Nick of the Woods; Or, Adventures of Prairie LifeBird, Robert Montgomery
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Nick of the Woods; Or, Adventures of Prairie Life
Bird, Robert Montgomery
Frontier and pioneer life -- Kentucky -- Fiction
When the twilight had darkened away, and the little river, rippling along
on its course, sparkled only in the light of the stars, the three friends
crept from their retreat, and descended boldly into the valley; where,
guided by the barking of dogs, the occasional yells of a drunken or
gamesome savage, and now and then the red glare of a fire flashing from
the open crannies of a cabin, they found little difficulty in approaching
the Indian village. It was situated on the further bank of the stream,
and, as described, just behind the bend of the vale, at the bottom of a
rugged, but not lofty hill; which, jutting almost into the river, left
yet space enough for the forty or fifty lodges composing the village,
sheltering them in winter from the bitter blasts that rush, at that
season, from the northern lakes. Beyond the river, on the side towards
the travellers, the vale was broader; and it was there the Indians had
chiefly planted their corn-fields,--fields enriched by the labour,
perhaps also by the tears, of their oppressed and degraded women.
Arriving at the borders of the cultivated grounds, the three
adventurers crossed the river, which was neither broad nor deep, and
stealing among logs and stumps at the foot of the hill, where some
industrious savage had, in former years, begun to clear a field, which,
however, his wives had never planted, they lay down in concealment,
waiting until the subsiding of the unusual bustle in the village, a
consequence manifestly of the excesses which Nathan predicted the victors
would indulge in, should render their further advance practicable. But
this was not the work of a moment. The savage can drink and dance through
the night with as lusty a zeal as his white neighbour; the song, the
jest, the merry tale, are as dear to his imagination; and in the
retirement of his own village, feeling no longer the restraint of stolid
gravity,--assumed in the haunts of the white man, less to play the part
of a hero than to cover the nakedness of his own inferiority,--he can
give himself up to wild indulgence, the sport of whim and frolic; and,
when the fire-water is the soul of the feast, the feast only ends with
the last drop of liquor.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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