Some time was to pass, however, before Thayendanegea
could understand that he was sprung from a race of
conquerors. As yet he was but a simple Indian babe, with
staring brown eyes and raven-black hair. Of the mother
who cared for him history has practically nothing to say.
She may have been a Mohawk, but this is by no means
certain. It has even been hinted that she came from the
Western Indians, and was a damsel of the Shawnee race
who had left the wigwams of her people. At all events we
may be sure that she had the natural instincts and impulses
of a forest mother; that she knew where the linden grew
high and where the brown-red sycamores clustered thick
by the margin of the stream. It may be supposed that when
the sun mounted high she would tie the picturesque, richly
ornamented baby-frame containing her boy to some drooping
branch to swing from its leathern thong in the cooling
breeze. We may imagine her tuneful voice singing the
mother's Wa Wa song, the soft lullaby of the sylvan glades.
Thayendanegea's eyes blink and tremble; he forgets the
floating canopy above him and sleeps in his forest cradle.

The hunting excursion to the Ohio came at length to an
end, and then the Mohawks started for their lodges in
the far north-east. Up the broad river sped the strongest
canoe-men of all the peoples of the forest, with
Thayendanegea stowed snugly in the bottom of some slender
craft. Over the long and weary portages trudged his
mother, her child bound loosely on her shoulders. Their
route lay towards Lake Erie, then along the well-trodden