Oak Openings. James Fenimore Cooper

to a vagrant and border life.

      The duties of hospitality are rarely forgotten among border men. The inhabitant of a town may lose his natural disposition to receive all who offer at his board, under the pressure of society; but it is only in most extraordinary exceptions that the frontier man is ever known to be inhospitable. He has little to offer, but that little is seldom withheld, either through prudence or niggardliness. Under this feeling—we might call it habit also—le Bourdon now set himself at work to place on the table such food as he had at command and ready cooked. The meal which he soon pressed his guests to share with him was composed of a good piece of cold boiled pork, which Ben had luckily cooked the day previously, some bear's meat roasted, a fragment of venison steak, both lean and cold, and the remains of a duck that had been shot the day before, in the Kalamazoo, with bread, salt, and, what was somewhat unusual in the wilderness, two or three onions, raw. The last dish was highly relished by Gershom, and was slightly honored by Ben; but the Indians passed it over with cold indifference. The dessert consisted of bread and honey, which were liberally partaken of by all at table.

      Little was said by either host or guests, until the supper was finished, when the whole party left the chiente, to enjoy their pipes in the cool evening air, beneath the oaks of the grove in which the dwelling stood. Their conversation began to let the parties know something of each other's movements and characters.

      “YOU are a Pottawattamie, and YOU a Chippewa,” said le Bourdon, as he courteously handed to his two red guests pipes of theirs, that he had just stuffed with some of his own tobacco—“I believe you are a sort of cousins, though your tribes are called by different names.”

      “Nation, Ojebway,” returned the elder Indian, holding up a finger, by way of enforcing attention.

      “Tribe, Pottawattamie,” added the runner, in the same sententious manner.

      “Baccy, good”—put in the senior, by way of showing he was well contented with his comforts.

      “Have you nothin' to drink?” demanded Whiskey Centre, who saw no great merit in anything but “firewater.”

      “There is the spring,” returned le Bourdon, gravely; “a gourd hangs against the tree.”

      Gershom made a wry face, but he did not move.

      “Is there any news stirring among the tribes?” asked the bee-hunter, waiting, however, a decent interval, lest he might be supposed to betray a womanly curiosity.

      Elksfoot puffed away some time before he saw fit to answer, reserving a salvo in behalf of his own dignity. Then he removed the pipe, shook off the ashes, pressed down the fire a little, gave a reviving draught or two, and quietly replied:

      “Ask my young brother—he runner—he know.”

      But Pigeonswing seemed to be little more communicative than the Pottawattamie. He smoked on in quiet dignity, while the bee-hunter patiently waited for the moment when it might suit his younger guest to speak. That moment did not arrive for some time, though it came at last. Almost five minutes after Elksfoot had made the allusion mentioned, the Ojebway, or Chippewa, removed his pipe also, and looking courteously round at his host, he said with emphasis:

      “Bad summer come soon. Pale-faces call young men togedder, and dig up hatchet.”

      “I had heard something of this,” answered le Bourdon, with a saddened countenance, “and was afraid it might happen.”

      “My brother dig up hatchet too, eh?” demanded Pigeonswing.

      “Why should I? I am alone here, on the Openings, and it would seem foolish in me to wish to fight.”

      “Got no tribe—no Ojebway—no Pottawattamie, eh?”

      “I have my tribe, as well as another, Chippewa, but can see no use I can be to it, here. If the English and Americans fight, it must be a long way from this wilderness, and on or near the great salt lake.”

      “Don't know—nebber know, 'till see. English warrior plenty in Canada.”

      “That may be; but American warriors are not plenty here. This country is a wilderness, and there are no soldiers hereabouts, to cut each other's throats.”

      “What you t'ink him?” asked Pigeonswing, glancing at Gershom; who, unable to forbear any longer, had gone to the spring to mix a cup from a small supply that still remained of the liquor with which he had left home. “Got pretty good scalp?”

      “I suppose it is as good as another's—but he and I are countrymen, and we cannot raise the tomahawk on one another.”

      “Don't t'ink so. Plenty Yankee, him!”

      Le Bourdon smiled at this proof of Pigeonswings sagacity, though he felt a good deal of uneasiness at the purport of his discourse.

      “You are right enough in THAT” he answered, “but I'm plenty of Yankee, too.”

      “No, don't say so,” returned the Chippewa—“no, mustn't say DAT. English; no Yankee. HIM not a bit like you.”

      “Why, we are unlike each other, in some respects, it is true, though we are countrymen, notwithstanding. My great father lives at Washington, as well as his.”

      The Chippewa appeared to be disappointed; perhaps he appeared sorry, too; for le Bourdon's frank and manly hospitality had disposed him to friendship instead of hostilities, while his admissions would rather put him in an antagonist position. It was probably with a kind motive that he pursued the discourse in a way to give his host some insight into the true condition of matters in that part of the world.

      “Plenty Breetish in woods,” he said, with marked deliberation and point. “Yankee no come yet.”

      “Let me know the truth, at once, Chippewa,” exclaimed le Bourdon. “I am but a peaceable bee-hunter, as you see, and wish no man's scalp, or any man's honey but my own. Is there to be a war between America and Canada, or not?”

      “Some say, yes; some say, no,” returned Pigeonswing, evasively, “My part, don't know. Go, now, to see. But plenty Montreal belt among redskins; plenty rifle; plenty powder, too.”

      “I heard something of this as I came up the lakes,” rejoined Ben; “and fell in with a trader, an old acquaintance, from Canada, and a good friend, too, though he is to be my enemy, according to law, who gave me to understand that the summer would not go over without blows. Still, they all seemed to be asleep at Mackinaw (Michilimackinac) as I passed there.”

      “Wake up pretty soon. Canada warrior take fort.”

      “If I thought that, Chippewa, I would be off this blessed night to give the alarm.”

      “No—t'ink better of dat.”

      “Go I would, if I died for it the next hour!”

      “T'ink better—be no such fool, I tell you.”

      “And I tell you, Pigeonswing, that go I would, if the whole Ojebway nation was on my trail. I am an American, and mean to stand by my own people, come what will.”

      “T'ought you only peaceable bee-hunter, just now,” retorted the Chippewa, a little sarcastically.

      By this time le Bourdon had somewhat cooled, and he became conscious of his indiscretion. He knew enough of the history of the past, to be fully aware that, in all periods of American history, the English, and, for that matter, the French too, so long as they had possessions on this continent, never scrupled about employing the savages in their conflicts. It is true, that these highly polished, and, we may justly add, humane nations—(for each is, out of all question, entitled to that character in the scale of comparative humanity as between communities, and each if you will take its own account of the matter, stands at the head of civilization in this respect)—would, notwithstanding these high claims, carry on their AMERICAN wars by the agency of the tomahawk, the scalping-knife, and the brand. Eulogies, though pronounced by ourselves on ourselves,