4th.  Fatalism,—­An Indian, called Wabishkipenace, The White Bird, brings an express mail from the sub-agency of La Pointe, in Lake Superior.  This proved to be the individual who, in 1820, acted as one of the guides of the exploring expedition to the Copper Rock, on the Ontonagon River.  Trifles light as air arouse an Indian’s suspicions, and the circumstance of his being thus employed by the government agents, was made use of by his fellows to his prejudice.  They told him that this act was displeasing to the Great Spirit, who had visited him with his displeasure.  Whatever influence this idea had on others, on Wabishkipenace it seemed to tell.  He looked the image of despair.  He wore his hair long, and was nearly naked.  He had a countenance of the most melancholy cast.  Poverty itself could not be poorer.  Now, he appears to have taken courage, and is willing once more to enter into the conflicts of life.  But, alas! what are these conflicts with an Indian?  A mere struggle for meat and bread enough to live.

13th.  This is a day long to be remembered in my domestic annals, as it carried to the tomb the gem of a once happy circle, the cherished darling of it, in the person of a beloved, beautiful, intellectually promising, and only son.  William Henry had not yet quite completed his third year, and yet such had been the impression created by his manly precocity, his decision of character, perpetual liveliness of temper and manners, and sweet and classic lineaments, and attachable traits, that he appeared to have lived a long time.  The word time is, indeed, a relative term, and ever means much or little, as much or little has been enjoyed or suffered.  Our enjoyment of him, and communion with him, was intimate.  From the earliest day of his existence, his intelligence and quick expressive eye was remarkable, and all his waking hours were full of pleasing innocent action and affectionate appreciation.

We took him to the city of New York during the winter of 1824-25, where he made many friends and had many admirers.  He was always remembered by the youthful name of Willy and Penaci, or the bird—­a term that was playfully bestowed by the Chippewas while he was still in his cradle.  He was, indeed, a bird in our circle, for the agility of his motions, the liveliness of his voice, and the diamond sparkle of his full hazel eyes, reminded one of nothing so much.  The month of March was more than usually changeable in its temperature, with disagreeable rains and much humidity, which nearly carried away the heavy amount of snow on the ground.  A cold and croup rapidly developed themselves, and no efforts of skill or kindness had power to arrest its fatal progress.  He sank under it about eleven o’clock at night.  Such was the rapidity of this fatal disease, that his silver playful voice still seemed to ring through the house when he lay a placid corpse.  Several poetic tributes to his memory were made, but none more touching than some lines from his own mother, which are fit to be preserved as a specimen of native composition.[47]