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[Illustration: FRONTISPIECE. _Vol. 3._
_Designed & Etched by W. H. Brooks A. R. H. A._
In a moment multitudes of bright beings start up--"He is ours"!!! _page 110._

_London, Published by Colburn & Bentley--April 1830._]




TRADITIONS OF THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS:

                BEING

    A SECOND AND REVISED EDITION OF

      "TALES OF AN INDIAN CAMP."

                  BY

         JAMES ATHEARN JONES.

           IN THREE VOLUMES.

              VOL. III.

LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1830.
F. SHOBERL, JUN., LONG ACRE.




CONTENTS

OF

THE THIRD VOLUME.

                                                          Page
  The Lake of the White Canoe                                 1
  A Legend of the Bomelmeeks                                 33
  The King of the Elks                                       47
  The Daughters of the Sun                                   77
  The Maiden and the Bird                                    91
  The Island of Eagles                                      117
  Legend of Aton-Larre                                      145
  The Fire-Spirit                                           167
  The Origin of Women                                       175
  The Hill of Fecundity. A Tradition of the Minnatarees     183
  TALES OF A WHITE MAN'S GHOST.
      I. Garanga                                            191
     II. The Warning of Tekarrah                            213
    III. The Legend of Pomperaug                            237
     IV. The Son of Annawan                                 251
      V. The Cascade of Melsingah                           279
  Legend of Coatuit Brook                                   305
  The Spirits of Vapour                                     313
  The Devil of Cape Higgin                                  321




TALES OF AN INDIAN CAMP.




THE LAKE OF THE WHITE CANOE.


    Wo! Wo! Wo
    Wo to the sons of the far-off land,
    Weak in heart and pale in face,
    Deer in battle, moose in a race,
    Panthers wanting claw and tooth
    Wo to the red man, strong of hand,
    Steady of purpose, lithe of limb,
    Calm in the toils of the foe,
    Knowing nor tears nor ruth
    Wo to them and him,
    If, cast by hard fate at the midnight damp,
    Or an hour of storm in the dismal swamp,
    That skirts the Lake of the White Canoe!

    Wo to him and them,
    If, when the night's dim lamps are veil'd,
    And the Hunter's Star is hid,
    And the moon has shut her lid,
    For their wearied limbs the only birth
    Be the cold and frosty earth,
    And their flesh be burnt by the gum exhal'd
    From the cedar's poisonous stem,
    And steep'd in the blistering dew
    Of the barren vine in the birchen copse,
    Where rear the pines their giant tops
    Above the Lake of the White Canoe!

    My brother hears--'t is well--
    And let him shun the spot,
    The damp and dismal brake,
    That skirts the shallow lake,
    The brown and stagnant pool[A],
    The dark and miry fen,
    And let him never at nightfall spread
    His blanket among the isles that dot
    The surface of that lake;
    And let my brother tell
    The men of his race that the wolf hath fed
    Ere now on warriors brave and true,
    In the fearful Lake of the White Canoe.

    Wo! Wo! Wo!
    To him that sleeps in those dark fens!
    The she-wolf will stir the brake,
    And the copper-snake breathe in his ear,
    And the bitterns will start by tens,
    And the slender junipers shake
    With the weight of the nimble bear,
    And the pool resound with the cayman's plash,
    And the owl will hoot in the boughs of the ash,
    Where he sits so calm and cool;
    Above his head, the muckawiss[B]
    Will sing his gloomy song;
    Frogs will scold in the pool,
    To see the musk-rat carry along
    The perch to his hairy brood;
    And, coil'd at his feet, the horn-snake will hiss,
    Nor last nor least of the throng,
    The shades of the youth and maid so true,
    That haunt the Lake of the White Canoe.

    And, if he chance to sleep,
    Still will his _okki_ whisper wo,
    For hideous forms will rise:
    The spirits of the swamp
    Will come from their caverns dark and deep,
    Where the slimy currents flow,
    With the serpent and wolf to romp,
    And to whisper in the sleeper's ear
    Of wo and danger near;
    And mist will hide the pale, cold moon,
    And the stars will seem like the sparkling flies
    That twinkle in the prairie glades,
    In my brother's month of June--
    Murky shades, dim, dark shades,
    Shades of the cypress, pine, and yew,
    In the swamp of the Lake of the White Canoe.

    Wo! wo! wo!
    He will hear in the dead of the night--
    If the bittern will stay his toot,
    And the serpent will cease his hiss,
    And the wolf forget his howl,
    And the owl forbear his hoot,
    And the plaintive muckawiss,
    And his neighbour the frog, will be mute--
    A plash like the dip of a water-fowl,
    In the lake with mist so white;
    And two forms will float on his troubled view,
    O'er the brake, with a meteor light,
    And he'll hear the words of a tender song,
    Stealing like a spring-wind along
    The Lake of the White Canoe.

    That song will be a song of wo,
    Its burthen will be a gloomy tale;
    It will cause the rain to flow;
    It will tell of youthful love,
    Fond but blighted love;
    It will tell of father's cruelty;
    It will cause the rain to flow;
    It will tell of two lovely flowers
    That grew in the wilderness;
    And the mildew that touch'd the leaf;
    And the canker that struck the bud;
    And the lightning that wither'd the stem;
    And 't will speak of the Spirit-dove,
    That summon'd them away,
    Deeming them all too good and true,
    For aught save to paddle a White Canoe

[Footnote A: The water of the little lake (Drummond's Pond), to which
this tradition relates, is  brown by the roots of the juniper
and cedar.]

[Footnote B: Whip-poor-will.]

With these wild stanzas, preliminary to a tradition current among the
tribes of that region, Walk in the Water, a Roanoke chief of great
celebrity, commenced his tale. Undoubtedly most of the Indians present
were as well acquainted with the story as the narrator, but that
circumstance seemed to abate nothing of the interest with which it was
listened to; it certainly did not diminish the attention of the
audience. In this respect, these wild foresters deserve to become a
pattern for careful imitation. They never interrupt a speaker. However
incongruous or ill put together his tale, or insulting the matter or
manner of his speech, or revolting his opinions to their preconceived
notions and prejudices, he is heard patiently until he has said all
that he has to say. And, after he has seated himself, sufficient time
is given him to recollect whether he has left unsaid any thing in his
opinion of importance to the correct interpretation of his views.

It will be seen from the specimens interspersed through these volumes,
that the poetry of the Indians is in general of the warlike, or of the
tender and pathetic kind. Their only poetry is found in their songs.
They are sung in a kind of measure, always harmonious to an Indian
ear, and frequently to ours. The music is well adapted to the words.
It would be idle to attempt to give an idea of it by means of our
musical notes, as has been done by other writers; I should probably
meet with the fate of those who have tried in the same manner to
describe the melodies of the ancient Greeks. They sing it in short
lines or sentences, not always the whole at once, but most generally
in detached parts, as time permits, and as the occasion or their
feelings prompt them. Their accent is very pathetic and melancholy; a
by-stander unacquainted with their language would suppose that they
were details of some great affliction: both sexes sing in chorus,
first the men and then the women. At times the women join in the
general song, or repeat the strain which the men have just finished.
It seems like two parties singing in questions and answers, and is,
upon the whole, very agreeable and enlivening. After thus singing for
about a quarter of an hour, they conclude each song with a loud yell,
not unlike the cat-bird, which closes its pretty song with mewing like
a cat. The voices of the women are clear and full, and their
intonations generally correct.

The Dismal Swamp, which gave rise to this genuine Indian tradition, is
one of the gloomiest spots on the face of the earth. It is situated in
the state of Virginia, and covers a very large space. On the south
side of this wild and gloomy region the marshy border is thickly
overgrown with immense reeds, and, as far as the eye can take in,
waves slowly and heavily one dark green sea. Then, on all the other
skirts of the forest itself, the lofty trees are covered to their
summits by the yellow jessamine, and other quick-growing creepers,
breathing odour, and alive with the chirping of insects and the melody
of birds. In the open and less marshy skirts of the