking that
our pleasure was over.

" The roses are in great beauty now," I remarked.

"Beautiful! — and what an immense quantity of them
you have. I don't know what ails our roses, but we can't
make them do, somehow. They seem to get a kind of
blight when they're about half open, and what are not
blighted are full of bugs. What do you do with the bugs?
I don't see that you have any."

I suggested the effectiveness of daily hand-picking.

"Oh, but bless me! it's so much trouble. Mr. Roberts
would never let the time be taken for it. How stout your
grass is ! It's a great deal stouter than ours. There's half
as much again of it, I'm sure. And you're cutting it! We
haven't begun to cut yet ; Mr. Roberts thought he'd let it

142

THE IRIS.

stand as long as he could, to give it a chance; but I'm sure
it's time. What do you do with all your roucMV — make
rose-water?"

I said no.

"I never saw such a quantity! I'll tell you what — if
you'll send me a basket or two of 'em, Vll nuikc Home rose-
water, and you shall have half of it. Oh, what Ijcautiful
heart's-ease ! My dear Caroline, you must juHt give mc one
of those for my girls, for a pattern ; you know they are
making artiiicial flowers, and they want some of tlioHC for
their bonnets. Really, they are quite equal to the French
ones, /think, and — thank you! — that is superb. Now, my
dear Caroline, one more — that one with so much yellow in
it; — want a little variety, you know. They will be de-
lighted. You know it is just the fashion."

" I did not, indeed, Mrs. Roberts."

"Didn't you? They wear little open borinciiH of some
light straw — rice is the prettiest, or some kind of open-
work — and here, at the side, just here, a bunch c)f heart's-
ease, right against the side of the head; — it is very elegant."

" Caroline has bad taste," said my father gravely ; " she
never wears heart's-ease in a bonnet."

" no, of course, not these, — she is too careful of them —
but you know false heart's-ease, I mean. No, go on with
your walk — ^you shall not come in — I am not going to stay
a minute."

And my father and I quietly turned al>out 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

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,
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-•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»»»<l ' n"!'m.v^i^^ifft^iif^^^^tfm»<iX IJilfct

154

THE IRIS.

Oh ! that the star might shine for them,

That unto us is given,
To cheer our dreary path on earth,

And guide our steps to heaven.

Let the ruins of her glory stand,

A monument to art ;
But the temple of the Living God

Should be the human heart;
While mouldering in tower and wall,

And bending in decay.
Do we gaze upon this chapel fair,

The Church of San Jos6.

HAWKING.

DY EDITH MAY.

She had drawn rein within the castle court
Under its arching gateway, and there stood,
Curbing the hot steed that, with upreared hooft.
Bearing upon the giUled bit, pressed forward.
Her eyes had measured distance, and her lips.
Parted and eager, seemed to drink the air
Now fresh with morning, and her light form kept
Its throne exultingly. A single plume
Waved from her hunting-cap, and the quick wind
Close to the floating ringlets of her hair
Pressed down its snowy fringes. But the folds
Of her rich dress hung motionless, and its hem
Swept to the shaven turf. Near by, a page
Held in a leash of greyhounds, and a hawk
Sat hooded on the bend of her gloved wrist.

HILLSIDE COTTAGE.

BY MBS. JULIA C. B. DOBB.

There was no spot in all Elmwood that we children so
dearly loved to visit as Hillside Cottage. No matter where
our Avanderings began — whether we started for the meadow,
in pursuit of the rich strawberry — for the thick woods,
where the wild flowers bloomed so luxuriantly, and the
bright scarlet clusters of the partridge-berry, contrasting
beautifully with its dark green leaves, sprang up at our feet
— for the brook, to gather the shining pebbles, or to watch
the speckled trout, as they darted swiftly through the water
— no matter where our wanderings ]jegan, it was a strange
thing if they did not terminate somewhere about the sweet
wild place where Aunt Mary lived.

Now, prythee, gentle reader, do not picture to your
'' mind's eye" a stately mansion with an unpretending name,
when you read of Hillside Cottiige. Neither was it a cot-
tage or)iee, with piazzas, and columns, and Venetian blinds.
[t was a low-roofed dwelling, and its walls had never been
visited by a single touch of the painter's brush : but the
wild vines had sprung up around it, until their interlacing
tendrils formed a beautiful network nearly all over the
little building; and the moss upon the roof had been gather-
iug there for many years, growing thicker and greener after

HILLSIDE COTTAGE.

157

the snows of each succeeding winter had rested upon it. It
stood, as the name given it by the villagers indicated, upon
the hillside, just in the edge of the woods that nearly
covered the rounded summit of the hill; a little rivulet
danced along, almost beneath the very windows, and at a
short distance below fell over a ledge of rocks, forming a small
but beautiful cascade, then, tired of its gambols, it flowed
onwards as demurely as if it had never leaped gaily in the
sunlight, or frolicked, like a child at play, with every flower
that bent to kiss its bright waters. We thought there was
no place where the birds sang half so sweetly, or where the
air was so laden with fragrance ; and sure am I there was
no place where we were more cordially welcomed than in
Aunt Mary's cottage.

I well remember Aunt Mary's first arrival in Elmwood.
For two or three weeks it had been rumoured that the cottage
on the hill was to receive a new tenant. Some slight repairs
were going on, and some one had seen a wagon, loaded with
furniture, unladen at the door. This was enough to excite
village curiosity; and when we assembled in the church,
the next Sabbath, I fear that more than one eye wandered
from the pulpit to the door, to catch the first glimpse of our
new neighbour. Just as our old pastor was commencing
the morning service, a lady, entirely unattended, came
slowly up the aisle, and entered the pew designated by the
sexton. Her tall and graceful figure was robed in deepest
black, and it was evident that grief, rather than years, had
dimmed the brightness of her e^e, and driven the rich
colouring of youth and health from her cheek. But there
was something in the (juiet, subdued glance of those large.

tmm

158

THE IRIS.

thoughtful eyes, in the intellect that seemed throned upon
her lofty forehead, and in the sweet and tender expression
that played around her small and delicately formed mouth,
that more than compensated for the absence of youthful
bloom and freshness. I did not think of these things then ;
but, child that I was, after one glance I shrank back in my
seat, awe-struck and abashed by the dignity of her bearing.
Yet when she rose from her knees, and I caught another
glimpse of her pale face, my little heart seemed drawn
towards her by some powerful spell ; and after service was
conc\ided, as we passed down the aisle side by side, I
timicJy placed in her hand a wild rose I had gathered on
my way to chuich. She took it with a smile, and in a
sweet low voice thanked ine for the simple gift. Our homes
lay in the same direction, and ere we reached my father's
gate I imagined myself well acquainted with Miss Atherton.

From that hour my visits to Hillside Cottage were neither
•• few" nor " far between." My parents laughed at my en-
thusiastic praises of my new friend ; but they soon became
assured that they were well grounded : and it was not long
before the answer, " Oh, she has only gone to see Aunt
Mary, ' was the most satisfactory one that could be given
to the oft-repeated query, '• Where in the world has Jessie
aone now ?"

She lived almost the life of a recluse ; seldom mingling
with the villagers, save in the services of the sanctuary, or
when, like a ministering angel, she hovered around the
couch of the dying. Formed to be an ornament to any
circle, and to attract admiration and attention wherever she
moved, she yet shrank from public notice, and was rarely

HILLSIDE COTTAGE.

159

seen, except by those who sought her society in her own
little cottage. To those few it was evident that her love of
seclusion was rather the effect of some deep grief, that had
in early life cast its shadow over her pathway, than the
constitutional tendency of her mind. Hers was a character
singularly lovely and symmetrical. With a mind strong,
clear, and discriminating, she yet possessed all those finer
shades of fancy and feeling, all that confiding tenderness,
all those womanly sympathies, and all that delicacy and
refinement of thought and manner which, in the opinion of
many, can rarely be found in teaman, combined with a high
degree of talent. Love of the beautiful and sublime was
with her almost a passion, and conversing with her, when
animated by her favourite theme, was like reading a page
of rare poetry, or gazing upon a series of paintings, the work
of a well-skilled hand.

Years passed on. The little village of Elmwood had
increased in size, if not in comeliness : the old church had
given place to one of statelier mien and prouder vestments,
and the winding lane, with its primroses and violets, had
become a busy street, with tall rows of brick bordering it on
either side. But still the cottage on the hill remained quiet
and peaceful as ever, undisturbed by the changes that were
at work beneath it. A silver thread might now and then
be traced amid the abundant raven tresses that were parted
on Aunt Mary's forehead ; and my childish curls had grown
darker, and Avere arranged with more precision than of yore.
Yet still the friendship of earlier years remained unbroken,
and a week seldom passed without finding me at Hillside
Cottage. My visits had of late been more frequent than

160

THE IRIS.

ever, for the time was drawing near when our intiniac}
must be interrupted. I was soon to leave my lather's roof,
for a new home in a far-off clime, and to exchange the love
and tenderness that had ever been lavished upon me there
for a nearer and more engrossing attachment.

It was the evening before my bridal. I had stolen awa}'
unperceived, for I could not resist the temptation of one
more quiet chat with Aunt Mary.

" I scarcely expected you to-night, my dear Jessie," said
she, as I entered, " but you are none the less welcome. Do
you know I am very selfish to-night ? When I ought to be
rejoicing in your happiness, my heart is heavy, because I
feel that I can no longer be to you what I have been, chief
friend and confidant. Oh ! I shall indeed miss my little
Jessie."

" You will always be to me just what you have been,
Aunt Mary," I replied, and tears filled my eyes, as I threw
myself upon a low seat at her feet. "You must not think
that l)ecause I am a wife, I shall love my old friends any
the less : and you of all others, you who have been to me
as a dear, dear elder sister, — you who have instructed and
counselled me, and have shared all my thoughts and feel-
ings since I was a little child ; oh ! do you think any one
can come between our hearts ? We may not meet as fre-
quently as we have done, but you will ever find me just the
same, and I shall tell you all my thoughts, and all my
cares and sorrows, and all mv iovs too, iust as I

my joys

always

have done.

" No, no, Jessie, say not so. That may not be. You
may love me just as well, but you will love another more.

HILLSIDE COTTAGE.

161

Your heart cannot be open to me as it has been, for it will
belong to another. Its hopes, its fears, its joys, its sorroAvs,
its cares, its love, will all be so intimately blended with
those of another, that they cannot ]je separated. No wife,
provided the relations existing between her husband and
herself are what they should be, can be to any other friend
exactly what she was before her marriage."

"Why, Aunt Mary! — you surely do not mean to say
that a wife should never have any confidential friends ?"

" The history of woman, dear Jessie, is generally simply
a record of the workings of her own heart; in ordinary
cases, she has little else to consider. ^ The world of the
affections is her world,' and there finds she her appropriate
sphere of action. What I mean to say is, — not that a wife
should have no friend save her husband, — but that, if the
hearts of the twain are as closelj^ linked together as they
should be, if they always beat in perfect unison, and if
their thoughts and feelings harmonize as they ought to do.
it will be difficult for her to draw aside the veil from her
own heart, and lay it open to the gaze of any other being,
without, in some degree, betraying the confidence reposed
in her by him who should be nearer and dearer than all
the world beside. The heart is like a temple, Jessie. It has
its outer and its inner court, and it has also its holy of ho-
lies. The outer court is full : common acquaintances, — those
that we call friends, merely because they are not enemies, —
are gathered there. The inner court but few may enter, —
the few who we feel love us, and to whom we are united
by the strong bonds of sympathy ; but the sanctum sancto-
rum, the holy of holies, that must never be profaned by

162

THE IRIS.

alien footsteps, or by the tread of any, save him to whom
tlie wile liath said, 'Whither thou goest I will go, thy
peojjle shall be my people, and thy God my God.'"

The de(;[)ening twilight hung over us, wrapping all
things in its sombre mautle, ainl its solemn stillness fell
with soft, subduing power upon our hearts, as we sat, for
many moments, each lost in reverie, ere I spoke again.

" Aunt Mary, why were you never married ?"

" Rather an abrupt question that, my love. What if I
say, in the words of the old song, because 'nobody ever
came wooing me ?' "

" Nay, nay, Aunt Mary, I know you have never passed
through life unloved, and I have sometimes fimcied not
unloving either. But pardon me, I fear my obtrusive
curiosity has given you pain," I added quickly, as in the
dim light I saw that her pale cheek was growing still paler,
and that deep, though subdued, anguish was stamped in
legiblt! characters upon her brow.

" 1 have nought to pardon, my child, for our long fami-
liarity has given you a right to ask the question ; and 1
wonder that you have never made the in(iuiry before,
rather than that you make it now. The history of my
early lifc^ is a sad one, but you shall hear it, and know
why 1 am now such a lone and isolated being.

" Upon the early part of my life it will be necessary for
me to dw(.'ll but slightly. My childhood passed dreamily
away, marked by no event of sufficient importance to leave
a ver^' deep impression upon my mind. An only child, I
was my father's idol, and he loved me none the less ten-
derly, because the destroying angel had snatched his young

HILLSIDE COTTAGE.

163

wife from his bosom, and I was all that was left to him of
her. I was very youii<5 when my mother died — too young
to appreciate the magnitude of my loss, or to feel that I
was motherless. Yet I have an indistinct recollection of a
sweet, 'iirlish face, that used to bend over my couch, and of
u melodious voice that was wont to lull me to my baby slum-
bers. The remembrance is a very faint one, but I have
never thought of angels in my dreams, oi- in my waking
hours, when the vision did not wear the semblance of my
mother s face, nor of angel voices without in fancy hearing
again my mother's low, soft tones.

"As I grew older, the best instructors in the country were
procured for me, and I was taught all the accomplishments
of the day, while, at the same time, I was not allowed to
neglect any of the plainer, but equally important branches
of female education. At last my education was completed,
and 'I came out' under auspices as tlatioring as those
under which any young girl ever made her debut upon the
stage of life. The harsh fingers of Time have wrought Mich
changes upon my face and form, that you may find it dilH-
cult to believe that in my youth I was called beautiful.
Yet so it was, and this, together with my father's station in
society and reputation for wealth, drew a crowd of admirers
around me. One of my father's chief sources of delight^
was the exercise of an almost prodigal hospitality, and he
dearly loved to see me, attired with all the elegance that
his ample means could afford, presiding at his table, or
moving among our guests, in his fond eyes ' the star of the
goodly companie.'

" It was by the bedside of his dying sister, that I first met

164

THE IRIS.

Walter Elmore. Effie had been a schoolmate of mine, and
an intimate friendship had sprung up between us. Sister-
less as I was, I had learned to cherish for her almost a
sister's love. Soon after we left school, her father removed
his residence from a distant part of the country to the city
near which mine resided, and our girlish attachment was
cemented and strengthened, as we entered, hand in hand,
upon the duties and pleasures of early womanhood.

" Effie's constitution was naturally weak, and she had been
subject from her childhood to a slight cough; but her
friends gave little heed to it, as the buoyancy of her spirits
and her unchanged demeanour seemed to preclude the idea
of any seated complaint. But the destroyer came, and dis-
ease had made fearful havoc before we awoke to a sense of
her danger. I was with her day and night for a few weeks,
and then Effie Elmore, in her youth and loveliness, slept
the ' sleep that knows no waking.'

" Her brother, of whom I had often heard her speak in
terms of enthusiastic fondness, had been abroad, completing
his studies, and I never met him until we stood, side by
side, gazing upon the calm, still face of the beautiful being
whom we both so tenderly loved.

" It is needless for me to say that from that hour we met
often. At my father's house he became a frequent and
a welcome guest ; and we met too, at no distant intervals,
by Effie's grave, in her favourite walks, and in every nook
that had been made sacred by her presence. We thought
that it was our mutual love for the departed that drew us
together ; we thought it was her memory, and the recollec-
tion of the hour when first we met, that made us seek each

HILLSIDE COTTAGE.

105

other's society, and that rendered the moments we spent
together so dear tons both; but ah me! but lew months
had rolled over our heads before we found that it was even
a stronger tie ; that it was the mystic chain that binds heart
to heart, the deep love of congenial spirits.

" And Walter Elmore was indeed one that any maiden
might be proud of loving. His face and figure were cast in
nature's finest mould. But that were nothing — it is of the
nobleness of his character of which I would speak. Proud
and high-spirited even to a fault, he could not stoop to a
mean or unworthy action. Generous and confiding, his
soul was filled with all true and noble impulses, and his
heart was the home of pure and elevated affections. His
intellectual powers were such as to win the admiration and
esteem of all who knew him, and he possessed also the rare
gift of eloquence, — a gift that seldom fails to find its way to
a woman's heart. What wonder was it then that I yielded
mine to him wholly and unreservedly, and soon learned to
listen for his footstep, as I listened for no other ? My father
snuled upon his suit, and gave it his unqualified approba-
tion . Elmore was not wealthy, but his family w^as one of
the first in the country, and my father was proud of his
brilliant talents and untarnished name. I had wealth
enough for both, and it was decided that upon my twen-
tieth birthday our nuptials should be celebrated.

" Alas ! how little know we of the future ! Ere that day
came, I was penniless — I had almost said a penniless
orphan. My father's capital was all invested in the busi-
ness transactions of two of the oldest, and, it was supposed,
the wealthiest houses in New York. Two successive weeks

166

THE IRIS.

brought news of the failure of both firniH, tuul \u> 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 gov<!rn<!MM, where the
labour would be light, and the salary more than MufTIcient
for my wants ; but in that case I nmst be neparated from
my parent, and leave him to the tender merci<»M of strangers.
The same objection arose in my mind in eonn<!xion with
almost every course that presented itntflf, and I finally con-
cluded upon renting a small house in a pleanant little village

HILLSIDE COTTAGE.

167

not far from the city, where I co ild obtain a few pupils,
and still be able to wateh over my feeble charge.

" It Avas in the ^ merry^ merry month of May,' that the
news' of our reverses came, but it was late in October before
we left our home, that home rendered sacred by so many
hallowed associations. The intervening months had been
spent by me in watching over the sick couch of my aged
parent, in striving to conij.<.'-e my own agitated spirits, and
to gain sufficient courage to gaze unshrinkingly upon the
new and strange pathway I was about to tread.

" Slowly and wearily passed they away, and the day at
length dawned that was to witness our departure. All
was bright and joyous in the outer world. The air was
soft and jjalniy as a morning in June. The trees were just
changing their green summer robes for the gorgeous attire
of autumn, Avith its rich colouring and brilliant dyes ; and
the sky was as cloudless as if the storm-king had been
dethroned, and his banners furled for ever. Tlie house, and
everything around it, presented much the same appearance
as in liMp])ier days ; for the gentleman who had purchased
it hod ))ou^ht the furniture also, with the exception of a
fe V indispensable articles, that the kindness of the credi-
tors allowed us to retain for our new dwelling.

"But oh, the darkness of the inner world ! the gloom in
which my own soul was wrapped, when 1 awoke from a
short and troubled sleep, and the thought fell as a dull,
sickening weight upon my heart, that I had slept for the
last time in that (piiet chamber ! I passed from room to
room, and every step Init added to my grief Here wa«<
the nursery and the little ciib, where I could just remember

• vftnnr. w wmi »i"

168

THE IRIS.

sleeping in my very babyhood ; here the retired study, with
its perfect stillness, and the light coming in so stealthily
through the stained glass j here the library, my father's
favourite apartment, and there, in the recess with its bay
window, the arm-chair that had ever been his chosen rest-
ing-place ; and here the room where my mother had lain, in
her quiet beauty, ere the coffin-lid was closed, and she was
borne hence for ever.

" In a distant part of the grounds, where the forest-trees
had not yet fallen, and where the hand of art had done
little more than to clear away the tangled underbrush,
there was a small plot enclosed by a stone wall, over which
wild vines and running mosses had been trained until the
gray stones were almost entirely hidden. The grass in the
enclosure was of the deepest green, and shaded though it
was by the overhanging trees, there had not a faded leaf or
a withered branch been suffered to rest upon it. In the
centre was a mound of earth, and over it a slab of white
marble, upon which lay the sculptured image of a woman,
young and of surpassing loveliness. She lay as if in sleep,
one rounded arm thrown over her head, and the other
tlropping by her side ; while from the half-opened hand a
white rose-bud had seemingly just fallen. It was my
mother's burial-place, and I bent my steps thitherward
that I might cast one farewell look upon it, before it passed
into the possession of strangers. A tide of softening recol-
lections swept over me as I stood l)y the grave, and falling
upon my knees, I poured out my full heart in prayer.

" ' Oh, when the heart in mid — when bitter thoughts
Are crowding thickly up for utterance,

HILLSIDE COTTAGE. 169

And the poor, coiniiioti wordH of courtesy

Are such a bitter mocking — how much

The bursting licart may pour itHclf in prayer !'

I rose from my knees calmer thai? I had been for many
weeks. I was sad, but not despairing, — and felt again,
what in my despondency I had well-nigh forgotten, that I
was in the hands of One who careth for His children.

" When I returned to the house, 1 found the vehicle that
was to convey us away waiting at the door. My father
was already mi his seat, and I wprang quickly in, not trust-
ing myself to cast another look aroimd me. He — thanks to
his weakness and imbecility — had partaken little of my
dread or agony. Provided his daily wants were supplied,
it mattered little to him where his lot was cast."

"But, Aunt Mary, where was Walter Elmore all this
time?"

" I should have told you, my love, that business of vital
importance called him to a distant [)art of the country a
short time previous to our misfortunes, and there detained
him. lie was kept a[)prised by my letters, liowever, of all
that had Ijefallen us, and hasti-ued to my side as soon as
he returned. He vehemently opposed my pursuance of
the course I had nmrkcd out lor myself, and with all the
eloquence and earnestness ol' love, besought me to become
his wife at once, and give him a right to protect and
guard me.

" But fervently as he j>rayi'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

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

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

L25 i 1.4 i 1.6

'> >

Photograpliic

Sciences

Corporation

23 V/eST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716)872-4503

'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.

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<j;h an Eden's boAvers,
Where perfume loads the falling dews ;

While here and thert., these laughing streams.

Dimpling and eddying ever gay,
Rippling o'er golden sand, that gleams

Like the (Jolcondian diamond's ray.
Leap headlong down a rocky dell,

And o'er the heaven's ethereal azure
Oast many a rainbow's glittering spell.

That chains the heart in silent pleasure.

And 'neath the heaven's o'erarching bow,
Bloom laurels proud, and violets low.
In Iragrance sweet, and beauty rare,
With graceful rose, and lily ftiir;
The mirthful grape, and crocus glad,
Yet here and there, geranium sad.
With hawthorn, and ambrosia kind,
And 'mongst them all is ivy twined.

Amid these blooming spirit-lands.
Mid chaplets wreathed by Love's own hands.
The glowing flowers of Love are found
With which his shining locks are crowned ;
He sings a song, through all the day long.

Of joy, and of gladness, and glee,
And he sits so light, on his throne so bright.

Oh ever a conquering king is he !

183

184 THE IRIS.

But when the Hun«ct'H golden dyes
Have fa<led away from the western skies;
And these fairy gardens are seen by night,
Over their moonlit waters bright,
On which, as they're merrily flowing and dancing.
The light of the stars is twinkling and glancing.
Theic's a charm in that siU^nt midnight hour.
They only can tell who have felt its power.

There's a mystic spell in its silence sweet,
And a magic thrill tlirough all who meet.
Where kindred thoughts together stray,
Whispering beneath pale Luna's ray ;
Then is the time for poet's song,
When his voice on the zephyr is borne along,
And slumbering echo, like fairy fay.
Murmurs the words of his wakening lay.

But the rosy Ijcams of the coming morn
Tell us how fast the night has worn.
How far and free the soul has strayed.
Wandering 'mong scenes in ihncy laid ;
And the heathcock's note, or the matin ]»cll;
Ah the morning breeze brings its pealing bwell.
Recalls the soul from its musings there,
To find its " Castles" — built in air.

lancing,
ncing.

ngj

11;

well.

^'^mmn^mmmm

wmmtm

, 5^

.._r

MHif umjpii«uii^«..pip, J

THE LOVER'S LEAP:

OR, wenona's rock.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Love, which "rules the court, the camp, the grove," is
not without a share of influence in the wigwam.

It is true that in a polished avl refined society, woman
18 more likely to receive a just appreciation, than where the
intellect of man is like the one tn,]ent rolled in a napkin,
useless, because neglected and unimproved. In an enlight^
ened country, woman is not considered as being only
created to perform the household duties of a wife and
mother. She is a companion, in the highest sense of the
word. Her aim, like his, may be towards the great pur-
poses of life.

Not unmindful of her first duties, those which lie in her
province alone, she can go on towards that exalted state of
perfection of which the soul is capable, though not to be
attamed here. Religion, that teaches her "that the price
of a virtuous woman is far above rubies," also commends
her that « she openeth her mouth with wisdom." We find
her in the sacred history not only the friend, the mother
and the wife, but the poet, the heroine, the prophetess, and
even the judge. But aiuong Indian nations we find her

Mi m I

Ffi"»n||f!WWT'^

mil III"! iviv^pnwi

186

THE IRIS.

position more than equivocal. Her influence is undoubted
in the domestic relations, but she is still a slave. She was
born to labour — what merit then in her strongest efforts !
She is an inferior — how then can she hope for justice ?

Among the Sioux, the men appear indeed to be a supe-
rior class of beings. They are noble-looking, while the
women are often repelling in appearance. The difficulties
with which they must contend in the harsh climate of their
country ; their poverty increasing year after year ; their
frequent and long fastings : these all make the men more
hardy, more capable of a continued struggle, but they have
a different effect upon the women. They are compelled to
remain in the lodge ; the care of their children obliges them
to forego the excitement of seeking for food, and thus sick-
ness and even death is often brought upon them that could
otherwise have been avoided. They are often found buried
in the snow in winter, prevented by sickness from making
such efforts as saved the lives of their husbands and
brothers.

But their noble courage, where the emotions of the heart
are concerned, gives them the first place in the romantic
traditions of their country.

The Sioux will soon have taken a farewell look of the
lands which the Great Spirit gave them in the olden time.
The lodge and its occupants are vanishing away. The oc-
casional war-whoop will soon be forgotten where it has been
heard in unrecorded ages. The scenes of many a romantic
tradition will be forgotten by those who succeed the valiant
but doomed people, who must look upon them no more.
The hunter and his wild steed depart, and the white man.

^^'"'^mmmi^mmifmmmmmmmmmmmmm

THE lover's leap.

187

the axo, the plough, and the powder-horn take their place.*
The Cuiry-ringHt on the prairie must be trodden down.

* Tli« Heal of MincHota, adopted in 1850, represents an Indian warrior
dopurting on lii» Htccd: while a huHbandman is in the foreground, sur-
round«d hy the implements of civilization,-thc plough, axe, and rifle. The
scene Ih located at Anthony's Falls.

t On tlio prairies we frequently observe what the Sioux call Fairy-rings.
Theso arc circles, occasioned by the grass growing in this form, higher and
of a darker colour than that around it. Medicine-Bottle, an inferior chief,
living mw about twenty miles from Fort Snelling, says that " they are the
paths in which their ancestors danced their war-dances;" the Indians at
Lttc qui Parlo say the same thing. In confirmation of this opinion, it may
bo stated, that these circles of dark grass vary about as much from true
circles as dr. the paths in which the Hioux dance at the present time.
Che<iu.,rcd (Jloud, a medicine-woman, much esteemed among the Sioux,
says " that these circles were made, in the first instance, by one of their
gods, Unk tomi sapa tonka, the large black spider, for the warriors to
dance in," 1 will observe that Dr. Williamson, a missionary among the
Hioux, nKjucstcd from the two Indians mentioned their opinion on this
object, telling them I had asked it. Dr. Williamson gives his own
opinion, f.r rather observation, thus :~" It seems to me, from the appear-
ance of these circles, that they enlarge every year : and I have thought it
probable that they originated from the death of some large animal, or
other like «uiusc, destroying the common grass of the prairie and enriching
the ground, thus starting grass of another kind, or weeds which grow
ninkly in this manner, and overshadowing, and to some extent destroying
the surrounding grass, the next year taking possession of the ground from
which the cotntnon grass has been dest'-oyed, &c."

" On mentioning this and your letter to Mr. G. II. Pond," Dr. W. con-
tinues, " he said, Lieut. Mather, the geologist, who visited this country
(Minesota) with Featherstonhaugh, many years ago, had advanced the
same opinion. In confirmation of it, I would observe, that in the large
prairies up the Ht. Peter's River, I have often seen buflFalo bones in
these clrdcH" Mr. Pond, the Doctor adds, did not think these circles

-"-n"

UPWPP

188

THE IRIS.

Spirits will no more assemble whore are heard the noise and
excitement of advancing civilization. The same sun gilds
the hills, the same breezes play ui)on the waters — but the
red man must go.

F? must, with his heart full of patriotism and sorrow,
find another site for his lodge, another country for his hunt-
ing-grounds. The wakecn-stone to which he was sacrificed
is no longer his. The graves of his ancestors reproach him
as he departs.

The illustration of Wenona's Keck presents one of the
most striking and beautiful scenes in Indian country. Even
were there no tradition connected with it, its wonderful
beauty must give it interest. One must indeed feel that
God made it. That huge rock with its worn and broken
sides — the lake that reflects it in her placid bosom — the
everlasting hills stretching out before the eye, — these would
show the Creator's handiwork.

But there is an additional interest in viewing it when we
recall the tale of sorrow an<l passion connected with it.
When we recollect that Iwre a young heart throbbed its last
emotions — that from that high eminence the sweet notes of
woman's voice pealed forth their lust music. That here her
arms were raised to heaven, appealing for that justice which
earth had denied her.

But it is not only on Wenona's Rock that the devotion
of an Indian woman's love is re(U)rded. Go among them

originated in this way : saying, Honm MUppoMcd tlii-y were caused by a
mineral in the soil, and that lie hud ohHorvud, that when cattle came on or
near these circles, they ulwuyH cut the dark graHS in the ring close to the
ground, neglecting or passing over tliut growing elHcwherc.

•1P«WPWI^

m^mm

loise and
lun gilds
-but the

. sorrow,
tiis hunt-
sacrificed
)ach him

e of the
y. Even
wonderful
feel that
d broken
lom — the
!se would

when we
with it.
id its last
b notes of
; here her
ice which

devotion
)ng them

aused by a
came on or
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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.

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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.

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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.

197

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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

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 —

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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,

m<m ■

ALICE HILL. 203

Ilis craven soul with terror fill,

For now he knows crazed Alice Hill.

A ring she from her finger drew,

And held it forth to Moreland's view,

And murmured low, in tones that thrilled

HIh thickly throbbing pulse, and stilled

The awu-Htruck guests, as if a breath

Had touched them from the wing of death :

" Four times twelve months have quickly fled —

This bo the seal by which we wed.

And in this light empyreal bow.

To couHucrate our bridal vow !

I sit beneath the elm alone

Since thou, my own, my love, art gone.

Where hast thou trifled on the way.

Like truant-boy forbid to stay?

But hush, my heart, thou needst not chide :

Fitch Moreland claims his waiting bride !

My beating heart, what raptures thrill.

Tumultuous heart, be still ! be still !"

A Htui'dy arm grasped Alice Hill,
Who struggling fiercely, shrieking shrill.
Out iVom the door was rudely cast,
Though storms were out and tide and blast.
Tliere shivering on the pavement cold
Sat Alice Hill, with spirit bold.
Housed by a blow, revenge to claim
For reason lost and peace and name.
The holy priest completes his task,
And bride and groom his blessing ask.

204

THE IRIS.

What Ijcnediction can rcverso
A wronged and ruined woman's curse ?
With lettered handn and ringlets shorn,
Poor Alice Hill, a maniac, borne
On to the mad-house's gloomy walls,
For ever on Fitch Morchind calls, —
" I am not mad ! Unloose these bands !
►See here my tortured, })leeding hands !
On Moreland's ring a crimson stain :
It shall not plead my wrongs in vain ;
For in my heart revenge lies deep —
Its glassy eyes shall never sleep,
Till at the altar, live or dead,
This be the seal by which we wed !"

A pallet, undisturbed by night.
Fell on the careful matron's sight.
And Ali^^e Hill from thence had fled,
With shoeless feet and naked head.
Long was the search, and every track
Pursued to bring cra/ed Alice back.
But vain pursuit, reward in vain,
To bring crazed Alice back again.
Wrapped in a cloak of faded red,
With shoeless feet and naked head,
And ringlets shorn, a woman stood
Half muttering, in a cra/y mood.
And watched with glazed and jealous eye
A gorgeous ec^uipage move by.
Reined in the light of glaring lamps
The restless steed his bridle champs.

ALICE HILL.

205

A form alights with agile bound,
But reeling, totters to the ground.
They said, who passed, a weapon's gleam
Danced in the moonlight's silvery beam.
Crowds gathered round, a crimson tide
Was slowly ebbing from his side.
When on their sight a weapon flashed.
And feet that living current plashed,
Till bending o'er his shivering frame
A woman wildly shrieked his name,
" Turn on me now your treacherous eyes I
Speak, lying lips, while perjury dies.
See what a work a flilsehood wrought,
My love with life were dearly bought,
But peace and reason with it fled —
Eternal curses on your head !
You stole my love, an artless child
By sacred promises beguiled.
Then left me to a blighted name,
To add new laurels to your fame ; —
To death's avenging altar led.
This be the seal by which we wed."

Upraised, the weapon gleamed again
On coward hearts and awe-struck men ;
Beside Fitch Moreland, fainting, dead.
Lay Alice Hill, their spirits wed
In that eternal, dreamless sleep.
Where souls their solemn bridals keep.

DR. VANDORSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW.

BY ANN G. rORTE It.

To assure my readers that I am telling them what is
truth, and not drawing upon the treasury of fancy for a
sketch, I will first rehate to them in what manner I became
acquainted with the Doctor and the Widow. I was once a
teacher: yes, for seven years I held sway in the school-
room, and learned by severe discipline the art of self-govern-
ment, and to bear in secret many a sorrow of which the
cherished daughter in the domestic circle remains in bliss-
ful ignorance. Whenever I see a young lady, at the close
of school-hours, turning with a weary step to her solitary
room in some boarding-house, my first impulse is to go and
ask her to share my own fireside, sit down at my table,
and forget for a while, in my little family circle, that she is
away from the loved ones of her own home.

I shall nevev forget my first preparations for leaving
home. I was to go eight hundred miles, — a long journey in
the days of stages and canal-boats. My little purse grew
thin and lank under the unusual exertion. I had a trunk
and a large bandbox (the latter article I have since learned
to dispense with) : in this was placed all the " varieties" of
my wardrobe, as Parson Milton would call them ; or the
accessories to strengthen the arsenal, as Bonaparte termed

DR. VANDORSEN AND TUE YOUNG WIDOW. 207

the feminino requisites to the toilet. My little store of col-
larets, ribbons, and cravats, my lace capes and fancry hand-
kerchiefs were all folded in one box, and placed inside the
larger one. They were few in number ; but what girl of
eighteen does not cherish her own small hoard of treasures?
I was to go as far as Pittsburg in the company of a lady
and her brother, a boy of sixteen. Three days and nights we
were to travel by stage, stopping only for meals, and occa-
sioruilly an hour for rest, besides the intervals caused by
changing horses. Two strangers, young gentlemen from
Philadel))hia, joined us at the latter city, and remained
with the party to Pittsburg. Nothing, i)erhaps, makes
peoj)le Ixjtter ac(iuaintcd with the disposition of tiieir com-
panions, than the old-ftishioned mode of coach-travelling ;
the l)etty troubles and peculiar annoyances excite the
mirth of some, but elicit only the grumbling of others, so
that for days together we are entertained by the fun of
laughter-loving girls, and gallant young gentlemen, with
growling interludes from some gouty old man, or the groans
of an epicure, who talks only to condemn the dinner, and
curse the cooks.

I had never spent a whole night out of my bed Ijefore,
and though the excitement kept me up at (irst, I found
myself so exhausted by the middle of the second night,
that it was with difficulty I could retain my seat.

One of the passengers, perceiving my situation, and
alarmed by my almost deadly paleness, requested the
driver to stop, and c»rdered a cup of tea. This, and a
resting-place for my poor head, relieved me a little; but

208

THE inis.

with what joy did wc hail, the next day at evening, the
smoky city of Pittsburg.

" Ladies, shall we have the pleasure of meeting all our
little party together in the parlour this evening ?" said one
of the gentlemen. The next morning we were to separate,
taking three difterent routes. We therefore cheerfully ac-
(juiesced, and Miss S. and myself repaired to our rooms to
dress. What was my astonishment to find my treasures
gone, and with them a valuable breusti)in, the gift of my
gi'andfather, shortly before his death ! I was weary, sick,
and sad ; but at the earnest request of my companion, I
put on a black silk dress, and felt not a little refreshed hy
my bath, and the privilege of using thoroughly the brush
and comb, which, denied me for two days and nights, had
given to my head, with its exuberance of hair, a most
moppish appearance on the outside, while the brain within
seemed to share the entanglement without.

But the efforts of my companions could not chase away
the homesickness of the heart. The morning would find
me alone in the world. Sixty miles of my journey were
yet to be travelled : and, Avearied in body and faint in
spirit, I longed to see my dear ftither, and be at home again
under his protection. I shrunk, too, from the duties before
me : they seemed more arduoar^ juid difficult as I approached
them ; and with a sad feelin.::; of my own incompetency and
the lack of personal charms, which might prepossess my
employers, I laid my head upon my pillow that night and
watered it with my tears. Sleep ! blessed, blessed Sleep !
Thou dost take the burdens from the weary and fling them
into the waters of oblivion ; the infant, in its guileless rest.

DU. VANDORSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW. 209

is pillowed on thy lap, and the agod loan lovingly on thy
shoulder. Merciful was the great Father of all, that \w
did permit thee to follow Adam from Paradise, and travel
with his children in this world of guilt, — thus are we per-
mitted to forget, for a while, at least, our sorrows and our
sins. Early the next morning I went on hoixnl a steam-
boat for Wheeling, and though shrinking and timid, I still
found protection and kindness when needed; but when we
arrived, at midnight, in the village of P., and I found
myself alone in a large, desolate-looking room of the hotel,
all the former feeling of sadness came over me, and with
them an indefinable dread of the future.

I must send word to the patrons of the school that I had
arrived : and fearful that their expectations would be dis-
appointed, I could not sleep. The next morning I des-
patched a messenger, and two of the trustees called. They
were polite, but said little, excepting what related to
business ; but when they left me, remarked, '•' We will pro-
cure a more agreeable home for you than this." I thanked
them with my lips, but they little comprehended how
earnestly the heart craved for a home again. The day
passed, and I saw no one till the twilight shadows were
creeping into that lonely room, and with them also dim
visions of home and friends, bringing with them that sad
heart-longing which the young feel during their first ab-
sence from home, when I was startled from my reverie by
a gentle knock at my door. I opened it, and an old lady
stood before me, so kind, so motherly in her appearance,
and so plainly yet tastefully dressed, that my heart clung
to her at first sight. If my Father in heaven had sent an

210

THE IRIS.

angel to me, I should certainly li.^'. e chosen just such a face
and garb, in my present condition, rather than the white
robes and bright-winged cherubs of Raphael's glorious fancy.

" Why, my dear child," said she, as if struck at once by
my girlish figure and pallid face, "you must have been
lonely here to-day, and you need a mother to nurse and
take care of you after your long journey. My name is
Warner, and I am going to take you home with me, if you
will go. My brother called this morning, and my husband
would have accompanied me, but he was very busy ; and I
was so fearful that you would be homesick, that I thought
I would come and introduce myself."

My heart bounded with delight, and I could hardly speak
for gratitude ; and I said so little, and that in such a blun-
dering way, that I was afraid she would not know how
much relief she had brought me.

"Come, my dear, get your bonnet," said she pleasantly,
•' and I will send for your baggage."

I obeyed, and in a few minutes we stopped at a large but
neat residence, almost hid in a profusion of shrubbery.
The climbing multiflora rose covered one side of the house,
and, with welcome intrusiveness, peeped into the chamber
windows, while a honeysuckle and woodbine threw their
mantle of green over the door, and mingled their blossoms
with those of a tall snowball tree, which had grown high,
and, clinging to the house, showered a white welcome upon
every coiner. A few steps from the house, on the right
side, but in the same enclosure, was a small brick office; —
on the other side a cottage, shaded by two large beech trees,
children of the forest, spared by some merciful woodman

DM. VANDOKSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW. 211

when the land was cleared. Such was the outward appear-
ance of my new home — a word as to its inmates. My com-
panion ushered me into a small sitting-room, prettily fur-
nished, and occupied at the time by two persons, — one a
tall, white-haired old gentleman, with spectacles on nose,
readlrjg the newspaper — the other Mrs. Travis, a young
widow, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Warner, who had re-
turned again to the home of her youth. She was sewing
as we entered, but, laying aside her work, rose to greet us.
Her countenance was plain, but a pair of sparkling black
eyes gave animation and expression to her features; and, as
I returned her salutation, I thought her welcome not quite
80 cordial as her mother's. It seemed to express this —
"Whether you and I like each other will depend on cir-
curnBtanccs." But the old gentleman looked at me for an
instant over his spectacles; then, laying them aside with
his paper, rose, and taking my hand, welcomed me to the
West with a hearty greeting; then, placing a chair near to
his own, begged me to be seated. His whole countenance
was expressive of goodness ; and, as I sat down by his side
in all the timidity of a girlish stranger, I felt, for the first
time since leaving home, a delicious sense of security and
peaee. It seemed as if the wing of some guardian angel
was over imt, and a refuge opened in time of sorrow.

And hero, an pmmnt, I must add, those first impressions
nevrr <;ha',iged; and, from that hour till the day when that
blessed spirit was carried by angels to its own pure home
in heaven, I always found consolation in trouble, advice in
perplexity, and gentle reproof in error, by the side of the

good old num. How sweet was the fragrance of his daily

212

TIIR IRIS.

life, and how preciouH the kinM lie imprinted upon my
forehead, and the blessing he implored upon my head when
I bade him farewell ! Oh ! the hopcjlesH darkneiss of atheism,
which draws the veil of oblivion b(!twcen us and all further
intercourse with such spirits! No, no! — let us rather say
with St. Paul, "I hunii \\\ whom [ have believed;" and
with Job, " I sliall live again."

But my limits forbid any extended notice of the members
of the family, though the years I spent under that charmed
roof are marked in njy life with a white stone. There I
emerged from the bashfid, timid girl, into the more active,
energetic woman; and under the blessed influence of love T
trust I grew wiser and happier.

When, at nine o'clock, the family Bible was opened, and
father

"Read a portioii with jutliiiiouH cure,
And 'Let U8 worship (lod/ lio miid with solemn air;"

and all knelt at the fanuly altar in prayer, my own heart
was full, and I was thankfid that no eye could see my face.
Soon afterwards the old lady said, "You look tired, and
must retire; I will show you to your room." Then, leading
me through a small entry, she opened the door of a com-
modious room, saying, as she did so, " This will be yours."
It was carpeted, a centre-table wa8 in the middle of the
room, an open stove with its grate, ready at any chilly
hour for coal, and a nice, cosy-liMiking bed in one corner of
the apartment. The old lady iight<3d a candle, and bade
me good night. Did she, or did she not, think I was a cold-
hearted little thing, that I said good night in such a low.
tremulous tone? I know not; but this 1 do know, that, as

DR. VANDORSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW. 213

soon as she had left the room, I sat down, and, laying my
head on the table, burst into tears.

They were tears of thankfulness and joy, and they re-
freshed the heart, as a summer shower the parched earth.

I seemed a child again, and, with my childhood's prayer
upon my lips, I dropped to sleep that night. I would love
to sit and write till night about my after-life there, but I
have limited myself to one little episode, and to that I will
proceed. I had been there some months; Elizabeth had
learned that we were so unlike that we could love, and
neither be enemies nor rivals. Her high, ambitious, buoyant
spirit had nothing to fear from the timid, yielding, sensitive
girl who was to be her companion. Not a single trait in
the character of each came in collision. One was self-
reliant, could keep her own secrets, evtricate herself from
her own difficulties, feared none but God, cared little for
the opinion of others, loved deeply, hated cordially. The
other had an inordinate "love of approbation," lacked hope
and courage, but, supported by a stronger arm, could endure
the bitterest trial even to the end. The one was proud to
uphold, the other loved to trust.

And thus we moved on, loved and loving, whereas, had
we resembled each other more closely, bitter heart-burnings
and jealousies might have been the result. One day we sat
together in the little sitting-room. We were reading " Deer-
brook." by Miss Martineau, and wondering that such want
of trust and faith should ever take place between sisters,
when the door-bell rang, and a young gentleman, a total
stranger to us, was ushered in. He was a tall young man,
with a fresh countenance, a somewhat diffident manner,

214

THE IRIS.

and gray eyes, which had a downcast expression. It was
difficult for him to observe that simple rule of politeness,
" Look directly at the person to whom you speak." Mr.
Warner endeavoured to make him more at his ease by
casual remarks upon the weather, and other topics of the
day; but he elicited little besides "Yes, sir," "No, sir," "I
agree with you perfectly, sir," and suchlike replies. At
last he drew a card from his pocket, and handed it to Mr.
Warner, saying, " I have been in town some days, and am
looking oui for an office. Learning that the one near your
house is uno led, I have made an early application."

" I will think of it," said the old gentleman. " This is
Dr. Vandorsen, ladies, come to take up his residence in
our village." This somewhat awkward introduction over,
I took the opportunity to slip out of the room, just as they
commenced talking upon the terms of rent and other busi-
ness matters.

"Well, now," said Elizabeth, as she came hastily into
my room, an hour afterwards ; " what do you think of the
Doctor?"

" Why, I haven't thought of him since I left the room ; I
have been preparing my lesson in Butler's Analogy, and I
assure you it requires all the strength of my feeble brain to
grasp his arguments and make them clear to my class."

" A truce to such work ! I thought you had been study-
ing the young stranger's physiognomy, and were prepared
to give me an analysis of his character."

" Let me see," I said ; " I cannot give you his character,
but I believe his personal appearance I can remember;
cheeks like your rusty-coat apples, rusty brown with a

' 1

DR. VANDORSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW. 215

touch of red, foxy eyes, slick, very slick hair, as the Yankees
say, an inflexible spine, and in one respect only like St
Paul."

"Pray what is that?"

"Brethren, I came unto you in much imalmess of speech:'

Lizzy's eyes snapped, and she looked, for a moment,
almost angry. "Then," said she, "I really thought you
had some penetration of character, but I must be mistaken.
Did you not see the evidence of fine feelings beneath that
bashful exterior? And then he was so modest and unas-
suming ; why I no sooner heard his errand than my fancy
drew a beautiful picture in perspective. He seemed so
much like yourself,— you that we are beginning to love so
much, that I thought it would be love at first sight. Father
will let him have the office, and then here's the cottage : a
nice, snug place it would be for you, and we could have you
always with us, and a doctor handy to cure ' the ills to
which flesh is heir.' "

" You have a vivid imagination, truly ; but let me tell
you that you are right in supposing that I have very little
penetration of character. I have none; but sometimes,
though I cannot account for it, I have a strong aversion to a
person on the first meeting ; and when it is so, I never over-
come it."

" Nonsense," said Lizzy, " that is all imagination ; a be-
lief without reason, but it cannot be so in this case."

"We will leave this for the present," I said ; " and I will
take more particular notice of the Doctor the next time.
If you like him, I have no doubt I shall also. But why so
disinterested ? why not take the good Doctor yourself, and

216

THE IRIS.

then the office and cottage will follow as a life possession
for him ?"

" Why, don't yon know, my dear child, he is not the
man for me ? I should bo the death of so amiable a per-
sonage in two years. If I marry again, it must be a man
of boldness and spirit. I care not if he have the temper of
Bonaparte, if he have his courage and spirit."

" And could you endure like Josephine ? You forget the
broken vows and crushed hopes."

A shade passed over her countenance a moment.

" Let us not talk about marriage now," said she.

" Agreed," I replied. " I must study, and bury all other
aspirations for the present in my school."

The next day the Doctor took possession of the office, and
long rows of vials and boxes of bones usurped the place of
law books and deeds. The boy pounded medicines in the
morning, and the Doctor played on his flute at night.

He was neighbourly, and very attentive to both the
young ladies, evidently studying to make no difference in
his attentions. To be sure, he talked most with myself, and
I noticed whenever an opportunity occurred, Lizzy would
direct the conversation to some subject in which I was
especially interested. Every Wednesday evening we went
to a lecture, and he was usually present to accompany the
family. The whole family seemed interested in him, and
good old Mr. Warner too, especially as he now spoke of his
intention to join the church. When that event did take
place, I found some excuse for staying at home. The more
I tried to overcome it, the stronger my aversion became. I
thought it must be groundless — the rest of the family had

DR. VANDOnSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW. 217

more oxiJtirionc'O and windom than myself, — why then should
I feel Huch an unaccountable prejudice towards an innocent
young gentleman who had done me no harm ?

I deterrnitiud t<j overcome it, and most severely did I
blame myHelf for suspecting that any other than holy mo-
tives led to tills public act of consecration. The next even-
ing, when ho proposed to me that we should take a short
walk, I checrfidly consented. As we passed a large flour-
ing mill, he said, " This, I believe, is Mr. Warner's ?"

"Yes," I replied.

" It seems to be a very valuable one."

" One of the most so in the region. The old gentleman
came to tliis country many years ago. Like Abraham, he
went forth, not knowing whither he went, and like him has
he been prospered. He has flocks and herds, houses and
lands, and, what shall I call those?" I asked, as a drove of
swine marke<l by him came grunting along with their snub
noses in the gutter.

" Oh, that is but one species of property," he remarked,
" and has its value. The good old man seems to be very
worthy."

"Worthy!" I repeated to myself— what harm in that,
and yet I didn't like the question, or rather the tone of the
remark.

" He is one of the excellent of the earth — belonging to
that species of salt which never loses its savour."

" They suerri to be a very affectionate ftimily, no wonder
they feel ahriost idolatry for their interesting daughter.
Did you know her husband ?"

218

THK IRIS.

" Not at all," I replied, and by my Hilcnce indicated that
I had IK) wirth to continue thin conversation.

The very next morninj^ I had occasion to go into the
privaUi room or study of tlie old gentleman, to deposit in
his Iiands a sum of money, the jjroceeds of my labour, and
for which lu? gave me good interest and security. I found
the old lady there, and as I opened the door sho remarked,
"Oh ycM, husband, lend him freely if he needs; he is
young, and a hundred dollars may aid him greatly now ; I
have pcfrfect confidence in the Doctor."

I hit my lip, for I found myself inclined to smile, and
did not wish to he observed. But the old gentleman re-
marked the expression of my face, and looking over his
spectactk'H archly said, " Ay, ay, my little schoolma'am !
and so you don't think so highly of the Doctor as the rest
of iis, or do you sail under false; colours just now?"

" 1 have no cause for that," I replied, " and if I had,
your penetration would find it out; so honesty is really my
best l»olicy, for no other reason than Ijecause I can have no
other."

" Well, time works wonders ; I only desire that you
settle among us, and I irmst say, prudence would hardly
advise the Doctor at present ; so take good care of yourself
and all will come right," so gi /ing me my receipt and a
kiss on the cheek, I left the good couple in the act of
counting out a hundred dollars for the Doctor. Weeks
passe<l, and Liz/y, delighted at every new patient the Doc-
tor had and at the increasing reputation she thought he
was gaining, always had some interesting fact to relate to
me when 1 returned from scIkk)! at i.ight. At one time he

DR. VANDORSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW. 219

had refused all pay from a sick old woman, one of Lizzy's
proteges, whom he visited daily. At another time, he had
spent half a day in the garden with her good mother,
budding, trimming, and tying up her bushes ; again, he had
gone into the field and mowed for three hours, to help her
father, when there was a prospect of rain. " And wouldn't
he make a good husband. Sissy dear ?" she said.

"Yes, love, if he was only a little more fiery, like
Bonaparte, and had the courage and spirit of a hero."

Lizzy looked annoyed. In the mean time, common report
had, to my great vexation, coupled the Doctor's name with
mine ; but to attempt to stem the current of village gossip
is like using Dame Partington's broom to sweep the sea.
Firmness and patience are the only salves for such annoy-
ances. Happily, a vacation of a week occurred, and I was
to spend it with one of my pupils.

On my return, it was a pleasant summer's evening, the
doors were open, and the same vines «nd trees which the
year before looked so inviting to the little homesick girl,
were again loaded with blossoms. The old folks sat just
inside the door enjoying the mild air, and Lizzy on an otto-
man, which stood on the broad step. The Doctor, with a
hideous black patch on the side of his foreLead, and one
arm in a sling, stood leaning in a picturesque attitude by
her side. Lizzy's eyes looked milder than I ever saw them
before, and when she turned them upon the Doctor, there
was an expression of interest and sympathy which I had
never noticed before. " The victory is won," I said to my-
self, and then, like a shadow on my heart, came those first
impressions, which no after acquaintance had removed.

220

THE IRIS.

Mr. Warner came forward to welcome me, and wait upon
me into the house, saying to the Doctor, with a smile,
" We will excuse all want of gallantry this evening."

" And excuse me, also," he replied, " I will do myself
the pleasure of calling on Miss Porter to-morrow," he said.

" Wh.at in the name of wonder has happened ?" I said to
Lizzy, who had flown to my side as the Doctor left.

" Oh, it is quite a story, I assure you ; but I ought not
to tell you, for I shall spoil it for the Doctor to-morrow.
He tells it so well ; you'll find that your stammering St.
Paul can speak with the tongue of an angel sometimes."

But my curiosity would not allow me to wait : and in
truth, neither would Lizzy's enthusiasm permit her to do
the same; so she gave the outlines, promising that the
Doctor should fill them up in the morning.

" Would you believe it," she commenced, " the Doctor
has been robbed and shot at, and" —

" Shot at, and then robbed, Sis," said the old gentleman.

" There, I knew I should spoil the story."

" Never mind, do go on," I said, " where, pray ?"

" Why, on the turnpike road to McConnelsville ; don't
you remember a piece of woods there ?"

" Why, yes ; but honest black Gassoway's house is near
about half way as you pass the woods. I came from there
on horseback, at eight o'clock in the evening, only two
weeks ago."

" You must never go there again, my child," said Mrs.
Warner, in a sort of sepulchral tone ; " it may be the death
of you."

"Just as the Doctor came to where the woods com-

Un. VANDORSEN AND THE YOUNG WIDOW. 221

mciuu'd, two horrible-looking ruffianH with miiHkH crtmc
out of tho woods, and while one hieizod the hf>rse'.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

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.

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.

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.

" 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

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."

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.

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.

" 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 <U;surt smoke.

So, when the Provost witnessed Hale

To softer hands convey
His parting love, and lu^ard him ask

To hear the chaplain pDiy,

He jumped like mad, lie danced about,
Did dance, and roar, Jind swear —

The furies in his funnu^e eyes,
And in his rampant hair.

"Dog of a thief! ere you shall have
Priest, book, or passing-bell,

Your rebel hide siiall rot in air.
Your soul shall roast in hell !"

"God's will be done!" said Nathan Hale
"Farewell to life and light!"

They pulled the clolli about his eyes,
And the slack cord was tiuht.

Once more the rack, jdong the Sound.

Curled U) the mounting sun,
That kissed, with mercy's beams, a world

Where such strange things are done.

A CENOTAPH.

241

Along our lines the sentry walked ;

The dew was on his hair;
He felt the night in every limb,

But kept his station there ;

And watched the shimmering spite«|, and saw

The swallows slide away;
When, o'er the fields, there came a man,.

Rough, and in rough array.

" Holla, you Yankee scout !" said he,
" They've caught your Captain Hale,

And choked him for a traitor spy.
Dead as a dead door-nail.

" Run — use your rebel soldier legs —

Tell General Washington.
Don't wait — you'll be promoted for 't —

I'll stand and hold your gun."

Out spake the guard — "You British crow.

Curse on your croaking head !
Move off, or else, I swear, you'll get

The cartridge and the lead."

Full of his news, the sentry soon
To Knowlton told the same.

Knowlton, with tears in either eye,
To the head-quarters came,

iiRwimi^wj"

242

THE THIS.

And told to (icnenil Wa.sliiiigton

Poor Hale's unhappy case.
Nought answered he, but bowed awhile.

With hands upon his face.

Then rising, s'teadfast and serene,
The same great master still —

Curbing a noble sorrow down
With a more noble will —

" Bring me," said ho, " my writing-desk.
And maps last night begun ;

Send hither Putnam, Lee, and Greene,
For much is to be done."

So perished Nathan Hale. God grant

Us not to die as he;
But, for the glorious Sti'ipes and Stars,

Such iron loyalty.

Note. — Nathan Ilalc was a native of tlio town of Coventry, in Connecti-
cut ; and graduated at Yale College, in 177o. He entered the army of the
Revolution at an early period, as a captain in a light infantry regiment,
under command of Colonel Knowlton. After the defeat of the 27th August.
177(», and the retreat of the Americans from Long Island, Washington be-
came exceedingly desirous to gain some information respecting the future
operations of the enemy, and applied to Colonel Knowlton, through whom
Hule was introduced, and volunteered his services.

He disguised himself, crossed to Long Island, procured admission to the
British camp, obtained the information desired, and was about leaving the
Island, when a refugee and a relative recognised, and betrayed him.

The case was clear. Hale confessed; and Sir William Howe ordered him

A CENOTAPH.

243

hung the next morning. He suffered like a patriot and a Christian. " I
lament," said he, " that I have but one life to lose for my country." The
provost-marshal, who superintended the execution, was a savage-hearted man,
and refused him the attendance of a clergyman, and the use of a Bible,
and destroyed letters which he had written to his mother, and other friends,
making the remark, that "the rebels should not know that they had a man
in their army who could die with so much firmness."

An aged physician, recently deceased, was accustomed to relate an anec-
dote that is worthy of preservation. The Doctor, when a small boy,
attended a school taught by Hale in the town of East Windsor, Connecticut.
One day Hale was standing at his desk, in a deep study, when certain wide-
awake boys began to take advantage of his inattention.

The narrator thereupon went softly to his side, touched him, and pointed
to the scene of mischief. Hale, without turning his head, dropped a look*
upon the little informer — a mild look, but full of rebuke, — " Go back to
your seat," said he. The boy slunk away, and neither misunderstood nor
forgot this rebuke of the ungenerous and disloyal, from his true-hearted
teacher J and associated as the incident became with the subsequent fate of
Hale, it made a deep, and affecting impression upon his memory.

* The Doctor described Hale as having had remarkably fine and expressive blue
eyes.

i..iiii;iiiiiv.|uifi^F«np7

THE DREAMER.

BY MARY E. HEWITT.

Last night he kissed me, — kissed me in my dream !

He unto whom I with pure flame aspire, —
His eyes poured down on mine love's kindling beam, —

Through all my being ran the immortal fire,

I felt cold doubt within my breast expire, —
I felt his clasp, as gently he enwound me ;
I felt his heart beat, as he closer bound me ;

He kissed me ! measure of my soul's desire ;
He kissed my down-drooped eyelids, — kissed my brow ;

Felt he no thrill, my well beloved one.
While passed the vision that enchains me now ?

Ah, no ! the ecstasy was mine alone ;
And, while the memory on my spirit lies,
I fear, lest he should read my dream within my eyes.

<^lll

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JiSkjm

'••)L'' W

ml 1

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i'i«p" — I 1 1»

J^I^WWH'I ■ »H r

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WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.

A LEGEND OF THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY.

BY MRS. MARY EAHTMAN

CHAPTER I.

The glowing noonday's sun was resting over the rocks
that hiy and the waters that dashed in the region of St.
Anthony's Falls. The long row of hills in the distance
was tinged with gold, which mixed gaudily with their
purple hues. The dark green of the trees that grew on
the opposite shore interposed between the brightness of the
hills beyond and the white glare of the foaming waters.

Above the Falls, large trees lay fixed in the river, not-
withstanding the efforts the waves appeared to be making
to remove every obstacle that lay in their way, which led
to the edge of the precipice, where they threw themselves
into the abyss below.

Large and small fragments of rocks dotted the water in
every direction, and in the centre of the Falls lay a number
of rocks reposing against each other, with rich, luxuriant
shrubs and trees rising from among them.

Notwithstanding the noise of the falling waters, and the
roaring of the boiling waves below, there was great beauty
mingled with the grandeur of the scene. The width of the

246

THE IRIS.

river at this point made the height of the Falls appear less
than it really was. The association connected with the
death of Wenona,* the injured, but loving wife, gave a
romantic cast to the red man's thoughts, as he rested from
the toils of the chase near this beautiful scene. He could
identify the very spot where she raised her arms, while the
notes of her death-song pealed above all other sounds, as
her slight canoe bent towards her child's and her own
grave. He marvelled that the boiling of the waters did
not appal her, or that the voice of her husband did not
rouse her from her fatal purpose.

But now there is no person near, to take from the soli-
tary beauty of the scene. If the screaming of the loon
were heard, it was immediately followed by the flapping of
her wings, as she passed to the spirit lakes, over whose
quiet surface she loved better to rest. The deer were all
far distant ; — the shade of the forest trees was more accept-
able now than the rays of the summer's sun. Whatever
might be the burden of the song of the waters, it was un-
heard, save by the spirits that are ever assembled in num-
bers around this hallowed spot.

When the intense heat had passed away, a fresh, invigo-
rating wind was felt among the rocks and waves. Evening
was unfolding her mantle, and her breath was playing over
the bright flowers that even here enjoy their short season

* The story of Wenona is given in " Dacota, or Legends of the Sioux,"
in almost the words of the Sioux themselves. It has been often told by
travellers, and there is no doubt but it actually occurred. [N. B. This tra-
dition, as given in a letter from Miss Bremer to myself, during her visit to
the Falls of St. Anthony, will be found at the end of this story. — J. S. H.]

WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.

247

of life. The flitting clouds were gathering towards the
horizon, constantly changing their hues, and resting in
golden lines above the hills. Large fish, the bass, and the
pike, moved at their ease in the restless waters, as if there
were no fear of being bearded in this their stronghold.
The beautiful red deer, too, has been tempted to come and
be refreshed, — ever on their guard, though, as might be seen
by the tossing of their heads when the winds rose and whis-
pered over the earth.

Now they start and flee like lightning, for the light
sound of woman's step is heard ; and in the very spot where
one of them rested, looking over the waves, stands a slight
figure, bearing in her face and form the marks of youth,
while her short and richly embroidered skirt, and the
crimson okendokenda, that partly covered her arms and
chest, showed her to belong to a family at least not unim-
portant among her people.

She stood still for some moments in a listening attitude,
her face pale, and every feature fixed in intense thought.
She carried a bundle of small size : this she seemed to
think of value, for she grasped it as if her life depended on
the preservation of what it contained.

Turning towards the course of the rocks by the river's
edge, she surveyed their way; then, bending where she
stood, she looked unappalled at the waters becoming dark
by the shadows of evening.

There was but little current where she stood, for the
position of the rocks prevented this, though quite near them
the impetuous stream hurried on like one tired of existence,

248

THE IRIS.

eager only to reach and be lost in the great ocean of forget-
fulness.

There was evidently some great difficulty in her position,
for her colour flushed and left her, and she pressed her
hands across her bosom, without quelling its tumult : yet it
was equally evident her object was self-preservation. Life
was dear to the youpg and active blood that animated her
veins. There was too much brightness in the depths of
those dark eyes to be quenched by death. She looked all
around her ; and well might she have asked if the red man's
heaven boasted a more beautiful picture than the one now
before her.

The sound of voices has recalled her from her medita-
tions. Loud, stern voices, speaking in tones of anger and
disappointment. They were not yet very near, but she
knew them well. The language was her own, but the lips
that spoke it were threatening death to her. She recog-
nised his voice — her husband's — he was the pursuer. And
she smiled a bitter smile as she listened to the harsh sounds.
Notwithstanding the perils that surrounded her, she was as
calm as when she sat by her mother's door, in the far-off
home of the Indians, who live by " Le Lac qui Parle." All
her terror, all her restlessness was forgotten. She raised
her arm to its greatest height, and elev.iting her lithe frame
too, she threw her bundle as far as her strength enabled
her; listening till the voices sounded nearer, and the steps
could be distinguished in the dead leaves that lay in their
path, she swayed her form to and fro, and sprung, laughing
as she did so, from the rocks. Then swimming round them,
disappeared, concealed by the overhanging precipices, as

WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.

249

well an by the thick foliage that grew close to the water's
edge.

Hardly was she out of sight when her place was again
occnipied. A large, fierce-looking Sioux stood where she
had Ijccn standing. He looked round as if the object of his
search might be hid among the rocks and bushes. The
waters laughed just as she had, as he complained of fatigue
and dJHttppointment. He looked like a fiend who had forced
hunself where but a moment ago some gentle spirit had been
renting. The passions in their prime worked in his haughty
face. Stripes of different-coloured paint lay across his cheeks
and around his eyes. His broad chest and brawny arms
were uncovered — he raised his hand, and moving it in a
half circle, as he turned towards his companions, "I have
looked for her until I am tired," he said ; " perhaps she has
killed herself; if she is living, my vengeance shall yet reach
her, — I will tear her heart from her breast."

Then turning, wearied and angered beyond endurance,
he strode back towards his home. His giant figure rose far
above his companions. His eye flashed like the lion's de-
priv'-d of his })rey. Well might they call him the Fiery
Man.

C II A V T K U I I.

We must go back two days Ijefore this incident occurred.
In a large wigwam were two ])ersons. The one, a young,
palo woman, seated on a mat. The white lips and the
bl)i(!k shadows beneath the eyes, told of watehings and de-
sjHiir. No tear moistened the colourless eyelids, no sigh re-

260

THE IKIS.

lieved the overburdened heart. Still as death itself, the
young mother gazed on the urjcouHcicus cause of her agony.

There it lay, peaceful aud (lalw, against her throbbing
heart. There it lay, as it way wont, when seated on the
high rocks by the Mississipi)!, it heard the sweet tones of a
mother's voice. There it lay, never to hear even them
again.

Absorbed in her grief, the mother knew not that there
was another in the wigwaui. She was recalling, as she
gazed on the crushed flower thus rudely torn from her love,
the many and strange chaugeM of the past year. She had
once looked forward to the future, as the young always do.
She loved and wa^ prouiiwed to the one she loved.

Fiery Man came from alar, with his powerful, athletic
frame, and his deep and })iei'{'iiig cyeH, iind his voice so low
and solemn. He stopped ut Jicr father's village, returning
from a successful expedition ngiiiuHt the Sacs; and he was
full of proud boastings, lie; said he was "a great warrior,
and hunter too, for his lodge* was always full of game; that
he had taken more scalps thiiu niiy brave of his band ; that
when he held his enemies, they were like children in his
large hand."

In an evil hour his ayo fell upon White Moon. He loved
her because she was the opposite of himself. He fancied
the gentle and submissive way in which she received the
directions of her parents. Win >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<ame. There was the tall, gaunt figure ; the fierce,

264

TUE IRIS.

flashing eye ; the passionate, commanding countenance ; but
far more repelling in her than in him. White Moon read
her own fate ; she was to endure hatred as well as love.
She could see no shelter from the storm that was settling
over her head.

CHAPTER III.

The sister of Fiery Man stood unnoticed, we have said,
in the lodge where White Moon sat with her dead child.
On her back si:e carried a large bundle of wood. As she
threw it to the ground, the noise roused White Moon from
her dreams. She rose from her mat, clasping the child yet
more closely to her breast. Giving one look towards her
sister, in which w%is concentrated all the passion and all
the harshness of which she w as capable, she left the lodge.
The crimson flush soon died away from her face, and she
was calm and pale as before.

Assisted by several of the women, she proceeded to place
her child upon its last resting-place. It was at some dis-
tance from the lodge, yet in sight. She returned, and
carried to the place of burial the cradle and some little
trinkets belonging to the child, and hung them in reach of
the infant's hand, on the scaffolding.

All day she sat on the ground near it. She wept there,
as only a mother can Aveep, for her first and only cliild.
She refused the food the women offered her; she had not
eaten since its death.

Even when night came, she was still there, through its

WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.

255

long watclicH giving vent to her violent grief. The break-
ing of th(! morn found her sleeping for a short interval on
the ground ; on awakening, she remembered there were
dutieH that Htill claimed her care. Her new buffalo-skin
lodge waH Htill unfinished, and she had promised her hus-
band mIic would Ije in it on her return. The one they were
living in waw her sister's; it was an old one, torn, and ad-
mitting the rain, so that it was not comfortable. Some of
the women had assisted her in making it, and she had still
to finish and set it up before the evening.

On the day of the child's death she had been obliged to
leave iier work, to go out at some little distance to cut
wood. She did not, as usual, take her child with her : it
was asU.'ep in its carved board cradle, and she left it in
charge of a girl, the child of one of her friends. Fiery
Man's sister had gone out, telling White Moon she should
be away all day. So great was her dread of this proud
woman — so fearful was she that she would revenge on her
child the hatred she felt towards herself — that otherwise
she would not have left the infant at home.

The anticipations of White Moon at her first interview
with her husband's sister were all realized. This woman
possessed all the bad qualities of Fiery Man, without any
of his redet^ming ones.

She had been married, and was a widow. Both of her
children were dead : there was no avenue by which kind-
ness could find its way to her heart. She disliked White
Moon, because she had so won her brother's love. But
there needed to assign no reason, for she disliked all who
were better off thai. she.

256

THE IRIS.

It iH not only in civilized life that the dread passion of
envy hns full »way : the human heart, the same by nature,
varicH only by aHsociation and circumstance.

Had it not been for the unhappy disposition of Fiery
Man'n sister, White Moon had been happy. She could not
but be proud of her husband, and of his affection for her:
it was not in the nature of a Sioux woman to see unmoved
the many trophies of his skill and bravery. But the curse
of envy was about her; and when White Moon smiled over
her boy, and Fiery Man exulted in the pride and affection
of a Sioux father for his son, his sister could not rejoice
with them — she envied and hated them.

Fiery Man ext?cted the most implicit obedience from his
wife, and from all around him. He would not have brooked
the slightest contradiction from her; but she did not
attempt it.

In most cases an Indian wife is little more than a serving-
woman to her husband. To this White Moon was accus-
tomed from observation, and from her short experience.
She trembled at her husliund's voice, though against her
it had never !)een raised in Jinger. But the violent passions,
the abusive language, the frequent blows — these, coming
from one who ought to have no power over her, made her
often wish for death. Yet so great was the likeness of
brother and sister, that she bowed to the tyranny of the
one, from having done so to the other. Her spirit, too,
was broken. She could easily submit, but not forget.
When she left her child in the wigwam it was quietly
sleeping; when she returned it still slept. She had been a

WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.

257

long time away, and yet the rest of the infant appeared to
have been unbroken.

She missed the girl who had promised to remain with
the child. She had brought a heavy burden of wood to
her lodge, and she sat down by the child to rest, and to
watch its awakening.

Its unusual paleness alarmed her; she held her own
breath that she might distinguish the breathing of the
child, but in vain. She placed her hand before its parted
lips ; the warm breath of infancy did not play upon it.

She thought it strange ; but death did not present itself
to her mind. Going to the door of the lodge, she looked
around, and saw her sister gazing, with fixed attention,
towards the wigwam. This alarmed her, and she returned
to her child ; again she listened for its breath : she pressed
its small and clammy hand. Then did the real truth flash
across her. She took in her arms the infant and rushed
with it into the open air.

As she stood outside calling for help, the Indians col-
lected around her. Her sister, calm and unconcerned,
approached with them and looked on.

The Indian doctors were there, and White Moon, under
their direction, carried her child back to the lodge. She
placed it on a buflfalo-robe, which was folded on the floor.
Red Head, the great medicine-man, seated himself near it.
He held the sacred rattle, shaking it, and chaunting in a
loud voice. He shouted to the women to stand offj for
near him, on the ground, he had laid his pipe and medi-
cine-bag.

White Moon alternately wept and hoped ; she knew Red

258

THE IRIS.

Head was a powerful medicine-man : but still her baby
showed no signs of life. Despairing, at last, and frantic
with grief, she broke in upon his incantations. She raised
her child, and placed its little face against her breast. She
knew this test would be decisive.

There was no motion, on its part, to receive the offered
sustenance. She raised her despairing eyes, and they met
the cold glances of her sister. Then she told Red Head
there was no hope. She asked to be left alone with her
dead ; she wept until the power of weeping was gone : and
then, until the time was come to place it in its cradle grave,
she held it to her heart. She did not dare reflect on the
passionate grief of the father, when he should return, and
ask of her his son.

She could not rouse herself to say, what she believed to
be the case, that his sister had destroyed it. There was
no mark, — no apparent cause for its sudden death.

On returning to the wigwam, after the burial of the
child, she found her sister there, more than usually bent
upon an altercation. She endeavoured to avoid it by em-
ploying herself in silence. She eat for the first time since
her child's death, and then applied herself to the task of
finishing her lodge. Her bereaved condition might have
excited the pity of her companion; but there was no
sympathy in that breast. For a time, White Moon would
not reply to her taunts. This the more enraged the other,
who at length charged the heart-broken mother with the
murder of her child !

White Moon heard her in stupified horror and amaze-
ment. That t > 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

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260

THE IRIS.

taking these clothes with her as a disguise. She made
them into a bundle before the eyes of the dying woman,
and resolved upon flying from her husband's resentment.

How often she had called for death, yet how closely she
now clung to life. The violent excitement through which
she had passed had brought again the colour to her cheek.
Brightness had succeeded to the expression of languor in
her eyes. There was no tie to keep her in her husband's
home. She now only thought of him as the avenger of his
sister's blood.

She left the lodge without even a glance towards the
cause of her misery and her sin. She turned from the
places which would now know her no more.

CHAPTER IV.

Fiery Man and the large party of hunters came in sight
of their home on the evening of the same day. They had
brought a large number of buffalo, and were glad to reach
the vicinity of their village, where their wives and other
women came forward to relieve them of their burden.
Merry work it was to them on this occasion, until they
learned some of the hunters were missing.

Fiery Man looked to see his wife and child among
them, and was disappointed and irritated at not seeing
them ; but he remembered White Moon was always back-
ward in joining these noisy parties, and thus he accounted
for her absence.

His tall figure was slightly clad, for the weather was

WHITE MOON AND KIEKY MAN.

261

warm — in his right hand ha \ifh\ a npcar, and on its top
was a scalp recently taken, lie ntrode on without waiting
to explain the occapion of ih'in, only thinking of his wife and
son. He did not miss his HiHtifr, though he might well have
done so, for she was always rcjuly with her strong arm to
assist the hunters, and her loud voice to give directions to
the women.

There was a great deal of confiiMion as they entered the
village, for the absence of the three hunters had been ac-
counted for, though not by Fiery Man, who had passed for-
wrrd towards his lodge.

The hunters, enthusiastic with their success, (for the num-
ber of buffalo they had killed was unusually great,) were
surprised by a party of Iroc^uoin, and in the sudden terror
three of the Sioux, who hod laid down their arms, intend-
ing to sleep, were killed and Hctalped. These Iroquois had
come from a great distance; their villages were in the
western part of New York. They were then in the height
of their power, and constantly |Kjrfonned exploits that
astonished other Indian nations.

But that a small party should have travelled four hun-
dred leagues, living by chance, surrounded by their enemies ;
that they should venture among so powerful a people with
such an object, is indeed remarkable ; that they should have
been successful, is still more so.

They lost one of their party. Fiery Man pursued them,
with some others, as they endeavoured to make their escape,
and killed one, whose scalp adorned his spear.

The lamentations of the families whose relatives had been
killed, their affectionate but melaticholy reception of their

262

THE IRIS.

dead bodies — :for they had been wrapped in skins and
brought home — the loud talking of those engaged in
caring for the immense quantities of buffalo-meat and the
valuable skins, — all these were unnoticed and indeed un-
heard by Fiery Man.

Even his stout heart quailed before the silent f.nd gloomy
appearance of his lodge. There was not even an evidence
of habitation.

The lodge on which White Moon had been engaged lay
heaped up near it ; but there was no one there to welcome
him.

He threw up the door and looked in ; then started almost
affrighted at what he saw. His sister lay dead — and the
only creature near her was the small dog that had been
always by her side during life. He could not mistake the
horrible symptoms, — ^the fallen jaw, the dark-looking blood,
the face calm and composed in its expression, as it never
had been in life.

He turned again from the lodge to seek his wife and
child, — the former with her timid and almost fearful saluta-
tion, the latter with his merry infant laugh, as he reached
forth his hands to be taken close to his father's heart.

He looked around among the groups talking here and
there. They were gazing at him, with doubt and conster-
nation in every countenance ; for who would dare tell him
of all? — ^who would expose himself to the violence of his
wrath? — ^who but feared to see that iron frame bowed with
the tale of horror he must hear?

He hastened towards them, and shook Harpstinah roughly
by the arm. "Where is my wife? — my child? Speak!"

WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.

2C3

he said, as the woman, in her fright, seemed to have lost
the power of speech.

An old man, who had not accompanied the hunting
party, on account of his age, came forward. "There is
your son," he said, pointing to the burial-ground. " Your
wife left him asleep, and your sister — "

Harpstinah, having recovered herself, interrupted him :
he had but a confused notion of the state of things. She
told Fiery Man all the circumstances, even to her going to
the lodge, drawn thither by the continual crying of the
dog, and finding his sister there in her death-pangs. She
had tried to make Harpstinah comprehend a message
to her brother, but had expired with the efibrt. Pre-
vious to that she had told several persons that White Moon
had killed her child, but no one believed it. The affec-
tionate care of the mother was too well known ; besides,
the girl who had been left in charge of her, said the iiifiint
had awakened a short time after White Moon had left, and
had then fallen asleep again.

White Moon had been seen as she hurried from the vil-
lage, but no one had seen her return. Harpstinah had
heard angry words passing between them, but did not
know that anything more serious had occurred, until some
time after, when she entered the lodge, as she had ])efore
described. All presumed it must have been tlie act of
White Moon, as she had expressed previously her intention
of remaining at home, in order to finish her lodge.

This was the substance of the intelligence, to which
Fiery Man listened with an ashy countenance and a
trembling frame. His wife, whom he had so loved — \m

264

THE IRIS.

boy, the noble, healthy child, whose growth he had watched
day by day! As he bent forward to listen, large tears
rested on his cheek. The women moved off affrighted at
the spectacle, that tears, such as women shed, should be
seen there.

There was one who still remained beside him. Fiery
Man had not heard the charge brought against his wife of
the murder of her child. So stricken was he, that he only
heard and felt that they were gone. The Fawn still re-
mained beside him: she had loved Fiery Man, and had
hoped to be his wife. She waited to speak when he should
arouse from the first stupor of his grief. He turned to go,
he knew not where ; he heard his name called, and saw the
Fawn beside him. "Your sister said that White Moon
had never loved you, and was now revenged ; that you had
torn her from all she had loved; that even her old mother
had wept, and asked you to leave her with her, but in
vain; and it was for this White Moon had killed your
child, that you might have sorrow too."

Then came back the colour to the bronzed cheek of
Fiery Man, and the flashing to his eye. Then did he stand
erect, like one that had never known grief — then did love
change to bitter hatred. The wife of his bosom was his
worst enemy. There were no more tears, but loud threats
of vengeance — no trembling, but firm purposes of revenge.

He went again to the lodge, to look at his sister's body.
He left her, and stood by the grave of his .child. He laid
his hand upon the little body, and stood thus while he
decided what to do. He shouted for the young men, and

WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.

265

told them to go and hunt for his wife, and bring her back
to him.

It was fearful to see the paroxysms of his hot anger.
He lay down on the grass near his child ; he rested, but
not with sleep. He sought his wife through the night, but
in vain. He went into the thick forests ; he remembered
Chat-o-tee-dah, the god of the woods, was his friend ; he
prayed to the god ; he sacrificed to the wakeen-stono ; but
still he was unsuccessful.

He knew neither sleep nor rest until the evening of the
next day, when ho was forced to yield to his overtaxed
condition. There did he stand, by the Laughing Waters,
where she had stood. The White Moon was making her
way, slowly and sadly, but clinging to life — full of grief,
but fearing the avenger — living on the berries of the woods,
and sleeping where the red deer and its young lie down to
rest.

CHAPTER V.

A short time after the events we have noticed, a young
and slight-looking Sioux warrior entered one of the villages
of that nation. He was a stranger and alone. This was
enough to insure him a hospitable reception. On approach-
ing the lodges which were nearest him, he seemed to hesi-
tate as to what course he should pursue as regards making
himself known. In the mean time his appearance had
attracted a good deal of attention.

His limbs were slight but well formed, his figure de-
noting agility rather than strength. His dress was new

266

THE IRIS.

rnd handsomely ornamented ; his leggins were of very fine
deer-skin, dressed so as to be white and soft, and these, as
well as his coat, were richly embroidered with porcupine
quills. He had no blanket, nor were there any war-eagle
feathers in his head ; his pipe, made of an earthen material,
was large and heavy. He was without arms of any kind :
this was the most remarkable feature in his appearance.

He was pale, as if he had been ill, and there was at
times an expression of wildness, almost amounting to fero-
city, in his appearance. He advanced towards a lodge
outside of which stood the family ; they spoke to him at
once, telling him to sit down and rest himself. One of the
women seeing his mocassin was torn, untied it, saying she
would mend it.

Before asking him his name or errand, they insisted upon
his eating, knowing from his features and dress he was a
Sioux.

His feet they found blistered and inflamed. The women
of the lodge got some herbs, laid them in cold water, and
applied them to the inflamed parts.

They gave him wild rice, in an earthen bowl of a kind
manufactured by themselves, the art being now lost. They
were then destitute of metallic vessels of any kind.

The young warrior, after he had eaten, proceeded to give
an account of himself. He said he had come a great di^^tance
in search of an uncle who had suddenly disappeared from
among them. He was a very important man among them,
famous for his wisdom, and for knowing all the history of
their people, the Mendewakantonwau Dacotas. He could
always tell them the year when' buffalo would be the most

WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.

267

plentiful ; he could direct them to the very spot where the
largest herds could be found.

His people, he said, lived on the banks of the Minesota ;
the mouth of this river, his uncle said, lay immediately
over the centre of the earth, and under the centre of the
heavens : the Great Spirit had ordered this, that they might
know they were his favourite people, superior to all other
nations.

All these things his uncle had learned in dreams ; and
often he spoke of them lo the young people, that they might
be proud of their country, and might remember who was
their Great Father and friend.

On one occasion he had assembled the young people, and
told them of the bloody battles they had fought with the
Sacs and Foxes and other nations. Some of the Dacota
bands had been destroyed by them, but they had been saved
because they were under the centre of the heavens, and the
eye of the Great Spirit was always upon them. They knew
mo^e too than the other bands, and were in consequence
much better off.

On that occasion he had talked nearly all night, and after
that they all retired to rest. On awaking, the old warrior
had disappeared, and since then had never been seen.
Whether Unk-ta-he had drawn him into the deep, or Chat-
o-tee-dah, the god of the woods, had drawn him under the
earth, or the Great Spirit had taken him, no one knew.
He was no more among them.

The young man went on to say he had had a dream, in
which he was told to array himself in new clothing, and to
go in search of his uncle. He was forbidden to take arms or

268

THE IRIS.

provisions of any kind ; and in a short time he would have
an interview with his uncle. This he had done in spite of
the objections of his friends, who urged him at least to take
his bow and arrows, but he had refused to do so, preferring
to follow implicitly the directions he had received in his
dream. He had been in the woods a long time, and was
almost despairing, when one night he fell into a deep sleep,
and his uncle stood before him ; not old and wrinkled and
time-worn, as he remembered him, but erect and firm. His
voice was strong too, and he could have been heard a long
way off, he spoke so loud and distinctly.

He said that the Sioux need not any more look for his
return, for that in the far-off country where he lived, he had
none of those weaknesses and pains to contend with, which
are constantly among the aged on earth : he had wanted
to try the bravery of his young nephew, to see whether or
not he would have courage to do as he was told. He was
glad he had done so, for now he would be a favourite of the
gods, who delighted in courageous acts. He directed him
as to what route he should take, telling him of everything
that would happen to him on his way to the village, and
charged him to say to them, that he should be furnished
with a lance, bow, and arrows, and also have given to him a
comrade, and be allowed to stay in the band. The Indians
were overcome with admiration at the courage shown in
these adventures, and they immediately presented him with
the arms he required, and in every other way gratified his
wishes.

He accepted these things proudly, as a right, rather than
a favour ; this bearing made him still more popular with his

WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.

269

new friends. One of them came forward and told him he
should have his oldest daughter — pointing to the well-
pleased maiden — for a wife : the stranger said he had pro-
mised his uncle he would not marry until he had killed
three Winnebagoes, and wore the feathers of honour he
had thus earned.

He continued to grow in their favour, and was prepar-
ing to accompany some of their braves on a war-party,
when, one morning, a party of Sioux approached the vil-
lage. One of the men was much taller and larger than all
the rest, his eagle feathers towering above their heads. The
hospitable people pressed forward to welcome them : and
when they were rested, and had eaten and smoked, the
chief missed their stranger friend. He was not to be seen ;
when they found he did not return to them, they told his
strange story to Fiery Man and his band.

The wretched man knew it was his -wife who had thus
baffled him. He went on his way, but some evil spirit stood
between him and the accomplishment of his purpose. She
was not to be given to his vengeance or his love. There
was happiness yet in store for White Moon.

CHAPTER VI.

Chat-o-tee-dah, the god of the woods and forests, holds a
high rank among the Sioux ; by some he is considered even
greater than the Thunder-Bird. Were it not for the great
number of Thunder-Birds, that race would long since have
been extinct ; so many battles have they had, and so poAv-

270

THE IRIS.

erful is the god whose home is in the dark woods, whose
guardians and servants are every bird that rests itself in
the branches of the trees, whose notes welcome the coming
of the day.

Chat-o-tee-dah passes by the shrubbery of the lowlands,
and makes his home on the largest tree on the highest
eminence of the forest ; his dwelling is in the root of the
tree. He is not confined to this part of it, but comes out
when occasion may require.

Is he hungry ? he takes his seat upon the branch of the
tree, and, by his power of attraction, he is soon surrounded
by the winged messengers of the forest, ready to do his
bidding. While he is thus holding his court, the limb of
the tree on which he is seated becomes smooth as glass.

Chat-o-tee-dah and the Thunder-Bird, as I have said, are
enemies : and many hard battles have been fought between
them, the god of the woods being generally the victor.

This is to be ascribed, in a great measure, to the attach-
ment and vigilance of hi body-guard, the birds of the
forest.

At the slightest commotion in the heavens, whose stormy
portents indicate the coming of the Thunder-Bird, Chat-o-
tee-dah is roused from his sleep, or whatever occupation
may engage him at the lime, by his servants ; he has thus
ample time to make his arrangements.

While the clouds roll swiftly and angrily towards the
habitation of the water god, and streaked lightning plays
in vivid flashes on the earth, Chat-o-tec-dah is coolly
making his preparations for the work of death, assured,
by his very calmness, of victory. The little birds, hid in

WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.

271

the (lark branches of the trees, are faithful sentinels, mo-
mentarily making their rei3ort, while the god of the woods
keeps safely hid in the root of the tree, his stronghold in
time of danger.

The Thunder-Bird resorts to cunning. He takes the
form of a large bird, but his disguise is always penetrated
by the smallest forest-bird; they know him, and, like
faithful servants, keep near their lord. Again and again
the thunder rolls, and the lightning plays about the
branches of the tree. The waters swell and rise up to
anger the Thunder-Bird, and to t( mpt him to do battle,
but he has too many quarrels to resent against the forest
gods, and the day of his ven'^oanco is come. It is not
often that he has courage to tempt the forest god to battle,
for he knows his power; but now he will show him his
own strength, when he is roused.

There is a stillness of the elements, and now again the
deafening sound is heard, and the lightning pierces the
home of the forest god ; but Chat-o-tee-dah is safe, for there
is a communication with the roots of the tree and the
waters, and he passes through it safely, hearing the while
the noise of the elements, while he descends to the great
waters below.

Again the earth shakes, for the Thunder-Bird has cast
forth his lightning, and pierced the root of the tree ; but he
is again defeated by the cunning of the god, who has found
a refuge in the dominions of Unk-ta-he.

But at last the forest god is angry, and he has determined
to come forth from his watery retreat, and beard the Thun-
der-Bird with his own veapons. He hurls back at him the

272

THE IRIS.

lightning ] — in an instant the daring invader is dead at his
feet.

The battles of their gods are unending themes of ad-
venture among the Sioux. Conversing upon them, the
hours are whiled away from evening until midnight, and
often from midnight to morn. The intellect must have
occupation. How many a noble mind has thus gone to
waste !

We may judge, from the importance attached to these
fanciful stories, how hard must be the work of the Indian
missionary. What a system of error to uproot! We may
also look into our own hearts : — which is the greater ab-
surdity, the worship of Chat-o-tee-dah or mammon? — the
bowing down to the glorious works of the hand of God, or
devotions paid to the gilded idol of this world ?

Fiery Man no more boasted of his intercourse with the
gods ; they seemed to have forgotten they were his friends.

He had sought far and near for his wife. At times his
heart was full of revenge : that she should have destroyed
his son was the bitterest reflection of all. His sister's blood
seemed still to be flowing before him ; vengeance was called
for on her who had made his lodge dark for ever. Then a
different mood would affect him. She would stand before
him, obedient, docile, and timid, with her soft, fearful voice,
so different from the loud tones of his sister's. He could
remember her so distinctly, as she held up her child for
him to see, as he left the lodge to go with the hunting
party. Her long, braided hair, falling about her shoulders,
as her infant's cheek lay pressed against hers. For the first
time he thought she looked sad at parting with him, and he

WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.

273

had treasured the thought. He knew then she never raised
her hand against her child. He would have crushed his
evil-minded sister for the suggestion, had she stood before
him in life. He would sit buried in thought, the storms of
passion breaking away from his heart; but this did not last,
and woe to the man who came before him in his fierce
mood.

He died in battle; but the Indians said he gave his life
away, for he met his enemy as if he were in a dream, and
shouted no cry as he was wont. They brought his body
back and buried it by the side of his son : and even death
did not break the spell of awe connected with him, for the
women were afraid to sit and plait grass near his grave.
Harpstinah moved her lodge from where it stood, saying,
she must live farther off from the graves, that she might
not hear Fiery Man in the night calling for vengeance on
his wife, who had deserted him, and murdered his child.

No one could tell the fate of White Moon. Her parents
died soon after her disappearance. But the Black Eagle,
who some years after visited the Sioux who live among the
thousand isles at the head of Rum River, said, that when
he arrived there. White Moon's old lover took him to his
lodge, and that his wife helped him off with his snow-shoes,
and made him broth, for he was nearly perished with cold
and hunger, having been ac one time covered with snow
for several days and nights, as his only chance of life.

When he told them he had come for some of the stone
that lay on the shores of that river, to make knives, the
war-chief asked him what band he belonged to, and that
while he was answering, the woman ceased her employ-

274

THE IRIS.

ment, listening intently to him. That the war-chief
asked him what had become of that tall chief called the
Fiery Man ; and that while he was telling of his death,
and cf his strange condition before it, the woman laughed,
and said that after all Chat-o-tee-dah had not been as true
a friend as the warrior thought, for a weak woman had
escaped from his fiercest anger; and that when he asked
her if she had ever known Fiery Man, her husband was
angry, and told her to hush, saying, women always talked
too much, and that it was time she had done his leggins,
which he wanted to wear in the morning, when he met
the wise men of their band in council ; that when she
returned to her work, as she was told, that he was re-
minded of the quiet obedience with which White Moon
ever listened to the commands of her husband, that tall
warrior, Fiery Man, who had gone to that country where
thousands of warriors assemble and shout through the
heavens their song, as they celebrate the medicine feast.

NOTE.

A Tradition of the Falls op St. Anthony. — There is a little island,
just below the Falls, surrounded by their spray, with picturesque rocks and
dark cedars, looking lonely and romantic, more attractive than the Falls,
through its peculiar looks, and its story, connected with the Falls and with
the people which still hovers around them, on the territory of Mincsota,
raising tents of one night soon to depart, kindling fires soon to be quenched.
It is called the Sjnrit Island, and its tale is that of many an Indian woman,
— is in fact the poetic truth of woman's fate among the red men. It tells :

There was once a hunter of the tribe of the Dacotas (or Sioux) living
near the Falls of St. Anthony. He had but one wife, and loved her and
was loved by her so well, that the union and the happiness of the hunter

WHITE MOON AND FIERY MAN.

275

and his wife, Ampota Sampa, wax talked of among the tribe as wonderful.
They had two children, and lived lonely and liappy for several years. But
aa he became known as a great ltunt«r, and grew rich, Hcvcral fumilica came
and raised their tipis (lodgen) near titat of the liafipy pair. And words and
whispers came to the young man that lie ought to have more wives, so that
he might enjoy more happincsH. Ho liMt^^ned to the tempters, and soon
made a choice among the daught<'rH of Win new friends, liut when he had
to tell his first wife thereof, hin heart nmnUi liitn, and, to make the news
less painful to her, he began by telling her that he had bethought himself
that she had too many household <;arex, and that hIio wanted somebody to
help her in them, and so he would bring her that help in the form of a
young girl, who was to be hiH Hceond wife,

Ampota Sampa answered " No !" Hhe had not too many cares. Sho
was happy to have them for him and liix ehildn-n. Hhe prayed and be-
sought him, by their former love and happy life, by every tender tic, by
the love of their little ones, not Ut bring a new love, a new wife, to the
lodge. He said nothing. But thiH Name night he brought home to the
lodge his new wife.

Early next morning a death-song wax heard on the waters of the Missis-
sippi, and a canoe was seen gliding Hwiftlydown the rapids, above tlie Falls
of St. Anthony, and in the canoe wan titling a young woman with two little
children folded to her bosom. It wan Ampota Hanipa; and in her song she
told the cause of her despair, of her death, of her departure for the spirit-
land. So she sat, singing her death-Hortg, Mwiflly borne onward by the
rapids to the edge of the rocks. Her husband, her friends, heard her and
saw her, but too late. In a few momefitw the eanoo was at the top of the
Palls ; there it paused u second, and then, borne oti by the rush of the
waters, down it dashed, and the roaring wave« er;vcrcd the victims with
their white foam.

Their bodies were never seen again j but tradition says that on misty
mornings, the spirit of the Indian wife, with the ehildren folded to her
bosom, is seen gliding in the euno<! through the rising spray about the
Spirit Island, and that the sound of Uur death-song is heard moaning in the
wind and in the roar of the l-'alls of Ht, Anthony, Such is the legend of
the Indian wife. — Freduika liuKMKU,

THE RAIN-DROP.

BT HISS E. V. BABNES.

It quivered on a bended spray —
A rain-drop, bright and clear —

Though beautiful, it waked sad thoughts,
'Twas so like sorrow's tear.

And on its crystal surface lay

Reflected, calm as heaven,
The glories of the summer sky,

With purple tints of even ;

And earth's transcendent loveliness

Was also on its breast,
As with her dev/y smiles she made

The parting sunbeam blest.

I loved the rain-drop, as it hung

So trustingly the while —
The verdant earth, the glowing heaven

Reflected in its smile.

A symbol seemed it to mine eye
Of the loving human heart.

THE BAIN-DROP. 277

That lives but in the smile of God,
Which earth and heaven impart.

I gazed into its tiny sphere —

In miniature it lay,
A world of beauty, trembling there.

And soon to pass away —

To pass from earth, and leave no trace,

But the memory divine
Of beauty, which, within the heart.

Erects its own pure shrine.

The breeze passed by; it swayed the bough

Where the sweet gem was hung;
But, with tenacious grasp, it still

Fondly and closely clung.

Nor, till with a resistless power

The mighty wind swept by.
Did the frail thing, so beautiful,

In shattered fragments lie.

And thus, though moved by every breeze

That sweeps along our way.
Our hearts still cling to life, and still

The world asserts its sway.

But, like the rain-drop, pure and clear,
That hangs upon the bough.

278

THE IRIS.

Oh ! soul of mine, give back earth's light,
Keflect its glories, thou !

Give back the summer's rosy tints,
The verdant tree, the flower;

Give back the mountain and the mead,
The summer sun and shower.

But ah! in thy far deeper depths

May heaven reflected lie ;
Its holy calm — its voiceless wave.

Serene as yon soft sky.

Unruffled be those silent depths —
Calm, though the tempest lower.

My Saviour ! walk thou on the wave.
And let it feel thy power.

Speak to the troubled waters. Peace,
And passion ne'er shall rise,

Nor doubt, nor care, to dim the light
That greets me from the skies.

A PLEA FOR A CHOICE PICTURE.

TO A GENTLEMAN WHO UNDERVALUED IT.

BT MISS L. S. HALL.

Nay, do not say my favourite is tame —

Her soul lies dreaming in its tranquil depths,

And 'tis not every passive breeze can wake

The slumberer from her peaceful reverie.

The sheltering wings of Faith, and Hope, and Love

Are folded round the temple of her heart.

Perpetual guardians of its altar place ;

And they, of winged feet, who go and come.

Must pass beneath their penetrating gaze ;

Unhallowed sentiments may enter not, —

Where these stand sentinels, 'tis hallowed ground.

Speak but a thrilling word, and you shall meet
In those so dreamy eyes, that heed you not.
The shadow of your own ecstatic thoughts, —
Those lips, so passive now, shall echo back
The earnest tones of your own eloquence.
But do not measure her internal strength
By any standard of man's magnitude.
Nor think to fathom what no eye can reach, —

280 THE IRIS.

She hath a woman's heart, and it hath been

The constant struggle of her watchful life,

To curb her will, and bend her energies.

And train her nature for her destiny;

And conscious that she hath a marshalled host,

Obedient to the mandates of her soul.

She wears a placid brow, and dreads no foe.

A thoughtless word upon affection's tongue,
A look of coldness from a cherished friend,
A hardened thought, that wrongs her of her due,
And makes her seem what she would scorn to be,
Imputing motives she would blush to own, —
Her spirit, safe from storms and rude alarms,
Is too susceptible to wounds like these ;
But that calm face will ne'er reveal to thee,
Nay, from her dearest friends she'll most conceal,
The bitter anguish they can measure not.

Then do not say her tranquil brow is tame.
A passive soul hath ne'er the dignity
That sits, a queen, upon her passive face ;
'Tis nobler far to rule the spirit realm.
Than gather laurels from the battle-field.

LOST AND WON.

BT OABOLINE EU8TI8,

Lost the freshness of life's morning ;

Lost the tints of rosy light,
Which like daylight, perfect dawning.

Covered all with glory bright;
Lost the golden locks w^hich shaded

Brow so smooth, and eyes so blue,
And the happy smile has faded

Round those lips of rosy hue.

I have lost, — but I have won.

Lost the kind oblivious sleeping.

Which enshrouds the little child,
Like the holy angels keeping

Saintly watches, — calm and mild.
Lost the dreams of sunny hours,

Where no t»3rror dare intrude ;
Lost the dreams of love and flowers.

Of the beautiful and good.

I have lost, — but I have won.

Lost! — oh, most of all the losses ! —
Lost the childlike, earnest faith.

Loving on mid joys and crosses,
Thankful still for all it hath.

I have lost youth's simple pleasures,
Each departed, one by one ;

282

THE IRIS.

But— oh, blessing without measure ! —
I have lost, — but I have won.

I have won, through earnest striving,

Guerdons above all the loss,
Hopes once faded, now reviving

Twining round the sacred Cross :
Sorrow pale hath been my teacher j

Hopes bereft, my gentle friends ;
Graves of the loved, my silent preacher,

"Where dust with dust so sadly blends.
I have lost, — but I have won.

I have won, through tribulation.

Title to a heavenly home.
Working out my own salvation

Through the blood of Christ alone.
Oh, my future brightest seemeth.

Eye of faith, exchanged for sight,
With celestial splendour beameth

On through darkness into light.
I have lost, — but I have won.

I have won bright hopes immortal

Of a heaven of peace and rest ;
E'en now I linger at the portal.

As a kindly bidden guest.
Lost and won ! — oh earth ! oh heaven !

Hark ! — I list the angels' strain,
Voices in the silence even !

Small the loss, and great the gain !
I have lost, — but I have won.

THE MISTRUSTED GUIDE.

A WESTERN SKETCH.

BY A MISSIONARY.

It was the close of a cloudy afternoon, about sunset, in
February, 1818, and I began to think it high time to seek
a lodging-place. The prairie — the first I had seen, unless
it might have been a patch of a few acres, the day before —
was covered with snow; and, although a good many bushes
grew on i,t, and it was somewhat "rolling" — I hope my
readers know what that is — I confess its aspect was to me,
just tL jn, more dreary than picturesque. Our road is best
described by the term which designated it, " The old Rocky
Trace," by which may be understood the "blazed" road
usually travelled from Shawneetown to Kaskaskia. The
dwellings were not very numerous — indeed, we had the
privilege of considerable exercise in passing from one to
another. Now and then a block-house, in good condition,
showed the rather recent Indian troubles, "^hich had fre-
quently compelled the inhabitants to "fort."

The sight of a cabin, after a while, was quite cheering.
My wife was somewhat tired of carrying the babe all day,
and was glad to see a prospect of rest and shelter. We
drove up, and inquired, as usual, if we "could get to stay,"

284

THE IRIS.

not doubting an aftirmativo answer. And so we had ; yet
tiiere was difficulty in the case.

"I'm afcard, stranger, you'll have to go furder. Our
childer's got the hoopin'-cough, and maybe you nioughtn't
like yourn to go whar it mought git it — 'less it's had it.
You may stop, ef you're a mind to resk it, for I don't never
turn anybody away; but I didn't like to let you carry your
baby in without lettin* you know."

Here wm a difficulty. We had had the child vaccinated
at Pittsburg, on our way, but had used no precautionary
measure against hooping-cough, and in " the dead of winter"
there was some hazard in it. I looked at my wife : she
looked troubled. Our friend — for he icaa friendly— told
us there was "a house on the Turkey Hill Road, a mile or
two ahead ; but it was a smart little bit on the livcln/ Trace,
afore we'd git any place to stop." The roads f( ced just
where we stood, and we might choose either, to go to St.
Louis ; but some circumstance made it necessary for me to
go through Kaskaskia.

"What shall we do, wife?"

"I really don't know what to advise. I am afraid to
expose Amy to the hooping-cough, and I am afraid to go
on far. It will soon be dark."

I was irresolute and anxious. We would have " timber,"
and probably a stream to cross ; and, with my little " dear-
born," it mi ht be somewhat hazardous in the dark. The
man symp hized with us — told us we " were welcome to
stay, ef we a mind to resk it j" but then, if we did stay,
we would b ve to be huddled in the same room with the

THE MISTRUSTED GUIDE.

285

family, and I don't know how many oi" "the childcr" had
the dreaded disease.

All this while my wife was sitting in the wagon, and, if
not liee/jng, was sufficiently cold to wish for a good fire.
We had hardly observed another man standing r.c^r, with
whom the man of the house had been talking. He listened
in silence for a considerable time, but at length spoke.

" Ef you'll put up with sech as I have — it's tol'uble poor
— you can go to my house and stay."

I looked now at the speaker, and discovered an elderly
man, in a mixed jeans hunting-shirt — it was not the fashion
to call it a blouse then — tied round the waist, a 'coon-skin
cap, and " trousers accordin'." He had a rifle, or an axe —
though I think it was the latter — lying across his arm, and
looked wrinkled, and rough, and all drawn up with the
cold. The twinkle of his deep-set eyes might be merry, or
it might be sinister. I inquired where he lived.

" Why, it's ray ther on the Turkey Hill Road, and about a
mile from t'other; but I can go in the mornin' and show
you the way. It's mighty easy gittin' over from thar to
yon road."

It occurred to me that his neighbour had not once re-
ferred to him to solve the difficulty, and I wondered why;
but he now rather intimated that I might as well take up
with the old man's offer. I did so, without consulting my
wife's opinion.

Ha trudged on, and I trudged after him, leading my
horse, — which I did much of the way across the State, —
through the snow. After a little while I discovered that
we left the road, and were winding through a sort of ravine.

286

THE IRIS.

or rather depression of the prairie, almost deserving the
name of valley. The snow-covered ground — the brown, or
bare bushes — the bleak, though diminutive hills — all looked
cold, and wild, and dreary. My guide still trudged on,
seldom looking round; and we seemed to be travelling
without a road to "nowhere." My wife called me to her.
Her looks gave token of alarm.

"Do you think it safe to go on with that old man? I
don't like his looks, and this is a wild place. Hadn't we
better go back, or try some other way? I feel afraid."

I laugl' d at her, but her fears troubled me. She was
not given to false alarms; or, if she ever felt them, she
never annoyed me with them. I cannot say that I partici-
pated in her fears now. Indeed I did not. The old man
looked anything but terrible. I thought his countenance
mild rather than austere. Still, these backwoodsmen were
famous for a quiet ferociousness that could do a brave or
terrible deed without the least fuss. I did not know what
to think. But what to do seemed to admit of but one
answer — I must go on with him, and trust Providence, who
had brought us safely some fifteen hundred miles. My
wife shuddered, perhaps trembled, and hugged the child
closer; but she submitted quietly — I may say trustfully.
She certainly gave liim no hint of her fears.

At length — for the time did not seem very short to me,
and doubtless stretched out much longer to my wife — but
at length, after a long and very gradual slope down a hol-
low, such as I have failed to describe, we saw the habita-
tion of our guide. It was a cabin of the rudest sort and
smallest size, in what had perhaps in " crap time" been an

THE MISTRUSTED GUIDE.

287

enclosure on the ascent of a slope beyond a little wet weather
brook. I took notice — for it was an interestintj fact to me —
that for the accommodation of my horse there was a " rail-
pen," though, whether it was covered with straw, or
" shucks," or prairie hay, or the cloudy sky, I do not now
remember ; for I have seen more such many a time since
then ; but there was " cawn" in another rail-pen close by.
So my horse was supplied. But my wife and child must be
got into the house first ; and in we went.

Reader, in that little dearborn-wagon was all I had in
this world, or of it ; and though, to say the truth, all, ex-
cept the wife and child, might have been well sold for a
very few hundred dollars — and probably that is an enor-
mous over-estimate — ^yet it was precious to me, for much of
tJielr comfort depended on its preservation. And a feto hun-
dred dollars — nay, a few dollars — would make quite an ad-
dition to the comforts of the habitation we entered, and of
those who dwelt in it. There was neither table nor chair.
The puncheon floor was not air-tight nor a dead level. The
stick chimney and hearth were covered with clay ; but there
was a fire in it. The bed — but we have not got to the bed
yet.

I suppose it happened very well that we had our provi-
sions with us, for I saw no cooking nor anything to cook.
I forgot to say, that the inmates when we arrived were a
boy, dressed something like his father, and a girl, whose
single garment — Ave judged from appearances — was a home-
spun cotton frock, not white, though I think it had never
been dyed. Both were barefoot. They might be twelve
and fourteen years old.

I ■• ■ III MP w^^pf^^^T'

288

THE IRIS.

" Whar's yer mammy ?"

" Mom's went over to Jake Smith's ; and she haint never
come home yit. I reckon she's agwine to stay all night."

I don't know what made me think so, but I remember I
did rather surmise that it was just as well for us. iSome-
tldng made me think of a shrew.

Presently, while my wife was spreading the table (i. e. a
short bench, usually a seat) for our supper, I observed the
old man seated on something, with a plate on his knees,
plying his hunting-knife on some cold meat and com bread
for his. I suppose the children had eaten before our arrival.
We had, I believe, our provision-box and an inverted half
bushel for seats, and ate our supper with commendable ap-
petites ; for by this time I think my wife's fears were sensi-
bly abated. At length bedtime came, and what should
be done ? There was a bed, or something like one, in a
corner, but that would hardly accommodate all five of us
and the baby. Soon, however, that doubt was solved. The
girl spread a pallet on the floor, taking the straw bed for
the purpose ; and the feather bed — ^}'es, feather bed — was
made up on the bedstead for us. That bedstead would be
a curious affair, doubtless, in a Philadelphia furniture store.
I w ill endeavour to describe it. It consisted of one post and
three rails ; or rather, what was intended to correspond with
those parts of a bedstead. Th<» post aforesaid was a round
pole, with the bark on, reaching from the floor to the joist
or rafter, inserted at top and bottom into auger-holes. At
a convenient height, a branch cut off not quite close on each
of two sides, formed a rest for two of the poles that served
for a side and foot rail, the other end being inserted in auger-

THE MISTBUSTKI) GUIDE.

289

holes in the logs which confliiiuUMl the wall of the house. One
end of the other side-rail ruHUul on the foot-rail. Across the
two longest poles, or side-railn, Mplit clapboards rested; and
on the scaffold thus formed, the Ixjd was made. I remember
that it was comparatively cloan ; and the bedstead being
quite elastic, and my wife's learn now entirely removed by
the cheerful consent of our hoHt to unite in family devotion,
we slept well and soundly; while the family reposed no
doubt quite as sweetly on their ]ku\ on the floor.

After we had breakfasted, our host, for whom we saw no
more preparation than on the nij^ht before, piloted us through
a grove of tall trees to the KaHkaskia Koad, and pointed out
our course ; when we went on our way rejoicing, and saw
that day, for the first time, a hard of seven wild deer to-
gether.

But the old man ! What b(fr;am(! of him ? Didn't you
pay him ?

He turned homeward, and w<; saw him no more. We
did pay him his full charge, amounting to twenty-five cents !
I do not think my wife was i'.ycr afraid of a man after
that, because he looked rough in his dress. As for Amy,
she had the hooping-cough ; I don't remember how soon,
but she survived it ; and has weanr-d her eighth baby.
Does the reader want an apology for a dull story ?
" Story — God bless you, I hav<' non(! to tell."
I could have made one, emlMfllished with various incidents ;
could have had a rille pointed, or frozen all our hands and
feet at least, "or anything elw; that's agreeable;" but it
would not then have been, as it is now, the simple truth.

tmm^mm^

^mm^

A NIGHT IN NAZARETH.

BY MART TOUNQ.

•'But while he thought on these things, behold, the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a
dream, saying, Joseph, thou son of David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife; for that which is
conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost."— Matthew i. 20.

Stern passions rose, and won wild mastery

In Joseph's breast. He wandered darkly on,

From the calm fountain and the olive grove.

Toward the wilderness, as he would find

Room for the ocean tumult of his thoughts.

Long had he loved her with a matchless love.

Deep as his nature, truthful as his truth ;

And she was his — ^by every sacred tie —

His own, espoused ; though ever still had dwelt

On Mary's thoughtful brow a chastening spell.

That shamed to stillness all life's throbbing pulses :

Or, if his words grew passion, there would steal

To her large, azure eye a startled glance

Of sad, deep questioning, and she would turn

Appealingly to heaven, with trembling tears —

Yet was it she — the very same he saw.

Writ o'er with all the foul name of a wanton.

One fearful word broke from the quivering lips
Of the young Hebrew, as at last alone,

A NIGHT IN NAZARETH. 291

By the dark base of a high, shadowy rock.
He sank in agony; and then he bent
His forehead down to the cool, mossy turf,
And lay there silently. Light, creeping [)laiit».
And one long spray of the white thorn less rose,
Stooped low, and swayed above him ; a sol't sound
Of far, sweet, breezy whisperings wooed his ejir,
Till gentler thoughts stole to him, and he wept.
Ere long his ear heard not : all things around.
The present and the past — the painful past —
Became as though they were not. Josepli lay,
With eyes closed calmly, and a strange full peace
Breathed to his spirit's depths ; for there was one.
Fairer and nobler than the sons of earth.
Bending in kindness o'er him.

Calmly still.
Although to ecstasy his being drnnk.
The fathomless, pure music of the voice
Heard in that visioned hour, as once again
He stood by the low portal of the home
Of Mary. He passed in with noiseless stej).
Through the dim vine-leaves of the lattice
Not a moonbeam fell, and yet a softer ray
Than ever streamed from alabaster lamps,
Lit the white vesture and the upturned face
Of her who knelt in meekness there. Her lips
Were motionless, and the slight clasping hands
Pressed lightly on her bosom, but a high
Seraphic bliss spoke in the fervent hush

292

THE IRIS.

Of the pure, radiant features ; for she held
Unsoiled communion with her spirit's lord.

Slowly away faded that glorious trance,
And the white lids lifted as though reluctant.
She looked on Joseph, and a faint, quick flush
Swept shadowingly her forehead. Woman still,
She felt, and painfully, that at the bar
Of manhood's pride, earth had for her no witness.
But the calm mien, and broad, uncovered brow
Of Joseph, told no anger. He drew near.
And knelt beside her ; and the hand she gave
In greeting was pressed close and silently,
With reverent tenderness, upon his ^^art.

TEARS.

BY CIIABLES D. GARDETTE, M.D.

'Tis said, affliction's deepest sting
Some token of its pain will bring

In tears of bitter flow ;
But they who thus judge sorrow's smart,
Know not the pang that wrings the heart.

With withering tearless woe !

^.:

The scorching grief that blasts the fount.
And dries its tears, ere yet they mount,

To soothe the burning eye ;
That speeds the blood with torrent force
Through every bursting vein to course,

Yet leave each life-track dry !

The grief that binds with rankling chain
Each feeling of the heart and brain.

Save sternness and despair ;
And crushes with relentless hand
Each hope religion's trust had planned,

Planting rebellion there !

294 THE IRIS.

Such grief, not one of these have known.
Who say that flowing tears alone

Proclaim the bosom's throes !
Tears are the tokens God designed
For lighter griefs of heart and mind,

Such as pure child-life knows ;

And therefore, hath He so ordained
That infant-tears be not restrained,

But lightly caused to flow.
That these, who cannot tell their grief,
Shall find in weeping, such relief

As manhood may not know !

INCONSTANCY

KY K. JI.

They told me he'd forsake me ; tliat tlie words

With which he charmed my very soul away

Were like the hollow music of a shell,

That learns to mock the ocean's deeper voice.

For he had listened to love's tones, until

His ear and lip, though not his heart, had grown

Familiar with their melody. Nay, more, —

They said his very boyhood had been marked

By worse than a boy's follies ; that in youth,

The season of high hopes, when lesser men

Put on their manhood, as a monarch's heir

Rich robes and royalty, his poor ambition

Asked but new charms and pleasures ; newer love:

New lips to smile until their sweetness palled.

And softer hands to clasp his own, until

He wearied even of so light a fetter.

Thus did they pluck me from him, but in vain ;

For when did warning stay a wonum's heart ?

I knew all this, and yet I trusted him.

Yea, with a child's blind faith I gave my fate

Into his hands, content that he should know

How absolute his power and my w^eakness.

■"Fl"

296

THE IRIS.

Speak not of pride, I never felt its lash.
There is no place for fallen Lucifer
In the pure heaven of a sinless love.
And when he left me, as they said he would,
My spirit had no room for aught save grief.
Giving the lie to my own conscious heart,
I taxed stern truth with falsehood to the last.
But when to doubt was madness, when, perforce.
Even from my credulous eyes the scales were fallen.
What was the cold scorn of a thousand worlds
To the one thought, that for a counterfeit
I'd staked my woman's all of love — and lost I

CROSSING THE TIDE.

BY MISS riKEnE CARF.Y.

Fainter, fainter, all the while
On us beams her patient smile ;
Brighter as each day returns.
In her cheek the crimson burns ;
And her tearful, fond caress
Hath more loving tenderness, —
Saviour, Saviour, unto lier
Draw thou near, and minister!

And when on the crumbling sand
Of life's shore her feet shall stand ;
When the death-stream's moaning surge
Sings for her its solemn dirge.
And our earthly love would shrink,
Trembling, backward from the brink,
Saviour, Saviour, take her hand,
That her feet may safely stand !

Firmly hold it in thine own,
Gently^ gontly lead her down ;
And when o'er the solemn sea
Safely she shall walk with thee.

298

THE IRIS.

Nearing to that other shore,
Whence a voice hath called her o'er
Saviour, Saviour, from the tide.
Aid her up the heavenly side !

Lead her on that burning way,
Brighter than the path of day,
Where a thousand saints have trod
To the city of our God ;
Where a thousand martyrs came
Shining on a path of flame ;
Saviour, till her wanderings cease
On the eternal hills of peace.

THE END.