Oak Openings | Page 3

an
orchard; then, again, they are more scattered and less formal, while
wide breadths of the land are occasionally seen in which they stand in
copses, with vacant spaces, that bear no small affinity to artificial lawns,
being covered with verdure. The grasses are supposed to be owing to
the fires lighted periodically by the Indians in order to clear their
hunting-grounds.
Toward one of these grassy glades, which was spread on an almost
imperceptible acclivity, and which might have contained some fifty or
sixty acres of land, the reader is now requested to turn his eyes. Far in
the wilderness as was the spot, four men were there, and two of them
had even some of the appliances of civilization about them. The woods
around were the then unpeopled forest of Michigan; and the small
winding reach of placid water that was just visible in the distance, was
an elbow of the Kalamazoo, a beautiful little river that flows westward,
emptying its tribute into the vast expanse of Lake Michigan. Now, this
river has already become known, by its villages and farms, and
railroads and mills; but then, not a dwelling of more pretension than the
wigwam of the Indian, or an occasional shanty of some white
adventurer, had ever been seen on its banks. In that day, the whole of

that fine peninsula, with the exception of a narrow belt of country along
the Detroit River, which was settled by the French as far back as near
the close of the seventeenth century, was literally a wilderness. If a
white man found his way into it, it was as an Indian trader, a hunter, or
an adventurer in some other of the pursuits connected with border life
and the habits of the savages.
Of this last character were two of the men on the open glade just
mentioned, while their companions were of the race of the aborigines.
What is much more remarkable, the four were absolutely strangers to
each other's faces, having met for the first time in their lives, only an
hour previously to the commencement of our tale. By saying that they
were strangers to each other, we do not mean that the white men were
acquaintances, and the Indians strangers, but that neither of the four had
ever seen either of the party until they met on that grassy glade, though
fame had made them somewhat acquainted through their reputations.
At the moment when we desire to present this group to the imagination
of the reader, three of its number were grave and silent observers of the
movements of the fourth. The fourth individual was of middle size,
young, active, exceedingly well formed, and with a certain open and
frank expression of countenance, that rendered him at least
well-looking, though slightly marked with the small-pox. His real name
was Benjamin Boden, though he was extensively known throughout the
northwestern territories by the sobriquet of Ben Buzz--extensively as to
distances, if not as to people. By the voyageurs, and other French of
that region, he was almost universally styled le Bourdon^ or the
"Drone"; not, however, from his idleness or inactivity, but from the
circumstances that he was notorious for laying his hands on the
products of labor that proceeded from others. In a word, Ben Boden
was a "bee-hunter," and as he was one of the first to exercise his craft
in that portion of the country, so was he infinitely the most skilful and
prosperous. The honey of le Bourdon was not only thought to be purer
and of higher flavor than that of any other trader in the article, but it
was much the most abundant. There were a score of respectable
families on the two banks of the Detroit, who never purchased of any
one else, but who patiently waited for the arrival of the capacious bark
canoe of Buzz, in the autumn, to lay in their supplies of this savory

nutriment for the approaching winter. The whole family of griddle
cakes, including those of buckwheat, Indian rice, and wheaten flour,
were more or less dependent on the safe arrival of le Bourdon, for their
popularity and welcome. Honey was eaten with all; and wild honey had
a reputation, rightfully or not obtained, that even rendered it more
welcome than that which was formed by the labor and art of the
domesticated bee.
The dress of le Bourdon was well adapted to his pursuits and life. He
wore a hunting-shirt and trousers, made of thin stuff, which was dyed
green, and trimmed with yellow fringe. This was the ordinary forest
attire of the American rifleman; being of a character, as it was thought,
to conceal the person in the woods, by blending its hues with those of
the forest. On his head Ben