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Winter, with his hoary beard and fiery proboscis,
whence hung glittering icicles like jewels
from barbarian nose, now stripped the forest of
its green leaves, the gardens of their blushing
honours, and cast them away like worthless weeds
to wither and die, and return like man, and all
created nature, to their common mother, earth.
There are who complain of the different dispensations
of Providence to man and the world he inhabits;
that the former knows but one fleeting
spring, while the other every revolving year renews
its youthful beauty till the consummation of
all things arrives. But beshrew such pestilent
humgruffians! hath not the wise Dispenser of
all good things made ample amends by giving us
memory to recall our youthful pleasures; fancy
to paint a thousand scenes fairer and more delicious
than spring e'er offered to the eye of mortals?
And last and best of all, hath he not given us
Hope, whose glorious visions far exceed all that
the May of life ever realized? The richest gifts
showered on the earth; her diamonds, gold, and
carpets of flowers; her power of renewing all her
youthful charms at each revolving year, are
nothing to those bestowed on man—his reason,
and his immortality.

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Yet let us not undervalue our good old mother
earth, for good she is, ay, and beautiful too,
whether clothed in the eastern magnificence of
imperial green, or basking in the glowing gold of
summer sunshine, or flaunting like Joseph in the
many-coloured coat of autumn, or wrapped in her
wintry winding-sheet, she awaits like the just
man the hour when she shall arise more glorious
for her long sleep. Who can contemplate her
smiling valleys, rich meadows, golden harvests,
grateful flowers, whispering woods, endless winding
rivers, boundless pathless seas, full-bosomed
hills, and cloud-capped mountains, without a feeling
of awful recognition of Infinite Power? Who
can behold the admirable union and aptness with
which all these participate in one great end without
doing homage to Infinite Wisdom? And who
can revel in the balmy air, inhale the breath of
the meadows and the flowers, listen to the music
of her birds, her brooks, her whispering leaves,
her answering echoes, and taste her other bounteous
gifts of all that man can wish or enjoy,
without bowing his head in grateful acknowledgement
of Infinite Mercy?

Though long divorced from the country, we
have not yet, thank Heaven! quite lost the rural
feeling. We can still recall the scenes of early
life with a pleasure unalloyed by pining regrets
for the past or unmanly fears of the future; and
we often steal a few days from the racket of the
noisy town to bury ourselves in the holy quiet
of the mountains; renew once more the simple
pleasures of days long past, and be a boy
again with our own little boys; to chase butterflies
and grasshoppers; attack wasps' nests; tumble
on the haycocks; gather chestnuts; ramble

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whole mornings without object or end; and last,
and dearest pleasure of all, follow some mountain
brook through its romantic rugged solitudes; and
pit our art against the cautious timidity of the
speckled monarch of the leaping stream.

The winter brought with it a cessation of out-door
employments, save that of hunting, to the
rural inhabitants of the village of Dangerfieldville,
and gathered them, especially of evenings,
around the glowing fire, where Master Littlejohn
revelled in the luxury of three chairs to his heart's
content. Sometimes they made parties to hunt
the deer, or the scoundrel bear, whose rugged nature
and rugged hide make him the scandal of
the forest. On these occasions Bushfield was
always summoned to take the command, and
never conqueror led his army to the field with
more eager appetite for glory than our gallant
woodman. Rainsford, who by degrees seemed to
have in some measure recovered his usual level
of mind and spirits, often accompanied them, and
always felt the resistless inspiration of the sport.
Even Mr. Littlejohn occasionally gathered himself
together, and sallying forth among the rest,
rifle in hand, “talked big,” as the Black Warrior
phrased it, and did marvellously little. It was his
invariable custom to place himself in some convenient
spot, and there await the coming of the deer.
If it came, he had his shot and generally missed;
if it came not, he had a most excellent opportunity
of boasting what he would have done had an
opportunity offered. One day when the Black
Warrior happened to be on the same station with
him, Littlejohn missed a fine fat buck, which came
leaping along within ten yards of him.

“Huh!” said the red man, “your rifle is

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bewitched, you must go and get some great medicine
to cure it.”

“Medicine? What, would you have me give
my gun a dose of physic?”

“I mean great medicine. Something to make
him shoot straight. Something Great Spirit give
to his good people to keep off bad one.”

“Pooh—do you think the Great Spirit meddles
with such nonsense as shooting a deer?”

“Yes, Great Spirit meddle with every thing.
I go hunting, I shoot, shoot, shoot, no kill any
thing, bad spirit won't let me, deer run away,
birds fly away, no hit. Well, I go to conjurer,
and he give me great medicine Great Spirit give
him, and then when I fire, huh! down drop deer,
bird, bear, every thing; bad spirit gone away.
Well, I go fish—fish come, nibble, nibble, nibble,
no bite, no catch one at all, bad spirit come and
say no. Well, I go to conjurer again, and he give
me 'nother great medicine. Then I go fish once
more, and then, huh! I catch many as I please.
Bad spirit gone again.”

“Now you don't believe this, do you?”

“Believe? Indian know so. You white men
say, proof of the pudding in the eating. I shoot
nothing, I catch no fish, I go get great medicine,
den I shoot every thing, never miss. And I
get fish, many as I can carry. Huh! is not all
owing to the great medicine?”

“I don't believe one word of it.”

“No! look here.” And opening his tobaccopouch
he carefully brought out an eagle's feather.
“There, there one great medicine. I leave him
home I shoot nothing, I bring with me I never
miss. Huh! You white men think you have
all the great medicines. Indian got some too. But
hark!”

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And at that moment they heard the sonorous
music of the deep-mouthed hounds, echoing far
and wide, and approaching the pass they occupied,
in full career. Nigher and nigher came their cry,
and Littlejohn, who had neglected to reload his
rifle, set about it immediately. But before the
deed was done, the deer, with his antlers thrown
back on his neck, and eyes almost starting out of
his head with fear, came bounding past like the
wind. But the charmed rifle of the Black Warrior
arrested his course; the bullet entered his
breast, he sprung his last spring, and fell dead.

“There—you see, great medicine do that.”

“Great fiddlestick,” quoth Littlejohn, who was
not a little jealous of the success of the Indian.

A North American Indian, in his primitive state,
never betrays the least emotion except when he is
drunk. None study dignity and self-possession
as he does; nor is there in the civilized world,
or in the courts of eastern despots, a greater slave
to etiquette. In battle, he strikes down his enemy
with graceful deliberation. At the stake, he inflicts
the keenest tortures with the same indifference
he endures them. He never declaims except
when inspired by whiskey. He never interrupts
another, and he never boasts of his exploits.
When he appeals to his tribe for any new dignity,
he relates them with an air of indifference, and
leaves the audience to say what shall be his reward.
When the full-blooded Indian means mischief,
he is silent; and when the half-breed weeps,
beware of him.

The Black Warrior affected to take no notice
of the contemptuous epithet of Littlejohn. The
rest of the party now came up, and being satisfied
with the sport, and laden with game, returned to
the village in triumph.

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