Stories of Enchantment 2

Stories of Enchantment 2

Little Snow-flower, almost overcome with fear, ran quickly to the log.

She picked up the pipe, which changed in her hands into a strange

flower; the leaves, the stem, and the blossoms were all white. It was

the Ghost flower, or Indian pipe.

 

Hurrying back down the ravine, she ran with flying feet into the tepee.

The Indian woman snatched the flower from the child’s hand and kissed

it, then listened anxiously to her story.

 

“Yes, little one, I must go. I had hoped that you might go with me; but

the Great Spirit does not will it so. And before I go, you must leave

me; I must see you started on your journey.” And then she told her of

her rescue, and of her parentage.

 

“This was tied fast round your neck. I hid it, and told no one.” She

showed the little girl the case of a gold locket, with a scrap of

closely written paper within. “Take this to the agency. The paper talks;

but do not fear, it is not bewitched. The agent will speak for it, and I

believe it will tell you where to find your kindred. Now hasten, dear

child; the sun will soon reach the cleft in the mountain, and then I

must go. I will see you again; my husband’s power is great; he will let

me come to you whenever you find a flower like this—the Ghost flower.”

 

Then, with tears and sobs, they separated. And when the sun was setting,

a great flock of blackbirds flew straight into its splendor; and among

them were two white ones: the souls of the medicine chief and his wife.

And poor little Snow-flower had begun her long journey to the agency.

She left the valley secretly, crept away without bidding any one in the

tribe farewell, for her Indian mother feared that they might detain her.

The medicine chief’s home stood apart from the rest of the village, and

was approached by the villagers with fear. When it was known that he was

dead, the tribe buried him and mourned for him. But the mother and the

daughter were unmolested in their grief.

 

A few days after Snow-flower had left, a kind-hearted woman ventured

near. Great was her surprise to find the tepee empty; and it was

believed by all that the medicine man had come for his wife and

daughter, and had conveyed them to the spirit world.

 

Little Snow-flower followed the path as far as she had gone in the old

days with her foster mother; but when she came to the cave where she had

been concealed, she was at a loss to know which way to go. She wandered

on, frightened and weary. The food she had brought with her was almost

gone. One night she lay down beside a strange-looking trail. There were

short logs laid across it, and on these were long slim logs or poles

made of iron. It was in a valley between two great mountains. She

wondered at it greatly. It was either a trail made by some wizard or

medicine man, or it was made by that strange tribe to which she

belonged, and of which she had heard for the first time that day, the

“pale-faces.”

 

But at least there was companionship in it, after the horrible

loneliness of the mountains. So she snuggled down near the trail, and

went to sleep. She was awakened by a terrible rumble and roar that shook

the earth around her. Something all fire and flashing eyes went

shrieking and hissing past her. She screamed with fear, and tried to

run, but her feet refused to carry her. The monster went a little way,

and then stopped. Some men sprang from its back and came toward her,

carrying a light. She saw that they were fair, like herself, and then

she fainted.

 

The men came hurrying on. It was a special train, carrying the

superintendent of the road, and a friend. “Did you say the massacre was

just here?” said the gentleman.

 

“Right about here—perhaps a few feet farther north.”

 

The gentleman sighed. “And has nothing been heard of the child?”

 

“The Indians positively declare that she is living somewhere in the

mountains, and that she is well cared for, but refuse to tell anything

more.”

 

“Well, I must have the child, if she is to be found on— Why, what is

this?” he exclaimed, as his foot struck against the soft little body of

Snow-flower. She shivered and moaned.

 

“What in this world! a little white girl, dressed like a little Indian!”

cried the superintendent.

 

“Let me see the child. She looks as my sister Mary did at that age. What

if this is her child, the little one I am searching for? Here, let me

carry her into the car; she is mine; I am sure of it,” said the

gentleman.

 

And so little Snow-flower awoke from her swoon to a new and wonderful

life. It almost seemed in later years, as she looked back to that time,

that she had entered another world; for she found love, riches,

education, all awaiting her.

 

Once or twice since, in lonely walks, she has found the Ghost flower;

and always then appears the vague, misty outline of her Indian mother.

 

A few days ago, her little son (for she is a woman and a mother now)

came into the house crying, “Mother, I saw a white blackbird. It was

with a great flock of black ones; it was just like them, only it was

white.”

 

She hurried out of the house hoping to find the spirit-bird; but it had

visited her, found her happy, and hastened back to the spirit land.

 

 

 

 

II.

THE LITTLE YELLOW MOCCASINS.

 

 

A clear river goes winding down, past green and shaded banks, through

the beautiful state of Iowa. It is named the Cedar, although the Oak, or

the Maple, or a dozen other names would be more appropriate, for the

Cedar is seldom found among the abundant trees that grow beside it.

 

Years ago, the Indians dwelt on its banks. They led an idyllic life: the

men fished in the blue waters, or hunted and trapped in the woods; the

women planted the small clearings with corn. These corn-fields may still

be seen, covered with little hillocks resembling in size and shape those

seen in a prairie-dog village; the corn was planted in these mounds,

instead of in rows, as with us.

 

Here the women worked and gossiped,—the babies in their cradles,

strapped to their mothers’ backs, or propped up against the trunks of

trees, and staring with round black eyes at the new and strange scenes

around them.

 

Among the women was one pretty young mother, who watched, as she worked,

her little son in his cradle. She talked or sang to him as she passed

him by. She named him “Little Bravo,” “Little Hunter.” She told him that

she was growing very old now; that he must step out of his cradle and

take care of her. Then she would laugh, showing her white teeth, and the

baby would wag his head from side to side, and laugh in sympathy,

revealing two cunning little teeth also. All the fond talk that a white

mother lavishes on her baby was told over by this Indian mother; for

mothers are alike in their love, whatever their color may be.

 

The years passed merrily along, for happy hearts make the hardest life a

merry one. The Little Bravo was a large boy now. Ten summers and winters

had passed since he came to his proud father and mother. He had learned

to row a canoe on the river, to fish, to set traps, and with bow and

arrow to bring down the wild duck and the prairie chicken. Soon he would

be a man, a—young brave indeed,—and go with his father to hunt the

bison, or on the warpath.

 

How many daydreams his mother enjoyed over his future! She saw him in

fancy a great chief, leading the tribe in war and in peace; she saw him

returning from war with many scalps of the enemy; saw him in the home

with wife and children, while his father and herself, grown old and

gray, sat in the warmest corner of the tepee and told his children

stories of their father’s brave deeds.

 

As she dreamed her daydreams, she busily worked on the fine clothing

with which she adorned him and his father; for it was her delight that

they outshone the rest of the men of the tribe in the splendor of their

raiment,—hunting shirts and leggings of the finest tanned skins, adorned

with fringes and gorgeous with crude embroidery, and moccasins of the

yellow buckskin, trimmed with beads and porcupine quills.

 

The boy was a noble little fellow; brave, warm-hearted, and merry. But

the Great Spirit saw that the doating love of father and mother was

ruining the gift He had placed in their hands.

 

One summer night the heat hung heavy over the land. It seemed an effort

to breathe. Black clouds hung sullen in the sky, and in the west the

lightning was flashing and the thunder was rumbling. “There will be much

wind and rain to-night. Where is our son?” said the father.

 

“Down on the river’s bank asleep,” answered his mother. “I sat long

beside him, and brushed away the stinging insects that annoyed him. He

has taken off his moccasins, the heat is so great, and his little feet

are bare. He is very beautiful as he sleeps. I will lift him without

waking him, and bear him into the storm cave.”

 

She hastened quickly down to the river, for the storm was rapidly

approaching. Just as her hands reached down to clasp her boy, there came

a vivid flash of lightning, and two strong hands (the hands of the

spirit who lives in the water) reached up, and grasping the boy firmly,

drew him down under the water.

 

Where, but a moment before, the rosy, dreaming boy was lying, was only

the print of his body in the grass, and the two little yellow moccasins,

shining like gold.

 

The mother gave a scream; the father came bounding to the spot; together

they sprang into the water, and dived again and again, striving to find

their son. The storm broke over the river in great fury, tearing off

great limbs of trees, and dashing their tepee to the ground; but neither

knew that it stormed. Finally, half dead, and heart-broken, they sought

the bank. The mother sat down and gathered the little moccasins to her