DOMESTIC GRIEVANCES.

Among the number of our daily visitors, were three old squaws, hideously ugly, and filthy in the extreme. Wrinkle upon wrinkle covered their faces, and layer upon layer of dirt covered the wrinkles. Their long, gray, uncombed hair, hung in thick, matted locks, reaching nearly to their waists; and each of their long skinny arms, with which they coaxingly patted us, resembled in appearance and delicacy the trunk of a grape vine. These old harridans were perfect nuisances. They were constantly lingering about the door of the tent, on the look-out for plunder. They seemed to possess the power of ubiquity; it would have puzzled Argus to keep track of their movements. They were shuffling around all day long, peeping into every hole and cranny. One of them even stole meat from the frying pan, while the black cook turned his head to drive off the other.

Come upon them when we might, they were always sure to greet us with a half-smirking, half-piteous look; but the moment we turned away, they were at their old occupations. They were so constantly at work, that there was some talk of appointing a person whose sole employment should be to keep a keen eye to their movements. They lived at our tent doors, and, for aught we knew to the contrary, might sleep there too; for we left them there in the evenings, and we found them at their posts before sunrise. Indeed, so constant was their presence, that the sight of one of them moving off towards the town was the signal for a general search, as they seldom made their disappearance without taking with them some article which did not belong to them.

They had taken a particular fancy to Jones, the black cook. This unlucky wight was yet young in years, and inexperienced in the ways of the world. He had a fond and foolish heart, and acknowledged that he always felt a sort of sneaking kindness for the other sex. When dwelling upon the subject, he used to open his eyes, until the small speck of a pupil was almost lost in the immense field of white, and exclaim, “I a’nt afeard of no man; but I can’t stand the wimmen.”

To the young urchins who intruded into his domains he was not so indulgent, but kept a keen eye and a long stick for their especial benefit. This, however, only subjected him to ten times more annoyance. They would pull him by the coat tail, or jerk his ragged pantaloons until they worked him up into a passion. Then their greatest delight was to be hunted over the prairie by the Black Bear (the name which he had received among them). He might as well have followed a cloud. They sprang like fawns over the prairie, scarcely appearing to rustle the grass in their flight. They played around him like swallows, until completely exhausted by his own lumbering movements, he was fain to give out, and return unavenged to his occupations. Woe to the unlucky urchin, however, who, having been once guilty, should venture at any subsequent time within his reach! A hearty cuffing would convince him that the memory of the Black Bear was more tenacious than his own, and would warn him in future to keep clear of so dangerous a neighbourhood.

During the whole of our journey from Fort Leavenworth to the Otoe town, Mordecai had kept his fellow-servants in a state of constant tribulation. He gave such bloody accounts of Indians and Indian murders, that they regarded death as almost inevitable; and, I suspect, would have deserted at the first opportunity, had there not been more danger in leaving than in remaining with the party. When, however, we had been received by the Otoes, and the danger was past, Mordecai forgot his tales of terror. He pretended a kind of fellow-feeling for the Otoes. He talked Creek to the old women, who were willing to understand any language, so that they might but remain sufficiently near the tents to get an opportunity of stealing. He regarded the children that hung round with a kind of parental affection, and thoroughly discountenanced the thwackings which Jones so liberally bestowed upon them.

When we were perfectly settled in our camp, the horses which he had driven were turned adrift with the rest. He then took upon himself the duties of cook, transferring to Jones the less honourable employment of cutting wood for fuel. He would stand by the hour, with a red flannel night-cap stuck upon the side of his head; his butcher-knife in one hand, and his arm akimbo, descanting upon the arduousness of the office.

He had a high opinion of his own importance, and made no hesitation in saying that he ranked next to the Commissioner in the estimation of the Indians; that Mr. Ellsworth was respected by the chiefs on account of his having charge of the presents. As for himself, that he was popular among the vagabonds of the village; for they had no hope of presents, and, therefore, were delighted to come in for a share of the tit-bits and choice morsels which it was in his power to distribute while cooking.

Notwithstanding the altered tone of Mordecai, and the cordiality of our reception, there was one individual who remained inveterate in his prejudices against them. This was the French boy Joe: he never spoke of the Indians without some qualifying expression of ill-will. Whenever any thing was stolen, he at once attributed it to them. Frequently, however, his loud vociferation on these occasions caused us strongly to suspect that he was the delinquent, and that this clamour of indignation was raised that he might escape unsuspected.

His sole occupation was to spread the bearskins at night, and remove them in the morning. During the rest of the day he strolled about abusing the Indians, cracking his whip, or hallooing at the stray curs who were skulking around.

“Mordecai,” said he, one day to that worthy, who was standing in the midst of a group of Indians, in his usual stately attitude, with one hand tucked in his side, while the other held a frying pan,—“Mordecai, dere is no good in having dese Ingens around you; dey’m all d——d rascals any how.”

Mordecai gave a self-satisfied smirk, threw a compassionate glance at Joe, then extending his arm with an impressive air, “Joe,” said he, “don’t abuse the Indians; it hurts my feelings—I’m an Indian myself.”

“Yes, a nigger von,” replied Joe, turning upon his heel.

It seems, too, that the Iotan was of the same opinion; for whenever Mordecai spoke of his Indian descent, the old warrior quietly shook his head, remarking, “that he had never seen an Indian with woolly hair.”

It was evident, however, that his contempt was engendered by seeing him perform menial offices; for, like all Indians, he had a great distaste for labour, and respected those only who, like himself, did nothing.