Part 3

Albert Cusick told me his early experiences at two of these feasts, which will illustrate one prominent feature which I have mentioned. On one occasion the boys saw that there was no kettle in the circle, while there was a cluster of women about the pantry door. They understood the situation, but the door could not be passed. An active lad quietly made his way through the pantry window, found a pan with two roast chickens in it, secured some corn bread and other good things, and got off unobserved. The booty was carried to the green by the council-house, and eaten with a hearty relish; then the pan, with the bones, was slipped back into the pantry, and the boys, according to the old custom, began to caw, like crows. All seemed safe, however, and the others made fun of them. “You are all frauds. You haven’t found the head. We have that safe.” So the dances went on. A speech was made at the close. One head was to go to the speaker and the other to the singers.

But when they got there the cupboard was bare, And so the poor singers had none.

A dance of this kind was held at the house of my old friend, Mary Green, one night. Her home was a good-sized log cabin, fairly furnished, and the feast was well attended. The boys ran around, imitating hungry crows, but with small chance of getting “the head.” The circle of women remained unbroken around the stove in the centre of the room, and on the stove was a big kettle of soup, with “the head” in the midst of all. The soup was hot, and the kettle inaccessible. Several tried to crawl through the circle on their hands and knees, but failed. At last one got through in the dark interval, burned his fingers indeed, but put the chicken in a pail and successfully made off. The triumphant crows were soon heard again.

The great medicine is made in a society called Ka-noo-tah, of which I may say more at another time. For ordinary ailments simple remedies are used, but the Onondagas are easily satisfied when told that the white man’s remedies may be best for the diseases he has introduced. When a man is bewitched, that is quite another thing. A Tuscarora once came to Onondaga, who thought he was bewitched, and Abram Island prescribed for him. He took three tender shoots each of the waxberry, choke and wild cherry, and the green osier, and scraped off the bark. This was placed in twelve quarts of hot water, and almost boiled. This was to be used as an emetic for twelve days. On the last day Island came again, carrying away what was last thrown up, but soon returning with a woolly bear caterpillar on a chip. This he had found in the matter, and it was the witch charm. It was placed in a paper bag and hung upon the wall. They were told it would revive and then die again. In a few days there was a rustling in the paper, and the caterpillar was taken out dead, but looking as though soaked in water. After so thorough a cleansing the man got well, of course.

I am promised the old Onondaga songs, both music and words, but my informant that is to be takes his own time. I have said that these songs are mostly meaningless. Some have been translated quite poetically, which the Indians assure me have strictly no meaning, though their associations have almost poetic force, and so the thought has been given rather than the actual interpretation. As long as there is time and sound, the singer often cares little what the words may be, but this is not an invariable rule. I have seen four kinds of rattles, two of which are antique,—the turtle shell and gourd. Some are made of cow’s horns, and once only have I seen a very ingenious one of bark. All are alike effective in dances and marches.

Some curious changes have come over the Onondagas of late. Heretofore the Green Corn Dance was held about as soon as green corn was fit for use, but some of the Indians have been giving exhibition dances at various gatherings, and found there was money in it. This year they deferred the feast until the autumnal equinox, having the principal dances on Sunday, September 24, 1893. In this case those who danced did not pay the piper, but the spectators did. As many as could be accommodated were admitted to the council-house, at fifteen cents per head; three dances were given, and then a new party was admitted. Of course this deprived the feast of all religious force, and made it a mere show; nor did it quite satisfy those who saw it.

A few days later the annuity of goods was delivered, a sight not without interest. So many Oneidas now live with the Onondagas that a large part of their annuity is distributed at the same time by the United States agent, Mr. A. W. Ferrin. The cotton cloth for the Oneidas was placed towards the west end of the council-house, and Henry Powliss, or Was-theel-go, “Throwing up pins,” checked off the Oneida list, while two chiefs measured off the cloth. Jaris Pierce, or Jah-dah-dieh, “Sailing Whale,” checked the Onondaga list, assisted in the same way. This lot was placed in the centre of the house, against the south door. There was some interpreting, and the scene was quite interesting. The men looked much like any farmers, but the women were quite picturesque.

This mingling of nations is not without many effects. Thus the Oneida salutation, Sa-go-lah, “How do you do?” has quite taken the place of the different and longer Onondaga greeting, and other phrases and words are in common use. The Seneca snow snake, differing in some respects from the Onondaga, is quite as frequently seen.

Until recently I had never seen two women pounding corn in one mortar, but the two pestles rose and fell quite harmoniously. This may be frequent, for two men seized each his double-headed pestle, to be photographed on another occasion. The old pestle and mortar are still quite in favor with most families.

_W. M. Beauchamp._

SCOTTISH MYTHS FROM ONTARIO.[4]

In a certain part of Ontario (my stories being true, I must be reticent as to localities and persons) the country is peopled with Scotch Highlanders from Glenelg. If, as is often said, Scotch people are superstitious, the Glenelg men are superlatively so. Every nook and every grassy plot in that famous glen is haunted, and weird tales belong to every family, high and low, handed down from father to son. The Glenelg men in Canada whom I knew still have the traditional tales,—the ancestral ones, I mean,—and are very willing to tell them: but I greatly preferred to hear them recount the uncanny doings of their own Canadian township. They are the third generation in this country. It is an old part of Ontario,—one of the oldest, I think, for in a long-discarded burying-ground I found inscriptions bearing date of the last century. Although so long here, and tolerably fair farmers, they are curiously backward, preferring in their daily life to talk Gaelic; and it is even now very common to find children of eight without a word of English. Most of the very old people have only their native tongue. Their schools are so poor that it is difficult to believe one’s self in Ontario, where the standard of education is so high. They are handsome people,—nearly all very tall and well-built, bearing a family likeness. The men have none of the farmer slouch so usual in most country places; they are thorough Highlanders of the best type, and have the traditional grace and condescension of manner, even when speaking to an acknowledged superior. The impression of refinement is intensified by their speech. They came to this country understanding only Gaelic, had no schools until the present generation, and therefore received the whole of their education in church. Their speech is Scripture English, quaint, careful, and accurate. It was at first an astonishment to me, as my knowledge of rural life in western Ontario had prepared me to expect from farmers everywhere the horrible colloquialisms, nasal twang, and most wonderful idioms which perhaps some Montrealers have noticed in the townships, for it is the same there, I believe. It was a great pleasure to me to listen to the polished old English, and I soon recognized the cause, and was interested, and perhaps startled, to discover that the beautiful speech of one of the least progressive counties of Ontario is directly owing to the neglect of the government—in short, to their want of education.

It was not long before I discovered with deep, silent delight that the country-side was peopled with ghosts. It was never hard to give a turn to the conversation that would result in the recital of something weird or horrible, told with the bare simplicity of the doings of the Witch of Endor, and not doubted in any particular by another than myself. I remember that this difference between them and me threatened to disturb my enjoyment. I am always uncomfortable if “in my company but not of it,” and therefore always agree with every one unless positively forbidden to do so by a company too intense for a happy existence. In the present instance, as my infidelity was unsuspected, I was not hindered from assuming the sentiment of the hour as a garment which I heartily enjoyed wearing, and which soon belonged of right to me,—so much so, in fact, that when the first of the following stories was related in the deepening dusk in a most ghostly hollow behind a graveyard, it was I who, when deep-drawn breaths announced the finale, suggested that we arm ourselves with cudgels and hasten home across the fields. And we did it, too, no one laughing; it was not an hour for laughter. We walked in Indian file, following the cow-path, and I think that I surreptitiously held the coat-tail of the one who strode before me. And as we walked, we thought that we heard the malevolent and fatal tap, tap, tapping in the wood across the hollow. But this is anticipating the dénouement of my tale. Here is the story of—

THE HAUNTED GROVE.

A certain man whom it is safe to call Angus, as there was at least one Angus in every household, lived near the stage road that connected two large villages, which were, if I remember aright, about fourteen miles apart. His home was situated nearly midway between them, and about a mile from the aforementioned hollow. He seems to have taken more interest in the post-office than his friends whom I knew, and subscribed for and studied certain Montreal newspapers. For this he was pitied in the parish, and called “Poor Angus,” for the general sentiment of the place was opposed to literature, and reading was considered a sign of mental weakness. He appears to have adhered, however, to the habit, whether from native independence or native imbecility, I cannot say. I have noticed that as a means of separating a man from his fellows, either strength or weakness, if sufficiently pronounced, is equally potent. So this man, following the bent of his nature, went twice or thrice a week to the post-office late in the afternoon, when the passing stage threw in a big leather mail-bag. The post-office was in a farmhouse, and to reach it he walked through the hollow with the unwholesome reputation. On the slope of the hill farthest from the post-office was a grove, not a dense wood,—just about half an acre of thinly wooded land, the trees being so far apart that you could easily get glimpses and peeps of the country beyond. I remember once admiring a pink sunset scantily visible among the dark trunks of those trees.

Well, one autumn afternoon Angus was ascending this hill on his way home with his newspapers, when in the grove on his right suddenly sounded the chopping of a tree. He stopped, interested at once. The grove belonged to a neighbor and cousin of his own, and it had been for very many years left undisturbed. I think it very possible that it was a “sugar bush,” that is, a wood reserved for sugar-making, but of this I cannot be sure. But if my guess is right it would account for the surprise he felt at the cutting down of a tree there. He went to the fence, or rather stone dike, for that is one of the very few parts in which you find fields inclosed by stone dikes in lieu of fences, as in Scotland. The chopping continued, though he saw no one, and he moved along, expecting every moment to see man and axe. Finally he shouted. To his intense astonishment there was no reply, although it was incredible that he was unheard by a person in so near vicinity. As the echo of his shout died away, the chopping, which for a moment or two had been suspended, began again. A curious horror crept over the listener, and he looked no more, but made haste up the hill, and turning the corner was soon at home. He said nothing about the matter on this first occasion, and a few days later was again on the road returning from the same errand, when, lo! on the quiet air came again the same chop, chop, chopping. In telling it afterwards, he said that in his heart he made no fight against fate, but he just thought sadly of his worldly affairs, and wondered if things were in good shape for him to leave wife and little ones, for from that hour he confidently looked for death before another spring. He stood long listening, and when at last he went home he related the whole circumstance to his wife. Together they recounted it to friends, who went in parties and singly to the place, but heard nothing. They also thoroughly searched the little wood, arguing that chopping must leave signs behind in the shape of chips and disfigured trunks. But no, there was no mark of any kind in any part of the grove. Angus was now earnestly counselled to abandon his literary pursuits. He could not but own that he had received a warning, and he did own it, but contended that it was undeserved, and refused to be guided, as one might say, by a light that, as all admitted, shone with a lurid glare. He was exhorted to forswear the reading of vain and foolish lies; for with the acumen which surprised and gratified me so much, they even refused to regard our newspapers as mediums of information, recognizing instinctively their right to stand in the ranks of fiction. Their advice was in all points save one unheeded. With one voice they bade him, if he heard the warning again, to pursue his way as if he heard it not, looking neither to the right nor left. This counsel he followed, and the end shows the folly and uselessness of attempting to elude a menace which is—well, which is of this kind.

Angus continued to walk to and from the post-office, and when alone never failed to hear the mysterious axe at work in the wood. He never heard it unless alone, and it was never heard by any one else. Although the conviction that his death would happen before many months took firm hold of his mind, yet in time he became so accustomed to the thought and its cause as to go about his usual occupations with much of the wonted interest, and even to hear the sound of an axe, wielded by invisible hands, without experiencing agitation.

Weeks sped on and brought winter, and an unusual fall of snow. The stage-road became blocked, and vehicles left the highway to make a new track through the fields. For several months that winter the real road through the hollow was not used, and the snow, which drifted high in it, covered the dikes on each side. Temporary roads and footpaths made winding lines over the white plains on every hand. Angus now followed one of these roads, which ran parallel to the real highway, just the dike being between them, until he reached the grove, when he, with extraordinary and fatal hardihood, instead of remaining in it, used to leave it, and striking out at right angles to it, would walk through the grove, aiming directly for his own house, and greatly shortening his walk thereby. The trees had of course protected the place from wind; there had been no drifting, and walking was easy. He told it at home, and said with grim humor that the Man in the Bush seemed pleased that he would come that way, for his chopping was louder and gladder than ever before; and his wife repeated her counsel earnestly that he look only straight before him, and never stop, nor answer any sound, nor take heed in any way of that unholy work. “And,” said the Angus who years after related it to me, “the Axe might well be merry when she bade him that way!” But Angus laid the advice to heart, and strode steadily through the grove, looking straight before him, and every day the Axe grew gayer and louder. He did not speak of it now. He was getting used to it, and the neighbors had ceased to think of it, the more easily because, as I have told, his literary tastes had separated this Angus from among them. So one day the owner of the grove and his sons went over to chop down one particular tree that, on the day when they had searched the grove in the autumn, had appeared to them to merit destruction. Perhaps it was a beech growing among maples, where it was not wanted, or perhaps it was a dead maple cumbering the ground. They began to chop. It was late in the afternoon. One said with a laugh, “It may be we are taking the tree that poor Angus’ ghost has been working at so long.”

Perhaps the invisible man heard them. At any rate he did not chop that evening. It was only his cousin’s axe that gave the good strokes that poor Angus heard as he turned from the track to cross the grove as usual. The tree was swaying and shivering, and all but ready to fall. He had cut trees all his life, and he knew the sound of the stroke when the task was almost done; but no goblin’s trick would beguile him into turning his head. He looked neither to right nor left. Then the chopping ceased, and his blood nearly froze as he heard his own name shouted in tones of such horror that a familiar voice was unrecognized. Others caught up the cry. There was a din, the crashing of branches and sound of rushing feet, mingled with shouts of warning, and poor Angus fell, with the enormous tree upon him. When at last the burden was removed, and the crushed body borne home, there were men there who heard among the trees inhuman laughter, and knew that Something had lured poor Angus to his doom.

Another weird tale, that made a strong impression on me, I wrote down at the time, and called—

THE FATED FAGOT.

The title seemed very effective then, though now it strikes me as more alliterative than true, as it concerns a single stick and not a fagot at all. It was a round stick about five feet long, probably the trunk of a young ash tree brought home from the woods to serve some purpose as a pole. It lay forgotten in the back yard of a farmhouse close to a little village called L——. It was a fine strong pole about twice as thick as a man’s wrist. The sun seasoned it day by day, so that it soon was no longer “green” wood, but wood that would have crackled well in the fire. But for whatever purpose it had been brought home, it seemed oddly forgotten. No use was made of it.

One day one of the young men of the family went to the “bush,” spent an hour there, and returned with just such another long, straight sapling. He dragged it into the yard, and his eye fell on the first one. “There,” said he, “I’ve had little to do spending my time seeking a pole, and this one ready to my hand all the while.”

“Aye,” said Mary his sister, standing in the doorway, “that is what I’m telling them. Since that pole was brought, father has taken a bar from the gateway, and Neil has cut down a young tree in the pasture, and you’ve been seeking in the bush, all of you wanting this same pole that’s only lying in the way.”

“Perhaps there’ll be something the matter with it, Mary,” her brother answered, ever ready to suspect black art; “any way, it is dry now, and I’ll chop it for you, and it will soon be out of harm’s way.”

And Mary, bidding him do it at once,—for she was then wanting some firewood,—turned into the house.

The young man went, whistling, for his axe, and the pole would have been in half a dozen pieces in a few moments had not a neighbor hailed him from the road. Throwing down the axe, he went to the fence to speak with him, calling meantime to a little brother to gather sticks and chips for Mary. So Mary, or rather _Maari_, for they always pronounced the familiar name just as it is spelled in some of William Black’s Scotch novels, cooked the midday meal, but not with the elusive pole of which she had intended to make a speedy end. But she did not forget it; on the contrary, it seemed to prey on her mind. As if fascinated, she would go out and look at it. She dragged it into the woodshed, that its destiny might seem more sure. She recommended it to the men of the family as being small and suited to the stove, but still it remained uncut. Sometimes they said that they could not find it, at other times it was forgotten. If just about to cut it, they were sure to be interrupted. Mary took the axe herself to chop it, one day, but a brother laughingly took it from her and sent her back to the house, promising to follow with an armful of sticks in a few minutes; but he failed to keep his word, for a young colt broke loose and needed his immediate attention to prevent its reaching the highway!

One morning a wagon drove up with a family party from a distance, come to spend the day. Mary welcomed them, and the little house was all bustle and noise while the visitors were being made comfortable. A dinner fit for the occasion must be prepared, and Mary sent her brother in haste to the woodshed that the oven might be heated at once. He came back with an armful.

“I would have cut the stick that vexes you so much, Maari,” he said, “but it seems gone at last out of our way. Some one has cut it before me.”

“No,” replied the girl, “here it is.” And as she spoke a weight seemed to fall on her spirits, for she did not smile again, but moved amongst her guests preoccupied and still. The pole was lying close to the kitchen door, along the path leading from the woodshed. The young man thinking it in the way and apt to make people stumble, took it to the shed and threw it in.

Dinner was over, and all the news discussed, and it was the middle of the afternoon when Mary was observed by some one of the family to be standing in the kitchen doorway alone. I think it was her mother who, wondering at her staying there so long, went to her. She was shivering violently, although it was pleasant weather, and she pointed her finger, without speaking, to the pole, which lay at her feet in the pathway again. One of the boys was told to go at once and chop it in pieces, and Mary was kindly chided for her foolish terror. The visitors began to bestir themselves, for they had a lonely drive before them.

“I will leave the cutting of the stick until they are on the road,” said Mary’s brother; and he went to get out their horses and “speed the parting guests.” Farewells were said in hearty fashion at the gate, and then the family hastened to take up their interrupted tasks, separating, some to one thing and some to another; and yet again the stick was forgotten.

The evening meal was late, and Mary was hurried. A little daughter of one of the neighbors, who was in, bustled about, helping. She flew in and out with chips.

“Shall I drag this pole out of the way, Maari?” asked the child.

“No,” said Mary; “_it is too late_.”

And there at the kitchen door it remained, and Mary was pale and silent, her thoughts being otherwhere. That night they were roused from sleep by her cry for help, and when they went to her they found her sick unto death. A doctor was fetched in haste; it was cholera morbus, and hopeless, as he knew at once, and before the sun rose Mary was dead. The stick lay at the door, and one of the kindly neighbors, who were doing what was needful during the following days, lifted it and sawed it carefully in two to serve as rests for the coffin, by means of which the bearers could convey it to the grave; and thus the fated stick fulfilled its mission.