Life in the Backwoods

S >> Susanna Moodie >> Life in the Backwoods

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It was too late to retreat; and seeing that the animal was very hungry,
and determined to come to close quarters, she rose, and placed her back
against a small tree, holding her knife close to her breast, and in a
straight line with the bear. The shaggy monster came on. She remained
motionless, her eyes steadily fixed upon her enemy, and as his huge arms
closed around her, she slowly drove the knife into his heart. The bear
uttered a hideous cry, and sank dead at her feet. When the Indian
returned, he found the courageous woman taking the skin from the carcass
of the formidable brute.

The wolf they hold in great contempt, and scarcely deign to consider him
as an enemy. Peter Nogan assured me that he never was near enough to one
in his life to shoot it; that, except in large companies, and when greatly
pressed by hunger, they rarely attack men. They hold the lynx, or
wolverine, in much dread, as they often spring from trees upon their prey,
fastening upon the throat with their sharp teeth and claws, from which a
person in the dark could scarcely free himself without first receiving a
dangerous wound. The cry of this animal is very terrifying, resembling the
shrieks of a human creature in mortal agony.

My husband was anxious to collect some of the native Indian airs, as they
all sing weil, and have a fine ear for music, but all his efforts proved
abortive. "John," he said to young Nogan (who played very creditably on
the flute, and had just concluded the popular air of "Sweet Home"),
"cannot you play me one of jour own songs?"

"Yes,--but no good."

"Leave me to be the judge of that. Cannot you give me a war-song?"

"Yes,--but no good," with an ominous shake of the head.

"A hunting-song?"

"No fit for white man."--with an air of contempt.--"No good, no good!"

"Do, John, sing us a love-song," said I, laughing, "if you have such a
thing in your language."

"Oh! much love-song--very much--bad--bad--no good for Christian man.
Indian song no good for white ears." This was very tantalizing, as their
songs sounded very sweet from the lips of their squaws, and I had a great
desire and curiosity to get some of them rendered into English.

To my husband they gave the name of "the musician," but I have forgotten
the Indian word. It signified the maker of sweet sounds. They listened
with intense delight to the notes of his flute, maintained a breathless
silence during the performance; their dark eyes flashing in fierce light
at a martial strain, or softening with the plaintive and tender.

The affection of Indian parents to their children, and the deference
which they pay to the aged, is a beautiful and touching trait in their
character.

One extremely cold, wintry day, as I was huddled with my little ones over
the stove, the door softly unclosed, and the moccasined foot of an Indian
crossed the floor. I raised my head, for I was too much accustomed to
their sudden appearance at any hour to feel alarmed, and perceived a tall
woman standing silently and respectfully before me, wrapped in a large
blanket. The moment she caught my eye she dropped the folds of her
covering from around her, and laid at my feet the attenuated figure of a
boy, about twelve years of age, who was in the last stage of consumption.

"Papouse die," she said, mournfully, clasping her hands against her
breast, and looking down upon the suffering lad with the most heartfelt
expression of maternal love, while large tears trickled down her dark
face. "Moodie's squaw save papouse--poor Indian woman much glad."

Her child was beyond all human aid. I looked anxiously upon him, and knew,
by the pinched-up features and purple hue of his wasted cheek, that he had
not many hours to live. I could only answer with tears her agonizing
appeal to my skill.

"Try and save him! All die but him." (She held up five of her fingers.)
"Brought him all the way from Mutta Lake [Footnote: Mud Lake, or Lake
_Shemong_, in Indian.] upon my back, for white squaw to cure."

"I cannot cure him, my poor friend. He is in God's care; in a few hours he
will be with Him."

The child was seized with a dreadful fit of coughing, which I expected
every moment would terminate his frail existence. I gave him a
tea-spoonful of currant-jelly, which he took with avidity, but could not
retain a moment on his stomach.

"Papouse die," murmured the poor woman; "alone--alone! No papouse; the
mother all alone."

She began re-adjusting the poor sufferer in her blanket. I got her some
food, and begged her to stay and rest herself; but she was too much
distressed to eat, and too restless to remain. She said little, but her
face expressed the keenest anguish; she took up her mournful load, pressed
for a moment his wasted, burning hand in hers, and left the room.

My heart followed her a long way on her melancholy journey. Think what
this woman's love must have been for that dying son, when she had carried
a lad of his age six miles, through the deep snow upon her back, on such a
day, in the hope of my being able to do him some good. Poor heartbroken
mother! I learned from Joe Muskrat's squaw some days after that the boy
died a few minutes after Elizabeth Iron, his mother, got home.

They never forget any little act of kindness. One cold night, late in the
fall, my hospitality was demanded by six squaws, and puzzled I was how to
accommodate them all. I at last determined to give them the use of the
parlour floor during the night. Among these women there was one very old,
whose hair was as white as snow. She was the only gray-haired Indian I
ever saw, and on that account I regarded her with peculiar interest. I
knew that she was the wife of a chief, by the scarlet embroidered
leggings, which only the wives and daughters of chiefs are allowed to
wear. The old squaw had a very pleasing countenance, but I tried in vain
to draw her into conversation. She evidently did not understand me; and
the Muskrat squaw, and Betty Cow, were laughing at my attempts to draw her
out. I administered supper to them with my own hands, and after I had
satisfied their wants, (which is no very easy task, for they have great
appetites,) I told our servant to bring in several spare mattresses and
blankets for their use. "Now mind, Jenny, and give the old squaw the best
bed," I said; "the others are young and can put up with a little
inconvenience."

The old Indian glanced at me with her keen, bright eye; but I had no idea
that she comprehended what I said. Some weeks after this, as I was
sweeping over my parlour floor, a slight tap drew me to the door. On
opening it I perceived the old squaw, who immediately slipped into my hand
a set of beautifully-embroidered bark trays, fitting one within the other,
and exhibiting the very best sample of the porcupine-quill work. While I
stood wondering what this might mean, the good old creature fell upon my
neck, and kissing me, exclaimed, "You remember old squaw--make her
comfortable! Old squaw no forget you. Keep them for her sake," and before
I could detain her she ran down the hill with a swiftness which seemed to
bid defiance to years. I never saw this interesting Indian again, and I
concluded that she died during the winter, for she must have been of a
great age.

A friend was staying with us, who wished much to obtain a likeness of
Old Peter. I promised to try and make a sketch of the old man the next
time he paid us a visit. That very afternoon he brought us some ducks in
exchange for pork, and Moodie asked him to stay and take a glass of
whiskey with him and his friend Mr. K____. The old man had arrayed himself
in a new blanket-coat, bound with red, and the seams all decorated with
the same gay material. His leggings and moccasins were new, and
elaborately fringed; and, to cap the climax of the whole, he had a blue
cloth conical cap upon his head, ornamented with a deer's tail dyed blue,
and several cock's feathers. He was evidently very much taken up with the
magnificence of his own appearance, for he often glanced at himself in a
small shaving-glass that hung opposite, with a look of grave satisfaction.
Sitting apart that I might not attract his observation, I got a tolerably
faithful likeness of the old man, which, after sightly colouring, to show
more plainly his Indian finery, I quietly handed over to Mr. K____. Sly as
I thought myself, my occupation and the object of it had not escaped the
keen eye of the old man. He rose, came behind Mr. K____'s chair, and
regarded the picture with a most affectionate eye. I was afraid that he
would be angry at the liberty I had taken. No such thing! He was as
pleased as Punch.

"That Peter?" he grunted. "Give me--put up in wigwam--make dog too!
Owgh! owgh!" and he rubbed his hands together, and chuckled with delight.
Mr. K____ had some difficulty in coaxing the picture from the old chief;
so pleased was he with this rude representation of himself. He pointed to
every particular article of his dress, and dwelt with peculiar glee on the
cap and blue deer's tail.

A few days after this, I was painting a beautiful little snow-bird, that
our man had shot out of a large flock that alighted near the door. I was
so intent upon my task, to which I was putting the finishing strokes, that
I did not observe the stealthy entrance (for they all walk like cats) of a
stern-looking red man, till a slender, dark hand was extended over my
paper to grasp the dead bird from which I was copying, and which as
rapidly transferred it to the side of the painted one, accompanying the
act with the deep guttural note of approbation, the unmusical, savage
"Owgh."

My guest then seated himself with the utmost gravity in a rocking-chair,
directly fronting me, and made the modest demand that I should paint a
likeness of him, after the following quaint fashion:

"Moodie's squaw know much--make Peter Nogan toder day on papare--make
Jacob to-day--Jacob young--great hunter--give much duck--venison--to
squaw."

Although I felt rather afraid of my fierce-looking visitor, I
could scarcely keep my gravity; there was such an air of pompous
self-approbation about the Indian, such a sublime look of conceit in his
grave vanity.

"Moodie's squaw cannot do every thing; she cannot paint young men," said
I, rising, and putting away my drawing materials, upon which he kept his
eye intently fixed, with a hungry, avaricious expression. I thought it
best to place the coveted objects beyond his reach. After sitting for some
time, and watching all my movements, he withdrew, with a sullen,
disappointed air. This man was handsome, but his expression was vile.
Though he often came to the house, I never could reconcile myself to his
countenance.

Late one very dark, stormy night, three Indians begged to be allowed to
sleep by the kitchen stove. The maid was frightened out of her wits at the
sight of these strangers, who were Mohawks from the Indian woods upon the
Bay of Quinte, and they brought along with them a horse and cutter.
The night was so stormy, that, after consulting our man--Jacob Faithful,
as we usually called him--I consented to grant their petition, although
they were quite strangers, and taller and fiercer-looking than our friends
the Missasaguas.

I was putting my children to bed, when the girl came rushing in, out of
breath. "The Lord preserve us, madam, if one of these wild men has not
pulled off his trowsers, and is a-sitting mending them behind the stove!
and what shall I do?"

"Do?-why, stay with me, and leave the poor fellow to finish his work."

The simple girl had never once thought of this plan of pacifying her
outraged sense of propriety.

Their sense of hearing is so acute that they can distinguish sounds at
an incredible distance, which cannot be detected by a European at all.
I myself witnessed a singular exemplification of this fact. It was
mid-winter; the Indians had pitched their tent, or wigwam, as usual, in
our swamp. All the males were absent on a hunting expedition up the
country, and had left two women behind to take care of the camp and its
contents, Mrs. Tom Nogan and her children, and Susan Moore, a young girl
of fifteen, and the only truly beautiful squaw I ever saw. There was
something interesting about this girl's history, as well as her
appearance. Her father had been drowned during a sudden hurricane, which
swamped his canoe on Stony Lake; and the mother, who witnessed the
accident from the shore, and was near her confinement with this child,
boldly swam out to his assistance. She reached the spot where he sank, and
even succeeded in recovering the body; but it was too late; the man was
dead.

The soul of an Indian that has been drowned is reckoned accursed, and he
is never permitted to join his tribe on the happy hunting-grounds, but his
spirit haunts the lake or river in which he lost his life. His body is
buried on some lonely island, which the Indians never pass without leaving
a small portion of food, tobacco, or ammunition, to supply his wants; but
he is never interred with the rest of his people. His children are
considered unlucky, and few willingly unite them selves to the females of
the family, lest a poition of the father's curse should be visited on
them.

The orphan Indian girl generally kept aloof from the rest, and seemed so
lonely and companionless, that she soon attracted my attention and
sympathy, and a hearty feeling of good-will sprang up between us. Her
features were small and regular, her face oval, and her large, dark,
loving eyes were full of tenderness and sensibility, but as bright and shy
as those of the deer. A rich vermilion glow burnt upon her olive cheek and
lips, and set off the dazzling whiteness of her even and pearly teeth. She
was small of stature, with delicate little hands and feet, and her figure
was elastic and graceful. She was a beautiful child of nature, and her
Indian name signified "the voice of angry waters." Poor girl, she had been
a child of grief and tears from her birth! Her mother was a Mohawk, from
whom she, in all probability, derived her superior personal attractions;
for they are very far before the Missasaguas in this respect.

My friend and neighbour, Emilia S____, the wife of a naval officer, who
lived about a mile distant from me, through the bush, had come to spend
the day with me; and hearing that the Indians were in the swamp, and the
men away, we determined to take a, few trifles to the camp, in the way of
presents, and spend an hour in chatting with the squaws.

What a beautiful moonlight night it was, as light as day!--the great
forest sleeping tranquilly beneath the cloudless heavens--not a sound to
disturb the deep repose of nature but the whispering of the breeze, which,
during the most profound calm, creeps through the lofty pine tops. We
bounded down the steep bank to the lake shore. Life is a blessing, a
precious boon indeed, in such an hour, and we felt happy in the mere
consciousness of existence--the glorious privilege of pouring out the
silent adoration of the heart to the Great Father in his universal temple.

On entering the wigwam, which stood within a few yards of the clearing, in
the middle of a thick group of cedars, we found Mrs. Tom alone with her
elvish children, seated before the great fire that burned in the centre of
the camp; she was busy boiling some bark in an iron spider. The little
boys, in red flannel shirts, which were their only covering, were
tormenting a puppy, which seemed to take their pinching and pommelling in
good part, for it neither attempted to bark nor to bite, but like the eels
in the story, submitted to the infliction because it was used to it. Mrs.
Tom greeted us with a grin of pleasure, and motioned us to sit down upon a
buffalo skin, which, with a courtesy so natural to the Indians, she had
placed near her for our accommodation.

"You are all alone," said I, glancing round the camp. "Ye'es; Indian away
hunting--Upper Lakes. Come home with much deer."

"And Susan, where is she?"

"By and by," (meaning that she was coming). "Gone to fetch water--ice
thick--chop with axe--take long time."

As she ceased speaking, the old blanket that formed the door of the tent
was withdrawn, and the girl, bearing two pails of water, stood in the open
space, in the white moonlight. The glow of the fire streamed upon her
dark, floating locks, danced in the black, glistening eye, and gave a
deeper blush to the olive cheek! She would have made a beautiful picture;
Sir Joshua Reynolds would have rejoiced in such a model--so simply
graceful and unaffected, the very _beau ideal_ of savage life and
unadorned nature. A smile of recognition passed between us. She put down
her burden beside Mrs. Tom, and noiselessly glided to her seat.

We had scarcely exchanged a few words with our favourite, when the old
squaw, placing her hand against her ear, exclaimed, "Whist! whist!"

"What is it?" cried Emilia and I, starting to our feet, "Is there any
danger?"

"A deer--a deer--in bush!" whispered the squaw, seizing a rifle that stood
in a corner. "I hear sticks crack--a great way off. Stay here!"

A great way off the animal must have been, for though Emilia and I
listened at the open door, an advantage which the squaw did not enjoy, we
could not hear the least sound: all seemed still as death. The squaw
whistled to an old hound, and went out.

"Did you hear any thing, Susan?"

She smiled, and nodded.

"Listen; the dog has found the track."

The next moment the discharge of a rifle, and the deep baying of the dog,
woke up the sleeping echoes of the woods; and the girl started off to help
the old squaw to bring in the game that she had shot.

The Indians are great imitators, and possess a nice tact in adopting the
customs and manners of those with whom they associate. An Indian is
Nature's gentleman--never familiar, coarse, or vulgar. If he take a meal
with you, he waits to see how you make use of the implements on the table,
and the manner in which you eat, which he imitates with a grave decorum,
as if he had been accustomed to the same usage from childhood. He never
attempts to help himself, or demand more food, but waits patiently until
you perceive what he requires. I was perfectly astonished at this innate
politeness, for it seems natural to all the Indians with whom I have had
any dealings.

There was one old Indian, who belonged to a distant settlement, and only
visited our lakes occasionally on hunting parties. He was a strange,
eccentric, merry old fellow, with a skin like red mahogany, and a wiry,
sinewy frame, that looked as if it could bid defiance to every change of
temperature. Old Snow-storm, for such was his significant name, was rather
too fond of the whiskey-bottle, and when he had taken a drop too much, he
became an unmanageable wild beast. He had a great fancy for my husband,
and never visited the other Indians without extending the same favour to
us. Once upon a time, he broke the nipple of his gun; and Moodie repaired
the injury for him by fixing a new one in its place, which little kindness
quite won the heart of the old man, and he never came to see us without
bringing an offering of fish, ducks, partridges, or venison, to show his
gratitude.

One warm September day, he made his appearance bareheaded, as usual, and
carrying in his hand a great checked bundle.

"Fond of grapes?" said he, putting the said bundle into my hands. "Fine
grapes--brought them from island, for my friend's squaw and papouses."

Glad of the donation, which I considered quite a prize, I hastened into
the kitchen to untie the grapes and put them into a dish. But imagine my
disappointment, when I found them wrapped up in a soiled shirt, only
recently taken from the back of the owner. I called Moodie, and begged him
to return Snow-storm his garment, and to thank him for the grapes.

The mischievous creature was highly diverted with the circumstance, and
laughed immoderately.

"Snow-storm," said he, "Mrs. Moodie and the children are obliged to you
for your kindness in bringing them the grapes; but how came you to tie
them up in a dirty shirt?"

"Dirty!" cried the old man, astonished that we should object to the fruit
on that score. "It ought to be clean; it has been washed often enough.
Owgh! You see, Moodie," he continued, "I have no hat--never wear hat--want
no shade to my eyes--love the sun--see all around me--up and down--much
better widout hat. Could not put grapes in hat--blanket-coat too large,
crush fruit, juice run out. I had noting but my shirt, so I takes off
shirt, and brings grape safe over the water on my back. Papouse no care
for dirty shirt; their _lee-tel bellies have no eyes_."

In spite of this eloquent harangue, I could not bring myself to use the
grapes, ripe and tempting as they looked, or give them to the children.
Mr. W____ and his wife happening to step in at that moment, fell into such
an ecstacy at the sight of the grapes, that, as they were perfectly
unacquainted with the circumstance of the shirt, I very _generously_
gratified their wishes by presenting them with the contents of the large
dish; and they never ate a bit less sweet for the novel mode in which they
were conveyed to me!

The Indians, under their quiet exterior, possess a deal of humour. They
have significant names for every thing, and a nickname for every one, and
some of the latter are laughably appropriate. A fat, pompous, ostentatious
settler in our neighbourhood they called _Muckakee_, "the bull-frog."
Another, rather a fine young man, but with a very red face, they named
_Segoskee_, "the rising sun." Mr. Wood, who had a farm above ours, was a
remarkably slender young man, and to him they gave the appellation of
_Metiz_, "thin stick." A woman, that occasionally worked for me, had a
disagreeable squint; she was known in Indian by the name of _Sachabo_,
"cross-eye." A gentleman with a very large nose was _Choojas_, "big, or
ugly nose." My little Addie, who was a fair, lovely creature, they viewed
with great approbation, and called _Anoonk_, "a star;" while the rosy
Katie was _Nogesigook,_ "the northern lights." As to me, I was
_Nonocosiqui_, a "humming-bird;" a ridiculous name for a tall woman, but
it was reference to the delight I took in painting birds. My friend,
Emilia, was "blue cloud;" my little Donald, "frozen face;" young C____,
"the red-headed woodpecker," from the colour of his hair; my brother,
_Chippewa_, and "the bald-headed eagle." He was an especial favourite
among them.

The Indians are often made a prey of and cheated by the unprincipled
settlers, who think it no crime to overreach a red skin. One anecdote will
fully illustrate this fact. A young squaw, who was near becoming a mother,
stopped at a Smith-town settler's house to rest herself. The woman of the
house, who was Irish, was peeling for dinner some large white turnips,
which her husband had grown in their garden. The Indian had never seen a
turnip before, and the appearance of the firm, white, juicy root gave her
such a keen craving to taste it that she very earnestly begged for a small
piece to eat. She had purchased at Peterborough a large stone-china bowl,
of a very handsome pattern, (or, perhaps, got it at the store in exchange
for a _basket_,) the worth of which might be half-a-dollar. If the poor
squaw longed for the turnip, the value of which could scarcely reach a
copper, the covetous European had fixed as longing a glance upon the china
bowl, and she was determined to gratify her avaricious desire and obtain
it on the most easy terms. She told the squaw, with some disdain, that her
man did not grow turnips to give away to "Injuns," but she would sell her
one. The squaw offered her four coppers, all the change she had about her.
This the woman refused with contempt. She then proffered a basket; but
that was not sufficient; nothing would satisfy her but the bowl. The
Indian demurred; but opposition had only increased her craving for the
turnip in a tenfold degree; and, after a short mental struggle, in which
the animal propensity overcame the warnings of prudence, the squaw gave up
the bowl, and received in return _one turnip_. The daughter of this woman
told me this anecdote of her mother as a very clever thing. What ideas
some people have of moral justice!

I have said before that the Indian never forgets a kindness. We had a
thousand proofs of this, when, overtaken by misfortune, and withering
beneath the iron grasp of poverty, we could scarcely obtain bread for
ourselves and our little ones; then it was that the truth of the Eastern
proverb was brought home to our hearts, and the goodness of God fully
manifested towards us, "Cast thy bread upon the waters, and thou shalt
find it after many days." During better times we had treated these poor
savages with kindness and liberality, and when dearer friends looked
coldly upon us they never forsook us. For many a good meal I have been
indebted to them, when I had nothing to give in return, when the pantry
was empty, and "the hearth-stone growing cold," as they term the want of
provisions to cook at it. And their delicacy in conferring these favours
was not the least admirable part of their conduct. John Nogan, who was
much attached to us, would bring a fine bunch of ducks, and drop them at
my feet "for the papouse," or leave a large muskinonge on the sill of the
door, or place a quarter of venison just within it, and slip away without
saying a word, thinking that receiving a present from a poor Indian might
hurt our feelings, and he would spare us the mortification of returning
thanks.

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