One
warm-hearted, noble spirit, James D. Fresett, the proprietor of an
extensive cotton-press, went in person to the aged chief, and implored
him to take his people to shelter there. He declined, and when the
importunity was again pressed upon him, impatient of persuasion, he
turned abruptly to his tormentor and sternly said:
"I am the enemy of the white man. I ask, and will accept, nothing at
his hands. Me and my people are children of the woods. The Great
Spirit gave them to us, and He gave us the power to endure the cold
and the rain. The clouds above are His, and they are shelter and
warmth enough for us. He will not deceive and rob us. The white man is
faithless; with two tongues he speaks: like the snake, he shows these
before he bites. Never again shall the white man's house open for me,
or the white man's roof shelter me. I have lived his enemy, and his
enemy I will die." The grunt of approval came from all the tribe,
while many rough and stalwart men stood in mute admiration of the
pride, the spirit, and the determination of this white-haired
patriarch of a perishing people.
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