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BABA SY’RA’S QUEST,
“TALES OF TEN TRAVELERS’’* SERIES.
By EDGAR L. WAKEMAN.
•(Copyright. 1894. A1 rights reserved.)
Just within the western boundaries of
the noble old city of Philadelphia winds
the lovely Wissahickon, fairest and most
entrancing stream yet undefiled by man.
Retaining its Indian name of Wisauck
■ickan, or the yellow-colored stream, it
has its source miles away among the fer
tile Dutch meadows and witching hills of
Bucks and Montgomery counties. It
springs from a region full of
quaint superstitions, and every rivulet
feeding it or homestead or hamlet it
passes, furnishes an added fancy, legend
or weird old tale; until, - reaching the
gorge through which for twelve miles it
winds in fantastic abandon before empty
ing into the Schuylkill, it becomes a very
witch nest of phantasm, hobgoblin and
myth.
For seven or eight miles above its
mouth the channel is strangely tortuous
between banks of rocks of mica, schist,
rising in every imaginable fantastic form
to picturesque and noble hights. These
banks are bewilderingly multiform,
clothed in the rarest and most varied
foliage, while ascending and crowning the
hights on either side are the noblest of
American forest trees ranging singularly
from the magnolia to the cedar and the
oak, ever set in majestic beauty within
the same narrow confines. Scarcely more
than rivulet as it .enters the gorge, the
stream increases in volume from upland
to the last deep pool where the Schuyl
kill gulps it down at a swallow, and
stream and bank, shadow and shine, rock
and forest, water below and sky above,
blend in one matchless and perfect dream
of rest.
There is not a spot upon which you may
stand your feet, place your hand or rest
your eye which does not throb and pulse
back to your own instantly-accorded sym
pathy. The sense of genial solitude and
of loving restfulness is almost startling.
It is as a soothing dream set in a stillness
so calm and hushed that it is palpably
felt. At the very spot where the entrance
to this wonderland shudderingly faces the
crowded avenues to the great city, and
shrinks aghast at the thunderlncs of the
flaming forges along the Schuylkill, a few
rods only will bring you to such solitude
that the sound of your own voice seems a
desecration. Here reaches a long, lake
like tarn, rippleless, dark as ebon, but
shining like burnished silver. Beyond,
there is a wall of green and bloom. This
seems all—all but silence. Breaking the
spell, you come to this wall of green and
bloom to find an abrupt winding of the
channel; and here in a gleaming circle,
like the fluttering wings of myriad pois
ing buttertlies.lhe stream is whisperingly
breaking away from another tarn above,
but so softly that all is-silent still.
Then another deep pool on whose sur
face the overarching trees rim dark shhd
©ws like black onyx fringing a bed of
sapphire where is mirrored the blue sky
above. This voiceless spot, mayhap, is
fed by swiftly speeding water, level and
even for a little, by a thread of trembling
flashings where all the elfins’ son vs
are sung, or by a fleecy cascade white
and spumy as a shower of thistledown;
but there is never tumult nor turbulence
here.
Again appears a little lake, or a wide
swirl of waters where the spiritsof the
stream seem in wild bacchanalian chase
in some gleaming cauldron; but the
mirth, or witchery, or sprite-madness is
in a wild turmoil revealed only in a shim
mer and glint and motion. Lake or tarn
again and acain, open and white to the
sky. or folded in gloaming-like shadows;
century-old dam where the moss is al
most blended with the rocks and the out
reaching roots of great trees; rivulets
trickling down from countless springs, or
shadowy creeks creeping into the greater
stream through legend-haunted gorges;
tiny waterfalls where the sunshine filter
ing through the tree branches darts and
quivers over mottled splashes of shade;
whirling eddy where leaf of tree or
feather of passim? bird is dancing lively
minuet to ceaseless rhvthm of unheard
tune: murmurous shallows in beauteous
windings for gleaming distances, but hes
itant and soft as a whispered lullaby
rhyme; deep and dark backwater, where
the rounded rocks point straight to
heaven; stealthy outlets where the
waters sinuously wave in and out around
the polished bases of great boulders, like
tbreadsof silver gleaming through some
jagged armor; covert channels winding
through stolen passages beneath over
hanging ledges, as if the waters huddled
together for sedition ; feathery cascades
where the mists of the clouds are again
resolved to mist and swirl into humid,
soundless fleeciness below—each and all,
in all places, forms, moods, are to this
enchanted stream as if the gentle spirit
of the place, which shall forever soothe
and solace, must reveal itself to the
human soul alone in endless and unceas
ing expression of unobtrusive beauty and
surpassing tenderness.
The Gipsies, born nature-lovers that
they are. are ever hovering near. It is
their Arcady of delight. The camp-fires
are seldom dim among the little glens
and hollows above the w issahickon gorge,
the long, bright summer through. The
city and its dickering are near. The
farms and their dukkering are close at
hand; and beside them is the melodious
stream which for very love they have
come to call, in their secret Romany
tongue, ’‘suttur-gillie coro,” or the dear,
sweet sleep-song dell.
On a Juno mjruing not many years
ago, the going of Baba Sy’ra from out a
Wissahickon gipsy camp was so sad a
thing to these tawny folk of the tent and
the road that all the place was hushed
and still.
Baba Sy’ra was only a feeble old Gipsy
woman; so old that her own name of
Syreira Stanley had not been heard ih
camp for years; so old that the Gipsy
•word for great-great aunt, and old, old
mother, baba, had long since obliterated
her own; so old that Griselda, her only
child that had lived, was born when Baba
Sy’ra was still an agea woman, as Gipsies
measure age; so old that twenty years
had already gone since tJriselda, a full
grown lass, had left this very camp spot
never to return, and the old soul's quest
began, and all had called her “Baba
Sy’ra’’ long before.
But the olden mystic fires
had burned with deadly hatred
then. Griselda had ' forsworn
her race. She had come and gone be
tween the camp-side and the great city at
will. Those w.ho seek the souls of
heathen, if kindred and neighbors be lost,
hau planted in one Gipsy heart the spirit
ual seeds of endless unrest. Griselda had
come to Baba Sy’ru, Bible in hand, and
besought her to forsake the tent and the
road; to lead thegorgio (non-Gipsy) mer
ripen or life: to come with her into the
peace of Christian paths and ways. The
old woman beard her to the end with
panting breast and glittering eyes.
"Go! Ye are no cliauvie o’ mine. The
curse o’ all Romany folk go wi’ ye!”
So answered Baba Sy ra, and Griselda
went away. They burned her littlocloth
ingand gewgaws, as Gipsies at burials do;
mourned her loss tenderly for Baba
Sy’ra’s sake, as for one dead; and for a
time her name was said no more.
The Gipsy mother’s heart throbs like
them all: and soon old 3aba Sy’ra lin
gered by coming and going Gipsy bands,
scanning their members’ faces with almost
savage eagerness; listened furtively to
gossip of the road with uever-sated
hunger, plied all arts of spue-wife craft
and cunning on those who idly came;
until her lost child's name was ever on her
trembling tongue.
“ fell her, if ye come up wi’ her." the
desolate soul would say with husky voice
and averted head, "as bus doan't claim
her in law nor in force; but as hus do
yearn after her by night an'b.y day, by
near an’ by far, an’ how hus jess wants
her homewise an’ kindly wi’ hus as is her
own, jess—jess w’ensohever she likes!”
E’or nearly twenty years this piteous
plaint had quavered from the old Gi Day’s
withered lips. But now that the band
were again at the Wissahickon camp, a
sudden and great strength of purpose had
come to Baba Sy“ra. Bob, the grinder;
had bellowingly argued against it. Zeph.
the chief, had kindly and firmly dis
suaded. All the raunies and racklies had
crowded about her tent, and, womanlike,
nad urged in garrulous and tearful teu
derness the dangers of her quest. Even
shock-headed Ephe, Griselda’s Gipsy
lover of old, and true to his younger day
dream through all these years, had said
it must not be.
But nothing could dissuade or dis
hearten her. Her tottering limbs seemed
to have regained the strength of youth,
and a strange light had come into her
pinched old face that filled the Gipsies
about her with something akin to awe.
I-ong into the previous nioht the men
sat smoking their pipes by the camp-fire,
consulting hopelessly.
“She has na long to live. Huss might
tell her what huss knowssuggested
Ephe despairingly.
“She'd jaw the drom (take the road)
sartin,” said the chief slowly shaking his
head.
“Or ne’er speak to hus agin. ’Twould
be th’killin’o’ her belikes;” responded
Ephe.
“Hi tells ye,” insisted Bob vehemently,
“th" the baba mort's a bit range i’ her
’ead (the granmother is a bit wild in her
head). ’Owsumdever all believes, Hi
says gi’ the’ poor body her own foolish
ment.”
“She be a rawnikie dicking gueri (a
lady-like looking woman), an’ she’d coom
to no harm peerdein’ (roaming) ’round oi’
Philadelphy fur Griselda a bit;” sug
gested the chief, thoughtfully. “An’
hus’ll bide about’ere till wen (winter).
Hus might git th’ little mukto-tan
literally box tent; cottage;) by th’ bridge
fur she?”
“Paracrow tutel paracrow tute! (I
thank you gratefully)” exclaimed Ephe,
grasping the chief’s hand warmly. “Hi’ll
go now ’an dicker for it against th’ morn.”
With this Ephe hurried away over the
hill road to Manayunk, the pretty village
hard by the Wissahickon bridge, where
the highway from the (great Dutch farms
of Central Pennsylvania winds broad and
white to Philadelphia's olden market
hdndes and squares; and after a little
whispering and noddings of approval and
delight between the chief, Bob and a few
of the older women of the band, the fires
were banked, and the Gipsies, taking one
by one a parting peap at Baba Sy’ra’s
face, as peaceful now as a child's in slum
ber, crept softly to the hooded tents for
the night.
So when the morning came old Baba
Sy ra rose sprightly as a girl, placed
some coin and Griselda's picture in her
bosom, parted tenderly with all her Gipsy
kin, and stepped lightly down the path
leading from the camp to the sun
splatched river road below.
She had hardly disappeared withi* the
glen, when half a score of Gipsy men and
women, carrying all manner of camp be
longings, and with loyal Ephe at their
head, set out in .the same direction along
the road above. Only a few old spae
wives, the romping chauvies and a horde
of those strange sentinels of the Gipsy
camp, the grizzled, gaunt and voiceless
Gipsy dogs, remained.
Gue of the latter, “Old Boze,” battle
scarred aud grim, seemed sorely worried
and perplexed. He ran a little way
toward the departing Gipsies, halted and
looked long and wistfully after them,
and trotted back to camp. Sniffing about
the vacant tent of Baba Sy’ra. Boze
whirled his head around and around with
open mouth and whining, gurglings of
grief and dolor. Then circling the camp
with furtive looks, as is about to commit
unwarranted treachery or savage foray,
he suddenly shot along the river path,
halted, raised his head and peered tremb
lingly toward the ro.ystering Gipsy chil
dren sporting at the camp edge above, and
then, with drooping tail and lowered nose,
glided swiftly, with weaving, searching
motion, to Baba Sy’ra’s side.
Boze looked into the older pilgrim's uj>-
turned, lighttui face, licked her withered
hand, tugged at her fluttering gown,
stopped her, retired a few paces, sat upon
Ills haunches, beating a tattoo with his
tail upon the ground, and plainly said
with ioiling tongue, half closed eyes, aud
wagging head,
"Now Baba Sy’ra, we’ll go back to camp
together!”
The old woman understood the brute's
affectionate piautomine instantly, but
seemed as if hesitating a moment in
thought. Then she sternly ordered the
doe to camp. Boze would not go. He
sidled about her, sprang away as she
shook her stick at him, always returning
in an instant as Baba Sy’ra resumed her
way. E’inally the old woman turned and
looked at him with a smile. Born wagged
his tail furiously. Then she said kindly,
“Coom Tong; coom ’long, Boze. VVe'll
find Griselda t’gether!”
With a boumi tho faithful animal was
at her side, crowding his head against her
feeble limbs, as if loyally offering her that
promise of support; aud thus, old Baba
Sy’ra’s hand resting upon the dog's
stoutly poised head, the two battered old
lives, each firm in a determination that
held them close to the end, passed down
the enchanting valley path beside the
Wissahickon stream upon their quest to
gether.
To tha most Ignorant and darkened
heart, to the sorest aud most desperate
soul.light and elation instantly come with
fixed resolve. Now that the pathetic
second childhood of this old benighted
pilgrim was illuminated by her supreme
determination to find her only child, the
poor old heathen heart glowed with a joy
as blissful as could fill the very realiza
tion of her passionate dream.
In blessed sympathy the throbbing
iiearo of nature there gave back
this joy, babbling to her in tongues
she had never until then heard; disclos
ing and revealing in unfound tints and
dyes; and laughing and carolling in
myriad seemings and songs as had never
come to other Gipsy ken.
It was as though tho olden Pilgrim’s
load had loosened and rolled away among
the shadows of the long, hard stony way
behind.
With some swift instinct of recognition
she saw and smiled to the saucy squirrel
darting like flash and flame from limb to
limb above her head; the little “ground
hackle” chattering a welcome as it leaped
across her path like a beribboned pigmy
knight; and the solemn faced rabbit wait
ing ujion his haunches in ludicrous deco
rum as she passed.
And how her old-young heart thrilled
at all the birds she loved and knew; the
sand-piper, the heron, tho black-bird, the
robin, the thrush, the peewee. the lark,
the red-bird, the song-sparrow, tho this
tle-finch, the blue-bird and the wood
pecker with his cheery, drowsy tattoo;
masters without an opus, orchestras with
out pijies, singers without words, but
gathered here this radiant morning in
this witching Wissahickon vale to greet
THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 1894.
Baba Sy'ra as she went her way; and
touching her dim old consciousness with
such ravishing numbers upon oboe and
flute, piccolo and pipe, lyre and lute,
tuned in low and loving key, that the ten
der companionship she already felt was
told again in liquid cadences blended in
cote of bird, in whispering breeze, in voice
of stream; all as never came to mortal
ears before!
Like many a one not of Gipsy blood be
fore her time and since, she could thus
have ever wandered on. But at last the
highway was reached where the rum
bling of the wagons rolling countryward
and cityward and the thundering of the
forges along the Schuylkill, dispelled the
brief enchantment in a happy Gipsy sur
prise.
As the climbed the liitle hillock from
the glen to the highway, the imperative
whining and taii-wagging of Boze drew
her eyes to a huddled group of Gipsies at
the wayside copse. They stood there
sheepishly grinning and beckoning to her,
and she went to them wonderingly.
Zeph, the chief, taking her arm sooth
ingly in his own, as the women with Bob
and Ephe crowded about them and they
all moved slowly around the wooded turn
of the road, first spoke.
“Hus thought as rou might like a little
mukto-tan o’ yer own, Baba;” he said en
dearingly.
“Jess all by yoursel' w’en ye cooms an’
goes;’’ assuredly added on the women.
“Spick an’ span, tidy an' purtyheart
ily piped in another dame.
“Ye gits th’ sun by day an’ moou by
night, right in yer tent door—l mean, yer
front winder; jess th’ same as wi’ hus on
th’ road, mother,” cheerily chirped
another.
An’ a brave bit o’ grass be i’ th’ yard,
an’ a siller poplar rustles an’ gills (sings)
agin t'other winder;” Ephe radiantly re
membered.
But it remained for Bob alone to bellow
the heart challenge rightly.
“Ay, ay. mother dear,” he blurted with
something like tears in his kindly eyes,
"hits all jess for you an’—an’ Griselda,
w n ye finds the raeklie lass;”
Until this moment Baba Sy’ra had
seemed dazed and troubled by the loving
demonstration. Bob had flashed enough
of its meaning to her in an instant. They
were entering the little roadside cottage
now, tiny enough indeed for this one lone
life of little needs, but fresh and clean
and blight as Gipsy hands could make it;
with the dear old kettle-stick of the
camp set snugly beside the fireplace, its
hanging pot already singing above a
cheery blaze; a hooded tent,
freshly spread with straw
and leaves. fixed open-mouthed
bofore it; a pile of Gipsy-wrought baskets
tumbled in a corner; a great rocking
chir between the kettle-stick and the
tent; and all about the brick floor of the
qauint little room scattered here and there
were objects of familiarity and affection
at least to Gipsy life and eyes. But the
tenderest conjuring of all, was those
words of tinker Bob. for they held the
blessed promise clear to all these loving
aids to Baba Sy’ra’s quest.
“My dearie Dubblesky! (for the dear
Lord’s sake!”) she exultantly quavered
at last. “Yes, yes, yes. Jess for me and
Griselda, w’en she comes!”
Then she fell tp kissing all the band,
and rocking herself to and fro in a gentle
delirium of happiness. while these incor
rigible heathen of the road fluttered
about her, much as men and women of
the Christian race might do when moved
to laughter and to tears.
A few days later frequenters of one of
Philadelphia's ancient and picturesque
market-houses noticed an odd little old
woman with turbaned white head, crouch
ing upon the outer pavement among the
sellers of flowers and herbs.
She nodded, smiled and crooned to all
who spoxe to her, and to all of kindly
tone and face who paused to examine or
buy her dainty baskets for spice and
thread, her tiny cages or her little
bunches of wild herbs, she would quaver
ingly ask, “Have ye seen Griselda th’
morn?” Or she would say with a nod of
seeming confidence as though all were
quite well understood between herself
and tho purchaser, “Tell Griselda I’m
waitin’ ’ere!”
Tne strapping, red-faced, huge-framed,
brawling market women about her was at
first a subject for merry jests. These
not disturbing the piteous, cheery calm of
the strange old face, they fell a wonder
ing and querying who she was and whence
she came. Her only answer was,
"I’m Baba Sy’ra, Griselda's mother.
Griselda’s lost, th’ dearie: Ay, ay, these
twenty yqar ; but she’ll coom. I knows
she’ll coom!”
Then the hard harridans would shout
with laughter, aud she would childishly
laugh with them, until the puzzled market
women would whisper together and know
ingly tap their frowsy heads. In time
they became, in their rough way, very
gentle to her: called her “Basket Baba,”
“Gipsy Greens,” and “Griselda’s Sy’ra,”
which name she loved best, not in re
proach or petulence, but because they
must have a cant name for all they knew,
and with something now of tho modula
tion of womanly friendliness in their
tones, while, bless the rough hearts
within these brawny frames! they came
to making a snug place for the lorn
woman among them, and when the drip
ping fogs flapped ghostily from the Del
aware, or the storms pelted them under
cover from the street edge, they often sat
close about lior aud sheltered her as best
they could.
In the meantime Boze, mangy, gaunt
and grizzled Bo :e, fared worse in his ear
lier contact with city life. Nothing
could persuade him to return from the
cottage to the Wissahickon camp. He
followed Baba Sy’ra gingerly to the
thick of tho town and here for a time,
true Gipsy that he was, ho loitered and
dodged and skulked. Hours after his
mistress was buried from sight among
the busy market throngs, he would ap
pear trembling and panting beside her to
crawl beneath the folds of her shawl or
gown Then same impatient foot would
find him out, and with piteous, screech
ing yelp and smothered howl, the terri
fied brute, assailed by thumping vegeta
bles. clubbed with carters' staves or cut
by greengrocer’s stinging whips would fly
the hated town, crawling into wayside
hedge to lick his hurts and await Baba
Sy’ra's coming, when he would joyfully
leap about her all the way to their little
cottage home. But by and by Boze won
his place among the hustling market
crowds. “Basket Baba's Boze,” he was
called at last; and his steadfastness and
loyalty to Baba Sy’ra and her quest
brought their reward in toothsome bits of
meant now frequently tossed to his griz
zled maw from friendly butchers’ staus.
As the pitiful quest went oq, back at
the cottage and the camp these heathen
Gipsy lives, untouched by exalted Gentile
wisdom and untainted by that higher
civilization's cunning which so often dex
trously makes of apparent sacrifice a sub
tle means of gain, were almost wholly de
voted to the 'loving toil of lessening the
bitter hours of Baba Syra’s remaining
days. They knew that ween by week her
strength grew less and less. They knew
her feeble limbs could hold out but little
longer. They had known for mauy years
that which, but once spoken, wouldhave
instantly forever dimmed the fast-con
suming fires of hope and left the quiver
ing pulses still.
Ephe made the dainty willow baskets
and cages which she sold. Bob wrought
at his rude forge quaint trinkets, too.
Chief Zeph, who was skilled in wood
craft, lured wild song-birds from the Wis
sahickou glen to her little cages; while
all the women of the camp gathered and
tied the bunches of cress, tausy, mint,
spearmint aud sourgrass, which not only
made her welcome at the market place
but gave this hungering life kindly ex
cuse for wandering from door to 'door;
where her dim old eyes scanned every
likely lass in almost savage eagerness.
Even as the winter came, the band's an
nual pilgrimiug in sunnier iunds was
abandoned. They became the, to the
true Gipsies of the tent and the road, con
temptible kair rajahs, “house lords.” or
dwellers in habitations, alongside Baba
Sy’ra s cottage. When the long evenings
came they gathered, as many as could, in
her little room, cheering her hours with
tales of the road, of Gipsv adventure, and
in bellowing olden Gipsy ballads like.
Jaw the drom itake the roadi Gipsy friend;
Jaw the drom:
May good hours with thee attend—
On the moor among the heather,
In the hedge a' snug together.
In the tents wi a' a tether.
Come each day but sunny weather,
On the drom—
or—
The night ha' come, the stars are out.
'I he camp-flves twinkle in' th' hedge;
But sure as I'm a Gipsy lout
If hobtiles sneak this camp about.
The stones will rattle from the ledge.
An' heads will break, my word I pledge—
My word I pledge, my word I pledge!
or again that roaring Gipsy tinker s song—
I work in brass and dicker, too.
With canny yak (eye) and busy vastic
(hand i;
“Chor, Chor!” (thief) they cry, and strike
me, too;
But when the rat (night) murks o'er the
blue.
I'll have a cannie (hen), maybe, two.
For half a dozen hungry chauvies (chil
dren);
An’ then the tent an’ my own rannie
(wife)!—
while belated Dutch farmers drowsily re
turning to the outlaying farms, startled
at the unseemingly clamor and recalling
the olden hobgoblin revelries of the
Wissahickon glen, would lash their
stocky horses into ambling speed until
their upland homes were safely gained.
As the winter closed in upon the city
and region roundabout, Baba Sy’ra's
quest began to wane from her darkening
mind ana lessening powers. Days would
elapse without Baba and Boze being seen
at the market; and even when they came,
the women noticed that old S.v’ra seldem
spoke. Then they would settle her down
in a corner where the biting wind could
not reach her; gather sacks and h orse-rugs
about her; sell the trifles which she
brought; and as the bustle of the day was
done, press the little money they had
gained into her withered hand and start
her homeward with sharp orders to Boze
to mind his mistress closely: the while
purring pleadings to the wrecked old life
to bide at home until the summer came
and with it, they would kindly whisper in
her eager ear, Griselda and the flowers.
One bitter November evening found the
two old pilgrims, while on their home
ward way from the market, standing gaz
ing into the window of a basement cot
tage, whose little brass door-plate bore
the legend, “City Missionary,” alongside
a tumble-down, desolate mission chapel in
the oldest quarter of the city. A com
fortable-looking man sat inside of the cot
tage window munching an apple and con
tentedly humming a psalm. Accustomed
as he was to contact with every pitiable
form and expression of forlorn human
life, the intensity of the old woman's gaze
disturbed him. He stepped to the door
and asked her kindly enough, but in that
perfunctory way long association with
the lowly often gives.
“Well, mother, what's wanting ?”
"1 jess wants Griselda.’’
The missionary put his head outside the
door, and carried on a brief conversation
with a querulous tired voice; perhaps the
voice of a wife who longed more for a
peaceful home on earth than the promise
of palm-shaded palaces beyond the hori
zon of human needs.
“Never but one Griselda known about
here,” he at last answered. “Better run
home, mother. Shouldn't be out. Bad
night coming on. sure. Our Griselda was
on the books a long time ago. Died nigh
twenty years since. Lovely death!
Leaned on the strong Arm to the last.
Hope you lesn on tlje strong Arm, too,
mother? But our Griselda was white:”
he concluded shiveringly, getting inside
the door, and glaucing at the wrinkled,
tawny face above him. “Couldn’t been
yours. Run along home, now; there's a
good woman. Good night.”
He could not nave seen the tottering
human clutch at the area railing for sup
port, nor have heard the dog’s disconso
late whine, or he would not have so soon
resumed his apple and his psalm: but the
lights that were beginning to twinkle in
rows upon the city streets whirled round
and round her as she staggered away,
mooning and muttering:
“No, no, no! —the one as died wus
white; was Gorgio, Boze! Couldn’t a’
been our Griselda. Boze; couldn't a’ been
ours; no, no, no!”
So she muttered on while Boze com
forted as best he could, as they trudged
and tottered out past the darkening places
of trade; out past the brightening regions
of home; out along the wide, white
countyward road, now whiter still for the
gently falling snow.
They could almost see the light Ephe
always placed in their window against
their coming when they had reached the
great cemetery along the Schuylkill on
the city side of the Wissahickon. Its
iron gates had been heedlessly left ajar.
Clutching one with either skinny hand
Baba Sy’ra peered within. Her gipsy
nature, ever abhorrent of the place of
graves, must surely have met with some
marvelous transformation now. Boze
tugged at her gown and whined piteously
for her to come away: but Baba Sy’ra
only leaned forward and forward gazing
into the white, hushed forest of head
stones unheedingly. Wondrous the life
mystery that ever calls us to our own!
Wondrous and inscrutable that higher
mystery which in an instant makes clear
and true and shining as the sun the open
portals to the Light ineffable 1 Wondrous
still the calm, the rest, the gentle nature
call which lured this broken life from the
highway among the white and peaceful
grave!
For suddenly with a cry of unutterable
delight Baba Sy'ra’s quest took heart
again. Springing within the enclosure at
a bound, her skirts dragging after her the
faithful dog. the old woman closed the
gates as if with the joyous strength of
youth; and as the clang of the iron shut
behind the brave old Gipsy mother-heart
the dolor of her life, she turned with the
face of radiant pilgrim come again to old
home scenes, to fields of green and to bab
bling streams, and wandered on and on
beneath the falling snow.
Wild was the early winter night around
the Wissahickon glen. The light that
Ephe had set in the little cottage window
burned bravely until morn. When they
found old Baba Sy’ra, her quest .was
ended. She lay wi’h peaceful face upon
a little mound of earth in the great ceme
tery beside the broad Schuylkill, half
shrouded with the driven snow; and Boze,
stark and cold beside her, had one loving
paw across her shriveled neck, as if to
give the dead thing succor to the last.
As they brushed the snow from the tiny
headstone where they lay. those of the
Gipsies who could read at all again read
what Ephe had read a thousand times,
with breaking heart, before; three sim
ple lines that disclosed the sublimity
of their own tender forbearance, and told
the piteous hopelessness of the quest now
done:
GRISELDA.
Born In the darkness;
Entered into the light.
New Editor—l thought you were a
practical printer?
Old Compositor—l am.
New EJditor—You’ve set up interroga
tion points where there ought to be
periods.
Old Compositor—But I thought all
your statements were questionable.—
Life.
Marus Tokal, the Hungarian' novelist, has
been In turn lawyer, banker, teacher, editor
and soldier. Between times be must have run
arapid transit pen, lor he has published over
200 books.
AN INDIAN TRADITION.
A Talle of Love, Treachery and Ven
geance Heretofore Unpublished.
Copyright. 1894.
A hundred years ago the immense des
erts extending from the declivity of the
Rocky mountains to Red River were peo
pled by numerous barbarous tribes, al
ways at war with one another.
The following is a little story related
by an old missionary who passed thirty
years in the midst of these Indians of the
north west.
One day, toward the end of the month
of July, 18—, while the Blackfeet were
at war with the Crow tribes, and each
was watching to surprise the other, fifty
of the latter were scattered over the
prairie gathering wild berries. Not sus
pecting the presence of their enemies in
the neighborhood they had dispersed
themselves here and there, without any
anxiety, in the places where the fruit
most abounded. Their horses were fast
ened to trees, and the women, furnished
with kettles, hurried with the fruit to
the carts as soon as their vessels were
filled.
They had been occupied about an hour
at this work when suddenly a troop of
armed horsemen appeared in the distance.
The Crows were not long in ascertaining
that they were Blackfeet coming to sur
prise and massacre them.
There was not a moment to lose. They
left everything on the prairie which would
impede their flight—fruit, jars and all
werd left for tho enemy; they thought
only of saving their lives.
A young chief of this tribe, who had
been married but a few months, had
brought his wife with him. At the first
cry of alarm he took her up in his arms
and placed her on horseback behind him.
In the general scare each one took his own
course to escape from the enemy.
After going some miles the young chief's
horse, tired with the weight of his double
burden, began to slacken his pace. His
rider did his best to urge him on, but in
spite of his efforts he realized that the
Blackfeet were perceptibly gaining
ground on him. He saw that he must fall
into their hands if he tried to save his
wife. What then was he to do? Should
he abandon her on the prairie to become
the prey of his enemies or fall with her
rather than basely leave her to her
fate?
Meanwhile the Blackfeet were coining.
“I am going to place you on the
ground,” said he to his wife. “lam aware
that you will be made a prisoner, but
they will not kill you; it would be other
wise with me. You know the sort of
death awaiting me if they seize me.
Alone with my horse I have a better
chance to escape and reach my camp.
Once restored to my own people I will
raise a party of warriors and we will go
forth to rescue you from the camp of the
Blackfeet. In four or five days you shall
be set free.”
Saying this, be removed his wife from
the horse and put her down on the grass.
The horse, relieved of half his burden,
resumed his course more swiftly, and the
young Crow found himself beyond the
reach of his enemies. Meanwhile his
wife, captured by a Blackfoot, was con
ducted into the enemy's camp to be given
as a present to the chief of tne tribe.
Toward 3 o’clock in the afternoon all
who had escaped from the Blackfeet ar
rived in the Crow camp and related how
they had avoided their murderous toma
hawks and arrows.
The young chief in particular, who had
only deserted his wife because he was
certain that they would not kill her and
that he could deliver her, endeavored by
his recital to gain their sympathy and
urged his friends to join him in wbeaking
vengeance upon those who had attacked
them so treacherously.
Immediately thirty young warriors,
who burned with a desire to display their
bravery' by doing a deed worthy of praise
from the old men of the tribe, pressed
around him. The war whoop resounded,
and that very evening the avengers went
in pursuit of the Blackfeet under cover
of the night. They encamped on the
banks of the Souris river. It was there,
at daybreak, the Crow chief and his fol
lowers discovered them. At some dis
tance from the camp there was a densely
wooded thicket, where thirty men could
.easily hide themselves. They directed
•their course toward this place and there
held counsel.
The chief decided that his companions
should wait in this coppice while he went
to the bank of the river hard-by the
camp of the Blackfeet, where he hoped
in the dim light of the dawn to discover
some trace of his wife. On the bank of
the river he sat down behind a bush and
’■waited till the women came in the morn
ing with their kettles to draw water. He
hoped to see his wife go down to the river
with the others and to have an opportun
ely to release her and return to his war
riors before the day commenced.
He had been in this place for some min
utes, when he perceived the women going
down to the river. Unseen, he scanned
those who passed by, hoping to discover
his own. He was beginning to despair,
when he saw one coming alone at some
distance from the others. That one was
his wife. He let her pass, and go as far
as the river, so as to make certain that he
did not deceive himself. As she returned
he left his hiding place and stood before
her. Great was the surprise of this
woman at the sight of her husband. He
did not give her any time to question him.
•‘Your parents,’, said he to her. "are here
with me, at a little distance on the prai
rie. I have only just left them in order to
come and rescue you from your enemies.
Let us save ourselves before the camp
awakes, and rejoin our own people.”
“No.” she replied, ‘‘l will not set out
now. I must steal something from those
who made me a prisoner. Keturn ui your
warriors, and when night time has ar
rived I will escape from the ‘Blackfeet’s’
camp and rejoin you.” In spiteof the
chief’s entreaties, she would not consent
to follow him then.
He thereupon hastened away to await
with his own people the time when his
wife would leave the camp.
The plan of this woman, was not to
rejoin her husband. She regarded his de
sertion of her as an insult, and she had
sworn to be avenged should the opportu
nity offer. On perceiving her husband,
in the morning, she had disguised her
hatred and the delay which she asked
was simply a pretext to give her time to
prepare the means of vengeance against
him.
She left the river, with her kettle filled
with water, and thoughtfully bent her
course toward the lodge of the chief of
the Blackfeet.
As soon as she had deposited her ves
sel, she covered her head with her
blanket and, assuming a mysterious air
she sat down aside, as if greatly pre-oc
cupied with some extraordinary secret.
To the questions of those who passed by
her, she gave no reply, and preserved ab
solute silence.
The chief, believing that she was ill or
lamented her captivity, wished to con
sole her and inquired the cause of her
sadness.
“1 had a curious dream last night,”
said she. “I saw my spirit, and it re
vealed to me a great thing. You shall see
if it has deceived me. This is what it
showed me. Some miles from this camp,
in the thicket which you see yonder, there
are thirty warriors of the Crows’ tribe,
who have been hiding since yesterday.
They are waiting for a favorable oppor
tunity to surprise and massacre us.
“Go and take them by surprise, in suf
ficient numbers, so that none of them es
cape. In order to accomplish this hasten
to surround the wood on all sides Kill
all these warriors except the chief, whom
you will bring to the camp, as I have
something to say to him.”
Indians, it is known, have ultimate
faith in dreams, they are revelations to
them. Nothing more was wanted to set
the camp astir.
In no time all the warriors were assem
bled aronnd their chief.
Meantime the woman’s parents and
friends were waiting impatiently, but
without anxiety.
The Blackfeet glided along, like snakes
in the grass, and soon surrounded the
wood where the Crows wereohidden. At
the given signal they were to jump up
and run in the direction of the woo and,
while uttering their war-whoops.
At the first cry uttered by the Black
feet chief a circle of men seemed to start
up out of the ground, and it was im
possible for the Crows to leave
their hiding place. They perceived
that* they were betrayed, and that
nothing more remained for them than to
sell their lives dearly. They made heroic
efforts to open a path through the ranks
of their enemies, but the Blackfeet, six
times more numerous, killed them all,
with the exception of the chief, whom
they succeeded in taking alive, as his
wife had directed. Him they tied to a
post to await whatever torture the council
decided to inflict upon him the following
day.
His wife, to insult him in his misfor
tune. sat down in front of him.
Although it is the custom of the In
dians to suffer stoically and preserve
silence when condemned to death, this
one could not resist reproaching his wife
for her base treachery.
“What!” said he, “do yon still dare to
look at me, monster in human shape,
when you have just caused all your fam
ily to be massacred! Your brothers and
mine have exposed their lives to come
and deliver you from captivity, and you
have treacherously betrayed them. You
shall not long enjoy your vengeance. The
Great Spirit shall cause to fall on you
the punishment your crime merits.”
The chief of the Blackfeet. not under
standing the language of the Crows, asaed
the woman what the prisoner was saying
to her.
"He demands that you cause him to
suffer a good deal in order to put his cour
age to the proof before all the camp, and
for that purpose he wishes you to pour
boiling water over his head.”
The Biackfoot was somewhat aston
ished at such a request; however, he
hastened to carry out the supjxised de
sire of the prisoner, believing that this
boasting was done with the design of in
sulting him, so he took a kettle of boiling
water and poured it slowly on the head of
his victim.
"He is satisfied,” the prisoner’s wife
said to the Biackfoot; “oontinue to water
him; he says that you do him good.”
When she thought the scalding which
he had received would inevitably cause
death she said to the chief ofnthe Black
feet: “Now he desires that you leave him
tied to this post to die of hunger.”
“As he wishes it,” replied the chief.
“We are going to move the camp for fear
that your people may come to search fot
those whom we have massacred, so we
will leave the prisoner at this post to die
of hunger, according to his desire.”
At the same time he ordered his tribe
to go on the march.
There was an old woman in the camp of
the Blackfeet that was rejected by the
others. She had a small lodge all to her
self, and when the others stopped at any
place she pitched her tent at some dis
tance from the camp. She took pity tin
the prisoner, and when she saw the camp
set out she herself folded up her little
tent of hide and went forth slowly behind
the rest. As they did not appear to
trouble themselves about her she retraced
her steps. Without being observed by
any of her people she cut the bands which
bound the prisoner to the post. She also
gave him a knife, a little food, and a
piece of linen to cover his head. So soon
as the prisoner saw himself free he set
out, notwithstanding his scalding burns,
to regain the dwellings of his own people.
Weakened by suffering, it took him three
days to reach the camp of the Crows,
where they were anxiously awaiting the
return of their warrior.
To make a deep impression on his people
he did not enter their camp immediately,
but remained at some distance uttering
groans. Then, seating himself on the
ground, he tearfully related the sad fate
of his warriors, brought about by the in
famous treachery of his wife.
At this news a cry of rage escaped the
tribe, and the entire camp swore to take
signal vengeance on the woman who had
thus betrayed them.
Early the following day all the men
among the Crows capable of fighting were
en route to overtake the Blackfeet.
The latter had prudently pitched camp
three days’ distance from where they had
left their prisoner, so it was only after
six days’ march that the Crows reached
them. They halted at a sufficient distance,
not to be discovered by their enemies,
and concealed themselves in a large, dry
ravine.
The Crow chief warned his people to do
their best to preserve the life of the old
Indian woman who had taken pity on
him. In regard to his wife, they were
ordered to take her alive if it were pos
sible.
Before going to the assault one of the
chiefs of the expedition desired to visit
the camp in order to discover these two
personages.
At 10 o’clock at night, when the fires
were burning low and the men had gone
into their lodges for the night, he enve
loped himself in a blanket and boldly en
tered the camp of the Blackfeet. He had
no difficulty in recognizing the chiefs
lodge. It was there that he discovered
her whom he was ordered to take alive.
He soon found also the lodge of the good
old woman at the extremity of the camp.
She was seated before a little fire, wrap
ped in her blanket. He approached her
and said : “I take pity on you, you who
have had commiseration on one of our
people. You saved him; well, I intend
likewise to save you. In some minutes
all my people will be here to massacre
this camp. None can escape, for we are
too numerous. If you desire to avoid
death follow me, and I will place you in
safety. Come quickly, for my warrors
are advancing.”
The old Indian woman did not need him
to repeat the invitation.
The Crow chief assisted her to carry
away her little lodge as far as the ravine.
As soon as she was sheltered from dan
ger the Crow chief gave the signal for
the attack. The Blackfeet, buried in
sleep, had not time to seize any arms to
defend themselves. The Crows, relying
upon their numbers, had dispersed them
selves in all parts of the camp so as to fall
upon each lodge simultaneously. The
combat was short, but the massacre gen
eral. Not one of the, Blackfeet saved his
life. The woman alone, who had be
trayed the Crows, fell into their hands
alive.
Now it was their turn for vengence.
This was what the chief decided.
“Collect,” said he, “all the poles of the
lodges to make a wood pile; tie the
hands and feet of the traitress and burn
her!”
The order was carried out. They
burned her in the presence of the war
riors, reproaching her tho while for her
treachery. Then having had their re
venge the Crows’ returned to their camp-
Foster—Old Popleigh dresses much bet
ter than he used to.
E’elton—Yes; his boys are now large
enough for him to wear their cast-off
clothes.—Puck.
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