By and by, in the neighbourhood of the Terrapin Tower, I came upon a gentle daughter of the aborigines in fringed and beaded buckskin moccasins and leggins, seated on a bench, with her pretty wares about her. She had just carved out a wooden chief that had a strong family resemblance to a clothes-pin, and was now boring a hole through his abdomen to put his bow through. I hesitated a moment, and then addressed her:
"Is the heart of the forest maiden heavy? Is the Laughing Tadpole lonely? Does she mourn over the extinguished council-fires of her race, and the vanished glory of her ancestors? Or does her sad spirit wander afar towards the hunting-grounds whither her brave Gobler-of-the-Lightnings is gone? Why is my daughter silent? Has she aught against the paleface stranger?"
The maiden said—
"Faix, an' is it Biddy Malone ye dare to be callin' names? Lave this, or I'll shy your lean carcass over the cataract, ye snivelling blaggard!"
I adjourned from there also.
"Confound these Indians!" I said. "They told me they were tame; but, if appearances go for anything, I should say they were all on the war path."
I made one more attempt to fraternize with them, and only one. I came upon a camp of them gathered in the shade of a great tree, making wampum and moccasins, and addressed them in the language of friendship:—
"Noble Red Men, Braves, Grand Sachems, War Chiefs, Squaws, and High Muck a-Mucks, the paleface
