THE LOST TRAIL.





CHAPTER I.


THE SHADOW.

Ye who love the haunts of nature,
Love the sunshine of the meadow,
Love the shadow of the forest,
Love the wind among the branches,
And the rain-shower and the snow-storm,
And the rushing of great rivers.
Listen to these wild traditions.--HIAWATHA.


One day in the spring of 1820, a singular occurrence took place on one
of the upper tributaries of the Mississippi.

The bank, some fifteen or twenty feet in height, descended quite
abruptly to the stream's edge. Though both shores were lined with
dense forest, this particular portion possessed only several sparse
clumps of shrubbery, which seemed like a breathing-space in this sea
of verdure--a gate in the magnificent bulwark with which nature girts