Old Man Savarin Stories

him playing 'Great Godfrey's Lament,'" said old Alexander McTavish, as with him I wa

t, instead of "Tullochgorum" or "Roy's Wife" or "The March of the McNeils," or any merry strathspey, he crept into an unusual mov

d with such mournful crooning as I had heard often from Indian voyageurs north of Lake Superior. Perhaps that fancy sprang from my knowledge tha

w? It was the night before his wife died that he played yon last. Come, we

surrounds the great stone house built by Hector McNeil, the father of Angus, when he retire

se suites the fur-trader, whose ideas were all patriarchal, had designed that he and his Indian wife, with his seven sons and their future families, should

dining-hall for the multitude of descendants that Hector expected to see round his old age, the other as a wi

hat extends a quarter of a mile further down the Ottawa's north shore. His right side was toward the large group of French

ht after Godfrey was laid in the mools. Then he played it no more till before his ain wife died. What is he seeing now? M

odfrey?" I asked

short the "Lament," rose fr

have you with you?" h

city, Mr. McNeil," said

e young man that is not acquaint with the name of Great God

sked me inside for near five years. I'm feared his wits is disordered, by his w

d up straight. Now he was stooped a little, not with age, but with consumption,-the disease most fatal to men of mixed white and Indian blood. H

ing room. Without a word he seated himself beside a lar

from its walls; that charred logs, fully fifteen feet long, remained in the fireplace from the last winter's burning; that there were three dim portraits in oil over the mantel; that the room contained muc

ust be those of Hector McNeil and his Indian wife. Between th

ny seconds, then again struck the table with the side of his clenched fist. "He lay here dead on this table

he was." McTavish spoke with curious humility, seeming wishful

great lady, and a proud. Oh, man, man! but they were proud, my father and my Indian mother. And Godfrey was the pri

g Angus, after a long pause, went on as

maple on a clear day of October. Tall, and straight, and grand was Godfrey, my brother. What was the thing Godfrey could not do? The songs of him hus

the desire of us was all for the woods and the river. Godfrey had white sense like my

voice of the great rapid seemed to fill the room. When he spoke again, he

and mother saw we were just making an Indian of you, like ourselves! So they took you away; ay, and many's the day the six of us went to the woods and the river, missing you sore. It's then you began to look on us with that loo

trained him. History books he read, and stories in song. Ay, and the manners of Godfrey! Well might the whole pride of my fathe

n us with the eyes of the white man for the Indian. And that look we were more and more sure was growing harder in Godfrey's eyes. So we looked back a

one with us when he was little; and in the calm looks of him, and the white skin, and the yellow hair, and the grandeur of him, we had pride, do you understand? Ay, and in the strength of him we were glad. Would we no

s, no learning had we; we were no fit company for Godfrey. My mother was like she was wilder with love of Godfrey the more he grew and the gra

dead,-them white, and she Indian like ourselves,-and us not daring to go in for the fear of the eyes of our father. So the soreness was in our hearts so cruel hard that we would not go in till the last, for all thei

would be talking about books, and the great McNeils in Scotland. The six of us knew we were McNeils, for all we were Indians, and we would listen to the talk of the great pride and the great deeds of the McN

tall men walking arm in arm on the lawn in the twilight, as if unconscio

into this room, Aleck McTavish? Ay, well you do. But you nor no ot

r senses. We sat in a row on the floor-we were Indians-it was our wigwam-we sat on the floor to be against the ways of them two. Godfrey was in here across the

he rapid, calling and calling,-I mind it well that night. Ay, and well I mind the striking of the great clock,-tick

know not; but I woke up with a start, and there was Great Godfrey, with a can

ead,' God

aid n

two hours ago,

aid n

e,' Godfrey said, and he trembled. 'Ou

's voice

see how white is our

e of u

ry strange! I have looked in his face so long that now I do not know him

his voice like that-him that looked like my father that

What are you doing here, all so still? Drinking the whiskey? I am the same as you. I am you

on the floor in the dirt and litter b

h Indian as you, brothers. What you do I wil

grand manners as if forgotten,-man, it was like as if our

don't know, but he lifted the bottl

McNeils! You that was the credit of the f

y jumped to his feet

into Donald's arms. Well, with that we all began to cry as if our hearts would break. I threw myself down on the floor at Godfrey's feet, and

s heart warmed to us, and he said to himself, it was better to be like us than to be alone, and he thought if

and lifted me up till we were breast to breast. With that we all put our arms some way round one anothe

the Latin, and the history books, and the great McNeils-and our mother that's gone?'

it shames you for me to be like you, then I will teach you a

ll alone had straked him out on this table, with the silver-pieces on the eyes that we had feared. But the silver we did not fear. Maybe you will not understand it

NG AT MY FATHE

NG AT MY FATHE

know what happ

Great Godfrey that was the fath

me of us could learn one thing and some of us could learn another, and some could learn nothing, not even how to behave. What

together till the consumption came on Donald, and he was gone. Then it came and came back, and came back again, till Hector was gone, and Ranald was gone, and in ten years' time only Godfrey and I

dfrey needed my help. The cough was on him then. Out of a dream of him looking

where they were all laid out dead,-right here on this table where I will soon lie like the rest. I leave it to you to see it done, Aleck McTavish, for you are

dfrey, and the kindest look was on his face that ever I saw. H

nd the purr of the pines. He played till the river you hear now was in the fiddle, with the sound of our paddles, and the fish jumping for flies. He played about the long winters when we were young, so that the snow of thos

ng of them in the woods, and him hearing the partridges' drumming, and the squirrels' chatter, and

dfrey's Lament." As he played, his wide eyes looked past us, and the tears streamed down his brown che

ig brown hands, and we left him wi