NIAGARA. 67 



flood poured down so savagely. I raised my head, with open mouth, and the most 

 of the American cataract went down my throat. If I had sprung a leak now, I 

 had been lost. And at this moment I discovered that the bridge had ceased, and 

 we must trust for a foothold to the slippery and precipitous rocks. I never was so 

 scared before and survived it. But we got through at last, and emerged into the 

 open day, where we could stand in front of the laced and frothy and seething world 

 of descending water, and look at it. When I saw how much of it there was, and 

 how fearfully in earnest it was, I was sorry I had gone behind it. 



The noble Red Man has always been a friend and darling of mine. I love to 

 read about him in tales and legends and romances. I love to read of his inspired 

 sagacity, and his love of the wild free life of mountain and forest, and his general 

 nobility of character, and his stately metaphorical manner of speech, and his 

 chivalrous love for the dusky maiden, and the picturesque pomp of his dress and 

 accoutrements. Especially the picturesque pomp of his dress and accoutrements. 

 When I found the shops at Niagara Falls full of dainty Indian bead-work, and 

 stunning moccasins, and equally stunning toy figures representing human beings who 

 carried their. weapons in holes bored through their arms and bodies, and had feet 

 shaped like a pie, I was filled with emotion. I knew that now, at last, I was going 

 to come face to face with the noble Red Man. 



A lady clerk in a shop told me, indeed, that all her grand array of curiosities 

 were made by the Indians, and that they were plenty about the Falls, and that they 

 were friendly, and it would not be dangerous to speak to them. And sure enough, 

 as I approached the bridge leading over to Luna Island, I came upon a noble Son 

 of the iForest sitting under a tree, diligently at work on a bead reticule. He wore 

 a slouch hat and brogans, and had a short black pipe in his mouth. Thus does 

 the baneful contact with our effeminate civilization dilute the picturesque pomp 

 which is so natural to the Indian when far removed from us in his native haunts. 

 I addressed the relic as follows : — 



" Is the Wawhoo- Wang-Wang of the Whack-a- Whack happy .' Does the great 

 Speckled Thunder sigh for the war path, or is his heart contented with dreaming 

 of the dusky maiden, the Pride of the Forest .' Does the mighty Sachem yearn to 

 drink the blood of his enemies, or is he satisfied to make bead reticules for the 



