BOTH VERSIONS ARE IN THIS ONE POST Indian Beach on Grand Manan---Indian Version The Passamaquoddy Indians are favorably known for their industry and athletic ability. Less than a century ago, they were described as laid=back and superstitious. At that time there was a demand for porpoise oil, so many of the Indians lived for a greater part of the year on Grand Manan Island. The writer Decosta visited their favorite beach, still known as Indian Beach in 1868. He describes a novel scene, the bark lodges braced with slabs of stone were scattered along the foot of the high spruce clad cliff; their graceful canoes were drawn up in a row; some of the men were drawing out porpoise oil, others were repairing implements, the women were making baskets, and the children were playing with the dogs. A few years later, they had entirely deserted this spot, although they still camped on nearby beaches. Their strange reason for the avoidance of Indian Beach, which is still remembered by the older residents of the several villages on the Eastern side of the Island. An old mother had become demented while waiting for her husband and two sons to return from porpoise hunting. As autumn approached she was heard continually crooning: “Poor Missy Hun-do, Poor Missy Hun-do, husband and sons drown in canoe” While everyone else was away on a day’s outing she met an ending never fully explained. They found her cabin burned, and Miss Hun-do lying dead in the ruins. The darkness of succeeding nights were filled with phantom noises. “No stay, no more sleep” they said, and began leaving the shore. It is believed that Indians have never since remained until dark on Indian Beach. In their splendor the cliffs are up rearing on grim Grand Manan on the West Side. As they tower unyielding to shocks of the waves that are never at rest. To the North there are Seawalls appearing, and Indian Beach is extended quite widely with smoothly worn rocks from a bluff that the spruce have descended. In the summer there come to the shore a few dulsers; at very low tide to the slippery rocks are their bodies low bending; their harvest then dried with the sunshine. But season before the same headland had rambling around it the homes of the Passamaquoddies, a favorite region they found it. Canoes from it’s shelter would roam, by their paddles so skillfully guided as ready with rifle and lance. When they hunted the porpoise they glided afar. By a little bark home was a mother who paused from her weaving of baskets and seaward would glance as seaward her husbands and sons were leaving. The three not returning one day in the springtime, the usual toil of the mother at home was neglected, not heeding the drying of the oil. The children and dogs at their play, the weaving and busy preparing around her, alone and dejected, she gazed at the skyline despairingly. When maples showed that summer was ended, a craft is still gone from the row on the shore; her lament is expressed in a murmur repeated and low; From her vigil the mother is bended and warn and her tresses are gray. She is now one apart from the rest. The Great Spirit has touched her said they. She is left on the beach as the others have left for the day and they find from their returning the Spirits of evil had sway; All her cabin and braces of stone in ruins has spread, while it’s poles are still smoking and burning. And someone lies dead. In amazement they gaze at the sight, while her ending they ponder, in sadness they think of a time she lamented her husband and sons, of the madness that came of her grieving. At night in the darkness around them, it seems Chaos, weirdly accented with footsteps, unearthly with screams. To disturb their repose one by one the canoes left the shore, that for number of seasons were haven of peace. In this region they will stay no more until setting of sun. There is none of the noises to waken; unheeded by seagull and raven, by Indians shunned and forsaken. Indian Beach Island Version The Grand Manan Version: At the time this happened there were a lot of homes out toward the Whistle, some of the foundations are still there; and people also had shacks / camps at Eel Brook Beach and fished from there. Apparently, the story goes that things were being stolen and the Indians were coming to Indian Beach. The lady (Mushy Hen Do they called her) had lost her mind and was seen roaming around so the Island people blamed her for the things that were lost. One day a man or more went to Indian Beach and the place seemed deserted so they set her place afire; later learning that they burned her too. That would explain why the Indians didnt know what had happened to her. And YES may an Islander have heard her screams..
Posted on: Sat, 08 Mar 2014 15:31:36 +0000
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