THE WILD ROSE.
Maud was a funny little thing; she was so fat that she could scarcely waddle. Her eyes were so round, and so black, and so full of fun! her cheeks so plump and red, her shoulders so white and dimpled, and her hands looked like two little white pincushions. Maud was a country child, as you might know. Her parents were good, honest farming-people, who were not afraid of rain, or sun, or dew; who worked hard from Saturday till Monday, and from Monday till Saturday again; who owed nobody a cent, owned the farm they lived on, and were as contented and happy as two persons could possibly be.
Maud had no nursery-maid—not she. Maud took care of herself, and liked it right well too. She toddled round after her mother, into the dairy-room, into the kitchen, up chamber, out to the well, over to the barn, crowing, laughing, tumbling and picking herself up again, for her mother was too busy to stop to do it; eating bits of bread, drinking drops of milk, peepinginto every thing she saw, and educating herself, as nobody else could possibly do; and when she tumbled into her little bed at night, she slept so soundly, that the old rooster had hard work to crow her awake the next morning. Maud’s playthings were corn-cobs, squashes, clothes-pins, rusty nails, broken broom-handles, bits of string, and a broken snuff-box—then there were the hens and chickens, who went in and out of the house whenever they liked, and the old horse, who often stepped his hoofs inside the back door, to see how things were going on; beside a little lamb and a flock of geese, who made noise enough for a small regiment. Yes, Maud had enough to do. It is city children, with a whole nursery full of toys and half a dozen nurses to take care of them, who are always crying because they “don’t know what to do.”
One morning, when little Maud was sitting on the door-step watching the old hens catch grasshoppers, a woman came through the gate and up the path toward the house. Maud did not run away; she liked the looks of the strange woman with moccasins on her feet, embroidered in bright-colored beads, with a gay blanket pinned round her shoulders, and a man’s hat on her head, with a bright red feather in it.
“Pretty papoose,” said the Indian woman, looking atlittle Maud’s rosy face and black eyes; “pretty papoose;” and down she sat beside Maud on the door-step. Maud did not know that papoose meant baby. In fact, she did not think any thing about it, she was so busy looking at something on the Indian woman’s back that was bobbing up and down inside her shawl. Maud thought perhaps it was a cat or a kitten, and she put out her little hand to feel of it.
“Want to see Indian papoose,” said the strange woman to Maud, and reaching her hands up over her head, she pulled off her back from under her shawl, a little brown Indian baby, with twinkling black eyes, and hair as black as ink.
Maud’s mother hearing some one talking on the door-step, came out with her sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and spots of flour all over her check apron, for she was making some good country pies. When she saw the Indian woman, she took her papoose in her arms, and invited her to come in to the kitchen and get some dinner; for country folks are always kind to travelers. So the woman said, “Good,” and went in, and the little brown baby seemed to think it was “good” too, when Maud put a crust of bread in its fist for it to nibble. Then the Indian woman asked leave to light her pipe, for she was as fond of smoking as any Broadway loafer,and down she sat on the kitchen door-step—puff—puff—puff—while Maud’s mother stepped round to get her breakfast ready. The little Indian papoose did not laugh when Maud said “boo” to it, and touched its dusky chin with her little white forefinger. It looked as solemn as a judge, as it lay there twinkling its beadlike black eyes. Little sociable Maud did not like that; when she played with her spotted kitty, the good-natured kitty always said “purr—purr—purr;” when she went out to see the little frisky, pink, and white pigs, they ran up to the side of the pig-stye and said, “ugh! ugh! ugh!” when she met the old rooster, he halloed out as loud as he could, “cock-a-doodle-do!” the horse said “neigh!” the cow said “moo!” the dog Ponto said “bow-wow!” and that little Indian papoose was as dumb as a dead toad, and would not even laugh. Maud did not like such solemn babies.
When the Indian woman had eaten her breakfast, she said “good” again; then she asked Maud’s mother if she and the other Indians could have some trees which stood on the farm, “down in the lot;” they wanted the bark from them to make into baskets to sell, to buy blankets with. Maud’s mother said “she would ask John,” meaning Maud’s papa; and if he said yes, they might have them; but John was gone off in the fields,nobody knew where. And so the Indian woman knocked the ashes out of her pipe, strapped the solemn little papoose on her back, and tramped off, down the road, looking like a picture in her gay feathers, and bright blanket, as she wound in and out among the trees.
Perhaps you think because Maud’s papa had to plow, and hoe, and rake, and dig, that he had no time to play with his little girl. Ah, you are mightily mistaken; the minute the old farmer turned the corner of the road, which led up to the house, he gave a loud whistle for little Maud; she heard it, with her little sharp ears, and out she toddled, out the gate, and down the road, with her brown hair blowing about her rosy face, and her eyes all a glow with love and fun; then the old farmer would open his arms wide to catch her, and then she would laugh such a musical laugh that it made the little birds jealous; and then the old farmer would hoist Maud up on his broad, strong shoulder, her fat little calves dangling, and one round arm thrown about his neck, and away they would go under the trees, home. Then when they got there, they went into the kitchen (the floor of which was as white as snow), and the farmer would wash his sun-burned face, and honest brown hands, and then sitting down to the supper-table with his good wife opposite him, and Maud on his knee, he would thank God forthem both, and ask His blessing on their supper; and the setting sun streaming in at the window on his silver hair, would light up little Maud’s sweet innocent face till you could almost believe it to be an angel’s.
After John, and his wife, and Maud, had finished their supper, Maud’s mother told John what the Indian woman said about wanting the bark of his trees to make baskets of.
John crossed his arms on the table, and leaning over it, so as to look his wife full in the face said, “Jenny! I can understand why the Lord made snakes, and musquitoes, and rats, and cockroaches, but I never could understand why an Indian was made. Now, I don’t want to hate any thing He has seen fit to make; but I should rather no Indians would cross my path. As to the trees, I can find a better use for them than to make Indian baskets of them, and so I told one of the tribe whom I met over yonder in the woods, a cut-throat looking rascal he was too.”
“Oh, John,” said Jenny, looking fearfully at little Maud; “I am always so careful to be friendly with those Indians.”
John laughed heartily, and getting up stretched out his brawny arms, as if it were impossible for any danger to come near any one whomheloved.
It was twelve o’clock of a bright Saturday noon. John’s wife had been very busy all the morning making pickles; now she took in her hand the huge bell to call John in to dinner, and rang it loudly outside the door. John heard its clear sharp tones, and stopping only to plow to the end of a furrow, unyoked his oxen, and trudged whistling home. “Where is Maud?” he asked, as he sat down to his smoking-hot dinner. “Out in the garden,” said his wife, “busy as a bee, picking berries in her little tin pail.”
John went to the door and whistled, shading his eyes with his hand, as he did so, to see if his pet were near.
He listened; no merry laugh met his ear. Ah, Maud must be hiding, for fun, amid the tall currant-bushes; the little rogue! and John crossed over the garden, to look for her. No, she was not there; nor swinging on the low branches of the great apple-tree; nor up in the barn, where the old horse contentedly munched his oats, and the little gray mice scampered over the floor, for grain; nor up on the log, peeping into the pig-stye; nor at the spring, looking at the darting little fish. Where was she? John went back to the house.
“The Indians!” was all Maud’s mother could whisper,through her white lips, as her husband returned alone.
“Pshaw!” said John, but his brow grew dark, and snatching up his hat, he darted across the fields and plunged into the woods.
Maud’s mother stood in the door-way, looking after him and helplessly wringing her hands. When he disappeared she went back into the kitchen, and set the untasted dinner down to the fire, for John, and moved about here and there as if it were a relief to her not to sit still. Maud’s kitty came up and purred round her feet, and then Maud’s mother, unable to keep back the tears, bowed her head upon her hands and wept aloud.
The long afternoon crept slowly on; the sun stole in to the west sitting-room window; and still no tidings of little Maud or John. It was so weary waiting; if she had only gone with John to look for her child; but it was too late now. No, why should not she look too? any thing were better than sitting there, hour after hour, in such misery. Throwing a shawl over her head, Maud’s mother passed through the gate and out into the open fields. Oh, how desolate they looked to her now: and yet the ripe grain waved before the breeze, the trees bent to the ground with their golden fruit, andlarge fields of buckwheat waved their snowy blossoms, to reward the farmer’s industry and care. But what were rich crops to them if Maud were not found? Maud, for whom they toiled so gladly, early and late; Maud, the sunshine of their cottage home? and then the poor mother thought of all her pretty little winning ways; she remembered how that very morning, she had climbed upon a chair, when she was busy in the dairy-room, and put up her rosy mouth to kiss her. Oh, if harm should come to her! No, surely God would care for one so pure and innocent.
Hark, what is that? other footsteps beside hers are in the woods. Can it be John? John and Maud? No, it is an Indian; she sees the fluttering blanket, the red feather, ’tis the very woman who smoked the pipe in her own kitchen, but yesterday. Oh, surelyshecould not have stolen Maud, and the poor troubled mother strained her eyes and pressed her hand tightly over her heart. The Indian woman had something in her arms, but the blanket is wrapped about it, it is not her own baby, no, that is strapped as usual upon her back; now she lifts the blanket; ’tis Maud, Maud! and with a wild cry, the poor mother runs to the Indian woman, and clasping her feet, says, “I was kind toyourchild. Oh, give memine.”
And then the Indian woman told her, partly by signs partly by words, that one of the tribe, to whom John had spoken about the trees, stole Maud, because he was angry with John, and brought her away to their encampment; but that when she saw the child she remembered her, and told the Indian (who was her own brother), that he must not harm Maud, but must give the child to her to take back, because its mother had fed her and lighted her pipe at her fire, and so Nemekee gave up Maud, and the good Indian woman was hurrying back with the child to her own home. Poor little Maud, she was too frightened to cry, but she reached out her little trembling hands to her mother, and nestled her head in her bosom, like a timid little dove when the hungry hawk is near.
At nightfall, John came slowly home; he looked a year older since morning; no tidings yet of the little wanderer. He had been to the spot of the Indian encampment, but the tents were gone, and only a blackened heap, where they had cooked their food, marked the spot. What should he tell his poor weeping wife?
Ah! there were tears and smiles under that little cot-roof, that night; nor did John and his wife forget to thank Him who noteth even the fall of the sparrow, and who had safely returned their little lost lamb.