A LITTLE CROSS. 
125 
I confess that during the Centennial I grew a 
little out of patience with a good many people 
of our dear republic. Nothing but physical 
courage seemed to them of any account. They 
never saw those tiny humming-birds, with heads 
no bigger than small peas, that were stuffed and 
lay in their little nest, looking just as they did 
when they were alive— the very triumph of a diffi- 
cult art. They never asked for the person who 
designed that landscape, and gave the numerous 
animals upon it their life-like pose and expres- 
sion; but there was no end of inquiry for “ the 
woman that killed all those ariimals ! ” and of ques- 
tions as to how Mrs. Maxwell killed the great 
buffalo and elk, that one couldn't miss if they 
were near enough to them, any more than they 
could miss an ox ! 
I’m a little cross yet, I guess ; I confess I don’t 
tell the story with a very good grace. But, to 
begin : 
“ Once upon a time” — there’s nothing like 
having a narrative commence with a ring , of 
originality — Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell, and a small 
party, were camping on the plains, when a herd 
of buffalo were seen in the distance, on the op- 
posite side of the Platte. This stream is broad 
and shallow, and its channel ever changing about 
among its shifting sands ; but, in order to reach 
them, they must ford it. Now, this was not such 
