ide
prairie, or a man whose friends and kindred have all descended to the
dust, has made it known to all the tribes of the West. Whether it was
created by the Great Spirit, or piled up by the sons of men, whether
it was done in the morning of the world, or when it had grown fat and
stately, ask not me, for I cannot tell you. Those things are known to
one, and to one only. I know it is called by all the tribes of the
land the Hill of Little People, or the Mountain of Little Spirits. And
the tradition is yet freshly traced out on the green leaf of my
memory, which has made it the terror of all the surrounding nations,
and which fills the Sioux, the Mahas, the Ottoes, and all the
neighbouring tribes, with great fear and trembling, whenever their
incautious feet have approached the sacred spot, or their avocation
compels them to look at the work of spirits. No gift can induce an
Indian to visit it, for why should he incur the anger of the Little
People who dwell within it, and, sacrificed upon the fire of their
wrath, behold his wife and children no more? In all the marches and
countermarches of the Indians; in all their goings and returnings; in
all their wanderings, by day and by night, to and from lands which lie
beyond it; their paths are so ordered that none approach near enough
to disturb the tiny inhabitants of the hill. The memory of the red man
of the forest has preserved but one instance where their privacy was
violated, since it was known through the tribes that they wished for
no intercourse with mortals. Before that time many Indians were
missing every year. No one knew what became of them, but they were
gone, and left no trace nor story behind. Valiant warriors filled
their baskets with dried corn, and their quivers with tough arrow
shafts and sharp points; put new strings to their bows; new shod their
mocassins, and sallied out to acquire glory in combat: but there was
no wailing in the camp of our foes; their arrows were not felt, their
shouts were not heard. Yet they fell not by the hands of their foes;
but perished, we know not where or how. At length, the sun shone on
the mystery, and the parted clouds displayed a clear spot. Listen!

Many seasons ago, there lived within the limits of the great
council-fire of the Mahas, a chief who was renowned for his valour and
victories in the field, his wisdom in the council, his dexterity and
success in the chase. His name was Mahtoree, or the White Crane. He
was c