Book: The Shagganappi

E >> E. Pauline Johnson >> The Shagganappi




"And this is the Shadow Trail the red man has followed these many, many
moons. His moccasined feet have climbed the heights silently, slowly,
firmly. He knows it will lead beyond the canyons, beyond the crests;
that behind the mountains it merges into a vast valley of untold beauty.
We Indians call it 'the Happy Hunting Grounds.'

"Only one person ever returns from the 'Shadow Trail,' and he comes
once a year on this night--Christmas Eve. The stars wake and sing as he
passes, the Sky Flowers of the North surround him on his journey from
the summits to this valley where we live. He is a little Child, who was
born hundreds of years ago in a manger beneath the Eastern stars, in the
Land of Morning. Many times I have met him on the Shadow Trail, for I
have travelled towards its heights for nearly eighty years. Perhaps I
shall see the little Child again to-night, for Indian eyes can see a
long way. Indian ears catch oftenest the singing of the stars, and the
Indian heart both sees and hears."

Peter Ottertail's voice ceased. The boys lay very silent, the soft
fur rugs half hiding their rapt faces. No one spoke, for each was
watching the "Shadow Trail." Then the deep-toned clock struck
one--two--three--four--evenly on to twelve--midnight!

The door opened from the inner hall.

"Merry Christmas, dears! Merry Christmas!" came the hearty, loving
voices of Mr. and Mrs. Duncan, as they bustled into the kitchen, the
boys and Peter all scrambling to their feet to meet them.

"Merry Christmas! And off to bed with the whole lot of you, or we'll
have a nice pack of sleepyheads in the morning! Peter, you're surely not
going home to-night!" as the old Indian began to get into his overcoat
and scarlet sash.

"Yes," he said, "I'll go." And, after gay good wishes and handshakes,
the old man went out into the night, perhaps to watch for the Christmas
Child coming down the Shadow Trail!



The Saucy Seven


Probably Bob Stuart would never have been asked to join the camping
party had he not been the best canoeist in the Club. He was so much
younger than the other half dozen that composed the party that his
joining was much discussed, but there were no two opinions about Bob's
paddling nor yet about his ability to pitch a tent, cast a fly, shoot
small game at long range, and, when you are far up North, on a canoe
cruise, and have to depend on the forest and river to supply your
dinner, you don't sneer at an enthusiastic fisherman or a good shot. So
one royal August day Bob found himself on the train with six University
graduates, bound for "up North," for a glorious three weeks' outing.
Their canoes, tents and duffle were all stored away in the express car
ahead. Their cares and their studies were packed away in the weeks left
behind, their hearts as merry, their clothes as hideous as a jolly crowd
of merry-makers could desire. It was a long, hot, dusty railway journey,
but at last the tiny Northern railway station hove in sight, the rasping
screech of the sawmill rivalled the shrill call of the locomotive, and
directly behind the little settlement stretched the smooth surface of
"Lake Nameless," ready and waiting to be ruffled by the dip of paddle
blades.

It does not take long for seven practical campers to get their kit and
canoes in shape to pitch canvas for the night, and just as the sun
dropped behind a rim of dense fir forest, "the Saucy Seven," as the boys
had christened themselves, lighted their first camp fire and hung their
kettle for supper. The two tents were already up, white and gleaming
against the lake line, the three cruising canoes were safely beached for
the night, blankets were already spread over beds of hemlock boughs, and
the goodly smell of frying bacon arose temptingly in the warm, still,
twilight air. Seven hungry mouths took a long time to be satisfied, but
the frying-pan and the tea-pot were empty at last, and the boys ready to
turn in early, after their long journey and busy settling. The first
night in camp is always a restless one. The flapping tent, the straining
guy ropes, the strange wild sounds and scents seem to prop your eyelids
open for hours. The night birds winging overhead, the far laugh of loons
across the waters, the twigs creaking and snapping beneath the feet of
little, timid animals, the soft singing of the pines above the canvas,
these things get into one's blood, one's brain, and almost before you
know it the night is gone, and a whole chorus of song arises with the
coming of day. There is nothing in all the world more enjoyable than
tumbling from your blankets, to unlace the "flap" of the tent, to fling
it wide and step out into the soft grey world before sunrise, to swallow
whole breaths of fresh, sweet morning air; then to plunge into a still,
cool lake, and drive sleep from the corners of your eyes, as the winking
sun drives night from the forest. Then another enjoyable thing is to
have Tom, Dick or Harry hustle about and get the kettle boiling and fish
frying while you are yet plunging about like a frog, and by the time you
have rushed ashore, and into your shorts and sweater and "wigwam" shoes,
the aforesaid pleasant persons have breakfast ready, and you come around
just in time to make away with vast bowls of coffee, and unlimited fish
and toast.

This is all very well, if you have the whole lake and its outletting
river all to yourselves, with no one to scare the fish and game, and
none to trespass on your camp ground; but picture to yourselves the
consternation that assailed the boys when, the following night, the
train brought in another camping crowd, that trailed up the shore with
a great deal of fuss, and pitched camp directly across the point from
them--a crowd of at least ten men. No rollicking boys there, all big,
full-grown men with beards and whiskers, with a dozen gun cases,
stretcher camp beds, and some scarlet velvet rugs--actually _rugs_.
The boys just stood and stared, then sneered.

"Nice 'Saucy Seven' those chaps will make of our holiday," groaned one
of the grads. "'Sorry Seven,' we'd better call ourselves, I say, and
to-morrow I'm for moving, striking camp at daylight and getting away
from that gang that camps with _rugs_." The last word took on the
expression of an article of actual disgrace. "Hello! They're running up
the colors," interrupted Bob. "It's a Union Jack, all right. Perhaps
they're not such rummies, after all."

Then, after much peering and squinting, they made out that the biggest
tent stretched directly at the base of the flagstaff, and contained the
despised scarlet rugs, which the boys were still jeering at when they
noticed a little canoe, singly manned, put out from the rocky ledge and
make swiftly towards them. The Saucy Seven unbent sufficiently to all
go in a body to the landing. Their minds were fully made up to invite
the intruder to "shinny on his own side," and not come "moseying"
around the camp, when the canoeist beached his bow and sprang lightly
ashore. He was a very handsome young man, clean shaven and merry-eyed,
and, touching his cap lightly, he said in a tremendously English voice:

"Beg pardon, gentlemen, sorry to trouble you, but His Excellency, the
Governor-General, presents his compliments, and would you kindly lend
him a can of condensed milk? Our cook seems to have forgotten
everything. We haven't a drop for our coffee."

The Saucy Seven raised seven disgraceful-looking caps, but only one
spoke. It was the biggest grad. "Why, we're honored. We had no idea who
it was."

"Oh, that's all right," answered the Englishman. "You know His
Excellency goes camping for a day or two every year, just for the fun
and fish and things."

"Fish? Does he like fish?" asked Bob. Then, without waiting for a reply,
he disappeared, only to return with the can of condensed milk and three
splendid four-pound bass he had landed for their own supper. He looked
shyly at the young aide-de-camp, handing him the can, and said, "Will
you present our compliments to His Excellency, and ask him to accept
these for supper?"

"Delighted, I'm sure," said the officer. "He's fond of bass. Thanks
for the milk, gentlemen. Perhaps we can help you out some time." And
in another minute the canoe was skimming away towards the point, where
the Union Jack hung idly against a background of firs, but just before
the Englishman was out of hearing the big grad yelled, "Tell the
Governor-General that the fish were caught and sent by Bobbie."

"All right," came faintly across the distance, with a wave of the smart
little cap, and a bright backward smile from the handsome Englishman.

The Saucy Seven looked at each other, then the big grad simply expressed
things in one explosive "Well!"

"No, I don't think we'll move to-morrow," said one.

"Move from here!" said another.

"Well, I'm a frazzle," added a third.

"The Governor-General of all Canada," gasped another.

"And borrowing milk from us!" chimed in two more.

"No fish for supper," said Bob, "and my fault, too, but I'll get some
for breakfast, or my name'll be Dennis." And he did get fish for
breakfast, which was evidently more than His Excellency did, for about
sunset the following evening a guide came paddling over with a large,
square envelope directed to

Mr. "Bobbie."

Inside was this note, written in a small, firm hand:

"Lord Dunbridge presents his compliments to Mr. 'Bobbie,' and thanks him
for the enjoyable fish dinner tendered him last evening. And would Mr.
Bobbie kindly do him an additional favor? Would he come at six o'clock
to-morrow morning to assist a poor fisherman who has had no luck
to-day?"

That night Bob was a regular hero around the camp fire. The boys sang,
"He's a jolly good fellow," and a dozen other gay choruses, while
Bob looked to his tackle and bait, and gathered all the courage he
could muster to meet the great man in the morning. He need not have
trembled--it was no ordeal--for as he paddled up to the big camp a
quiet-looking gentleman with an iron gray moustache and kindly, genial
eyes, stepped down to the landing and held out his hand, and said,
"Good-morning, Bobbie. I hope we shall be friends. I have been most
unlucky; not a fish yesterday. We'll have to do better than that,
won't we?"

"Yes, sir--Yes, Your Excellency," said Bob, slowly trying to get his
nerves steady.

"I'm afraid my guides are very little good," said Lord Dunbridge, as he
carefully settled himself in the canoe. "They both profess to know these
waters, but they don't seem to be able to find any good fishing pools."

"I can do better than that," ventured Bob. "I have been around these
lakes every summer that I can remember. If, Your Excellency, you don't
mind, we'll paddle across to the outletting river. It's full of rapids,
and below them we'll find fish."

"Then we'll go there," replied His Excellency.

For one whole hour the great man and the great fisherman had sport that
a king might envy. Side by side they sat, or stood, baiting or reeling
in the heavy, gleaming bass, chatting, boasting, and eager for game.
It was a great morning's catch. A dozen noble fish testified to their
skill, when the pair, overcome with hunger, were compelled to put up
their rods and make for the camp and breakfast.

"We have had a glorious morning, haven't we, Bob?" said the Governor. "I
feel like a boy again, a boy playing truant, a boy who has ran away from
his big school of politicians at Ottawa, just to get a few days' fishing
and--and--oh, well, get away from it all."

There was a brief silence, then Lord Dunbridge continued, "Bob, you're a
boy; so was I once, but I think you'll understand. You Canadian boys do
seem to grasp things, some way or other. My boyhood was not quite as
jolly as yours is--not so independent. You see, we always had tutors and
things to look after us and keep us shut in, as it were, and I never
knew, as I dare say you do, the pleasure of getting about by myself,
and--" His voice trailed off as if he were thinking of something else.
Suddenly he seemed to awaken, and, removing his cap, let the keen
morning air blow across his long, fine hair--dark hair touched about the
temples with gray. Then he smiled down at the sunburnt boy at his side,
and said, as if he feared to be overheard, "Bob, I'd give five dollars
to be a boy like you to-day, and be able to run those rapids in a canoe.
Would it be safe?"

"I've done it twenty times, Your Excellency," said Bob, eagerly, "and in
this same old canoe here. I know every shoal, every rock, every bar in
the river. Oh, sir, that _is_ sport, the very best sport I know of!"

The spirit of the thing seemed to take hold of Lord Dunbridge, "Perhaps,
Bob," he exclaimed, with a dashing enthusiasm, "perhaps, Bob, some day
you and I will--"

"Yes, sir, I think I know," interrupted Bob, as the other hesitated;
then, in a half whisper, "I'll bring you through safely, sir, any time
you want to go."

"And you quite understand, Bob, you are to say nothing about that canoe
trip we're to have, don't you?" said His Excellency, as they parted at
the Governor's landing.

Bob lifted his cap, saying very quietly, "Very well, sir, no one shall
know." Then he paddled slowly, very slowly, away. His thoughts were
busy. Here was he, Bob Stuart, an obscure boy from an obscure Ontario
town, holding in common a secret with the Governor-General of all
Canada, a secret that not even the Prime Minister at Ottawa knew. Then
came the horror, the fear of an accident. Suppose something happened to
the canoe. Suppose she split her bow on a rock. Suppose His Excellency
"lost his head" and got nervous. Suppose a thousand things. But Bob
put it all resolutely behind him. He felt his strong young muscles,
his vital fingers, his pliant wrists. Yes, it was a great thing to be
a boy--a boy whose great pride had always been to excel in typical
Canadian sports, to be the "crack" canoeist, and to handle a paddle with
the ease of a professional. It was worth everything in the world to
recall the time when someone had tauntingly said, "Oh, Bob Stuart's no
good at cricket and baseball. Why, he can't even play tennis. All he
can do is to potter at his old Canuck sports of paddling a canoe and
swinging a lacrosse stick." And Bob had laughed with satisfaction, and
said, good-naturedly, "You bet! You're right. I'm for our national games
every time." And now had come the reward; he was to run the rapids with
the representative of the throne of Great Britain in the bow of his
canoe.

Two days later came the summons, and early the next morning Bob was
supposed to set forth again to take His Excellency fishing. The
viceregal staff, aides and guides saw them depart, never dreaming for
a moment that they were really runaways bound for a royal holiday.
Bob hardly realized it himself until, at the head of the rapids, they
unshipped all unnecessary tackle and prepared to make the run. They
hauled a big rock aboard, placing it astern to trim Bob's light weight
to balance Lord Dunbridge's. "Now," said the boy, "when I yell for you
to paddle port or starboard, you had better work for all you're worth,
Your Excellency, or we may grind on the rocks."

"Good," replied the Governor. "You can depend on me, Bob." His
Excellency knelt low on his heels forward of the bow thwart. Bob knelt
high, with the stern thwart just catching his seat. He felt his strong
ashen paddle carefully, stowed an extra blade "handy," said, "Now,
then," and the little canoe shot out into the middle of the placid
river. Far in the distance the rapids frothed and curled, their song
rippling backwards like a beckoning hand. On either side fir forests
crowded to the rocky edges, that broke like cruel granite jaws against
the waters. Immediately ahead the stream twisted into circles, those
smooth, deadly circles that herald the coming tumult. Bob's strong
young arms grew taut, their sinews like thin cords of steel. There was
not a tremor in his entire body. He knelt, steady and calm, his keen,
narrow eyes fixed plumb ahead, alert and shrewd as an animal. He felt
his fingers grip the paddle with a strength that was vise-like, grip,
and cling, and command. The canoe obeyed even his thought, obeyed the
turn of his smallest finger, obeyed, steadied itself, stood motionless
for a second, then lifted its nose and plunged forward. The spray split
in two, showering the gunwales, then roared abaft, and--they were in the
thick of the fight.

"Do you want me to paddle?" shouted back Lord Dunbridge.

"No, I can pilot her all right," came the response through the wind
that almost shrieked Bob's voice away. The rocky ledges of shores were
crowding closer now. The firs, dark and melancholy, were frowning down;
sharp crags arose like ragged teeth; to right, to left, ahead, and
between them the river boiled and lashed itself into fury, pitching
headlong on and on down the throat of the yawning channel. The tiny
canoe flung between the rocks like a shuttle. Twice its keel shivered,
rabbit-wise, in the force of crossing currents; once, far above the
tumult, came a wild, anxious voice from the shore, but neither Bob
nor his passenger gave heed. The dash of that wildcat rapid left no
second of time for replying or turning one's eyelid; it was one long,
breathless, hurling plunge, that got into their blood like a fever. Then
presently the riot seemed all behind them. The savage music of the river
grew fainter and fainter, the canoe slipped through the exhausted waters
silently as a snake. A moment more, and the bow beached on a strip of
yellow sand, secure, steadfast, triumphant. The glorious cruise was
over.

A little group of scared, white-faced men huddled together on shore, the
handsome young aide-de-camp reaching down his eager hands, which shook
with anxiety. "Oh, Your Excellency," he exclaimed, "how _could_ you run
such a risk, and with only this boy to pilot you?"

"Bob and I ran away," said Lord Dunbridge, as, breathless but happy,
he sprang from the canoe. "We ran away for a little holiday just by
ourselves. I would not have missed it for the world." Then, more
seriously, he added, "Gentlemen, if I could think that my Prime Minister
and the Government at Ottawa could steer the Ship of State as splendidly
as Bobbie steered that canoe, I would never have another wrinkle on my
forehead or another grey hair on my head."



Little Wolf-Willow


Old Beaver-tail hated many things, but most of all he hated the
North-West Mounted Police. Not that they had ever molested or worried
him in his far corner of the Crooked Lakes Indian Reserve, but they
stood for the enforcing of the white man's laws, and old Beaver-Tail
hated the white man. He would sit for hours together in his big
tepee counting his piles of furs, smoking, grumbling and storming at
the inroads of the palefaces on to his lands and hunting grounds.
Consequently it was an amazing surprise to everybody when he consented
to let his eldest son, Little Wolf-Willow, go away to attend the Indian
School in far-off Manitoba. But old Beaver-Tail explained with rare
appreciation his reasons for this consent. He said he wished the boy to
learn English, so that he would grow up to be a keen, sharp trader, like
the men of the Hudson's Bay Company, the white men who were so apt to
outwit the redskins in a fur-trading bargain. Thus we see that poor old
Beaver-Tail had suffered and been cheated at the hands of the cunning
paleface. Little Wolf-Willow was not little, by any means; he was tall,
thin, wiry, and quick, a boy of marked intelligence and much ability. He
was called Little Wolf-Willow to distinguish him from his grandsire, Big
Wolf-Willow by name, whose career as a warrior made him famed throughout
half of the great Canadian North-West. Little Wolf-Willow's one idea
of life was to grow up and be like his grandfather, the hero of fifty
battles against both hostile Indian tribes and invading white settlers;
to have nine scalps at his belt, and scars on his face; to wear a
crimson-tipped eagle feather in his hair, and to give a war-whoop that
would echo from lake to lake and plant fear in the hearts of his
enemies. But instead of all this splendid life the boy was sent away to
the school taught by paleface men and women; to a terrible, far-away,
strange school, where he would have to learn a new language and perhaps
wear clothes like the white men wore. The superintendent of the school,
who had persuaded old Beaver-Tail to let the boy come, brought him out
from the Crooked Lakes with several other boys. Most of them could speak
a few words of English, but not so Little Wolf-Willow, who arrived from
his prairie tepee dressed in buckskin and moccasins, a pretty string of
white elks' teeth about his throat, and his long, straight, black hair
braided in two plaits, interwoven with bits of rabbit skin. A dull green
blanket served as an overcoat, and he wore no hat at all. His face was
small, and beautifully tinted a rich, reddish copper color, and his eyes
were black, alert, and very shining.

The teachers greeted him very kindly, and he shook hands with them
gravely, like a very old man. And from that day onward Little
Wolf-Willow shut his heart within himself, and suffered.

In the first place, the white people all looked sick to him--unhealthy,
bleached. Then, try as he would, he could not accustom his feet to the
stiff leather shoes he was induced to wear. One morning his buckskin
coat was missing, and in its place was a nice blue cloth one with
gleaming golden buttons. He hated it, but he had to wear it. Then his
green blanket disappeared; a warm, heavy overcoat in its place. Then his
fringed buckskin "chaps" went; in their place a pair of dreadful grey
cloth trousers. Little Wolf-Willow made no comment, but he kept his eyes
and ears open, and mastered a few important words of English, which,
however, he kept to himself--as yet. And then, one day, when he had
worn these hated clothes for a whole month, the superintendent who had
brought him away from his father's tepee sent for him to come to his
little office. The boy went. The superintendent was so kind and so
gentle, and his smile was so true, that the boy had grown somewhat
attached to him, so, without fear of anything in the world, the little
Cree scholar slipped noiselessly into the room.

"Ah, Little Wolf-Willow," said the superintendent, kindly, "I notice
that you are beginning to understand a little English already." The boy
smiled, and nodded slightly. "You are very quick and smart, my boy,
quick as a lynx, smart as a fox. Now tell me, are you happy here? Do you
like the school?" continued Mr. Enderby.

There was a brief silence, then a direct, straight look from the small
Cree eyes, and the words, "I like you--me."

Mr. Enderby smiled. "That's good; I like you, too, Little Wolf-Willow.
Now tell me, do you like your new clothes?"

"No good," said the boy.

Mr. Enderby looked grave. "But, my boy, that is what you must wear if
you are to be educated. Do you know what the word 'education' means?
Have you ever heard the teachers or boys here use it?"

"White man, English," came the quick reply.

"That's it; you have described it exactly. To become educated you must
try and wear and do what the white people do--like the English, as you
say," Mr. Enderby went on. "Now what about your hair? White men don't
wear long hair, and you see all the Cree boys in the school have let me
cut their hair. Wouldn't you like to be like them?"

"No; hair good," said the boy.

"Well, how about a 'white' name?" asked Mr. Enderby. "The other boys
have taken them. Wouldn't you like me to call you John? I'd like to."

"Me Wolf-Willow, same grandfather," came in tones of pronounced
decision.

"Very well, Little Wolf-Willow, you must do as you like, you know; but
you said when you came in that you liked me, and I like you very much.
Perhaps some day you will do these things to please me." Then Mr.
Enderby added softly to himself, "It will all come in time. It is pretty
hard to ask any boy to give up his language, his clothes, his customs,
his old-time way of living, his name, even the church of his fathers.
I must have patience, patience?"

"You speak?" asked the boy.

"Just to myself," said Mr. Enderby.

"I speak," said the little Indian, standing up and looking fearlessly
into the superintendent's face. "I speak. I keep hair, good. I keep name
Wolf-Willow, good. I keep skin Indian color. I not white man's skin.
English skin no good. My skin best, good."

Mr. Enderby laughed. "No, no, Little Wolf-Willow, we won't try to change
the color of your skin," he said.

"No good try. I keep skin, better skin than white man. I keep skin, me."
And the next instant he was gone.

Miss Watson, the matron, appeared at the door. "What have you done to
Little Wolf-Willow?" she asked in surprise. "Why, he is careering down
the hall at a breakneck speed."

"I believe the child thought I was going to skin him, to make a white
boy out of him," laughed Mr. Enderby.

"Poor little chap! I expect you wanted to cut off his hair," said Miss
Watson, "and perhaps call him Tom, Dick, Harry, or some such name."

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