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Richardson, John, 1796-1852

"Hardscrabble; or, the fall of Chicago. a tale of Indian warfare"

"Come, Waunangee, my good friend, we must go."
But the young Indian was not so easily led. "Waunangee
have him first dis nice squaw," he said, with all that
show of dogged obstinacy which so usually distinguishes
his race, when under the influence of liquor, and bent
upon the attainment of a particular object.
"Hear me, Waunangee," replied the other, placing his hand
upon his shoulder, and now, that Mrs. Elmsley only was
present with his affianced, feeling less scruple in
explaining to the young savage--"that is my squaw--my
wife."
"Why you no tell him so?" asked the youth, gravely, and
with an air of reproach, while, at the same time, he
fixed his soft and melancholy eyes upon Miss Heywood.
"Waunangee love officer's squaw--but Waunangee good heart.
Shake him hand, my friend," he continued, walking up to
her, and tendering his own, while, singular as it seemed
to all, a tear dimmed his eye, and stole down his cheek.
"'Spose no Waunangee wife--you Waunangee's friend?"
The generous but trembling girl, shook cordially the hand
that rested in her own, and assured the youth, in a way
easily intelligible to him, that, as the friend of her
husband, and she blushed deeply, as the moment afterwards
she became sensible she had used a word, she could not
but feel to be premature, she would always regard him
with friendship and esteem.


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