THE RED MAN. 
93 
were seldom out of sight of one. We counted more than a dozen 
distinct fountain-heads within a distance of a mile. One filled a 
clear, sandy pool, on level grassy ground, near the bank of the 
river ; another, within the forest, lay in a little rocky basin, lined 
with last year's leaves ; another fell in full measure over a dark 
jliff, moistening a broad space of the rock, which, in winter, it 
never fails to cover with a sheet of frost-work. More than one 
lay among the roots of the forest trees ; and others, again, kept us 
company on the highway, running clear and bubbling through the 
ditches by the road-side. There is a quiet beauty about them all 
which never fails to give pleasure. There is a grace in their 
purity — in their simplicity — which is soothing to the spirit ; and, 
perhaps among earth's thousand voices, there is none other so 
sweetly humble, so lowly, yet so cheerful, as the voice of the 
gentle springs, passing on their way to fill our daily cup. 
When standing beside these unfettered springs in the shady 
wood, one seems naturally to remember the red man ; recollec- 
tions of his vanished race linger there in a more definite form 
than elsewhere ; we feel assured that by every fountain among 
these hills, the Indian brave, on the hunt or the war-path, must 
have knelt ten thousand times, to slake his thirst, and the wild 
creatures, alike his foes and his companions, the tawny panther, 
the clumsy bear, the timid deer and the barking wolf, have all 
lapped these limpid waters during the changing seasons of past 
ages. Nay, it is quite possible there may still be springs in re- 
mote spots among the hills of this region, yet untasted by the 
white man and his flocks, Avhere the savage and the beast of prey 
were the last who drank. And while these recollections press 
upon us, the flickering shadows of the wood seem to assume the 
