Chapter III: The Indians

In a former number we have given some account of the northern Indians, called Esquimaux; and as our readers may like to know how these people look, we give a likeness of one of them. He would hardly be thought a beauty among us, but no doubt he would find some one to fancy him among the girls of his tribe, who live on fish and blubber oil.

All our readers know that when America was discovered, it was inhabited by tribes of copper-colored people, whom we generally call _Indians_. These were divided into many tribes, and spoke many different languages, but they bore a general resemblance, which led to the conclusion that this remarkable race came originally from Asia, and had a near affinity to the roving, warlike tribes there, called Tartars.

The American Indians, at the time of the discovery of Columbus, might be viewed in four groups: 1st. The Mexicans, who had built cities, established a permanent government, carried on manufactures and commerce, and cultivated the earth with care and success; 2d. The Peruvians, who had made nearly the same advances in civilization as the Mexicans, though differing in many of their arts, manners, customs, and opinions; 3d. The Caribs, a warlike nation, inhabiting the Caribbean isles and the adjacent coast of South America; and, 4th. The various scattered tribes of the continent.

We shall not enter into a minute account of these several groups, for so much has been said of the Indians, that almost all persons are pretty well acquainted with the subject. Among the chief tribes of New England, when our forefathers settled there, were the Pequots, Narragansets and Mohegans. In New York, are the Mohawks, Senecas, Oneidas, Delawares and Ottoes. In the south and west, there are many other bands or nations.

These tribes, of which there were perhaps several hundred in North America, varied in number from two hundred to five thousand inhabitants each. They all lived chiefly by hunting and fishing, raising a few pumpkins and melons, and a little corn, to aid in obtaining a subsistence. They knew not the use of iron or other metals for cutting; they had no domestic fowls or animals, except, perhaps, dogs far to the north; they lived a wandering life, having no better houses than huts of wood and mud.

Their weapons of war were hatchets of stone, bows and arrows; their fishhooks were the bones of fishes. They had no tables or chairs; no religious edifices, and but few religious notions. The men spent their time in hunting and the chase, and the women performed all the drudgery.

In war, these savages were cunning, deceitful and cruel: they could track their enemy through the forest by the traces left upon the grass and leaves; they would lurk in the thickets for days, and then suddenly and unexpectedly burst upon their victims. The warriors taken in battle, were often tortured and put to death――but these disdained to show the slightest emotion, even though knots of pine were stuck in their flesh and set on fire!

At first, these Indians received our forefathers with kindness, but, exasperated by various acts of injustice and cruelty, they became treacherous and vindictive. Many bloody encounters took place between the settlers and the savages, in all of which the latter suffered defeat and loss, until they became extinct along the Atlantic border, and the remains of their tribes only continue to linger along our western frontier.

The natives that dwelt in the West Indies, some of which were very numerous, have entirely disappeared. Mexico was conquered by Cortez more than three hundred years ago, and the whole Indian race, amounting to six or eight millions, belonging to that nation, were subjugated. The Indians of Mexico now acknowledge the authority of the established government, pay taxes, and generally belong to the Catholic religion. They are still an ignorant and half barbarous race.

The Peruvian nation, also amounting to millions, was conquered by Pizarro about the year 1535, and from that period the natives became subject to the laws of the white man. These, as in Mexico, are partially civilized.

There are still many South American tribes, which are independent, and maintain their savage habits. The Araucanians, a Chilian tribe, the noblest race of aboriginal Americans, have never been fairly subdued, and though partly civilized, they maintain a lofty spirit of independence. Far south, toward the extremity of South America, the broad-shouldered Patagonians live in savage wildness, and around the rocky and tempestuous shores of Cape Horn, the naked, shivering Fuegians snatch from the raging elements a precarious subsistence.

At the present day there are several tribes inhabiting the vast regions that lie west of the Mississippi, consisting, for the most part, of fragments of tribes driven by the white man from more eastern settlements, to their present abodes. Here they are still lords of the forest, prairie, river and mountain, and here they maintain their wild independence and savage customs. They have become in some degree changed by intercourse with the white race; they have horses, and fire-arms and blankets, and a few utensils derived from civilized man; but they are still hunters and warriors, are still without books, or a settled government, or fixed habitations, or extended agriculture, or any of the leading features of civilization. In another number we propose to tell something about the Indians as they now are.

A Monster of the Deep.

Our readers know that in some parts of the ocean there are enormous sea animals called Sepia, which are a kind of polypi. They have very long legs, and are said sometimes to seize upon the coral divers along the coast of Italy. Mr. Beale tells us the following adventure with a creature of this sort.

“While upon the Bouin Islands, searching for shells on the rocks, which had just been left by the receding tide, I was much astonished at seeing at my feet a most extraordinary looking animal, crawling towards the retreating surf. I had never seen one like it before. It was creeping on its eight legs, which, from their soft and flexible nature, bent considerably under the weight of its body, so that it was lifted by the efforts of its tentacula only a small distance from the rocks.

“It appeared much alarmed on seeing me, and made every effort to escape, while I was not much in the humor to endeavor to capture so ugly a customer, whose appearance excited a feeling of disgust, not unmixed with fear. I, however, endeavored to prevent its career, by pressing on one of its legs with my foot; but, although I used considerable force for that purpose, its strength was so great that it several times quickly liberated its member, in spite of all the efforts I could employ in this way, on wet, slippery rocks. I now laid hold of one of the tentacles with my hand, and held it firmly, so that the limb appeared as if it would be torn asunder by our united strength. I soon gave it a powerful jerk, wishing to disengage it from the rocks to which it clung so forcibly by its suckers, which it effectually resisted; but the moment after, the apparently enraged animal lifted its head, with its large eyes projecting from the middle of its body, and, letting go its hold of the rocks, suddenly sprang upon my arm, which I had previously bared to my shoulder for the purpose of thrusting it into holes in the rocks to discover shells, and clung, with its suckers, to it with great power, endeavoring to get its beak, which I could now see, between the roots of its arms, in a position to bite.

“A sensation of horror pervaded my whole frame, when I found this monstrous animal――for it was about four feet long――fixed so firmly on my arm. Its cold, slimy grasp was extremely sickening, and I immediately called aloud to the captain, who was also searching for shells at some distance, to come and release me from my disgusting assailant. He quickly arrived, and taking me down to the boat, during which time I was employed in keeping the beak away from my hand, quickly released me by destroying my tormentor with the boat knife, when I disengaged it by portions at a time. This animal was that species of Sepia which is called by whalers ‘rock squid.’ Thus are these remarkable creatures, from the different adaptation of their tentacles and slight modifications of their bodies, capable of sailing, flying, swimming, and creeping on the shore, while their senses, if we may judge from the elaborate mechanism of their organs, must possess corresponding acuteness and perfection.”

The Sperm Whale.

The Sperm Whale is much less known than the common whale, which is usually taken by our whalers. The following account of it, furnished by Thomas Beale, is interesting.

“The sperm whale is a gregarious animal, and the herds formed by it are of two kinds――the one consisting of females, the other of young whales not fully grown.

“These herds are called by whalers, ‘schools,’ and occasionally consist of great numbers; I have seen in one school as many as five or six hundred. With each herd or school of females, are always from one to three large bulls, the lords of the herd, or, as they are called, the ‘school-masters.’ The full-grown whales, or ‘large whales,’ almost always go alone in search of food; and when they are seen in company, they are supposed to be making passages, or migrating from one ‘feeding ground’ to another. The large whale is generally very incautious, and if alone, he is without difficulty attacked, and by expert whalers generally very easily killed; as frequently, after receiving the first blow or plunge of the harpoon, he appears hardly to feel it, but continues lying like a ‘log of wood’ in the water, before he rallies or makes any attempt to escape from his enemies.

“Large whales are, however, sometimes, but rarely, met with, remarkably cunning and full of courage, when they will commit dreadful havoc with their jaws and tail; the jaw and head, however, appear to be their principal offensive weapons.

“The female breeds at all seasons, producing but one at a time. The young when first born are said to be fourteen feet long. The females are much smaller than the males. They are very remarkable for their attachment to their young, which they may be frequently seen urging and assisting to escape from danger with the most unceasing care and fondness. They are also not less remarkable for their strong feeling of sociality, or attachment to one another; and this is carried to so great an extent, that when one female of a herd is attacked or wounded, her faithful companions will remain around her to the last moment, or till they are wounded themselves. This act of remaining by a wounded companion, is called ‘heaving to,’ and whole ‘schools’ have been destroyed by dexterous management, when several ships have been in company, wholly from their possessing this remarkable disposition. The attachment appears to be reciprocal on the part of the young whales, which have been seen about the ship for hours after their parents have been killed.

“The young whales, or ‘young bulls,’ go in large schools, but differ remarkably from the females in disposition, inasmuch as they make an immediate and rapid retreat upon one of their number being struck, who is left to take the best care he can of himself. I never but once saw them ‘heave to,’ and in that case, it was only for a short time, and seemed rather to arise from their confusion than affection for their wounded companion. They are also very cunning and cautious, keeping at all times a good look-out for danger. It is consequently necessary for the whaler to be extremely cautious in his mode of approaching them, so as, if possible, to escape being heard or seen, for they have some mode of communication with one another in an incredibly short space of time; the distance between them sometimes amounting to five, or even seven miles. The mode by which this is effected remains a curious secret.”

THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT.

The days are cold, the nights are long,
The north wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast;
All merry things are now at rest,
Save thee, my pretty babe!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There’s nothing stirring in the house,
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse;
Then why so busy thou?

Nay! start not at that sparkling light,
’Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window pane bedropped with rain;
Then, little darling! sleep again,
And wake when it is day.

Squirrels.

[For Merry’s Museum.]

The Chip Squirrel or Ground Squirrel is the most common and familiar of all the squirrels. “He is most commonly,” says Godman, “seen scudding along the lower rails of the common or ‘Virginia’ fences, which afford him at once a pleasant and secure path, as, in a few turns, he finds a safe hiding place behind the projecting angles, or enters his burrow undiscovered. When no fence is near, or his retreat is cut off, after having been out in search of food, he becomes exceedingly alarmed, and runs up the nearest tree, uttering a very shrill cry or whistle, indicative of his distress; and it is in this situation that he is most frequently made captive by his persecuting enemies, the mischievous school-boys.” I shall presently mention a much better mode of treatment of them by children, than the one here alluded to, and which is far too common.

He is not only the most numerous, but the most beautiful of all the squirrels I have named. His general color (if it is necessary to describe an animal so well known) is a reddish brown, but he has five black stripes running lengthwise along his body, one in the middle of the back, and two on each side, and between the two on each side is a stripe of pure white. These stripes, together with white stripes on each side of his head, above and below the eyes, give him a very beautiful appearance, and it is no wonder that children, who are commonly pleased with what is beautiful in nature, take a strong liking to him. He is sometimes called the Striped Squirrel, on account of his markings, but he is more commonly called the Chip Squirrel, or Chipmuck, from the chipping sound he is accustomed to make, or the Ground Squirrel, because he makes a burrow in the ground for his lodging-place instead of residing in a tree, as the other squirrels do. Mr. Godman says he is sometimes called Hacky; but why so called, I am unable to tell. I have mentioned his being a familiar animal; I will now state a circumstance, to show how familiar he may be made, and how far kind and gentle treatment operates to deprive wild animals of their fears. One, which had a hole not far from my house, used frequently to come about the house for food, which my children observing, would throw walnuts or hickory nuts to him. He soon became so gentle he would take the walnuts from their hands, and, after biting off the sharp and jagged ends of the nuts, he would stow them in his capacious cheeks or pouches, sometimes taking from their hands and stowing away in this manner four hickory nuts, two in each pouch, which he would carry off and deposit in his hole, and then immediately return for another cheekful.

The Flying Squirrel is the smallest of all the squirrels in New England, and in some respects the most interesting. He is not as well known as the other three kinds I have described, principally on account of his nocturnal habits; that is, he generally sleeps during the day, and is in motion during the night. He is not so beautiful in his colors and markings as the chip squirrel. His general color is a brownish ash or gray on the upper part of the body, and white underneath, with a yellowish margin which unites with a dark stripe that borders the gray color of the upper parts. His form and attitudes are beautiful, however; his hair very soft and silky, and his eyes, which are black, are large and prominent. But what makes him the greatest object of curiosity, is, that the skin on each side of his body is dilated and attached to both his legs, nearly or quite down to the claws, so that when he extends his legs horizontally it forms a kind of wings or parachute, by which he is enabled to sail obliquely through the air a considerable distance. He cannot, however, rise, as he never flaps his wings; but by taking a leap from the top of a tree and spreading his sails, he reaches the body of another tree several rods distant, and running to the top of the latter, he again makes a similar flight, and in this way passes rapidly through the forest. His tail is flattened horizontally, and doubtless answers the purpose of a rudder.

His food is similar to that of the other squirrels, consisting of nuts, grain, &c. They make their abode in hollow trees, from which they will frequently run out, when the tree is struck with an axe and smartly jarred, to see what is the matter.

They frequently enter human dwellings. Last winter I caught, in succession, seven, in the upper chamber of my house, and kept six of them shut up till spring, when I carried them to the woods near by and released them. They also became pretty familiar, and would eat and gambol in my presence and that of my family in their box. In the course of last summer, I again saw one in my house, probably one of the same. Three other instances have come to my knowledge in which they were found in dwelling-houses.

In the animals we have been considering, we see an interesting specimen of that wonderful variety and beauty which constitute the charm of the great world of life. The study and contemplation of the works of God, animate and inanimate, will be attended with continued and increasing admiration, and if the mind is properly attuned to the harmonies that pervade them, it will be made better and better, and will be led, in the words of the poet, “from nature up to nature’s God.”

SCIURUS.

Our Correspondence.

We have received the kind New Year’s greeting of R. B. Jr., for which we offer a return of our best wishes. We have also the pleasant letter of P. L. H., and that of E. D. H. His answer――Constantinople――to the puzzle, is right. We have also received the communications of D. A. B――k. Our little friend, a “reader of the Museum” at Pulaski, will see that we have hardly got room for his thoughts on “Liberty.” His sentiments, however, are very just. The puzzle from Goshen, though a good one, must be omitted. We must say the same of the geographical enigma from a place without a name. The complimentary note of Charles A. H――y is received, and his answer to the puzzle is right. The “young subscriber from New Hampshire” will see that we have not space for his pleasant enigma.

We insert the following letter with pleasure. In regard to the word “_Cowpig_,” as used by Mrs. Trudge, we venture to suggest that she meant _Cupid_; but, as we would not be too confident on this point, we propose to ask her what she did mean, when we next see her.

_Sandwich, January 8th, 1844._

DEAR MR. MERRY:

I wish you a happy new year. I think I have found out the answer
to the puzzle in the January number, which is Constantinople. As
I am not much of a poetess, I cannot put it in the form of an
acrostic or rhyme, and I hope a plain answer will do. It is the
first one I have ever found out, but I think it is because I have
not had patience enough, for I found it very easy. I am glad you
are going to have some good long stories, equal to the Siberian
Sable-hunter, in this year’s Museum. I feel much interested in
the story of Bridget Trudge. I laughed well at the red bonnet and
_yallar_ silk gown, and fan with Wenus on one side, and Cowpig on
the other. But none of us can tell what Cowpig means. Please
explain it in the next chapter about them.

P.S. My sister Lottie is very disappointed at not finding any
“Little Leaves.”

E.P.C.

The letters of R. P. H., E. B. P., and James P., will appear in the next number.

――――

We insert the following with pleasure, which the writer tells us is a true picture of a _dear home_. It makes our old heart glad to find that we are welcome, even among the mountains.

A WINTER EVENING IN THE COUNTRY.

Away among the mountains a pleasant farm house lies,
And round its fireside gather sweet faces and bright eyes;
The blazing fire of maple-wood lights up the spacious room,
And branches of the fragrant birch give out a sweet perfume.

And we are happy――’midst these hills our childhood has been past,
And beautiful they seem to us, with forests old and vast;
The summer and the autumn bring golden fruits and flowers,
But dearer than the summer days are pleasant winter hours.

The happy winter evenings, we love their social mirth,
For many pleasant tales are told beside our lighted hearth;
A welcome face sometimes looks in upon our circle here,
And brings to us the happiest hour in all the glad New Year.

It is an old man’s face, with clustering gray hair,
And a wrinkled forehead wearing, though furrowed not by care;
Old Robert Merry, with his smiles, his tales of other climes,
His Museum of curious things, new stories and old rhymes.

We knew him by another name in years that are gone by,
And loved good Peter Parley with his kind brow and eye;
Each month unto our mountain home, came “Parley’s Magazine,”
’Till “Merry’s Museum” took the place where it so long had been.

We love our guest far better because our own young hands
Have labored for the pleasure he brings from other lands;
When autumn leaves fell round us, the autumn nuts grew brown,
We and the squirrels gathered them as they came rattling down.

O, merry was our harvest time――we made the woods ring out,
Through all the long, bright autumn day, with our gay, careless
shout;
And then we sold our nuts, and thus have the pleasure still,
Of seeing Robert Merry in our home upon the hill.

M. T. B.
_Lowell, Jan. 4._

――――

THE LITTLE SOLDIER.

We insert the following, with thanks to the writer, and should be glad to receive the remainder of the story:

MR. MERRY:

I am one of your “blue-eyed friends,” and although not a
“little” one, I have been much interested in the articles
which have appeared in the Museum, connected with the war of
our Revolution.

I know many of the warm advocates for _peace_, query how far
it is judicious to interest the minds of the rising
generation, in the details of _war_; still, I must believe
that many of the blessings we enjoy, peculiar to our own
country, were purchased by the self-sacrifices of our
fathers, and their “children’s children,” should not
overlook this fact.

It has occurred to me that a little sketch of one who took
an active part in the scenes of those eventful days, may
perhaps amuse your readers. The old soldier from whom I have
my history, enlisted into the army at the age of fifteen, as
a fifer. He was much below the common size of boys at that
age, and, for this reason, chose to be a musician. He heard
the sound of the guns on the morning of the Lexington
battle, and soon after this event, he was ordered, with the
company to which he belonged, to New York. His good mother
furnished him with all that a kind, pious mother could think
of, for his comfort, even to a ball of yarn and a needle, to
repair his stockings. He returned them to her, after his
service in the army, “_safe and sound_.”

Soon after their arrival in New York, the alarm was given
that the enemy were approaching; and not doubting a
skirmish, at least, a company of men volunteered to go out
and meet the enemy. They were ordered to be in ambush, and
then rise suddenly upon the foe. The little fifer (a mere
boy) joined the party, and soon found himself in the heat of
battle. He has often told me that he felt no sensation of
fear at the time; the dense smoke, the roaring of the
cannon, the groans and shrieks of the dying, were alike
unheeded by him. His only wish was to load――aim――fire, and
_kill_ one of the British. He always thought he accomplished
his object, and God seems to have awarded a quick
retribution.

Just as he had fired, his party were ordered to retreat,
and, in turning to obey the orders, the poor fellow received
a ball in the back, which lodged near the spine. He thought
it must be his death-wound, and after moving on a few rods,
he left his comrades, and concealing himself behind a small
white oak tree, he set up his gun, and falling on his knees,
he committed his soul to the Saviour. His eye-sight and
hearing left him; he was bleeding profusely, and of course
believed this to be his last hour on earth.

How long he was in this state he could not tell, but hoping
his strength would permit, as soon as he could see and hear,
he crawled on his hands and knees into the road, and soon
met the surgeon, who, with the vehicle for the wounded
soldiers, was on his way to the place where the skirmish was
fought. The hospital was a mile distant, and the lad chose
to remain where he was, until the cart came back. He was
placed in it, and, in the course of a day or two after his
wound had been given, the surgeon attempted to extract the
ball, but it could not be done without causing instant
death.

He remained in the hospital eight or ten weeks, slowly
recovering his strength. He was two hundred miles from home;
poor, feeble, and in this sad condition, he resolved to
attempt a journey home on foot. A young man, who was his
intimate friend and fellow-townsman, agreed to be his guide
and protector, and they started on their melancholy journey.

If the sketch, thus far, has awakened any interest, the
writer will cheerfully communicate some touching incidents
connected with the “soldier’s return home.” What is _your_
opinion, Mr. Merry?

A SOLDIER’S DAUGHTER.

[Music:] Evening.

WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM; THE LATTER BY GEO. J. WEBB.

How sweet when the daylight
In summer is flown,
And the soft veil of evening
Is thrown o’er the scene,
’Mid dewdrops and fragrance
To wander alone,
As free as the fairies That dance on the green.

How changed is each scene!
Though familiar it be,
Now strange and fantastic
It comes to the eye,――
E’en the sigh of the zephyr,
That rustles the tree,
Seems the whisper of spirits
That stoop from the sky.

The stars, that shrunk back
All abashed from the gaze,
When the sun in his glory
Shone down from above,
Now timid and tender
Melt the soul with their rays,
And woo it to Heaven
On pinions of love.

Sweet Evening――how fair
Are thy charms to the heart,
And how blest thus to wander
With thee all alone!
Yet dearer――far dearer,
Blest Evening, thou art,
When I praise thee to Mary.
And call her my own!

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VII. APRIL, 1844. No. 4.

APRIL

pril has stolen in upon us, and deserves a welcome at our hands. In our New England climate it is not so gentle as in some other lands. It brings us no flowers, but still, the blue-bird and the robin visit us, and tell us of a thousand pleasant things that May and June will bring with them. This month has been thus described by a lively and pleasant writer.

“April,” says the author of the “Mirror of the Months,” “is Spring――the only spring month that we possess――at once the most juvenile of all the months and the most feminine, never knowing her own mind for a day together. Fickle as a fond maiden with her first lover, toying it with the young sun, till he withdraws his beams from her, and then weeping till she gets them back again. April is doubtless the sweetest month of all the year; partly because it ushers in the May, and partly for its own sake. It is to the confirmed summer, what the previous hope of joy is to the full fruition; what the boyish dream of love is to love itself. It is indeed the month of promises; and what are twenty performances compared with one promise? April, then, is worth two Mays, because it tells of May in every sigh that it breathes, and every tear that it lets fall. It is the harbinger, the herald, the promise, the foretaste of all the beauties that are to follow it.”

Dick Boldhero.