CHAPTER III.  NEWITCHEWAGAN.
1802.
Two years had slipped away. The ice moon had given place to the crescent whirlwind moon. The wild duck and geese had long since ceased their plash, plash in the water opposite "The Wigwam," as the children delighted to call their new home in the forest. The noble rivers, the picturesque falls, the monarchs of the forest towering heavenwards, the fragrance of pine and cedar, the lakes and rivers teeming with fish and fowl and fur-bearing animals, seemed to the children of the new Chief a paradise; nor were they alone in their views. The stern realities of pioneer life made it none the less enchanting to the man who gloried in overcoming difficulties and in braving hardships in one of the greatest conquests undertaken by man—the wresting of a wilderness from savagery to civilization.
The "Wigwam" was situated in the midst of an estate of twenty-two thousand acres, part of which had been received as a grant, but the greater portion being purchased from the Government, for the Chief had by no means suffered losses such as many U.E. Loyalists had borne, having brought with him a capital of nearly fifty thousand dollars.
The new home presented a strange contrast to the cosy, comfortable New England farmhouse. It was built of undressed tamarac logs in true rustic shanty fashion. The chinks between the logs and scoops of the roof were "caulked" with moss, driven in with a thin pointed handspike, over which a rude plaster of blue clay was daubed. The chimney was very wide and low, and was built above a huge boulder which formed the back of the fire-place. There was no upper story to the rude dwelling, which was partitioned off into bedrooms at each end, with a large living room, kitchen, dining-room all in one, in the centre.
A wild night had set in. It seemed as though all nature had gone mad. The wind struggled with doors and windows for an entrance to the humble home, but only served to intensify the warmth and light and joy within, for it made the great fire roar and crackle the merrier.
A group of happy children were popping corn before the glowing coals. Near them sat the Chief and Mrs. Wright conversing together in a low voice. Laying down her knitting, the latter looked earnestly into her husband's face.
"Philemon, Philemon," she said sadly, "How much more wisdom you are manifesting in the breaking-in of the farm colts than in the training of the boys. I am beginning to fear that you will be much better served by the former than by the latter. If you would but exercise your God-given authority over them and uphold mine we might hope for better results. The boys are getting beyond control, and why? Because, though I am teaching them in theory the right way, you are not insisting upon the practice of such theories. Words will not curb the exuberance of spirits nor check the waywardness of a young horse. If left to himself he will go where he wills. He must be trained with gentleness, but with firmness, and so with our children."
"My dear," he said, "your ideals are above me, and are as unlikely to be adopted by ordinary men of the world as the ideals of John Bunyan or Richard Baxter."
"I see, I see," she said, with a voice thrilling with emotion. "You hold up before them hopes of future greatness or wealth as a stimulant to goodness, studiousness, industry, that they may become 'ordinary men of the world.' My ambition has ever been to train them for God and His service."
"And you propose to do that," he said, coldly, "by coersion, canings, imprisonments, fines."
"Not at all," she replied. "A child trained from infancy in habits of obedience can generally be managed without chastisement and will obey from a sense of duty rather than from fear of chastisement."
"All very beautiful in theory," said the father, with a yawn, as he stretched himself to his full length, "but the Indian theory in my opinion is the best. They allow their children to do as they please and never check them, and what is the result? A self-reliant, independent people; a people who have not been deprived of strength of character or will power by constant subjection to the will of others; a people who, until spoiled by contact with unchristian whites, have followed the dictates of conscience rather than a code of prohibitory laws; a people who scorn mean, dishonorable transactions."
"Of two things I am convinced," said Mrs. Wright, thoughtfully, "'a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame,' and his father also, for that matter, and that if we secure the formation of right principles at an early age we may with confidence give them their emancipation long before they grow up."
Suddenly the door opened and an Indian entered. Though covered with snow from head to foot, they recognized the chief, Machecawa. Without a word he drew through the open door a toboggan, upon which lay his squaw in an almost dying condition. At her bosom was a tiny babe, two days old.
Newitchewagan had had a severe chill. He had given her a vapor bath by heating boulders in the fire, dashing water on them, over which he had held her suspended in a blanket. For a time she seemed better, but not having sufficient covering, the keen north wind had caused a recurrence of chills, and notwithstanding the conjuring and charms of her friends she was evidently fast sinking, and the Chief, in his hour of sorrow, had fled for help to Mrs. Wright (whom the Indians regarded as possessing mysterious healing power), in the vain hope of finding some new way of saving her.
Mingled expressions of astonishment and pity came into the face of the mother of the household as she hastily left her seat by the side of her husband and assisted in removing the poor squaw to a comfortable bed.
Though not a popular type of New England beauty, there was a something about Mrs. Wright a certain expression so subtle as to escape definition, which gave her presence a strong personal magnetism, while her dignity and a marked grace of manner gave her an individuality which proclaimed her a queen among women. She was a woman of high ideals. "I fear not," she said, in a letter to her sister, "the wolves whose dismal howls echo and re-echo every night through the forest; I fear not the savages who walk into our home with as little ceremony as though it were their own; I fear not sickness nor death in this wilderness so far from medical aid. One thing only I fear, that I may fail in my duty to my husband, my children and my neighbors."
Her husband's "worldliness," her sons' lack of interest in religious matters and their tendency to adopt the language and expressions of the low and the vicious, afforded matter for constant reproof, rebuke and exhortation. Her efforts to develop in her children the highest ideals of Christian manhood and womanhood were not fully appreciated by the Chief, who was too feudal in his views of woman to understand a life like hers. The phenomenon of a woman superior to himself in mind and soul had never ceased to be a matter of perplexity to him. Her ideals were beyond his comprehension. He had not arrived at the conclusion that a wife should be allowed free scope for the exercise of her own individuality. Her position in the home was one of utter subjection and servitude. She was permitted to have no will but his, no plans but his, and to have no ideas but his. At the marriage ceremony "they two were made one," and that one was her lord and master.
Mrs. Wright's interest was not confined to her own family circle, for, notwithstanding the constant pressure of home duties, she had "a heart at leisure from itself to soothe and sympathize," and to the Indians and early settlers in their loneliness, their sorrows and sufferings, she was a mother, and more than a mother, for she was the only physician, the only clergyman, the only teacher that the little colony possessed for the first few years of its struggling existence. Her medical book and case of medicines, a gift from Dr. Green, of Woburn, brought relief to many sufferers. Her library, consisting of such volumes as "The Pilgrim's Progress," Baxter's "Saints' Rest," Young's "Night Thoughts," Hervey's "Meditations Among the Tombs," did much to enlighten, if not to cheer, darkened souls, while from the newest Boston school-books she trained the youth of the settlement in the elementary principles of the arts and sciences.
Such was the woman whom Machecawa sought in his hour of extremity.
All night long the noble chieftain of his people sat by the bedside with downcast eyes. The wind, having spent its force and fury, moaned and sobbed round the house; the flickering light from the hearth cast strange, weird shadows upon the wall when Newitchewagan opened her large dark eyes, gently stroked the little black head on her bosom, and with one affectionate look at him who had been her companion in hardships, heaved a deep sigh and was gone.
Machecawa, without uttering a word, hastily left the Wigwam, and in a short time returned with his face blackened and with several squaws, who tore their hair, scattered ashes on their heads, and raised their voices in wailing. They arranged to have the burial service take place in the evening, and it was well for the inmates of the Wigwam that it was not deferred for several days, for the wailing continued without cessation until all that was left of Newitchewagan was wrapped in birch bark and securely tied with a cord of deerskin, like a parcel, when it was borne by four young braves and laid upon a raised platform of boughs, between two fires which had been kindled a little distance from the Wigwam.
The Indians then squatted cross-legged in a large circle round the fires. Machecawa and his motherless children were seated close to the bier, their faces blackened, their hair and clothing torn and in disorder. The awful stillness was at length broken by old O'Jawescawa, who left his seat and, approaching the grief-stricken husband, said:
"O Machecawa, my brother, it is not well that you grieve. If Newitchewagan had lived she would many times have been hungry and cold and weary; but in the happy hunting-ground, whither she has gone, there is neither hunger nor cold nor weariness. Therefore you should be glad." He then drew his hunting-knife from his belt, and, slashing it through the birch-bark wrappings, cried:
"O Kitche Manitou! These places do I cut that our sister's spirit may come and go as she wills it, that she may visit us sometimes, that she may see our brother Machecawa when he is very sad."
 "Oh, Machecawa, my brother, it is not well that you grieve." 
"Oh, Machecawa, my brother, it is not well that you grieve."
Again he turned to his chief. "Our sister is gone, oh, my brother," he continued, "but you shall see her again. But she shall be changed, and you will not know her; but when you enter the Land of the Hereafter then you must sing always this little song, and so she will know you."
In a clear and true tenor old O'Jawescawa chanted a weird, minor air with tearful falling cadences.
"And when she hears that song," he went on, "then she will answer it with this"—and he sang through another little song.
The long-drawn, plaintive chords, the sense of awe inspired by the darkness and the firelight, and of the grave sad prayer, caused Mrs. Wright and her young flock to sob aloud.
"And so in that way," concluded O'Jawescawa, "you shall know each other."
The young men bore the remains to a grave that had been dug a short distance away in a pine grove. After the earth had been filled in, three of the women knelt and put together a miniature wigwam of birch-bark, complete in every detail. Then O'Jawescawa began again to speak, addressing the occupant of the grave in a low tone of confidence.
"O Newitchewagan, our sister," said he, "I place this bow and these arrows in your lodge that you may be armed on the Long Journey.
"O Niwitchiwagan, our sister, I place these snow-shoes in your lodge that you may be fleet on the Long Journey."*
* The writer is indebted to Mr. S. E. White for this account of the squaw's burial.
In like manner he deposited in the little wigwam extra moccasins, a model canoe and paddle, food, and a miniature robe. Then they all returned to their camp, all but Machecawa, who crouched on the ground by the grave, his blanket over his head, a silent, motionless figure of desolation. For three whole nights and days the Chief mourned for his squaw. Then he rose and went about his ordinary duties with unmoved countenance, and the grave was left to the sun and snow and rain and the mercy of all-forgetting Nature.