G. A. Henty - "Saint Bartholomew's Eve"

David Macbeth Moir - "The Life of Mansie Wauch"

William Shakespeare - "Othello, the Moor of Venice"

Coningsby Dawson - "The Glory of the Trenches"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Canadian Crusoes

C >> Catherine Parr Traill >> Canadian Crusoes




The Bald Eagle greets him with friendly courtesy; the dance and death-song
are hushed; a treaty is begun. It is for the deliverance of the captives.
The chief points to Catharine--she is free: his white brother may take
her--she is his. But the Indian law of justice must take its course; the
condemned, who raised her hand against an Ojebwa chief, must die. In vain
were the tempting stores of scarlet cloth and beads for the women, with
powder and shot, laid before the chief: the arrows of six warriors were
fitted to the string, and again the dance and song commenced, as if, like
the roll of the drum and clangour of the trumpet, it were necessary to the
excitement of strong and powerful feelings, and the suppression of all
tenderer emotions.

And now a wild and solemn voice was heard, unearthly in its tones, rising
above the yells of those savage men. At that sound every cheek became pale:
it struck upon the ear as some funeral wail. Was it the death-song of the
captive girl bound to that fearful stake? No; for she stands unmoved, with
eyes raised heavenward, and lips apart--

"In still, but brave despair."

Shrouded in a mantle of dark cloth, her long black hair unbound and
streaming over her shoulders, appears the Mohawk widow, the daughter of the
Ojebwa chief. The gathering throng fall back as she approaches, awed by her
sudden appearance among them. She stretches out a hand on which dark stains
are visible--it is the blood of her husband, sacrificed by her on that
day of fearful deeds: it has never been effaced. In the name of the Great
Spirit she claims the captive girl--the last of that devoted tribe--to
be delivered over to her will. Her right to this remnant of her murdered
husband's family is acknowledged. A knife is placed in her hand, while a
deafening yell of triumph bursts from the excited squaws, as this their
great high-priestess, as they deemed her, advanced to the criminal. But it
was not to shed the heart's blood of the Mohawk girl, but to severe the
thongs that bound her to the deadly stake, for which that glittering blade
was drawn, and to bid her depart in peace whithersoever she would go.

Then, turning to the Bald Eagle, she thus addressed him: "At the dead of
night, when the path of light spanned the sky, a vision stood before mine
eyes. It came from the Great and Good Spirit, and bade me to set free the
last of a murdered race whose sun had gone down in blood shed by my hand
and by the hands of my people. The vision told me that if I did this my
path should henceforth be peace, and that I should go to the better land
and be at rest if I did this good deed." She then laid her hands on the
head of the young Mohawk, blessed her, and enveloping herself in the dark
mantle, slowly retired back to her solitary tent once more.




CHAPTER XVI.

"Hame, hame, hame,
Hame I soon shall be,
Hame, hame, hame,
In mine own countrie."--_Scotch Ballad._

Old Jacob and Catharine, who had been mute spectators of the scene so full
of interest to them, now presented themselves before the Ojebwa chief, and
besought leave to depart. The presents were again laid before him, and this
time were graciously accepted. Catharine in distributing the beads and
cloth took care that the best portion should fall to the grand-daughter
of the chief, the pretty good-humoured Snowbird. The old man was not
insensible to the noble sacrifice which had been made by the devoted
Indiana, and he signified his forgiveness of her fault by graciously
offering to adopt her as his child, and to give her in marriage to one
of his grandsons, an elder brother of the Snowbird; but the young girl
modestly but firmly refused this mark of favour, for her heart yearned for
those whose kindness had saved her from death, and who had taught her to
look beyond the things of this world to a brighter and a better state of
being. She said, "She would go with her white sister, and pray to God to
bless her enemies, as the Great Spirit had taught her to do."

It seems a lingering principle of good in human nature, that the exercise
of mercy and virtue opens the heart to the enjoyment of social happiness.
The Indians, no longer worked up by excitement to deeds of violence, seemed
disposed to bury the hatchet of hatred, and the lodge was now filled with
mirth, and the voice of gladness, feasting, and dancing. A covenant of
peace and good-will was entered upon by old Jacob and the chief, who bade
Catharine tell her brothers that from henceforth they should be free to
hunt the deer, fish, or shoot the wild fowl of the lake, whenever they
desired to do so, "he the Bald Eagle had said so."

On the morrow, with the first dawn of day, the old trapper was astir; the
canoe was ready, with fresh cedar boughs strewed at the bottom. A supply of
parched rice and dried fish had been presented by the Indian chief for the
voyage, that his white brother and the young girls might not suffer, from
want. At sun-rise the old man led his young charges to the lodge of the
Bald Eagle, who took a kindly farewell of them. "The Snow-bird" was
sorrowful, and her bright laughing eyes were dimmed with tears at parting
with Catharine; she was a gentle loving thing, as soft and playful as the
tame fawn that nestled its velvet head against her arm. She did not let
Catharine depart without many tokens of her regard, the work of her own
hands,--bracelets of porcupine quills cut in fine pieces and strung in
fanciful patterns, [Footnote: Appendix M] mocassins richly wrought, and
tiny bark dishes and boxes, such as might have graced a lady's work-table,
so rare was their workmanship.

Just as they were about to step into the canoe "the Snow-bird" reappeared,
bearing a richly worked bark box, "From the Great Medicine," she said in
a low voice, "To the daughter of the Mohawk _brave._" The box contained a
fine tunic, soft as a lady's glove, embroidered and fringed, and a fillet
of scarlet and blue feathers, with the wings and breast of the war-bird, as
shoulder ornaments. It was a token of reconciliation and good-will worthy
of a generous heart.

The young girl pressed the gifts to her bosom and to her lips
reverentially, and the hand that brought them to her heart, as she said in
her native tongue, "Tell the Great Medicine I kiss her in my heart, and
pray that she may have peace and joy till she departs for the spirit-land."

With joyful heart they bade adieu to the Indian lodges, and rejoiced in
being once more afloat on the bosom of the great river. To Catharine the
events of the past hours seemed like a strange bewildering dream; she
longed for the quiet repose of home; and how gladly did she listen to that
kind old man's plans for restoring her brothers and herself to the arms
of their beloved parents. How often did she say to herself, Oh that I had
wings like a dove, for then would I flee away and be at rest!--in the
shelter of that dear mother's arms whom she now pined for with a painful
yearning of the heart that might well be called home sickness. But in spite
of anxious wishes, the little party were compelled to halt for the night
some few miles above the lake. There is on the eastern bank of the
Otonabee, a pretty rounded knoll, clothed with wild cherries, hawthorns and
pine-trees, just where a creek half hidden by alder and cranberry bushes,
works its way below the shoulder of the little eminence; this creek grows
broader and becomes a little stream, through which the hunters sometimes
paddle their canoes, as a short cut to the lower part of the lake near
Crook's Rapids. To this creek old Jacob steered his light craft, and
bidding the girls collect a few dry sticks and branches for an evening fire
on the sheltered side of the little bank, he soon lighted the pile into a
cheerful blaze by the aid of birch bark, the hunter's tinder--a sort of
fungus that is found in the rotten oak and maple-trees--and a knife and
flint; he then lifted the canoe, and having raised it on its side, by means
of two small stakes which he cut from a bush hard by, then spread down his
buffalo robe on the dry grass. "There is a tent fit for a queen to sleep
under, mes cheres filles," he said, eyeing his arrangements for their night
shelter with great satisfaction.

He then proceeded to bait his line, and in a few minutes had a dish of
splendid bass ready for the coals. Catharine selected a large flat block of
limestone on which the fish when broiled was laid; but old Jacob opened his
wide mouth and laughed, when she proceeded to lay her bush table with large
basswood leaves for platters. Such nicety he professed was unusual on a
hunter's table. He was too old a forester to care how his food was dished,
so that he had wherewithal to satisfy his hunger.

Many were the merry tales he told and the songs he sung, to wile away the
time, till the daylight faded from the sky, and the deep blue heavens were
studded with bright stars, which were mirrored in countless hosts deep deep
down in that calm waveless river, while thousands of fireflies lighted up
the dark recesses of the forest's gloom. High in the upper air the hollow
booming of the night-hawk was heard at intervals, and the wild cry of the
night-owl from a dead branch, shouting to its fellow, woke the silence of
that lonely river scene.

The old trapper stretched before the crackling fire, smoked his pipe or
hummed some French voyageur's song. Beneath the shelter of the canoe
soundly slept the two girls; the dark cheek of the Indian girl pillowed on
the arm of her fairer companion, her thick tresses of raven hair mingling
with the silken ringlets of the white maiden. They were a lovely pair--one
fair as morning, the other dark as night,

How lightly did they spring from their low bed, wakened by the early song
of the forest birds! The light curling mist hung in fleecy volumes upon
the river, like a flock of sheep at rest--the tinkling sound of the heavy
dew-drops fell in mimic showers upon the stream. See that red squirrel, how
lightly he runs along that fallen trunk--how furtively he glances with his
sharp bright eye at the intruders on his sylvan haunts! Hark! there is
a rustling among the leaves--what strange creature works its way to the
shore? A mud turtle--it turns, and now is trotting along the little sandy
ridge to some sunny spot, where, half buried, it may lie unseen near the
edge of the river. See that musk-rat, how boldly he plunges into the
stream, and, with his oarlike tail, stems the current till he gains in
safety the sedges on the other side.

What gurgling sound is that?--it attracts the practised ear of the old
hunter. What is that object which floats so steadily down the middle of the
stream, and leaves so bright a line in its wake?--it is a noble stag. Look
at the broad chest, with which he breasts the water so gallantly; see
how proudly he carries his antlered head; he has no fear in those lonely
solitudes--he has never heard the crack of the hunter's rifle--he heeds
not the sharp twang of that bowstring, till the arrow rankles in his neck,
and the crimson flood dyes the water around him--he turns, but it is only
to present a surer mark for the arrow of the old hunter's bow; and now the
noble beast turns to bay, and the canoe is rapidly launched by the hand of
the Indian girl--her eye flashes with the excitement--her whole soul is in
the chase--she stands up in the canoe, and steers it full upon the wounded
buck, while a shower of blows are dealt upon his head and neck with the
paddle. Catharine buries her face in her hands--she cannot bear to
look upon the sufferings of the noble animal. She will never make a
huntress--her heart is cast in too soft a mould. See they have towed the
deer ashore, and Jacob is in all his glory,--the little squaw is an Indian
at heart--see with what expertness she helps the old man; and now the great
business is completed, and the venison is stowed away at the bottom of the
canoe--they wash their hands in the river and come at Catharine's summons
to eat her breakfast.

The sun is now rising high above the pine-trees, the morning mist is also
rising and rolling off like a golden veil as it catches those glorious
rays--the whole earth seems wakening into new life--the dew has brightened
every leaf and washed each tiny flower-cup--the pines and balsams give
out their resinous fragrance--the aspens flutter and dance in the morning
breeze and return a mimic shower of dew-drops to the stream--the shores
become lower and flatter--the trees less lofty and more mossy--the stream
expands and wide beds of rushes spread out on either side--what beds of
snowy water-lilies--how splendid the rose tint of those perseicarias that
glow so brightly in the morning sun--the rushes look like a green meadow,
but the treacherous water lies deep below their grassy leaves--the deer
delights in these verdant aquatic fields, and see what flocks of red-wings
rise from among them as the canoe passes near--their bright shoulder-knots
glance like flashes of lightning in the sun-beams.

This low swampy island, filled with driftwood, these grey hoary trees, half
choked and killed with grey moss and lichens--those straggling alders and
black ash look melancholy--they are like premature old age, grey-headed
youths. That island divides the channel of the river--the old man takes
the nearest, the left hand, and now they are upon the broad Rice Lake, and
Catharine wearies her eye to catch the smoke of the shanty rising among the
trees--one after another the islands steal out into view--the capes, and
bays, and shores of the northern side are growing less distinct, Yon hollow
bay, where the beaver has hidden till now, backed by that bold sweep of
hills that look in the distance as if only covered with green ferns, with
here and there a tall tree, stately as a pine or oak--that is the spot
where Louis saw the landing of the Indians--now a rising village--Gores'
Landing. On yon lofty hill now stands the village church, its white tower
rising amongst the trees forms a charming object from the lake, and there
a little higher up, not far from the plank road, now stand pretty rural
cottages--one of these belong to the spirited proprietor of the village
that bears his name. That tasteful garden before the white cottage, to the
right, is Colonel Brown's, and there are pretty farms and cultivated spots;
but silence and loneliness reigned there at the time of which I write.

Where those few dark pines rise above the oak groves like the spires of
churches in a crowded city, is Mount Ararat. [Footnote: Appendix N.] The
Indian girl steers straight between the islands for that ark of refuge, and
Catharine's eyes are dimmed with grateful tears as she pictures to herself
the joyful greeting in store for her. In the overflowings of her gladness
she seizes the old man's rugged hand and kisses it, and flings her arms
about the Indian girl and presses her to her heart, when the canoe has
touched the old well-remembered landing place, and she finds herself so
near, so very near her lost home. How precious are such moments--how few we
have in life--they are created from our very sorrows--without our cares our
joys would be less lively; but we have no time to moralize--Catharine flies
with the speed of a young fawn, to climb the steep cliff-like shoulder of
that steep bank, and now, out of breath, stands at the threshold of her
log-house--how neat and nice it looks compared with the Indians' tents--the
little field of corn is green and flourishing--there is Hector's axe in a
newly-cut log--it is high noon--the boys ought to have been there taking
their mid-day meal, but the door is shut. Catharine lifts the wooden latch,
and steps in--the embers are nearly burned out, to a handful of grey
ashes--old Wolfe is not there--all is silent--and Catharine sits down
to still the beating of her heart and await the coming up of her slower
companions, and gladdens her mind with the hope that her brother and Louis
will soon be home--her eye wanders over every old familiar object--all
things seem much as she had left them, only the maize is in the ear and
the top feather waves gracefully with the summer breeze--it promises an
abundant crop; but that harvest is not to be gathered by the hands of the
young planters--it was left to the birds of the air and the beasts of the
field--to those humble reapers who sow not, neither do they gather into
barns, for their Heavenly Father feedeth them. While the two girls busied
themselves in preparing a fine roast of venison old Jacob stalked away over
the hills to search for the boys, and it was not long before he returned
with Hector and Louis.

I must not tell tales, or I might say what tears of joy were mingled with
the rapturous greetings with which Louis embraced his beloved cousin; or I
might tell that the bright flush that warmed the dusky cheek of the young
Indian, and the light that danced in her soft black eyes, owed its origin
to the kiss that was pressed on her red lips by her white brother. Nor will
we say whose hand held hers so long in his while Catharine related the
noble sacrifice made for her sake, and the perils encountered by the
devoted Indiana--whose eyes were moistened with tears as the horrors of
that fearful trial were described--or who stole out alone over the hills,
and sat him down in the hush and silence of the summer night to think of
the acts of heroism displayed by that untaught Indian girl, and to dream a
dream of youthful love; but with these things, my young readers, we have
nothing to do.

"And now, my children," said old Jacob, looking round the little dwelling,
"have you made up your minds to live and die here on the shores of this
lake, or do you desire again to behold your father's home? Do your young
hearts yearn after the hearth of your childhood?" "After our fathers'
home!" was Louis's emphatic reply. "After the home of our childhood!" was
Catharine's earnest answer. Hector's lips echoed his sister's words, while
a furtive troubled glance fell upon the orphan stranger; but her timid eye
was raised to his young face with a trusting look, as she would have said.
"Thy home shall be my home, thy God my God."

"Well, mon ami, I believe, if my old memory fails me not, I can strike the
Indian trail that used to lead to the Cold Springs over the pine hills. It
will not be difficult for an old trapper to find his way."

"For my part, I shall not leave this lovely spot without regret," said
Hector. "It would be a glorious place for a settlement--all that one could
desire--hill, and valley, and plain, wood and water. Well, I will try
and persuade my father to leave the Cold Springs, and come and settle
hereabouts. It would be delightful, would it not, Catharine, especially now
we are friends with the Indians."

With their heads full of pleasant schemes for the future, our young folks
laid them down that night to rest. In the morning they rose, packed up such
portable articles as they could manage to carry, and with full hearts sat
down to take their last meal in their home--in that home which sheltered
them so long--and then, with one accord, they knelt down upon its hearth,
so soon to be left in loneliness, and breathed a prayer to Him who had
preserved them thus far in their eventful lives, and then they journeyed
forth once more into the wilderness. There was one, however, of their
little band they left behind: this was the faithful old dog Wolfe. He
had pined during the absence of his mistress, and only a few days before
Catharine's return he had crept to the seat she was wont to occupy, and
there died. Louis and Hector buried him, not without great regret, beneath
the group of birch-trees on the brow of the slope near the corn-field.




CHAPTER XVII.

"I will arise, and go to my father."--_New Testament_.

It is the hour of sunset; the sonorous sound of the cattle bells is heard,
as they slowly emerge from the steep hill path that leads to Maxwell and
Louis Perron's little clearing; the dark shadows are lengthening that those
wood-crowned hills cast over that sunny spot, an oasis in the vast forest
desert that man, adventurous, courageous man, has hewed for himself in the
wilderness. The little flock are feeding among the blackened stumps of the
uncleared chopping; those timbers have lain thus untouched for two long
years; the hand was wanting that should have given help in logging and
burning them up. The wheat is ripe for the sickle, and the silken beard of
the corn is waving like a fair girl's tresses in the evening breeze. The
tinkling fall of the cold spring in yonder bank falls soothingly on the
ear. Who comes from that low-roofed log cabin to bring in the pitcher of
water, that pale, careworn, shadowy figure that slowly moves along the
green pasture, as one without hope or joy; her black hair is shared with
silver, her cheek is pale as wax, and her hand is so thin, it looks as
though the light might be seen through if she held it towards the sun? It
is the heart-broken mother of Catharine and Hector Maxwell. Her heart has
been pierced with many sorrows; she cannot yet forget the children of her
love, her first-born girl and boy. Who comes to meet her, and with cheerful
voice chides her for the tear that seems ever to be lingering on that pale
cheek,--yet the premature furrows on that broad, sunburnt, manly brow
speak, too, of inward care? It is the father of Hector and Catharine. Those
two fine, healthy boys, in homespun blouses, that are talking so earnestly,
as they lean across the rail fence of the little wheat field, are Kenneth
and Donald; their sickles are on their arms; they have been reaping. They
hear the sudden barking of Bruce and Wallace, the hounds, and turn to see
what causes the agitation they display.

An old man draws near; he has a knapsack on his shoulders, which he casts
down on the corner of the stoup; he is singing a line of an old French
ditty; he raps at the open door. The Highlander bids him welcome, but
starts with glad surprise as his hand is grasped by the old trapper. "Ha,
Jacob Morelle, it is many a weary year since your step turned this way."
The tear stood in the eye of the soldier as he spoke.

"How is ma chere mere, and the young ones?" asked the old man, in a husky
voice--his kind heart was full. "Can you receive me, and those I have with
me, for the night? A spare corner, a shake-down, will do; we travellers in
the bush are no wise nice."

"The best we have, and kindly welcome; it is gude for saer een to see you,
Jacob. How many are ye in all?"

"There are just four, beside myself,--young people; I found them where they
had been long living, on a lonely lake, and I persuaded them to come with
me."

The strong features of the Highlander worked convulsively, as he drew his
faded blue bonnet over his eyes. "Jacob, did ye ken that we lost our eldest
bairns, some three summers since?" he faltered, in a broken voice.

"The Lord, in his mercy, has restored them to you, Donald, by my hand,"
said the trapper.

"Let me see, let me see my children. To him be the praise and the glory,"
ejaculated the pious father, raising his bonnet reverently from his head;
"and holy and blessed be his name for ever. I thought not to have seen this
day. Oh! Catharine, my dear wife, this joy will kill you."

In a moment his children were enfolded in his arms. It is a mistaken idea
that joy kills, it is a life restorer. Could you, my young readers, have
seen how quickly the bloom of health began to reappear on the faded cheek
of that pale mother, and how soon that dim eye regained its bright sparkle,
you would have said that joy does not kill.

"But where is Louis, dear Louis, our nephew, where is he?"

Louis whose impetuosity was not to be restrained by the caution of old
Jacob, had cleared the log fence at a bound, had hastily embraced his
cousins Kenneth and Donald, and in five minutes more had rushed into his
father's cottage, and wept his joy in the arms of father, mother, and
sisters by turns, before old Jacob had introduced the impatient Hector and
Catharine to their father.

"But while joy is in our little dwelling, who is this that sits apart upon
that stone by the log fence, her face bent sadly down upon het knees, her
long raven hair shading her features as with a veil," asked the Highlander
Maxwell, pointing as he spoke' to the spot where, unnoticed and unsharing
in the joyful recognition, sat the poor Indian girl. There was no paternal
embrace for her, no tender mother's kiss imprinted on that dusky cheek and
pensive brow--she was alone and desolate, in the midst of that scene of
gladness.

"It is my Indian sister," said Catharine, "she also must be your child;"
and Hector hurried to Indiana and half leading, half carrying the reluctant
girl, brought her to his parents and bade them be kind to and cherish the
young stranger, to whom they all owed so much.

I will not dwell upon the universal joy that filled that humble dwelling,
or tell the delight of Kenneth and Donald at the return of their lost
brother and sister, for my story hurries to a close.

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