Upon the cliff which beetles o'er the pool,
Two Indians, peering from the brink, appear,
Clad in the gaudy dress their nature craves--
Robes of bright blue and scarlet, but which blend
In happy union with the landscape round.
Near by a wigwam stands--a fire within
Sends out a ruddy glow--and from its roof,
Cone-shaped, a spiral wreath of smoke ascends.
Not far away, though deeper in the woods,
Another hut, with red-men grouped about,
Attracts the eye, and wakens saddened thoughts
Of that brave race who once were masters here,
But now, like autumn leaves, are dying out.--BARRY GRAY.


"Shtop dat noise! shtop dat noise!" vociferated Hans Vanderbum, growing
red in the face with fury, because his repeated commands had received
so little attention.

The scene was deep in the forests of Ohio, a short distance from the
Miami river. An Indian town of twenty-five or thirty lodges here
stood, resembling a giant apiary, with its inhabitants flitting in and
out, darting hither and thither, like so many bees. The time was early
in the morning of a radiant spring, when the atmosphere was still and
charming; the dew lingered upon the grass and undergrowth; birds were
singing in every tree; the sky glowed with the pure blue of Italy; and
the whole wilderness in its bloom looked like a sea of emerald.
Everything was life and exhilaration, one personage alone
excepted--Hans Vanderbum was unhappy!