My husband had met at Fort Gratiot, and brought with him, my young brother Julian, whom my parents were sending, at our request, to reside with us.  Edwin was overjoyed to have a companion once more, for he had hitherto been very solitary.  The boys soon had enough to occupy their attention, as, in obedience to a summons sent to the different villages, the Indians very shortly came flocking in to the payment.

There was among their number, this year, one whom I had never before seen—­the mother of the elder Day-kau-ray.  No one could tell her age, but all agreed that she must have seen upwards of a hundred winters.  Her eyes dimmed, and almost white with age—­her face dark and withered, like a baked apple—­her voice tremulous and feeble, except when raised in fury to reprove her graceless grandsons, who were fond of playing her all sorts of mischievous tricks, indicated the very great age she must have attained.

She usually went upon all-fours, not having strength to hold herself erect.  On the day of the payment, having received her portion, which she carefully hid in the corner of her blanket, she came crawling along and seated herself on the door-step, to count her treasure.

My sister and I were watching her movements from the open window.

Presently, just as she had, unobserved, as she thought, spread out her silver before her, two of her descendants came suddenly upon her.  At first they seemed begging for a share, but she repulsed them with angry gestures, when one of them made a sudden swoop, and possessed himself of a handful.

She tried to rise, to pursue him, but was unable to do more than clutch the remainder and utter the most unearthly screams of rage.  At this instant the boys raised their eyes and perceived us regarding them.  They burst into a laugh, and with a sort of mocking gesture they threw her the half-dollars, and ran back to the pay-ground.

In spite of their vexatious tricks, she seemed very fond of them, and never failed to beg something of her Father, that she might bestow upon them.

She crept into the parlor one morning, then straightening herself up, and supporting herself by the frame of the door, she cried, in a most piteous tone,—­“Shaw-nee-aw-kee!  Wau-tshob-ee-rah Thsoonsh-koo-nee-noh!” (Silver-man, I have no looking-glass.) My husband, smiling and taking up the same little tone, cried, in return,—­

“Do you wish to look at yourself, mother?”

The idea seemed to her so irresistibly comic that she laughed until she was fairly obliged to seat herself upon the floor and give way to her enjoyment.  She then owned that it was for one of the boys that she wanted the little mirror.  When her Father had given it to her, she found that she had “no comb,” then that she had “no knife,” then that she had “no calico shawl,” until it ended, as it generally did, by Shaw-nee-aw-kee paying pretty dearly for his joke.

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