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e carried a heavy walking-stick of swamp-oak; with the other, led a puny girl, walking in moccasins, not improbably his child, but evidently of alien maternity, perhaps Creole, or even Camanche. Her eye would have been large for a woman, and was inky as the pools of falls among mountain-pines. An Indian blanket, orange-hued, and fringed with lead tassel-work, appeared that morning to have shielded the child from heavy showers. Her limbs were tremulous; she seemed a little Cassandra, in nervousness. No sooner was the pair spied by the herb-doctor, than with a cheerful air, both arms extended like a host's, he advanced, and taking the child's reluctant hand, said, trippingly: "On your travels, ah, my little May Queen? Glad to see you. What pretty moccasins. Nice to dance in." Then with a half caper sang-- "'Hey diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle; The cow jumped over the moon.' Come, chirrup, chirrup, my little robin!" Which playful welcome drew no responsive playfulness from the child, nor appeared to gladden or conciliate the father; but rather, if anything, to dash the dead weight of his heavy-hearted expression with a smile hypochondriacally scornful. Sobering down now, the herb-doctor addressed the stranger in a manly, business-like way--a transition which, though it might seem a little abrupt, did not appear constrained, and, indeed, served to show that his recent levity was less the habit of a frivolous nature, than the frolic condescension of a kindly heart. "Excuse me," said he, "but, if I err not, I was speaking to you the other day;--on a Kentucky boat, wasn't it?" "Never to me," was the reply; the voice deep and lonesome enough to have come from the bottom of an abandoned coal-shaft. "Ah!--But am I again mistaken, (his eye falling on the swamp-oak stick,) or don't you go a little lame, sir?" "Never was lame in my life." "Indeed? I fancied I had perceived not a limp, but a hitch, a slight hitch;--some experience in these things--divined some hidden cause of the hitch--buried bullet, may be--some dragoons in the Mexican war discharged with such, you know.--Hard fate!" he sighed, "little pity for it, for who sees it?--have you dropped anything?" Why, there is no telling, but the stranger was bowed over, and might have seemed bowing for the purpose of picking up something, were it not that, as arrested in the imperfect posture, he for the moment so remained; slanting his tall
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