same. The three
Indians came near the fire, when Wolf-hunter addressed them in the
Oneida tongue:

"Good-morning, brothers."

They replied: "Good-morning, brother. We have followed the trail of
three bears, and we find you have killed them, and we want some of the
meat."

Wolf-hunter told them to be seated near the fire and they would bring
them some; the three Indians sat down their rifles and came near the
fire. As the young bride came out of the cottage with a large piece of
bear's meat in a long handled pan, and placed it over the fire, the
three Indians stared at her in amazement, and then turned and looked at
each other. One of the Indians said: "She looks just as her mother did
before she was murdered. She is a Wan-nut-ha."[2]

[Footnote 2: A beauty.]

They paused a while, and one of the Indians called her Dora, to which
she made no reply. He then called her Dora in a louder tone. To which
the maiden replied:

"My name is Blanche."

"Well," said the Indian, "your name was Dora. Twelve years have passed
away since I saw your sunny face, and looked upon your silky flaxen
hair; you have changed to a graceful young lady squaw, and when I now
look upon you--

"Your sparkling eyes and glossy flaxen hair
Seem the same your mother used to wear
When the lake lay calm with silver breast
Beneath pale Luna's beams at rest.
And when the lurid morn arose,
And flashed her light on land and sea,
The silvery foam beat on the lonely shore
Where Dora and her mother used to roam.
Death had hushed the voice of her fond mother,
The Indian's war-axe parted her fair locks,
The bloody tide ran down her snowy neck,
Her ivory bosom dyed with crimson gore,
Then fled with Dora to the forest wild.
There a captive in the chieftain's tent,
Whilst twelve successive years went by;
But now a hunter's young and lovely bride,
And cooks the savory venison, night and morn,
Upon the streamlet's flow'ry banks,
Where the woodland choir with melody of song
Chant the praise of God that watch'd o'er all,
And saw the sparrow in his lonely fall.
When spring, with balmy air, bids vegetation rise,
And all the flowers put on their bloom;
The emerald reeds, along the sandy bay
Washed by the blue waves, beat upon the shore,
Then Dora, with her loving mate,
Will walk in summer's golden days,
By Cynthia's evening silver light,
And