few Minateree Indians had been seen
on the outskirts of the pine forests, but had committed no outrages,
as that tribe was friendly with the white men.

It was a lovely evening in June. The sun had set, though the heavens
still glowed with those exquisite and radiant tints which the writer,
when a child, used to imagine were vouchsafed to mortals to show them
something while yet on earth, of the glories of the New Jerusalem. The
moon shed her silvery light all around, distinctly revealing every
feature of the beautiful scene which has been described, and showed
the tall, muscular figure of William Sullivan, who was seated upon the
door-steps, busily employed in preparing his scythes for the coming
hay season. He was a good-looking young fellow, with a sunburnt, open
countenance; but though kind-hearted in the main, he was filled with
prejudices, acquired when in England, against Americans in general,
and the North American Indians in particular. As a boy he had been
carefully instructed by his mother, and had received more education
than was common in those days; but of the sweet precepts of the gospel
he was as practically ignorant as if he had never heard them, and in
all respects was so thoroughly an Englishman, that he looked with
contempt on all who could not boast of belonging to his own favored
country. The Indians he especially despised and detested as heathenish
creatures, forgetful of the fact that he who has been blessed with
opportunities and privileges, and yet has abused them, is in as bad a
case, and more guilty in the sight of God, than these ignorant
children of the wilds.

So intent was he upon his work, that he heeded not the approach of a
tall Indian, accoutred for a hunting excursion, until the words:--

"Will you give an unfortunate hunter some supper, and a lodging for
the night?" in a tone of supplication, met his ear.

The young farmer raised his head; a look of contempt curling the
corners of his mouth, and an angry gleam darting from his eyes, as he
replied in a tone as uncourteous as his words:--

"Heathen Indian dog, you shall have nothing here; begone!"

The Indian turned away; then again facing young Sullivan, he said in a
pleading voice:--

"But I am very hungry, for it is very long since I have eaten; give
only a crust of bread and a bone to strengthen me for the remainder of
my journey."

"Get you gone, heathen hound," said the farmer; "I have nothing for
you."

A struggle