The surveyor had been some months in the district west of the first principal Meridian and north of the Base line of the Lower Peninsula of Michigan, back of Grand Traverse Bay. The horse appeared to be his favorite animal and he related many a tale of the sagacity, intelligence and kindness of the Canadian pony which the packers use.

In the fall of 1842, two parties under Mr. Hudson were subdividing lands at the sources of the Manistee River. Winter set in before the contract was finished. After a separation of three weeks they met at a rendezvous in the interior, having brought their work to that spot simultaneously. It was now five months they had been from the settlements buried in the forest of the north, and had seen no whites but those of their own number. For three weeks the two parties had seen or heard nothing of each other, and meeting so opportunely they made the woods ring with shouts of joy, and hurried to embrace each other like long parted brothers.

The trees were now stripped of leaves, and snow began to fall. The grass and herbage, upon which the pony had subsisted hitherto, began to perish. His plump form began to shrink, and it was impossible for him to bear the usual burden. The good packer took a share of it upon his own shoulders, and came into camp exhausted, when he threw himself at full length. upon the ground and without supper or blanket fell asleep.

By the rules of the surveying department the field notes of all the townships named in the contract must be returned before payment can be demanded. None but emergencies beyond the foresight and efforts of the surveyor would constitute an excuse for modifying this rule. A few days of severe weather or a few days of short allowance would not by any means be received as sufficient reasons for abandoning a task; with a plentiful supply of provisions, weather and seasons are laughed to scorn by such men. Everything rested therefore on the packer and his horse.

By the first light of day he and his companion, the Canadian pony, start for the depot. Rains and snows had raised the streams and filled the swamps. There was neither game for the support of the men, nor time to kill it if there had been. It was necessary to use expedition for other reasons. Their return to the settlements was to be made in open boats along the coast to the southward, and if ice formed in Lake Michigan, how was this to be effected? If not effected how were they to subsist? All these contingencies were fully present to their minds as the packer disappeared in the bush, followed by his faithful pony. Would they reach the depot? Would they be able to return? If they did, would the animal have strength enough to bear his load, and thus supply the hunger of twelve men for two weeks or more?

These questions were seriously but silently studied by those worn and ragged woodsmen, but not with any weak misgivings as to the future. Full of resolution, they betook themselves to their work of running and marking lines upon the leafless trees. They pursued their labors as usual for a week, and began to expect the arrival of provisions from the coast. The packer came not much behind his time, accompanied as usual, by his horse, but with only a partial load. He had been obliged to throw away many pounds of meat, in order to enable the good creature to reach the camp.

 Enough food was brought, how ever, to secure the company against want. No wonder the Frenchman saw with the deepest sorrow, the decline of his little horse. How many days, how many nights, had they spent together in that broad forest. Like a faithful dog, the pony followed wherever the packer went; came in the morning to receive his load, swam rivers, clambered up the ascent of steep hills, let himself down slippery precipices, and always came at the call. Can it be a matter of wonder that the human heart should knit itself with that of a beast. Here was that confidence, that submission, that usefulness, kindness and devotion which give rise to affection in men. Hear this unlettered packer, as  he rises from his bed of hemlock boughs ‘in the morning, talking familiarly to his horse, as he would to a companion or a friend; was there not between them a communion of feeling ? See him pat the sleek and staunch creature upon the neck as he is dismissed at night, well rubbed and cleaned, to graze in the vicinity.

The pony, now released from duty, was suffered to run at random in the neighboring swamps. But the herbage, principally destroyed by frost, did not seem to have a relish. He spent most of the time among the men, and about the campfire, weak, sickly, and without appetite. The work of the season was at length finished, but not until winter had fully set in. Preparations were immediately made to quit the country. These hardy chainmen, axe-men, and packers will themselves find no difficulty in reaching the boat, and thence to the settlements; but the poor horse, what will become of him?

 The party prepare for the trip with alacrity, not by laying in provisions and comforts, as they do in making up an outfit, but by dispensing with every thing that has weight, and is not indispensable on the march. The extra provisions are stowed away in hollow logs, the extra blankets are hid in the same manner, the compass and chain, the axes and hatchets are all put in some secret place, to be in readiness for next season’s operations.

 But the fate of the old horse is not absent from their minds. No one could be found with the heart to shoot him, and thus end, or rather avoid much of his sufferings. He was now so much reduced that he could not keep up with the company, and the company were too much straightened for time to be delayed on their way to the coast. The surveyor made liberal offers to the man who would volunteer and endeavor to take him to the nearest settlement. If he should reach the coast, the season was too far spent to expect a vessel that might take him on board, and there the chances of famishing by hunger and cold would be greater than in the recesses of the forest. He must be left.

The old creature seemed to comprehend the fate that awaited him, and stuck close to the men. His pack saddle was taken off and hung in the top of a small tree, and sorrowfully the party set out. He neighs after them, and makes an effort to follow. But the little fellow’s frame is too weak. He stumbles and falls to the ground, uttering a low and touching moan. It struck a chord in every heart. Those rugged men turned back in mercy at the call of a brute, but it was impossible to take him forward.

They cut boughs from some evergreen trees and made him a comfortable bed. They pulled some coarse grass, laid it near his head, and slowly turning away, left him to a bitter death. But there was a power in the beseeching look of the prostrate and helpless creature, which none could resist. There were wet eyes when they abandoned him to his fate.

The following winter was one of less rigor than usual. In the spring the surveyor returned to continue his work, expecting to find the bones of his pony, stripped of their flesh by wolves. But with what surprise and joy did they hear the well-known neigh, as he came running from a neighboring swamp to greet his long-absent master and friend. The man yielded to the impulse of nature—he threw his arms around the shaggy little neck of the deserted animal, that came fondling around him like a dog, shedding as many tears as he would for the reappearance of a brother who had been, by necessity, abandoned on the edge of winter in the depths of the wilderness. The pony had managed to live all winter in the close thicketed swamps, where occasional juicy shrubs and plants remained not entirely destroyed by the frost.

THE AMERICAN REVIEW:

A WHIGJOURNAL

OF POLITICS, LITERATURE, ART AND SCIENCE.

1847.

The American Whig Review