that part of the country round the thriving town of utica, in the state of new york, and through which a railroad now runs, was formerly called whitesborough, and there is now a small town joining utica so called. the first settler in that part of the country was a mr. white, after whom the place was named. at the time we speak of, there were numerous indians living in the neighborhood; with them he had several interviews, and mutual promises of friendship were exchanged. he also smoked the pipe of peace with them, to confirm the contract more solemnly.

still the indians were suspicious. “the white men,” said they, “are deceitful, and we must have some proof of his sincerity.”

accordingly, one evening, during mr. white’s absence from home, three indians went to his house. at first, mrs. white and her children were much alarmed, but on perceiving one of the indians to be shen-an-do-ah, whom they knew to be a mild, humane man, their[126] fear was in some degree quieted. on entering the house, they addressed mrs. white, saying, “we are come to ask you for your little daughter jane, that we may take her home with us to-night.”

such a request might well startle the good woman; she knew not what answer to give. to refuse might, she feared, excite their anger; to grant their request might hazard the liberty or even the life of her child.

lucidly at this moment, whilst the indians were waiting for a reply, mr. white, the father of the child, came in. the request was repeated to him, and he had sufficient presence of mind to grant it, instantly and cheerfully.

the mother was overwhelmed with surprise, and felt all the horror that can be conceived; but she was silent, for she knew it would be vain to resist. the little girl was fetched, and delivered to the indians, who lived about ten or twelve miles off.

shen-an-do-ah took the child by the hand, and led her away through the woods, having first said to her father, “to-morrow, when the sun is high in the heavens, we will bring her back.”

mrs. white had often heard that the indians were treacherous; and she well knew they were cruel; she therefore looked upon her little daughter as lost, and[127] considered that she was given as a kind of sacrifice to save the family.

mr. white endeavored to comfort her, for he felt assured that his child would be brought safely back the following morning. to the poor mother the night was long and sleepless; her anxiety became greater as the promised time approached. already she imagined that the indians would keep their word, and indeed bring back their child, but she fully believed that they would not bring her back alive. she watched the sun with a beating heart, and just when it seemed at the highest point of the heavens, she cried out to her husband, “there they are!”

shen-an-do-ah and his companions were faithful to their promise; they now came back with the little jane, who, smiling with delight, was decked out in all the finery that an indian wigwam could furnish—necklaces of shells, dyed feathers, and moccasins beautifully worked with porcupine quills. she was delighted with her visit and with her presents.

the effect of mr. white’s confidence was just what might be expected. from this time the indians were his friends; had he acted with timidity, and refused to let his child visit them, they would have had no confidence in him.

shen-an-do-ah was an oneida chief of some celebrity,[128] having fought on the side of the americans in the revolutionary war. he lived to be a hundred years old, and though in his youth he was very wild, and addicted to drunkenness, yet by the force of his own good sense, and the benevolent exhortations of a christian missionary, he lived a reformed man for more than sixty years.[3] he was intrepid in war, but mild and friendly in the time of peace. his vigilance once preserved the infant settlements of the german flats (on the mohawk) from being cruelly massacred by a tribe of hostile indians; his influence brought his own tribe to assist the americans, and his many friendly actions in their behalf gained for him, among the indian tribes, the appellation of the “white man’s friend.”

to one who went to see him a short time before his death, he thus expressed himself: “i am an aged hemlock—the winds of a hundred winters have whistled through my branches—i am dead at the top. the generation to which i belonged have passed away and left me. why i still live, the great spirit alone knows! but i pray to him that i may have patience to wait for my appointed time to die.”