We left the railroad at Kalamazoo—an unusually pretty village, on the banks of the stream of that name. Those who laid out this place, some fifteen years since, had the taste to preserve most of its trees; and the houses and grounds that stand a little apart from the busiest streets—and they are numerous for a place of rather more than two thousand souls—are particularly pleasant to the eye, on account of the shade, and the rural pictures they present. Here Mrs. Boden told us we were within a mile or two of the very spot where once had stood Castle Meal (Chateau au Miel), though the "general" had finally established himself at Schoolcraft, on Prairie Ronde.
The first prairie we had ever seen was on the road between Detroit and Kalamazoo; distant from the latter place only some eight or nine miles. The axe had laid the country open in its neighborhood; but the spot was easily to be recognized by the air of cultivation and age that pervaded it. There was not a stump on it, and the fields were as smooth as any on the plains of Lombardy, and far more fertile, rich as the last are known to be. In a word, the beautiful perfection of that little natural meadow became apparent at once, though seated amid a landscape that was by no means wanting in interest of its own.
We passed the night at the village of Kalamazoo; but the party of females, with old Peter, proceeded on to Prairie Round, as that particular part of the country is called in the dialect of Michigan, it being a corruption of the old French name of la prairie ronde. The Round Meadow does not sound as well as Prairie Round, and the last being quite as clear a term as the other, though a mixture of the two languages, we prefer to use it. Indeed, the word "prairie" may now be said to be adopted into the English; meaning merely a natural instead of an artificial meadow, though one of peculiar and local characteristics. We wrote a note to General Boden, as I found our old acquaintance Ben Boden was universally termed, letting him know I should visit Schoolcraft next day; not wishing to intrude at the moment when that charming family was just reunited after so long a separation.
The next day, accordingly, we got into a "buggy" and went our way. The road was slightly sandy a good part of the twelve miles we had to travel, though it became less so as we drew near to the celebrated prairie. And celebrated, and that by an abler pen than ours, does this remarkable place deserve to be! We found all our expectations concerning it fully realized, and drove through the scene of abundance it presented with an admiration that was not entirely free from awe.
To get an idea of Prairie Round, the reader must imagine an oval plain of some five-and-twenty or thirty thousand acres in extent, of the most surpassing fertility, without an eminence of any sort— almost without an inequality. There are a few small cavities, howevers in which there are springs that form large pools of water that the cattle will drink. This plain, so far as we saw it, is now entirely fenced and cultivated. The fields are large, many containing eighty acres, and some one hundred and sixty; most of them being in wheat. We saw several of this size in that grain. Farm-houses dotted the surface, with barns, and the other accessories of rural life. In the centre of the prairie is an "island" of forest, containing some five or six hundred acres of the noblest native trees we remember ever to have seen. In the centre of this wood is a little lake, circular in shape, and exceeding a quarter of a mile in diameter. The walk in this wood-which is not an Opening, but an old-fashioned virgin forest—we found delightful of a warm summer's day. One thing that we saw in it was characteristic of the country. Some of the nearest farmers had drawn their manure into it, where it lay in large piles, in order to get it out of the way of doing any mischief. Its effect on the land, it was thought, would be to bring too much straw!
On one side of this island of wood lies the little village or large hamlet of Schoolcraft. Here we were most cordially welcomed by General Boden, and all of his fine descendants. The head of this family is approaching seventy, but is still hale and hearty. His head is as white as snow, and his face as red as a cherry. A finer old man one seldom sees. Temperance, activity, the open air, and a good conscience, have left him a noble ruin; if ruin he can yet be called. He owes the last blessing, as he told us himself, to the fact that he kept clear of the whirlwind of speculation that passed over this region some ten or fifteen years since. His means are ample; and the harvest being about to commence, he invited me to the field.
The peculiar ingenuity of the American has supplied the want of laborers, in a country where agriculture is carried on by wholesale, especially in the cereals, by an instrument of the most singular and elaborate construction. This machine is drawn by sixteen or eighteen horses, attached to it laterally, so as to work clear of the standing grain, and who move the whole fabric on a moderate but steady walk. A path is first cut with the cradle on one side of the field, when the machine is dragged into the open place. Here it enters the standing grain, cutting off its heads with the utmost accuracy as it moves. Forks beneath prepare the way, and a rapid vibratory motion of a great number of two-edged knives effect the object. The stalks of the grain can be cut as low or as high as one pleases, but it is usually thought best to take only the heads. Afterward the standing straw is burned, or fed off, upright.
The impelling power which causes the great fabric to advance also sets in motion the machinery within it As soon as the heads of the grain are severed from the stalks, they pass into a receptacle, where, by a very quick and simple process, the kernels are separated from the husks. Thence all goes into a fanning machine, where the chaff is blown away. The clean grain falls into a small bin, whence it is raised by a screw elevator to a height that enables it to pass out at an opening to which a bag is attached. Wagons follow the slow march of the machine, and the proper number of men are in attendance. Bag after bag is renewed, until a wagon is loaded, when it at once proceeds to the mill, where the grain is soon converted into flour. Generally the husbandman sells to the miller, but occasionally he pays for making the flour, and sends the latter off, by railroad, to Detroit, whence it finds its way to Europe, possibly, to help feed the millions of the old world. Such, at least, was the course of trade the past season. As respects this ingenious machine, it remains only to say that it harvests, cleans, and bags from twenty to thirty acres of heavy wheat, in the course of a single summer's day! Altogether it is a gigantic invention, well adapted to meet the necessities of a gigantic country.
Old Peter went afield with us that day. There he stood, like a striking monument of a past that was still so recent and wonderful. On that very prairie, which was now teeming with the appliances of civilization, he had hunted and held his savage councils. On that prairie had he meditated, or consented to the deaths of the young couple, whose descendants were now dwelling there, amid abundance, and happy. Nothing but the prayers of the dying missionary, in behalf of his destroyers, had prevented the dire consummation.
We were still in the field, when General Boden's attention was drawn toward the person of another guest. This, too, was an Indian, old like himself, but not clad like Peter, in the vestments of the whites. The attire of this sinewy old man was a mixture of that of the two races. He wore a hunting-shirt, moccasins, and a belt; but he also wore trousers, and otherwise had brought himself within the habits of conventional decency. It was Pigeonswing, the Chippewa, come to pay his annual visit to his friend, the bee-hunter, The meeting was cordial, and we afterward ascertained that when the old man departed, he went away loaded with gifts that would render him comfortable for a twelvemonth.
But Peter, after all, was the great centre of interest with us. We could admire the General's bee-hives, which were numerous and ingenious; could admire his still handsome Margery, and all their blooming descendants; and were glad when we discovered that our old friend—made so by means of a knowledge of his character, if not by actual acquaintance—was much improved in mind, was a sincere Christian, and had been a Senator of his own State; respected and esteemed by all who knew him. Such a career, however, has nothing peculiar in America; it is one of every-day occurrence, and shows the power of man whe
n left free to make his own exertions; while that of the Scalping Peter indicated the power of God. There he was, living in the midst of the hated race, loving and beloved; wishing naught but blessings on all colors alike; looking back upon his traditions and superstitions with a sort of melancholy interest, as we all portray in our memories the scenes, legends, and feelings of an erring childhood.
We were walking in the garden, after dinner, and looking at the hives. There were the general, Margery, Peter, and ourselves. The first was loud in praise of his buzzing friends, for whom it was plain he still entertained a lively regard. The old Indian, at first, was sad. Then he smiled, and, turning to us, he spoke earnestly and with some of his ancient fire and eloquence.
"Tell me you make a book," he said. "In dat book tell trut'. You see me—poor old Injin. My fadder was chief—I was great chief, but we was children. Knowed nuttin'. Like little child, dough great chief. Believe tradition. T'ink dis 'arth flat—t'ink Injin could scalp all pale-face—t'ink tomahawk, and war-path, and rifle, bess t'ings in whole world. In dat day, my heart was stone. Afraid of Great Spirit, but didn't love him. In dat time I t'ink General could talk wid bee. Yes; was very foolish den. Now, all dem cloud blow away, and I see my Fadder dat is in heaven. His face shine on me, day and night, and I never get tired of looking at it. I see him smile, I see him lookin' at poor ole Injin, as if he want him to come nearer; sometime I see him frown and dat scare me. Den I pray, and his frown go away.
"Stranger, love God. B'lieve his blessed Son, who pray for dem dat kill him. Injin don't do that. Injin not strong enough to do so good t'ing. It want de Holy Spirit to strengthen de heart, afore man can do so great t'ing. When he got de force of de Holy Spirit, de heart of stone is changed to de heart of woman, and we all be ready to bless our enemy and die. I have spoken. Let dem dat read your book understand."
THE END.
End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of Oak Openings, by James Fenimore Cooper
James Fenimore Cooper, The Oak Openings, Or, the Bee Hunter
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