132 Musings by Camp-Fire and Wayside 



Instantly raising the tomahawk, he buried it in the brain 

 of the nearest Indian, as he sat on the ground at the 

 extremity of the half-circle in which they had formed them- 

 selves. The others, seeing from this the fate which awaited 

 them, cast their eyes to the ground, and without a word, 

 bowed their heads to the stroke which had slaughtered 

 their comrade. Thus ingloriously perished the peace-loving 

 Rayetayah, known among the whites as Old Tassel — and 

 by far the best king who, within historic times, had ruled 

 over the Cherokees. 



I was saying the Indian lived for the present, and 

 sought his pleasure in what was most congenial to 

 him. I do not see much difference, at the core, 

 between him and the civilized man. The latter 

 stalks his victims as stealthily as the red warrior, 

 and he scalps and fleeces and robs and carries off 

 the plunder, and hangs his trophies in his brown- 

 stone wigwam. When the inevitable hour comes, 

 the red man shows the better and sublimer stuff 

 that is in him. He meets his fate with unmoved 

 countenance and unsinking heart. I need not 

 describe what the white man does. Mortal terror 

 and frantic grasping at the straws of possibili- 

 ties for escape do not form a proper scene for 

 derision. 



Did any of the earth's rulers have a retinue of 

 such noble servants? Was there ever a living equal 

 to that of my star-spangled pines? Was there ever 

 such august silence in the circle of one's compan- 

 ions? And then I think that this is the ideal life — 

 that there is no life of such calm happiness to be 



