THE FUNERAL FIRE.

Once upon a time, many years ago, a war raged between the Chippewas
and their enemies, and the lands of the hostile tribes were red with
blood. It was then that a small party of the former nation encountered
a band of the latter upon an open plain in the country of the Great
Lakes. Meteewan, the leader of the Chippewas, was a brave and
distinguished warrior; his martial deeds were the theme of every youth
who looked to obtain renown in arms, and formed one of the principal
subjects of discourse among the different tribes of the land. And
never did the chief act with greater bravery, or more distinguish
himself for prudence and personal prowess, than on this occasion.
After he had, by the valour of his arm, turned the tide of battle
against his enemies, and while he was giving the great shout of
victory, he received an arrow in his breast, and fell dead upon the
plain. No Indian warrior killed thus is ever buried. According to
ancient custom, he was placed in a sitting posture upon the field of
battle, his back supported by a tree, and his face turned towards the
path in which their enemies had fled. His head-dress, with all its
feathers and decorations, his martial equipments, his spear, and club,
were accurately adjusted, and his bow and quiver leaned against his
shoulder. In this posture his companions left him. A fate which
appeared so evident to all proved deceptive however in the result.
Although deprived of the power of utterance, and the ability to move,
he heard distinctly all that had been said by his friends. He heard
them lament his death without the power to contradict it; he heard
them speak of his great deeds; he heard them depict the grief of his
wife when she should be made acquainted with his fate. He felt the
touch of their hands as they adjusted his posture, without the power
to reciprocate it. His limbs, and all his faculties, except those of
thought, were bound in chains of terrible strength, and he could not
burst them. His thoughts flowed as freely as ever, but his limbs
refused to second their commands. His anguish, when he felt himself
thus abandoned, was raised to a dreadful height; but he was compelled
to bear it, for no endeavours of his could allay it. His wish to
follow his friends, who were about to return to their homes, so
completely filled his mind, that, after making a violent exertion, he
rose, or seemed to himself to rise and follow them. But he was
invisible t