it NOTES TAKEN. 
poetical ox driver is an anomaly for a more unpoetical 
occupation cannot be imagined. 
June 2d.—Towards morning, the storm subsided, but when 
day dawned, four horses and one yoke of oxen were missing. 
I mounted my horse to search for them, having previously 
despatched a party to assist in getting up the wagons from 
the swamp. In the course of my ride, I met with a very 
agreeable surprise at an Indian house by the roadside, where 
I stopped to make some inquiries, 
My attention had been arrested in passing this house, 
during the storm and darkness of the previous night, by a 
merry ringing langh, and cheerful conversation. On stopping 
this morning, I was met by a kind and courteous welcome 
from one of the inmates, (whose voice I recognized as the 
same,) who hearing my story, invited me to breakfast, and 
made me quite forget. my cares, in the charm of her society, 
A prairie flower, brought up and educated upon the frontier, 
she had never been in a town of any size in her life, but 
though ignorant of the world, and forms of society, I found 
her a proud specimen of native grace, intelligence, and 
affability. A Cherokee, she owed her improvement in mind, 
to the excellent institution founded by Ross, at Talaqua, her 
manners, however, were the result of no convention, but the 
gift of birth and blood. The daughter of a distinguished 
chief of her tribe, her soul was full of the ancient nobility of 
her race, whilst filled with indignation at their wrongs and 
present degradation, and her eye kindled, and her tongue 
