nted on his well-known gray horse, famed for its speed and
endurance, he rode to the door of Jackson's tent. The old soldier looked
up to see before him this famous warrior, tall, erect, majestic, and
dignified.

"I am Weathersford," he said; "late your enemy, now your captive."

From without the tent came fierce cries of "Kill him! kill him!"

"You may kill me if you wish," said the proud chief; "but I came to tell
you that our women and children are starving in the woods. They never
did you any harm and I came to beg you to send them food."

Jackson looked sternly at the angry throng outside, and said, in his
vigorous way, "Any man who would kill as brave a man as this would rob
the dead."

He then invited the chief into his tent, where he promised him the aid
he asked for and freedom for himself. "I do not war with women and
children," he said.

So corn was sent to the suffering women, and Weathersford was allowed to
mount his good gray steed and ride away as he had come. He induced the
remaining Creeks to accept the terms offered by the victorious general,
these being peace and protection, with the provision that half their
lands should be ceded to the United States.

As may well be imagined, a triumphant reception was given Jackson and
his men on their return to Nashville. Shortly afterward came the news
that he had been appointed Major-General in the army of the United
States, to succeed William Henry Harrison, resigned. He had made his
mark well against the Indians; he was soon to make it as well against
the British at New Orleans.

_THE PIRATES OF BARATARIA BAY._

On the coast of Louisiana, westward from the delta of the Mississippi,
there lies a strange country, in which sea and land seem struggling for
dominion, neither being victor in the endless contest. It is a low,
flat, moist land, where countless water-courses intertwine into a
complex net-work; while nearer the sea are a multitude of bays,
stretching far inland, and largely shut off from the salt sea waves by
barriers of long, narrow islands. Some of these islands are low
stretches of white sand, flung up by the restless waters which ever wash
to and fro. Others are of rich earth, brought down by lazy water-ways
from the fertile north and deposited at the river outlets. Tall marsh
grasses grow profusely here, and hide alike water and land. Everywhere
are slow-moving, half-sleeping bayous, winding and twisting
interminably, and encircl