History & Folklore Folk Stories The Romance of Postoffice Rock From Pennsylvania Mountain Stories by Henry W. Shoemaker, Bradford Record Publishing Co., Bradford PA 1908 How long must I bear this bondage, is there no chance to ever get away from here?" These were the words that were whispered to herself by a beautiful young girl one June day, as she leaned over the edge of gigantic rock which overlooked the valley a thousand feet below, where the two branches of the Sinnemahoning come together, and floor off to the east as one. From her looks she was apparently not out of her teens, but her face indicated that she had endured much suffering, giving her a more expressive and intelligent countenance than belonged to most persons of her age and sex. In coloring, she was a brunette, with a perfect oval face. Her prominent eyes were as black as ebony, and her lips were full and sensitive, with the upper lip of Grecian shortness, and her arched nose turned up just a little bit at the end, giving a vivacity to her expression that would never grow old. Her jetty black hair was very profuse, and worn low over her head, while her entire appearance was intensely interesting and attractive. As she gazed off at the wonderful panorama before her she could see range after range of pine covered mountains, some running like level rows, while others were cut up into the most fantastic peaks, every geometrical figure being represented by their diversity until they faded off into a faint line far away to the north. She could follow the course of the river with her eyes to a point where it coiled itself back of the mountains and disappeared. Everything was still, the very vastness of the scene was oppressive! By the river bank she could make out a pair of white herons wading, while smaller birds flew silently from tree to tree. It was at that part of the day when the birds and insects seemed to have ceased their songs and nature had lapsed into a state of calm. She was not alone. A few yards back of her on a flat rock, with his back propped against a hemlock, sat an Indian chief, smoking a pipe. He called himself her "husband." His name which to modern readers would be unspellable and unpronounceable had an English equivalent of "Snowy Owl;" but his appearance was not at all in keeping with that appellation. He was six feet tall, very dark, with exaggeratedly aquiline features, and very small, restless yellow eyes. His head was shaved except for the black top knot that bristled or collapsed with his varying moods. A dozen younger Indians were leaning against trees at respectful distances but no word was passed between any of them, and they had seen the wonderful view from the mountain top too often to be affected by it. The reader may ask for an explanation of the presence of this fine looking white girl among these hideous savages with whom she appeared to be so uncongenial. She was not with them of her own accord. She was a captive. Her name was Jacqueline LeVan, and her birthplace was in Gavarnie, a village up in the mountains between France and Spain. Well educated, she came to America as secretary to her uncle who was in charge of a French trading post located in the West Branch valley, where she spent a year very pleasantly studying the birds, animals, insects, flowers, trees and natives of this wild region, besides making herself very useful to everyone at the post, keeping their accounts and writing their letters. Owing to a fatal quarrel between some Frenchmen and Indians an attack had been made on the trading post, her uncle was killed and she was captured by the savages and taken as a gift to the great chief "Snowy Owl." Of course he was impressed by her beauty and charms and decided upon an instant marriage. There was no such thing as "refusing" him, so they were married according to the fantastic ceremonial of the tribe. During the intervening three years she had borne him two children, but not wishing to figure as the progenitor of a hybrid race had neglected the infants so that they died. This sowed a feeling of bitter hatred and jealousy in "Snowy Owl" and frequently he had been prompted to kill her, but that he wished to prolong her suffering by captivity. She had planned a hundred ways to escape, but he had her surrounded and watched day and night by the tribesman, so she had given up such an idea in despair. As she wanted to get back to France and was deeply religious the oft recurring idea of suicide was repugnant to her. On this morning she was feeling particularly depressed. She had overheard the young Indians discussing an overland journey that was soon to take place, which would keep her further in the wilderness, where escape or rescue would be more difficult than ever. As she leaned over the rocks she thought of the misery of her position, and grew more hopeless every day. She called this great rock the "Postoffice," as from it she could look off into the world beyond and wait there for news, which thus far had never come. While thus meditating she noticed to her infinite surprise the bow of a canoe appearing around the bend in the river. Hastily she looked back of her; old "Snowy Owl" was so abstracted by the atmosphere of his pipe that he was practically asleep, while the younger Indians, imitating the action of their chief, were far over the borderland of dreams. Patiently she waited. Nearer and nearer came the canoe. The white herons rose up and flew away into the woods. She could make out there were three men in the canoe. All were young and each one had a gun by his side as they quietly paddled closer and closer. In the front of the boat she could make out the features of one of them. He was evidently their leader. His rough hunting costume showed off to advantage his sinewy form while his red-brown curly hair emerged from under his coonskin cap. Again she looked around; the Indians still nodded their heads in sleep. Quick as a flash she was on her feet. It was a desperate chance-life or death. With a nimble spring she was on the top of the rock. She had to act with redoubled haste lest the men below in the boat see her and call out to her, thus arousing the Indians, and with rare courage she leaped off into space. Straight down she went. The men in the canoe did not notice her until they heard a crackling of boughs and saw a woman dangling by her tattered skirts in the branches of a big pine tree by the water's edge. They turned their boat inshore and their leader, whose name was Simeon Shaffer, a young hunter from the eastern part of the province, climbed up the tree like a wildcat, and soon had her freed from her predicament. She hastily whispered her story to him and before another moment had elapsed was sitting safely in the canoe on her way down stream. Later when old "Snowy Owl" was stung by a bumblebee he awoke. Jacqueline was gone, leaving not a sign of a trail behind her. They surrounded the mountain, but no trace of her could be found on its slopes. Among his uncouth curses old "Snowy Owl" wisely remarked: "That woman must be the devil."