Lost in the Backwoods Part 14

While the girls were busy contriving the arrangements of the wigwam, the two boys were not idle. The time was come for planting the corn; a succession of heavy thunder-showers had soaked and softened the scorched earth, and rendered the labour of moving it much easier than they had antic.i.p.ated. They had cut for themselves wooden trowels, with which they raised the hills for the seed. The corn planted, they next turned their attention to cutting house-logs; those which they had prepared had been burned up, so they had their labour to begin again.

The two girls proved good helps at the raising; and in the course of a few weeks they had the comfort of seeing a more commodious dwelling than the former one put up. The finishing of this, with weeding the Indian corn, renewing the fence, and fishing, and trapping, and shooting partridges and ducks and pigeons, fully occupied their time this summer. The fruit season was less abundant this year than the previous one. The fire had done this mischief, and they had to go far a-field to collect fruits during the summer months.

It so happened that Indiana had gone out early one morning with the boys, and Catharine was alone. She had gone down to the spring for water, and on her return, was surprised at the sight of a squaw and her family of three half-grown lad, and an innocent little brown papoose. [Footnote: An Indian baby, but "papoose" is not an Indian word. It is probably derived from the Indian imitation of the word "_babies_."] In their turn the strangers seemed equally astonished at Catharine's appearance. The smiling aspect and good-natured laugh of the female, however, soon rea.s.sured the frightened girl, and she gladly gave her the water which she had in her birch dish, on her signifying her desire for drink. To this Catharine added some berries and dried venison, and a bit of maple sugar, which was received with grateful looks by the boys; she patted the brown baby, and was glad when the mother released it from its wooden cradle, and fed and nursed it. The squaw seemed to notice the difference between the colour of her young hostess's fair skin and her own swarthy hue; for she often took her hand, stripped up the sleeve of her dress, and compared her arm with her own, uttering exclamations of astonishment and curiosity: possibly Catharine was the first of a fair-skinned race this poor savage had ever seen. After her meal was finished, she set the birchen dish on the floor, and restrapping the papoose in its cradle prison, she slipped the ba.s.swood-bark rope over her forehead, and silently signing to her sons to follow her, she departed. That evening a pair of ducks were found fastened to the wooden latch of the door, a silent offering of grat.i.tude for the refreshment that had been afforded to this Indian woman and her children.

Indiana thought, from Catharine's description, that these were Indians with whom she was acquainted; she spent some days in watching the lake and the ravine, lest a larger and more formidable party should be near. The squaw, she said, was a widow, and went by the name of Mother Snowstorm, from having been lost in the woods, when a little child, during a heavy storm of snow, and nearly starved to death. She was a gentle, kind woman, and, she believed, would not do any of them hurt.

Her sons were good hunters, and, though so young, helped to support their mother, and were very good to her and the little one.

I must now pa.s.s over a considerable interval of time, with merely a brief notice that the crop of corn was carefully harvested, and proved abundant, and a source of great comfort. The rice was gathered and stored, and plenty of game and fish laid by, with an additional store of honey.

The Indians, for some reason, did not pay their accustomed visit to the lake this season. Indiana said they might be engaged with war among some hostile tribes, or had gone to other hunting-grounds. The winter was unusually mild, and it was long before it set in. Yet the spring following was tardy, and later than usual. It was the latter end of May before vegetation had made any very decided progress.

The little log-house presented a neat and comfortable appearance, both within and without. Indiana had woven a handsome mat of ba.s.s bark for the floor; Louis and Hector had furnished it with seats and a table, rough, but still very respectably constructed, considering their only tools were a tomahawk, a knife, and wooden wedges for splitting the wood into slabs. These Louis afterwards smoothed with great care and patience. Their bedsteads were furnished with thick, soft mats, woven by Indiana and Catharine from rushes which they cut and dried; but the little squaw herself preferred lying on a mat or deerskin on the floor before the fire, as she had been accustomed.

A new field had been enclosed, and a fresh crop of corn planted, which was now green and flourishing. Peace and happiness dwelt within the log-house; but for the regrets that ever attended the remembrance of all they had left and lost, no cloud would have dimmed the serenity of those who dwelt beneath its humble roof.

The season of flowers had again arrived; the earth, renovated by the fire of the former year, bloomed with fresh beauty; June, with its fragrant store of roses and lilies, was now far advanced--the anniversary of that time when they had left their beloved parents'

roofs, to become sojourners in the lonely wilderness, had returned.

They felt they had much to be grateful for. Many privations, it is true, and much anxiety they had felt; but they had enjoyed blessings beyond what they could have expected, and might, like the psalmist when recounting the escapes of the people of G.o.d, have said, "Oh that men would therefore praise the Lord for his goodness, and the wonders that he doeth for the children of men." And now they declared no greater evil could befall them than to lose one of their little party, for even Indiana had become as a dear and beloved sister; her gentleness, her grat.i.tude, and faithful trusting love seemed each day to increase. Now, indeed, she was bound to them by a yet more sacred tie, for she knelt to the same G.o.d, and acknowledged with fervent love, the mercies of her Redeemer. She had made great progress in learning their language, and had also taught her friends to speak and understand much of her own tongue, so that they were now no longer at a loss to converse with her on any subject. Thus was this Indian girl united to them in bonds of social and Christian love.

Hector, Louis, and Indiana had gone over the hills to follow the track of a deer which had paid a visit to the young corn, now sprouting and showing symptoms of shooting up to blossom. Catharine usually preferred staying at home and preparing the meals against their return. She had gathered some fine ripe strawberries, to add to the stewed rice, Indian meal cake, and maple sugar, for their dinner. She was weary and warm, for the day had been hot and sultry. Seating herself on the threshold of the door, she leaned against the door-post, and closed her eyes. Perhaps the poor child's thoughts were wandering back to her far-off, unforgotten home, or she might be thinking of the hunters and their game. Suddenly a vague, undefinable feeling of dread stole over her mind. She heard no steps, she felt no breath, she saw no form; but there was a strange consciousness that she was not alone--that some unseen being was near, some eye was upon her. I have heard of sleepers starting from sleep the most profound when the noiseless hand of the a.s.sa.s.sin has been raised to destroy them, as if the power of the human eye could be felt through the closed lids.

Thus fared it with Catharine. She felt as if some unseen enemy was near her, and springing to her feet, she cast a wild, troubled glance around. No living being met her eye; and, ashamed of her cowardice, she resumed her seat. The tremulous cry of her little gray squirrel, a pet which she had tamed and taught to nestle in her bosom, attracted her attention.

"What aileth thee, wee dearie?" she said tenderly, as the timid little creature crept trembling to her breast. "Thy mistress has seared thee by her own foolish fears. See, now, there is neither catamount nor weasel here to seize thee, silly one;" and as she spoke, she raised her head and flung back the thick cl.u.s.ters of soft fair hair that shaded her eyes. The deadly glare of a pair of dark eyes fixed upon her met her terrified gaze, gleaming with sullen ferocity from the angle of the door-post, whence the upper part of the face alone was visible, partly concealed by a mat of tangled, s.h.a.ggy black hair.

Paralyzed with fear, the poor girl neither spoke nor moved; she uttered no cry; but pressing her hands tightly across her breast, as if to still the loud beating of her heart, she sat gazing upon that fearful appearance, while, with stealthy step, the savage advanced from his lurking-place, keeping, as he did so, his eyes riveted upon hers, with such a gaze as the wily serpent is said to fascinate its prey. His hapless victim moved not:--whither could she flee to escape one whose fleet foot could so easily have overtaken her in the race?

where conceal herself from him whose wary eye fixed upon her seemed to deprive her of all vital energy?

Uttering that singular, expressive guttural which seems with the Indian to answer the purpose of every other exclamation, he advanced, and taking the girl's ice-cold hands in his, tightly bound them with a thong of deer-hide, and led her unresistingly away. By a circuitous path through the ravine they reached the foot of the mount, where lay a birch canoe, rocking gently on the waters, in which a middle-aged female and a young girl were seated. The females asked no questions, and expressed no word indicative of curiosity or surprise, as the strong arm of the Indian lifted his captive into the canoe, and made signs to the elder squaw to push from the sh.o.r.e. When all had taken their places, the woman, catching up a paddle from the bottom of the little vessel, stood up, and with a few rapid strokes sent it skimming over the lake.

The miserable captive, overpowered with the sense of her calamitous situation, bowed down her head upon her knees, and concealing her agitated face in her garments, wept in silent agony. Visions of horror presented themselves to her bewildered brain; all that Indiana had described of the cruelty of this vindictive race came vividly before her mind. Poor child, what miserable thoughts were thine during that brief voyage!

Had the Indians also captured her friends? or was she alone to be the victim of their vengeance? What would be the feelings of those beloved ones on returning to their home and finding it desolate! Was there no hope of release? As these ideas chased each other through her agitated mind, she raised her eyes, all streaming with tears, to the faces of the Indian and his companions with so piteous a look that any heart but the stoical one of an Indian would have softened at its sad appeal; but no answering glance of sympathy met hers, no eye gave back its silent look of pity--not a nerve or a muscle moved the cold, apathetic features of the Indians; and the woe-stricken girl again resumed her melancholy att.i.tude, burying her face in her heaving bosom to hide its bitter emotions from the heartless strangers.

She was not fully aware that it is part of the Indian's education to hide the inward feelings of the heart, to check all those soft and tender emotions which distinguish the civilized man from the savage.

It does indeed need the softening influence of that powerful Spirit, which was shed abroad into the world to turn the hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just, to break down the strongholds of unrighteousness, and to teach man that he is by nature the child of wrath and victim of sin, and that in his unregenerated nature his whole mind is at enmity with G.o.d and his fellow-men, and that in his flesh dwelleth no good thing. And the Indian has acknowledged that power; he has cast his idols of cruelty and revenge, those virtues on which he prided himself in the blindness of his heart, to the moles and the bats; he has bowed and adored at the foot of the Cross. But it was not so in the days whereof I have spoken.

CHAPTER XII.

"Must this sweet new-blown rose find such a winter Before her spring be past?"

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER

The little bark touched the stony point of Long Island. The Indian lifted his weeping prisoner from the canoe, and motioned to her to move forward along the narrow path that led to the camp, about twenty yards higher up the bank, where there was a little gra.s.sy spot enclosed with shrubby trees; the squaws tarried at the lake-sh.o.r.e to bring up the paddles and secure the canoe.

It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of an enemy, but doubly so when that enemy is a stranger to the language in which we would plead for mercy, whose G.o.d is not our G.o.d, nor his laws those by which we ourselves are governed. Thus felt the poor captive as she stood alone, mute with terror, among the half-naked, dusky forms with which she now found herself surrounded. She cast a hurried glance round that strange a.s.sembly, if by chance her eye might rest upon some dear familiar face; but she saw not the kind but grave face of Hector, nor met the bright sparkling eyes of her cousin Louis, nor the soft, subdued, pensive features of the Indian girl, her adopted sister. She stood alone among those wild, gloomy-looking men; some turned away their eyes as if they would not meet her woe-stricken countenance, lest they should be moved to pity her sad condition. No wonder that, overcome by the sense of her utter forlornness, she hid her face with her fettered hands and wept in despair. But the Indian's sympathy is not moved by tears and sighs; calmness, courage, defiance of danger, and contempt of death, are what he venerates and admires even in an enemy.

The Indians beheld her grief unmoved. At length the old man, who seemed to be a chief among the rest, motioned to one of the women who leaned against the side of the wigwam to come forward and lead away the stranger. Catharine, whose senses were beginning to be more collected, heard the old man give orders that she was to be fed and cared for. Gladly did she escape from the presence of those pitiless men, from whose gaze she shrunk with maidenly modesty. And now when alone with the women she hesitated not to make use of that natural language which requires not the aid of speech to make itself understood. Clasping her hands imploringly, she knelt at the feet of the Indian woman, her conductress, kissed her dark hands, and bathed them with her fast-flowing tears, while she pointed pa.s.sionately to the sh.o.r.e where lay the happy home from which she had been so suddenly torn.

The squaw, though she evidently comprehended the meaning of her imploring gestures, shook her head, and in plaintive earnest tone replied in her own language that she must go with the canoes to the other sh.o.r.e, and she pointed to the north as she spoke. She then motioned to the young girl--the same that had been Catharine's companion in the canoe--to bring a hunting-knife which was thrust into one of the folds of the birch-bark of the wigwam. Catharine beheld the deadly weapon in the hands of the Indian woman with a pang of agony as great as if its sharp edge was already at her throat. So young--so young, to die by a cruel b.l.o.o.d.y death! what had been her crime? How should she find words to soften the heart of her murderess? The power of utterance seemed denied. She cast herself on her knees and held up her hands in silent prayer; not to the dreaded Indian woman, but to Him who heareth the prayer of the poor dest.i.tute--who alone can order the unruly wills and affections of men.

The squaw stretched forth one dark hand and grasped the arm of the terror-stricken girl, while the other held the weapon of destruction.

With a quick movement she severed the thongs that bound the fettered wrists of the pleading captive, and with a smile that seemed to light up her whole face she raised her from her prostrate position, laid her hand upon her young head and with an expression of good-humoured surprise lifted the flowing tresses of her sunny hair and spread them over the back of her own swarthy hand; then, as if amused by the striking contrast, she shook down her own jetty-black hair and twined a tress of it with one of the fair-haired girl's, then laughed till her teeth shone like pearls within her red lips. Many were the exclamations of childish wonder that broke from the other females as they compared the snowy arm of the stranger with their own dusky skins: it was plain that they had no intention of harming her, and by degrees distrust and dread of her singular companions began in some measure to subside.

The squaw motioned her to take a seat on a mat beside her, and gave her a handful of parched rice and some deer's flesh to eat; but Catharine's heart was too heavy. She was suffering from thirst; and on p.r.o.nouncing the Indian word for water, the young girl s.n.a.t.c.hed up a piece of birch-bark from the floor of the tent, and gathering the corners together, ran to the lake, and soon returned with water in this most primitive drinking-vessel, which she held to the lips of her guest, and she seemed amused by the long, deep draught with which Catharine slaked her thirst. Something like a gleam of hope came over Catharine's mind as she marked the look of kindly feeling with which she caught the young Indian girl regarding her, and she strove to overcome the choking sensation that would from time to time rise to her throat as she fluctuated between hope and fear. The position of the Indian camp was so placed that it was quite hidden from the sh.o.r.e and Catharine could neither see the mouth of the ravine, nor the steep side of the mount that her brother and cousin were accustomed to ascend and descend in their visits to the lake-sh.o.r.e, nor had she any means of making a signal to them even if she had seen them on the beach.

The long, anxious, watchful night pa.s.sed, and soon after sunrise, while the morning mists still hung over the lake, the canoes of the Indians were launched, and long before noon they were in the mouth of the river. Catharine's heart sunk within her as the fast receding sh.o.r.es of the lake showed each minute fainter in the distance. At mid-day they halted at a fine bend in the river, and landed on a small open place where a creek flowing down through the woods afforded them cool water; here they found several tents put up and a larger party awaiting their return. The river was here a fine, broad, deep, and tranquil stream; trees of many kinds fringed the edge, beyond was the unbroken forest, whose depths had never been pierced by the step of man--so thick and luxuriant was the vegetation that even the Indian could hardly have penetrated through its dark, swampy glades: far as the eye could reach, that impenetrable, interminable wall of verdure stretched away into the far-off distance.

All the remainder of that sad day Catharine sat on the gra.s.s under a shady tree, her eyes mournfully fixed on the slow-flowing waters, and wondering at her own hard fate in being thus torn from her home and its dear inmates. Bad as she had thought her separation from her father and mother and her brothers, when she first left her home to become a wanderer on the Rice Lake Plains, how much more dismal now was her situation, s.n.a.t.c.hed from the dear companions who had upheld and cheered her on in all her sorrows! Now that she was alone with none to love or cherish or console her, she felt a desolation of spirit that almost made her forgetful of the trust that had hitherto always sustained her in time of trouble or sickness. She looked round, and her eye fell on the strange, unseemly forms of men and women who cared not for her, and to whom she was an object of indifference or aversion; she wept when she thought of the grief her absence would occasion to Hector and Louis; the thought of their distress increased her own.

The soothing quiet of the scene, with the low, lulling sound of the little brook as its tiny wavelets fell tinkling over the mossy roots and stones that impeded its course to the river, joined with fatigue and long exposure to the sun and air, caused her at length to fall asleep. The last rosy light of the setting sun was dyeing the waters with a glowing tint when she awoke; a soft blue haze hung upon the trees; the kingfisher and dragon-fly, and a solitary loon, were the only busy things abroad on the river,--the first darting up and down from an upturned root, near the water's edge, feeding its younglings; the dragon-fly hawking with rapid whirring sound for insects; and the loon, just visible from above the surface of the still stream, sailing quietly on companionless like her who watched its movements.

The bustle of the hunters returning with game and fish to the encampment roused many a sleepy brown papoose; the fires were renewed, the evening was now preparing, and Catharine, chilled by the falling dew, crept to the enlivening warmth. And here she was pleased at being recognized by one friendly face; it was the mild, benevolent countenance of the widow Snowstorm, who, with her three sons, came to bid her to share their camp fire and food. The kindly grasp of the hand and the beaming smile that were given by this good creature, albeit she was ugly and ill-featured, cheered the sad captive's heart.

She had given her a cup of cold water and such food as her log-cabin afforded; in return the good Indian took her to her wigwam and fed, warmed, and cherished her with the loving-kindness of a Christian.

During all her sojourn in the Indian camp, the widow Snowstorm was as a tender mother to her, drying her tears and showing her those little acts of attention that even the untaught Indians know are grateful to the sorrowful and dest.i.tute. Catharine often forgot her own griefs to repay this worthy creature's kindness, by attending to her little babe, and a.s.sisting her in her homely cookery or household work. She knew that a selfish indulgence in sorrow would do her no good, and after the lapse of some days she so well disciplined her own heart as to check her tears, at least in the presence of the Indian women, and to a.s.sume an air of comparative cheerfulness. Once she found Indian words enough to ask the Indian widow to convey her back to the lake, but she shook her head and bade her not think anything about it; and added that in autumn, when the ducks came to the rice-beds, they should all return, and then if she could obtain leave from the chief, she would restore her to her lodge on the Plains; but signified to her that patience was her only present remedy, and that submission to the will of the chief was her wisest plan. Comforted by this vague promise, Catharine strove to be reconciled to her strange lot and still stranger companions. She was surprised at the want of curiosity respecting her evinced by the Indians in the wigwam when she was brought thither; they appeared to take little notice that a stranger, and one so dissimilar to themselves, had been introduced into the camp. Catharine learned, by long acquaintance with this people, that an outward manifestation of surprise is considered a want of etiquette and good-breeding, or rather a proof of weakness and childishness. The women, like other females, are certainly less disposed to repress this feeling of inquisitiveness than the men; and one of their great sources of amus.e.m.e.nt, when Catharine was among them, was examining the difference of texture and colour of her skin and hair, and holding long consultations over them. The young girl and her mother, who had paddled the canoe the day she was carried away to the island, showed her much kindness in a quiet way. The young squaw was grand-daughter to the old chief, and seemed to be regarded with considerable respect by the rest of the women; she was a gay, lively creature, often laughing, and seemed to enjoy an inexhaustible fund of good humour.

She extended her patronage to the young stranger by making her eat out of her own bark-dish and sit beside her on her own mat. She wove a chain for her of the sweet-scented gra.s.s with which the Indians delight in adorning themselves, likewise in perfuming their lodges with bunches or strewings upon the floor. She took great pains in teaching her how to acquire the proper att.i.tude of sitting, after the fashion of the Eastern nations, which position the Indian women a.s.sume when at rest in their wigwams.

The Indian name of this little damsel signified the "snow-bird." She was, like that lively, restless bird, always flitting from tent to tent, as garrulous and as cheerful too as that merry little herald of the spring.

Once she seemed particularly attracted by Catharine's dress, which she examined with critical minuteness, evincing great surprise at the cut fringes of dressed doe-skin with which Indiana had ornamented the border of the short jacket she had manufactured for Catharine. These fringes she pointed out to the notice of the women, and even the old chief was called in to examine the dress; nor did the leggings and moccasins escape their observation. There was something mysterious about her garments. Catharine was at a loss to imagine what caused those deep guttural exclamations, somewhat between a grunt and a groan, that burst from the lips of the Indians, as they one by one examined her dress with deep attention. These people had recognized in these things the peculiar fashion and handiwork of the young Mohawk girl whom they had exposed to perish by hunger and thirst on Bare Hill; and much their interest was excited to learn by what means Catharine had become possessed of a dress wrought by the hand of one whom they had numbered with the dead. Strange and mysterious did it seem to them, and warily did they watch the unconscious object of their wonder.

The knowledge she possessed of the language of her friend Indiana enabled Catharine to comprehend a great deal of what was said; yet she prudently refrained from speaking in the tongue of one to whose whole nation she knew these people to be hostile. But she sedulously endeavoured to learn their own peculiar dialect; and in this she succeeded in an incredibly short time, so that she was soon able to express her own wants, and converse a little with the females who were about her.

She had noticed that among the tents there was one which stood apart from the rest, and was only visited by the old chief and his grand-daughter, or by the elder women. At first she imagined it was some sick person, or a secret tent set apart for the worship of the Great Spirit; but one day, when the chief of the people had gone up the river hunting, and the children were asleep, the curtain of skins was drawn back, and a female of singular and striking beauty appeared in the open s.p.a.ce in front. She was habited in a fine tunic of white dressed doe-skin, richly embroidered with coloured beads and stained quills; a full petticoat of dark cloth bound with scarlet descended to her ankles; leggings fringed with deerskin, knotted with bands of coloured quills, with richly wrought moccasins on her feet. On her head she wore a coronet of scarlet and black feathers; her long shining tresses of raven hair descended to her waist, each thick tress confined with a braided band of quills, dyed scarlet and blue. She was tall and well-formed; her large, liquid, dark eyes wore an expression so proud and mournful that Catharine felt her own involuntarily fill with tears as she gazed upon this singular being. She would have approached nearer to her, but a spell seemed on her; she shrunk back timid and abashed beneath that wild, melancholy glance. It was she, the Beam of the Morning, the self-made widow of the young Mohawk, whose hand had wrought so fearful a vengeance on the treacherous destroyer of her brother. She stood there, at the tent-door, arrayed in her bridal robes, as on the day when she received her death-doomed victim. And when she recalled her fearful deed, shuddering with horror, Catharine drew back and shrouded herself within the tent, fearing again to fall under the eye of that terrible woman. She remembered how Indiana had told her that since that fatal marriage-feast she had been kept apart from the rest of the tribe,--she was regarded by her people as a sacred character, ent.i.tled the _Great Medicine,_ a female _brave,_ a being whom they regarded with mysterious reverence. She had made this great sacrifice for the good of her nation. Indiana said it was believed among her own folk that she had loved the young Mohawk pa.s.sionately, as a tender woman loves the husband of her youth; yet she had not hesitated to sacrifice him with her own hand. Such was the deed of the Indian heroine--and such were the virtues of the unregenerated Greeks and Romans!

CHAPTER XIII.

"Now where the wave, with loud, unquiet song, Dashed o'er the rocky channel, froths along, Or where the silver waters soothed to rest, The tree's tall shadow sleeps upon its breast."

--COLERIDGE.

The Indian camp remained for nearly three weeks on this spot, and then early one morning the wigwams were all taken down, and the canoes, six in number, proceeded up the river. There was very little variety in the scenery to interest Catharine. The river still kept its slow-flowing course between low sh.o.r.es thickly clothed with trees, without an opening through which the eye might pierce to form an idea of the country beyond; not a clearing, not a sight or sound of civilized man was there to be seen or heard; the darting flight of the wild birds as they flitted across from one side to the other, the tapping of the woodp.e.c.k.e.r, or shrill cry of the blue jay was all that was heard, from sunrise to sunset, on that monotonous voyage. After many hours, a decided change was perceived in the current, which ran at a considerable increase of swiftness, so that it required the united energy of both men and women to keep the light vessels from drifting down the river again. They were in the rapids, and it was hard work to stem the tide and keep the upward course of the waters.

At length the rapids were pa.s.sed, and the weary Indian voyagers rested for a s.p.a.ce on the bosom of a small but tranquil lake. The rising moon shed her silvery light upon the calm water, and heaven's stars shone down into its quiet depths, as the canoes with their dusky freight parted the glittering rays with their light paddles. As they proceeded onward the banks rose on either side, still fringed with pines, cedars, and oaks. At an angle of the lake the banks on either side ran out into two opposite peninsulas, forming a narrow pa.s.sage or gorge, contracting the lake once more into the appearance of a broad river, much wider from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e than any other part they had pa.s.sed through since they had left the entrance at the Rice Lake.

Catharine became interested in the change of scenery; her eye dwelt with delight on the forms of glorious spreading oaks and lofty pines, green cliff-like sh.o.r.es, and low wooded islands; while, as they proceeded, the sound of rapid-flowing waters met her ear, and soon the white and broken eddies, rushing along with impetuous course, were seen by the light of the moon; and while she was wondering if the canoes were to stem those rapids, at a signal from the old chief, the little fleet was pushed to sh.o.r.e on a low flat of emerald verdure, nearly opposite to the last island.

Here, under the shelter of some beautiful spreading black oaks, the women prepared to set up their wigwams. They had brought the poles and birch-bark covering from the encampment below, and soon all was bustle and business, unloading the canoes and raising the tents. Even Catharine lent a willing hand to a.s.sist the females in bringing up the stores and sundry baskets containing fruits and other small wares. She then kindly attended to the Indian children--certain dark-skinned babes, who, bound upon their wooden cradles, were either set up against the trunks of the trees, or swung to some lowly depending branch, there to remain helpless and uncomplaining spectators of the scene.

Catharine thought these Indian babes were almost as much to be pitied as herself, only that they were unconscious of their imprisoned state, having from birth been used to no better treatment, and moreover they were sure to be rewarded by the tender caresses of loving mothers when the season of refreshment and repose arrived but she, alas! was friendless and alone, bereft of father, mother, kindred, and friends.