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 well, 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 your 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 tantalising, as
their songs sounded very sweetly 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,
maintaining a breathless silence during the performance; their dark
eyes flashing into fierce light at a martial strain, or softening
with the plaintive and tender.
The cunning which they display in their contests with their enemies,
in their hunting, and in making bargains with the whites (who are
too apt to impose on their ignorance), seems to spring more from a
law of necessity, forced upon them by their isolated position and
precarious mode of life, than from any innate wish to betray. The
Indian's face, after all, is a perfect index of his mind. The eye
chances its expression with every impulse and passion, and shows
what is passing within as clearly as the lightning in a dark night
betrays the course of the stream. I cannot think that deceit forms
any prominent trait in the Indian's character. They invariably act
with the strictest honour towards those who never attempt to impose
upon them. It is natural for a deceitful person to take advantage
of the credulity of others. The genuine Indian never utters a
falsehood, and never employs flattery (that powerful weapon in the
hands of the insidious), in his communications with the whites.
His worst traits are those which he has in common with the wild
animals of the forest, and which his intercourse with the lowest
order of civilised men (who, in point of moral worth, are greatly
his inferiors), and the pernicious effects of strong drink, have
greatly tended to inflame and debate.
It is a melancholy truth, and deeply to be lamented, that
the vicinity of European settlers has always produced a very
demoralising effect upon the Indians. As a proof of this,
I will relate a simple anecdote.
John, of Rice Lake, a very sensible, middle-aged Indian, was
conversing with me about their language, and the difficulty he found
in understanding the books written in Indian for their use. Among
other things, I asked him if his people ever swore, or used profane
language towards the Deity.
The man regarded me with a sort of stern horror, as he replied,
"Indian, till after he knew your people, never swore - no bad word in
Indian. Indian must learn your words to swear and take God's name in
vain."
Oh, what a reproof to Christian men! I felt abashed, and degraded
in the eyes of this poor savage - who, ignorant as he was in many
respects, yet possessed that first great attribute of the soul, a
deep reverence for the Supreme Being. How inferior were thousands
of my countrymen to him in this important point.
The affection of Indian parents to their children, and the deference
which they pay to the aged, is another 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 agonising appeal to my skill.
"Try and save him!
