Miss Chalmers's eyes opened wide.

"Do you mean that you are going down the river again to-morrow?" she asked.

"Why should I not?" demanded Mr. Dunwardin, with the air of one put on his defense. "I thought it rather clever of me to come up, in order to tell you about the rooms, and have the pleasure of your society down to Alexander's."

"We think it something more than clever," said Louise. "You are very kind."

Paul echoed this opinion, but Paul also drew his own conclusions from the kindness. Just before Louise left him in his own room that night he took her hand and said, smiling yet wistful:

Louise was the only person not conscious of this. It did not occur to her for the simple reason that she was preoccupied with other things, and personal vanity had long seemed to her something in which she had no share.

It was a sudden blow to her childlike enjoyment when Mr. Dunwardin said one day, with a calmness which in itself was amazing:

"I have grown to love you very much, Miss Chalmers, so much that I can ask nothing better in life than that you should put your hand in mine, and promise to marry me. You do not know a great deal of me, but perhaps you know enough to tell whether or not there is any hope for me."

"To go down with us to-morrow, beyond doubt," answered Bonnibel, calmly.

"To go down with us! Don't you think it might be more accurate to say 'to go down with you?'"

"Paul!" Louise was so amazed that for a moment she could utter nothing more than that. Then a tide of bright color rushed to her face, and she looked at her brother reproachfully. "Paul, I am astonished, andashamed of you!" she said. "Such a suggestion does not sound like you. Mr. Danwardin is a kind-hearted, sensible man, with no nonsense about him-indeed, it would not be possible for any man to connect such nonsense as that with me. Don't say any thing of the kind again, dear, or you will make me constrained with him-and that would be a pity. Good-night."

"Yes, it would be a pity," Paul thought, so I'll not say any thing more-but there's no harm in having an opinion, all the same."

This opinion became strengthened after they were settled at Alexander's, and Mr. Dunwardin still lingered with them-deferring bis search after the precious metals which he had come to seek. A week passed-a | week during the long, bright days of which Paul and Louise felt as if they had entered Arcadia indeed the lost Arcadia of their childhood, which in this fair land had waited for them, with beauty and freshness undimmed. Who, that has once known, can ever forget the repose which seems to rest like a spell on the great Carolina hills, and

66 on the spirit gentlier lies Than tired eyelids on tired eyes? "

These hills, in all their blended softness and grandeur, inclose the narrow valley in which Alexander's is situated: Not more than twenty yards in front of the house the emerald current of the French Broad sweeps by, under drooping trees and towering cliffs, dividing a little lower around a lovely islet. On the leaf-shaded upper piazza of the house Paul would lie for hours quite content, listening to the ceaseless refrain of the river, and watching the shifting lights and shadows on the splendid heights. Louise was often with him, but often, again, she went on sketching or botanizing excursions, accompanied by Dunwardin. Paul watched her with delight during these days. She seemed to grow more like herself," he said-"prettier," other people said-with every hour.

they were sitting together on a bold, picturesque bluff which overlooked the impetuous river and the long, green island it encircled. Louise glanced up, startled, half doubtful if she had heard aright. She had just emptied the ferns which she had been gathering into her lap, and they lay there, a green, feathery mass on her cambric dress.

"I do not think I understand you," she said, blushing a vivid crimson. "I am sure you do," Dunwardin answered. "I cannot well put it plainer. I love you with all my heart, and ask you to marry me. Is that clear enough? "

"Too clear," said Louise, with the color forsaking her face as quickly as it had rushed to it. "I am very, very sorry that you should care for me. I did not think such a thing possible, or I should not have seemed to encourage you, as very likely I have done."

Encourage me!" repeated Dunwardin. "No, you have done nothing of that kind. You have simply been frank and natural, for which I am very grateful. The pleasant intimacy you have allowed me during the past ten days has been more to me than I can tell you. And you need not blame yourself for any thing. No prevention would have availed in this case. I fell in love with you that first day on top of the stage-coach. One cannot reason or understand these things. I don't count it folly, and I am not sorry for it. Even if I cannot win you, I shall never forget that I have known you; but-0 Louise, is there no hope?"

He leaned forward, the dark face flushing, the dark eyes passionately eager. But there was scant ground for hope in Louise's sad face and eyes full of regret.

"I am so sorry—so sorry!" she repeated, again. "But there is no hope, my friend, not any. I am not worth your regard, I am not suitable to you in any way, and above all I have no heart to give you."

"Ah!" he drew a sharp breath-" you love some one else, then? I did not think of that."

"No," she answered, quietly. "I did love some one else, long ago; but it is all over now. He, the man to whom I was engaged, acted very unworthily. When we lost our fortune, he showed me that he desired his freedom, and I gave it to him. I did not regret him-how could I after that?-but my heart seemed to lose the power of ever loving again."

"It is impossible," said Dunwardin. "A

heart so gentle and tender cannot have lost the power to love. You may fancy that it is so, you may let the memory of that man blast your life until-until it is too late; but I am sure that you can love."

"You know very little of me," she said, with a certain dignity. "I am no longer very young, and then my life is bound up in Paul's. But don't think me ungrateful," she went on, quickly. "I thank you with all my heart-"

"No, don't thank me," he interrupted. Why should you? Even in loving you, am I not selfish? Do I not want to secure your presence for myself, your sweet face to light my life? But, since this is not to be, we will say no more about it."

They did not. He began at once to speak of the ferns, and, as they presently walked back to the house together, Louise caught herself wondering once or twice if that brief conversation had not been all fancy.

The brother and sister had no secrets from each other, and when Paul heard what had occurred, he was deeply disappointed. "I like him so much, Louise," he said, "I hoped you might have fancied him."

"Do you mean you would have liked me to marry him, Paul?" asked Louise, much surprised. "I did not imagine for a moment that you would.”

"Why not?" asked Paul. "Do you think me so selfish I could not share you with some one else-some one with the will and power to brighten your life? Louise, if I only felt sure you did not refuse him on ac count of that other-you know whom I mean -I should be better satisfied." "That

"Then be satisfied," said Louise. other has gone out of my life and my thoughts completely. But I think I burnt up all the supply of passion which Nature gave me, and I have none left now, not enough to make the faintest blaze. You would have felt that I had done a shameful thing if I had returned Mr. Dunwardin's kindness by accepting him when I did not care for him, would you not? Yes, I am certain of it; and so, dear, there is nothing to regret, except that I should have been forced to pain one whom we like so much."

A day or two after this Mr. Dunwardin announced that he must make his long-deferred journey to Laurel. "I shall be back in a week or ten days," he said to Paul, who was regretting that he must go. "Of course,

I cannot determine the time with absolute certainty. I have several places to visit, and you know it is impossible to obtain any clear idea of distance from the natives of this coun try."

"Pray be careful!" said the young cripple, earnestly. "6 Any one will tell that you the settlement is the most lawless in the mountains."

"I shall be careful," the other answered, smiling; "though, luckily, there is nobody depending on me if the good people of Laure shall take it into their heads to dispatch me

In this manner he departed, bearing him self to the last in a manner very unlike re jected suitors in general. He shook hands with Louise at parting, and bade her be sure and finish by his return a sketch of the place which she had promised him.

石

"Take care of yourself!" was the farewell adjuration of everybody; and so he rode away.

The allotted week of his absence passed uneventfully. The boarders at Alexander's were very quiet people. The transients came and went without exciting much attention: there was nothing to break the placid repose of a life that almost seemed to realize a lotoseater's dream. Louise walked and read, and talked to Paul. In Asheville she had frankly said that she missed Dunwardin. Now she did not say so, and Paul, with a shrewdness beyond his years, decided that this was a good sign.

At the end of ten days the adventurous traveler had not returned, and another week passed without any sign of him. Paul was inclined to be uneasy, but the proprietor of the house pooh-poohed the idea of any harm having befallen him. "When those mining

fellows set out they never know where to stop," he said. "I've seen too many of them C with their pockets full of ores. Depend upon it, Mr. Dunwardin will turn up all right."

Louise said little, but as the days wore on there came an anxious look into her eyes, and in her walks she almost invariably followed the road down the river, as if she hoped to meet the returning wanderer. She looked and hoped in vain, however. The days slipped by, and the third week of his absence found September throned in golden beauty on the earth.

Then the brother and sister said to each other that they began to fear some harm had befallen their friend. Since he left Alexander's nothing had been heard from or of bim. It was certain that he had gone alone into one of the wildest and least accessible as well as one of the most dangerous parts of the mountains, and it was impossible to deny that there was ground for uneasinesss.

"If I were a man, like other men, I would go in search of him," said Paul.

แ

Woman as I am, I would go—if I had any right to do so," thought Louise.

Three more days of increasing anxiety passed. Then a thunder-bolt fell. It occurred late in the afternoon when Paul and Louise were sitting on their favorite end of the

upper piazza, while on the one below several of the other guests were gathered. Immediately in front of the house ran the turnpike, along which two horsemen came riding briskly, and drew up before the gate. As they appeared in sight, Louise looked at them eagerly, but, perceiving that neither was the person she wished to see, she sank back with a sigh into her seat behind the vines. When they stopped, one of them uttered the customary country salutation-" Halloa!"

"No accommodation to-night," responded voice from the piazza; "house full."

"I reckon you'll have to put us somewhere," said the first speaker. "We've come na pertikler errand. Didn't you have a oarder here what went up Laurel on minin' usiness!"

"Mr. Dunwardin boarded here, and went p Laurel on mining business," replied the oice from the piazza. "What about him?" "Well, a man's bin drowned up there, and Some of the folks thinks it's him-that's all.”

Two or three men went hurriedly down "But he may have been robbed, and-and the short walk to the gate, and a conversation murdered," said Louise. 'Paul, I feel sure ensued, of which every word was audible on that it is he; and oh, my dear!"-and the the piazzas. The matter, it seemed, stood great tears began to roll down-"I am so sorry briefly thus: the body of a drowned man had that the only return I ever made for-for all been found in Laurel, lodged against some his kindness was-was to give him pain." driftwood which had accumulated in the mid-"Never mind," said Paul, gently. "You dle of the stream. He was a stranger, and there was nothing found on him, by means of which he could be identified. Whether there had been foul play or not, no one could say; but there were no signs of violence, and the inference was that he had been drowned accidentally.

"You see there's been a pretty consid❜able freshet in our part o' the country," said the narrator, "and all the waters has been monst'ous high."

"But how do you know that the drowned man is Mr. Dunwardin?" asked a voice. "We don't know; we only s'pose so; and that's what we've come fur. Hasn't he got no relations or friends here what could go and say whether it's him?"

did what you thought right, and he knew it."

"One often makes great mistakes about what is right," said Louise. Then she drew down her veil and departed.

Left alone, Paul sighed deeply. Despite his attempt to speak hopefully, he felt sure that the man who lay dead by the side of Laurel was the friend whom they had liked so well. He also felt sure that a partial revelation of her own heart had come to Louise during these weeks of absence, and he feared that Dunwardin's death would make that revelation complete. "If so, she will go through life bearing a hopeless burden of regret and self-reproach," he thought. "My poor Louise!"

At another time the journey down the "There are some friends of his here," French Broad to the mouth of Laurel would said some one, hesitatingly.

And then there was a pause. Paul's voice broke it. He leaned forward and spoke clearly:

"Bring the man here, if you please. We are Mr. Dunwardin's friends, and we want to hear all about the matter."

The man was brought, and told his story again. The body, he said, was lying at his (the speaker's) house on the banks of Laurel, not very far from where that river emptied into the French Broad. All he wanted was that some one should come and identify it. "The kurroner's there," he said. 'tend to every thing else. All you've got to say is whether or not it's him."

"He'll

Those around looked at each other. What could be said? Who could go? It was clearly impossible for Paul to do so. The journey down the French Broad would be terrible, the journey up Laurel much worse, to one like him. He felt this not less clearly than the others, and put his hand to his face with a low groan. "If I were but a man!”

he said.

"Don't trouble, Mr. Chalmers, over what can't be helped," said his host, kindly. "I'll go. It's my duty to do so."

Louise turned quickly, and spoke for the first time.

"I thought you would go," she said; "and you'll take me with you-will you not?"

"There's no need for that-" he began, when she interrupted him.

"Yes, there is need. It is all that we can do for him, and be-ah, he did so much for Paul and me! I must go! Don't say any thing to dissuade me-only tell me when to be ready."

"We'd best start as soon after daylight as we kin," said the man standing by.

Very soon after daylight the next morning Louise bent over Paul, and kissed him a ten

have been to Louise an occasion of pure delight. Nothing can be conceived more grand and at the same time more beautiful than this gorge. The cliffs tower hundreds of feet overhead; the splendid mountains rise heavenward crowned with an almost tropical verdure; the impetuous river rushes, whirls, and foams along the channel which it has torn for itself through the heart of the great hills; and the streams which come to swell its current are clear as clearest crystal. But to-day Louise saw none of these things-or else saw them without interest, as shapés in a dream. The ceaseless voice of the river, tearing madly over the immense rocks that strew its channel, lost all music to her ears; there was terror, not beauty, in the wildness of the gorge as it deepened toward the fatal waters of Laurel.

They traveled rapidly, and early in the afternoon Walnut Mountain-at the foot of which the Laurel flows into the French Broad -rose in sight. The first glimpse of the clear water of the former stream filled Louise with sadness beyond expression. As it sweeps between two lordly mountains, and empties into the tumultuous French Broad, it is a thing of beauty never to be forgotten, but she saw only horror in the swift flow of its translucent current. Turning, they followed a road which led along its banks, winding at the base of the overshadowing cliffs. How far they traveled Louise scarcely knew. To her it was all one terrible monotony of sounding water and towering rock, one great confused picture of the brightness, the greenness, the ineffable beauty of earth, from which one presence had forever departed. Her companion was kind, and during all the long hours said little to her. She had undisturbed time for reflection, and there were some thoughts from which she always afterward shrank-connected, as they were, with tho

keen suffering of that fair, sad September day.

SEMINOLES.

We each carried a gun, a pint-cup, and a

I.

10 jealously do the Seminoles hold them

At last they reached the home of their guide a substantial log farm-house situated in a valley, where the mountains receded a little from the banks of the river. As they 'came in sight they perceived that it was evi'dently the scene of commotion and excitement. Horses were fastened to the fence, is regarded by many writers as purely mythand under the trees men were lounging here ical. Of the thousands of people who anand there; a group of women stood gossip-nually visit Florida, not ten-rarely does one ing by the door. Louise turned so faint-get a glimpse of the swarthy red-man. that deathly faintness which comes only from the heart-that every thing grew black before her. She clutched her companion's

arm.

"Please take me in at once," she said. "I cannot bear this suspense much longer."

So they went in at once-stopping to hear nothing, putting aside those who would fain have spoken.

"Only show us where the body is," said Louise's companion. "That is all we ask."

Some one led the way, and pushed open the door of a lean-to room. They entered, and the sick horror seized Louise again as she saw the outlines of a rigid figure extended on a bed, covered with a coarse sheet. But she was resolutely determined that she would not fail until all was overuntil she knew. She held herself, therefore, in a powerful constraint, and walked steadily forward. As she lifted the thick veil which she wore, a man who was standing by the bed turned quickly around. For one breathless moment they faced each other. What was this? Had the dead risen? If so, the dead could speak, for this man cried :

"Louise!-for Heaven's sake, what has brought you here?"

Poor Louise! The revulsion was too great. All her self-control gave way suddenly, and she fell forward fainting in George Dunwardin's arms.

When she recovered it was to hear a story which can be more briefly related than it was told by Dunwardin on the banks of Laurel. In his mining expeditions he had been led farther into the mountains than he had anticipated, but had been abundantly rewarded for hardships and delays by finding all-and more than all-of which he was in search. On his way back to Alexander's he had been stopped by news of the drowned body-supposed to be his own-lying within this farmhouse. He identified it at once as that of a Methodist preacher whom he had met the week before among the mountains, and who had been, no doubt, accidentally drowned in attempting to cross the swollen stream.

"If I had traveled faster, if I had been a day earlier, I might have spared you all this," he said, remorsefully, in ending his story.

But Louise laid her hand on his.

"Don't regret your delay," she said, in her sweet voice. "No doubt it was best. I have suffered terribly, but if this suffering had not come, I might never have learned how much I love you."

The waters of the St. John's, the mighty river which the Seminole once held as his own, is the winter resort of hundreds who little suspect, as they pass the forest-covered fields and mounds that the Indian once owned and cultivated, that the descendants of the aboriginal inhabitants yet live in the State. Far down in the swampy Everglades a ruined and degraded people eke out a bare existence upon a tithe of the lands which their ancestors once claimed by right of conquest.

Few Northern men have ever visited them, so well have they covered the trails to their hiding-places.

No tribe or remnant of a nation, rather -has preserved its blood so free from contamination as this. No tribe has so sacredly guarded its customs and dress from innovation as this.

A narrow trail led across the vast Alpattiokee Flats, following dry creek-beds, through cypress-swamps and saw-grass jungles, beneath gigantic pines, and through dense palmetto-shrub. We followed this Indian trail in a southwesterly direction, till we struck the saw-grass bordering the Black Cypress, a cy. press belt of swamp nearly forty miles in length, but scarcely a mile in width. Through this swamp was a narrow, blind trail, carefully hidden, lest the white man should discover it.

The precautions the Seminoles had taken to guard it were useless, for my guide had trailed Indians in that very swamp years before, and it was to him as plain as noonday. Dismounting, we attempted to lead our horses through it. Bleeding and torn, we emerged from the saw-grass, whose serrated edges had cut and gashed us, to enter the blackest swamp that ever defiled the face of Nature. The tall cypress grew high above our heads, excluding every ray of light. Long, trailing vines, and hooked, cruel-looking briers, hung athwart our path, and festooned every tree. The mud in which we struggled was black, and exceedingly soft and tenacious. Stagnant pools of slime-covered

During the late war they maintained a strictly neutral position, though often approached with propositions that they should fight the Yankees. It is possible that they may break the bonds of caution that now restrain them, and dig up the hatchet so long buried, for they are subject to many persecutions by the white settlers who have penetrated into the unattractive Indian reserve.

It has been the writer's fortune to twice visit this people, which he did at much risk, and after incurring many dangers, and he has had very favorable opportunities for studying the red recluse in his own stronghold.

The Indian settlement near Lake Okechobee is about thirty miles from the Indian River, upon the Atlantic coast. Between the coast and the settlement, at the time of my first visit, there was but one white man's cabin, and this was some ten miles inland. From that cabin, one April morning, emerged the settler aforesaid and myself.

We mounted two tough stallions and turned their heads westward. My guide was owner of several hundred head of cattle, which roamed in a half-wild state through the woods and over the prairies, and these horses we were astride were especially trained for hunting those wiry cattle, and CHRISTIAN REID. admirably fitted for our purpose.

And so, to this day, Dunwardin says that he won his wife "up Laurel."

gators and poisonous snakes, which latter reptiles untwisted themselves in dozens from the gnarled cypress-roots, and wriggled silently away after darting at us their forked tongues. It required the utmost vigilance to elude the snakes and the alligators, and the desperate leaps of our frightened horses, as we waded on ahead leading them by the bridle.

Never was daylight hailed more joyfully than by us at the moment we emerged from the swamp, and dragged our mud-covered horses out upon the solid ground. The Black Cypress was passed; a few miles over level prairie, and we saw the first habitation. This, then, was the Indian country. This was the last refuge of a persecuted tribe, this half-dozen miles of prairie, bounded north and east by the swamp; south and west by for ests of pines.

The scene before me was of peaceful rest and happiness. The meadow-lark trilled his clear note from the grass as we rode along; the quail whistled merrily; and the woodpecker tapped the aged pine. Paroquets flew by on golden wings, and the mysterious ibis winged his silent way overhead.

As we neared the village the entire popu lation came forth to meet us, for those att work in the hammocks had been apprised of u our arrival, and were there to greet us.

The shanties were grouped together, about thirty in number. They were simply con structed; four posts supported a pitched roof thatched with palmetto-leaves. Open at the sides and ends, a full view of the interior could be obtained. A raised platform of logs, three feet from the ground, was used to sleep upon, and hold the family treasures. The people that surrounded me were

"

a short petticoat depended from the waist. A fine pair of skillepikahs, or moccasins, made -of deer-skin dressed as soft as silk, encased their little feet and dainty ankles. Around their necks they wore a profusion of beads— coil upon coil of great glass beads. They would omit any portion of their attire sooner than these beads, which are of all colors, shapes, and sizes, and the accumulations of years. So long as there is space between the chin and breast, so long do they crowd in beads until the weight is burdensome. Some of these strings have been weighed, and turned the scale at twenty pounds. They are slaves to fashion, these untutored sisters. "The only exception to the general style of dress was in the case of a young widow, who, according to the fixed and unalterable laws of the tribe, was permitted to wear no beads, no cape, no bustle, or polonaise. The law regarding widows is, furthermore, that they shall not leave camp for two years, nor comb their luxuriant hair during that period. If they pass the time of probation with credit, they may marry again.

strange in appearance, and would have star-the old hags who had lost their teeth, and tled me by their strange disregard for cloth-those who chewed tobacco to excess. ing had I not already at some of the war- Their dress was simple. Had it been simriors hunting a few weeks previously. pler I could not have described it. It remindThe men are generally tall, well-shaped,ed one of the maiden who was arrayed in the and musoular, though there were exceptions.full dress of becoming modesty and native inAn old sub-chief, Tiger, who had fought us innocence. A short cape adorned the shoulders; the old Seminole War, was a good representative of the average Seminole. He was above medium height, broad-shouldered, with massive arms and legs like mahogany pillars worn smooth by many a brush with thicket and brier. Nose and lips were large, indicating that some remote ancestor may have been of negro traction. His iron-gray hair was coarse, and straggled over a greasy bandana bound about his temples. The dress he wore may be taken as a specimen of that worn by all the adult males. Two ragged shirts of "hickory," or homespun, hung from his shoulders and reached nearly to his knees, the inner one a foot longer than the outer, and both exhibiting many a rent and tear. Breechecloth and moacasins completed his attire. The most noticeable brave was young Charley Osceola, a descendant of the famous Osceola who caused the whites so much troubleforty years ago. He was about twenty years of age, tall, over six feet in height, with broad shoulders and finely-shaped limbs. Erect and proud, with the dignified bearing of a prince, he was my bean ideal of a brave. His eyes were small, black, and keen; nose To summarize in respect to dress: Chilstraight, mouth small; hair thick, coarse,dren of both sexes under five cavorted about and black, with the changeable, metallic lustre of a raven's wing. This was shaven close at the sides of his head, leaving a ridge some two inches high on the crown, which ran from the forehead back like the crest of a helmet,rived at the dignity of a shirt. The girls of spreading at the back of the head, and hanging in braids upon his shoulders. His dress was similar to Tiger's, though neater, with-lowed to wear a cape. out rents, and about his slender waist a broad .belt confined his shirts.

The children were miniatures of the men; the boys deported themselves with the same gravity and walked fully as dignified. Boys under fifteen wore, sometimes, a shirt; often nothing at all.

How shall we describe the women? They are indescribable. Some were beautiful as bronze Venuses; others as hideous and ugly as Sin in a cast-iron gabardine

The girls and young squaws were much superior to their degraded cousins of the West in point of cleanliness and beauty, of medium height, with well-shaped limbs, and small hands and feet. Their faces were round; heads small; eyes large, black, and lustrous; nose small; mouth small and fulltipped. Their hair, long, black, and abundant, was gathered in a graceful coil at the back of the head, and worn short in front, fr after the prevailing fashion among Northern

adies a year ago. Their complexion was not to swarthy as that of the men, being a light rown where that of the latter was very ark. Altogether they were not repulsive'ttractive rather. The older women were less repossessing, as older women generally are.

All had low, musical voices, which, though ot resembling "the singing of birds," as an ld writer would have us believe, were very leasant to the ear. I beg leave to except

in a state of neture. The boys enjoyed this freedom, unrestrained, until den or twelve years old; but the children of the softer sex donned a petticoat. At fifteen the boys ar

that age had accumulated vast possessions of beads, and when turned sixteen were al

Upon great occasions both men and women ornament themselves regardless of expense. The men disguise themselves in shirts of fine make, and long, flowing gowns of large-figured calico, embroidered elaborately and belted at the waist. Their legs are encased in fringed leggings, and their moccasins are shapely and highly ornamented. Around their heads they wind a large, gaylycolored shawl, making a huge turban, from which the fringe hangs gracefully. Heron and egret plumes are thrust into the hair, and from ne neck are suspended huge gorgets of silver.

The women use a profusion of ribbons, bracelets, and beads. About their ankles they tie shells of the box-tortoise, which are bored with holes, so that they make a loud noise when struck together. They manufacture ear-rings from silver half- and quarterdollars without any instruments for working save the most primitive.

These observations I made while surrounded by the motley crowd, and during my subsequent residence with them.

After a short rest, we were invited by Indian Parker, a sub-chief, to inspect his plantation. It was a mile away in the cypress hammock. Their houses are built in the pine-woods for health, while their gardens are in the more fertile, swampy hammocks.

His wife and children were hard at work

when we arrived, but desisted at the first in-timation of visitors, washed themselves in a creek, donned their clothing, and gathered about us with offerings of the fruit of the place-corn and sweet-potatoes. The corn we roasted in the ashes, and ate the great milky ears with much satisfaction, though our sleeves did not brush away all of the clinging dirt.

It was in April, and Parker had corn six : feet high, and pumpkins, beans, peas, and melons, in flourishing growth. All worked -men, women, and children. There were no shirks. This is a pleasing characteristic of the Seminole. He will hunt all the time that he can be spared from his plantation, but when the season of planting comes, the rifle and arrow are laid aside, and he takes up the hoe and axe. Labor is mutual. The warrior kills the deer and bear, skins it, prepares the meat, and brings it home or to camp. The squaw, sister, or daughter, dries and dresses the skin, smokes the meat for future use, and performs all the labor incident to the camp.

From Parker's plantation we went beyond, to that of Tiger, his father-in-law.

I had met Tiger two weeks previously. He had visited my camp and eaten me out of provisions. At the time of his visit I had enough food, with the game we shot, to last three weeks. He came with ten younger Indians, staid two days, and left behind him at his departure an impoverished party of two, my guide and myself, who were obliged to flee to civilization to avoid starvation. Tiger was one of the few I shall never forget. His feats had won upon me, I'll not say how. He welcomed me warmly, conducted me around his cornfield, and introduced me to his squaw, a hideous, bony old hag, with skinny arms and legs, and fingers like eagles' claws.

The language of the Seminoles is a curious mixture of Indian and bad English-a conglomeration which only an experienced ear can understand. My guide always went upon the principle that you could make any foreigner (Indian included) understand you, provided you spoke loud enough. I could hear him when engaged in ordinary conversation a mile away. He would thunder out the worst English I ever heard in tones so loud that my ears would ring, and then would curse the ignorant aborigine for not understanding questions so clearly enunciated.

I append an excerpt of a conversation between Tiger and my guide. We wished to find Lake Okechobee, a wonderful, almost mythical lake, and Tiger knew the way there, but would not tell us: