We now return to Quick’s cabin, on the Shinglekill. His residence was on the banks of the Delaware, at, or near Milford and the cabin on the Shinglekill was temporally used during the trapping season. The Senior Quick was a Hollander, and had settled at Milford while the country was a howling wilderness. He had three brothers, and from them has sprung the numerous Quick families in the Delaware Valley, and he was the father of Tom Quick, one of the heroes of our tale.
This cabin in which they carried Amy and her mother, was a log structure, in the midst of a Butternut grove. The outside of the house was nearly covered by the skins of wild beasts, hung there to dry. Suspended on poles and trees, were skulls of bears, panthers, deer and other animals, in which the birds built their nests and reared their young. Up the bank, and between the house and the Hawk’s Nest, was a cleared field, on which they raised corn.
Entering the house, we are struck at the order and decorum everywhere seen. The chimney is in one end of the house, and consists of a layer of red sand stone placed against the logs. There are no jambs to the chimney, and the smoke escapes through an opening in the roof. Hanging in crotches, on the side of the building, are three smoothly polished guns. In one corner of the room stands a number of bows and arrows. Overhead, tied to the rafters, hang numerous traps, and all about the house hang bags containing dried berries, herbs, etc. On a small table lies the family bible, bound with iron straps. On one side of the chimney is a closet containing the dishes and cooking utensils. On the back side of the room are four bunks in which to sleep. The end of the room, opposite the fire-place, is partitioned off, and furnished with a bed made of skins and furs.
It was in this room the mother and child were laid.
Heat some stones, said the elder Quick. And you boys go to rubbing them. We must start the blood.
Betsy soon had a number of warm stones wrapped in furs in the bed, while the boys applied themselves vigorously to rubbing their bodies.
The child soon gave evidence of restored animation. Breathing became perceptible. The muscles contracted, and her eyes partly opened. Then came a convulsion which shook her whole frame. Water and froth ran from her mouth.
That will do boys, said the old man. Let her lay quiet now. She will soon be herself again.
Rolla had been an anxious spectator of the scene we have described. Standing with his fore-feet on the foot of the bed looking intently into Amy’s face, he gave three suppressed barks.
The child is safe, exclaimed the old man.
Just then Rolla gave a mournful whine.
But, continued the old man, the mother will never see the sun set again. The dog, by some intuitive knowledge, sees life for the child, but death for the mother.
Then came a moment of suspense. The house was as silent as the grave, and all present stood gazing on the marble forms before them. A flush came into Amy’s face. Her eyes open.
Ma-ma—Rol—Rol!
And again all was silent.
She speaks, said Betsy, and her first thought is of her mother.
And her second of her dog, said Tom.
She now began to moan and talk, but not in a way that could be understood. At length her words were connected, but it was evident that she was delirious.
Oh! Walt. Do come and save your little Amy—River—big raft—pa-pa—drowned—hold her Rolla, hold her!
Thus she continued to rave for a few minutes, and then fell into a sweet, natural sleep.
In about half an hour her eyes opened, and she raised up and gazed about her in astonishment.
Where is mother? Where am I? Where is Rolla?
Rolla heard her, and bounded on the bed. Amy threw her arms about his neck.
Good Rolla! she exclaimed; Save mother—pull her out of the water—drag her on the raft!
Drake put out his hand, as if in the act of pulling the dog away.
No, no, boy, let the dog alone. That is nature’s own medicine. That is more soothing than a canoe-load of the white man’s pills. The girl requires quiet. Let the dog caress her.
This was said by a new comer, in a sweet and sympathizing voice, by an old man by the name of Wilson, (Cahoonshee,) of whom I shall speak hereafter.
In the meantime, all the arts known to the white man or Indian were resorted to, to revive the mother. They had, in a measure, restored circulation, but the breathing was accomplished with difficulty, and she showed no signs of consciousness. And thus the day passed in suspense.
The sun had just hid itself behind the western hills, as Amy aroused, and raised herself up in the bed. Rolla gave three soft, pleasant barks, and leaped on the bed and off again, and ran out of the house, and in again, jumping onto, and barking at every one, seemingly to express his joy at Amy’s recovery.
Where am I? she said, looking around the room.
Among friends, replied Wilson.
Where is mother?
Here, child, but unable to speak.
And Rolla; where is he?
Rolla, hearing his name pronounced, answered in person, giving a bark of joy, bounded on the bed.
Amy now seemed to be herself again, but it was thought best not to question her until she had fully recovered her strength. She was taken out in the shade of the butternuts, where we will leave her and Rolla for the present.
During this time the mother lay in a semi-conscious condition. At times she showed signs of reason, but was too weak to speak. The muscles of her mouth moved, but only a groan was heard.
Thus the night passed and the gray mist of morning is appearing. She opened her eyes and made a motion with her hand. In an instant Wilson was at her side.
What do you want good woman? Who do you want to see?
Instantly the whole household, including Amy and Rolla, surrounded the bed. The mother looked first at one, then at the other, and then cast her eyes heavenward, and dropped back on her pillow.
Blind! said Wilson.
Oh mother, dear mother, look at Amy! the child cried.
Now the mother shows signs of returning strength and was again raised up in bed, and as before, apparently looked to see those she could hear but could not see. There was no light in her eyes. She makes an attempt to speak, but her words are unintelligible. She tries again:
A—A—Amy—
Here, dear mother; here I am.
Kiss me, kiss me Amy.
She took hold of Amy’s hand and tried to speak again.
What is it mother? What do you want to say?
Rol—Rol—Rolla!
Before the words were finished, Rolla sprang to the bed and placed his fore-feet on her bosom.
See, mother, Rolla is here; said Amy.
A whine, accompanied by a mild bark escaped from the dog. The mother understood by that, that the dog was there. Then taking Rolla by the fore-paw, she, with a great effort laid it in Amy’s hand. Casting her sightless eyes toward heaven, she remained motionless for a few moments, evidently in prayer. A tremor came over her. A struggle ensued.
Nearly gone, said Wilson.
Her eyes open again. Now they can see and have the expression of intelligence. A silence ensues. She speaks:
Amy—Rolla—and drops on her pillow dead.
Rolla seemed to understand his mistress’s last wish and kissed the child that held its paw.
CHAPTER VI.
Cahoonshee.
I will now briefly relate the history of the man that was so abruptly introduced to our readers a few pages back, and who was an interested spectator at the death scene we have described.
Cahoonshee was reputed to be seven feet in height, with a large powerful frame. At a glance it was plainly to be seen that he was the true type of the Indian. High forehead, extended cheek bones, and a quick, twinkling eye. At the time we introduce him, he has passed his three-score-and-ten years. His hair is as white as snow; his voice low; his words few, and to the point. He belonged to a small tribe of the Delawares called Cahoonshees. When a small boy he was captured and taken to England. While there, he was painted in true Indian style, decked out with feathers in the most fantastic way, and carried around the country to be gazed at. This was repulsive to Cahoonshee, but for a long time he could not help himself. At length it was resolved to educate him for an interpreter and missionary. Cahoonshee proved to be an apt pupil, and in the end a good scholar. In a few years he mastered the English language and acquired a fair knowledge of the arts and sciences of that day. Then he returned to his native land, with the understanding on his part and on the part of the English that he was to remain in their employ and act as their agent and interpreter; and probably Cahoonshee intended to abide by this understanding when he left London.
They landed at Manhattan in the evening, and it was difficult for the Captain of the Reindeer to persuade him to wait until next morning before he started for the rivers and mountains of his childhood. Before the sun had risen the next morning, he was landed at Weehawken, and started on foot to climb the Palisades. Reaching the summit, he cast his eye back at the deep waters of the Hudson, and mentally resolved never to cross it again. As the earth was becoming enshrouded in the mantle of night on the second day, he struck the waters of the Delaware. During his journey from the Hudson to the Delaware, he was made to feel sad. The ravages of Christianity was to be seen at every step. The Indian wigwam had disappeared, and the white man’s house had taken its place. The white man had appropriated the land, and the Indian had gone—where? Echo answers where!
He stood on the bank of the river in silent meditation, living over again the days of his boyhood. When he hunted in these mountains, and fished in these streams, when his quick ear caught the sound of the canoe paddle. Looking in the direction of the sound, he saw a canoe swiftly approaching, containing but a single individual.
The canoe was close to the shore where Cahoonshee stood. He was at a loss whether to hide or make himself known. He judged that the canoe contained a white man, but the evening had so far advanced that a gloom passed over the waters.
Friend! said Cahoonshee in the Delaware tongue.
The man in the canoe dropped his paddle and seized his gun, then, looking toward the shore, saw a tall, athletic man, unarmed, with the palm of his hand extended. The man in the canoe, seeing this sign of amity, advanced to the shore, and saw that the stranger was an Indian in white man’s dress.
Delaware? exclaimed Quick in English.
Yes, replied Cahoonshee in the same language. Delaware in search of his old home and friends in the mountains.
My brother speaks like a white man, but looks like an Indian; said Quick.
I am no white man, I am an Indian, all Indian. Not a drop of white man’s blood runs in my veins. I am Cahoonshee.
Cahoonshee! exclaimed Quick. They were once a powerful and a brave tribe, but the last of them have passed away. Their lodges have rotted down; their fields are covered with thorns and briars, and their braves have gone to the spirit-land; not one of them is left; the echo of their voices are no longer heard on the Steynekill.
Does my brother know that country? asked Cahoonshee; Do you know the Steynekill? Do you know the silver lakes and the beaver dams?
Yes, I know them all. I have traveled over the mountains, trapped in the rivers and fished in the brooks. But there are no Cahoonshees there now.
Where did they go to?
The last of their braves were scalped by the Salamanques years ago, replied Quick.
At this disclosure, Cahoonshee drew his hand across his eyes and remained motionless. It was evident that he was struggling with his feelings. He swung to and fro, like a tree in a gale.
Did my brother have kin with the Cahoonshees? asked Quick.
Yes, all my kin. Father, mother, brother, sister—I am alone, not even a brother. Better that I had been there and died with them.
No, brother, you wrong the Great Spirit, who does all things well. But you have a brother, we are all brothers. Come, Cahoonshee, go with me to my house, and to-morrow I will go with you to the grave of your fathers.
Cahoonshee stepped into the canoe, and in a few minutes landed at Milford, the home of Quick. Cahoonshee partook of the white man’s hospitality with grace and ease, after which, he related his history from early boyhood, his capture, and subsequent voyage to England, his being made a show of there, his education, and return home. Quick was interested in his history, but what most interested him, was the education and manly appearance of his Indian guest.
After Cahoonshee had finished his story, he placed his hand to the side of his face, and seemed to be absorbed in some deep study from which Quick could not arouse him.
Will my brother go to bed? asked Quick.
No, replied Cahoonshee, white man sleep, Indian think.
At first Quick thought there might be some Indian deviltry behind all this apparent friendship.
Indian sleep, white man guard the fire, replied Quick.
Cahoonshee seemed to be stung by this mistrust.
Yes, Indian go to bed, but Indian no sleep. Indian think of the Cahoonshees. Indian never see one of his blood. Then casting his eyes heavenward, said:
White man lead. Indian follow.
Quick raised a ladder that led to the room above and was followed up by Cahoonshee.
There brother, is a bed of furs caught on the Steynekill. There you can sleep and dream.
At the dawn of day, Cahoonshee and Quick were on the trail that leads to Peenpack.
Where do you wish to go first? asked Quick.
To the graves of my fathers, replied Cahoonshee.
That is at the sand hill, on the east side of the Neversink, near the Kingston trail. (See Appendix.)
From this time until they reached the sand hill, not a word was spoken. The Tri-States rock was passed, and the Neversink Valley opened up before them, while to the right rose the Shawangunk mountains. Cahoonshee wanted to go to the sand hills by a route that no Indian would see him.
There are the graves of the last of the Cahoonshees, said Quick, pointing.
Cahoonshee was silent and meditative. Before him was to be seen the graves of his fathers. The river had washed the banks, and skulls and skeletons were bleaching in the sun. Cahoonshee picked up one of the skulls, and peered into the cavities, from whence once emanated the fire of intelligence, and was the dome of thought. His frame shook, his eye moistened.
Enough! he said. Let us go.
The travelers pursued their way along the Neversink until they reached Basheskill, where they encamped for the night. Scarcely a word passed between Cahoonshee and Quick. Cahoonshee appeared to be in a deep study, the meaning of which, the white man could not fathom. The next morning they crossed the river and wound their way along the Neversink for several miles, when Cahoonshee suddenly exclaimed:
Beaver Dam! His eyes for the first time had fallen on a spot that reminded him of the days of his boyhood. It seemed to warm the blood in his veins and awaken long slumbering emotions that could no longer be suppressed.
Here, he exclaimed, is where I last saw my kindred; here is where my mother last smiled on me; here is where my father patted me on the head and said: “Be a good brave, and when I am gone to the Spirit World, govern the Cahoonshees wisely.” Let us go.
Then they struck northwesterly across Handy Hill to the head waters of the Steynekill and encamped for the night. The next night brought them to Mongaup Falls, and from there they went to Bushkill Falls. Then they crossed the ridge, and struck the Steynekill near the Heart Rock. This was the original camping ground of the Cahoonshees. Here Cahoonshee recognized his old home, and pointed out places that were of interest to him in his boyish days. From there they went to Hawk’s Nest, and then to the Quick cabin on the Shinglekill. After supper, while sitting in the room, lighted by the blaze of a pine knot, Cahoonshee became more communicative.
When does my brother return to Manhattan? asked Quick.
Never, replied Cahoonshee. White man expects me there, white man wants Indian to help white man cheat Indian, white man great and powerful, he take Indian’s land, and tell Indian to go west. Yes, Indian will be driven west, until the great Pacific swallows them up, Indian become extinct, white man own all, Indian die, white man live forever. No! No! Cahoonshee take no part in this. English educate me, English make me wise, yet English care nothing for Indian. English have a God, Indian, the Great Spirit. English God help white man rob Indian. English send missionary to convert Indian, Missionary in the cabin, fire-water in the hold. White man no practice what they preach. Indian true to the Great Spirit. White man all self. White man wise, Indian superstitious, Indian believe in great medicine man, white man in money. No, Cahoonshee will never return to Manhattan. Cahoonshee remain here until the Great Spirit calls him home. Cahoonshee return to the scenes of his childhood on the Steynekill and live alone until his dust unites with that of his kindred. Think not, white man, that I am an enemy of your race. No, I am their friend. I bow to the will of the Almighty. The education I received from the white man, made me more wise, yet more miserable. I see that the Indian must go down, while on their ruins the whites will raise a mighty nation. But between us, brother, there must be no enmity. Let us smoke the pipe of peace, and let this be the pledge between us: As long as the grass grows on these hills, or the waters runs in these rivers.
CHAPTER VII.
The House of Death.
We will now return to the house of death, on the banks of the Shinglekill. There lay the marble form of Mary Powers, the mother of Amy. She was lovely in life; in death, a model for an artist. Her countenance would indicate that she died in a peaceful state of mind, and perfectly resigned to the fate that had overtaken her. At the head of the bed stood Amy, crying as if her heart would break. At her side, stood her faithful dog, lapping her hand and rubbing his head against her seemingly trying to console her for the loss she had sustained in the death of her mother. Tom and Drake were interested spectators. This was the first natural death that either of them had ever witnessed. The senior Quick stood in the door, with his back to the corpse, apparently much affected. Cahoonshee stood at the foot of the bed, looking at the face of the dead. Betsy gently led Amy out of doors, and taking a seat under the butternuts, attempted to console her.
Don’t cry child, it is God that has called your mother home, and He has promised to be a Father to the fatherless.
But I have no mother now, said Amy.
Yes, dear child, I will be your mother, and Tom and Drake shall be your brothers.
Let the girl vent her feelings, said Cahoonshee, who unperceived had approached. Let her mourn her loss. Let her learn from this how uncertain all things are.
God did it, said Betsy. He does all things well. He did it for the good of this child.
That may be, replied Cahoonshee. Your old Bible says so. It speaks in thunder tones, that God works in a mysterious way his wonders to perform. But the girl cannot understand that. She can’t understand why in a day she is deprived of both her parents, and cast among strangers in this wilderness world. Blame her you must not—console her you cannot. Older and wiser heads cannot reconcile these things. But we must prepare to bury her. We can give the mother a christian burial, and then take care of her orphan child.
A grave was dug on a rise of ground on top of the river bank. The body was wrapped in furs, and this little group of mourners walked to the house prepared for all living. Cahoonshee and the Senior Quick led the way; Tom and Drake followed, bearing the corpse on a roughly constructed litter; then came Amy, Betsy walking on one side of her and Rolla on the other. The grave is reached, the body is lowered and covered with green boughs, and Tom and Drake are about to perform the last offices to the dead, when Rolla raised his head, looked intently, whined, and sprang toward a tree. Instantly all eyes are turned in that direction.
Walt! Walt! passionately exclaimed Amy, there is my Walt! Come Walt! Come and see Amy! Father dead—mother dead—none left but Walt and Rolla. Come kitty—kitty, come to Amy!
There in a tree sat the white cat that had been seen on the raft, but owing to the excitement of the occasion, had been forgotten. Hearing her name called, she slowly came down the tree.
Thus, another was added to the list of mourners. The grave was filled, the mound erected, when Cahoonshee said:
This is nature’s decree. “Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return.” Let us return to the house. And setting the example he walked away.
But Amy refused to go. Throwing herself on her mother’s grave, she cried:
Oh! my own dear mother, I cannot, I will not leave you! Oh! let me die here; let me lay by your side. Who will love and look after me now?
Rolla looked up into her face—the cat mewed and nestled more closely to her bosom.
Leave her to her own thoughts, and that of her friends, said Cahoonshee looking back.
But Drake lingered. The scene put him in mind that he too once had a mother. That he too had been torn from her. That he too, by circumstances over which he had no control, had been thrown among strangers. And, as he saw the tears flow down Amy’s cheeks, moisture came in his own eyes.
Come Amy, come with me. I will be your brother and friend.
Amy raised her eyes to those of her friend and said:
Brother, you are good to think of me—you are good to promise to look after me. But who can look after me like my own dear mother that is now buried out of my sight?
Yes, replied Drake, I trust she is in the heaven that Cahoonshee and Betsy talks about. But I don’t know much about such things. I never had any mother to tell me about God and heaven.
But Drake, you had a mother, and if she was a good mother, she would have told you all about the bible and God. My mother used to read to me how God made the world in six days, and everything there was in it. That people lived in a big garden, and were very good and happy. Then they got to doing naughty things, and God made it rain very hard and the people were drowned, all except one family, and they escaped in the ark. I suppose that it was just such a big rain that came on the Callicoon and drowned father and mother. But they wan’t bad, and I don’t see what he wanted to drown them for.
This was a subject that Drake knew but little about, and he could think of nothing to say that would be consoling to the girl. But at last he said;
Cahoonshee, the big Indian, will tell you all about those things. He knows. He has crossed the water in a big canoe. He studies books. Let us go to the house and talk with him.
CHAPTER VIII.
Cahoonshee on the Origin of Man.
At the close of Chapter VI, we left Quick and Cahoonshee conversing by the light of a pine knot fire at Quick’s cabin on the Shinglekill. Here they smoked the pipe of peace, and pledged to each other eternal friendship. During the night it was arranged that the next morning they would go to the Heart Rock, on the Steynekill, and erect a cabin for Cahoonshee. The cabin was built a few rods from the Steneykill brook, near a spring. At this place Cahoonshee spent part of his time, and the balance at Quick’s. Thus, a mutual friendship was established between the white man and Indian that lasted through life.
Cahoonshee keenly felt the degradation of his people. The education he had received in Europe had swept from his mind the Indian superstitions that were cherished and practiced by his fathers. He believed that all European nations were combined to drive the Indian from the forest and appropriate the land to themselves. Yet he held to the religion of his fathers, really seeing no difference between the white man’s God and the Indian’s Great Spirit. He believed in a first cause. This cause began to operate at the beginning of time. That time began when matter began to move. He believed that this first cause was an intelligent cause. He ignored nothingness—or rather claimed that there was no such thing as nothing. He rejected the common term of Spirit, and advocated that a Spirit was an actual entity, although as invisible as air or gas. That this Spirit, this entity was substance, although it could neither be seen, heard or felt. That this entity possessed certain attributes, among which were power, plan and design.
The reader will perceive that such a man, with such a mind, having the exalted views of Cahoonshee, would not feel at home with either white man or Indian. He was ahead of the age, and saw in the dim future the extinction of his race. His tribe was already extinct except himself. He believed that the merciless white would continue to drive the powerless Indian west, until the bones of his race would bleach on the western slope, and be washed by the Pacific.
It was for these reasons that he wished to return to the scenes of his childhood, and spend the rest of his days in comparative solitude.
Yet he had one idea, and that idea was to acquire and impart knowledge. But the world was not prepared to listen to such depth of thought.
He resolved at death to leave one pupil behind. That pupil should be a white man. That man should be Charles Drake. That he had succeeded, in a measure, is evident from the conversation Drake and Tom had at the Lifting Rocks, as narrated in Chapter III. His mode of instruction was in the true Indian style.
A few evenings after Cahoonshee had taken up his quarters in his cabin on the Steynekill, he and Drake were sitting together, when the moon began to light up the eastern sky. Drake watched it intently until the full moon arose above the horizon.
Cahoonshee, he said, you say that the sun is a burning mass, a liquid flame, and that it is the heat from this mass that warms the earth. Is that beautiful moon also a mass of fire?
It is supposed not, replied Cahoonshee. We derive but little heat from the moon. It has cooled off, and it is only the reflection of the sun on that planet that makes it appear so bright to us.
You say that it has cooled off. What do you mean by that? Was it once like the sun, a blaze of fire?
Of course, Drake, no one has ever been to the moon to make a personal inspection. Yet the wise men of the east think they have good reasons for believing that the moon, and this earth, and all the planets and stars we see in the heavens, were once a burning mass of fire, that the moon has cooled off, and is now a cold, uninhabited world.
You do not mean to say that this earth on which we live was, at one time a seething mass of fire?
I do not mean to assert that, I simply say, that by investigation, I am led to believe that such was the case.
Cahoonshee, where do you say that man came from? and what was the reason for the great difference between the white man and the Indian?
Ah, Drake, you have opened a subject that is but little understood, and one that I am not capable of satisfactorily answering. Yet, I will give you my views.
Betsy’s bible gives an account of the creation of man. That God made him from the dust of the earth, and in His own image. But you should understand that this is the white man’s bible, and in it the Indians are called heathens. But the Indian’s bible is much older, and plainer to be read.
It is Nature’s book.
The rocks, rivers and mountains are its chapters. Beasts, birds and reptiles are its verses, and the Great Spirit is its author. And within this book will be found all that does or ever did exist. The constituent parts are the mineral, animal and vegetable kingdoms of the world. Each has within itself a principle of organic life, but of itself cannot produce either animal or vegetable life, but a combination of these elements, by a chemical process, known only to nature, produces something unlike either the constituent parts. Thus the principle the germ of all animal and vegetable life is contained in the natural world, and it only requires that these different properties should be combined in order to work out the natural result.
It is done by the same power and upon the same principles that draws the apple to the ground, and balances the planet in its orbit.
Thus, the origin of all animals and vegetables are to be found in earth, air and water, and by a combination of these properties, under favorable circumstances, nature’s desired result is accomplished.
Therefore, nature produces from nature just what nature requires.
Thus we find that at this day, seed, dug thousands of feet beneath the earth, sprout, grow and bring forth fruit and vegetation unlike any that have grown before. While buried in the bowels of the earth, there was no opportunity for developement, no opportunity for chemical combination. But when brought in contact with the rays of the sun, the soil of the earth and the gases of the air, the life principle within the seed springs forth, and it becomes a beautiful flower or an animal—perhaps a man. It is either vegetable or animal. Sometimes both.
Man sprang to the earth in every quarter of the globe where nature had prepared the way and furnished substance on which he could live. Thus, men in different countries and continents were different in structure, color and language. Thus I account for the white, brown and black races.
The white man finds his God and religion in the bible. The Indian finds the Great Spirit in nature. The Indian saw the wonderful works of nature going on before his eyes. He saw the sun in the heavens, and wondered from whence came the fuel. He saw the vaulted heavens dotted with stars, and wondered what held them in their places. He heard the thunder and saw the lightning flash, and asked from whence came this power. He saw his fellow struck with death, and asked, “is this the last of man?”
He sought a solution of these problems by studying the nature of that power that could perform such great and mighty works. And having came to the conclusion, by a course of reasoning, that this power emanated from a source above and beyond nature, he began to worship that power, and conceived that this certain something possessed certain attributes, among which was power, plan and design. That if there was a design, then there must have been a designer. This designer the Indian called the Great Spirit.
Thus, the Indian was a religious animal. And here the worship of the Great Unknown and Unseen commenced. And inasmuch as this unknown power was intangible and could not be seen, the Indians worshiped representative Gods. Some worshiped the sun, some the moon, and some the monsters of the deep. The Indians worshiped the God of the valley, the mountains, the rocks and rills, the rivers and springs.
Thus I have tried to answer your question. At another time I will still further unfold this mystery.
CHAPTER IX.
The Teacher and Pupil.
We now return to Walter Wallace, who we left on the banks of the Callicoon in company with Surveyor Webb and party. Webb soon discovered that Walter was a boy of more than ordinary intelligence, and that his education had not been neglected. He could read and write, and had made some advancement in arithmetic.
They returned to camp about noon and eat a hearty dinner to which Walter did ample justice, although he had eaten a late breakfast.
Webb had been pondering in his mind upon the propriety of asking Walter to become one of his party, and retain him, if possible, until the survey of the Minisink country was completed. To that end he said to Walter:
Are you willing to remain with me and learn to survey?
I am willing to do anything I can, the boy replied, but I have not got learning enough to read the figures on that thing.
But you can learn, said Webb.
I can try, replied Walter.
That is all that is required. You must try and be accurate. There is no such thing as good enough. Everything must be done accurate.
I will try my best, said Walter.
That is all that is required, and to-night I will give you the first lesson.
After supper, Webb and Walter went to the top of the hill. The compass was properly adjusted on the tri-pod.
Now, said Webb, I want you to level the instrument. That is very important. Unless the compass is exactly level, the needle will not balance.
Walter took hold of one of the sights and attempted to level the instrument, but failed.
Take hold of both of the sights, boy, one with your right and the other with your left hand. Use force enough to bring the bubbles in the centre of the glasses forward. Then do the same with the cross level.
I see, said Walter. This glass levels it one way and the other glass the other way, and when the bubbles are in the centre of both glasses, the compass is level. Let me try it again.
He did so, and the compass was level.
Bravo! exclaimed Webb. You have mastered one of the most difficult parts of the adjustment of the compass. Now take hold of that screw on the under side with your thumb and finger, and turn it around until the needle moves.
He did so, but excitedly stepped back as if he had seen some apparition.
Don’t be frightened, boy, it will not hurt you.
It is alive! It moves! exclaimed Walter excitedly.
You are half right boy. It moves but there is no life there.
What makes it move? See! It goes first one way and then the other.
True, but it will soon stop, said Webb.
But what makes it move? Black iron can’t move itself. Is there wheels in there that moves it like father’s clock?
No. It moves by the same force that exists in nature, which is but little understood. We know the fact that it does move, and that is about all we know about it.
But it is boxed up tight. The hand can’t touch it, or the wind blow it. But something makes it go. What makes it go?
That is a mystery I cannot fully explain myself, but as you progress, you will learn as much about it as I know myself, and I trust much more. There are a great many things in nature that are beyond the comprehension of man, that time and study will generally explain.
But it has stopped. It is now perfectly still. What stopped it? Father used to say that if a body was put in motion, it would never stop unless it came in contact with some other body. But nothing has come in contact with it.
You are slightly mistaken in that. There is a slight friction on the centre pin. Yet that did not stop the needle. The fact is, the same invisible power that started it, stopped it. But I will explain more about it when you have learned its uses. You will see that on one end is a small copper wire wound around it. That is to balance the needle on the centre pin, and denotes that it is the south end of the needle. The other end always points to the north.
How can you know that? asked the boy.
Because it always points directly, or nearly directly towards the north star. If the needle gets out of order it will not point to the star. Now turn the compass so that the needle will be directly back of the letter N.
Walter did so.
I can’t see any star there. Now I see hundreds of them. Which one is the north star?
It is a small, twinkling star. It will appear and then disappear. Did your father ever show you the big dipper, or great bear?
Oh, I know the big dipper, but I never saw the great bear.
They are both one, boy. The two lower stars are called pointers. Look to where they point to, and tell me what you see?
I see the small, twinkling star you spoke of. I will never forget that. I suppose that the pointers on the dipper always point the same way, and that I can find the star by looking at the pointers?
You are partly right. You can always find the star by following up the pointers, but the dipper changes. It is now south-west of the star. In two months it will be directly under it. Thus it continues to revolve around the star, but the pointers always point towards the star.
To adjust the compass and take the sights are simple and easy, and I think you will learn to do it in a few days as well as I can. But you have got to study the books and learn how to calculate the area and angles. Now we will return to camp, and in the morning you can set the compass on a line North, forty-five degrees West.
Walter retired, but slept but little that night. He was highly elated at the prospect of learning to survey, had many misgivings as to whether he would succeed. But if study and perseverance had any virtue, he was bound to succeed.
As soon as it was light in the morning he was up and out with his compass. It was some time before he could adjust the compass to his satisfaction, but at last he accomplished it. He next liberated the needle, by means of the thumb screw.
The moment the needle began to move, he became excited. The idea of a dead piece of iron moving itself was something above his comprehension. He thought it must be moved by some supernatural power. Why, he thought to himself, did not Mr. Webb tell me where the force comes from? He talked as if neither himself or anybody else knew the cause! He next set the compass as he thought North, 45° West, but the sights pointed East of North, and he was pondering over this, when Webb arrived.
Good morning, Walter, I see that you are up and at it early. You have the compass very correctly adjusted. What course do you say it points? I told you North, 45° West. Is that it?
That is what the figures say, yet it points to the Northeast instead of Northwest.
You have fallen into a very common error. Now look and you will see that the letters E and N are reversed on the compass consequently when you wish to run N. W., the North end of the needle must be between the letters N. and W., and to run N. E., between E. and N. Now set the compass on the figures 45, between N. and W., and you will have the course we are running.
As if by instinct, the boy set the compass on the course indicated.
Well done, said Webb. Now let us get our breakfast, and then you can take charge of the compass.
Breakfast was eaten, and the whole party went to the place where they quit work the day before. By the direction of Webb, Walter set the compass over the centre stake, with the needle pointing N., 45° West.
Well done, boy! Now you see sights on both ends of the compass, with large holes. Between them are fine slots. Now you must look through both of these sights at the flag ahead, and when you can bring the two sights and the flag in range, you are right.
Walter motioned the flag to the point he thought in range, and said:
There! I guess that is right!
You must not guess; you must know, replied Webb. Let me look. You have made another common error. You have sighted through the large holes. Try again and look through the slots.
Walter looked again and saw that the flag was twenty feet out of line.
Go South! he cried. Now, Mr. Webb, I know that I am right.
CHAPTER X.
Asleep on Her Mother’s Grave—Going a Fishing—True Until Death.