THE MUSEUM. 



253 



day, thousands of souls and tons of 

 freight. The waters of the artificial 

 canal, like a great river, glimmer in 

 the sun, and help in making the Mo- 

 hawk valley the greatest thoroughfare 

 of the whole world. Lines of tele- 

 graph and telephone wires are stretch- 

 ed through the valley, connecting one 

 end of the countrx' with the other. 



We hear the rattle of the mowing 

 machine and reaper, and the hum of 

 the steam thrasher. Busy villages, 

 towns and cities are standing where 

 formerly stood the rude huts of the 

 Redman. 



Before the white man's march sav- 

 age nature in man and forest have de- 

 parted; the sound of the war-whoop 

 has given place to the shout of the 

 farmer; the laughing waters are made 

 to turn the busy mills, and the In- 

 dian's trail is trod by the wheel of the 

 untiring locomotive, which goes 

 screeching and thundering through the 

 valley. So the ravages of the axe, 

 plow and time have nearly obliterated 

 every trace to prove that this was the 

 domain of the once proud and power- 

 ful Mohawk. 



As they had no written language, 

 poetry or music, history soon becomes 

 lost. They have passed away from 

 among us, scarcely leaving upon the 

 laud any memento of their greatness. 

 Were it not for the occasional finding 

 of their flint and other stone imple- 

 ments, there would scarcely be left a 

 trace of their ever having e.xisted. 



We shudder as we look .upon it, 

 and can scarcely realize so vast a 

 change. It is the law of God. The 

 world must be occupied and subdued, 

 and civilized man must occupy and 

 subdue it. 



Yet writers complain that "we have 



no antiquity, no mystery, no dim 

 lights and deep shadows, where the 

 imagination of the story teller may 

 flower and bear fruit.'" It does not 

 take the romantic dreams of the poet 

 to picture in imagination the American 

 Indian, his glades and groves, like the 

 fauns and satyrs and sylvan dieties of 

 antiquity. 



But should we venture upon the 

 dark story of their wrongs, tell how 

 they were invaded, corrupted and de- 

 spoiled, (lri\en from their native 

 abodes and graves of their fathers; 

 hunted like wild beasts about the earth 

 to the grave — posterity will either 

 turn with horror and incredulity from 

 the tale, or blush with indignation at 

 the inhumanity of their forefathers. 



They left no monuments behind 

 them like the Mound Builders, whose 

 works are scattered all over the cen- 

 tral part of our country— high interro- 

 gation points of deep significance 

 though they are — and subjects for 

 sharp speculation. 



The visions of the Mohawk's event- 

 ful history are sad ones. We have 

 but a few leaves torn from the great 

 book of human fate; they ifutter from 

 us on the winds of time--growing 

 fainter and fainter, and finally fade 

 away like the closing day into the 

 deeper shadows of night. 



RoBT. M. Hartley, 

 Amsterdam, N. Y. 



A Useful Weed. 



Growing by the dusty roadside of 

 any northern state, may be seen the 

 common Chicory {Cichoriiiui Litybiis 

 L.), a near relative of the Garden En- 

 dive or Succory. This plant though 

 contemptuously dubbed a weed on ac- 



