in his young days, was a
desperate coquet. He played havoc with the plans of many a young man,
robbing him of the fancy of his sweetheart, and then leaving the
maiden all forlorn. His behaviour aroused the anger and jealousy of
both sexes, but he seemed as impervious to the contempt of his fellows
as he was callous to the woe of his victims. The whole village buzzed
with the gossip of his adventures, and every one wondered how he
managed to escape punishment.

After the manner of the people, a song was made about him and his
career, that has outlasted his vain victories.

It is difficult to convey in concise English the sarcastic humour of
the original. The words picture this young man as sitting on a hill,
near the village where he lived and achieved so many conquests. The
warm summer breeze wafted up to him the hum of the people as they
talked, blaming him for his actions. "But why blame me?" says the
irresistible youth, stretching himself at full length in the
sunshine. "It was the gods that made me as I am: blame them, if you
will!" And he gave a sigh of satisfaction, "Hi!"

The music carries the story well. The swing of the last six bars
suggests his shrug of irresponsibility.

[Music: SONG OF THE INDIAN COQUET.

_Omaha._

Harmonized by PROF. J.C. FILLMORE.

Ta won gdhon dhe-nun-ye de
Un-dhon-ge-a dhon-ke dhe
wa-kon-da he-gi-mon-te in-dhin-ga-ye ga-ma hi-a me
Hi!]

THE OLD MAN'S LOVE-SONG.

Early in the century there lived an Omaha Indian, a tall and comely
man, gifted with a fine voice and a good memory, and who was greatly
admired by the men and women of the tribe. Although genial with every
one, he was reserved; and none knew all that had transpired in his
life or that occupied his thoughts. He was a prosperous man. His lodge
was well supplied, for his skill as a hunter was equal to his valour
as a warrior.

Years passed; and here and there a silver thread glistened in his
black hair, the furrows deepened in his handsome face, and more and
more his thoughts seemed to dwell on the past. One day he was heard
singing a love-song of his own composition, and gossip became busy as
to what this song might mean. His actions threw no light on the
mystery. He was the same kind husband and father, the same diligent
provider, and he sought no new companionship. Nevertheless, at every
dawn he went upon the hill near his lodge; and, while the morning star
hung like a jewel in the east, he sang the mel