A FOBEBODING OF MISFORTUNE. 139 



There are very few and thank goodness for it who 

 rise from their bed in the morning as unrefreshed as when 

 they stretched their weary limbs upon it to crave for rest. 

 It was exactly in this unenviable state I felt when I 

 pulled myself together to turn out as the sun was breaking 

 on a misty morning. Dozed I might have, rested I had 

 not, but day had broken, and I felt thankful, for although 

 weary, thirsting for rest, in whatever position I lay, on 

 whatever side I reclined, sleep obstinately refused to come 

 to my eyelids. True, twice I had to turn out of my warm 

 and snug blankets to see what disturbed my mare and mule, 

 but this was a nightly occurrence ; nevertheless a load 

 seemed settled upon my spirits in fact I had a foreboding 

 of misfortune. But daylight at length came. How blessed 

 is its appearance to the storm-tossed mariner, the invalid on 

 a sick couch, aye, and to the wanderer who is far beyond 

 civilisation a sojourner in a laud where savage brutes and 

 doubly savage man surround him, craving for the darkness 

 of night to accomplish his destruction ! At the period I 

 speak of I was among the Black Hills, at that time, 

 although not many years since, the favourite retreat of the 

 grizzly bear, and the frequent lurking-place of the young 

 brave, or war party of Indians, craving for an opportunity, 

 to shed an enemy's blood. To win honour they had left their 

 tribe, and to return with a scalp was to reap the reward. 



When day became sufficiently advanced, and the mists 

 that wrapped the valley in their impenetrable shroud had 

 rolled up the hill-sides, I sedulously searched around my 

 solitary bivouac to find if there were grounds for my 

 uneasiness. In gradually increasing circles I walked around 



