how they used to have
match-eating pancake parties, in the day of the pancake festival in the
Catholic Church; and about his youthful gallantries, and how
desperately in love he was once with a very smart, pretty creole girl,
and how the discovery of "a hole in her stocking" drove the little god
of love from his breast.

But these anecdotes and incidents were, perhaps, more interesting
to his wife than they will be to you. Well, then, I will tell you an
Indian story, for I have never known a boy yet that did not like to
hear about the Indians. You know the poor things are now nearly
exterminated from the face of the earth. In the early history of St.
Louis, I find that they lived not far off, having pitched their wigwams
only a little farther to the west, for the white man, in intruding upon
their hunting grounds, had driven them, with the elk, the deer and the
buffalo, still farther from the Atlantic coast, which they once claimed
as their own rightful property. These poor savages, however, would
often come into the town to see "the white-faced children of the Great
Spirit;" to buy their beads and other fine things to dress up in; and
that they might show them how fierce they looked, their faces streaked
with every variety of paint, and their hair all shaved off excepting a
little bunch on the top of their heads which they reserved as a
fastening for their feathers and other head ornaments, of which they
were very fond. But, I dare say, if you have never seen Indians, you
have seen their pictures. It was real sport for the boys to see them
dance, and listen to their wild songs and savage yells.

But to my story. There was an old Indian who was a great thief.
He was seen alone, generally, prowling about the town, peeping through
the fences into the yards, watching out for chickens, or anything he
could shoot with his arrow, or slip under his blanket. Little Joseph
Charless had watched this famous old Indian thief, and determined to
punish him for his wickedness. To accomplish this purpose, he armed
himself with plenty of dried squashes, which he kept in the garret of
his father's house, near to the gable window, that fronted on the
street. He watched his opportunity, and one day, as the Indian passed
by, he threw a squash down upon the old fellow's head. Soon after he
peeped out to see if it had struck him, when whiz went the arrow, just
grazing his face and sticking tight and firm into the window beam abov