on others, on
Wabishkipenace it seemed to tell. He looked the image of despair. He
wore his hair long, and was nearly naked. He had a countenance of the
most melancholy cast. Poverty itself could not be poorer. Now, he
appears to have taken courage, and is willing once more to enter into
the conflicts of life. But, alas! what are these conflicts with an
Indian? A mere struggle for meat and bread enough to live.

_13th_. This is a day long to be remembered in my domestic annals, as it
carried to the tomb the gem of a once happy circle, the cherished
darling of it, in the person of a beloved, beautiful, intellectually
promising, and only son. William Henry had not yet quite completed his
third year, and yet such had been the impression created by his manly
precocity, his decision of character, perpetual liveliness of temper and
manners, and sweet and classic lineaments, and attachable traits, that
he appeared to have lived a long time. The word _time_ is, indeed, a
relative term, and ever means much or little, as much or little has been
enjoyed or suffered. Our enjoyment of him, and communion with him, was
intimate. From the earliest day of his existence, his intelligence and
quick expressive eye was remarkable, and all his waking hours were full
of pleasing innocent action and affectionate appreciation.

We took him to the city of New York during the winter of 1824-25, where
he made many friends and had many admirers. He was always remembered by
the youthful name of Willy and _Penaci_, or the bird--a term that was
playfully bestowed by the Chippewas while he was still in his cradle. He
was, indeed, a bird in our circle, for the agility of his motions, the
liveliness of his voice, and the diamond sparkle of his full hazel eyes,
reminded one of nothing so much. The month of March was more than
usually changeable in its temperature, with disagreeable rains and much
humidity, which nearly carried away the heavy amount of snow on the
ground. A cold and croup rapidly developed themselves, and no efforts of
skill or kindness had power to arrest its fatal progress. He sank under
it about eleven o'clock at night. Such was the rapidity of this fatal
disease, that his silver playful voice still seemed to ring through the
house when he lay a placid corpse. Several poetic tributes to his memory
were made, but none more touching than some lines from his own mother,
which are fit to be preserved as a specimen of native composition.[47