to watch the various boats as they flew before the gale, and one by one doubled the friendly promontory.
If there is one thing that provokes a voyageur more than another, it is being wind-bound on the shores of a large lake. Rain or sleet, heat or cold, icicles forming on the oars, or a broiling sun glaring in a cloudless sky, the stings of sandflies, or the sharp probes of a million mosquitoes, he will bear with comparative indifference; but being detained by high wind for two, three, or four days together—lying inactively on shore, when everything else, it may be, is favourable: the sun bright, the sky blue, the air invigorating, and all but the wind propitious—is more than his philosophy can carry him through with equanimity. He grumbles at it; sometimes makes believe to laugh at it; very often, we are sorry to say, swears at it; does his best to sleep through it; but whatever he does, he does with a bad grace, because he’s in a bad humour, and can’t stand it.
For the next three days this was the fate of our friends. Part of the time it rained, when the whole party slept as much as was possible, and then endeavoured to sleep more than was possible, under the shelter afforded by the spreading branches of the trees. Part of the time was fair, with occasional gleams of sunshine, when the men turned out to eat and smoke and gamble round the fires; and the two friends sauntered down to a sheltered place on the shore, sunned themselves in a warm nook among the rocks, while they gazed ruefully at the foaming billows, told endless stories of what they had done in time past, and equally endless prospective adventures that they earnestly hoped should befall them in time to come.
While they were thus engaged, Redfeather, the Indian who had cut the ropes so opportunely during the storm, walked down to the shore, and sitting down on a rock not far distant, fell apparently into a reverie.
“I like that fellow,” said Harry, pointing to the Indian.
“So do I. He’s a sharp, active man. Had it not been for him we should have had to swim for it.”
“Indeed, had it not been for him I should have had to sink for it,” said Harry, with a smile, “for I can’t swim.”
“Ah, true, I forgot that. I wonder what the redskin, as the guide calls him, is thinking about,” added Charley, in a musing tone.
“Of home, perhaps, ‘sweet home,’” said Harry, with a sigh. “Do you think much of home, Charley, now that you have left it?”
Charley did not reply for a few seconds; he seemed to muse over the question.
At last he said slowly—
“Think of home? I think of little else when I am not talking with you, Harry. My dear mother is always in my thoughts, and my poor old father. Home? ay; and darling Kate, too, is at my elbow night and day, with the tears streaming from her eyes, and her ringlets scattered over my shoulder, as I saw her the day we parted, beckoning me back again, or reproaching me for having gone away—God bless her! Yes, I often, very often, think of home, Harry.”
Harry made no reply. His friend’s words had directed his thoughts to a very different and far-distant scene—to another Kate, and another father and mother, who lived in a glen far away over the waters of the broad Atlantic. He thought of them as they used to be when he was one of the number, a unit in the beloved circle, whose absence would have caused a blank there. He thought of the kind voice that used to read the Word of God, and the tender kiss of his mother as they parted for the night. He thought of the dreary day when he left them all behind, and sailed away, in the midst of strangers, across the wide ocean to a strange land. He thought of them now—without him—accustomed to his absence, and forgetful, perhaps, at times that he had once been there. As he thought of all this a tear rolled down his cheek, and when Charley looked up in his face, that tear-drop told plainly that he too thought sometimes of home.
“Let us ask Redfeather to tell us something about the Indians,” he said at length, rousing himself. “I have no doubt he has had many adventures in his life. Shall we, Charley?”
“By all means.—Ho, Redfeather! are you trying to stop the wind by looking it out of countenance?”
The Indian rose, and walked towards the spot where the boys lay.
“What was Redfeather thinking about?” said Charley, adopting the somewhat pompous style of speech occasionally used by Indians. “Was he thinking of the white swan and his little ones in the prairie; or did he dream of giving his enemies a good licking the next time he meets them?”
“Redfeather has no enemies,” replied the Indian. “He was thinking of the great Manito, (God) who made the wild winds, and the great lakes, and the forest.”
“And pray, good Redfeather, what did your thoughts tell you?”
“They told me that men are very weak, and very foolish, and wicked; and that Manito is very good and patient to let them live.”
“That is to say,” cried Harry, who was surprised and a little nettled to hear what he called the heads of a sermon from a redskin, “that you, being a man, are very weak, and very foolish, and wicked; and that Manito is very good and patient to let you live?”
“Good,” said the Indian calmly; “that is what I mean.”
“Come, Redfeather,” said Charley, laying his hand on the Indian’s arm, “sit down beside us, and tell us some of your adventures. I know that you must have had plenty, and it’s quite clear that we’re not to get away from this place all day, so you’ve nothing better to do.”
The Indian readily assented, and began his story in English.
Redfeather was one of the very few Indians who had acquired the power of speaking the English language. Having been, while a youth, brought much into contact with the fur-traders, and having been induced by them to enter their service for a time, he had picked up enough of English to make himself easily understood. Being engaged at a later period of life as guide to one of the exploring parties sent out by the British Government to discover the famous North-west Passage, he had learned to read and write, and had become so much accustomed to the habits and occupations of the “palefaces,” that he spent more of his time, in one way or another, with them than in the society of his tribe, which dwelt in the thick woods bordering on one of the great prairies of the interior. He was about thirty years of age; had a tall, thin, but wiry and powerful frame; and was of a mild, retiring disposition. His face wore a habitually grave expression, verging towards melancholy; induced, probably, by the vicissitudes of a wild life (in which he had seen much of the rugged side of nature in men and things) acting upon a sensitive heart and a naturally warm temperament. Redfeather, however, was by no means morose; and when seated along with his Canadian comrades round the camp fire, he listened with evidently genuine interest to their stories, and entered into the spirit of their jests. But he was always an auditor, and rarely took part in their conversations. He was frequently consulted by the guide in matters of difficulty, and it was observed that the “redskin’s” opinion always carried much weight with it, although it was seldom given unless asked for. The men respected him much because he was a hard worker, obliging, and modest—three qualities that ensure respect, whether found under a red skin or a white one.
“I shall tell you,” he began, in a soft, musing tone, as if he were wandering in memories of the past—“I shall tell you how it was that I came by the name of Redfeather.”
“Au!” interrupted Charley, “I intended to ask you about that; you don’t wear one.”
“I did once. My father was a great warrior in his tribe,” continued the Indian; “and I was
