Bradford reporter. [volume] (Towanda, Pa.) 1844-1884, 1856-03-01
A Legend of New England.
By JOHN C. WHITTIER.

Shrieks-fendish yes,they stab them in their Sleep
One hundred years ago the hunter, who
ranged the bills and the forests of New Eng
land, fought against other enemies than tht
brown bear and the panther. The husband
man, as he toiled in the plain, or the narrow
, clearing kept closely at his side loaded wea
pom and wrought diligently and firmly in the
midst of peril. The frequent crack of the In
dams rifle was heard in the still depths of the
forest-the death-knell of the unwary hunter
and, ever and anon, the fame of some devoted
farmhouse, whose dwellers had been slaugter
ed merciess foe, rose redly upon the darkness
of the night time. The wild and fiery eyes OF
the heathen CLEANED through the thick under
wood of the forest, upon the passing of the
worshipperS of the only true God and the
war-whoop rang shrill and loud under the very
walls of the sanctuary of prayer
Perhaps no part Of New England affords a
wilder field for the researches of the legendary,
! than that portion of Massachusetts Bay, for
merly known as the province of Maine. There
the ferocious Norridgewock held his stern
councils, and there the tribes of the Penobscot
went forth with song and dance to do battle
upon the white man. There, the romantic and
chivalrous Castine immured himself in the for
est sotudes. and there the hearted Ralle-the
mild and gifted Jesuit t-gathered together the
broken strength of the Norrdgewock, and built
up in the great wilderness temple to the true
God There, too. he perished in the dark on
slaught of the ColonStS-perished nth many
wounds, at the verv foot of the Cross; which
his own hands had planted, And there the
| Norridgewocks fell-one after another-in
stern and accomplishing pride-neither asking,
nor giving quarter, as they resisted the white
spoiler upon the threshold of their consecrated
place of worship, and in view of their wives
and children
The following is one among many legends
of the strange rcncontrcs Of the White Man
and the Indian, which are yet preserved in the
ancient records and traditions Of Maine. The
simple and unyarnished narrative is only Civ
| en- =
1t was sultry evening towards the last of
June, 1922, that Capt Harmon and the Eas-
tern Rangers urged their canoes up the Kenne-
bee river in pursuit of their enemies. For hours
they toiled diligently at the oar. The last
trace of civilization was left behind, and the
long shadows of the skirting forest met and
blended in the middle of the broad stream.
which wound darkly through them. As every
sound from the adjacent shores-the rustling
wing of some night-bird, or the quick footsteps
1! of some wild beast-the dash of the oar was
| suspended, aud the rangers grasp frightened on
his rife All knew the peril of the enterprise; :;
and that silence, which is natural of jeopardy,
settled like cloud upon the midnight alven-
turerS
Hush-softly men y said the watchful
| Harmon in a voice, which scarcely rose above
hoarse whisper, as the canoe swept around
a ragged promontory, there is a light
ahead !"
All eyes were bent toward the shore. A
tall Indian fire cleaned up amidst the great
oaks, casting a red and strong light upon the
dark waters For single and breathless mo-
ment the operation of the oar was suspended,
and every ear listened with painful earnestness
| to catch the well-known sounds, which seldom
failed to indicate the propiquity of the savages
! But all was now silent. With slow aud faint
movements of the oar, the canoes gradually ap-
preached the1SRspected spot. The landing was
effected in siMRce After moving cautiously
| for considerable distance in the dark shadow.
the party at length ventured within the broad
circle of the light, which at first attracted their
attention Harmon was at their head, with an
eve and hand, quick as those of the savage
enemy whom he sought.
The body Of fallen tree lay across the path
As the rangers were on the point of leaping
over it, the coarse whisper of Harmon again
broke the silence
"God of heaven !" he exclaimed, pointing to
the tree. See here ,-'tis the work of the
cursed red skins!'
A smothered curse growled on the lips of the
rangers, as they bent grimly forward in the
| direction pointed out by their commander
Blood was sprinkled on the rank grass, and a
| human hand-the hand of white man-lay
| on the bloody log
There was not a word spoken but every
countenance worked with terrible emotion.-
| Had the rangers followed their own desperate
inclination, they would have hurried recklessly
onward to the work of vengeance but the ex-
| example of their leader, who had regained his
usual calmEess aud Self-command, prepared
them for less speedy, but more certain tri-
umph Cautiously passing over the fearful OBJ
stacle in the pathway, and closely followed by
| his companions, he advanced stealthily and eau
tiously upon the light, hiding himself and his
party as much as possible behind the thick
| trees. Tn few moments they obtained full
view of the object of their search. Stretched
at their length around a huge fire, but at a
convenient distance from it, lay the painted
and half-naked forms of twenty savagcs. II
was evident from their appearance, THAT they
had passed the day in one of their hot Did rCyclS,
| and that they were now suffering under the
effects OF intoxication. Occasionally, a grim
warrior among them started half upright, grasp
ing his tonahawk, as if to combat some vision
of his disordercd brain, but, unable to shake of
the stupor from his senses, uniformly fell back
into his former position
The rangers crept nearer. As they bent
their keen eyes along their wGll-tried rifles,
each felt perfectly sure of his aim. They
waited for the signal of Harmon, who was en-
deavoring to bring his long musket to bear