58 TJie Home of tJic Wolverene and Beaver. 



All this was carefully noted by the keen eye of 

 the unseen foe, and some bright morning, when 

 the rising sun was just shooting its golden rays 

 through the breaks in the gloomy fir, and lighting 

 up the graceful foliage of the maple, the war-whoop 

 would echo from the forest, the Huron was at their 

 gates. Then came the rush for rifle, carbine, and 

 sword, the vain attempt to discharge the neglected 

 ordnance, the shriek of affrighted women, and the 

 deeply uttered curse of men bemoaning their own 

 foolish confidence. What need to follow up the 

 scene further. A dozen pale-face scalps hung in 

 the lodges of the tribe, and the white man was 

 driven forth into the wilderness. 



Yes, chief of the Hurons — the War Cloud, the 

 Black Moccassin, the Soaring Eagle, whatever may 

 be your lofty patronymic — you may boast in the 

 council of your triumph over the pale face, and 

 point to the pole on which his locks dangle in the 

 wind, but the whiie man will return, will return 

 armed with a mightier weapon than rifle and steel, 

 with the fire-water that will kindle your brain at 

 first, but will ultimately rob you of every spark of 

 manhood, and leave you degraded, besotted, lost — 

 so lost that you crouch and fawn to him, your 

 former enem}', nay, that you even submit to be 

 spurned by his foot, for the sake of the poison 



