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chronicler of his tribe in peace. Like 

 many another, he has laid down the 

 gun for the pen, and, following in 

 the path trod by the worthy Cellini, 

 the glory of his deeds has lost none 

 in the telling. 



Pictograph is the Indian written 

 language, as originally it was ours. 

 But we have long since evolved "S" 

 from a striking serpent that hisses and 

 ' 'M" from the crude outline of a cow's 

 head saying " Moo," while the Indian, 

 well-contented, has continued to fol- 

 low the customs of his ancestors, 

 knowing not the unchanging name 

 of a tree but the look of it in all 

 weathers and all seasons. His own 

 barometer, compass, architect, food- 

 provider and defender, he needs none 

 of the complicated civilised machin- 

 ery, and his library is always spread 

 before him. Hence the pictograph 

 serves sufficiently well now, as in 

 the Stone Age. 



Through an interpreter I asked 

 Don't-walk-on-top if the Indians 

 had any jokes, whereupon he drew, 

 amid much chuckling among the by- 

 standers, one of the old reliablesfrom 

 the stock-in-trade of the human race, 



