ing of one of the horses as it was forced into the water. As they came out on the bank, they saw the canoe, with three Indians in it, and in the bottom four rifles, the dead hog, and young Wetzel stretched at full fength; the Indian in the stern was just pushing off from the shore with his paddle; the fourth Indian was swimming the horses a few yards from shore.

Immediately the foremost white man threw up his rifle and shot the paddler dead; and, a second later, one of his companions coming up, killed in like fashion the Indian in the bow of the canoe.

The third Indian, stunned by the sudden onslaught, sat as if numb, never so much as lifting one of the rifles that lay at his feet, and in a minute he, too, was shot and fell over the side of the canoe, but grasped the gunwale with one hand, keeping himself afloat.

Young Wetzel, in the bottom of the canoe, would have shared the same fate, had he not cried out that he was white and a prisoner; whereupon they bade him knock loose the Indian's hand from the side of the canoe. This he did, and the Indian sank. The current carried the canoe on a rocky spit of land, and Wetzel jumped out and waded ashore, while the little craft spun off and again drifted toward midstream.

One of the men on shore now fired at the only remaining Indian, who was still swimming his horse for the opposite bank. The bullet splashed the water

on his naked skin, whereat he slipped off his horse, swam to the empty canoe, and got into it.

Unhurt he reached the farther shore, where he leaped out and caught the horse as it swam to land, mounted it, rifle in hand, turned to yell defiance at his foes, and then vanished in the forest-shrouded wilderness. THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

THE INDIAN DANCER.

Barred with streaks of red and yellow,
Streaks of blue and bright vermilion,
Shone the face of Pau-Puk-Keewis.
From his forehead fell his tresses,
Smooth, and parted like a woman's,
Shining bright with oil, and plaited,
Hung with braids of scented grasses,
As among the guests assembled,
To the sound of flutes and singing,
To the sound of drums and voices,
Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis,
And began his mystic dances.

First he danced a solemn measure,

Very slow in step and gesture,
In and out among the pine trees,
Through the shadows and the sunshine,
Treading softly like a panther.

Then more swiftly and still swifter,
Whirling, spinning round in circles,
Leaping o'er the guests assembled,
Eddying round and round the wigwam,
Till the leaves went whirling with him,
Till the dust and leaves together
Swept in eddies round about him.
Then along the sandy margin
Of the lake, the Big-Sea-Water,
On he sped with frenzied gestures,
Stamped upon the sand, and tossed it
Wildly in the air around him;
Till the wind became a whirlwind,

Till the sand was blown and sifted
Like great snowdrifts o'er the landscape,
Heaping all the shores with Sand Dunes,
Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo!

Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis
Danced his Beggar's Dance to please them,
And, returning, sat down laughing
There among the guests assembled,
Sat and fanned himself serenely
With his fan of turkey-feathers.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

I was walking one evening by the side of the river Seine, to which the lights on the quays and the bridges gave the aspect of a lake surrounded by a garland of stars.

I had reached the Louvre, when I was stopped by a crowd collected near the parapet; they had gathered round a child of about six, who was crying. And I asked the cause of his tears.

"It seems that he was sent to walk," said a mason, who was returning from his work, with his trowel in his hand; "the servant who took care of him met with some friends, and told the child to wait for him while he went to get a drink. But I suppose the drink made him more thirsty, for he has not come back, and the child cannot find his way home."

"Why do you not ask his name, and where he lives?"

"They have been doing it for the last hour; but all he can say is that he is called Charles, and that