INDIAN MAIDEN. 



251 



dling that old man over the lake, I have sighed over 

 her fate. She seems wrapt up in him, and to have 

 but one thought — one purpose of life — to guard and 

 nurse her parent. The hour that sees her sitting 

 by the camp-fire beside her dead father, will wit- 

 ness a grief as intense and desolate as ever visited 

 a more cultivated bosom. Grod help her then. I 

 can conceive of no sadder sight than that forsaken 

 maiden, in some tempestous night, sitting all in the 

 forest, holding the dead or dying head of her father, 

 while the moaning winds sing his dirge, and the 

 flickering fire sheds a ghastly light on the scene. 



How strong is habit. That old man cannot be per- 

 suaded to sit down in peace beneath a quiet roof — 

 ministered to and cherished as his wants require — but 

 still clings to his wandering life, and endures hunger, 

 cold, and fatigue, and wanders houseless and home- 

 less. He continues to hunt, though his shot seldom 

 strikes down a deer ; and he still treads the forest, 

 though his trembling limbs but half perform their 

 office, and his aged shoulders groan under the burden 

 of his light canoe. I saw him looking at a handful of 

 specimens of birch bark he had collected, and balanc- 



