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Updated: September 2, 2025
Mayall once more began to feel a desire to roam over the hills, which had long been his favorite employment; he finally resolved on visiting his more distant hunting-ground in quest of deer, which had become scarce near his home.
Time passed on the changing beauties of the forest scenery, the kind attention of her devoted husband and the prattling of her children, once more revived her drooping spirits, and she was again Nelly Mayall, with all her youthful charms.
After Mayall left his cabin on Canada Creek he bent his course for home, where he arrived after three tedious days' journey along an Indian path, fording streams, and crossing hills and ravines, and was once more in the bosom of his family.
Their tent was soon taken down, and Mayall and his family pursued their journey toward the Indian chief's wigwam. The sun had risen fair, but as they proceeded along their journey dark clouds began to curtain the heavens.
One sunny morning, in summer's golden days, when the Valley of the Mohawk appeared like an Eden outstretched in loveliness, and bowed in summer's rosy bloom, the father of Mayall's intended wife saw Mayall coming with hurried steps towards his house, dressed in a green hunting-frock and cap with a green plume shading his forehead, a double-barreled carbine in his hand, with a tomahawk and hunting-knife sheathed in his belt, which was the favorite dress of a hunter when rambling through the green, overgrown forests of the Valley of the Mohawk, to prevent being noticed by wild game or Indians.
Mayall in his excitement viewed it as one of the lovely dimples on the face of creation, which held him for a time like a charm, until his thoughts roamed over the forest hills to his loved ones at home. He then arose and retraced his steps to the Valley of the Otego, considering the past day and night one of the most charming incidents of his past life.
As soon as the Indians saw Mayall they quickly descended, and the three took up their line of march for their camp with the double-quick. The curtains of night were fondly drooping upon the hill-tops, and the stars were shooting forth in glory one by one from Heaven's blue concave as the three hunters reached the Indian encampment.
Mayall cautiously advanced through the thick forest, guided by the sound of the child's voice weeping and often calling for its mother, who lay wrapped in wakeful dreams several miles away. The voice of this weeping child nerved the old hunter's arm with the strength of a Samson, and filled his heart with a vengeance not his own. The hours seemed to linger into days as he lay crouched in the dark.
The squaws and Indians flocked round Mayall to hear the Indians relate the story of their adventure and act over the frightful scene with gun, tomahawk and knife, to show the amount of skill used by Mayall in handling the deadly weapons of war.
Mayall and the children to sleep in the wagon and the rest would take off their clothes and ford the stream, carrying with them some blankets.
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