ged in deadly war
with other tribes: the war seeming to be without a beginning, as well as
without an end. In the back grounds of California, he escorts the
treaty-making powers, while with his axe he lays out military roads, and
measures them as he goes along. After a long march over the Rocky
Mountains, or a sea-voyage of twenty thousand miles round the "stormy
cape"--we find him, again, constructing block-houses along the Columbia
river in Oregon; as much to protect him against the winter's cold, as to
serve as means of future defence. The United States constitute a large
patch of ground on the map of nations, with much work to do on her
extensive frontier; and he is the pack-horse that tugs faithfully at the
burden. Far away from the many comforts and conveniences that surround
you--in prairie or wilderness--often without clothes, oftener without
food--in sunshine and storm--winter and summer--in the midst of sickness
and death--relentless foes on the hill-tops and in the valleys--he toils
on, with no help from Congress to do what ought to be, but what cannot
be done: certainly, cannot be done! for there are well known "treaty
stipulations," and the lawmakers expect him, generally on foot, to
pursue, overtake, and severely punish the well-mounted savage. Fatal
error! every southerly wind brings with it a wail of the dying border
man, and Mexico will yet, ere the present "long parliament" closes,
present her wrongs before the proper source, the master--not the man.
But we have digressed once or twice into extraneous topics: they
germinated from the subject, and as they can do no harm, let them stand
as written.

Do not suppose, then, because the Greenwich recruit is well-clothed, and
somewhat proud withal, that his life is one of comparative ease. In
virtue of all he does for you and your children's children, while plenty
is on your right and on your left hand, rank him far above the hireling
in its corrupted sense. He does much for the mite given him in return,
and never murmurs at the task. At early dawn he rises, slings his
knapsack, fills his canteen from the brook, and, with a scant ration in
his haversack, marches a long Texan summer's day, recounting to his
comrade some adventure in the old country, or the last news from the
white settlements. At night, he spreads his blanket on the ground, his
knapsack serves as pillow, and with no covering but the stars, he awaits
the coming day to renew the fruitless scout.