to his little bronzed feet, and the sleeves every other minute
dropping down over his dusky models of hands, gives him a very odd
appearance. One day Mrs. B., whom I was visiting at the time, coaxed
Wild Bird into the house to see Charley, the hero of the
champagne-basket cradle. The little fellow gazed at us with his large,
startled eyes without showing the least shadow of fear in his
countenance, but his heart beat so violently that we could actually see
the rise and fall of the old red shirt which covered its tremblings.
Mrs. B. made our copper-colored Cupidon a pretty suit of crimson
calico. His protectors--half a dozen grim old Indians (it was
impossible to tell which was his father, they all made such a petted
darling of him)--were compelled to array him in his new suit by main
strength, he screaming dreadfully all the time. Indeed, so exhausted
was he by his shrieks that by the time he was fairly buttoned up in his
crimson trappings he sank on the ground in a deep sleep. The next day
the barbarous little villain appeared trailing, as usual, his pet shirt
after him at every step, while the dandy jacket and the trim
baby-trousers had vanished we never knew whither.

The other morning an Indian appeared on the Bar robed from neck to
heels in a large white sheet, and you have no idea of the classic grace
with which he had arranged the folds about his fine person. We at first
thought him a woman, and he himself was in an ecstasy of glee at our
mistake.

It is impossible to conceive of anything more light and airy than the
step of these people. I shall never forget with what enchanted eyes I
gazed upon one of them gliding along the side of the hill opposite
Missouri Bar. One would fancy that nothing but a fly or a spirit could
keep its footing on the rocks along which he stepped so stately, for
they looked as perpendicular as a wall. My friend observed that no
white man could have done it. This wild creature seemed to move as a
cloud moves on a quiet day in summer, and as still and silently. It
really made me solemn to gaze upon him, and the sight almost impressed
me as something superhuman.

Viewed in the most favorable manner, these poor creatures are miserably
brutish and degraded, having very little in common with the lofty and
eloquent aborigines of the United States. It is said that their entire
language contains but about twenty words. Like all Indians, they are
passionately fond of gambling, and will exhibit