ife, seemed to have followed the sun in his journey to
the far south. A company of English traders, under the guidance of a
party of Indians, were traversing the country from Hudson's Bay to the
Northern Ocean, in quest of furs and peltries. Emerging from a deep
forest into a broad open plain, they discovered the track of a strange
snow-shoe, which, from its lightness, they judged to belong to a woman.
Not knowing of any encampment in that vicinity, it excited the more
curiosity. They followed it. It led them a considerable distance out of
their way, across the valley, and into the gorge of the mountain on its
southern side. Pursuing it still, as it ascended by a circuitous path,
they came to a small cabin, perched like an eagle's nest in the clefts
of the rock. They entered, and found a young and beautiful woman sitting
alone at her work. It was Tula, the hermitess of Athabasca. For more
than seven moons she had not seen a human face, nor heard a human voice,
nor did she ever expect again to see the one, or hear the other. She had
become reconciled to her lot. She loved the solitude where her spirit
could commune with the departed, undisturbed, and where only the sun,
the moon, and the stars, and the Great Spirit that controlled and guided
them all, could read her thoughts, and know the history of her griefs.

The first surprise being over, Tula offered the strangers a place by her
fire, and such other hospitalities as her cabin afforded.

"How comes the dove alone in the eagle's nest?" enquired the leader of
the party.--And then, regarding her with a look of admiration,
added--"does she not fear the hawk or the vulture, here in the cold
cliffs of the mountain?"

Tula replied by relating the story of her life--her bereavement--her
captivity--her escape--her weary wanderings--her hardships--and the
repose she had found in her solitude; and concluded by saying, "If the
eagle's nest be lonely and cold, it is quiet and safe. It is not too
high for the moon to smile upon. It is not too cold for Tula."

"Would the 'singing bird' seek out her people, and let her song be heard
again among the trees of the valley?"

"Tula is no longer the singing bird. Her song is shut up in her heart.
Her heart is with her kindred in the spirit land. Her father's cabin is
more desolate than the wilderness, or the mountain top. Her tree is
plucked up by the roots. It cannot live again."

After some considerable persuasion, in which the voi