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Take one case in point. I happen to know an old man who has lived more than forty years on the frontier arid among the Indians. More than twenty years ago he took his little family of children and made the six months journey across the great plains, almost alone and entirely unarmed. I happen to know that this old man, owing to his singularly quiet nature and Quaker-like love of peace, never fired a gun or pistol in his life for any purpose whatever. I happen to know that he made many journeys through the Indian countries; lived and still lives on the border, always unarmed and utterly helpless in the use of arms, and yet never received so much as an uncivil word from an Indian. I am not mistaken in this, for the old man referred to is my father.

Twenty years observation ought to enable one to speak with intelligence on this subject ; arid I am free to say that grandmothers never hold up before naughty children a bigger or more delusive bug-a- boo than this universal fear of Indians.

The village was soon consumed ; and as the smoke went up, black and sullen, from its embers, we turned away towards our cabin. Most of the men had already gone. A sort of chill had fallen over all, and they scarcely spoke to each other now. They were more than sober.

The blood, the burning camp, the cold and cruel butchery, the perfect submission, the savage silence in which the wretches died, the naked, bony forms