ll. The painted
pole was erected and the feast prepared, that an opportunity might be
afforded them of recounting their exploits in the ears of the
listening Braves of our nation; the wrestling ring was formed, that
their skill and strength, if they possessed such, in that exercise,
might be shown; games of chance were appointed, that the favour of the
Great Spirit, and the strength of the protecting _okkis_ of each
nation and individual, might be demonstrated. In every undertaking,
was the superior skill and strength of the youthful leader of the
Muscogulgee band made apparent. In the wrestling ring, the strongest
man of the Cherokees was but a child in his hands; his voice, in the
song of his own exploits, and the recital of the glories of his
nation, was sweeter than the sighing of the gentlest spring wind, and
clearer than the prattling music of the waterfall. In the games which
were played he was equally successful, and he rose from the _match of
straws_ winner of half the valued treasures and trophies of the
opposing Braves. Was it strange, that one so bold and brave should
ingratiate himself with the beautiful maidens of our tribe? Was it
strange, that bright eyes should glisten with tears, and soft bosoms
be filled with throbs, and red lips be fraught with sighs, when the
Guard of the Red Arrows passed before the eyes of beauty? Was it any
thing to excite especial wonder, that the beautiful daughter of the
priest should suffer the fires of love to be lit in her tender bosom?
or that the valiant and handsome Muscogulgee should think her the
fairest creature he had ever seen, should reciprocate the soft passion
which glowed in her bosom, and wish to transfer the lovely flower of
the Cherokees from the cabin of her father to his distant home?

The Guard of the Red Arrows said to the father of the maiden, "I love
your daughter. Her bright black eyes, and long black locks, her
melodious voice, and her gentleness, and her sweet temper, and her
winning air, have caught my heart, as a bird is entangled in the snare
of the fowler, or a deer entrapped in the toils of the hunter. She has
become the light of my soul--when I see her not, all is darkness. I
have no eyes but for her; my ears drink in no other accents than hers;
my last thought when I sink to rest is of the beautiful Fawn, my first
when I awake of the bright-eyed little maiden who gits by the
cabin-fire of the wise priest of her nation. I hare opened my heart t