Sweet and simple as childless dreams were these
quaint tales--tales of how the woodland fairies dwelt in
fern-carpeted dells; how at sunrise they came out to kiss open the
flowers; how the forest walks were spirit-haunted paths; how the
leaves whispered poetry to the winds; how the rocks harbored Indian
gods and masters who watched over their chosen ones.
Glickhican wound up his long discourses by declaring he had never
lied in the whole course of his seventy years, had never stolen,
never betrayed, never murdered, never killed, save in self-defence.
Gazing at the chief's fine features, now calm, yet showing traces of
past storms, Jim believed he spoke the truth.
When the young minister came, however, to study the hostile Indians
that flocked to the village, any conclusive delineation of
character, or any satisfactory analysis of their mental state in
regard to the paleface religion, eluded him. Their passive, silent,
sphinx-like secretiveness was baffling. Glickhican had taught him
how to propitiate the friendly braves, and with these he was
successful. Little he learned, however, from the unfriendly ones.
When making gifts to these redmen he could never be certain that his
offerings were appreciated. The jewels and gold he had brought west
with him went to the French traders, who in exchange gave him
trinkets, baubles, bracelets and weapons.
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