The child was seized with a dreadful fit of coughing, which I expected every moment would terminate his frail existence.  I gave him a teaspoonful of currant jelly, which he took with avidity, but could not retain a moment on his stomach.

“Papouse die,” murmured the poor woman; “alone—­alone!  No papouse; the mother all alone.”  She began re-adjusting the poor sufferer in her blanket.  I got her some food, and begged her to stay and rest herself; but she was too much distressed to eat, and too restless to remain.  She said little, but her face expressed the keenest anguish; she took up her mournful load, pressed for a moment his wasted, burning hand in hers, and left the room.

My heart followed her a long way on her melancholy journey.  Think what this woman’s love must have been for that dying son, when she had carried a lad of his age six miles, through the deep snow, upon her back, on such a day, in the hope of my being able to do him some good.  Poor heart-broken mother!  I learned from Joe Muskrat’s squaw some days after that the boy died a few minutes after Elizabeth Iron, his mother, got home.

They never forget any little act of kindness.  One cold night, late in the fall, my hospitality was demanded by six squaws, and puzzled I was how to accommodate them all.  I at last determined to give them the use of the parlour floor during the night.  Among these women there was one very old, whose hair was as white as snow.  She was the only gray-haired Indian I ever saw, and on that account I regarded her with peculiar interest.  I knew that she was the wife of a chief, by the scarlet embroidered leggings, which only the wives and daughters of chiefs are allowed to wear.  The old squaw had a very pleasing countenance, but I tried in vain to draw her into conversation.  She evidently did not understand me; and the Muskrat squaw, and Betty Cow, were laughing at my attempts to draw her out.  I administered supper to them with my own hands, and after I had satisfied their wants (which is no very easy task, for they have great appetites), I told our servant to bring in several spare mattresses and blankets for their use.  “Now mind, Jenny, and give the old squaw the best bed,” I said; “the others are young, and can put up with a little inconvenience.”

The old Indian glanced at me with her keen, bright eye; but I had no idea that she comprehended what I said.

Some weeks after this, as I was sweeping over my parlour floor, a slight tap drew me to the door.  On opening it I perceived the old squaw, who immediately slipped into my hand a set of beautifully-embroidered bark trays, fitting one within the other, and exhibiting the very best sample of the porcupine quill-work.  While I stood wondering what this might mean, the good old creature fell upon my neck, and kissing me, exclaimed, “You remember old squaw—­make her comfortable!  Old squaw no forget you.  Keep them for her sake,” and before I could detain her she ran down the hill with a swiftness which seemed to bid defiance to years.  I never saw this interesting Indian again, and I concluded that she died during the winter, for she must have been of a great age.