adventures, real or fictitious, one may see in them epitomized the
adventures of many and many men, English, French, Spanish, Dutch, blazers
of the material path for the present civilization.

* Those who would strike John Smith from the list of historians will
commend the author's caution to the reader before she lets the Captain tell
his own tale. Whatever Smith may not have been, he was certainly a
consummate raconteur. He belongs with the renowned story-tellers of the
world, if not with the veracious chroniclers.--Editor.


In December, rather autumn than winter in this region, he starts with the
shallop and a handful of men up a tributary river that they have learned to
call the Chickahominy. He is going for corn, but there is also an idea that
he may hear news of that wished-for South Sea.

The Chickahominy proved itself a wonderland of swamp and tree-choked
streams. Somewhere up its chequered reaches Smith left the shallop with men
to guard it, and, taking two of the party with two Indian guides, went on
in a canoe up a narrower way. Presently those left with the boat
incautiously go ashore and are attacked by Indians. One is taken, tortured,
and slain. The others get back to their boat and so away, down the
Chickahominy and into the now somewhat familiar James. But Smith with his
two men, Robinson and Emry, are now alone in the wilderness, up among
narrow waters, brown marshes, fallen and obstructing tree trunks. Now come
the men-hunting Indians - the King of Pamaunck, says Smith, with two hundred
bowmen. Robinson and Emry are shot full of arrows. Smith is wounded, but
with his musket deters the foe, killing several of the savages. His eyes
upon them, he steps backward, hoping he may beat them off till he shall
recover the shallop, but meets with the ill chance of a boggy and icy