time.

During the hay-making season the chief was reconnoitring
in the Schoharie district, which was situated some distance
west of Albany and south of the Mohawk river. The scythe
had been at work in the tall grass, and a farmer's lad
was busy in a sunlit meadow raking hay. As he dragged
the loose bundles over the stubble, he heard a footfall
in his rear. Turning about he saw that a sturdy Indian
dressed in warrior's garb had stolen upon him. The boy
involuntarily raised his rake as though to strike.

'Do not be afraid, young man,' the intruder said in good
English; 'I will not hurt you.'

The warrior then asked the youth in friendly terms where
a Mr Foster, a loyalist, had his dwelling. He went further
and asked the lad his name.

'I know your father well,' said the redskin, when the
boy had answered his questions; 'he lives neighbour to
Captain McKean. I know McKean very well, and a fine fellow
he is too.'

The boy was now quite reassured that the Indian would do
him no harm, and boldly inquired who his interrogator
might be.

'My name is Brant,' answered the redskin, although he
pondered for a moment before replying.