Chapter Thirteen.Through the Forest.As we passed up the street, I was conscious of being the subject of Swampville speculation. Staring faces at the windows, and gaping groups around the doors, proved by their looks and gestures, that I was regarded as a rare spectacle. It could scarcely be my companion who was the object of this universal curiosity. A buckskin hunting-shirt was an everyday sight in Swampville—not so a well-mountedmilitaryman, armed, uniformed, and equipped. No doubt, my splendid Arab,caracolingas if he had not been out of the stable for a week, came in for a large share of the admiration.We were soon beyond its reach. Five minutes sufficed to carry us out of sight of the Swampvillians: for, in that short space of time, we had cleared the suburbs of the “city,” and were riding under the shadows of an unbroken forest. Its cold gloom gave instantaneous relief—shading us at one and the same time from the fiery sun, and the glances of vulgar observation through which we had run the gauntlet. I at least enjoyed the change; and for some minutes we rode silently on, my guide keeping in advance of me.This mode of progression was not voluntary, but a necessity, arising from the nature of the road—which was a mere “trace” or bridle-path “blazed” across the forest. No wheel had ever made its track in the soft deep mud—into which, at every step, our steeds sank far above the fetlocks—and, as there was not room for two riders abreast, I followed the injunction of my companion by keeping my horse’s head “at the tail o’ his’n.” In this fashion we progressed for a mile or more, through a tract of what is termed “bottom-timber”—a forest of those gigantic water-loving trees—the sycamore and cotton-wood. Their tall grey trunks rose along the path, standing thickly on each side, and sometimes in regular rows, like the columns of a grand temple. I felt a secret satisfaction in gazing upon these colossal forms: for my heart hailed them as the companions of my future solitude. At the same time I could not help the reflection, that, if my new estate was thus heavily encumbered, the clearing of the squatter was not likely to be extended beyond whatever limits the axe of Mr Holt had already assigned to it.A little further on, the path began to ascend. We had passed out of the bottom-lands, and were crossing a ridge, which forms thedividebetween Mud Creek and the Obion River. The soil was now a dry gravel, with less signs of fertility, and covered with a pine-forest. The trees were of slender growth; and at intervals their trunks stood far apart, giving us an opportunity to ride side by side. This was exactly what I wanted: as I was longing for a conversation with my new acquaintance.Up to this time, he had observed a profound silence; but for all that, I fancied he was not disinclined to a littlecauserie. His reserve seemed to spring from a sense of modest delicacy—as if he did not desire to take the initiative. I relieved him from this embarrassment, by opening the dialogue:—“What sort of a gentleman is this Mr Holt?”“Gentleman!”“Yes—what sort ofpersonis he?”“Oh, what sort o’ person. Well, stranger, he’s what we, in these parts, call a rough customer.”“Indeed?”“Rayther, I shed say.”“Is he what you call a poor man?”“All that I reckon. He hain’t got nothin’, as I knows on, ’ceptin’ his old critter o’ a hoss, an’ his clarin’ o’ a couple o’ acres or thereabout; besides, he onlysquatsupon that.”“He’s only a squatter, then?”“That’s all, stranger; tho’ I reckon he considers the clarin’ as much his own as I do my bit o’ ground, that’s been bought an’ paid for.”“Indeed?”“Yes—I shedn’t like to be the party that would buy it over his head.”The speaker accompanied these words with a significant glance, which seemed to say, “I wonder if that’shisbusiness here.”“Has he any family?”“Thar’s one—a young critter o’ a girl.”“That all?” I asked—seeing that my companion hesitated, as if he had something more to say, but was backward about declaring it.“No, stranger—thar war another girl—older than this ’un.”“And she?”“She—she’s gone away.”“Married, I suppose?”“That’s what nobody ’bout here can tell nor whar she’s gone, neyther.”The tone in which the young fellow spoke had suddenly altered from gay to grave; and, by a glimpse of the moonlight, I could perceive that his countenance was shadowed and sombre. I could have but little doubt as to the cause of this transformation. It was to be found in the subject of our conversation—the absent daughter of the squatter. From motives of delicacy I refrained from pushing my inquiries farther; but, indeed, I should have been otherwise prevented from doing so: for, just at that moment, the road once more narrowed, and we were forced apart. By the eager urging of his horse into the dark path, I could perceive that the hunter was desirous of terminating a dialogue—to him, in all probability, suggestive of bitter memories.For another half hour we rode on in silence—my companion apparently buried in a reverie of thought—myself speculating on the chances of an unpleasant encounter: which, from the hints I had just had, was now rather certain than probable. Instead of a welcome from the squatter, and a bed in the corner of his cabin, I had before my mind the prospect of a wordy war; and, perhaps afterwards, of spending my night in the woods. Once or twice, I was on the point of proclaiming my errand, and asking the young hunter for advice as how I should act; but as I had not yet ascertained whether he was friend or foe of my future hypothetical antagonist, I thought it more prudent to keep my secret to myself.His voice again fell upon my ear—this time in a more cheerful tone. It was simply to say, that I “might shortly expect a better road—we were approaching a ‘gleed;’ beyont that the trace war wider, an’ we might ride thegither again.”We were just entering the glade, as he finished speaking—an opening in the woods of limited extent. The contrast between it and the dark forest-path we had traversed was striking—as the change itself was pleasant. It was like emerging suddenly from darkness into daylight: for the full moon, now soaring high above the spray of the forest, filled the glade with the ample effulgence of her light. The dew-besprinkled flowers were sparkling like gems; and, even though it was night, their exquisite aroma had reached us afar off in the forest. There was not a breath of air stirring; and the unruffled leaves presented the sheen of shining metal. Under the clear moonlight, I could distinguish the varied hues of the frondage—that of the red maple from the scarlet sumacs and sassafras laurels; and these again, from the dark-green of the Carolina bay-trees, and the silvery foliage of theMagnolia glauca.Even before entering the glade, this magnificent panorama had burst upon my sight—from a little embayment that formed thedebouchureof the path—and I had drawn bridle, in order for a moment to enjoy its contemplation. The young hunter was still the length of his horse in advance of me; and I was about requesting him to pull up; but before I could give utterance to the words, I saw him make halt of himself. This, however, was done in so awkward and hurried a manner, that I at once turned from gazing upon the scene, and fixed my eyes upon my companion. As if by an involuntary effort, he had drawn his horse almost upon his haunches: and was now stiffly seated in the saddle, with blanched cheeks and eyes sparkling in their sockets—as if some object of terror was before him! I did not ask for an explanation. I knew that the object that so strangely affected him must be visible—though not from the point where I had halted.A touch of the spur brought my horse alongside his, and gave me a view of the whole surface of the glade. I looked in the direction indicated by the attitude of the hunter: for—apparently paralysed by some terrible surprise—he had neither pointed nor spoken.A little to the right of the path, I beheld a white object lying along the ground—a dead tree, whose barkless trunk and smooth naked branches gleamed under the moonlight with the whiteness of a blanched skeleton. In front of this, and a pace or two from it, was a dark form, upright and human-like. Favoured by the clear light of the moon, I had no difficulty in distinguishing the form to be that of a woman.
As we passed up the street, I was conscious of being the subject of Swampville speculation. Staring faces at the windows, and gaping groups around the doors, proved by their looks and gestures, that I was regarded as a rare spectacle. It could scarcely be my companion who was the object of this universal curiosity. A buckskin hunting-shirt was an everyday sight in Swampville—not so a well-mountedmilitaryman, armed, uniformed, and equipped. No doubt, my splendid Arab,caracolingas if he had not been out of the stable for a week, came in for a large share of the admiration.
We were soon beyond its reach. Five minutes sufficed to carry us out of sight of the Swampvillians: for, in that short space of time, we had cleared the suburbs of the “city,” and were riding under the shadows of an unbroken forest. Its cold gloom gave instantaneous relief—shading us at one and the same time from the fiery sun, and the glances of vulgar observation through which we had run the gauntlet. I at least enjoyed the change; and for some minutes we rode silently on, my guide keeping in advance of me.
This mode of progression was not voluntary, but a necessity, arising from the nature of the road—which was a mere “trace” or bridle-path “blazed” across the forest. No wheel had ever made its track in the soft deep mud—into which, at every step, our steeds sank far above the fetlocks—and, as there was not room for two riders abreast, I followed the injunction of my companion by keeping my horse’s head “at the tail o’ his’n.” In this fashion we progressed for a mile or more, through a tract of what is termed “bottom-timber”—a forest of those gigantic water-loving trees—the sycamore and cotton-wood. Their tall grey trunks rose along the path, standing thickly on each side, and sometimes in regular rows, like the columns of a grand temple. I felt a secret satisfaction in gazing upon these colossal forms: for my heart hailed them as the companions of my future solitude. At the same time I could not help the reflection, that, if my new estate was thus heavily encumbered, the clearing of the squatter was not likely to be extended beyond whatever limits the axe of Mr Holt had already assigned to it.
A little further on, the path began to ascend. We had passed out of the bottom-lands, and were crossing a ridge, which forms thedividebetween Mud Creek and the Obion River. The soil was now a dry gravel, with less signs of fertility, and covered with a pine-forest. The trees were of slender growth; and at intervals their trunks stood far apart, giving us an opportunity to ride side by side. This was exactly what I wanted: as I was longing for a conversation with my new acquaintance.
Up to this time, he had observed a profound silence; but for all that, I fancied he was not disinclined to a littlecauserie. His reserve seemed to spring from a sense of modest delicacy—as if he did not desire to take the initiative. I relieved him from this embarrassment, by opening the dialogue:—“What sort of a gentleman is this Mr Holt?”
“Gentleman!”
“Yes—what sort ofpersonis he?”
“Oh, what sort o’ person. Well, stranger, he’s what we, in these parts, call a rough customer.”
“Indeed?”
“Rayther, I shed say.”
“Is he what you call a poor man?”
“All that I reckon. He hain’t got nothin’, as I knows on, ’ceptin’ his old critter o’ a hoss, an’ his clarin’ o’ a couple o’ acres or thereabout; besides, he onlysquatsupon that.”
“He’s only a squatter, then?”
“That’s all, stranger; tho’ I reckon he considers the clarin’ as much his own as I do my bit o’ ground, that’s been bought an’ paid for.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes—I shedn’t like to be the party that would buy it over his head.”
The speaker accompanied these words with a significant glance, which seemed to say, “I wonder if that’shisbusiness here.”
“Has he any family?”
“Thar’s one—a young critter o’ a girl.”
“That all?” I asked—seeing that my companion hesitated, as if he had something more to say, but was backward about declaring it.
“No, stranger—thar war another girl—older than this ’un.”
“And she?”
“She—she’s gone away.”
“Married, I suppose?”
“That’s what nobody ’bout here can tell nor whar she’s gone, neyther.”
The tone in which the young fellow spoke had suddenly altered from gay to grave; and, by a glimpse of the moonlight, I could perceive that his countenance was shadowed and sombre. I could have but little doubt as to the cause of this transformation. It was to be found in the subject of our conversation—the absent daughter of the squatter. From motives of delicacy I refrained from pushing my inquiries farther; but, indeed, I should have been otherwise prevented from doing so: for, just at that moment, the road once more narrowed, and we were forced apart. By the eager urging of his horse into the dark path, I could perceive that the hunter was desirous of terminating a dialogue—to him, in all probability, suggestive of bitter memories.
For another half hour we rode on in silence—my companion apparently buried in a reverie of thought—myself speculating on the chances of an unpleasant encounter: which, from the hints I had just had, was now rather certain than probable. Instead of a welcome from the squatter, and a bed in the corner of his cabin, I had before my mind the prospect of a wordy war; and, perhaps afterwards, of spending my night in the woods. Once or twice, I was on the point of proclaiming my errand, and asking the young hunter for advice as how I should act; but as I had not yet ascertained whether he was friend or foe of my future hypothetical antagonist, I thought it more prudent to keep my secret to myself.
His voice again fell upon my ear—this time in a more cheerful tone. It was simply to say, that I “might shortly expect a better road—we were approaching a ‘gleed;’ beyont that the trace war wider, an’ we might ride thegither again.”
We were just entering the glade, as he finished speaking—an opening in the woods of limited extent. The contrast between it and the dark forest-path we had traversed was striking—as the change itself was pleasant. It was like emerging suddenly from darkness into daylight: for the full moon, now soaring high above the spray of the forest, filled the glade with the ample effulgence of her light. The dew-besprinkled flowers were sparkling like gems; and, even though it was night, their exquisite aroma had reached us afar off in the forest. There was not a breath of air stirring; and the unruffled leaves presented the sheen of shining metal. Under the clear moonlight, I could distinguish the varied hues of the frondage—that of the red maple from the scarlet sumacs and sassafras laurels; and these again, from the dark-green of the Carolina bay-trees, and the silvery foliage of theMagnolia glauca.
Even before entering the glade, this magnificent panorama had burst upon my sight—from a little embayment that formed thedebouchureof the path—and I had drawn bridle, in order for a moment to enjoy its contemplation. The young hunter was still the length of his horse in advance of me; and I was about requesting him to pull up; but before I could give utterance to the words, I saw him make halt of himself. This, however, was done in so awkward and hurried a manner, that I at once turned from gazing upon the scene, and fixed my eyes upon my companion. As if by an involuntary effort, he had drawn his horse almost upon his haunches: and was now stiffly seated in the saddle, with blanched cheeks and eyes sparkling in their sockets—as if some object of terror was before him! I did not ask for an explanation. I knew that the object that so strangely affected him must be visible—though not from the point where I had halted.
A touch of the spur brought my horse alongside his, and gave me a view of the whole surface of the glade. I looked in the direction indicated by the attitude of the hunter: for—apparently paralysed by some terrible surprise—he had neither pointed nor spoken.
A little to the right of the path, I beheld a white object lying along the ground—a dead tree, whose barkless trunk and smooth naked branches gleamed under the moonlight with the whiteness of a blanched skeleton. In front of this, and a pace or two from it, was a dark form, upright and human-like. Favoured by the clear light of the moon, I had no difficulty in distinguishing the form to be that of a woman.
Chapter Fourteen.Su-Wa-Nee.Beyond doubt, the dark form was that of a woman—a young one too, as evinced by her erect bearing, and a light agile movement, made at the moment of our first beholding her. Her attire was odd. It consisted of a brownish-coloured tunic—apparently of doeskin leather—reaching from the neck to the knees; underneath which appeared leggings of like material, ending in mocassins that covered the feet. The arms, neck, and head were entirely bare; and the colour of the skin, as seen in the moonlight, differed from that of the outer garments only in being a shade or two darker! The woman, therefore, was not white, but anIndian: as was made further manifest by the sparkling of beads and bangles around her neck, rings in her ears, and metal circlets upon her arms—all reflecting the light of the moon in copious coruscations. As I brought my horse to a halt, I perceived that the figure was advancing towards us, and with rapid step. My steed set his ears, and snorted with affright. The jade of the hunter had already given the example—each, no doubt, acting under the impulse of the rider. Mine was a feeling of simple astonishment. Such an apparition in that place, and at that hour, was sufficient cause for surprise; but a more definite reason was, my observing that a different emotion had been roused in the breast of the young hunter. His looks betrayed fear, rather than surprise! “Fear of what?” I asked myself, as the figure advanced; and still more emphatically as it came near enough to enable me to make out the face. As far as the moonlight would permit me to judge, there was nothing in that face to fray either man or horse: certainly nothing to create an emotion, such as was depicted in the countenance of my companion.The complexion was brown, as already observed; but the features, if not of the finest type, were yet comely enough to attract admiration; and they were lit up by a pair of eyes, whose liquid glance rivalled the sheen of the golden pendants sparkling on each side of them. I should have been truly astonished at the behaviour of my guide, but for the natural reflection, that there was some cause for it, yet unknown to me. Evidently, it was not his first interview with the forest maiden: for I could now perceive that the person who approached was not exactly a woman, but rather a well-grown girl on the eve of womanhood. She was of large stature, nevertheless, with bold outline of breast, and arms that gave token of something more than feminine strength. In truth, she appeared possessed of aphysiquesufficiently formidable to inspire a cowardly man with fear—had such been her object—but I could perceive no signs of menace in her manner. Neither could cowardice be an attribute of my travelling-companion. There was an unexplained something, therefore, to account for his present display of emotion.On arriving within six paces of the heads of our horses, the Indian paused, as if hesitating to advance. Up to this time, she had not spoken a word. Neither had my companion—beyond a phrase or two that had involuntarily escaped him, on first discovering her presence in the glade. “She here? an’ at this time o’ night!” I had heard him mutter to himself; but nothing more, until the girl had stopped, as described. Then, in a low voice, and with a slightly trembling accent, he pronounced interrogatively, the words “Su-wa-nee?” It was the name of the Indian maiden; but there was no reply.“Su-wa-nee!” repeated he, in a louder tone, “is it you?”The answer was also given interrogatively, “Has the White Eagle lost his eyes, by gazing too long on the pale-faced fair ones of Swampville? There is light in the sky, and the face of Su-wa-nee is turned to it. Let him look on it: it is not lovely like that of thehalf-blood, but the White Eagle will never see that face again.”This declaration had a visible effect on the young hunter: the shade of sadness deepened upon his features: and I could hear a sigh, with difficulty suppressed—while, at the same time, he appeared desirous of terminating the interview.“It’s late, girl,” rejoined he, after a pause: “what for are ye here?”“Su-wa-nee is here for a purpose. For hours she has been waiting to see the White Eagle. The soft hands of the pale-faced maidens have held him long.”“Waitin’ to see me! What do you want wi’ me?”“Let the White Eagle send the stranger aside. Su-wa-nee must speak to him alone.”“Thar’s no need o’ that: it’s a friend that’s wi’ me.”“Would the White Eagle have his secrets known? There are some he may not wish even a friend to hear. Su-wa-nee can tell him one that will crimson his cheeks like the flowers of the red maple.”“I have no saycrets, girl—none as I’m afraid o’ bein’ heerd by anybody.”“What of the half-blood?”“I don’t care to hear o’ her.”“The White Eagle speaks falsely! He does care to hear. He longs to know what has become of his lost Marian. Su-wa-nee can tell him.”The last words produced an instantaneous change in the bearing of the young hunter. Instead of the repelling attitude, he had hitherto observed towards the Indian girl, I saw him bend eagerly forward—as if desirous of hearing what she had to say. Seeing that she had drawn his attention, the Indian again pointed to me, and inquired: “Is the pale-faced stranger to know the love-secrets of the White Eagle?”I saw that my companion no longer desired me to be a listener. Without waiting for his reply, I drew my horse’s head in the opposite direction, and was riding away. In the turning, I came face to face with him; and by the moonlight shining full over his countenance, I fancied I could detect some traces of mistrust still lingering upon it. My fancy was not at fault: for, on brushing close past him, he leaned over towards me, and, in an earnest manner, muttered: “Please, stranger! don’t go fur—thar’s danger in this girl. She’s been arter me before.” I nodded assent to his request; and, turning back into the little bay, that formed the embouchure of the path, I pulled up under the shadow of the trees.At this point I was not ten paces from the hunter, and could see him; but a little clump of white magnolias prevented me from seeing the girl—at the same time that it hid both myself and horse from her sight. The chirrup of the cicadas alone hindered me from hearing all of what was said; but many words reached my ear, and with sufficient distinctness, to give me a clue to the subject of the promised revelation. Delicacy would have prompted me to retire a little farther off; but the singular caution I had received from my companion, prevented me from obeying its impulse.I could make out that a certain Marian was the subject of the conversation; and then more distinctively, that it was Marian Holt. Just as I expected, the daughter of my squatter: that other and older one, of whom mention had been already made. This part of the revelation was easily understood: since I was already better than half prepared for it. Equally easy of comprehension was the fact, that this Marian was the sweetheart of my travelling companion—had been, I should rather say; for, from what followed, I could gather that she was no longer in the neighbourhood; that some months before she had left it, or been carried away—spirited off in some mysterious manner, leaving no traces of the why or whither she had gone. Nearly all this I had conjectured before: since the young hunter had half revealed it to me by his manner, if not by words. Now, however, a point or two was added to my previous information relating to the fair Marian.She was married. Married—and to some odd sort of man, of whom the Indian appeared to speak slightingly. His name I could make out to be Steevens, or Steebins, or something of the sort—not very intelligible by the Indian’s mode of pronouncing it—and, furthermore, that he had been a schoolmaster in Swampville.During the progress of the dialogue, I had my eye fixed on the young hunter. I could perceive that the announcement of the marriage was quite new to him; and its effect was as that of a sudden blow. Of course, equally unknown to him had been the name of the husband; though from the exclamatory phrase that followed, he had no doubt had his conjectures.“O God!” he exclaimed, “I thort so—the very man to a’ done it. Lord ha’ mercy on her!” All this was uttered with a voice hoarse with emotion. “Tell me!” continued he, “whar are they gone? Ye say ye know!”The shrill screech of a tree-cricket, breaking forth at that moment, hindered me from hearing the reply. The more emphatic words only reached me, and these appeared to be “Utah” and “Great Salt Lake.” They were enough to fix the whereabouts of Marian Holt and her husband.“One question more!” said the rejected lover hesitatingly, as if afraid to ask it. “Can ye tell me—whether—she wentwillingly, or whether—thar wan’t some force used?—by her father, or some un else? Can ye tell me that, girl?”I listened eagerly for the response. Its importance can be easily understood by one who hassuedin vain—one who haswooedwithoutwinning. The silence of the cicada favoured me; but a long interval passed, and there came not a word from the lips of the Indian.“Answer me, Su-wa-nee!” repeated the young man in a more appealing tone. “Tell me that, and I promise—”“Will the White Eagle promise to forget his lost love? Will he promise—”“No, Su-wa-nee; I cannot promise that: I canniverforget her.”“The heart canhatewithout forgetting.”“Hateher? hate Marian? No! no!”“Not if she be false?”“How do I know that she war false? You haven’t told me whether she went willin’ly or agin her consent.”“The White Eagle shall know then. His gentle doe went willingly to the covert of the wolf—willingly, I repeat. Su-wa-nee can give proof of her words.”This was the most terrible stroke of all. I could see the hunter shrink in his saddle, a death-like pallor over-spreading his cheeks, while his eyes presented the glassy aspect of despair.“Now!” continued the Indian, as if taking advantage of the blow she had struck, “will the White Eagle promise to sigh no more after his false mistress? Will he promise to loveonethat can be true?”There was an earnestness in the tone in which these interrogatories were uttered—an appealing earnestness—evidently prompted by a burning headlong passion. It was now the turn of her who uttered them, to wait with anxiety for a response. It came at length—perhaps to the laceration of that proud heart: for it was a negative to its dearest desire.“No, no!” exclaimed the hunter confusedly. “Impossible eyther to hate or forget her. She may a been false, an’ no doubt are so; but it’s too late for me:I can niver love agin.”A half-suppressed scream followed this declaration, succeeded by some words that appeared to be uttered in a tone of menace or reproach. But the words were in the Chicasaw tongue, and I could not comprehend their import.Almost at the same instant, I saw the young hunter hurriedly draw back his horse—as if to get out of the way. I fancied that the crisis had arrived, when my presence might be required. Under this belief, I touched my steed with the spur, and trotted out into the open ground. To my astonishment, I perceived that the hunter was alone. Su-wa-nee had disappeared from the glade!
Beyond doubt, the dark form was that of a woman—a young one too, as evinced by her erect bearing, and a light agile movement, made at the moment of our first beholding her. Her attire was odd. It consisted of a brownish-coloured tunic—apparently of doeskin leather—reaching from the neck to the knees; underneath which appeared leggings of like material, ending in mocassins that covered the feet. The arms, neck, and head were entirely bare; and the colour of the skin, as seen in the moonlight, differed from that of the outer garments only in being a shade or two darker! The woman, therefore, was not white, but anIndian: as was made further manifest by the sparkling of beads and bangles around her neck, rings in her ears, and metal circlets upon her arms—all reflecting the light of the moon in copious coruscations. As I brought my horse to a halt, I perceived that the figure was advancing towards us, and with rapid step. My steed set his ears, and snorted with affright. The jade of the hunter had already given the example—each, no doubt, acting under the impulse of the rider. Mine was a feeling of simple astonishment. Such an apparition in that place, and at that hour, was sufficient cause for surprise; but a more definite reason was, my observing that a different emotion had been roused in the breast of the young hunter. His looks betrayed fear, rather than surprise! “Fear of what?” I asked myself, as the figure advanced; and still more emphatically as it came near enough to enable me to make out the face. As far as the moonlight would permit me to judge, there was nothing in that face to fray either man or horse: certainly nothing to create an emotion, such as was depicted in the countenance of my companion.
The complexion was brown, as already observed; but the features, if not of the finest type, were yet comely enough to attract admiration; and they were lit up by a pair of eyes, whose liquid glance rivalled the sheen of the golden pendants sparkling on each side of them. I should have been truly astonished at the behaviour of my guide, but for the natural reflection, that there was some cause for it, yet unknown to me. Evidently, it was not his first interview with the forest maiden: for I could now perceive that the person who approached was not exactly a woman, but rather a well-grown girl on the eve of womanhood. She was of large stature, nevertheless, with bold outline of breast, and arms that gave token of something more than feminine strength. In truth, she appeared possessed of aphysiquesufficiently formidable to inspire a cowardly man with fear—had such been her object—but I could perceive no signs of menace in her manner. Neither could cowardice be an attribute of my travelling-companion. There was an unexplained something, therefore, to account for his present display of emotion.
On arriving within six paces of the heads of our horses, the Indian paused, as if hesitating to advance. Up to this time, she had not spoken a word. Neither had my companion—beyond a phrase or two that had involuntarily escaped him, on first discovering her presence in the glade. “She here? an’ at this time o’ night!” I had heard him mutter to himself; but nothing more, until the girl had stopped, as described. Then, in a low voice, and with a slightly trembling accent, he pronounced interrogatively, the words “Su-wa-nee?” It was the name of the Indian maiden; but there was no reply.
“Su-wa-nee!” repeated he, in a louder tone, “is it you?”
The answer was also given interrogatively, “Has the White Eagle lost his eyes, by gazing too long on the pale-faced fair ones of Swampville? There is light in the sky, and the face of Su-wa-nee is turned to it. Let him look on it: it is not lovely like that of thehalf-blood, but the White Eagle will never see that face again.”
This declaration had a visible effect on the young hunter: the shade of sadness deepened upon his features: and I could hear a sigh, with difficulty suppressed—while, at the same time, he appeared desirous of terminating the interview.
“It’s late, girl,” rejoined he, after a pause: “what for are ye here?”
“Su-wa-nee is here for a purpose. For hours she has been waiting to see the White Eagle. The soft hands of the pale-faced maidens have held him long.”
“Waitin’ to see me! What do you want wi’ me?”
“Let the White Eagle send the stranger aside. Su-wa-nee must speak to him alone.”
“Thar’s no need o’ that: it’s a friend that’s wi’ me.”
“Would the White Eagle have his secrets known? There are some he may not wish even a friend to hear. Su-wa-nee can tell him one that will crimson his cheeks like the flowers of the red maple.”
“I have no saycrets, girl—none as I’m afraid o’ bein’ heerd by anybody.”
“What of the half-blood?”
“I don’t care to hear o’ her.”
“The White Eagle speaks falsely! He does care to hear. He longs to know what has become of his lost Marian. Su-wa-nee can tell him.”
The last words produced an instantaneous change in the bearing of the young hunter. Instead of the repelling attitude, he had hitherto observed towards the Indian girl, I saw him bend eagerly forward—as if desirous of hearing what she had to say. Seeing that she had drawn his attention, the Indian again pointed to me, and inquired: “Is the pale-faced stranger to know the love-secrets of the White Eagle?”
I saw that my companion no longer desired me to be a listener. Without waiting for his reply, I drew my horse’s head in the opposite direction, and was riding away. In the turning, I came face to face with him; and by the moonlight shining full over his countenance, I fancied I could detect some traces of mistrust still lingering upon it. My fancy was not at fault: for, on brushing close past him, he leaned over towards me, and, in an earnest manner, muttered: “Please, stranger! don’t go fur—thar’s danger in this girl. She’s been arter me before.” I nodded assent to his request; and, turning back into the little bay, that formed the embouchure of the path, I pulled up under the shadow of the trees.
At this point I was not ten paces from the hunter, and could see him; but a little clump of white magnolias prevented me from seeing the girl—at the same time that it hid both myself and horse from her sight. The chirrup of the cicadas alone hindered me from hearing all of what was said; but many words reached my ear, and with sufficient distinctness, to give me a clue to the subject of the promised revelation. Delicacy would have prompted me to retire a little farther off; but the singular caution I had received from my companion, prevented me from obeying its impulse.
I could make out that a certain Marian was the subject of the conversation; and then more distinctively, that it was Marian Holt. Just as I expected, the daughter of my squatter: that other and older one, of whom mention had been already made. This part of the revelation was easily understood: since I was already better than half prepared for it. Equally easy of comprehension was the fact, that this Marian was the sweetheart of my travelling companion—had been, I should rather say; for, from what followed, I could gather that she was no longer in the neighbourhood; that some months before she had left it, or been carried away—spirited off in some mysterious manner, leaving no traces of the why or whither she had gone. Nearly all this I had conjectured before: since the young hunter had half revealed it to me by his manner, if not by words. Now, however, a point or two was added to my previous information relating to the fair Marian.She was married. Married—and to some odd sort of man, of whom the Indian appeared to speak slightingly. His name I could make out to be Steevens, or Steebins, or something of the sort—not very intelligible by the Indian’s mode of pronouncing it—and, furthermore, that he had been a schoolmaster in Swampville.
During the progress of the dialogue, I had my eye fixed on the young hunter. I could perceive that the announcement of the marriage was quite new to him; and its effect was as that of a sudden blow. Of course, equally unknown to him had been the name of the husband; though from the exclamatory phrase that followed, he had no doubt had his conjectures.
“O God!” he exclaimed, “I thort so—the very man to a’ done it. Lord ha’ mercy on her!” All this was uttered with a voice hoarse with emotion. “Tell me!” continued he, “whar are they gone? Ye say ye know!”
The shrill screech of a tree-cricket, breaking forth at that moment, hindered me from hearing the reply. The more emphatic words only reached me, and these appeared to be “Utah” and “Great Salt Lake.” They were enough to fix the whereabouts of Marian Holt and her husband.
“One question more!” said the rejected lover hesitatingly, as if afraid to ask it. “Can ye tell me—whether—she wentwillingly, or whether—thar wan’t some force used?—by her father, or some un else? Can ye tell me that, girl?”
I listened eagerly for the response. Its importance can be easily understood by one who hassuedin vain—one who haswooedwithoutwinning. The silence of the cicada favoured me; but a long interval passed, and there came not a word from the lips of the Indian.
“Answer me, Su-wa-nee!” repeated the young man in a more appealing tone. “Tell me that, and I promise—”
“Will the White Eagle promise to forget his lost love? Will he promise—”
“No, Su-wa-nee; I cannot promise that: I canniverforget her.”
“The heart canhatewithout forgetting.”
“Hateher? hate Marian? No! no!”
“Not if she be false?”
“How do I know that she war false? You haven’t told me whether she went willin’ly or agin her consent.”
“The White Eagle shall know then. His gentle doe went willingly to the covert of the wolf—willingly, I repeat. Su-wa-nee can give proof of her words.”
This was the most terrible stroke of all. I could see the hunter shrink in his saddle, a death-like pallor over-spreading his cheeks, while his eyes presented the glassy aspect of despair.
“Now!” continued the Indian, as if taking advantage of the blow she had struck, “will the White Eagle promise to sigh no more after his false mistress? Will he promise to loveonethat can be true?”
There was an earnestness in the tone in which these interrogatories were uttered—an appealing earnestness—evidently prompted by a burning headlong passion. It was now the turn of her who uttered them, to wait with anxiety for a response. It came at length—perhaps to the laceration of that proud heart: for it was a negative to its dearest desire.
“No, no!” exclaimed the hunter confusedly. “Impossible eyther to hate or forget her. She may a been false, an’ no doubt are so; but it’s too late for me:I can niver love agin.”
A half-suppressed scream followed this declaration, succeeded by some words that appeared to be uttered in a tone of menace or reproach. But the words were in the Chicasaw tongue, and I could not comprehend their import.
Almost at the same instant, I saw the young hunter hurriedly draw back his horse—as if to get out of the way. I fancied that the crisis had arrived, when my presence might be required. Under this belief, I touched my steed with the spur, and trotted out into the open ground. To my astonishment, I perceived that the hunter was alone. Su-wa-nee had disappeared from the glade!
Chapter Fifteen.Making a Clean Breast of it.“Where is she?—gone?” I mechanically asked, in a tone that must have betrayed my surprise.“Yes—gone! gone! an’ wi’ a Mormon!”“A Mormon?”“Ay, stranger, a Mormon—a man wi’ twenty wives! God forgi’ her! I’d rather heerd o’ her death!”“Was there a man with her? I saw no one.”“O stranger, excuse my talk—you’re thinkin’ o’ that ere Injun girl. ’Taint her I’m speakin’ about.”“Who then?”The young hunter hesitated: he was not aware that I was already in possession of his secret; but he knew that I had been witness of his emotions, and to declare the name would be to reveal the most sacred thought of his heart. Only for a moment did he appear to reflect; and then, as if relieved from his embarrassment, by some sudden determination, he replied:“Stranger! I don’t see why I shedn’t tell ye all about this bisness. I don know the reezun, but you’ve made me feel a kind o’ confidence in you. I know it’s a silly sort o’ thing to fall in love wi’ a handsum girl; but if ye’d only seenher!”“I have no doubt, from what you say, she was a beautiful creature,”—this was scarcely my thought at the moment—“and as for falling in love with a pretty girl, none of us are exempt from that little weakness. The proud Roman conqueror yielded to the seductions of the brown-skinned Egyptian queen; and even Hercules himself was conquered by a woman’s charms. There is no particular silliness in that. It is but the common destiny of man.”“Well, stranger, it’s been myen; an’ I’ve hed reezun to be sorry for it. But it’s no use tryin’ to shet up the stable arter the hoss’s been stole out o’t. She are gone now; an’ that’s the end o’ it. I reckon I’ll niver set eyes on her agin.”The sigh that accompanied this last observation, with the melancholy tone in which it was uttered, told me that I was talking to a man who had truly loved.“No doubt,” thought I, “some strapping backwoods wench has been the object of his passion,”—for what other idea could I have about the child of a coarse and illiterate squatter? “Love is as blind as a bat; and this red-haired hoyden has appeared a perfect Venus in the eyes of the handsome fellow—as not unfrequently happens. A Venus with evidently a slight admixture of the prudential Juno in her composition. The young backwoodsman is poor; the schoolmaster perhaps a little better off; in all probability not much, but enough to decide the preference of the shrewd Marian.”Such were my reflections at the moment, partly suggested by my own experience.“But you have not yet told me who this sweetheart was? You say it is not the Indian damsel you’ve just parted with?”“No, stranger, nothin’ o’ the kind: though there are some Injun inhertoo. ’Twar o’ her the girl spoke when ye heerd her talk o’ a half-blood. She aint just that—she’s more white than Injun; her mother only war a half-blood—o’ the Chicasaw nation, that used to belong in these parts.”“Her name?”“ItwarMarian Holt. It are now Stebbins, I s’pose! since I’ve jest heerd she’s married to a fellow o’ that name.”“She has certainly not improved her name.”“She are the daughter o’ Holt the squatter—the same whar you say you’re a-goin’. Thar’s another, as I told ye; but she’s a younger un. Her name’s Lilian.”“A pretty name. The older sister was very beautiful you say?”“I niver set eyes on the like o’ her.”“Does the younger one resemble her?”“Ain’t a bit like her—different as a squ’ll from a coon.”“She’s more beautiful, then?”“Well, that depends upon people’s ways o’ thinkin’. Most people as know ’em liked Lilian the best, an’ thort her the handsumest o’ the two. That wan’t my notion. Besides, Lilly’s only a young crittur—not out o’ her teens yit.”“But if she be also pretty, why not try to fall in love with her? Down in Mexico, where I’ve been lately, they have a shrewd saying:Un clavo saca otro clavo, meaning that ‘one nail drives out another’—as much as to say, that one love cures another.”“Ah, stranger! that may be all be very well in Mexico, whar I’ve heerd they ain’t partickler about thar way o’ lovin’: but we’ve a sayin’ here jest the contrairy o’ that: ‘two bars can’t get into the same trap.’”“Ha, ha, ha! Well your backwoods proverb is perhaps the truer one, as it is the more honest. But you have not yet told me the full particulars of your affair with Marian? You say she has gone away from the neighbourhood?”“You shall hear it all, stranger. I reckon thar can be no harm in tellin’ it toyou; an’ if you’ve a mind to listen, I’ll make a clean breast o’ the whole bisness.”The hunter proceeded with his revelation—to him, a painful one—and, although I had already divined most of the particulars, I interrupted him only with an occasional interrogative. The story was as I had anticipated. He had been in love with Marian Holt; and was under the impression that she returned it. She had given him frequent meetings in the forest—in that very glade where we had encountered the Indian girl, and in which we were still lingering. Her father was not aware of these interviews. There had been some coolness between him and the young hunter; and the lovers were apprehensive that he might not approve of their conduct. This was the prologue of the hunter’s story. The epilogue I give in his own words: “’Twar a mornin’—jest five months ago—she had promised to meet me here—an’ I war seated on yonder log waitin’ for her. Jest then some Injuns war comin’ through the gleed. That girl ye saw war one o’ ’em. She had a nice bullet-pouch to sell, an’ I bought it. The girl would insist on puttin’ it on; an’ while she war doin’ so, I war fool enough to gie her a kiss. Some devil hed put it in my head. Jest at that minnit, who shed come right into the gleed but Marian herself! I meant nothin’ by kissin’ the Injun; but I s’pose Marian thort I did: she’d already talked to me ’bout this very girl; an’ I believe war a leetle bit jealous o’ her—for the Injun ain’t to say ill-lookin’. I wanted to ’pologise to Marian; but she wouldn’t listen to a word; an’ went off in a way I niver seed her in before. ’Twar the last time I ever set eyes on her.”“Indeed.”“Ay, stranger, an’ it’s only this minnit, an’ from that same Injun girl, that I’ve heard she’s married, an’ gone off to the Mormons. The Injuns had it from some o’ her people, that seed Marian a crossin’ the parairies.”“That Indian damsel—Su-wa-nee, I think you named her—what of her?”“Ah! stranger, that’s another o’ the konsequences o’ doin’ what aint right. Since the day I gin her that kiss, she’d niver let me alone, but used to bother me every time I met her in the woods; an’ would a come arter me to my own cabin, if it hadn’t been for the dogs, that wud tar an Injun to pieces. She war afeerd o’ them but not o’ me, no matter how I thraitened her. I war so angry wi’ her, for what had happened—though arter all, ’twar more my fault than hern—but I war so vexed wi’ her about the ill-luck, that I used to keep out o’ her way as well as I could, an’ didn’t speak to her for a long time. She got riled ’bout that, an’ thraitened revenge; an’ one night, as I war comin’ from Swampville, ’bout this time—only ’twar as dark as a pot o’ pitch—I war jest ridin’ out into this very gleed, when all o’ a suddint my ole hoss gin a jump forrard, an I feeled somethin’ prick me from behind. ’Twar the stab o’ some sort o’ a knife, that cut me a leetle above the hip, an’ made me bleed like a buck. I know’d who did it; tho’ not that night—for it war so dark among the bushes, I couldn’t see a steim. But I kim back in the mornin’, and seed tracks. They war the tracks o’ a mocassin. I know’d ’em to be hern.”“Su-wa-nee’s tracks?”“Sartin. I know’d ’em well enough, as I’d often seed her tracks through the crik bottom.”“Did you take no steps to punish her?”“Well—no—I didn’t.”“How is that? I think it would have been prudent of you to have done something—if only to prevent a recurrence of the danger.”“Well, stranger! to tell truth, I war a leetle ashamed o’ the whole bisness. Had it been a man, I’d a punishedhim; but theydosay the girl’s in love wi’ me, arter her Injun way; an’ I didn’t like to be revengeful. Besides it war mostly my own fault: I had no bisness to a fooled wi’ her.”“And you think she will not trouble you again?”“I don know about that, arter what’s happened the night. She’s gone away thraitnin’ agin. I did think she’d gin up the notion o’ revenge: for she know’d I’d found out that ’twar her that stabbed me. I told her so, the next time I seed her; an’ she ’peared pleased ’bout my not havin’ her ta’en up. She said it war generous of the White Eagle—that’s the name her people gies me—for thar’s a gang o’ them still livin’ down the crik. She gin me a sort of promise she wouldn’t trouble me agin; but I warn’t sure o’ her. That’s the reezun, stranger, I didn’t want ye to go fur away.”“I think it would be prudent in you to keep well on your guard. This redskin appears to be rather an unreflecting damsel; and, from what you have told me, a dangerous one. She certainly has a strange way of showing her affection; but it must be confessed, you gave her some provocation; and as the poet says, ‘Hell knows no fury like a woman scorned.’”“That’s true, stranger!”“Her conduct, however, has been too violent to admit of justification. You appear to have been unfortunate in your sweethearts—with each in an opposite sense. One loves you too much, and the other apparently not enough! But how is it you did not see her again—Marian I mean!”“Well, you understand, I wan’t on the best of tarms wi’ old Hick Holt, an’ couldn’t go to his clarin’. Besides after what had happened. I didn’t like to go near Marian anyhow—leastway for a while. I thort it would blow over ’s soon’s she’d find out that E war only jokin’ wi’ the Injun.”“So one would have supposed.”“’Twar nigh two weeks afore I heerd anything o’ her; then I larned that she war gone away. Nobody could tell why or whar, for nobody knew, ’ceptin Hick Holt hisself; an’ he ain’t the sort o’ man to tell saycrets. Lord o’ mercy! I knownowtan’ it’s worse than I expected. I’d sooner heerd she war dead.”A deep-drawn sigh, from the very bottom of his soul, admonished me that the speaker had finished his painful recital.I had no desire to prolong the conversation. I saw that, silence would be more agreeable to my companion; and, as if by a mutual and tacit impulse, we turned our horses’ heads to the path, and proceeded onward across the glade.As we were about entering the timber on the other side, my guide reined up his horse; and sat for a moment gazing upon a particular spot—as if something there had attracted his attention.What? There was no visible object—at least, none that was remarkable—on the ground, or elsewhere!Another sigh, with the speech that followed, explained the singularity of his behaviour, “Thar!” said he, pointing to the entrance of the forest-path—“thar’s the place whar I last looked on Marian!”
“Where is she?—gone?” I mechanically asked, in a tone that must have betrayed my surprise.
“Yes—gone! gone! an’ wi’ a Mormon!”
“A Mormon?”
“Ay, stranger, a Mormon—a man wi’ twenty wives! God forgi’ her! I’d rather heerd o’ her death!”
“Was there a man with her? I saw no one.”
“O stranger, excuse my talk—you’re thinkin’ o’ that ere Injun girl. ’Taint her I’m speakin’ about.”
“Who then?”
The young hunter hesitated: he was not aware that I was already in possession of his secret; but he knew that I had been witness of his emotions, and to declare the name would be to reveal the most sacred thought of his heart. Only for a moment did he appear to reflect; and then, as if relieved from his embarrassment, by some sudden determination, he replied:
“Stranger! I don’t see why I shedn’t tell ye all about this bisness. I don know the reezun, but you’ve made me feel a kind o’ confidence in you. I know it’s a silly sort o’ thing to fall in love wi’ a handsum girl; but if ye’d only seenher!”
“I have no doubt, from what you say, she was a beautiful creature,”—this was scarcely my thought at the moment—“and as for falling in love with a pretty girl, none of us are exempt from that little weakness. The proud Roman conqueror yielded to the seductions of the brown-skinned Egyptian queen; and even Hercules himself was conquered by a woman’s charms. There is no particular silliness in that. It is but the common destiny of man.”
“Well, stranger, it’s been myen; an’ I’ve hed reezun to be sorry for it. But it’s no use tryin’ to shet up the stable arter the hoss’s been stole out o’t. She are gone now; an’ that’s the end o’ it. I reckon I’ll niver set eyes on her agin.”
The sigh that accompanied this last observation, with the melancholy tone in which it was uttered, told me that I was talking to a man who had truly loved.
“No doubt,” thought I, “some strapping backwoods wench has been the object of his passion,”—for what other idea could I have about the child of a coarse and illiterate squatter? “Love is as blind as a bat; and this red-haired hoyden has appeared a perfect Venus in the eyes of the handsome fellow—as not unfrequently happens. A Venus with evidently a slight admixture of the prudential Juno in her composition. The young backwoodsman is poor; the schoolmaster perhaps a little better off; in all probability not much, but enough to decide the preference of the shrewd Marian.”
Such were my reflections at the moment, partly suggested by my own experience.
“But you have not yet told me who this sweetheart was? You say it is not the Indian damsel you’ve just parted with?”
“No, stranger, nothin’ o’ the kind: though there are some Injun inhertoo. ’Twar o’ her the girl spoke when ye heerd her talk o’ a half-blood. She aint just that—she’s more white than Injun; her mother only war a half-blood—o’ the Chicasaw nation, that used to belong in these parts.”
“Her name?”
“ItwarMarian Holt. It are now Stebbins, I s’pose! since I’ve jest heerd she’s married to a fellow o’ that name.”
“She has certainly not improved her name.”
“She are the daughter o’ Holt the squatter—the same whar you say you’re a-goin’. Thar’s another, as I told ye; but she’s a younger un. Her name’s Lilian.”
“A pretty name. The older sister was very beautiful you say?”
“I niver set eyes on the like o’ her.”
“Does the younger one resemble her?”
“Ain’t a bit like her—different as a squ’ll from a coon.”
“She’s more beautiful, then?”
“Well, that depends upon people’s ways o’ thinkin’. Most people as know ’em liked Lilian the best, an’ thort her the handsumest o’ the two. That wan’t my notion. Besides, Lilly’s only a young crittur—not out o’ her teens yit.”
“But if she be also pretty, why not try to fall in love with her? Down in Mexico, where I’ve been lately, they have a shrewd saying:Un clavo saca otro clavo, meaning that ‘one nail drives out another’—as much as to say, that one love cures another.”
“Ah, stranger! that may be all be very well in Mexico, whar I’ve heerd they ain’t partickler about thar way o’ lovin’: but we’ve a sayin’ here jest the contrairy o’ that: ‘two bars can’t get into the same trap.’”
“Ha, ha, ha! Well your backwoods proverb is perhaps the truer one, as it is the more honest. But you have not yet told me the full particulars of your affair with Marian? You say she has gone away from the neighbourhood?”
“You shall hear it all, stranger. I reckon thar can be no harm in tellin’ it toyou; an’ if you’ve a mind to listen, I’ll make a clean breast o’ the whole bisness.”
The hunter proceeded with his revelation—to him, a painful one—and, although I had already divined most of the particulars, I interrupted him only with an occasional interrogative. The story was as I had anticipated. He had been in love with Marian Holt; and was under the impression that she returned it. She had given him frequent meetings in the forest—in that very glade where we had encountered the Indian girl, and in which we were still lingering. Her father was not aware of these interviews. There had been some coolness between him and the young hunter; and the lovers were apprehensive that he might not approve of their conduct. This was the prologue of the hunter’s story. The epilogue I give in his own words: “’Twar a mornin’—jest five months ago—she had promised to meet me here—an’ I war seated on yonder log waitin’ for her. Jest then some Injuns war comin’ through the gleed. That girl ye saw war one o’ ’em. She had a nice bullet-pouch to sell, an’ I bought it. The girl would insist on puttin’ it on; an’ while she war doin’ so, I war fool enough to gie her a kiss. Some devil hed put it in my head. Jest at that minnit, who shed come right into the gleed but Marian herself! I meant nothin’ by kissin’ the Injun; but I s’pose Marian thort I did: she’d already talked to me ’bout this very girl; an’ I believe war a leetle bit jealous o’ her—for the Injun ain’t to say ill-lookin’. I wanted to ’pologise to Marian; but she wouldn’t listen to a word; an’ went off in a way I niver seed her in before. ’Twar the last time I ever set eyes on her.”
“Indeed.”
“Ay, stranger, an’ it’s only this minnit, an’ from that same Injun girl, that I’ve heard she’s married, an’ gone off to the Mormons. The Injuns had it from some o’ her people, that seed Marian a crossin’ the parairies.”
“That Indian damsel—Su-wa-nee, I think you named her—what of her?”
“Ah! stranger, that’s another o’ the konsequences o’ doin’ what aint right. Since the day I gin her that kiss, she’d niver let me alone, but used to bother me every time I met her in the woods; an’ would a come arter me to my own cabin, if it hadn’t been for the dogs, that wud tar an Injun to pieces. She war afeerd o’ them but not o’ me, no matter how I thraitened her. I war so angry wi’ her, for what had happened—though arter all, ’twar more my fault than hern—but I war so vexed wi’ her about the ill-luck, that I used to keep out o’ her way as well as I could, an’ didn’t speak to her for a long time. She got riled ’bout that, an’ thraitened revenge; an’ one night, as I war comin’ from Swampville, ’bout this time—only ’twar as dark as a pot o’ pitch—I war jest ridin’ out into this very gleed, when all o’ a suddint my ole hoss gin a jump forrard, an I feeled somethin’ prick me from behind. ’Twar the stab o’ some sort o’ a knife, that cut me a leetle above the hip, an’ made me bleed like a buck. I know’d who did it; tho’ not that night—for it war so dark among the bushes, I couldn’t see a steim. But I kim back in the mornin’, and seed tracks. They war the tracks o’ a mocassin. I know’d ’em to be hern.”
“Su-wa-nee’s tracks?”
“Sartin. I know’d ’em well enough, as I’d often seed her tracks through the crik bottom.”
“Did you take no steps to punish her?”
“Well—no—I didn’t.”
“How is that? I think it would have been prudent of you to have done something—if only to prevent a recurrence of the danger.”
“Well, stranger! to tell truth, I war a leetle ashamed o’ the whole bisness. Had it been a man, I’d a punishedhim; but theydosay the girl’s in love wi’ me, arter her Injun way; an’ I didn’t like to be revengeful. Besides it war mostly my own fault: I had no bisness to a fooled wi’ her.”
“And you think she will not trouble you again?”
“I don know about that, arter what’s happened the night. She’s gone away thraitnin’ agin. I did think she’d gin up the notion o’ revenge: for she know’d I’d found out that ’twar her that stabbed me. I told her so, the next time I seed her; an’ she ’peared pleased ’bout my not havin’ her ta’en up. She said it war generous of the White Eagle—that’s the name her people gies me—for thar’s a gang o’ them still livin’ down the crik. She gin me a sort of promise she wouldn’t trouble me agin; but I warn’t sure o’ her. That’s the reezun, stranger, I didn’t want ye to go fur away.”
“I think it would be prudent in you to keep well on your guard. This redskin appears to be rather an unreflecting damsel; and, from what you have told me, a dangerous one. She certainly has a strange way of showing her affection; but it must be confessed, you gave her some provocation; and as the poet says, ‘Hell knows no fury like a woman scorned.’”
“That’s true, stranger!”
“Her conduct, however, has been too violent to admit of justification. You appear to have been unfortunate in your sweethearts—with each in an opposite sense. One loves you too much, and the other apparently not enough! But how is it you did not see her again—Marian I mean!”
“Well, you understand, I wan’t on the best of tarms wi’ old Hick Holt, an’ couldn’t go to his clarin’. Besides after what had happened. I didn’t like to go near Marian anyhow—leastway for a while. I thort it would blow over ’s soon’s she’d find out that E war only jokin’ wi’ the Injun.”
“So one would have supposed.”
“’Twar nigh two weeks afore I heerd anything o’ her; then I larned that she war gone away. Nobody could tell why or whar, for nobody knew, ’ceptin Hick Holt hisself; an’ he ain’t the sort o’ man to tell saycrets. Lord o’ mercy! I knownowtan’ it’s worse than I expected. I’d sooner heerd she war dead.”
A deep-drawn sigh, from the very bottom of his soul, admonished me that the speaker had finished his painful recital.
I had no desire to prolong the conversation. I saw that, silence would be more agreeable to my companion; and, as if by a mutual and tacit impulse, we turned our horses’ heads to the path, and proceeded onward across the glade.
As we were about entering the timber on the other side, my guide reined up his horse; and sat for a moment gazing upon a particular spot—as if something there had attracted his attention.
What? There was no visible object—at least, none that was remarkable—on the ground, or elsewhere!
Another sigh, with the speech that followed, explained the singularity of his behaviour, “Thar!” said he, pointing to the entrance of the forest-path—“thar’s the place whar I last looked on Marian!”
Chapter Sixteen.A Predicament in Prospect.For half a mile beyond the glade, the trace continued wide enough to admit of our riding abreast; but, notwithstanding this advantage, no word passed between us. My guide had relapsed into his attitude of melancholy—deepened, no doubt, by the intelligence he had just received—and sat loosely in his saddle, his head drooping forward over his breast. Bitter thoughts within rendered him unconscious of what was passing without; and I felt that any effort I might make to soften the acerbity of his reflections would be idle.There are moments when words of consolation may be spoken in vain—when, instead of soothing a sorrow, they add poison to its sting. I made no attempt, therefore, to rouse my companion from his reverie; but rode on by his side, silent as he. Indeed, there was sufficient unpleasantness in my own reflections to give me occupation. Though troubled by no heart-canker of the past, I had a future before me that was neither brilliant nor attractive. The foreknowledge I had now gained of squatter Holt, had imbued me with a keen presentiment, that I was treading upon the edge of a not very distant dilemma. Once, or twice, was I on the point of communicating my business to my travelling companion; and why not? With the openness of an honest heart, had he confided to me the most important, as well as the most painful, secret of his life. Why should I withhold my confidence from him on a subject of comparatively little importance? My reason for not making a confidant of him sooner has been already given. It no longer existed. So far from finding in him an ally of my yet hypothetical enemy, in all likelihood I should have him on my die. At all events, I felt certain that I might count upon his advice; and, with his knowledge of thesituation, that might be worth having.I was on the eve of declaring the object of my errand, and soliciting his counsel thereon, when I saw him suddenly rein in, and turn towards me. In the former movement, I imitated his example.“The road forks here,” said he. “The path on the left goes straight down to Holt’s Clarin’—the other’s the way to my bit o’ a shanty.”“I shall have to thank you for the very kind service you have rendered me, and say ‘Good-night.’”“No—not yet. I ain’t a-goin’ to leave ye, till I’ve put you ’ithin sight o’ Holt’s cabin, tho’ I can’t go wi’ ye to the house. As I told ye, he an’ I ain’t on the best o’ tarms.”“I cannot think of your coming out of your way—especially at this late hour. I’m some little of a tracker myself; and, perhaps, I can make out the path.”“No, stranger! Thar’s places whar the trace is a’most blind, and you mout get out o’ it. Thar’ll be no moon on it. It runs through a thick timbered bottom, an’ thar’s an ugly bit o’ swamp. As for the lateness, I’m not very reg’lar in my hours; an’ thar’s a sort o’ road up the crik by which I can get home. ’Twan’t to bid you good-night, that I stopped here.”“What, then?” thought I, endeavouring to conjecture his purpose, while he was pausing in his speech.“Stranger!” continued he in an altered tone, “I hope you won’t take offence if I ask you a question?”“Not much fear of that, I fancy. Ask it freely.”“Are ye sure o’ a bed at Holt’s?”“Well, upon my word, to say the truth, I am by no means sure of one. It don’t signify, however. I have my old cloak and my saddle; and it wouldn’t be the first time, by hundreds, I’ve slept in the open air.”“My reezuns for askin’ you air, that if you ain’t sure o’ one, an’ don’t mind stretching’ yourself on a bar-skin, thar’s such a thing in my shanty entirely at your sarvice.”“It is very kind of you. Perhaps I may have occasion to avail myself of your offer. In truth, I am not very confident of meeting with a friendly reception at the hands of your neighbour Holt—much less being asked to partake of his hospitality.”“D’ye say so?”“Indeed, yes. From what I have heard, I have reason to anticipate rather a cold welcome.”“I’deed? But,”—My companion hesitated his his speech—as if meditating some observation which he felt a delicacy about making. “I’m a’most ashamed,” continued he, at length, “to put another question, that war on the top o’ my tongue.”“I shall take pleasure in answering any question you may think proper to ask me.”“I shedn’t ask it, if it wa’n’t for what you’ve jest now said: for I heerd the same question put to you this night afore, an’ I heerd your answer to it. But I reckon ’twar thewayin which it war asked that offended you; an’ on that account your answer war jest as it should a been.”“To what question to you refer?”“To your bisness out here wi’ Hick Holt. I don’t want to know it, out o’ any curiosity o’ my own—that’s sartin, stranger.”“You are welcome to know all about it. Indeed, it was my intention to have told you before we parted—at the same time to ask you for some advice about the matter.”Without further parley, I communicated the object of my visit to Mud Creek—concealing nothing that I deemed necessary for the elucidation of the subject. Without a word of interruption, the young hunter heard my story to the end. From the play of his features, as I revealed the more salient points, I could perceive that my chances of an amicable adjustment of my claim were far from being brilliant.“Well—do you know,” said he, when I had finished speaking, “I had a suspeecion that that might be your bisness? I don know why I shed a thort so; but maybe ’twar because thar’s been some others come here to settle o’ late, an’ found squatters on thar groun—jest the same as Holt’s on yourn. That’s why ye heerd me say, a while ago, that I shedn’t like to buy overhishead.”“And why not?” I awaited the answer to this question, not without a certain degree of nervous anxiety. I was beginning to comprehend the counsel of my Nashville friend on the ticklish point ofpre-emption.“Why, you see, stranger—as I told you, Hick Holt’s a rough customer; an’ I reckon he’ll be anuglyone to deal wi’, on a bisness o’ that kind.”“Of course, being in possession, he may purchase the land? He has the right of pre-emption?”“’Taint for that.Heain’t a-goin’ topre-empt, nor buy neyther; an’ for the best o’ reezuns. He hain’t got a red cent in the world, an’ souldn’t buy as much land as would make him a mellyun patch—not he.”“How does he get his living, then?”“Oh, as for that, jest some’at like myself. Thar’s gobs o’ game in the woods—both bar an’ deer: an’ the clarin’ grows him corn. Thar’s squ’lls, an’ ’possum, an’ turkeys too; an’ lots o’ fish in the crik—if one gets tired o’ the bar an’ deer-meat, which I shed niver do.”“But how about clothing, and other necessaries that are not found in the woods?”“As for our clothin’itain’t hard to find. We can get that in Swampville by swopping skins for it, or now an’ then some deer-meat. O’ anythin’ else, thar ain’t much needed ’bout here—powder, an’ lead, an’ a leetle coffee, an’ tobacco. Once in a while, if ye like it, a taste o’old corn.”“Corn! I thought the squatter raised that for himself?”“So he do raise corn; but I see, stranger, you don’t understand our odd names. Thar’s two kinds o’ corn in these parts—that as has been to thestill, and that as hain’t. It’s the first o’ these sorts that Hick Holt likes best.”“Oh! I perceive your meaning. He’s fond of a little corn-whisky, I presume?”“I reckon he are—that same squatter—fonder o’t than milk. But surely,” continued the hunter, changing the subject, as well as the tone of his speech—“surely, stranger, you ain’t a-goin’ on your bisness the night?”“I’ve just begun to think, that itisrather an odd hour to enter upon an estate. The idea didn’t occur to me before.”“Besides,” added he, “thar’s another reezun. If Hick Holt’s what he used to be, he ain’t likely to be veryniceabout this time o’ night. I hain’t seen much o’ him lately; but, I reckon, he’s as fond o’ drink as ever he war; an’ ’tain’t often he goes tohisbed ’ithout a skinful. Thar’s ten chances agin one, o’ your findin’ him wi’ brick in his hat.”“That would be awkward.”“Don’t think o’ goin’ to-night,” continued the young hunter in a persuasive tone. “Come along wi’ me; an’ you can ride down to Holt’s in the mornin’. You’ll then find him more reezonable to deal wi’. I can’t offer you no great show o’ entertainment; but thar’s a piece o’ deer-meat in the house, an’ I reckon I can raise a cup o’ coffee, an’ a pone or two o’ bread. As for your shore, the ole corn-crib ain’t quite empty yet.”“Thanks thanks!” said I, grasping the hunter’s hand in the warmth of my gratitude. “I accept your invitation.”“This way, then, stranger!”We struck into a path that led to the right; and, after riding about two miles further, arrived at the solitary home of the hunter—a log-cabin surrounded by a clearing. I soon found he was its sole occupant—as he was its owner—some half-dozen large dogs being the only living creatures that were present to bid us welcome. A rude horse-shed was at hand—a “loose box,” it might be termed, as it was only intended to accommodate one—and this was placed at the disposal of my Arab. The “critter” of my host had, for that night, to take to the woods, and choose his stall among the trees—but to that sort of treatment he had been well inured. A close-chinked cabin for a lodging; a bear-skin for a bed; cold venison, corn-bread, and coffee for supper; with a pipe to follow: all these, garnished with the cheer of a hearty welcome, constitute an entertainment not to be despised by an old campaigner; and such was the treatment I met with, under the hospitableclapboardroof of the young backwoodsman—Frank Wingrove.
For half a mile beyond the glade, the trace continued wide enough to admit of our riding abreast; but, notwithstanding this advantage, no word passed between us. My guide had relapsed into his attitude of melancholy—deepened, no doubt, by the intelligence he had just received—and sat loosely in his saddle, his head drooping forward over his breast. Bitter thoughts within rendered him unconscious of what was passing without; and I felt that any effort I might make to soften the acerbity of his reflections would be idle.
There are moments when words of consolation may be spoken in vain—when, instead of soothing a sorrow, they add poison to its sting. I made no attempt, therefore, to rouse my companion from his reverie; but rode on by his side, silent as he. Indeed, there was sufficient unpleasantness in my own reflections to give me occupation. Though troubled by no heart-canker of the past, I had a future before me that was neither brilliant nor attractive. The foreknowledge I had now gained of squatter Holt, had imbued me with a keen presentiment, that I was treading upon the edge of a not very distant dilemma. Once, or twice, was I on the point of communicating my business to my travelling companion; and why not? With the openness of an honest heart, had he confided to me the most important, as well as the most painful, secret of his life. Why should I withhold my confidence from him on a subject of comparatively little importance? My reason for not making a confidant of him sooner has been already given. It no longer existed. So far from finding in him an ally of my yet hypothetical enemy, in all likelihood I should have him on my die. At all events, I felt certain that I might count upon his advice; and, with his knowledge of thesituation, that might be worth having.
I was on the eve of declaring the object of my errand, and soliciting his counsel thereon, when I saw him suddenly rein in, and turn towards me. In the former movement, I imitated his example.
“The road forks here,” said he. “The path on the left goes straight down to Holt’s Clarin’—the other’s the way to my bit o’ a shanty.”
“I shall have to thank you for the very kind service you have rendered me, and say ‘Good-night.’”
“No—not yet. I ain’t a-goin’ to leave ye, till I’ve put you ’ithin sight o’ Holt’s cabin, tho’ I can’t go wi’ ye to the house. As I told ye, he an’ I ain’t on the best o’ tarms.”
“I cannot think of your coming out of your way—especially at this late hour. I’m some little of a tracker myself; and, perhaps, I can make out the path.”
“No, stranger! Thar’s places whar the trace is a’most blind, and you mout get out o’ it. Thar’ll be no moon on it. It runs through a thick timbered bottom, an’ thar’s an ugly bit o’ swamp. As for the lateness, I’m not very reg’lar in my hours; an’ thar’s a sort o’ road up the crik by which I can get home. ’Twan’t to bid you good-night, that I stopped here.”
“What, then?” thought I, endeavouring to conjecture his purpose, while he was pausing in his speech.
“Stranger!” continued he in an altered tone, “I hope you won’t take offence if I ask you a question?”
“Not much fear of that, I fancy. Ask it freely.”
“Are ye sure o’ a bed at Holt’s?”
“Well, upon my word, to say the truth, I am by no means sure of one. It don’t signify, however. I have my old cloak and my saddle; and it wouldn’t be the first time, by hundreds, I’ve slept in the open air.”
“My reezuns for askin’ you air, that if you ain’t sure o’ one, an’ don’t mind stretching’ yourself on a bar-skin, thar’s such a thing in my shanty entirely at your sarvice.”
“It is very kind of you. Perhaps I may have occasion to avail myself of your offer. In truth, I am not very confident of meeting with a friendly reception at the hands of your neighbour Holt—much less being asked to partake of his hospitality.”
“D’ye say so?”
“Indeed, yes. From what I have heard, I have reason to anticipate rather a cold welcome.”
“I’deed? But,”—My companion hesitated his his speech—as if meditating some observation which he felt a delicacy about making. “I’m a’most ashamed,” continued he, at length, “to put another question, that war on the top o’ my tongue.”
“I shall take pleasure in answering any question you may think proper to ask me.”
“I shedn’t ask it, if it wa’n’t for what you’ve jest now said: for I heerd the same question put to you this night afore, an’ I heerd your answer to it. But I reckon ’twar thewayin which it war asked that offended you; an’ on that account your answer war jest as it should a been.”
“To what question to you refer?”
“To your bisness out here wi’ Hick Holt. I don’t want to know it, out o’ any curiosity o’ my own—that’s sartin, stranger.”
“You are welcome to know all about it. Indeed, it was my intention to have told you before we parted—at the same time to ask you for some advice about the matter.”
Without further parley, I communicated the object of my visit to Mud Creek—concealing nothing that I deemed necessary for the elucidation of the subject. Without a word of interruption, the young hunter heard my story to the end. From the play of his features, as I revealed the more salient points, I could perceive that my chances of an amicable adjustment of my claim were far from being brilliant.
“Well—do you know,” said he, when I had finished speaking, “I had a suspeecion that that might be your bisness? I don know why I shed a thort so; but maybe ’twar because thar’s been some others come here to settle o’ late, an’ found squatters on thar groun—jest the same as Holt’s on yourn. That’s why ye heerd me say, a while ago, that I shedn’t like to buy overhishead.”
“And why not?” I awaited the answer to this question, not without a certain degree of nervous anxiety. I was beginning to comprehend the counsel of my Nashville friend on the ticklish point ofpre-emption.
“Why, you see, stranger—as I told you, Hick Holt’s a rough customer; an’ I reckon he’ll be anuglyone to deal wi’, on a bisness o’ that kind.”
“Of course, being in possession, he may purchase the land? He has the right of pre-emption?”
“’Taint for that.Heain’t a-goin’ topre-empt, nor buy neyther; an’ for the best o’ reezuns. He hain’t got a red cent in the world, an’ souldn’t buy as much land as would make him a mellyun patch—not he.”
“How does he get his living, then?”
“Oh, as for that, jest some’at like myself. Thar’s gobs o’ game in the woods—both bar an’ deer: an’ the clarin’ grows him corn. Thar’s squ’lls, an’ ’possum, an’ turkeys too; an’ lots o’ fish in the crik—if one gets tired o’ the bar an’ deer-meat, which I shed niver do.”
“But how about clothing, and other necessaries that are not found in the woods?”
“As for our clothin’itain’t hard to find. We can get that in Swampville by swopping skins for it, or now an’ then some deer-meat. O’ anythin’ else, thar ain’t much needed ’bout here—powder, an’ lead, an’ a leetle coffee, an’ tobacco. Once in a while, if ye like it, a taste o’old corn.”
“Corn! I thought the squatter raised that for himself?”
“So he do raise corn; but I see, stranger, you don’t understand our odd names. Thar’s two kinds o’ corn in these parts—that as has been to thestill, and that as hain’t. It’s the first o’ these sorts that Hick Holt likes best.”
“Oh! I perceive your meaning. He’s fond of a little corn-whisky, I presume?”
“I reckon he are—that same squatter—fonder o’t than milk. But surely,” continued the hunter, changing the subject, as well as the tone of his speech—“surely, stranger, you ain’t a-goin’ on your bisness the night?”
“I’ve just begun to think, that itisrather an odd hour to enter upon an estate. The idea didn’t occur to me before.”
“Besides,” added he, “thar’s another reezun. If Hick Holt’s what he used to be, he ain’t likely to be veryniceabout this time o’ night. I hain’t seen much o’ him lately; but, I reckon, he’s as fond o’ drink as ever he war; an’ ’tain’t often he goes tohisbed ’ithout a skinful. Thar’s ten chances agin one, o’ your findin’ him wi’ brick in his hat.”
“That would be awkward.”
“Don’t think o’ goin’ to-night,” continued the young hunter in a persuasive tone. “Come along wi’ me; an’ you can ride down to Holt’s in the mornin’. You’ll then find him more reezonable to deal wi’. I can’t offer you no great show o’ entertainment; but thar’s a piece o’ deer-meat in the house, an’ I reckon I can raise a cup o’ coffee, an’ a pone or two o’ bread. As for your shore, the ole corn-crib ain’t quite empty yet.”
“Thanks thanks!” said I, grasping the hunter’s hand in the warmth of my gratitude. “I accept your invitation.”
“This way, then, stranger!”
We struck into a path that led to the right; and, after riding about two miles further, arrived at the solitary home of the hunter—a log-cabin surrounded by a clearing. I soon found he was its sole occupant—as he was its owner—some half-dozen large dogs being the only living creatures that were present to bid us welcome. A rude horse-shed was at hand—a “loose box,” it might be termed, as it was only intended to accommodate one—and this was placed at the disposal of my Arab. The “critter” of my host had, for that night, to take to the woods, and choose his stall among the trees—but to that sort of treatment he had been well inured. A close-chinked cabin for a lodging; a bear-skin for a bed; cold venison, corn-bread, and coffee for supper; with a pipe to follow: all these, garnished with the cheer of a hearty welcome, constitute an entertainment not to be despised by an old campaigner; and such was the treatment I met with, under the hospitableclapboardroof of the young backwoodsman—Frank Wingrove.
Chapter Seventeen.The Indian Summer.Look forth on the forest ere autumn wind scattersIts frondage of scarlet, and purple, and gold:That forest, through which the great “Father of Waters”For thousands of years his broad current has rolled!Gaze over that forest of opaline hue,With a heaven above it of glorious blue,And say is there scene, in this beautiful world,Where Nature more gaily her flag has unfurled?Or think’st thou, that e’en in the regions of bliss,There’s a landscape more truly Elysian than this?Behold the dark sumac in crimson arrayed,Whose veins with the deadliest poison are rife!And, side by her side, on the edge of the glade,The sassafras laurel, restorer of life!Behold the tall maples turned red in their hue,And the muscadine vine, with its clusters of blue;And the lotus, whose leaves have scarce time to unfold,Ere they drop, to discover its berries of gold;And the bay-tree, perfumed, never changing its sheen,And for ever enrobed in its mantle of green!And list to the music borne over the trees!It falls on the ear, giving pleasure ecstatic—The song of the birds and the hum of the beesCommingling their tones with the ripples erratic.Hark! hear you the red-crested cardinal’s callFrom the groves of annona? - from tulip-tree tallThe mock-bird responding? - below, in the glade,The dove softly cooing in mellower shade—While the oriole answers in accents of mirth?Oh, where is there melody sweeter on earth?In infamy now the bold slanderer slumbers,Who falsely declared ’twas a land without song!Had he listened, as I, to those musical numbersThat liven its woods through the summer-day long—Had he slept in the shade of its blossoming trees,Or inhaled their sweet balm ever loading the breeze,He would scarcely have ventured on statement so wrong—“Her plants without perfume, her birds without song.”Ah! closet-philosopher, sure, in that hour,You had never beheld the magnolia’s flower?Surely here the Hesperian gardens were found—For how could such land to the gods be unknown?And where is there spot upon African groundSo like to a garden a goddess would own?And the dragon so carelessly guarding the tree,Which the hero, whose guide was a god of the sea,Destroyed before plucking the apples of gold—Was nought but that monster - the mammoth of old.If earth ever owned spot so divinely caressed,Sure that region of eld was the Land of the West!The memory of that scene attunes my soul to song, awaking any muse from the silence in which she has long slumbered. But the voice of the coy maiden is less melodious than of yore: she shiesmefor my neglect: and despite the gentlest courting, refusing to breathe her divine spirit over a scene worthy of a sweeter strain. And this scene lay not upon the classic shores of the Hellespont—not in the famed valleys of Alp and Apennine—not by the romantic borders of the Rhine, but upon the banks ofMud Creekin the state of Tennessee! In truth, it was a lovely landscape, or rather a succession of landscapes, through which I rode, after leaving the cabin of my hospitable host. It was the season of “Indian summer”—that singular phenomenon of the occidental clime, when the sun, as if rueing his southern declension, appears to return along the line of the zodiac. He loves better the “Virgin” than “Aquarius;” and lingering to take a fond look on that fair land he has fertilised by his beams, dispels for a time his intruding antagonist, the hoary Boreas. But his last kiss kills: there is too much passion in his parting glance. The forest is fired by its fervour; and many of its fairest forms the rival trod of the north may never clasp in his cold embrace. In suttee-like devotion, they scorn to shun the flame; but, with outstretched arms inviting it; offer themselves as a holocaust to him who, through the long summer-day, has smiled upon their trembling existence.At this season of the year, too, the virgin forest is often the victim of another despoiler—thehurricane. Sweeping them with spiteful breath, this rude destroyer strikes down the trees like fragile reeds—prostrating at once the noblest and humblest forms. Not one is left standing on the soil: for the clearing of the hurricane is a complete work; and neither stalk, sapling, nor stump may be seen, where it has passed. Even the giants of the forest yield to its strength, as though smitten by the hand of a destroying angel! Uprooted, they lie along the earth side by side—the soil still clinging to the clavicles of their roots, and their leafy tops turned to the lee—in this prostrate alignment slowly to wither and decay! A forest, thus fallen, presents for a time a picture of melancholy aspect. It suggests the idea of some grand battle-field, where the serried hosts, by a terrible discharge of “grape and canister,” have been struck down on the instant: not one being left to look to the bodies of the slain—neither to bury nor remove them. Like the battle-field, too, it becomes the haunt of wolves and other wild beasts; who find among the fallen trunks, if not food, a fastness securing them from the pursuit both of hound and hunter. Here in hollow log the black she-bear gives birth to her loutish cubs, training them to climb over the decaying trunks; here the lynx and red couguar choose their cunning convert; here the racoon rambles over his beaten track; the sly opossum crawls warily along the log, or goes to sleep among the tangle of dry rhizomes; while the gaunt brown wolf may be often heard howling amidst the ruin, or in hoarse bark baying the midnight moon.In a few years, however, this sombre scene assumes a more cheerful aspect. An under-growth springs up, that soon conceals the skeletons of the dead trees: plants and shrubs appear—often of different genera and species from those that hitherto usurped the soil—and the ruin is no longer apparent. The mournful picture gives place to one of luxuriant sweetness: the more brilliant sheen of the young trees and shrubs, now covering the ground, and contrasting agreeably with the sombre hues of the surrounding forest. No longer reigns that melancholy silence that, for a while, held dominion over the scene. If, at intervals, be heard the wild scream of the couguar, or the distant howling of wolves, these scarcely interrupt the music falling endlessly upon the ear—the red cardinals, the orioles, the warblingfringillidae, and the polyglot thrushes—who meet here, as if by agreement, to make this lovely sylvan spot the scene of their forest concerts.Shortly after leaving the cabin of this young backwoodsman, my path, hitherto passing under the gloomy shadows of the forest, debouched upon just such a scene. I had been warned of its proximity. My host, at parting, had given me directions as to how I should find my way across theherrikin—through which ran the trace that conducted to the clearing of the squatter, some two miles further down the creek. I was prepared to behold a tract of timber laid prostrate by the storm—the trees all lying in one direction, and exhibiting the usual scathed and dreary aspect. Instead of this, on emerging from the dark forest, I was agreeably surprised by a glorious landscape that burst upon my view.It was, as already stated, that season of the year when the American woods array themselves in their most attractive robes—when the very leaves appear as if they were flowers, so varied and brilliant are their hues—when the foliage of the young beeches becomes a pale yellow, and glimmers translucent against the sun—when the maples are dying off of a deep red, and the sumac and sassafras turning respectively crimson and scarlet—when the large drupes of the Osage orange, the purple clusters of the fox-grape, and the golden berries of the persimmon or Virginian lotus, hang temptingly from the tree: just at that season when the benignant earth has perfected, and is about to yield up, her annual bounty; and all nature is gratefully rejoicing at the gift. No wonder I was agreeably impressed by the gorgeous landscape—no wonder I reigned up, and permitted my eyes to dwell upon it; while my heart responded to the glad chorus, that, from bird and bee, was rising up to heaven around me! I, too felt joyous under the reflection that, amid such lovely scenes, I had chosen my future home.
Look forth on the forest ere autumn wind scattersIts frondage of scarlet, and purple, and gold:That forest, through which the great “Father of Waters”For thousands of years his broad current has rolled!Gaze over that forest of opaline hue,With a heaven above it of glorious blue,And say is there scene, in this beautiful world,Where Nature more gaily her flag has unfurled?Or think’st thou, that e’en in the regions of bliss,There’s a landscape more truly Elysian than this?Behold the dark sumac in crimson arrayed,Whose veins with the deadliest poison are rife!And, side by her side, on the edge of the glade,The sassafras laurel, restorer of life!Behold the tall maples turned red in their hue,And the muscadine vine, with its clusters of blue;And the lotus, whose leaves have scarce time to unfold,Ere they drop, to discover its berries of gold;And the bay-tree, perfumed, never changing its sheen,And for ever enrobed in its mantle of green!And list to the music borne over the trees!It falls on the ear, giving pleasure ecstatic—The song of the birds and the hum of the beesCommingling their tones with the ripples erratic.Hark! hear you the red-crested cardinal’s callFrom the groves of annona? - from tulip-tree tallThe mock-bird responding? - below, in the glade,The dove softly cooing in mellower shade—While the oriole answers in accents of mirth?Oh, where is there melody sweeter on earth?In infamy now the bold slanderer slumbers,Who falsely declared ’twas a land without song!Had he listened, as I, to those musical numbersThat liven its woods through the summer-day long—Had he slept in the shade of its blossoming trees,Or inhaled their sweet balm ever loading the breeze,He would scarcely have ventured on statement so wrong—“Her plants without perfume, her birds without song.”Ah! closet-philosopher, sure, in that hour,You had never beheld the magnolia’s flower?Surely here the Hesperian gardens were found—For how could such land to the gods be unknown?And where is there spot upon African groundSo like to a garden a goddess would own?And the dragon so carelessly guarding the tree,Which the hero, whose guide was a god of the sea,Destroyed before plucking the apples of gold—Was nought but that monster - the mammoth of old.If earth ever owned spot so divinely caressed,Sure that region of eld was the Land of the West!
Look forth on the forest ere autumn wind scattersIts frondage of scarlet, and purple, and gold:That forest, through which the great “Father of Waters”For thousands of years his broad current has rolled!Gaze over that forest of opaline hue,With a heaven above it of glorious blue,And say is there scene, in this beautiful world,Where Nature more gaily her flag has unfurled?Or think’st thou, that e’en in the regions of bliss,There’s a landscape more truly Elysian than this?Behold the dark sumac in crimson arrayed,Whose veins with the deadliest poison are rife!And, side by her side, on the edge of the glade,The sassafras laurel, restorer of life!Behold the tall maples turned red in their hue,And the muscadine vine, with its clusters of blue;And the lotus, whose leaves have scarce time to unfold,Ere they drop, to discover its berries of gold;And the bay-tree, perfumed, never changing its sheen,And for ever enrobed in its mantle of green!And list to the music borne over the trees!It falls on the ear, giving pleasure ecstatic—The song of the birds and the hum of the beesCommingling their tones with the ripples erratic.Hark! hear you the red-crested cardinal’s callFrom the groves of annona? - from tulip-tree tallThe mock-bird responding? - below, in the glade,The dove softly cooing in mellower shade—While the oriole answers in accents of mirth?Oh, where is there melody sweeter on earth?In infamy now the bold slanderer slumbers,Who falsely declared ’twas a land without song!Had he listened, as I, to those musical numbersThat liven its woods through the summer-day long—Had he slept in the shade of its blossoming trees,Or inhaled their sweet balm ever loading the breeze,He would scarcely have ventured on statement so wrong—“Her plants without perfume, her birds without song.”Ah! closet-philosopher, sure, in that hour,You had never beheld the magnolia’s flower?Surely here the Hesperian gardens were found—For how could such land to the gods be unknown?And where is there spot upon African groundSo like to a garden a goddess would own?And the dragon so carelessly guarding the tree,Which the hero, whose guide was a god of the sea,Destroyed before plucking the apples of gold—Was nought but that monster - the mammoth of old.If earth ever owned spot so divinely caressed,Sure that region of eld was the Land of the West!
The memory of that scene attunes my soul to song, awaking any muse from the silence in which she has long slumbered. But the voice of the coy maiden is less melodious than of yore: she shiesmefor my neglect: and despite the gentlest courting, refusing to breathe her divine spirit over a scene worthy of a sweeter strain. And this scene lay not upon the classic shores of the Hellespont—not in the famed valleys of Alp and Apennine—not by the romantic borders of the Rhine, but upon the banks ofMud Creekin the state of Tennessee! In truth, it was a lovely landscape, or rather a succession of landscapes, through which I rode, after leaving the cabin of my hospitable host. It was the season of “Indian summer”—that singular phenomenon of the occidental clime, when the sun, as if rueing his southern declension, appears to return along the line of the zodiac. He loves better the “Virgin” than “Aquarius;” and lingering to take a fond look on that fair land he has fertilised by his beams, dispels for a time his intruding antagonist, the hoary Boreas. But his last kiss kills: there is too much passion in his parting glance. The forest is fired by its fervour; and many of its fairest forms the rival trod of the north may never clasp in his cold embrace. In suttee-like devotion, they scorn to shun the flame; but, with outstretched arms inviting it; offer themselves as a holocaust to him who, through the long summer-day, has smiled upon their trembling existence.
At this season of the year, too, the virgin forest is often the victim of another despoiler—thehurricane. Sweeping them with spiteful breath, this rude destroyer strikes down the trees like fragile reeds—prostrating at once the noblest and humblest forms. Not one is left standing on the soil: for the clearing of the hurricane is a complete work; and neither stalk, sapling, nor stump may be seen, where it has passed. Even the giants of the forest yield to its strength, as though smitten by the hand of a destroying angel! Uprooted, they lie along the earth side by side—the soil still clinging to the clavicles of their roots, and their leafy tops turned to the lee—in this prostrate alignment slowly to wither and decay! A forest, thus fallen, presents for a time a picture of melancholy aspect. It suggests the idea of some grand battle-field, where the serried hosts, by a terrible discharge of “grape and canister,” have been struck down on the instant: not one being left to look to the bodies of the slain—neither to bury nor remove them. Like the battle-field, too, it becomes the haunt of wolves and other wild beasts; who find among the fallen trunks, if not food, a fastness securing them from the pursuit both of hound and hunter. Here in hollow log the black she-bear gives birth to her loutish cubs, training them to climb over the decaying trunks; here the lynx and red couguar choose their cunning convert; here the racoon rambles over his beaten track; the sly opossum crawls warily along the log, or goes to sleep among the tangle of dry rhizomes; while the gaunt brown wolf may be often heard howling amidst the ruin, or in hoarse bark baying the midnight moon.
In a few years, however, this sombre scene assumes a more cheerful aspect. An under-growth springs up, that soon conceals the skeletons of the dead trees: plants and shrubs appear—often of different genera and species from those that hitherto usurped the soil—and the ruin is no longer apparent. The mournful picture gives place to one of luxuriant sweetness: the more brilliant sheen of the young trees and shrubs, now covering the ground, and contrasting agreeably with the sombre hues of the surrounding forest. No longer reigns that melancholy silence that, for a while, held dominion over the scene. If, at intervals, be heard the wild scream of the couguar, or the distant howling of wolves, these scarcely interrupt the music falling endlessly upon the ear—the red cardinals, the orioles, the warblingfringillidae, and the polyglot thrushes—who meet here, as if by agreement, to make this lovely sylvan spot the scene of their forest concerts.
Shortly after leaving the cabin of this young backwoodsman, my path, hitherto passing under the gloomy shadows of the forest, debouched upon just such a scene. I had been warned of its proximity. My host, at parting, had given me directions as to how I should find my way across theherrikin—through which ran the trace that conducted to the clearing of the squatter, some two miles further down the creek. I was prepared to behold a tract of timber laid prostrate by the storm—the trees all lying in one direction, and exhibiting the usual scathed and dreary aspect. Instead of this, on emerging from the dark forest, I was agreeably surprised by a glorious landscape that burst upon my view.
It was, as already stated, that season of the year when the American woods array themselves in their most attractive robes—when the very leaves appear as if they were flowers, so varied and brilliant are their hues—when the foliage of the young beeches becomes a pale yellow, and glimmers translucent against the sun—when the maples are dying off of a deep red, and the sumac and sassafras turning respectively crimson and scarlet—when the large drupes of the Osage orange, the purple clusters of the fox-grape, and the golden berries of the persimmon or Virginian lotus, hang temptingly from the tree: just at that season when the benignant earth has perfected, and is about to yield up, her annual bounty; and all nature is gratefully rejoicing at the gift. No wonder I was agreeably impressed by the gorgeous landscape—no wonder I reigned up, and permitted my eyes to dwell upon it; while my heart responded to the glad chorus, that, from bird and bee, was rising up to heaven around me! I, too felt joyous under the reflection that, amid such lovely scenes, I had chosen my future home.