THE ELFIN EXILE. 57 



" Wend your way toward the setting sun, whither the red 

 men are fast retiring before the hurrying footsteps of the pale 

 faces. Where dwells the Indian hunter in the fastnesses of 

 inaccessible, — wilds where the wide prairie spreads its ocean of 

 flowers unrifled by the bee, whose busy hum is so sure a 

 herald of civilization, that it is known among the Indians as 

 ' the white man's fly,' — -where the deer and the buffalo roam 

 amid forests unprofaned by the axe of the settler, — where the 

 dweller in cities has never come with his poisonous ' fire- 

 water,' and his ill-taught creed, — there may still be found the 

 abode of the Elfin Exile, and her dusky lord." 



