THE BISON, OR BUFFALO. 285 



from it anything but a miserable accompaniment 

 to a song or ballad. The day before I left New 

 York, Daniel Simonton happened to look on to 

 superintend my preparations, and seeing the 

 guitar hanging up in a corner of the room, 

 advised me strongly to pack it up with the rest 

 of my baggage. 



"What on earth can I do with such rubbish?" 

 cried I. " We are not going to hunt buffaloes with 

 guitars, or, like Orpheus, charm the birds and wild 

 beasts with its primitive music." 



" Certainly not," he replied, " but it may be use- 

 ful to charm — not wild beasts, but men." 



"How so?" 



" Never mind, pack it up." 



This was how it came to pass that I took a guitar 

 to the camp of the Sioux Indians, and there it 

 remained almost forgotten in its black case, and at 

 the bottom of one of the carts, until one evening 

 Mr. Simonton remembered it. We had just supped, 

 and were smoking our pipes around a blazing fire, 

 when Mr. Simonton ordered Gemmel, one of our 

 Canadian servants, to go and look up the black box. 

 It was soon forthcoming, and then Mr. Simonton, 

 having opened and unpacked it from the silk hand- 

 kerchief in which it was wrapped up, exhibited it 

 to the Red Skins, who were crowding round with 

 infantine curiosity. 



"Now, my dear friend," said he, "now or never 



