My first quite tall in Egypt grows,Above it hovers my second,My whole I’m sure each sportsman knows,And when cooked quite dainty reckoned.Ans.Reed-Bird.
My first quite tall in Egypt grows,Above it hovers my second,My whole I’m sure each sportsman knows,And when cooked quite dainty reckoned.Ans.Reed-Bird.
My first quite tall in Egypt grows,Above it hovers my second,My whole I’m sure each sportsman knows,And when cooked quite dainty reckoned.
My first quite tall in Egypt grows,
Above it hovers my second,
My whole I’m sure each sportsman knows,
And when cooked quite dainty reckoned.
Ans.Reed-Bird.
Ans.Reed-Bird.
My first, what is it? Scholars know,My second’s all the muses,My whole, a bark, in the south doth grow,And in fever oft we use it.Quinine.
My first, what is it? Scholars know,My second’s all the muses,My whole, a bark, in the south doth grow,And in fever oft we use it.Quinine.
My first, what is it? Scholars know,My second’s all the muses,My whole, a bark, in the south doth grow,And in fever oft we use it.
My first, what is it? Scholars know,
My second’s all the muses,
My whole, a bark, in the south doth grow,
And in fever oft we use it.
Quinine.
Quinine.
My first we say when we address a lady,My second’s a destructive insect,My whole is the greatest thing that ever lived.Mammoth.
My first we say when we address a lady,My second’s a destructive insect,My whole is the greatest thing that ever lived.Mammoth.
My first we say when we address a lady,My second’s a destructive insect,My whole is the greatest thing that ever lived.
My first we say when we address a lady,
My second’s a destructive insect,
My whole is the greatest thing that ever lived.
Mammoth.
Mammoth.
My first is a score,My second, if moreYou wish to know, you will use;My whole is a gameOf very good fame,And when well played will not fail to amuse.Twenty Questions.
My first is a score,My second, if moreYou wish to know, you will use;My whole is a gameOf very good fame,And when well played will not fail to amuse.Twenty Questions.
My first is a score,My second, if moreYou wish to know, you will use;My whole is a gameOf very good fame,And when well played will not fail to amuse.
My first is a score,
My second, if more
You wish to know, you will use;
My whole is a game
Of very good fame,
And when well played will not fail to amuse.
Twenty Questions.
Twenty Questions.
My first is part of a wheel,My second is half of a trifle “light as air,”And my whole is a commotion.Hubbub.
My first is part of a wheel,My second is half of a trifle “light as air,”And my whole is a commotion.Hubbub.
My first is part of a wheel,My second is half of a trifle “light as air,”And my whole is a commotion.
My first is part of a wheel,
My second is half of a trifle “light as air,”
And my whole is a commotion.
Hubbub.
Hubbub.
My first will make you think of smoke; my second of dust; my whole an aspiring mortal.
Chimney-Sweep.
My first is nought but empty sound,And yet we can’t converse without it;My second, when on earth ’tis found,Commands respect, though some may doubt it;My whole’s the name of a living poet,Both sweet, and simple in his lays,His name I’m sure when you do know it,You’ll one and all join in his praise.Wordsworth.
My first is nought but empty sound,And yet we can’t converse without it;My second, when on earth ’tis found,Commands respect, though some may doubt it;My whole’s the name of a living poet,Both sweet, and simple in his lays,His name I’m sure when you do know it,You’ll one and all join in his praise.Wordsworth.
My first is nought but empty sound,And yet we can’t converse without it;My second, when on earth ’tis found,Commands respect, though some may doubt it;My whole’s the name of a living poet,Both sweet, and simple in his lays,His name I’m sure when you do know it,You’ll one and all join in his praise.
My first is nought but empty sound,
And yet we can’t converse without it;
My second, when on earth ’tis found,
Commands respect, though some may doubt it;
My whole’s the name of a living poet,
Both sweet, and simple in his lays,
His name I’m sure when you do know it,
You’ll one and all join in his praise.
Wordsworth.
Wordsworth.
It is hard to tell whether my first or second has kindled the greater number of flames; my whole is the name of a celebrated manufacturer of an article without which royalty could not exist.
Warwick the King Maker.
Kids are little goats. Goats do not like to live in the streets and houses, like the dogs and pigs. Goats love to run and jump about in the country, and to gnaw the bark of trees. Goats give very thick, rich milk. People cannot carry cows to sea in ships, so they take goats, which are smaller than cows, and do not take up so much room in the ship. Without goats, the people in ships would not have milk for their tea.
Mary, a little girl, who lived in a place where there are many goats, taking a walk one day, found a little kid; its mother, the old goat, had left it—it was almost dead.
Mary felt sorry for the poor little kid; she took it up, hugged it in her arms, and carried it home with her. She begged her mother to let her keep the kid for her own; her mother gave her leave.
Mary and her GoatNEW-YORKD. APPLETON & CO. 200 BROADWAY.
NEW-YORK
D. APPLETON & CO. 200 BROADWAY.
Mary got a basket full of clean straw, and laid it on the warm hearth, for a bed for the kid. She warmed some milk, and held it to him to drink; the kid drank itand licked Mary’s hand for more. Mary was delighted when she saw him jump out of the basket, and run about the room; presently he lay down again and took a comfortable nap.
The next day, Mary gave her kid a name; he was an excellent jumper, so she called himCapriole. She showed him to all the family, and allowed her little brothers and sisters to stroke and pat him. Capriole soon followed Mary all about the house; trotted by her side into the yard; ran races with her in the field; fed out of her hand; and was a great pet at all times. Capriole soon grew troublesome; he thrust his nose into the meal tub, and flour box; and sometimes got a blow for sipping the milk.
Capriole’s little horns soon began to appear, and a white beard sprouted at the end of his chin; he grew bold enough to fight when he was angry, and sometimes threw down Colin, Mary’s little brother, into the dirt. Every body said, “Capriole is getting too saucy; he must be sent away, or be taught to behave better.” Mary always took his part, and indulged him very much. Capriole loved his little mistress dearly.
Near to Mary’s house, were some large fields, and some tall rocks; a little further off was a high hill. One fine summer’s day, Mary had finished her morning’s work, and wanted to play with her kid; shelooked about the house door, and could not see Capriole, she then ran to the field, and called aloud “Capriole! Capriole!” No Capriole came. She went on, and on, still calling her kid, but nothing was to be seen of him.
Her heart began to beat. “What can have become of him? Somebody must have stolen him—perhaps the neighbor’s dogs have killed him. Oh my Capriole! my dear Capriole! I shall never see you again.”
Mary began to cry, but she still went on, looking all round, calling “Capriole! Capriole!”
After a while she heard the voice of Capriole—she looked up, and saw her little goat standing on the edge of a high rock; she was afraid to call him, lest he should jump down, and break his neck. There was no danger; Capriole had run away from his mistress; he liked the fields and the rocks better than he liked Mary. She waited for him, however, till she was tired, and then went home and got her little brothers to go back with her to the foot of the hill. They carried some bread and milk for Capriole, but they could not persuade him back again; he had found a herd of goats, and they were playing together.
Mary went home crying to her mother, and told how Capriole had served her. “I’m sorry for you, my dear,” said her mother, “but take care, my daughter, not to loverun-a-waysany more.”
That part of the country round the thriving town of Utica, in the State of New York, and through which a railroad now runs, was formerly called Whitesborough, and there is now a small town joining Utica so called. The first settler in that part of the country was a Mr. White, after whom the place was named. At the time we speak of, there were numerous Indians living in the neighborhood; with them he had several interviews, and mutual promises of friendship were exchanged. He also smoked the pipe of peace with them, to confirm the contract more solemnly.
Still the Indians were suspicious. “The white men,” said they, “are deceitful, and we must have some proof of his sincerity.”
Accordingly, one evening, during Mr. White’s absence from home, three Indians went to his house. At first, Mrs. White and her children were much alarmed, but on perceiving one of the Indians to be Shen-an-do-ah, whom they knew to be a mild, humane man, theirfear was in some degree quieted. On entering the house, they addressed Mrs. White, saying, “We are come to ask you for your little daughter Jane, that we may take her home with us to-night.”
Such a request might well startle the good woman; she knew not what answer to give. To refuse might, she feared, excite their anger; to grant their request might hazard the liberty or even the life of her child.
Lucidly at this moment, whilst the Indians were waiting for a reply, Mr. White, the father of the child, came in. The request was repeated to him, and he had sufficient presence of mind to grant it, instantly and cheerfully.
The mother was overwhelmed with surprise, and felt all the horror that can be conceived; but she was silent, for she knew it would be vain to resist. The little girl was fetched, and delivered to the Indians, who lived about ten or twelve miles off.
Shen-an-do-ah took the child by the hand, and led her away through the woods, having first said to her father, “To-morrow, when the sun is high in the heavens, we will bring her back.”
Mrs. White had often heard that the Indians were treacherous; and she well knew they were cruel; she therefore looked upon her little daughter as lost, andconsidered that she was given as a kind of sacrifice to save the family.
Mr. White endeavored to comfort her, for he felt assured that his child would be brought safely back the following morning. To the poor mother the night was long and sleepless; her anxiety became greater as the promised time approached. Already she imagined that the Indians would keep their word, and indeed bring back their child, but she fully believed that they would not bring her back alive. She watched the sun with a beating heart, and just when it seemed at the highest point of the heavens, she cried out to her husband, “there they are!”
Shen-an-do-ah and his companions were faithful to their promise; they now came back with the little Jane, who, smiling with delight, was decked out in all the finery that an Indian wigwam could furnish—necklaces of shells, dyed feathers, and moccasins beautifully worked with porcupine quills. She was delighted with her visit and with her presents.
The effect of Mr. White’s confidence was just what might be expected. From this time the Indians were his friends; had he acted with timidity, and refused to let his child visit them, they would have had no confidence in him.
Shen-an-do-ah was an Oneida chief of some celebrity,having fought on the side of the Americans in the Revolutionary war. He lived to be a hundred years old, and though in his youth he was very wild, and addicted to drunkenness, yet by the force of his own good sense, and the benevolent exhortations of a Christian missionary, he lived a reformed man for more than sixty years.[3]He was intrepid in war, but mild and friendly in the time of peace. His vigilance once preserved the infant settlements of the German flats (on the Mohawk) from being cruelly massacred by a tribe of hostile Indians; his influence brought his own tribe to assist the Americans, and his many friendly actions in their behalf gained for him, among the Indian tribes, the appellation of the “White man’s friend.”
To one who went to see him a short time before his death, he thus expressed himself: “I am an aged hemlock—the winds of a hundred winters have whistled through my branches—I am dead at the top. The generation to which I belonged have passed away and left me. WhyIstill live, the Great Spirit alone knows! But I pray to him that I may have patience to wait for my appointed time to die.”
[3]In 1775 Shen-an-do-ah was present at a treaty made in Albany. At night he was excessively drunk, and in the morning he found himself in the street, stripped of all his ornaments, and every article of clothing. His pride revolted at his self-degradation, and he resolved never more to deliver himself over to the power of “strong water.”
[3]In 1775 Shen-an-do-ah was present at a treaty made in Albany. At night he was excessively drunk, and in the morning he found himself in the street, stripped of all his ornaments, and every article of clothing. His pride revolted at his self-degradation, and he resolved never more to deliver himself over to the power of “strong water.”
[3]In 1775 Shen-an-do-ah was present at a treaty made in Albany. At night he was excessively drunk, and in the morning he found himself in the street, stripped of all his ornaments, and every article of clothing. His pride revolted at his self-degradation, and he resolved never more to deliver himself over to the power of “strong water.”
’Twas night, and the cool and perfumed breeze,Breath’d soft mid the boughs of the waving trees,Or low to the wild wood-flowers it sigh’d,While the tiny buds to its tones replied;But when the gay music of fairy-glee,In the clear, calm midnight rose merrily,And a thousand glancing beings of air,Like countless gems held their revels there,It fled from the woods and the flowers away,And stole to a silent room, where layA dying girl:—Her mournful eyesLook’d out from their tears on the dark’ning skies,Where a single star in its glory shone,Like a haughty heart, bereft and lone.Round the marble brow waved the clust’ring hair,And the tiny hands were clasp’d as in pray’r;She spoke, and each low and trembling wordWas sad as the wail of the widow’d bird.“Oh! sweet is the spell that the zephyr flingsAs it sweeps o’er the wild harp’s silvery strings;And soft is the murmur’d minstrelsyOf the flashing waves on the summer sea;And the rain drops breathe, as they near the earth,A gladsome chorus of joy and mirth;The blue-bells ring ever in tones of glee,And a pleasant sound hath the humming bee;And though strangely sad is the spirit’s sigh,When the crimson clouds leave the evening sky,Yet when sunbeams burst on the sleeping flowers,With visions of streamlets and fragrant bowers,With a flush of joy on their petals bright,They ope with a chorus of wild delight.The gem that gleams on the velvet vest,That shelters each slumbering floweret’s breast,And has whisper’d all night of its home on high,Where its sisters dwell in the beaming sky,Takes a sweeter tone when the dawning dayBids it leave the earth on its heavenward way;The dancing brook murmurs a joyous tale,Of the leafy wood and mossy vale;And have ye not heard, when the shades of nightHung dark o’er the earth, and the stars were bright,A soft, sweet tone like the violet’s song,Or the lay of the waves as they glide along?But no! it is sweeter than they, by far,’Tis the spirit-strain of some wand’ring star.But softer than music of star or sea,Than dew drops’ murmur, or hum of the bee,Than the tale of the brook, or the song of the bird,Is the mystic spell of a gentle word;It falls on the heart as a summer showerOn the fading leaves of the thirsting flower;Like a beam of hope, with its cheering ray,It lightens the gloom of life’s weary way;And when the darkness of death draws near,And the spirit shrinks from a nameless fear,It tells the soul of a radiant shore,Where sorrow and sighing are known no more.But I am alone;—no loved one is nighTo bend kindly o’er me and pray e’er I die:I hear the clear song of the joyous bird,But I listen in vain foronegentle word.”Then an aged man with his locks of snow,Press’d an earnest kiss on her fever’d brow;She had knelt with him oft at the hour of prayer,In her childhood’s home, when the world seem’d fair,And a thousand flow’rs on her path were shed;—But now, when they all were faded and dead,And her heart was sad, and her soul most drear,And death hover’d o’er her, he only was near.“My child!”—he said—“though none o’er thee may weep,Fear not, for the angels a vigil shall keepBy thy lowly grave, and a requiem singFor the bud that died in its blossoming.Yon star that is shining so brightly above,Would tell thee a tale of God’s merciful love;For e’en asitglows through the darkness of night,Thyspirit shall beam in the land of light;Thy mother, my dear one, awaits thee on high,She would welcome her child to her home in the sky.”“My mother!” she murmur’d—a sweet smile play’dRound the tiny mouth, while the cool breeze stray’d’Mid the clustering curls on that low, pale brow,And breath’d on the cheek of stainless snow;But the dark eye was closed—the maiden ne’er stirred—Her spirit had passed with that gentle word.
’Twas night, and the cool and perfumed breeze,Breath’d soft mid the boughs of the waving trees,Or low to the wild wood-flowers it sigh’d,While the tiny buds to its tones replied;But when the gay music of fairy-glee,In the clear, calm midnight rose merrily,And a thousand glancing beings of air,Like countless gems held their revels there,It fled from the woods and the flowers away,And stole to a silent room, where layA dying girl:—Her mournful eyesLook’d out from their tears on the dark’ning skies,Where a single star in its glory shone,Like a haughty heart, bereft and lone.Round the marble brow waved the clust’ring hair,And the tiny hands were clasp’d as in pray’r;She spoke, and each low and trembling wordWas sad as the wail of the widow’d bird.“Oh! sweet is the spell that the zephyr flingsAs it sweeps o’er the wild harp’s silvery strings;And soft is the murmur’d minstrelsyOf the flashing waves on the summer sea;And the rain drops breathe, as they near the earth,A gladsome chorus of joy and mirth;The blue-bells ring ever in tones of glee,And a pleasant sound hath the humming bee;And though strangely sad is the spirit’s sigh,When the crimson clouds leave the evening sky,Yet when sunbeams burst on the sleeping flowers,With visions of streamlets and fragrant bowers,With a flush of joy on their petals bright,They ope with a chorus of wild delight.The gem that gleams on the velvet vest,That shelters each slumbering floweret’s breast,And has whisper’d all night of its home on high,Where its sisters dwell in the beaming sky,Takes a sweeter tone when the dawning dayBids it leave the earth on its heavenward way;The dancing brook murmurs a joyous tale,Of the leafy wood and mossy vale;And have ye not heard, when the shades of nightHung dark o’er the earth, and the stars were bright,A soft, sweet tone like the violet’s song,Or the lay of the waves as they glide along?But no! it is sweeter than they, by far,’Tis the spirit-strain of some wand’ring star.But softer than music of star or sea,Than dew drops’ murmur, or hum of the bee,Than the tale of the brook, or the song of the bird,Is the mystic spell of a gentle word;It falls on the heart as a summer showerOn the fading leaves of the thirsting flower;Like a beam of hope, with its cheering ray,It lightens the gloom of life’s weary way;And when the darkness of death draws near,And the spirit shrinks from a nameless fear,It tells the soul of a radiant shore,Where sorrow and sighing are known no more.But I am alone;—no loved one is nighTo bend kindly o’er me and pray e’er I die:I hear the clear song of the joyous bird,But I listen in vain foronegentle word.”Then an aged man with his locks of snow,Press’d an earnest kiss on her fever’d brow;She had knelt with him oft at the hour of prayer,In her childhood’s home, when the world seem’d fair,And a thousand flow’rs on her path were shed;—But now, when they all were faded and dead,And her heart was sad, and her soul most drear,And death hover’d o’er her, he only was near.“My child!”—he said—“though none o’er thee may weep,Fear not, for the angels a vigil shall keepBy thy lowly grave, and a requiem singFor the bud that died in its blossoming.Yon star that is shining so brightly above,Would tell thee a tale of God’s merciful love;For e’en asitglows through the darkness of night,Thyspirit shall beam in the land of light;Thy mother, my dear one, awaits thee on high,She would welcome her child to her home in the sky.”“My mother!” she murmur’d—a sweet smile play’dRound the tiny mouth, while the cool breeze stray’d’Mid the clustering curls on that low, pale brow,And breath’d on the cheek of stainless snow;But the dark eye was closed—the maiden ne’er stirred—Her spirit had passed with that gentle word.
’Twas night, and the cool and perfumed breeze,Breath’d soft mid the boughs of the waving trees,Or low to the wild wood-flowers it sigh’d,While the tiny buds to its tones replied;But when the gay music of fairy-glee,In the clear, calm midnight rose merrily,And a thousand glancing beings of air,Like countless gems held their revels there,It fled from the woods and the flowers away,And stole to a silent room, where layA dying girl:—
’Twas night, and the cool and perfumed breeze,
Breath’d soft mid the boughs of the waving trees,
Or low to the wild wood-flowers it sigh’d,
While the tiny buds to its tones replied;
But when the gay music of fairy-glee,
In the clear, calm midnight rose merrily,
And a thousand glancing beings of air,
Like countless gems held their revels there,
It fled from the woods and the flowers away,
And stole to a silent room, where lay
A dying girl:—
Her mournful eyesLook’d out from their tears on the dark’ning skies,Where a single star in its glory shone,Like a haughty heart, bereft and lone.Round the marble brow waved the clust’ring hair,And the tiny hands were clasp’d as in pray’r;She spoke, and each low and trembling wordWas sad as the wail of the widow’d bird.
Her mournful eyes
Look’d out from their tears on the dark’ning skies,
Where a single star in its glory shone,
Like a haughty heart, bereft and lone.
Round the marble brow waved the clust’ring hair,
And the tiny hands were clasp’d as in pray’r;
She spoke, and each low and trembling word
Was sad as the wail of the widow’d bird.
“Oh! sweet is the spell that the zephyr flingsAs it sweeps o’er the wild harp’s silvery strings;And soft is the murmur’d minstrelsyOf the flashing waves on the summer sea;And the rain drops breathe, as they near the earth,A gladsome chorus of joy and mirth;The blue-bells ring ever in tones of glee,And a pleasant sound hath the humming bee;And though strangely sad is the spirit’s sigh,When the crimson clouds leave the evening sky,Yet when sunbeams burst on the sleeping flowers,With visions of streamlets and fragrant bowers,With a flush of joy on their petals bright,They ope with a chorus of wild delight.The gem that gleams on the velvet vest,That shelters each slumbering floweret’s breast,And has whisper’d all night of its home on high,Where its sisters dwell in the beaming sky,Takes a sweeter tone when the dawning dayBids it leave the earth on its heavenward way;The dancing brook murmurs a joyous tale,Of the leafy wood and mossy vale;And have ye not heard, when the shades of nightHung dark o’er the earth, and the stars were bright,A soft, sweet tone like the violet’s song,Or the lay of the waves as they glide along?But no! it is sweeter than they, by far,’Tis the spirit-strain of some wand’ring star.But softer than music of star or sea,Than dew drops’ murmur, or hum of the bee,Than the tale of the brook, or the song of the bird,Is the mystic spell of a gentle word;It falls on the heart as a summer showerOn the fading leaves of the thirsting flower;Like a beam of hope, with its cheering ray,It lightens the gloom of life’s weary way;And when the darkness of death draws near,And the spirit shrinks from a nameless fear,It tells the soul of a radiant shore,Where sorrow and sighing are known no more.But I am alone;—no loved one is nighTo bend kindly o’er me and pray e’er I die:I hear the clear song of the joyous bird,But I listen in vain foronegentle word.”
“Oh! sweet is the spell that the zephyr flings
As it sweeps o’er the wild harp’s silvery strings;
And soft is the murmur’d minstrelsy
Of the flashing waves on the summer sea;
And the rain drops breathe, as they near the earth,
A gladsome chorus of joy and mirth;
The blue-bells ring ever in tones of glee,
And a pleasant sound hath the humming bee;
And though strangely sad is the spirit’s sigh,
When the crimson clouds leave the evening sky,
Yet when sunbeams burst on the sleeping flowers,
With visions of streamlets and fragrant bowers,
With a flush of joy on their petals bright,
They ope with a chorus of wild delight.
The gem that gleams on the velvet vest,
That shelters each slumbering floweret’s breast,
And has whisper’d all night of its home on high,
Where its sisters dwell in the beaming sky,
Takes a sweeter tone when the dawning day
Bids it leave the earth on its heavenward way;
The dancing brook murmurs a joyous tale,
Of the leafy wood and mossy vale;
And have ye not heard, when the shades of night
Hung dark o’er the earth, and the stars were bright,
A soft, sweet tone like the violet’s song,
Or the lay of the waves as they glide along?
But no! it is sweeter than they, by far,
’Tis the spirit-strain of some wand’ring star.
But softer than music of star or sea,
Than dew drops’ murmur, or hum of the bee,
Than the tale of the brook, or the song of the bird,
Is the mystic spell of a gentle word;
It falls on the heart as a summer shower
On the fading leaves of the thirsting flower;
Like a beam of hope, with its cheering ray,
It lightens the gloom of life’s weary way;
And when the darkness of death draws near,
And the spirit shrinks from a nameless fear,
It tells the soul of a radiant shore,
Where sorrow and sighing are known no more.
But I am alone;—no loved one is nigh
To bend kindly o’er me and pray e’er I die:
I hear the clear song of the joyous bird,
But I listen in vain foronegentle word.”
Then an aged man with his locks of snow,Press’d an earnest kiss on her fever’d brow;She had knelt with him oft at the hour of prayer,In her childhood’s home, when the world seem’d fair,And a thousand flow’rs on her path were shed;—But now, when they all were faded and dead,And her heart was sad, and her soul most drear,And death hover’d o’er her, he only was near.“My child!”—he said—“though none o’er thee may weep,Fear not, for the angels a vigil shall keepBy thy lowly grave, and a requiem singFor the bud that died in its blossoming.Yon star that is shining so brightly above,Would tell thee a tale of God’s merciful love;For e’en asitglows through the darkness of night,Thyspirit shall beam in the land of light;Thy mother, my dear one, awaits thee on high,She would welcome her child to her home in the sky.”
Then an aged man with his locks of snow,
Press’d an earnest kiss on her fever’d brow;
She had knelt with him oft at the hour of prayer,
In her childhood’s home, when the world seem’d fair,
And a thousand flow’rs on her path were shed;—
But now, when they all were faded and dead,
And her heart was sad, and her soul most drear,
And death hover’d o’er her, he only was near.
“My child!”—he said—“though none o’er thee may weep,
Fear not, for the angels a vigil shall keep
By thy lowly grave, and a requiem sing
For the bud that died in its blossoming.
Yon star that is shining so brightly above,
Would tell thee a tale of God’s merciful love;
For e’en asitglows through the darkness of night,
Thyspirit shall beam in the land of light;
Thy mother, my dear one, awaits thee on high,
She would welcome her child to her home in the sky.”
“My mother!” she murmur’d—a sweet smile play’dRound the tiny mouth, while the cool breeze stray’d’Mid the clustering curls on that low, pale brow,And breath’d on the cheek of stainless snow;But the dark eye was closed—the maiden ne’er stirred—Her spirit had passed with that gentle word.
“My mother!” she murmur’d—a sweet smile play’d
Round the tiny mouth, while the cool breeze stray’d
’Mid the clustering curls on that low, pale brow,
And breath’d on the cheek of stainless snow;
But the dark eye was closed—the maiden ne’er stirred—
Her spirit had passed with that gentle word.
The Indians have been frequently represented as almost devoid of natural affection, or indeed of feeling altogether; but this is a mistake, which probably arises from the great command over their feelings which they are in the habit of exercising, particularly when in the presence of strangers. Those persons who have had the best opportunities of knowing the real character of the Indians have remarked, amongst many other good traits, the great affection that they have for their children, and the respect which young people pay, not only to their own parents, but to all elderly people.
The children, both boys and girls, appear to be particularly under the care of their mother; she teaches them how to make leggins, moccasins, and many other things that have already been described; and if she be a good mother, as many of these poor squaws are, she is particular in keeping her daughters continually employed, so that they may have the reputation of beingindustrious girls, which is a recommendation to the young men to marry them.
Corporal punishment is very seldom resorted to for the correction of children; but if they commit any fault, it is common for the mother to blacken their faces and send them out of the lodge: when this is done, they are not allowed to eat till it is washed off, and sometimes they are kept a whole day in this situation, as a punishment for their misconduct.
There is a considerable difference in the manners and characters of different tribes, some being brave, honorable, and generous, while others are noted for their treacherous disposition and filthy habits. In many tribes their families appear to be well regulated, and great pains are taken by the chiefs and principal men to impress upon the minds of the younger part of their respective nations what they conceive to be their duty.
When the boys are six or seven years of age, a small bow and arrows are put into their hands, and they are sent out to shoot birds around the lodge or village: this they continue to do five or six years, and then their father procures for them short guns, and they begin to hunt ducks, geese, and small game. In the winter evenings their father will relate to them the manner of approaching a deer, elk, or buffalo, and describe the manner of setting traps for different animals:when he is able, he will take them a hunting with him, and show them the tracks of wild beasts. To all these instructions the boys pay the most earnest attention.
The Indians generally appear to be more afflicted at the loss of an infant, or young child, than of a person who has arrived at mature years; the latter, they think, can provide for himself in the country whither he has gone, but the former is too young to provide for himself.
The men appear ashamed to show any signs of grief at the loss of any relation, however dear he might have been to them; but the women do not attempt to conceal their feelings; and on the loss of either husband or child, they cut off their hair, disfigure their faces and limbs with black paint, and even with cuts, and burn all their clothes excepting a few miserable rags.
A striking display of the strong affection that an Indian feels for his child occurred some years since in a town in Maine. One of the Kennebec tribe, remarkable for his good conduct, had received a grant of land from the State, and settled himself in a part of the country where several families were already settled. Though by no means ill-treated, yet the common prejudice against Indians prevented any sympathy with him; and he felt this keenly, when, at the death of his only child, none of his neighbors came near him to attend the funeral.
A few months afterwards he announced his intention of leaving the village: he called on some of the inhabitants, and expressed himself in the following manner:—“When white man’s child die,” said he, “Indian man be sorry; he help bury him. When my child die, no one speak to me—I make his grave alone—I can no live here.” He gave up his farm,dug up the body of his child, and carried it with him two hundred miles, through the forest, to join the Canadian Indians.
Not long after the first English settlers had established themselves in Pennsylvania, during the winter a white man’s child strayed away from his parent’s house; and after having in vain been sought in every direction by the parents for a whole day and night, the father resolved to apply for assistance to one of his Indian neighbors, with whom he had always lived on friendly terms. He knew the superior facility with which the Indians, who are in the habit of constantly roaming the woods, can detect and distinguish objects of sight and sound.
Osamee, for that was the name of the friendly Indian, immediately went to the house of the parents, and looking attentively round it, soon discovered the little footsteps of a child, and the direction which they had taken; and although the child’s father could hardly discover the marks and signs by which he was guided,he followed the track with as much apparent ease and confidence as an English traveler would a turnpike road, and after tracing it for about three miles into the forest, he found the poor child lying under a tree, crying bitterly, and almost perishing with cold.
This little incident was the means of reconciling some of the white people to the near settlement of the Indians, of whom they had been in dread; but they now rather rejoiced in having such good neighbors; and it would have been well for both parties if the good feelings shown by the Indians to the first settlers in some hundreds of instances had met with such a return as men calling themselves Christians were bound to make; but, alas! it was far otherwise.
An anecdote which has been preserved, concerning an old Mohegan Indian named Wa-nou, affords a striking example of the strong affection of a father towards his only son.
During the frequent wars which took place between the Indians and the white men, the former had defeated a party of English soldiers, and put them to flight. The retreat being without order, a young English officer, in attempting to escape, was pursued by two of the savages, and finding an escape impracticable, he determined to sell his life as dear as possible. He turned round to face his enemies, and a violent conflict commenced, inwhich he must have soon fallen; but just as one of his assailants was about to raise the fatal tomahawk over his head, an old Indian threw himself between the combatants, and the red men instantly retired with respect.
The old man took the young officer by the hand, dispelled his fears, and led him through the forest to his wigwam, where he treated him with the greatest kindness. He seemed to take pleasure in the youth’s company; he was his constant companion; he taught him his language, and made the rude arts of his countrymen familiar to him. They lived happily together, though the thoughts of home would occasionally disturb the Englishman’s tranquillity, and for awhile his countenance appeared sorrowful. At these times Wa-nou would survey his young friend attentively, and while he fixed his eyes upon him, the tears would start into them.
On the return of spring, hostilities were recommenced, and every warrior appeared in arms. Wa-nou, whose strength was still sufficient to support the toils of war, set out with the rest, accompanied by his prisoner. The Indians having marched above two hundred miles, at length arrived within sight of the English camp. Wa-nou observed the young man’s countenance whilst he showed him the camp of his countrymen. “There are thy brethren,” said he, “waiting to fight us. Listento me. I have saved thy life. I have taught thee to make a canoe, a bow and arrows; to hunt the bear and the buffalo; to bring down the deer at full speed, and to outwit even the cunning fox. What wast thou when I first led thee to my wigwam? Thy hands were like those of a child; they served neither to support nor to defend thee; thou wert ignorant, but from me thou hast learnt every thing. Wilt thou be ungrateful, and raise up thine arm against the red men?”
The young Englishman declared with much warmth, that he would rather lose his own life than shed the blood of one of his Indian friends. The old warrior seemed to be overcome by some painful recollection; he covered his face with his hands, bowed down his head, and remained in that posture for some time; then, making as it were a strong effort, he again looked at the young man, and said to him in a tone mixed with tenderness and grief, “Hast thou a father?”
“He was living,” said the young man, “when I left my country.”
“Oh, how fortunate he is still to have a son!” cried the Indian; and then, after a minute’s silence, he added, “Knowest thou that I have been a father, but I am no longer so? I saw my son fall in battle; he fought bravely by my side; my son fell covered with wounds,and he died like a man! but I revenged his death; yes, Irevengedit.”
Wa-nou pronounced these words with great vehemence; his whole frame seemed agitated; his eyes lost their usual serenity, and his chest heaved with deep sighs. By degrees he became more calm, and, turning towards the east, where the sun had just risen, he said,—
“Young man, thou seest that glorious light—does it afford thee any pleasure to behold it?”
“Yes,” replied the Englishman, “I never look upon the rising sun without pleasure, or without feeling thankful to our great Father who created it.”
“I am glad that thou art happy, but there is no more pleasure for me,” said Wa-nou. A moment after, he showed the young man a shrub that was in full bloom.
“Seest thou that beautiful plant?” said he. “Hast thou any pleasure in beholding it?”
“Yes, great pleasure,” replied the young man.
“To me, it can no longer give pleasure,” said the old man: and then, after embracing the young Englishman with great affection, he concluded with these words: “Begone, hasten to thine own country, that thy father may still have pleasure in beholding the rising sun and the flowers of spring.”
Some of the most interesting anecdotes of the early years of Washington, are such as connect him with his mother, or were derived from her narrations. She was a dignified and excellent woman, and is remembered with respect and love, by all who had the honor of her acquaintance.
Her husband died while their children were young. So, she had the sole care of their government and education. For this great charge she was eminently qualified. She was often asked what course she had pursued, in training up her illustrious son. And her reply was, “I only requiredobedience,diligence, andtruth.”
These were the simple rules by which Washington became good and great. They were wrought in with the elements of his character, until hisgoodness became greatness, and hisgreatness, goodness. Is there any thing, in these three precepts ofobedience,diligence,andtruth, which those who read this work are unwilling or careless to observe?
Washington, when a boy, was taught to be accurate in all his statements. He told things exactly as they were, and repeated words just as they had been spoken. If he had committed a fault, he did not try to conceal it, or lay the blame upon others.
Whatever his errors were, and the best child in the world sometimes does wrong, he always spoke of them to his mother, without disguise, and without delay. This was the foundation of that noble frankness, and contempt of deceit, which distinguished him through life, and made him revered by all.
Once, from an indiscretion of his boyhood, a considerable loss was incurred. He knew that it would interfere with favorite plans of his mother, give pain to her feelings, and perhaps awaken her severe displeasure. But he did not hesitate in his duty. He went immediately to her, and made a full acknowledgment; and she said, “I had rather this should have taken place, than my son should be guilty of a falsehood.”
She was careful not to injure him by indulgence, or luxurious food. She required him to rise early, and never permitted him to be idle. Labors were sometimesassigned him, which the children of wealthy parents might have accounted severe. Thus he acquired strength, firmness of frame, and disregard of hardship.
He was taught to have certain hours for certain employments, and to be punctual. The systematic improvement of time, thus early taught, was of immense service when the mighty concerns of a nation devolved on him. Then he found leisure for the transaction of the smallest affairs, in the midst of the most important and conflicting duties.
It was observed, by those who surrounded his person, that he neglected nothing, and was never known to be in a hurry. He was remarkable for neatness, yet spent but little time in arranging his dress.
His habits of early rising, and strict attention to order, gave him time for every thing, so that the pressure of public business never rendered him inattentive to private duty, domestic courtesy, or kind hospitality. In winter, he rose two hours before day, and in summer was ready to enjoy the freshness and beauty of the dawn.
Such benefits did a man, whom the world beheld with admiration, derive from the counsels of a mother, who accustomed him to habits of early rising, order,and industry. His obedience to her was cheerful and unvarying. Even after he attained mature years, and a nation regarded him as its deliverer and ruler, the expression of her slightest wish was a law.
THE END.