Oonomoo the Huron. Edward Sylvester Ellis

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       Edward Sylvester Ellis

      Oonomoo the Huron

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664600721

Table of Contents

       CHAPTER I.

       HANS VANDERBUM.

       CHAPTER II.

       OTHER CHARACTERS.

       CHAPTER III.

       OONOMOO AND THE SHAWNEES.

       CHAPTER IV.

       THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT AND CATO.

       CHAPTER V.

       THE HOME OF THE HURON.

       CHAPTER VI.

       ADVENTURES ON THE WAY.

       CHAPTER VII.

       THE PLAN FOR THE RESCUE.

       CHAPTER VIII.

       THE EXPLOIT OF HANS VANDERBUM.

       CHAPTER IX.

       A NEW DANGER.

       CHAPTER X.

       CONCLUSION.

       OONOMOO, THE FRIEND OF THE WHITE MAN.

CHAPTER I.

       Table of Contents

HANS VANDERBUM.

       Table of Contents

      The mountain's sides

       Are flecked with gleams of light and spots of shade;

       Here, golden sunshine spreads in mellow rays, and there,

       Stretching across its hoary breast, deep shadows lurk.

       A stream, with many a turn, now lost to sight,

       And then, again revealed, winds through the vale,

       Shimmering in the early morning sun.

       A few white clouds float in the blue expanse,

       Their forms revealed in the clear lake beneath,

       Which bears upon its breast a bark canoe,

       Cautiously guided by a sinewy arm.

       High in the heavens, three eagles proudly poise,

       Keeping their mountain eyrie still in view,

       Although their flight has borne them far away.

       Upon the cliff which beetles o'er the pool,

       Two Indians, peering from the brink, appear,

       Clad in the gaudy dress their nature craves—

       Robes of bright blue and scarlet, but which blend

       In happy union with the landscape round.

       Near by a wigwam stands—a fire within

       Sends out a ruddy glow—and from its roof,

       Cone-shaped, a spiral wreath of smoke ascends.

       Not far away, though deeper in the woods,

       Another hut, with red-men grouped about,

       Attracts the eye, and wakens saddened thoughts

       Of that brave race who once were masters here,

       But now, like autumn leaves, are dying out.—BARRY GRAY.

      "Shtop dat noise! shtop dat noise!" vociferated Hans Vanderbum, growing red in the face with fury, because his repeated commands had received so little attention.

      The scene was deep in the forests of Ohio, a short distance from the Miami river. An Indian town of twenty-five or thirty lodges here stood, resembling a giant apiary, with its inhabitants flitting in and out, darting hither and thither, like so many bees. The time was early in the morning of a radiant spring, when the atmosphere was still and charming; the dew lingered upon the grass and undergrowth; birds were singing in every tree; the sky glowed with the pure blue of Italy; and the whole wilderness in its bloom looked like a sea of emerald. Everything was life and exhilaration, one personage alone excepted—Hans Vanderbum was unhappy!

      The Indian lodges differed very little from each other, being of a rough, substantial character, built with an eye to comfort rather than beauty. One at the extreme northern edge of the village is that with which our story deals. A brief description of it will serve as a general daguerreotype of all those wild abodes.

      The wigwam was composed of skins and bark, the latter greatly predominating. The shape was that of a cone. The framework was of poles, the lower ends of which were placed in a sort of circle, while the tops were intersected, leaving a small opening, through which the smoke reached the clear air above. Unsightly and repulsive as this might seem from the outside view, the dwelling, nevertheless, was water-proof and comfortable, and abundantly answered the end for which it was built.

      A thin vapor was ascending in a bluish spiral at the top of the lodge indicated. A Shawnee squaw was occupied in preparing the morning meal, while her liege lord still reclined in one corner, in the vain effort to secure a few minutes more of slumber. This latter personage was Hans Vanderbum—our friend Hans—a huge, plethoric, stolid, lazy Dutchman, who had "married" an Indian widow several years before. At the time of her marriage this squaw had a boy some three or four years of age, while a second one, the son of the Dutchman, was now just large enough to be as mischievous as a kitten. They were a couple of greasy, copper-hued little rascals, with eyes as black as midnight, and long, wiry hair, like that of a horse's mane. Brimful of animal spirits, they were just the reverse of Hans Vanderbum,