thou hast been tempted to stray too far from thy place of abode, and art
deprived of light to write down the information thou hast collected, the
fire-fly, which thou wilt see in almost every bush around thee, will be thy
candle. Hold it over thy pocket-book, in any position which thou knowest
will not hurt it, and it will afford thee ample light. And when thou hast
done with it, put it kindly back again on the next branch to thee. It will
want no other reward for its services.

When in thy hammock, should the thought of thy little crosses and
disappointments, in thy ups and downs through life, break in upon thee and
throw thee into a pensive mood, the owl will bear thee company. She will
tell thee that hard has been her fate, too; and at intervals "Whip-poor-
will" and "Willy come go" will take up the tale of sorrow. Ovid has told
thee how the owl once boasted the human form and lost it for a very small
offence; and were the poet alive now he would inform thee that "Whip-poor-
will" and "Willy come go" are the shades of those poor African and Indian
slaves who died worn out and broken-hearted. They wail and cry "Whip-poor-
will," "Willy come go," all night long; and often, when the moon shines,
you see them sitting on the green turf near the houses of those whose
ancestors tore them from the bosom of their helpless families, which all
probably perished through grief and want after their support was gone.

About an hour above the rock of Saba stands the habitation of an Indian
called Simon, on the top of a hill. The side next the river is almost
perpendicular, and you may easily throw a stone over to the opposite bank.
Here there was an opportunity of seeing man in his rudest state. The
Indians who frequented this habitation, though living in the midst of
woods, bore evident marks of attention to their persons. Their hair was
neatly collected and tied up in a knot; their bodies fancifully painted
red, and the paint was scented with hayawa. This gave them a gay and