Myths and Legends of Our Own Land, vol 4 | Page 2

was buried at the
shore just before the women of the place were crowded on board of a
transport. As the ship set off her sorrowing passengers looked behind
them to see their homes going up in flame and smoke, and Acadia

knew them no more. The English had planned well to keep these
people from coming together for conspiracy or revenge: they scattered
them over all America, from Newfoundland to the southern savannas.
Evangeline was not taken far away, only to New England; but without
Gabriel all lands were drear, and she set off in the search for him,
working here and there, sometimes looking timidly at the headstones
on new graves, then travelling on. Once she heard that he was a
/coureur des bois/ on the prairies, again that he was a voyageur in the
Louisiana lowlands; but those of his people who kept near her inclined
to jest at her faith and urged her to marry Leblanc, the notary's son,
who truly loved her. To these she only replied, "I cannot."
Down the Ohio and Mississippi she went--on a raft--with a little band
of those who were seeking the French settlements, where the language,
religion, and simplicity of life recalled Acadia. They found it on the
banks of the Teche, and they reached the house of the herdsman
Gabriel on the day that he had departed for the north to seek Evangeline.
She and the good priest who had been her stay in a year of sorrow
turned back in pursuit, and for weary months, over prairie and through
forest, skirting mountain and morass, going freely among savages, they
followed vain clues, and at last arrived in Philadelphia. Broken in spirit
then, but not less sweet of nature for the suffering that she had known,
she who had been named for the angels became a minister of mercy,
and in the black robe of a nun went about with comforts to the sick and
poor. A pestilence was sweeping through the city, and those who had
no friends nor attendants were taken to the almshouse, whither, as her
way was, Evangeline went on a soft Sabbath morning to calm the
fevered and brighten the hearts of the dying.
Some of the patients of the day before had gone and new were in their
places. Suddenly she turned white and sank on her knees at a bedside,
with a cry of "Gabriel, my beloved!" breathed into the ears of a
prematurely aged man who lay gasping in death before her. He came
out of his stupor, slowly, and tried to speak her name. She drew his
head to her bosom, kissed him, and for one moment they were happy.
Then the light went out of his eyes and the warmth from his heart. She
pressed his eyelids down and bowed her head, for her way was plainer
now, and she thanked God that it was so.

THE SNORING OF SWUNKSUS
The original proprietor of Deer Isle, off the coast of Maine--at least, the
one who was in possession one hundred and thirty years ago--had the
liquid name of Swunksus. His name was not the only liquid thing in the
neighborhood, however, for, wherever Swunksus was, fire-water was
not far. Shortly before the Revolution a renegade from Boston, one
Conary, moved up to the island and helped himself to as much of it as
he chose, but the longer he lived there the more he wanted. Swunksus
was willing enough to divide his domain with the white intruder, but
Conary was not satisfied with half. He did not need it all; he just
wanted it. Moreover, he grew quarrelsome and was continually nagging
poor Swunksus, until at last he forced the Indian to accept a challenge,
not to immediate combat, but to fight to the death should they meet
thereafter.
The red man retired to his half of the island and hid among the bushes
near his home to await the white man, but in this little fastness he
discovered a jug of whiskey that either fate or Conary had placed there.
Before an hour was over he was "as full and mellow as a harvest
moon," and it was then that his enemy appeared. There was no trouble
in finding Swunksus, for he was snoring like a fog horn, and walking
boldly up to him, Conary blew his head off with a load of slugs. Then
he took possession of the place and lived happily ever after. Swunksus
takes his deposition easily, for, although he has more than once paraded
along the beaches, his ghost spends most of the time in slumber, and
terrific snores have been heard proceeding from the woods in daylight.

THE LEWISTON HERMIT
On an island above the falls of the Androscoggin, at Lewiston, Maine,