University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Once more in the solitude of the forest, Charles loosened
the reins and permitted his noble steed to walk leisurely
along the narrow path. It was one of the old war-paths
of the Indians, leading to the great lakes of the Northwest;
and, although it had become overgrown and indistinct to
those unused to the wilderness, the young man had no difficulty
in discerning it.

The birds sang on every bough or flitted gayly from tree
to tree. The hare sat upright in the wild grass, gazing
without alarm at the solitary wanderer. The doe and her
spotted fawns emerged from the tangled thicket, and drank
of the cool limpid water at the gurgling brook; and the
sun rode gloriously over all in a cloudless sky, gladdening
the myriads of joyous insects that basked in its genial rays.

A balmy breeze cooled the fevered temples of the wanderer;
and, as he looked upon the inspiring scene of mountains,
woods, and streams, sweet memories of the happy
days of his sunlit childhood flitted athwart his mind. They
came like phantoms of pleasant dreams which too quickly
vanish. But he strove to prolong their presence; and,
while he luxuriated in the vision, consciousness of his present
condition gradually faded away. Thus he was again
completely a child of the wilderness, and oblivious of the
flight of the passing hours, until the hooting of the owl
and the darkening of the glades admonished him of the
approach of night. His noble steed, too, had been reared
among the Indians, and seemed to have an instinctive
knowledge of the direction his rider wished to pursue; for
Charles had long ceased to notice the ancient encampments,
the intersecting paths, and the moss upon the northern side
of the trees.

Nevertheless, after drawing rein and dismounting to
prepare his diminutive encampment, Charles became aware
of his location. He had descended the western side of the
Blue Mountain, and was now upon the narrow bottom of
one of the small trout-streams emptying into the Delaware,
some few miles distant. It was in the midst of a clump
of gigantic trees, whose huge trunks seemed like vast columns
supporting the blue vault above. There was but
little undergrowth, except the wild grass, upon which the
steed was turned loose to graze. No fears were entertained
of the faithful animal deserting him. The horse of
a solitary traveller becomes attached to his master, and
will not relinquish his society.

Charles was at no loss in the forest to provide for his
comfort. With his tomahawk and knife the framework of
his camp was soon completed. The small forks and poles
were furnished by the thicket fringing the base of the
mountain; while the dry bark torn from the trunk of a
gigantic hickory-tree sufficed for the roof to shelter him
from the dew, and also for fuel with which to cook his
simple repast. The rear of the camp was protected by the
trunk of a large fallen tree, and at the opposite end the
fire was kindled; and, while his meat hung before the
crackling fagots, he gathered rushes from the margin of
the brook and elastic twigs from the pendant boughs, with
which he prepared his couch.

While partaking of his frugal meal, the young man
several times observed his horse lift up his head and look
in the direction of the thicket already referred to. The
animal exhibited no signs of alarm, and always, after gazing
a moment, resumed his browsing. Charles did not suppose
it an object worthy of attention. It might be a wolf, a
fox, a raccoon, or some other animal attracted by the light
of the fire or the odour of the meat, and from which there
was nothing to fear. If it had been a bear or a panther,
(and neither of which would be likely to assail him,) his
horse would not have retained his composure. And thus
this noble animal not unfrequently discharges the duty of
a faithful sentinel.

Later in the night the moon arose in brilliance, and her
silvery rays glimmered tremblingly through the thick
foliage slightly agitated by the gentle breeze. The beetles

chirped pleasantly in cadence with the mournful wail of the
whippoorwill, and the soft approaches of soothing slumber
began to lull the senses of the youth. Spreading his
blanket on the couch, and happening to cast his eyes over
the fallen trunk near which he was about to place his
head, he beheld the face of Skippie.

For a brief interval Charles remained perfectly still and
silent, for he had acquired the Indian habit of suppressing
the symptoms of any sudden emotion.

“Why are you here, Skippie?” he demanded.

“He did not say no,” was the answer.

“My father?”

To this Skippie nodded affirmatively.

“And you asked his permission?”

Again there was an affirmative nod.

“Then come in and eat; and afterward lie down and
sleep.”

Skippie did his bidding in silence. This youth—or rather
dwarf, for the wrinkles on his forehead indicated that he
had long since passed the age of adolescence—was one of
the clan Cameron, and had joined his exiled laird in Canada,
and acted in the capacity of page to his mistress until her
death. Afterward he became a constant attendant on the
exile, and Charles was aware that he had been of great
service to his father in procuring news from distant points,
(for, although exceedingly small, he was very active, and
seemed insensible to fatigue,) and in warning him of approaching
danger on several momentous occasions. And
not the least valuable of his qualifications as a runner—a
term familiar in the Indian country—was his uniform taciturnity.
He heard every thing; but nothing was ever
learned from him by any but his chief or trusted persons
of his household.

Toward morning Charles awoke and rekindled the fire,
but did not lie down again. Perceiving that Skippie
had likewise finished his slumber, he beckoned him to
approach.

“Skippie,” said he, “I have been dreaming of my Indian
mother. I was too young to remember my white
mother. What was she like?”

“Blue eyes, like the sky. Tall, straight, fair skin, and
light hair. An angel.”

“Enough, Skippie! I would not hear another word in
regard to her form and beauty. But was she good?”

“An angel.”

“True. She is in heaven. Was she not religious,
Skippie?”

“An angel,” he repeated.

“I forgot, Skippie. But, Skippie, I cannot help loving
my Indian mother very, very much.”

“She is an angel.”

“Oh, true! you saw her.”

“I found you. I lived in the woods five years, hunting
for you.”

“I did not know that, Skippie. And it may be the reason
why you follow me and seem determined to watch over
me.”

“Right.”

“You mean it is for that reason?”

“I do.”

“I thank you, Skippie; but I am now old enough to
take care of myself; and if any thing occurs during this
visit which it would be desirable for them to know in the
valley, I shall send you thither.”

“So.”

“And you will go?”

“Go,” he replied, with one of his affirmative nods.

The sun arose in great splendour on the second morning,
and after partaking of a hearty meal, which had been prepared
by the skilful Skippie, the travellers pursued their
journey toward the boundary-line of the State of New
York, and passed it in the forenoon. Then, turning to the
left, they followed the old war-path in the direction of the
lakes which ran near the northeastern corner of Pennsylvania.

When the sun was midway in the heavens, Charles faintly
heard a hallooing, and, as the sound appeared to be in the
direction he was pursuing, his pace was quickened. The
cry seemed to proceed from one in distress, and Charles
knew it was not an Indian.

Presently he detected the recent footmarks of a man in
a path that crossed the one he was following; and, as the
halloo was still heard at intervals on the right, he dismounted,
and, throwing the reins to Skippie, proceeded

cautiously in that direction. The path, which followed the
course of one of the small tributaries of the Delaware,
soon emerged from the dense thicket of bushes and entered
the dark woods. And here an unexpected scene awaited
the young adventurer. On his right, and but a few paces
distant, in the forks of a chestnut-tree, was a large panther,
in the act of springing upon him. The animal was
in a crouching attitude, its eyes glaring furiously, and the
point of its tail oscillating rapidly, as is usual with carnivorous
beasts when assailing an enemy or seizing their prey.

The practised eye and steady hand of Charles sufficed
for the emergency. Almost as instantaneously as thought,
the report of his rifle rang through the woods, and the
panther lay struggling in its death-throes at his feet. And
even then the animal might have inflicted a serious wound
had he not been despatched by the dirk of Skippie, who
bounded forward and stabbed him to the heart in the midst
of his convulsive flounderings.

“Done that before!” said he; meaning that he had
stabbed other panthers and escaped their claws.

“But it was not the voice of a panther we heard, Skippie,”
said Charles.

“No!” said a stranger; “but verily the voice of one
crying in the wilderness!”

“Ha!” said Charles, descrying the form of a man in
the same tree the panther had occupied, but upon a perpendicular
branch some twenty feet above the forks, which
he seemed to be hugging with desperate tenacity.

“How did you get up there?” asked Charles, seeing the
limb, which was without lateral shoots, swaying backward
and forward under its heavy burden.

“My son,” said the stranger, who was a man of large
dimensions, “I am uncomfortable here. Let me first contrive
to get down, and then I will speak of the manner of
my getting up.”

“Slide down, sir,” said Charles.

“You are sure he's dead?”

“Quite,” replied Charles, lifting up one of the feet of
the animal and displaying its enormous but harmless claws.

“That was not a pleasant descent,” said the stranger,
after descending more rapidly than he desired, and being
slightly stunned by his collision with the earth; “but,”

he added, “it is the mode of the bear, and they say I am
as hardy as one, if not as rough, sometimes.”

“Now, will you tell me how one of your bulk and
weight could ascend such a pole as that?”

“God aided me, and all things are possible with him.
I know not the manner of it, my friend. I do not recollect
climbing up there, but I suppose I must have done so.
I remember being pursued by the animal, and mounting to
the forks when she was at my heels. Many a panther
have I seen in these wild woods, but never have I been
pursued before. Yet it was my own fault or imprudence;
I killed her young one on the wayside, not supposing its
mother to be within hearing.”

“The mother is never out of hearing,” said Charles,
“when her young are basking in the sunshine. But who
are you? Let me see. The Rev. David Jones! I am
glad to meet you, sir.”

“And you have my solemn assurance, my friend, that I
reciprocate the gladness, although I do not recognise your
face.”

“We have met several times, sir. Once at Princeton,
when you disputed with the Presbyterians—”

“Exhorted—expostulated, my young Christian friend,
as I do not doubt you are a convert from the pagans—a
brand snatched from the fire.”

“Again, at Burlington, where you denounced the doctrines
of Mr. Odell, the Church-of-England minister.”

“Denied—not denounced—universal election, and the
indispensable necessity of the so-called apostolical succession
in the ministry. God is quite as able now as ever to
call labourers into the harvest-field. They might as well
say that none but Jordan's waters would do for baptism.
And I have heard of one of the bishops sending to Palestine
for a bottle of it. The story goes, that, after he had used
it, one of the officers of the ship declared that—and I
believe it, my friend.”

“We met again at the foot of the Jenny Jump Mountain,
where you offered to preach to the Quakers if they
would take their hats off.”

“I did, indeed; and I intended to smite their god Mammon,
but they would not listen.”

“Again, I saw you commune with the Moravians.”

“That is true. They are a good people, and they
have the true religion, excepting their mode of baptism.”

“And I saw you baptize two negroes in the trout-brook
near the hut of my—”

“Ha! your what? Who are you?”

“One of the negroes—old Rose—would not go into the
water until I killed a rattlesnake that was basking on the
opposite side. And when I had done so, she said it was
the devil, who had stationed himself there to keep her away
from salvation.”

“Now I recollect all that. Oh! you are the young
white man who lived so long with the Indians. That is
the reason you now dress like one. I thought your
speech too good for a savage. And you are college-bred.
Charles Cameron is your name. Give me your hand
again!”

“And now farewell, Mr. Jones,” said Charles. “I must
not withhold you from your good work.”

“Where are you journeying, my young friend?” asked
the preacher, detaining him.

“To the village on the Chemung, where my Indian
mother is spending the summer.”

“We will go together. My route lies in the same
direction. I go thence to the Seneca Lake, and along
Seneca River to the Oneida. They receive the gospel
messenger everywhere with kindness. With my staff and
knapsack, I fear no man, civilized or savage.”

“But only panthers.”

“True—panthers, and sometimes a serpent that crosses
my path. I have a pistol for them, but am apt to forget
it until it is too late to use it.”

“But why were you travelling in this direction?”

“I had turned aside to pray; and when I arose I found
the panther's kitten playing with the string of my moccasin.
I thought it right to destroy the animal; and when
it cried under the edge of my knife, I thought only of the
lambs it would have sacrificed if I had spared it, until
roused by the furious scream of its dam as she came
bounding toward me. Then, as I fled, I thought I had
done wrong.”

“Not so, sir; for we have destroyed them both, and

the skins will be trophies for me to exhibit to my red
brethren.”

Charles then removed the skins from the animals, while
Mr. Jones informed him of all his recent peregrinations.
Since the baptism in the pool of the trout-brook, he had
seen General Washington, and sojourned with his particular
friend, Colonel Wayne, from whom he received instructions
to visit the different tribes in Pennsylvania, New
York, and the West, preaching to them, and persuading
them to remain neutral or else to take up arms in behalf
of the colonies. And he stated, in a confidential tone, (for
he remembered that Charles had organized a company on
the right side,) that he bore, secreted on his person, a commission
in the army as chaplain, and was then on duty—
that which had been assigned him. He had passed through
the Yankee settlement on the Wyoming, where, although the
people were pretty good whigs, they treated the preacher
with less respect than the Delaware Indians on the beautiful
Wyalusing. They seemed to hate the Baptists and
the Quakers, and the Baptists and the Quakers were as far
asunder as the poles

The process of skinning the panthers completed, the
journey was resumed. The Rev. Mr. Jones, at Charles's
urgent solicitation, mounted the horse; while the agile
young man, having had a taste of his old sport, and finding
his appetite still unsatisfied, proposed making a short
hunt through the woods for a fawn, or a fat young buck,
which might be eaten at that season. And he strode away
to gratify his inclination, promising to meet his companions
at a noted spring about a mile distant.

“My son,” said the bulky preacher, as he rode down
the path toward the broader trail which he had crossed
when turning aside to pray, and intently regarding the
lithe form of Skippie, “will you not be very tired travelling
on foot?”

“Tired?” said Skippie, with an abrupt shake of his
head.

“It is a long path we are following, and if you desire it
you may ride behind me.”

The only reply Skippie made to this friendly offer
was a quizzical glance over his shoulder, with a smile of
derision.

“You are a modest lad,” continued the benevolent Baptist.
“But you need not fear to speak.”

“Fear! The de'il!” at length exclaimed Skippie, without
deigning to turn his head again.

“Boy! you sadly need baptizing to wash away your
foulness, or the birch to teach you better manners.”

“Dirk!” said Skippie, holding over his head the bright
blade of the weapon named.

Mr. Jones could not exactly comprehend the meaning
of the word and gesture; but he concluded that nothing
could be accomplished with so impracticable a subject, and
he ceased to notice him. The dirk, however, could give
him no uneasiness, being incapable of fearing what man
could do, and having really felt some flashes of compunction
when flying from the panther. Finding the lad would
not converse with him, he commenced singing one of his
favourite psalms; and, as he had a musical voice, the woods
soon resounded with his melody.

He continued to sing without interruption until startled
by a frightened gobbler that flapped up from the whortleberry
bushes near the path. It alighted on one of the
lower boughs of a spreading oak, and, with its long neck
stretched out, seemed desirous of listening to the spiritual
song, so different from the sounds usually heard in the
forest. But Mr. Jones was preparing to regale him with a
sound more familiar to his ears. He had drawn forth a
pistol from beneath his black buckskin coat, and was taking
a steady aim, when the turkey fell headlong to the earth,
his neck almost severed by the rifle-ball of Charles, who
had approached Mr. Jones to request him to cease singing,
as it frightened the deer.

“A capital shot, that!” said Mr. Jones, leaping from his
horse and lifting up the gobbler. “I am glad to see you
again,” he added, as Charles stepped forward with a smile
on his lip.

“Why do you call it a capital shot?” asked Charles;
while Skippie sank down and rolled over in convulsions of
suppressed merriment.

“I aimed at his body, I confess,” said Mr. Jones, with
gravity; “but the ball rose in a straight line and broke
his neck. It was a good shot for a pistol, and the distance
must have been fifty paces.”

“At least,” said Charles, comprehending the mistake
of the Baptist, and having no disposition to undeceive
him.

“Pistol!” said Skippie, through his tears of silent
laughter.

“Certainly, a pistol, my lad. Why do you laugh at my
capital shot?” demanded Mr. Jones.

“Is not your pistol cocked, Mr. Jones?” asked Charles,
seeing the reverend gentleman replacing the weapon in his
bosom.

“Bless my life! But there was no danger, it being
empty.”

“Empty!” reiterated Skippie.

“Yes, empty. Did I not just kill the turkey? What's
this? No!” he continued, seeing the priming remained,
and inserting the ramrod. “I don't remember reloading
it. I am sure I did not. How can it be explained?”

“I can explain it, Mr. Jones,” said Charles. “I have
no doubt you would have struck the mark, but then you
might have spoiled the breast of the turkey; so I fired at
his neck, and killed him before you had time to complete
your aim. You thought the report came from your pistol,
and, on seeing the gobbler fall, it was natural to suppose
you had killed it.”

“It must have been so! Well, we shall have food, at
all events. The circumstance reminds me of what occurred
to one of our Pennsylvania volunteers at Braddock's defeat.
Without observing that he had lost the flint from his gun,
he kept on pulling the trigger and ramming down cartridges.
Some of the men say he declared, as they retreated, that
his shoulder was black and blue from the rebounds. But
I don't believe that portion of the story.”

As the shades of evening descended, the party encamped
near the bank of the Delaware, on a level piece of ground,
where a small rivulet flowed through a cleft in the hills
toward the river. Here the turkey was dressed and cooked
by Skippie, while Charles stretched and dried his panther-skins.

At supper a most ravenous appetite seemed to have
seized upon them all, and the two youngest could not avoid
evincing some anxiety for the termination of Jones's
lengthy prayer. He not only invoked blessings on his

young companions, but desired they might speedily return
to a Christian community. He asked that the savages
might be converted and baptized; that they might be inspired
with a resolution never to shed the blood of their
white brethren who had settled in their forests; and, finally,
that the counsels of the Continental Congress might have
the heavenly guidance, and the cause in which they were
embarked be gloriously triumphant.

And, after his emphatic “Amen,” he arose and silently
gazed in every direction. He did not explain; but Charles
attributed his conduct to the force of habit, knowing it to
be unsafe in many places to utter such patriotic petitions.

“Now, fall to, boys, and help yourselves,” said Mr.
Jones, resuming his seat before the fire, and literally tearing
the smoking turkey in two by the drumsticks; and in
the course of ten minutes all that remained of the gobbler
were his bones, his bill, and his toe-nails.

In the night, when the blazing fire made the scene cheerful,
and when all were in a comfortable condition after
their hearty meal, Mr. Jones would have given vent to his
grateful feelings in songs of praise, had it been deemed
prudent. If there should happen to be a war-party in the
vicinity, on a nocturnal march,—a thing neither probable
nor impossible,—they might be attracted thither; and so
the tuneful inclination was repressed.

But Mr. Jones felt no hesitation in relating his adventures
on the Ohio River the preceding year, when
acting in the capacity of a missionary among the Western
tribes. He was relating a scene of burning at the stake,
a sentence sometimes executed on prisoners,—a proceeding
which Mr. Jones did not consider so barbarous as the burning
of Protestants in enlightened Old England or of Quakers
in puritanical New England, on account of their religious
belief,—when they were startled by the loud snorting of the
horse as he ran toward the camp. In the moonlight it
was perceivable that the faithful animal's ears were thrust
forward, as he turned his head over his back; and his eyes,
catching the rays of the fire, became illuminated like
globules of glass at a white heat.

The object causing the alarm was evidently between the
camp and the river; and perhaps an enemy might be
crouching behind the slight embankment, not twenty paces

distant, taking a deadly aim at the hitherto unconscious
travellers.

Charles turned his face in the direction of the intruder,
so unerringly indicated by the horse, and gazed steadfastly,
while Skippie prostrated himself and applied his ear
to the ground.

“As for my part,” said Mr. Jones, taking from his
pocket a worn Testament, bound in black leather, or leather
blackened by time, “here is my defence, and it never
failed me yet.” So, turning over the leaves, he began to
read such passages as he deemed the most appropriate on
such an occasion.

“I see!” whispered Charles, raising his rifle noiselessly.
“It is an Indian.”

“One!” said Skippie, rising, and unsheathing his dirk.

“And we are three,” said Mr. Jones, lifting his eyes
from the page, and placing one hand on his pistol; “but
do not be the first to fire; he may be a friend.”

“I am only in readiness,” said Charles, endeavouring
to fix his aim. “If he raises his gun, then I will be
justified in pulling trigger.”

But he did not raise his gun. On the contrary, his
head, scalp-lock and all, sank down and vanished behind
the slight embankment, and the next moment his voice was
heard, saying, in very good English—

“Don't shoot! I'm a friend.”

“What friend?” asked Mr. Jones, in his full, loud voice,
rendered strong by much preaching. “What nation, if
you are an Indian?”

“I'm a white man,” said the stranger.

“He is, at least, in Indian costume, like myself,” said
Charles.

“Yes, but I'm white, though,” said the stranger, hearing
the last speech, and now approaching boldly. “And
you see I haven't got a gun. So there's no danger.”

“Do you call yourself a white man, my friend?” asked
the preacher, staring like the rest at the curious aspect of
the stranger. He was one of those short fat men we
sometimes see who have no necks, their heads growing out
between their shoulders. He wore leggins, hunting-shirt,
and blanket; his head had been shaved, the scalp-lock
alone remaining; and his face, plump and round, with a

scarcely-discernible point of a nose, had been fantastically
painted—one side being red, with sundry black spots interspersed,
and the other altogether black.

“Yes; I'm a white man,” said he, “like two of you; but
I've been living with the savages, and they painted me. I
thought once or twice when I stooped down to drink that
my face looked black. Is it very dark?”

“Black, my friend,” said Mr. Jones, “on one side.”

“I thought they were making sport of me!”

“Who are you? your name?” demanded Charles.

“I've a famous big name! One of their greatest chiefs
is called Cornplanter, or Cornstalk—I disremember which;
and so they called me Popcorn.”

“What was your name before you lived among the Indians?”
asked Mr. Jones, seeing Charles's diversion.

“Oh, I'm Peter Shaver, among the whites.'

“True!” said Charles. “I thought I knew your voice,
Peter; but they have so disguised you that your own
mother wouldn't recognise you. Here, look in this small
mirror.”

Peter looked and stood aghast, while the rest could not
refrain from hearty laughter.

“I'll take his sculp for it!” cried he. “I'll be revenged,
if I have to lose my life! The tarnationed, rascally savage!
If I ever meet him—and I've a notion to go back—I'll have
his sculp or his sculp-lock! And if I can't find him, I'll
give some other red devil a terrible thrashing!”

“Suppose you begin with me,” said Charles.

“I don't care!” said the indignant Peter. “If these
gentlemen will see fair play, and you won't use any thing
but your fists—”

“Stranger,” said Mr. Jones, rising to his feet and
placing his hand on Popcorn's shoulder, “if you are a
friend, and come in peace, sit down and eat such as we
can spare you, or else depart. This is our camp, and you
are our guest; but you will be thrust out if you do not
behave yourself. Know that Charles Cameron is no blackguard,
to fight with his fists like the degraded bullies of the
ring.”

“Charles Cameron! It is, by jingo! Oh, I beg your
pardon a million times! And you are no Indian, no more
nor me! Don't you know me?—Peter Shaver?”

“I know you very well, Peter, and have been merely
jesting when perhaps I should have been very serious.
Sit down and eat. You are too late for the turkey, but
the jerked beef may suffice. Eat and smoke, and then
tell us your adventures;—why you left your employer's
service, and how you came to be dwelling among the
Indians.”

Peter, having a most voracious appetite, as he had a
most capacious stomach, without further parley assailed
the viands set before him.

When he had finished his meal he related his story substantially
as follows. On the day he set out from Mr.
Schooley's house to visit the mill he was seized by two Indians.
They threatened to tomahawk him if he made any
resistance or attempted to escape. He was compelled to
dismount. One of them led the way on foot, while the
other followed on his iron-gray pony. When any one approached
they plunged into the inaccessible recesses of the
forest, and remained silent and still until the way was
clear, and then ventured forth again, avoiding the most
frequented paths. Peter strove in vain to ascertain their
purpose. He could not learn to what nation his captors
belonged, nor why they had made him their prisoner. The
only name he could understand—which they pronounced
in the usual way—was Girty's; and he came to the conclusion
that the noted leader of the British and Indian
borderers might have discovered some great merit in
him, or military qualification, which had superinduced his
arrest.

When encamped for the night, Peter was permitted to
recline before the fire in dignified silence, while the Indians
prepared his food and filled his pipe, and manifested
other indications of a high appreciation of his importance.

The second day the journey was prosecuted with less
caution, and at night his two captors signified to Peter
that it was time for him to “be Indian too.” So they
shaved all his hair off but the scalp-lock, painted his face
red, gave him a blanket, leggins, moccasins, &c. They
laughed, however, at the manner of his carriage or the
singularity of his attitudes, and seemed to make several
animated speeches on the subject. They then addressed
themselves to Peter, who, not understanding a word they

had said, made no response, although they patiently
awaited one. Then they gave vent to explosions of laughter,
and jabbered more, while their stoical captive snored
before the fire.

After several days of moderate travel, during which the
Indians seemed to be mindful of the comfort of their
captive, they arrived in the vicinity of Lake Cayuga. Here
they were met by many people of the Mohawk and Oneida
tribes. But most conspicuous among them were two squaws,
one of middle age and the other quite young, and both, as
Peter declared, very beautiful, with the exception of their
pink skins. They came running toward him with their
arms extended; and, Peter said, he also opened his. But
they stopped abruptly when within a few paces of him,
and, very impolitely turning up their noses, likewise turned
upon their heels and walked away. They hung down their
heads, as if ashamed of something, or disappointed in the
man they had sent for.

A few moments after, and while hundreds were standing
round, a chief stepped forward and made a fierce speech to
Peter's captors, who stood in silent shame. Then such
shouts were heard as never assailed his ears before. They
were shouts of laughter, loud and prolonged. After which
the chief, who had scolded his captors, approached Peter,
and informed him, in very good English, that the stupid
Minisinks had brought them the wrong man. But Peter's
joy on hearing this was dashed a little when told that he
had better return immediately, or the enraged Indians
might do him an injury. Peter's experience among the
Indians, however, had hitherto been so agreeable that he
could not be apprehensive of a change of treatment, and
so he wandered forward into the village in quest of something
to eat. The eldest of the women whom he had seen
sent him victuals, with a message to depart. He lingered,
nevertheless, while occasional bursts of merriment still assailed
his ears.

Finally, the chief seized him by the ear and led him out
of the village, pointing to where the pony had been left,
and shoving the indignant captive in that direction. But
Peter's pony had been taken, and in its place was a jackass
of similar color, but whose sides had been variegated by
the brush of a savage artist; and the sullen animal now

resembled the zebra,—a beast he had once seen at a snow.
They told Peter his pony had been “swapped” for the
jackass, and that he must mount and ride away; and,
after a moment's reflection, and concluding it might be a
very good swap, and an acquisition in the Jenny Jump
settlement, he leaped upon the beast. Then Popcorn, as
they called him, was cheered by the multitude; and the
ass, either guided by the thong or frightened by the deafening
sounds, turned his head in a southeastern direction
and trotted off, braying so loudly that all other noises were
utterly obliterated.

“They had put some corn-cakes and dried meat in my
bag,” said Peter, “and swapped for my corn as well as
my pony. But the consumed jackass kept trying to bite
me, and every now and then roared like a lion. It took
me two whole days to learn how to manage him. I found
out I could only do it by knocking him down with a club.
Then he was always gentle enough till next morning. But
I lost the right path, and travelled in several wrong ones.
And I can't tell how I got here at all, unless the jack came
of his own accord and was raised by the whites. And
now, gentlemen,” continued he, “as I understand you are
going to come back soon from the Indian country, I would
be glad to travel with you, as I know I shall never find the
way home by myself, and I want to whip the Indian who
painted me.”

“Not find the way home,” said Mr. Jones, “when you
are on the bank of the Delaware River! What better guide
would you have?”

“But I can't keep on it,” said Peter; “and I don't
know which side I'm on.”

“Not know which side you're on! Can't you see which
way the current runs?”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“Well, when you stand with your face down-stream,
don't you know which hand the river is on?—your right
or your left?”

“I'm terribly bewildered! I cannot tell, indeed, sir.”

“Nonsense! Not know your right hand from your left?”

“But I'm left-handed, sir! Or, rather, I use one hand as
well as the other, and never could tell which was right and
which was wrong.”

“This is my right hand,” said Mr. Jones, “next to your
left. You can remember that, can't you?”

“Yes, if you are always at hand to remind me.”

The reverend gentleman could restrain his merriment
no longer; and even the taciturn Skippie could hardly avoid
giving vent to loud bursts of laughter.

Charles remained silent in troubled meditation. It was
not to be doubted that Peter had been captured by the
stupid messengers in the belief that it was himself. They
had evidently seen him ride away from the house of Mr.
Schooley, and, being strangers to the person of the one
they had been employed to seize, the mistake had been
committed. The kind treatment on the way, the assembling
of the tribe,—among whom he had many acquaintances,—
and the eagerness of the two women to meet him, who must
have been Gentle Moonlight and Brown Thrush, rendered
what was merely a conjecture as Peter proceeded with his
story a certainty at its conclusion.

Without deciding whether Peter should accompany them
back into the Indian country or continue his solitary journey,
preparations were made for sleeping, by enlarging the
shelter and widening the couch. But, before the eyes of
the party were closed, they were roused by the braying of
the ass at no great distance. The sounds of his voice
reverberated through the great valley of the Delaware, and
were re-echoed by every ledge of cliffs. The wolves and
owls were silenced by the stupendous roar, far more hideous
than any uttered by themselves.

“He's in a grass-swamp about a half mile up the bank,”
said Peter. “When I saw your fire, I didn't know but
you might be savages, and so I crawled here alone. If
you hadn't taken me in, I should have gone to bed without
my supper, as my provisions gave out yesterday. But I
made a pin-hook this morning, and caught two trouts. One
of 'em was a foot long, and made a good breakfast. I
had some salt left, but you know I couldn't eat that by
itself. And I had a knife and flint, and struck a fire.”

In this manner Peter's tongue ran on until the rest of
the travellers were slumbering soundly.

The next morning it was left optional with Peter whether
to return with the travellers to the Indian country or
to pursue his solitary way across the Blue Mountain to the

white settlements. He chose the former, repeating his
determination to whip the two Minisink Indians who had
captured and painted him.

Nothing further worthy of special notice occurred until
the party arrived in the vicinity of the southern extremity
of Lake Cayuga. They were approaching the village
where the foster-mother of Charles often spent the summer,
and in the neighbourhood of which she held a large tract
of rich land inherited from her mother.

Charles paused, and, placing his hands over his mouth,
uttered the loud halloo he had so often sounded in his
youth when returning from distant expeditions with the
sons of the chiefs and sachems. Soon there was a reply
which produced an animated expression of pleasure on his
handsome features; and, as they drew nearer the village,
numbers of men were seen running toward them through
the beautiful grove in which the town was situated.

The foremost of those who came out to receive the
adopted son of Gentle Moonlight was Calvin, the young
Delaware chief who had been educated with Charles at
college. They embraced, and shed tears of joy, for they
had always been very intimate friends.

“They had concluded you would not come,” said
Calvin.

“And then they sent the Minisinks to seize me: did they
not?” demanded Charles.

“I think so,” said the other; “but they do not confess
it. Ha! I see you have Popcorn with you!”

“Yes, I'm back agin,” said Peter; “and when I set eyes
on those nasty Minisinks there'll be a fight.”

“Let me advise you to be peaceable,” said the other.
“You may get into danger.”

Peter, struck by his manner, remained silent. The
Rev. Mr. Jones was surrounded and welcomed by many
of his Indian acquaintances as they approached the town.

Very soon the news of the voluntary return of the
White Eagle spread through the village; and, when led by
his friends to one of the principal wigwams, he was clasped
in the arms of his foster-mother, who held him long in
silence, while the Brown Thrush, smiling and weeping
alternately, sang one of the wild songs Charles had so often
listened to with delight.

“My sister,” said Charles, when released from the embrace
of his mother, and at the same time kissing her tearful
cheek, “thou hast not forgotten the words of thy
brother when we parted many moons ago. It is the song
you promised to sing when he returned. And didst thou
never forget thy brother?”

“How could I?” said she. “The ripples murmured in
the bright sunlight, as they did when we played together on
the margin of the merry brook, and the soft sound was
like the low voice of my brother. The bright stars danced
in gentle glimmers, as they had done when we wandered
together in the silent night. The fawn you gave me followed
my lonely steps and bleated for thee. The wildroses
blossomed, and withered, and fell, because thou wert
away. And, oh, my brother, the Thrush was drooping
her head, and would have died, if thou hadst remained
with the Antelope! And thou dost ask if I did not sometimes
forget my brother? How could I?”

“Thou couldst not—nor I thee, my sister! In my
dreams we met again in the solitude of the great forest,
where the birds sang in safety and no rude foot crushed
the violets. We sat beneath the lofty arch of the giant
trees, and the sparkling waters murmured their low melody
at our feet. Ha-wen-no-yu, the great Father of all good
spirits, looked down from the blue sky and smiled upon us.
And he heard the prayer we uttered:—that, after age had
crept over us and we had closed our eyes upon the scenes
of this world, we might meet again in the great hunting-grounds,
and still wander together as loving sister and
brother.”

“And what did he speak?”

“He seemed to smile upon my request.”

“Then, oh, Kacha Manito, I pray thee bring age upon
us soon, so that we may close our eyes and depart for that
happy land! My brother, thy sister too has dreamed.
She thought thou wert separated from her by a great
chasm, over which neither of us could pass. And when you
attempted to leap over, the Antelope ran before thee; and
when I strove to come to thee, she frowned and bade me
remain; so there was no more happiness in this life, and
I prayed the good Kacha Manito to remove us both to that
happy land!”

“But these were merely dreams, my sister, and we
should not be troubled by them. You see I can come to
thee, and thou canst come to me. The Antelope will smile
when she beholds you, and beckon you over the chasm.
And thou must smile, too. The Thrush will love the Antelope;
and soon, when I return to my father, both you
and my mother must go with me.”

“My son,” said his foster-mother, after a short silence,
during which the musing maiden made no reply, “the warriors
of the nations are assembling at the Great Island,
between the broad lakes, (Ontario and Erie,) where the
council-fire is burning. From the shores of the salt water,
where the sun rises from the blue deep, to the rolling
prairies, where it sets, the chiefs are coming. They are
digging up their tomahawks and sharpening their arrows
for war. It was for this reason I sent thee word to come.
I longed to behold thee once more. And I desired that
thy voice might be heard in the council. Thou art my
representative, and they will listen to thy words. I will
go with thee, and the sweet Thrush shall sing the song of
peace on the way; and, when we see the smoke of the
council-fire ascending, it may charm the ear of the fierce
Thayendanegea, thy brother and her brother. And then,
if the hatchet be buried again, we will go with thee to thy
white-haired father, and behold the beautiful eyes of the
Antelope.”

“My mother,” said Charles, “your words sound like
music in my ear, and I will obey thee.”

Then, while a sumptuous repast was in preparation,
Charles regarded his Indian mother and sister in silent
admiration. They were fairer than most families of the
Iroquois, and, unlike the majority of them, had oval faces
and regular features of delicacy and beauty.

Bartholomew Calvin, the young Delaware chief, who
sat beside Charles, had lingered among the lakes much
longer than had been anticipated; and the Thrush was the
magnet which attracted him. Charles could not avoid
perceiving it, and he knew not whether to be angry or
pleased with his friend for presuming to love his sister.
But there were no indications of his passion being reciprocated;
and it was not to be supposed that either Gentle
Moonlight or the passionate Brandt would promote the

alliance, unless the “Tamed Terrapin,” as they called him,
or the degenerate son of the Algonquins, would throw away
his Christianity or his civilization and take up his abode
among them in the forest.