AN INDIAN HUNTER. 53 



husband had ridden into a village some miles off, and 

 whose return was expected every moment. The warm 

 stove restored my benumbed limbs to fresh life, which 

 a cup of hot coffee served to heighten. The husband, 

 a good-natured German, came back in the course of an 

 hour. He had arrived in the country three years ago, 

 without a farthing, and now he had a nice little house, 

 a portion of land, and plenty of work. We went to 

 bed about ten o'clock. It snowed heavily all night, so, 

 in the hopes of good sport, I started early, and, as my 

 host would not accept money, I left him the ducks I 

 had killed yesterday. Loading my left barrel with 

 buck-shot, and fixing fresh caps, I hastened out of the 

 hot room, and inhaled in long draughts the fresh 

 morning air. 



After an hour's march, and shooting nothing more 

 than a pheasant and a rabbit, I was startled by seeing 

 a man approach unlike any I had ever seen before. I 

 soon found that he was a civilized Indian. He was 

 dressed in a short woollen frock, blue cloth trowsers, 

 with broad seams, mocassins on his feet, glass earrings 

 in his ears, and on his head a red woollen shawl, wound 

 like a turban, under which sparkled his dark fiery eyes, 

 while his black straight hau' hung over his temples. 

 He carried the long American rifle, and had altogether 

 a bold and romantic appearance. His Indian belt, 

 ornamented with beads, held a tomahawk; and his 

 powder-horn and shot-belt hung on his right side. 

 After a short and friendly greeting, we attempted to 

 converse, — but that was no easy matter, he speaking 

 broken Englisli, while I was, as yet, only partially 

 acquainted with that language. On my asking him if 

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