was
carried on the back of his tottering son; a mounted soldier pursued
them, and hacked father and son to pieces with the same sabre-cuts. A
mother was seen flying over the snow with two children clinging about
her neck. The wretched savages separated and ran in all directions. But
the mounted men cut them down in the snow. No one asked, or even would
accept, quarter. They fought with sticks, stones, fists, their teeth,
like wild beasts. They wanted to die. One little group escaped to a
ravine. There they were found killing each other with a sort of knife
made from an old piece of hoop.

And yet you believe man-hunting is over in America!

It is impossible to write with composure or evenness on this subject.
One wants to rise up and crush things.

I have mentioned two tribes near at hand, whose histories are not
unfamiliar to the public ear. But what if I should recite the wrongs of
tribes far away--far beyond the Rocky Mountains--where the Indian Agent
has to answer to no one? You would not believe one-tenth part told you.
The terrible stories of the Cheyennes and the Poncas are very mild
chapters in the history of our Indian policy.

Under the stars and stripes, these scenes are repeated year after year;
and they will be continued until they are made impossible by the
civilization and sense of justice which righted that other though far
less terrible wrong.

As that greatest man has said, "We are making history in America." This
is a conspicuous fact, that no one who would be remembered in this
century should forget. We are making dreadful history, dreadfully fast.
How terrible it will all read when the writer and reader of these lines
are long since forgotten! Ages may roll by. We may build a city over
every dead tribe's bones. We may bury the last Indian deep as the
eternal gulf. But these records will remain, and will rise up in
testimony against us to the last day of our race.

J. M.

CHAPTER I.

MOUNT SHASTA.

_To lord all Godland! lift the brow
Familiar to the moon, to top
The universal world, to prop
The hollow heavens up, to vow
Stern constancy with stars, to keep
Eternal watch while eons sleep;
To tower proudly up and touch
God's purple garment-hems that sweep
The cold blue north! Oh, this were much!_

_Where storm-born shadows hide and hunt
I knew thee, in thy glorious youth,
And loved thy vast face, white as truth;
I stood whe