■jf,jmii»s,dnmmaa, M.'iii^,«as^.-'^'»>if^-i^nn:<^,^L'^.: **■»«. -««*.. sSdlHlfci.vi' I % u \>h' ■ 4i. h' ' ^;^LJ ■ ;• '•■:«■"■. .-■ ^ «,:■■"■ P'd^f'i'sV lifink . M i 7 ^ r PRESENTHl) BY HIice fballowell THE STOLEN CHILD THAT BECAME AN INDIAN QUEEN A True Story of Old Time Indian Depredations in Wyoming Valley^ Pa. BY ALICE HALLOWEL SUNSHINE POETESS P5 >''*6t Copyrighted iSqq BY AI.IfE HALLOWELL ftotATv-oL 1-^^ VaJ::- St^vJtxt flrv^ f>ublidbeb b^ 'Cbe Evangelfst presa 156 jfiftb Bvc. This real life poem is affectionately dedicated to 07ie of the loveliest of women Mrs. Mary Clark Culver and her darling Child Tntroduction This little story is tender, and true. Touching the inmost recesses, and sweetest chords of life, it reveals the beauty of Faith, Fidelity, and the wonderful power of a mother's love. The little one was Fanny Slocum, living many years ago in the part of Pennsylvania known as Wyoming Valley. That beautiful region was often raided by the "Red Men" of those olden days. The untaught savages, we must not too severely judge, for avenging wrongs done to them. Alas ! The '* White Man "— " Christian "—often trespassed, and set a sad example for the Indian brother. Tradition says, that, when the Indians lost a child, they tried to steal a white one to supply the place. It is also said, they gave these treas- ures, every care and kindness. But, this consoling fact, was not then known to the kindred of "The Stolen Child." The agony of the mother's grief, the wearing suspense of lingering years over her .lost darling, can only be known, and realized, by those who have true, and tender hearts. I have the incidents from history, and a grand niece of "The Stolen Child" — now living. Let the story speak for itself. The Author June, 1899 THE STOLEN CHILD By ALICE HALLOWELL IN sweet Wyoming Valley fair, There dwelt long years ago, A darling dimpled baby girl, Whose mother loved her so, She ne'er would let her go beyond Her tender watchful care, For fear some hidden danger might The little one ensnare. And so she played beside the door With childish prattle, sweet, Rocking her doll with lullaby, Patting her little feet. One day, when fields of corn were green, Near by the growing wheat, And father and his sons were there Working to make ends meet. Some from the tribe of '* Red Men " near, Approached with stealthy feet. Ah me! dim words cannot portray The cruel deed of that sad day ! Their work was done, the bleeding forms Of father, and a son, lay dead. One boy was left, we know not why His life was spared, unscalped his head. He *mong the thicket refuge took, Ne'er turning back for one last look. Nor dreaming what had come to pass, Or lay upon the summer grass. Nor, did he hear the cry of fear From little one, or mother dear. But oh, alas ! he later knew. And dwelt within the shadow too! Like savage beast with taste of blood. The red fiends rushed on through the wood, Where cabin in seclusion stood. To yet fulfill their vengeful mood. 6 In silent stealth, drew softly nigh, — The singing birds were quick to fly. — But "baby " still no danger knew. Until their forms the shadow threw. O ! then, she raised a cry of fright. They caught her, and began their flight, Almost before the mother saw The spectre from her open door. The piercing cries, the mother's woe None but the Lord, our God, could know! Liked winged arrows sent afar. They seemed to reach ** The Gates Ajar." Long years she lived, and wept, and toiled. Her heart was aching — bleeding sore — She prayed to God, she plead with man, To bring her darling babe once more. '*To fold my precious child again — Once more, against my throbbing breast," She cried, most piteously, *'0 God! Let this, I pray, be Thy behest ! " Ah, me! it is a sad, sad thing When loving ones must sever, part! No wonder that the angels weep Over a wounded, bleeding heart! And then, oh then, when it doth break. And life with agony is filled, God pity us — does pity us — For He the pain hath willed. Aye, he doth test our faith in Him In many and mysterious ways, Yet watches still so tenderly Our stricken, broken hopes to raise. Aye, lifts us when we've fallen low. E'en like the flowers, and the grass. When thunder storm, and sweeping wind All bruise, and break them, as they pass! She thus lived on, in sorrow wept. And anxious vigils hourly kept — The search renewed, went on for years, And yet, amidst her blinding tears The word was ever wafted back, ''Not yet, not yet, the Red Man's track! " At last, her head drooped on her breast, — The aching heart had found its rest. In bidding her dear boy adieu. She said, " My child, God leads us through This changeful life. Thou, still pursue The search for our lost one anew. 8 **She may be gone, long, long ago, O! would that I might know it so! But, if alive, thou find her dear, And give a mother's love, and cheer!" Her hands then folded on her breast, She passed into God's loving rest — The spirit left its mortal clay. To soar in realms of brighter day ! Again the search broke through the gloom — Passed through the family like heirloom — And Patience found her own reward. Because she bowed before the Lord. Like shafts of light from setting sun. Or shout of joy when race is won, A word came from the far off West, **The child still lives! is hap'ly blest In having spent a useful life — A brave and noble Chieftain's wife. " There is no language that can tell, The music of this late joy-bell. No more was room for pain, or strife; The very air with joy was rife! No more they doubted in the Lord — They saw fulfilled His promised word. 9 Soon travellers were on their way. — On horseback, for in that far day Few stages traversed the rough way. The snorting engines now at play, Would soon have sped the miles away. But slow they went, ah, lack-a-day! And, weary days, they needs must spend, Ere they could reach their journey's end. *Twas in a bright Ohio town They laid their heavy burdens down, And stepped upon the waiting ground — The flitting Firefly had been found ! The noted wigwam was quite near — Soon message went from kindred dear, — The word came back, *' She'd gladly see The fam'ly where she used to be." Anon there was a touching scene. Which echoed in the forest green, — The ' ' lost child" found !— What ' 'might have been, " Was here an aged Indian Queen. The room was cozy, clean, and warm. Two daughters moved about her form. And, from the mother of the past The teachings on her child were cast. 10 A dresser stood against the wall, To hold the plates, both large and small, And, when to use at any hour, (Ah ! here we note the mother's pow'r) — For any dust or floating thing. There was at hand a birdling's wing. And deftly were they wiped anew, As she had seen her mother do. O ! Is it not a beaut'ous thing. That mother's love, like angel's wing, Doth flutter through this life of care, And follow with us, everywhere? Praise be to God, that it is so ! It turns the tear-drops here below. Into the glorious heav'nly bow! Reveals the grandeur, which we know! O ! blessed taste of life to be ! Dear Father, Father, nearer Thee ! Our longing spirits when set free. Can soar to Thine eternity ! The visit ended, calm and sweet — Her Chieftain lay near by her feet. She could not leave the mound so green, Nor from its side, could e'er be seen. 11 Aye! visit ended, kindred seen, Returned to home, where she had been. To all of their entreaties dear, She shook her head with silent tear, And using all due deference, Spoke thus, with Indian eloquence, " I could not leave my Chieftain's side, He was so true, to me, his bride. **I ne'er could leave his lonely grave, To traverse field, or mighty wave. The Spirit Great, that watcheth all, Will keep us safe, whate'er befall. *'The deer its forest cannot leave, For woodland home, I too, would grieve. My Chieftain would not me deceive. Nor I, his spirit, could bereave." In reverence all had thus been said. In silence now she bowed her head. In youth, and faith, she had been wed, E'en so, was loyal to her dead. The kindred had their mission filled; — With joy, and pain, their souls were thrilled. They, now pursued their homeward way, While she, besought the coming Day ! 12 With ripened years, all well nigh past, Serenely faithful to the last — Her yearning spirit, grandly fled,. Whilst ev'ningsun, its glory shed! ^ f^ Alice Hallowell, Sunshine Poetess. 13 SEQUEL TO THE STOLEN CHILD BUT pause a moment, if you choose, And the Great Volume we'll peruse; And, strive to be more just, and true. As this strange life we journey through. These '* Red Men," had been robbed, you see. Of their own rights in country free. E'en so, the " White Man's" grasping hand Followed the words, *'I take this land." 'Tis true, sometimes a price was paid. Though nominal, and truce was made. Alas! indeed, not always so, — For often they were bidden, *' Go." And, did they not obey right soon. They were removed 'twixt moon and moon. Without, e'en seeming conscience-part, — Nor, trace of feeling from the heart. 14 Again, the Page of Life we turn, And read within the book of Time, Of things so strangely wonderful, And ending in the Vast Sublime. The " Red Men " of those former days. Were untaught in our Christian ways — At least, in ways that claim to be A following, O Christ, of Thee. Although this worthy family Had doubtless never wronged a one, They were avenging injuries — Some grievous things by others done. And are we not in present life, Too oft pursuing this same strife? Yet kindling fires fresh to burn, Upon Time's Wheel, with fateful turn? Do we oppress the weak to-day? Or, do we aid their toilsome way? Do we forever "watch, and pray," All — all along the journey's way? And, even when we pray an hour. Do we invoke the holy pow'r, To fill our Souls with grace divine, Upon our Brothers' lives to shine? 15 Do we in mind, and soul, and heart. Receive The Word^ and, do our part ? Aye, truly try in earnest way To win back those, who've gone astray? Heeding the voice of night and day, *' Do walk thou in the Saviour's way — Choose thou His steps, and follow in — Avoid, oh, shun, the path of sin! O, lay aside thy human pride — And well thy worldly goods divide — With kindly words of loving will. The Cup of Joy, not Sorrow, fill!" If so, how could such misery be En route to the Eternity? Why must the ** green-eyed" monster be. In place of Love's Sincerity? Why must one life be filled with woe, Because another makes it so? And why, one child be trembling cold. While others dress in cloth of gold? Why, must one rob the rights, the joy, From other lives, and so destroy Their share of happiness in life, And thus maintain the painful strife? 16 In fine, why must drear discord be, When Life beams forth so gloriously — For ev'ry one — all living things — ! O! why, doth happiness have wings? Why can't the clouds forever part, And gladness dwell in ev'ry heart? Why can't we chase from Life, all pain, And let sweet Joy forever reign? O ! Let us not while living here, Like cruel savages appear — Nor, like the wild beast of the field — But, like the Harvest, let us yield A golden, plenteous fruit, sublime, Plucked in perfection, and its prime, By One who plants the sacred seeds. And is sore grieved by noxious weeds. Oh ! Praise to Thee, our Father, Lord, Teach us in joy to heed Thy word ! May we deserve all blessings sweet, And find for aye. Thy grand retreat! Alice Hallowell. 17 BooKs, Songs, Poems and Stories BY ALICE HALLOWELL, Sunshine Poetess AUTHOR OF Forget=ne=Not, or Sunshine in Affliction The Song of the Art Gallery The Stolen Child, (by the Indians. — A true story.) Our Nation and National Things A Silver Lining to the Cloud The Young Hero (A war story) The Epidemic. To the Fair Buyer The Feline Choir— Owed to the Kit Kat Club The Needy Child. Flowers of Character The Admiral (of Spanish -American War) Betsy Ross, The First National Flag Maker True Heroism. The Tin Wedding The Origin of Hen=Pecked Husbands The Sirens. The National Flower Farewell to Mrs. Frank Leslie Address of Welcome (To Senator Chauncey M. Depew) Christmas Bells. The Christmas Angel Songs Sweet William (To United States President McKinley) Our National Flower, Windsor Castle Love's Mystery (Song and Poem) Sunshine Song (For Tribune Sunshine Society) The Song of the Suffering Child. Haddon Hall The Song of the Heartsease. Two Little ilaids Irish Ballad— Paddy and Annie (A love song) The Song of Wyoming Valley Smythe (A Scotch Ballad) Thy Lamp is Burning (To Mrs. Knapp) Down by the Sounding Sea The Prayer of Forget=Me-Not 18 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 015 863 553 7