nomook will humble his pride--he will wipe off the war
paint, which he laid as deep on his face as the memory of his wrongs
weigh on his heart, and he will supplicate the stranger to give him
food for his little one."

Still the sleeping chief continued to take note of the things which
occurred. He beheld the enfeebled and emaciated Indians at the
dwelling of the proud stranger. The stranger sat at the door of his
lofty cabin, and thus he addressed the friendless outcasts:

"Why have you dared to trespass on my soil, to bruise my pretty
flowers with your rude feet, and to frighten my flocks and herds with
your shrill halloos?"

The son of the forest was about to reply fiercely, when his ear caught
the plaintive moan of his famished child, and he controlled the
tempest of wrath which was rising in his bosom.

"Thine eyes are the eyes of an owl by daylight," replied he calmly.
"They have seen a thing which has not happened. The son of Alknomook
did not bruise the flowers of the pale face, nor frighten his flocks
and herds by his shrill halloos. Wilt thou give me a morsel of food
for my famished child?"

"Begone, thou Indian dog!" said the proud and cruel man. "Thou shalt
have no food here."

"But my child will die of hunger."

"If thy child die of hunger, there will be a red skin less. Back to
thy woods, and herd with wolves and panthers, thy fit associates."

The soul of the stern but generous warrior filled with ire and the
spirit of vengeance, as he poured out his feelings in the emphatic
language of his people. "Not so spoke the Abnakis to the weary,
naked, and hungry, men who came to their shores, and besought them to
grant them shelter," said he. "We gave them the food from our own
mouths, and took the skins which fenced our wigwams to protect them
from the winds of the cold moon." Nor did he cease speaking till he
had denounced upon the pale faces the wrath of the Great Spirit for
the injuries they had inflicted upon the Indians.

Ah, what is that which draws tears to the eyes of the dreamer, and
brings sighs to his labouring heart? He beholds an Indian mother lying
dead in the skirts of the forest. Upon her arm is laid a little child,
and beside them, leaning on a bow, is the husband of the one and the
father of the other. Sorrow has bowed him down, as far as the soul of
an Indian may be bowed--there are no tears in his eyes, yet distress
is written on the features of his face, in letters of enduring ag