MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
JAN. 26 . 
laims’ '(loti-folio. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
[[Messrs. Shbldon, Lamport * Blakemax, of this city, 
have just published a beautiful volume of Poems by the 
Rev. S. Drtden Phelps, D. D., of New Haven, Ct., uuder 
the title of “ Sunlight and Ilearthlight.” The poems ate 
the language of a heart that has the truest appreciation of 
the natural world, and of that miniature world of love and 
hope, that is found in every genuine home. The following 
poem is taken from the book, and it will awaken answering 
chords in the heart of every father blessed with a “ baby 
boy.”— N. Y. Examiner.'] 
ALL ALONE, MY BABY BOY. 
All alone, my baby boy, 
Little, living fount of joy, 
Standing on thy tiny feet, 
Trembling, tottering, smiling sweet; 
Canst thou walk, unled, unaided, 
On the parlor floor paraded ? 
Looking comical and queer, 
Arms extended as in fear, 
Infant pilgrim, now begin, 
Try thy skill and thou shalt win : 
There ! one little step is taken, 
By it all thy form is shaken. 
One more, swinging to and fro, 
Lost your balance — down you go ; 
Up again by stool or chair, 
Take another venture fair; 
Walking is a mighty matter — 
Make your little feet to clatter. 
Come, my darling, come to me, 
Laughing, crowing in your glee ; 
See, your father’s beckoning anus 
Wait to shield from hurts or harms : 
Ha 1 you’ve started, tripping, running, 
Hands outstretched, and steps so cunning. 
0 my precious baby boy, 
Father’s pride and mother’s joy, 
Many charms in thee are found, 
Many hopes in thee are bound, 
Kindest hands to thee are proffered, 
Earnest prayers for thee are offered. 
All alone, my blessed child, 
Now so winning, sweet and mild, 
Though with crowds, along the way 
Of life’s opening, closing day, 
Thou must walk, thyself immortal, 
Toward the Future’s solemn portal. * 
Take no evil path, my boy, 
Make not bitter all our joy ; 
Oh, may every step of thine 
Guided be by love divine ; 
Walk, alone, the path of duty — 
Path of safety and of beaut®-. 
Then thy faithful feet at last, 
When this earthly scene is past, 
Shall, within the heavenly gate, 
Walk, with highest joy elate, 
On the banks of Life’s pure river, 
Bright with glories fading never. 
EMBROIDERY. „ 
[This subject is casually touched upon in one of a series 
of works entitled “ Studien,” by Adalbert Stifter. The 
author is describing, in a letter to a friend whom he calls 
Titus, the accomplishments (of the mind and heart) of one 
angelic maiden, and then notices several accomplishments 
% a different kind, “ which the fair ones of Vienna would j 
be ashamed not to possess,” which, however, Angela (the 
person whose character is delineated) has never learned. 
Among these is Embroidery. The chivalric author then 
proceeds to give his views relative to this accomplishment. 
These so struck me by their novelty, when I first read them, 
that I determined to translate them for the benefit of the 
many fair readers of the Rural, hoping that they will ap¬ 
pear no less striking to them. Whether the views are 
•‘paradoxical, but nevertheless true,” it is beyond my 
province to determine. The subject is, of course, “ open 
for debate,” and she (or he) may take up the gauntlet 
against our author, if he seems heterodox to her. With 
these introductory remarks, I present the article itself, 
literally in an English dress.— Translator.] 
Noe is she skilled in embroidering, of which 
her teacher used to say, that it was the most 
sinful wasting of time. For the thing which 
is after long toil accomplished, is after all no 
work of art. If it is beautiful, the pattern de¬ 
serves the credit, not the imitator. In most 
cases, however, it docs not even approach the 
most mediocre painting; nor can it, in conse¬ 
quence of its being manufactured, attain to such. 
And yet it costs so much time and toil, as would 
make one a real artist in colors. Moreover, 
embroidery cannot serve as furniture, since so 
much time and money have been laid out 
thereon, that it becomes impossible, without 
ceremonies, to render it of immediate utility, 
inasmuch as quilts, tapestry, <Lc., can be pro¬ 
cured in very elegant and magnificent styles, 
and for a far less expenditure of toil and money. 
The working—and this is the most mournful 
f ac t—does not confer even the least benefit; 
for do but consider how many beautiful thoughts 
and emotions might pass through the heart of 
the young maiden, while she, in a compressed 
and crooked position, performs the mechanical 
operation, and wields the variegated woolen 
threads. Yes, Titus, this tedious, dead copying 
of form into form, desolates the heart and blunts 
the understanding. Posterity will one day be 
amazed to learn, that the daughters of the most 
distinguished generations could employ three- 
fourths of their youthful age in such a spiritless 
performance, by which a mongrel of an art and 
ornament was achieved, whose merits consisted 
in a million of stitches. 
Then, again, how injurious it is to health, 
when the blooming, flowery, budding form of 
youthfulness is wedged in, and for hours perse¬ 
veres in a posture unnatural to it, and made still 
more unnatural, in the zealous progress of the 
work, by the repeated inclinations, by the 
pressing of the frame to the breast, and the like. 
Really, Titus, I often thought, when I saw 
such a fair, blossoming form bending over her 
delicate needle-work,—poor, lovely flower, they 
have thrown a dark bushel over the leaves of 
your heart, so that you know-nothing of pure 
air and sunshine. If you would instead pass 
that time in sunning yourself in the manifold 
beams which bring their lighfto us from so 
many great hearts of the past, how you could 
thus unfold your blossom! If you would in¬ 
stead stand in the breath of God, which wafts 
from mountain to mountain, how- you would 
spread open the large, fresh leaves of your soul, 
and in gladness admire the beauty of the world ! 
To be sure, the kind, pretty heads say : “ But 
we are glad to fashion such things, and then to 
behold the work of our hands in the drawing¬ 
room ; we are delighted to see it adorn the 
furniture, and we rejoice that it will one day 
call to our mind the happy days of youth.” 
“You amiably sweet creatures,” I on the 
other hand reply, “yes, do continue to fashion, 
but at the same time something more beautiful, 
—if the impulse of plasticity has indeed over¬ 
powered you, — something, too, which is far 
easier;—learn that there is a fashioning, a 
creating of one’s own heart, a moulding of this 
beautiful work of art — an accumulation and 
appropriation of the greatest thoughts which 
exalted mortals before us have thought, and left 
us as a noble inheritance. Yes, learn that you 
may, with ease, be able to mould something of 
real art,— that wells forth from the free soul,— 
not as the false impulse of a foreign stock — 
which, moreover, as a far nobler chain of flowers, 
will carry you back to the days of your youth. 
But if you will contend by saying, that you are 
pleased in just such a way and no other,—that 
pleasure is your object,—then I will refute you 
no longer, for there must exist people who will 
find delight in such things, because they can¬ 
not enjoy a higher bliss. I recollect with what 
sympathy I once contemplated a fatuous lady, 
seeing how heartily delighted she felt in count¬ 
ing a large quantity of green and blue marbles, 
by removing them alternately from the table to 
the bench, and from the-bench to the table, and 
SHUTTING DOORS, 
“ Don’t look so cross, Edward, when I call 
you back to shut the door; grandpa’s old bones 
feel the cold wind; and besides, you have got 
to spend your life in shutting doors, and you 
might as v r ell begin now.” 
“ Do forgive me, grandpa, I ought to be asham¬ 
ed to be cross to you. But what do you mean ? 
I ain’t going to be a sexton. I am going to 
be a lawyer.” 
“ Well, admitting all that, I imagine ‘ Squire 
Edward C-’ will have a good many doors to 
shut, if ever he makes much of a man.” 
“ What kind of doors ? Do tell me, grandpa.” 
“ Sit down a minute, and I’ll give you a list. 
In the first place, the door of your cars must be 
closed against the bad language and evil coun¬ 
sel of the boys and young men you will be at 
school or college with, or you will be undone. 
Let them once get possession of that door, and I 
would not give much for Edward C.’s future 
prospects. 
“ The door of your eyes, too, must be shut 
against bad books, idle novels, and low, wicked 
newspapers, or your studies will be neglected, 
and you will grow up a useless, ignorant man. 
You will have to close them sometimes against 
the fine things exposed in the store windows, or 
you will never learn to lay up money, or have 
any left to give away. 
“ The door of your lips will need especial care, 
for they guard an unruly member, which makes 
great use of the bad company let in at the doors 
of the eyes and ears. That door is very apt to 
blow open; and if not constantly watched, will 
let out angry, trifling, or vulgar words. It will 
back-bite something worse than a March wind, 
if it is left open too long. I would advise you 
to keep it shut much of the time till you have 
laid up a store of knowledge, or at least till you 
have something valuable to say. 
“ The inner door of your heart must be well 
shut against temptation; for conscience, the 
door-keeper, grows very indifferent if you dis¬ 
regard his call; and sometimes drops asleep at 
his post, and when you may think you are doing 
very well, you are fast going down to ruin. If 
you carefully guard the outside doors of the 
eyes, and ears, and lips, you will keep out many 
cold blasts of sin, which get in before you think. 
“ This shutting doors, you see, Eddy, will be 
a serious business; one on which your well¬ 
doing in this life and the next depends.”— 
American Messenger. 
A BEAUTIFUL SENTIMENT. 
“ The moon looked calmly down where man was dying, 
The earth still holds her way ; 
Flowers breathe their perfume, and the winds keep sighing; 
Naught seems to pause or stay!” 
Clasp the hands meekly over the still breast, 
for they’ve no more work to do ; close the weary 
eyes—for they’ve no more tears to shed ; part 
the damp locks — there’s no more pain to bear. 
Closed is the ear alike to love’s kind voice and 
calumny’s stinging whispers. 
0, if in that still heart you have ruthlessly 
planted a thorn ; if from that pleading eye you 
have carelessly turned away ; if your loving 
glance, and. kindly hand, have come — all too 
late—then God forgive you ! No frown gathers 
on the marble brow as you gaze — no scorn curls 
the chiseled lips—no flush of wounded feeling 
mounts the blue-veined temples. 
God forgive you ! for your feet too must 
shrink appalled from death’s cold river — your 
faltering tongue ask : “ Can this be death ?” 
Your saddening eye lingers lovingly on the 
sunny earth; your clammy hands yield their 
last feeble flutter. 
0, rapacious grave! yet another victim for 
thy voiceless keeping ! What, no words of 
greeting from a sister’s loving lips? No throb 
of pleasure from the dear, maternal bosom ? 
Silent all ? 
0, if this be broken up ! If beyond death’s 
swelling flood there was no eternal shore ! If 
athwart that lowering .cloud sprung no bright 
bow of promise ! 
Alas for life if this be all, 
And naught beyond — on earth. 
©lioitB fJlioteUaity, 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MY NATIVE HILLS. 
BY FRANCES A. BLANCHARD. 
— 
1 My dear native hills, how my heart clings to you 
1 As I gaze on your summits of emerald hue, 
I loved you in chlidhood, when, fearless and gay, 
I toyed with the wild winds, as wonton as they, 
And climbed thy steep sides that seemed ever to smile 
As bright as the world’s friends, and more free from guile, 
I’ve plucked thy sweet flowers, and drank of the rills 
That claimed as their birth-place my own native hills. 
The far West may boast of its prairie-like seas, 
Whose flower-crowned billows are rolled by the breeze, 
Of its forests of shade deep, solemn, and vast, 
Through which but the foot of the red man hath passed, 
But mine be the tall trees that claim as their throne, 
The glorious hills that encircle my homo, 
Those proud hills, that shelter from winter’s rude gale, 
The cot of my father's that rests in the vale ; 
Mine the songbirds, the flowers, and the murmuring rills, 
That add such bright charms to my dear native hills. 
Yes, truly I love thee, in sunshine or snow, 
In the calm summer day, or when wintry winds blow, 
Or when the sad autnmn has changed thy bright dress, 
And somberly robed thee in quakerish vest,— 
My lone heart turns to thee with tears of relief, 
When wearied with world cares, tfith turmoil and grief, 
And wherever I stray, whate’er be my lot, 
For me earth can picture no lovelier spot. 
Gerry, N. Y., 1S56. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
TRUTH. 
Tiie only true basis of character and sure 
foundation upon which beings, that in time live 
I for eternity, may build with assurance, is truth. 
I The man who would aspire to that position, 
! which, were he true to his own nature, he would 
\ occupy, must comprehend in all its bearings 
the influence of truth over his destiny, carry 
out into constant practice its principles, and 
show forth in his outward life the practical 
effects of its workings and power. 
Success and apparent stability may be at¬ 
tained through other agencies; but while they 
seem to elevate him who subjects himself to 
their direction, an influence and power is exer¬ 
cised over his spirit that will, in time, drag him 
from his false position, and humble in the dust 
his pride, fostered by baseless and superficial 
acquirements. Men may reach positions, which 
in themselves command respect, through low 
finesse and contemptible chicanery, through the 
practice of those superlatively mean arts of 
trickery, which in the present age constitute the 
sine qua non to political preferment, but such 
honors and character, at the touch of time, shall 
fade, and 
“ Like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
Leave not a wreck behind,” 
and History, that weighs men in her impartial 
balances, shall consign each aspiring sycophant 
to his deserved place, in the pale realms of 
oblivion. 
But. let man erect on the eternal foundations of 
right, his superstructure of reputation or happi¬ 
ness, and it shall withstand the power of life’s 
conflicting elements, the waste and wreck of 
time ; though its towers rear their heads to 
ihe stars, no tempest of envy, nor malignant 
tornado can stir it from its solid bed. 
Let the youth interweave his hopes, his aspi¬ 
rations and his ambition, with the principles of 
truth and justice, and the prize which he would 
win shall be gained ; the goal for which he 
strives shall be reached, as certain as cause pro¬ 
duces its legitimate effects; no adverse influ¬ 
ence, no opposing current, nor combination of 
powers, can retard his onward progress ; ob¬ 
stacles may meet him in his course, bitter foes 
may hedge in his pathway, armed battallions of 
darkness may spring forth to give him battle, 
but with the burning sword of living Truth, 
fresh from the armory of God, he will cut his 
way through the hosts of ignorance, and 
triumph. 
Truth is invincible, and he who goes forth 
into life’s turmoil and strife, clad in its armor, 
shall prevail, though his foes equal the hosts of 
Sennacherib, and from the last great conflict 
shall come off more than conqueror. ii. 
Lima, N. Y., 1856. 
WHAT DOES HURRAH MEAN!* 
« Hurrah,” says the Dalmatian Observer, “is 
pure Sclavonian, and is commonly heard from 
the coasts of Dalmatia to Behring’s Straits, when 
any of the population living within those lim¬ 
its are called on to give proof of courage and 
valor. The origin of the word belongs to the 
primitive idea that every man that dies heroi¬ 
cally for his country goes strait to heaven, (Hu- 
raj — to Paradise ,) and it is so that in the shock 
and ardor of battle, the combatants utter that 
cry, as the Turks do ‘Allah !’'each animating 
himself by the hope of immediate recompense 
to forget earth and contemn death.”— Selected. 
The destinies of a nation depend less on the 
greatness of the few, than the virtues or vices 
of the many. Eminent individuals cast further 
the features of her glory or shame; but the re¬ 
alities of her weal or woe lie deep in the great 
mass. The curling tops of lofty waves are the 
crests of the ocean, but from its depths flow the 
overpowering strength of its tides.— Colton. 
Speak Boldly.— We more than admire to hear 
the young man speak out bravely, boldly and 
determined, as if it was an out-stretching of 
his entire nature—a reflection of his inner soul. 
It tells of something that is earnest, sober, seri¬ 
ous ; of something that will race and battle with 
the world when the way is open for it. 
TnE Past. —Four things come not back; the 
spoken word, the sped arrow, the past life, and 
neglected opportunity.— Selected. 1 
LONGFELLOW’S HIAWATHA. 
The London Athenaeum thus speaks of Long¬ 
fellow’s last poem : 
At length we have an American song by an 
American singer. For many years we have 
been preaching, on this side of the great waters, 
the political doctrine of America for Americans. 
Mr. Longfellow has essayed to remove this 
literary reproach. He has taken for his theme 
an Indian legend. The tale itself is beautiful, 
fanciful, and new, and he has worked it up into 
a poem of many parts. The measure is novel 
as well as the matter. It is a rhymeless verse, 
with something of forest music in its rise and 
fall. In it, we hear, as it were, the swaying of 
trees, the whir of winds, the pattering of leaves, 
the trickling of water. Hiawatha is a sort of 
Indian Cadmus — a personage known, we are 
told, in many of the native tribes as a legendary 
being of miraculous birth, who came to teach 
the red man how to clear the forest, to sow the 
fields with grain, to read and write. Mr. Long¬ 
fellow has taken this ancient legend as the basis 
of his work ; he has also woven into the texture 
of his poem a few other and more original tradi¬ 
tions found among the red race; and he has 
produced, in an imaginary memoir of the hero 
— Hiawatha — a picture of Indian life, as it 
exists in the forest and by the river, full of light 
and color, repose and action. 
The song of Hiawatha moves, throughout, in 
a beautiful and simple measure. Except in 
good hands, an instrument so artless would in¬ 
deed fail. The line would tire on the ear. But 
Mr. Longfellow has contrived even to give 
variety to a measure evidently chosen for its 
sad and tender monotone. The verse is con¬ 
structed (sometimes with a sudden check at the 
end of a line, like an organ stop, or the blow of 
a hammer — sometimes with a dropping sylla¬ 
ble, like water rushing over a ledge of rock, 
which throws the music over into the next line,) 
so that, in despite its sameness of cadences, it 
scarcely palls on the ear, even at the five thou¬ 
sandth verse. The poem is sweet and simple, 
is full of local and national color, has a tone and 
ring of its own ; in a word, the story of Hiawa¬ 
tha is the poet’s most original production. We 
shall be glad to find Mr. Longfellow, on a future 
day, still working at this poetic mine. America 
has found a Pactolus within her border; why 
should not her poets endow her with a new 
Parnassus. 
Pictures Without Frames. —The countenance 
is the title-page to the book of the soul, and it 
may also be regarded as the preface—a portion 
of the work we should by no means leave 
unread. 
As without the sun there could be no sunlight, 
so without Christ there could be no Christians. 
And as the sun’s rays enlighten and enliven the 
world—although they are not the sun — so 
Christians, too, are the light and life of the 
world. 
A noble mind, weighed down and obscured 
by suffering, may lie likened to one of the plain 
wooden clocks of our forefathers’ days. A 
glance at the outside discloses nothing brilliant 
or beautiful; nothing strikes the eye but the 
dark heavy weights which give it motion. But 
for usefulness these are the best of clocks. 
With our finite understanding we comprehend 
sacred things just as a child, which has just 
acquired a knowledge of the alphabet, might be 
supposed to read a volume — what manner of 
insight into its contents would it gain ?— Scl. 
Tiie Charm of Rhyme. —Who can doubt the 
innate charm of rhyme whose eye has ever been 
delighted by the visible consonance of the tree 
growing at once toward an upward and a down¬ 
ward heaven, on the edge of an unrippled river, 
or as the king-fisher flits from shore to shore, 
his silent echo flies under him and completes 
the vanishing couplet in the visionary world 
below ? Who can question the divine validity 
of number, proportion and harmony, who has 
studied the various rhythms of the forest?— 
Look, for example, at the pine, how its branches, 
balancing each other, ray out from the tapering 
stem in stanza, how spray answers to spray and 
leaf to leaf in ordered strophe and anti-strophe, 
till the perfect tree stands an embodied ode, 
through which the unthinking wind cannot 
wander without finding the melody that is in 
it, and passing away in music.— Lowell. 
A Noble Wish.— Here is a noble wish' from 
Tennyson’s “ Maud,” with which every true 
heart will sympathize : 
Ah, God, for a man with a heart, head, hand, 
Like some of the simple great ones gone 
Forever and ever by ; 
One still strong man in a blatant land, 
Whatever they call him, what care I ? 
Aristocrat, autocrat, democrat, one 
Who can rule and dare not lie. 
There is reason to fear the ruin of that people 
who thrive by their losses and multiply by be¬ 
ing diminished. Be not too hasty to bury the 
Church before she is dead ; stay till Christ has 
tried his skill, before you give her up for lost.— 
Flavel. 
Worth Remembering. —The great secret of 
avoiding disappointment is not to expect too 
much. Despair follows immoderate hope, as 
things fall hardest to the ground that have been 
nearest to the sky. 
Men often choose envenomed praises, which, 
by a re-action, expose faults in those they are 
praising, which they would not dare to discover 
in any other way; poisoned pudding kills, 
though its flavor puts it beyond suspicion. 
There are reproaches which praise, and 
praises which convey satire. 
A FIRESIDE STORY. 
[ Concluded from page 36, this number.] 
I Avas totally unarmed, for I had left my pis¬ 
tols on the boat, and even if they had been with 
me, they would have been of little use in pro¬ 
tecting me against those four ruffians, with load¬ 
ed rifles in their hands. Accordingly I sub¬ 
mitted, and they binding my arms behind my 
back, drove me through the woods for several 
miles. At length we stopped before the door 
of a log cabin, which was opened by one of my 
captors, and we entered. In one end of the 
room, which Avas large, a huge fire roared and 
crackled in the spacious chimney, diffusing 
throughout the apartment what was to me, after 
my excitement and exercise, an uncomfortable 
degree of heat. Several pieces of venison Avcre 
roasting in the flames, and in one corner of the 
chimney hung a prodigious iron pot, filled with 
materials for a broth. Against the Avail oppo¬ 
site to us, stood a long table, made of slabs split 
from logs, with round poles for legs. It was 
covered Avith wooden bowls and platters, and in 
the center stood an enormous demijohn: There 
were two or three rough benches for seats, and 
in one corner a pile of furs, which apparently 
were used for bedding. There Avere seven or 
eight men in the room, some engaged in clean¬ 
ing their rifles and moulding bullets, and others 
attending to the breakfast that was cooking in 
the fire. Drake stood by the table wiping his 
rifle. When his eyes rested upon me, he paus¬ 
ed at his work, and his features assumed a de¬ 
moniac expression. 
“ Ha, you dog ! I’ve got you then at last; you 
I shall knoAV that the hunter keeps his promise.” 
As he spoke, he drew his knife and advanced 
a steji. 1 looked at him steadily, though I ex¬ 
pected he would plunge his Aveapon through 
my heart. But lie paused his uplifted arm, 
and said sneeringly— 
“ You like the red-skins better than you do 
the hunters, and since you have so strong a re¬ 
gard for them, after breakfast we will make you 
acquainted with some of their most interesting 
ceremonies : and by way of commencement, avc 
Avill pin you up against the wall with our 
knives ; then a few red-hot coals thrown upon 
your naked body, will give you a feeling im¬ 
pression of their deeper mysteries; and to con¬ 
clude, a hundred or so sharpened splinters stuck 
into your flesh and fired, will enlighten your 
understanding upon those points to the fullest 
extent.” He turned to his men. “ Two or three 
of you may get the breakfast on the table, and 
the rest may help me make the splinters. You 
Tom,” he said to one of the fellows who captur¬ 
ed me, “ had better entertain the gentleman, as 
it may be somewhat tedious for him to wait. 
My hands were not unbound. I sat down on 
a bench, and as I rapidly thought over the cir¬ 
cumstances which surrounded me, all hope van¬ 
ished. In a few moments the breakfast was on 
the table, and Drake and his party came in 
Avith several bundles of splinters. 
“Unbind his hands, Tom,” said the stalwart 
ruffian, “ and give him a seat at the table. His 
unaccustomed exercise this morning, undoubt¬ 
edly has given him an appetite.” 
I sat doAvn Avith them and ate heartily. I 
had given up all hope of life. Death was no 
longer an event of uncertainty. The hour-glass 
Avas turned, and the sands Avere fast falling. 
But with that certain knoAvledge of my fate, 
came a relief from all conflicting emotions. My 
heart throbbed as regularly then as it does to¬ 
night, My hunger was as sharp as it naturally 
AA'Ould be after such abstinence and exercise, 
and I viewed that company, and listened to 
their conversation, Avith the same composure 
that I Avould Avere I an unconcerned spectator. 
We had nearly finished eating, Aidiena knock¬ 
ing was heard at the door. The hunters looked 
at one another inquiringly. “ Who’s there ?” 
asked Drake. “ A friend,” replied a A r oice on 
the outside. “ Come in then.” The door Avas 
thrown wide open, and four or five Indians, 
painted and dressed for war, stepped over the 
threshold. I could see the Avaving feathers of a 
numerous band on the outside, pressiing closely 
after their leaders. Drake sprang upon his 
feet, but Avas instantly knocked doAvn by the 
tomahawk of one whom I recognized as Mes- 
shaava. The hunters fought desperately Avith 
their knives, killing several of their assailants. 
But the contest Avas short, though bloody ; half 
of the Avhites Avere slaughtered, and the remain¬ 
der overpowered and bound. 
I stood in a corner a quiet spectator of the 
conflict. I was seized, however, and dragged 
out with the rest of the prisoners. Here I found 
Drake, who had recovered from the effects of 
the blow Avhich had prostrated him, surrounded 
by five or six of his companions, and guarded 
by a part of the Indians. The rest Av'ere sack¬ 
ing the cabin. Presently they came out, bring¬ 
ing Avith them the bundle of splinters. 
Messhaava spoke a few words to his folloAvers, 
who instantly began to prepare more splinters. 
He then approached me, holding my rifle in his 
hands. “ The Indian,” said he, in fluent Eng¬ 
lish, “ never forgets a favor or an injury. You 
saved my life once, and I have noAA r saved yours. 
I saw you Avhen you were taken, and instantly 
collected my men and folloAved your captors 
They meant to burn you, but they shall bo 
burnt themselves. The blaze from their bodies, 
shall fire the cabin, and they shall all consume 
together. But you shall go unscathed, and as 
free as the deer. Here is your rifle. Y r our ca¬ 
noe is on the shore ; if you are active, you can 
join your companions before dark.” 
I took my rifle, shook his hand, and started 
for the river. I found my skiff where I had left 
it, and getting into it, Avas soon gliding doAvn 
the turbid Avaters. I reached the flat-boat at 
sundown, and while the shades of night were 
darkening the forest and river, 1 told my com¬ 
panions the story of my wild adventure. 
