“I have been reading your legends of the old days in the ‘North “It isn’t nearly as interesting an Indian story as the one that Emerson Collins tells, of the time when his mother, as a little girl on the Quinneshockeny, went to the spring for a jug of water, finding a lone Indian sitting there all by himself, looking as if he was in deep thought. As he made no move to molest her, she filled her jug, and then scampered back to the house as fast as she could tote the jug there. “She was a little shy about telling of her strange experience, but finally, when she mentioned the subject, her mother said, ‘maybe the poor fellow was hungry.’ Quickly spreading a ‘piece,’ she hurried back to the spring, but no Indian was to be found, only a few prints of his mocassined feet in the soft earth by the water course. If it hadn’t been for those “It was the last Indian ever heard of on the Quinneshockeny, and he had probably come back to revive old memories of his happy childhood. No, Poplar George was hardly like Emerson Collins’ ‘last Indian,’ as he, my mother averred, was part Indian, part ghost. He was also the last Indian that ever visited the Pucketa, which had been a famous stream in its day for redmen, from the time when old Pucketa, himself, came there to spend his last days, after having been driven out from his former hunting grounds at the head of Lost Creek, which runs into the ‘Blue Juniata’ above Mifflintown. “The principal part of this story revolves around two large trees that used to stand near the Pucketa, one a big tulip or ‘whitewood’ tree, hollow at the butt, so much so that a half grown person could hide in it, and a huge water poplar tree, or ‘cottonwood,’ a rare tree in Pennsylvania, you know, that stood on lower ground directly in line with it, but on the far side of the creek, which ran parallel with the road. It wasn’t much of a road in those days, I’m told, isn’t much of one yet, little better than a cow path, with grass and dandelions growing between the wagon tracks, and worn foot-path on the creek side of it. Many’s the time I’ve gone along that path to and from school, or to fetch the cows. AGED FLAX-SPINNER AT WORK, SUGAR VALLEY “In my boyhood there were two big stumps which always arrested my attention, the stumps of the ‘cottonwood’ “When my mother was old enough to notice things, say along six, or seven or eight years of age, both trees was standing, and despite their venerable age, were thrifty and green; the hollow trunk of the tulip did not seem to lessen its vitality. Trees in those days, of all kinds, were pretty common, and regarded as nuisances; the farmers were still having ‘burning bees’ in the spring and fall when all hands would join in and drag with ox-spans the logs of the trees that had been cut when they were clearing new ground, and making huge bonfires, burn them like a modern section foreman does a pile of old railroad ties, and by the way, the time is going to come soon when tie burners will be as severely condemned as the instigators of the ‘burning bees’ in the olden days. “Trees were too plentiful to attract much attention or create affection or veneration, but these two trees had a very special human interest. “Long after the Indians passed out of our country they came back as ghosts or ‘familiars,’ just as the wolves, panthers and wild pigeons do, so that the stories of folks seeing them after they became extinct, while not literally true, are in a sense “The tulip tree was inhabited by a very attractive spirit, an Indian girl, an odd looking one too, for her smooth skin was only a pumpkin color and her eyes a light blue. They all called her ‘Pale Eyes,’ and she was described as slight, winsome and wonderfully pretty. The Indian man, because he spent so much time under the cottonwood or water poplar, became generally known as ‘Poplar George.’ He would appear in the neighborhood early in the spring, in time to gather poke, milkweed, dandelion and bracken for the farmer’s wives, and to teach the young folks to fish, to use the bow and arrow, and snare wild pigeons and doves. “It was a sure sign of spring when the young people would see him squatting before a very small fire of twigs under the still leafless branches of the ancient poplar tree. He would remain about all summer long, helping with the harvest, so he must have been real flesh and blood, in a sense, and in the fall he gathered nuts, and later cut some cordwood for those who favored him–but in truth he never liked hard, downright work overly much. “He was a creature of the forests and streams. When he went away in the fall, after the wild pigeons had left, he always said that he wintered south, on the Casselman River, where the weather was not so “Often when he took the young folks of the neighborhood on fishing trips, and his skill with the angle and fly were unerring, the pretty Indian maiden, ‘Pale Eyes,’ would turn up, and be with the party all day. When asked who she was, he would sometimes say that she was his daughter, other times his “No one knew where Poplar George slept, if it wasn’t in the open, under the cottonwood tree. If he slept in barns, or under haystacks, no one had ever seen him coming or going, but a detail like that, mattered nothing as long as he was kindly and harmless, and took good care of the children. “He was a master of woodcraft, much like that old Narragansett Indian ‘Nessmuk,’ who furnished the late George W. Sears with his inspiration as well as ‘nom de plume.’ Poplar George could call the wild birds off the trees, so that they would feed on the ground before him, the squirrels and even the shy chipmunks climbed all over him, and extracted nuts from his pockets. "The old Indian was an odd person to look at, so my mother said; of medium height, meagre, wrinkled and weazened, tobacco colored, with little black shoe-button eyes, and a sparse mustache and beard. He "Once when some hunters killed a bear, they were going to nail the paws on the end of a log barn, but Poplar George begged for them, and invited the children to a feast of ‘bear paw cutlets’ under the cottonwood tree. My mother sat beside ‘Pale Eyes,’ and took a great fancy to her; she was able to talk with her in sign language, and Poplar George, seeing how well they got on together, occasionally interpreted for them. "Mother managed to learn that ‘Pale Eyes’’ abode was in a huge hollow tulip tree, but that she, too, wintered in the south, but beyond the Maryland line. Those were all gloriously care-free, happy days, and my mother, in later life, never tired talking about them. "Once in the fall when the buckwheat harvest was in progress, millions of wild pigeons came in, and mother could never forget the sight of old Poplar George sitting on a ‘stake and rider’ fence, with a handsome cock pigeon resplendent with its ruddy breast, "Some of the boys of sixteen years or thereabouts, grown lads they seemed to my mother, wanted to be attentive to ‘Pale Eyes,’ but she was so shy that she never let them get close to her. As it was a respectable backwoods community, and all minded their own business, no further efforts were made to have her mingle in society. "There was a rich boy, Herbert Hiltzheimer from Philadelphia, whose father was a great land owner, and who sometimes came with his parents to stay with their Agent while inspecting their possessions, who, at first sight of ‘Pale Eyes,’ fell violently in love with her. On rainy days he was not allowed out of doors, and sent word to Poplar George that ‘Pale Eyes’ should go to the Agent’s house, and play with him. Old Poplar George replied that he was willing if his niece would consent, but she always ran away into the depths of the forest, and was never once induced to play with him indoors. She did not dislike the city boy, only was very timid, and was afraid to go inside of a house. "My mother was made a confidante of by Herbert "In the fall he was taken back to Philadelphia to school, but said that, the evening before, when he walked up the lane, weeping over his misfortune, he opportunately met the fair Indian maid alone at the tulip tree, and actually kissed her. She broke away and ran into the hollow trunk, and while he quickly followed her into the aperture, she had disappeared. "The lands on which the cottonwood and the tulip tree stood were a part of a farm belonging to ’Squire George Garnice, an agreeable, but easy going old gentleman, who never learned to say ‘no’ to any one, though not much to his detriment for he was very generally respected. "One fall some of the Fiedler boys suggested to him, that he let them go on his property and cut up a lot of old half-dead good-for-nothing trees for cordwood and of course he assented. The first tree they attacked was Poplar George’s favorite, the mighty cottonwood. They were skilled axemen, and cut a level stump but too high for these days of "One of the boys, the youngest, Ed, had gotten "Leaving saw, axes and wedges, they ran to where the cries came from, and to their horror, found ‘Pale Eyes’ lying on the grassy bank beside the road at the orchard, her ankles terribly lacerated, front and back, clear in to the bones, and bleeding profusely. On this occasion she was able to speak in an intelligible tongue. “‘Run quick to the ’Squire’s, and get help,’ she said, in Pennsylvania German; ‘I am dying, but I want something to ease this dreadful pain.’ “The sympathetic boys, without waiting to inquire where she received her “‘Oh, sir,’ they chorused, ‘the Indian girl, ‘Pale Eyes,’ you know, has cut herself, and is dying up the road, and wants help.’ "The ’Squire always kept an old-fashioned remedy chest in his desk, so seizing it, and adjusting his curly wig, so that it would not blow off, he ran out after the nimble mountaineers. As they left the gate "When they reached the spot where marks on the greensward showed where ‘Pale Eyes’ had been lying, she was nowhere to be found, neither was Poplar George. There were no signs of blood, only a lot of sawdust like comes from the workings of a cross-cut saw. "The old ’Squire was nonplussed, but consented to accompany the boys to the scene of their wood cutting operations. ‘Pale Eyes’ was not there either, nor Poplar George. The newly formed leaves of the cottonwood–it was in the month of May–although the tree had only been cut and sawed into but an hour before, were scorched and withered. "The ’Squire showed by his face how heartbroken he was to see the two picturesque trees so roughly treated, but he was too kindly and forgiving to chide the boys for their sake. As he was standing there, looking at the ruin, a number of school children, among them my mother, came along, for it was during the noon recess, or dinner hour. They saw the butchered trees, and learned of the events of the morning; several of them, prosaic backwoods youngsters, though they were, shed bitter tears. “‘Dry your eyes,’ the ‘’Squire urged them, ‘else your people will think that the teacher licked you.’ Then they all chorused that it was a shame to have ruined the retreats of Poplar George and ‘Pale Eyes.’ “It was a dejected company that parted with him at his gate. The old ’Squire was right, for never more was anything seen or heard of Poplar George and the mysterious ‘Pale Eyes.’ They must have been in some unknowable way connected with the lives of those two trees, the cottonwood and the tulip–their lives or spirits maybe, and when they were cut into, their spirits went out with them. “I knew of a wealthy man who had a cedar tree in his yard, that when he fell ill, the tree became brown, but retained a little life. Finally it was cut down as an eyesore, and the gentleman died suddenly a few days afterward. That tree must have contained a vital part of his spirit. “By fall the tulip tree looked as if it had been dead for years, and the bark was peeling off. As the wood of the poplar would not burn, and set up a fetid odor, the Fieldler boys never bothered to finish cutting down the hollow tulip tree, of which the shy wood sprite, ‘Pale Eyes,’ had been the essence. "Much of the mystery and charm of that old grass-grown way along the gently flowing Pucketa had vanished with its Indian frequenters. But the memory of Poplar George and ‘Pale Eyes’ will never be forgotten as long as any of those children who were lucky enough to know them, remain in this world." |