Holidays at the Grange or A Week's Delight Part 7

"Father, mother, dead. Towandahoc, Ponawtan, Indian father, mother."

After some difficulty, Roland Markley, for it was really he, succeeded in explaining to her that her parents still lived: and against her tears and prayers, determined at once to break all bonds with her Indian home, they tore her away, without waiting for the return of Towandahoc and Ponawtan; but left their wigwam standing, out of grat.i.tude for the care they had taken of the child. The Indians had made an incursion into the territory of the whites, and committed many ravages, and it was with the intention of breaking up their villages, and driving them away, that this expedition had been undertaken. The prisoners they had captured were ransomed on condition of their removal, and the whole tribe pa.s.sed to the other side of the Alleghanies.

As the band travelled homeward, and first came across the beautiful Susquehanna, Orikama--or Emily, as we should again call her--started, and gazed eagerly around her: the broad stream called up memories of the past. And when they arrived at the cottage of Hopedale, and she beheld the house and grounds, the river and the woods, and the distant hills, she recognized her home, and her earliest recollections were vividly recalled. Soon was she folded in the arms of her mother, who so long had mourned for her; and by her father she was welcomed back as one from the grave. The news spread far and wide, and great was the gathering of friends and neighbors to wish joy to the parents, and to welcome back the pride of Hopedale: much to the confusion and distress of poor Emily.

All noticed the strong likeness she bore her mother, in person, voice, and countenance; and if now she resembled her, how much more was this the case when she had exchanged her Indian garb for one more suitable to the American maiden! Soon were the bonds of love knit together most closely between the parents and their recovered treasure; her tongue relearned the lost language of her childhood, and happiness again brightened the hearth at Hopedale; the birds sang more sweetly to her mother's ears, and the sun shone more cheerfully than it had done for years. Amidst all her new joys, Emily very often thought of her beloved Indian parents, Towandahoc and Ponawtan, and longed to see them again; but Indian life, as developed in the village, was abhorrent to her very soul, and here she enjoyed all the freedom and communion with nature she had once so highly prized, with society, and advantages for mental cultivation she was now at an age to appreciate. All were delighted to teach the docile and intelligent girl, so ready to take up ideas, so judicious in the application of them; but Roland Markley, the playmate of her childhood, installed himself as head tutor, and soon every setting sun saw him on the way to the cottage, eager to apply himself to the task.

Ten other years have pa.s.sed; and near the cottage of Hopedale stands another, within whose porch, overgrown by the Prairie rose, at her spinning wheel, sits a beautiful young matron; perfect contentment is enthroned upon her brow, and happiness beams out from her radiant smile; golden curls cl.u.s.ter gracefully around her well-shaped head, and dark, l.u.s.trous eyes follow lovingly a little girl at play, although her skilful fingers do not forget their task.

"What is the matter, my little Ellen?" she said, as the child ran to hide her face in her lap.

"An Indian, mamma! An Indian, coming out of the wood!"

At these words Emily springs up; she will ever love the red man for the sake of those who nourished her childhood, and never will a son of the forest be sent away uncheered from her door. But times have greatly changed since her father built the neighboring cottage: seldom now does the Indian visit that comparatively thickly settled spot; his course is still westward, and ever onward, with the setting sun. When Emily emerged from the thickly shaded porch, she saw indeed a red man approach from the forest; he was old, but his majestic figure was still erect, his eye bright and piercing; black eagle plumes adorned his stately head--it was Towandahoc!

He was soon clasped in the embrace of his long-lost Water-Lily, and Indian though he was, the old man wept over his recovered darling. He told her how Ponawtan had returned by nightfall, to find her daughter gone, and the village in ashes: their own wigwam had caught fire from the flying cinders, and was entirely consumed. She had lingered around the spot of her former happiness till his return; after a little time, as they could hear no news of Orikama, they had removed far away from the scene of desolation, to the valley of the Mohawk. Grief for the loss of her daughter had injured the health of Ponawtan, although time had now somewhat reconciled her to it: but Towandahoc said that the Wild Rose was drooping, that her leaves were withered, and her flowers falling one by one; and much he feared that another winter would lay her low in the dust.

When little Ellen understood that this was the dear Indian grandpa of whom she had so often heard, her shyness pa.s.sed away, and soon she drew near to the aged hunter, handling his bow and arrows, and even presuming to climb up and scrutinize the feathers, that were at once her admiration and her dread. The old man took her upon his knee, and was showing her his bow, when Roland returned home; he eagerly seconded his wife's persuasions, to induce Towandahoc to remain with them for some time, and then to return for Ponawtan, that both might pa.s.s the remnant of their days within their daughter's dwelling. But the aged hunter shook his head:

"It cannot be," he said; "the Great Spirit has made the pale faces to dwell in houses, to plough the fields, and to listen to the voice which comes from the printed book, held up before his eyes; but he has made the red man to hunt the deer, and to live alone in the open air. When the Great Spirit created man, he made his red child first, out of the best clay: he then made the pale faces; and lastly, out of what was left he made the black man. And he placed before them three boxes; and because his red child was the favorite, he told him to choose which he would have. So he chose the box containing a bow and arrows, a tomahawk, and a pipe. Then the pale face chose; and he took the box which held a plough, carpenters' tools, a gun, and a book. And the black man took what was left: in his box was an overseer's whip, a spade, and a hoe.

And this has been the portion of each ever since. I am a red man, and I cannot breathe where men are thicker than trees: to me belong the bow and arrows, the wild deer, and the open sky. The old man has returned to visit the graves of his ancestors; but soon, far away from them, he will drop to the ground, like the ripe persimmon after a frost. Orikama has returned to the ways of her fathers, and I do not blame her, for she is a pale face. But the old man cannot change, like a leaf in October; soon will his sun set in yonder western heaven, and he must now keep on his course. I have said."

When the moon arose, Towandahoc left the house, bending his steps to the forest: but he did not go without pa.s.sing his word that he would bring Ponawtan to see her daughter. Before the winter set in, they arrived, and Emily's tender heart was grieved as she gazed upon the wasting form of her who had so often sheltered her in her arms: it was only too evident that another summer would not see her upon the earth. Ponawtan was greatly cheered by her visit; but could only be prevailed upon to stay for a few days, when she departed, never more to return. In the spring, Towandahoc came alone; his sorrowful face and drooping form told the tale of sorrow before he opened his lips: his energy and vital powers seemed to have died with Ponawtan. He never came again; and doubtless he soon found a resting-place by the side of her who had been his life-long companion.

"So, you didn't kill any of your people off, but the two farm-servants, for whom we do not care a fig!" cried Charlie Bolton.

"Not I," replied Mary; "I'm not very partial to blood and murder; I would not have put them out of the way, except to please you; I lay the manslaughter at your door, Cousin mine."

"I'm very willing to bear the penalty: if it's a hanging matter, please to imagine that my neck has paid the forfeit--just consider me hung--as the man said at the crowded dinner table, when an irritable fool took offence at something he had spoken, and being too far off to throw his gla.s.s of wine in his face, told him '_to consider the wine as thrown at him_.' 'Very well, I will,' replied the first; 'and do you consider this sword as run through your body.'"

"A very good retaliation! And what did they do then? Did they fight?"

"Not they! They did much better--they laughed, shook hands, and were good friends ever after."

"And their honor was as well satisfied as if they had made targets of their bodies, I dare say: it was much more sensible."

"But, Cousin Mary," said Amy thoughtfully, "I've been trying to find out the reason why Towandahoc did not take little Emily to the nearest white settler, instead of carrying her off into the wild woods; I think it would have been much better for the poor child."

"What do you think was the reason?" replied Mary.

"I know!" cried George. "The Indians are such dunces, that old Thunder-Gust, or whatever his name is, hadn't the sense to do such a straightforward thing as that, but must drag the child off through the woods, scratching her finely with the blackberry and whortleberry bushes, no doubt. I'll warrant she screamed and tried to get away, although Cousin Mary does try to made her out so gentle--I know I would."

"I declare you do not know how to appreciate my fine sentiment! Are you boys made of different stuff from us, I want to know?"

"I rather suppose we are," said George, laughing. "Well, am I right in my explanation?"

"Not in the least; some one else must try."

"I concluded," said Alice, "that it was the natural kindness of his heart, and his fondness for the little girl, which made him wish to have her for his own child. Of course, he did not realize that he was only a savage, and not fit to bring her up rightly."

"That's nearer the truth than the other guess," rejoined Mary. "But none of you have mentioned the great reason why Towandahoc carried her off."

"What can it be?"

"Simply this--if he had not, what would have become of my story, I'd like to know? I made him take her home with him, on the same principle that novel writers place their heroines in a thousand distressing situations--that they may extricate them from their difficulties, and make a longer tale."

"But what's the moral of your story?" said practical, matter-of-fact John. "I don't see much use in a tale, unless there's a regular drawn moral in it, that everybody can discover at once."

"Oh nonsense! I do hate morals!" said Cornelia. "Just as if we were to be instructed the whole livelong day, and never to have amus.e.m.e.nt without a good reason being given! That's too tiresome! I always skip the morals and the _good talk_, when I read stories--if they're pleasant, that's enough: I hate to be cheated into a sermon when I want a story. I feel something as the man did who was fishing for a pike: he caught a cat-fish instead, and throwing it back into the river, exclaimed, 'When I go a-catting, I go a-catting; but when I go a-piking, I go a-piking.'"

"I'm afraid a good many people think as you do, Cornelia," said Mrs.

Wyndham, laughing. "But perhaps we can find a moral for John, if we look sharply enough. Let's see--there are good, kind people in every race, of every complexion; and if we only make the most of our opportunities, there are means of education open to all who have eyes and ears, and willing minds. Do you see any other moral?"

"Oh yes, indeed!" replied Ellen. "When the Buckinghams were deprived of their child, it was a sort of punishment to them for disobedience to their parents; and they understood it in that way."

"True enough," said Mr. Wyndham. "And I have often noticed that disobedient children are punished in after life, by means of their own offspring: either by their suffering or death, or, still more frequently, by their ingrat.i.tude and disrespectful conduct. And then they feel themselves, as their parents did before them,

'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is, To have a thankless child!'"

"I have often remarked this also," rejoined Mrs. Wyndham. "And it appears to be consistent with all the dealings of the Disposer of events: He himself says that He will treat us as we treat our fellow-creatures: 'With the merciful thou wilt show thyself merciful, and with the just thou wilt show thyself just, and with the froward thou wilt show thyself froward.'"

"And, when we notice these coincidences, is it not an argument for a superintending Providence?" said Tom Green.

"Undoubtedly it is," replied his uncle; "and although evil conduct here is frequently unpunished, being left for the more perfect retributions of eternity, yet it is so often followed by unhappiness, and by a reward in kind, that no thinking mind can doubt the moral government of G.o.d.

And it appears to me that of all the commandments, that one which says 'Honor thy father and thy mother, that it may be well with thee,' is the one taken under the especial protection of Providence. I have ever noticed that dutiful children are honored by the world, and honored in their own family circle, and that, on the other hand, it is ill with the rebellious and unthankful."

"Then there is another thing I was thinking of," said Amy; "the good uses of sorrow: you know it brought the Buckinghams to repentance; and Ellen's father being taken ill, he repented too--I think he had as much need of it as they. I'm glad my father is not cross and severe."

"So am I, heartily. Would you run off, Amy, if he were?" said Cornelia.

"Oh! I hope not! I should think

'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is, To have a thankless child.'

I shall not forget that pa.s.sage, uncle, as long as I live: who wrote it?"

"Shakspeare: and as a general rule you may conclude, when you meet a particularly striking pa.s.sage, that it is either in Shakspeare or Milton. But it is getting late: will Mary be kind enough to bring the Bible, for it will then be time to say, Good-night to you all!"

CHAPTER IV.

PROVERBS.--TWENTY QUESTIONS.--THE SPECTRE OF ALCANTRA, OR THE CONDE'S DAUGHTERS, A TALE OF SPAIN.