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Up we goes a-scratchin'; pullin' at de bushes an' weeds an' grass ter help us 'long, an' tearin' dem up, like flax on a rainy day. Injun has furder ter go, but longer legs ter go wid. So he gits ter de top uf de hill as quick as me--him nighest his gun, me nighest my ax. He's reachin' his han' out fur de gun, my han' 's on my ax a'ready, an' at him de ax goes whizzin', an' pops him plump on de hip, an' ober he tumbles. I runs to pick up my ax, dis time ter give de tough varmint a cleaver, or neber. He can't run, he can't crawl; but he kin wollop, an' wollop he does, like a rooster wid his head cut off. In de flash uf a gun-flint, dar he's wolloped hisse'f to de turn uf de hill. I sends my ax wid a good-by arter him, an' gives him a gash in de arm to 'member me by. He sends me back a grin an' a whoop, an' away big Injun goes rollin' an' tumblin'. I grabs up a gun--his own gun it was--an' sends him a long far'well. He sends back a yell--de o-f-f-ullest yell I eber heerd in all my bo'n days; offul enough ter come frum a grave-yard. Out comes spirtin' de blood, a-flyin' frum de rollin' body like water frum a flutter-mill. Down to de foot uf de hill a-whirlin' he goes, tel ober de bank uf de riber he pitches. An' dat's de las' I sees uf big Injun.

"Burlman Rennuls," says I to myself, still p'intin' my gun at de bank, "yo' day's work's done." But hain't hardly said it when, "Burl, Burl!" ses Bushie; "Bow-wow," ses Grumbo; and "w-h-izz," ses a tommyhawk, grazin' my nose an' stickin' itse'f in a tree by my side.

I wheels about, an' dar's t'udder dead varmint up on his legs an' a-comin' at me wid his knife, but Grumbo holdin' him back by de coat-tail. "I yi, you dogs!" an' at him I go--grabs his knife, clinches his throat, when down to de groun' we come--Injun, nigger, an' dog, dog-fashion, all in a pile togedder.

You g' long! Dat's none uf my lookout. Ef it wusn't as I tell you, would de young Injun be dar in my doo' now, smokin' his pipe? Ef you won't b'lieve me ax him; an' ef you can't take his word fur it, ax Grumbo.

But we have followed our black Munchausen through the least wonderful part of his story, as narrated by himself; and further than this, for reasons already hinted, we dare not venture, the facts of the narrative here beginning to grow tame again, and the narrator's fancies wide. So we shall leave our lion to go on roaring it out into the ears of his colored admirers to his heart's satisfaction, till he is empty and they are full. At last, after blowing and puffing for nearly an hour in the popular ear, the windy story, tapering off with a little facetious gas designed for the ladies, found its way to an end, and dismissing his audience with a majestic wave of his war-cap, Big Black Burl came down from the rostrum.

HOW BIG BLACK BURL SEWED IT UP IN HIS WAR-CAP.

Now that his great adventure had been brought to a happy end, the Fighting Nigger must once more doff his bear-skin cap--the cap of war--and don, instead, his coon-skin cap--the cap of peace; hang his battle-ax up on the wall, and lay his hand to the plow; muzzle his war-dog, and bridle his plow-horse; and leave the war-path in the forest to tread the peace-path in the field.

Accordingly, early next morning, having duly discharged his office as host for the time being, and left his guest to a pipe of tobacco and quiet meditation, Burl was about betaking himself to his labors in the field, when his little master came running out to his cabin with word that Miss Jemima wished to speak with him before he left the fort. Respectfully uncapping himself even before reaching her presence, the faithful fellow came, and showing the left shoulder and bushy head of him from round the edge of the door and looking side-long into the room where his mistress was sitting, said in answer to her summons, "Yes 'um."

"I have sent for you, Burl," began Mrs. Reynolds with kindly seriousness of tone and manner, "to tell you how thankful I am for the good and brave part you have done by me and my poor fatherless boy, and to reward you in the best way I can." Here she paused.

"Yes 'um," said Burl, not knowing what else to say, and looking hard at Grumbo, who, as if he had been summoned too, had followed his master, and now, seated on his haunches in the door-way, was listening with grave attention to what was going on--hoping, no doubt, that severe measures were at last about to be taken with regard to the red barbarian.

Mrs. Reynolds resumed: "While you were gone, Burl, I sat here in my great distress and made a solemn promise to myself and to Heaven, that if you were permitted to bring me back my child alive and well, I would give you your freedom at once, as the only fitting reward I had it in my power to bestow for so great a proof of your fidelity and love to us."

"Now, Miss Jemimy!" exclaimed Burl in a tone of remonstrance, the water welling up in his great ox-like eyes.

"Yes, but I must do it," rejoined his mistress. "Heaven has heard my prayer, and I must keep my promise. Faithful and good have you been to us, and richly deserve the reward I offer. Would it were in my power to give you more."

"Now, Miss Jemimy!" repeated Burl, in the same tone, "you needn't, indeed you needn't." And seeing that his mistress had had her say, he seized upon the subject with sudden energy, and thus unburdened his mind: "Miss Jemimy, I don't want my freedom; I 's no use fur it. Hain't I got de bes' mistus in de worl' an' de finest little marster? Hain't I got a gun an' a dog? Plenty to eat an' plenty to w'ar? A whole cabin to myse'f, an' Saturday ev'nin's to go a-huntin' an' a-fishin' ef I likes? De only thing I hain't got an' would like ter hab--dough dat's no fault uf yourn, Miss Jemimy--is a white skin. Ef I had a white skin, den might I hab my freedom an' know whar's my place an' who's my comp'ny. As I is, turn me out free an' whar's my place? No whar. Who's my comp'ny? Nobody. Too good fur common niggers, not good 'nough fur white folks. What den would I be? A Ingin I s'pose. Sooner be Grumbo dar dan a Injun. Den Miss Jemimy wants to make a red varmint uf her ol' nigger. Git out! 'Scuse me, Miss Jemimy; I didn't go to say dat ter you. But I's bery glad an' thankful to hear you talk dat way. Makes me gladder to be what I is, so glad to be what I is, I won't be nothin' else ef I kin he'p it."

Deeply touched at this new proof of fidelity and self-sacrifice, yet not a little amused withal at the droll shape in which it came, Mrs. Reynolds rejoined: "Well, Burl, you can do as you please, but so far as my will and wishes can make you free, free you are from this day forth, either to go and play or stay and work. My promise is given, never to be recalled."

"Den, Miss Jemimy," replied Burl with look and tone of deep respect, "ef you's gwine ter let me do 's I please, w'y den, I pleases to stay."

Then, showing the whole of himself, excepting one arm and one leg, from round the edge of the door-way, and now rising into the oratorical, Burlman Reynolds proceeded to give his opinions upon the subject, having already expressed his feelings. "Miss Jemimy," with an impressive gesture, "dare's reason in all things. Now, ef I had l'arnin', could read in a book, write on paper, figger on a slate, count up money, tel de names of de mont's, an' alwus say how ol' I is when axed, an' all sich things like white folks, w'y den, dare'd be some sense in a great he-nigger like me doin' what I please, gwine whar I please--free-papers in pockets. But ef I has my freedom an' hain't got l'arnin' to match it, den would I be like--like--" looking about him for a comparison, till chancing to cast his eye on his dog, a thing pat suggested itself. "W'y, Miss Jemimy, one uf de red varmints me an' Grumbo chawed up yisterdy had on a blue coat an' ruffle shirt along with his ragetty rawhide tags an' fedders. Thought I neber seed nothin' look so scan'lus. 'Red varmint,' says I to him, 'coat an' no breeches won't do, shirt an' no breeches won't do.' An' now says I to Miss Jemimy, 'Freedom an' no l'arnin' won't do no mo' dan shirt an' no breeches.'

"Now, look at de Injuns." "Dey has der freedom, kin do what dey please, kin go whar dey please, an' what do dey do? Don't do nothin' but hunt an' fish an' fight. Whar do dey go? W'y, jes' a-rippin' an' tearin' all ober da worl', 'sturbin' peacable people, keepin' dem mizzible an' onsituwated. So you see, de Injun, dough he has his freedom, ain't nothin' arter all but a red varmint. An' fur why? Beca'se he hain't got l'arnin' fur to tell him what to do wid his freedom, dat's why. So dey needs somebody to tell 'em what to do an' make 'em do it. Yes, an' dar's some white folks, too, who hain't got l'arnin' an' don't know much better what to do wid dare freedom dan Injuns an' free niggers, dough dey don't think so demselves, an' would knock a nigger down fur sayin' it. An' dem's my 'pinions on dat p'int.

"Squirly is a pretty bird."

And that morning the sylvan wilds were kept resounding with the heart-easing, blithesome music which bespoke the thankfulness and the gladness of the singer's heart. It was the happiest morning he had ever known in all his life, and yet, despite an unaccountable accident of birth that had brought into the world so noble a soul with an ebony hide and fleecy head, the poor fellow had known a thousand mornings nearly as happy. He was having his reward. But at about eleven o'clock the singing suddenly ceased--so suddenly, indeed, that any one who might have been listening would have said, "Assuredly something unusual has happened to Burlman Reynolds; something has struck him--perhaps an Indian bullet."

But when, in answer to the dinner-horn, the plowman came riding slowly home, it was evident from his unwonted seriousness of look and manner that a thought had struck the mind, not a bullet the body of Burlman Reynolds. It was further evident from the absent-minded way in which he fed Cornwallis, throwing him two dozen instead of one dozen ears of corn; and further still, from the absent-minded way in which he fed himself, leaving his bacon untoasted and eating nothing but bonny-clabber and corn-dodgers. Nor again that day was there an echo in the woods to tell that Big Black Burl was at his cheerful labors in the field. Yet, though the voice was silent, the heart went singing on, and the burden of the tune it sung was, "Bery glad an' bery thankful." That evening after supper, having smoked a sociable pipe with his Indian guest in the twilight under his cabin-shed, Burl picked up his coon-skin cap and, without putting it on, carried it in his hand with profound respect to Miss Jemimy's door, where by early candle-light, she was putting Bushie to bed. Showing one shoulder and his bushy head from round the edge of the door-way, he looked in, and by way of breaking the subject uppermost in his thoughts, cleared his throat and said, "Yes 'um."

"Well, Burl, what is it?" kindly inquired his mistress.

"Well, Miss Jemimy, it's jes' dis. We's all pore mortal creeters, made of clay, you know; no tellin' who'll be took away fus', who'll be lef' behin'." Another pause.

"Nothing could be truer, Burl," rejoined his mistress; "and yet not always right pleasant to think of. But go on, and speak your mind freely."

"Well, Miss Jemimy, bein' sich pore mortal creeters as we is, dare's no tellin' who'll be took away fus', who'll be lef' behin'. 'Scuse me, ef you please."

"And you are thinking that you might be left behind," added his mistress.

"You've hit it 'zac'ly on de head, Miss Jemimy; dat's jes' de thing I's wantin' to say, but was afeered uf hurtin' feelin's. Hope you don't think hard uf me fur havin' sich thoughts. But bein', as I wus sayin', de pore mortal creeters we is, some pussons is boun' to drap off sooner dan oders, some boun' to be lef' behin'; an' dar's no tellin' who de whos will be. Sich things mus' happen, an' nobody's fault, you know."

"It is all just as you say, Burl," replied his mistress. "So go on without more ado, and tell me exactly what is in your mind, and no fear of hurting feelings."

"Thank you, Miss Jemimy, fur talkin' dat way; it makes me easy. So I'll go on an' tell it all, jes' as I's been thinkin' it. Eber sence late dis mornin' I's been sayin' to myse'f out yander in de corn-fiel': 'We's all pore mortal creeters made uf clay--no tellin' who'll be took 'way fus', who'll be lef behin'. Den s'posin',' ses I, 's'posin' ef my good missus an' sweet little marster might be took 'way fus', an' der ol' nigger lef' behin', what den? W'y, mebbe jes' dis: some white man I neber liked or neber knowed might come 'long a-sayin' to me: "You belongs to me now, I's paid my money fur you; you go plow in my fiel', go chop in my woods, go mow in my medder; I hain't bought yo' wife an' chil'en--no use fur dem; so jes' make up yo' min' to leabe 'em an' come 'long." Den Burlman Rennuls be very sorry he didn't take what his good mistus wanted so much to give him long time ago.' So I goes on thinkin' it ober an' ober eber go long, till ses I to myse'f, 'I'll go to Miss Jemimy dis bery night an' say to her: "Miss Jemimy," ses I, "we's all pore mortal creeters made uf clay, no tellin' who'll be took away fus', who'll be lef' behin';" an' my good missus will know what I mean.' So I's come an' sed it. But min' you, Miss Jemimy, min' you now, I'm 'tirely willin' to work fur you an' my little marster all my days--'d ruther do it. But sich a thing might happen dat you two might be took away fus', an' yo' ol' nigger lef' behin'. Den I'd a leetle ruther be free. I don't know, arter all, but freedom's a bery good thing to hab eben ef we hain't got l'arnin' to match it. Dat is, ef we kin hab it an' not let it make fools uf us--set us a-thinkin' we's got nuthin' to do but lay in de shade an' kick up our heels. A nigger needn't make sich a show uf his freedom as de red varmint uf his ruffle shirt an' blue coat; jes' tie it up in a snug little bundle to tote along wid him an' let folks know he has it, an' dat'll be 'nuff fur any use. So I's thinkin' I'll come an' say: 'Miss Jemimy,' ses I, 'bein' as you want so much to do it, w'y den, ef you please, jes' write it down on a piece uf paper how, in case you an' my little marster might be took away fus', you wants yo' ol' nigger to hab his freedom.' Den I'll sew it up in my b'ar-skin cap, to keep it till de time comes, ef de time mus' come, so I kin say to de fus' white man who comes 'long a-claimin' me, 'I yi, my larky,' pullin' out my free-papers. But, min' you now, Miss Jemimy, I don't want you to be a-thinkin' dat I'll be a-hopin' fur de time to come so I kin go rippin' an' tearin' 'bout de country, like some no-'count, raggetty, dirty free niggers I's seed afore now, who, beca'se dey could do what dey pleased, didn't please to do nuthin'. 'T ain't so. I's sed it afore, an' I'll say it ag'in, I'll do what I kin fur my good missus an' my sweet little marster--all a pore nigger kin fur white folks in dat way, an' won't neber stop a-doin' it; an' I mean to keep my word."

And right willingly did Miss Jemimy according to her faithful servant's wishes, writing it down on a "piece of paper," clear and full, not forgetting to take such steps as should make the document good and valid in the eyes of the law. Then, having wrapped it up carefully in a piece of buckskin made water-proof and sweat-proof by bear's-grease rubbed in, Burl, with an awl and two wax-ends, sewed it up securely in the crown of his bear-skin cap. And, as the poor fellow was never left behind, there it remained for the rest of his days, with never a hope that he might some day have occasion to use it--never one regret that he had not accepted at once the priceless blessing it offered.

HOW BIG BLACK BURL FIGURED ON THE PEACE-PATH.

It were long, and needless too, to tell of every thing that happened in and around our little fort during the fortnight the young Indian remained a captive among the Whites. Captive, however, we should hardly call him, since he was left entirely at liberty to go whithersoever he chose; and there was nothing to hinder him from walking back to Chillicothe, his home, whenever the humor might seize him, except a nice sense of honor and a crippled arm. Every morning, after he had cheered his solitude with a pipe of tobacco, Kumshakah--for that was the young Indian's name--accompanied by Bushie, would go and present himself at Mrs. Reynolds's door, that, according to her express desire, he might have his wound dressed. Though grave and reserved in his demeanor toward every one else, Kumshakah could show himself talkative and affable enough when alone with Shekee-thepatee , as he called his little white friend Bushie. For hours together would these two loving chums--for such they soon became--keep up a lively, confidential interchange of thought and sentiment, each in his own language, and evidently quite as much to the other's entertainment as to his own satisfaction, which was rather remarkable, seeing that neither understood a word the other was saying. The other children of the fort, holding the red stranger in too great awe and dread to trust themselves within his reach, would watch the two with sharp curiosity from a distance, admiring and envying the courage and easy assurance with which their playfellow could rub against so terrible a creature as a skin-clad, feather-crested Indian warrior, who was always whittling with his scalping-knife.

Every day the pair would take a long ramble into the forest, in the course of which they never failed to go or come by the corn-field, where Big Black Burl--his feet in the peace-path, his head in his peace-cap, his heart in his peace-song--was tickling the fat ribs of mother earth with a plow, to make her laugh with johnny-cakes and pumpkin-pies for his little master. Kumshakah had given his big black friend also a new name, Mish-mugwa ; the title being suggested, no doubt, by the Fighting Nigger's bear-skin rigging no less than by his size, color, and strength. Always on catching his first glimpse of them, where side by side they sat on the topmost rail of the fence, Mish-mugwa would cut short his singing and send forward his wonted salutation, "I yi, you dogs!" Not failing at such times to discover that old "Corny" was sweating and would like to blow awhile, our black Cincinnatus would run his plow into a shady corner, and, likewise taking his seat on the fence, square himself for a little edifying conversation.

Thus seated side by side, on the top of the scraggy corn-field fence, would these three worthies, so strikingly different one from the other, while away the warm summer hours; often, too, long after old Cornwallis, there dozing so contentedly in the shade of the overleaning wood, had dried off and recovered the breath he had not lost. Perhaps, at such times, instead of keeping his eyes on some invisible point in the atmosphere, Kumshakah would be employing them and his hands in the fashioning of two pipes--one of black stone, the other of white stone. On the bowl of the white stone pipe he carved the figure of a little raccoon, on the bowl of the black stone pipe the figure of a big bear--both pipes neatly executed, and the two figures passable likenesses. When he had finished the pipes, and fitted to them stems, handsomely ornamented with the feathers of birds, Kumshakah presented the black pipe to Mish-mugwa, the white pipe to Shekee-thepatee, and to the infinite delight of both; of Bushie, chiefly because he saw in his a token of his red friend's love; of Burl, chiefly because he saw in his the only thing lacking to give completeness to his martial rigging--a war-pipe.

All this time Grumbo maintained toward every one, not even excepting his master, a grim, severe reserve--keeping much alone, seldom indulging in cooked meat, more seldom still in raw, and never tasting his corn-dodgers. The red barbarian, in particular, he regarded with an evil eye--holding him in worse and worse odor, as the rest received him into higher and higher favor. Time and again did the captain essay to explain to his lieutenant how matters stood between them and their prisoner, but in vain. With that consistency of mind and fixedness of purpose for which he was remarkable, our canine hero stubbornly persisted in making it manifest that he was not a dog to be whistled, rubbed, and patted into winking at a measure so lax as that of allowing a red "varmint" to run at large in their midst, without even so much as a block and chain to hamper the freedom of his movements, or some sign to bespeak his inferiority to men and dogs. Perhaps, like some perverse people we have known, Grumbo took particular delight in being unsatisfactory to every one but himself. Or, perhaps by the observance of this policy he meant to reproach his renegade leader for suffering himself to be so easily led away from the orthodox faith in which they had lived so long and happily together, and had acted in such harmonious concert. Perhaps, too, it was meant as a warning that unless he should be given some assurance that business should hereafter be done up in the regular, scientific way, he would break with the captain altogether, and attach himself to the fortunes of some other leader, more consistent and better fitted to command, and who should have a more just appreciation of what was due a brave and faithful follower.

But our four-footed hero, like many a two-footed hero we have read of, was doomed in his day and generation to be misunderstood, unappreciated, maligned, neglected. As usual in such cases, the result was a total upsetting in the mind of the injured one of all orthodox notions of human nature and the eternal fitness of things. I should hardly express myself so boldly were I not backed by the testimony of some of Grumbo's own contemporaries, by whom I have been informed that, a few weeks after the events I am relating, his dogship renounced human society and a mixed diet altogether, and withdrawing himself from the pale of the civilized world to the solitudes of the forest, there, for the rest of his days, lived the life of a misanthropic hermit. According to other contemporaneous testimony, however, no less deserving our serious consideration, an ebony monster, with a woolly head and flat nose, but walking erect on two legs, and in other respects bearing a striking resemblance to man, had something to do with the mysterious disappearance of our canine hero from the theater of human action. Moved with envy and spite at beholding the Fighting Nigger's renown and at hearing his praises in the popular mouth, and itching to inflict upon the object thereof the greatest possible injury he could, with the least possible risk to himself, this ebony monster secretly, and in the most dastardly manner, poisoned the heroic Grumbo--thus cutting short his career of glory in the very prime and flower of his doghood. Be all this as it may, of one thing we are sure, that after that ever-to-be-remembered first of June, 1789, never was the war-dog seen again on the war-path with Captain Reynolds, the Fighting Nigger, the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head, Mish-mugwa.

It was a beautiful Sabbath morning "in the leafy month of June." Blue and sunny and loving hung the sky above the dark, green, perilous wilderness, where our pioneer fathers, in daily jeopardy of their lives, were struggling to secure for themselves and their children after them a home in the land so highly favored by Heaven. That morning, on presenting himself at Mrs. Reynolds's door, Kumshakah was pronounced by the good woman to be healed of his wound, and told that he might now depart in peace to his own land and people.

With a sorrowful face Burl took down the young Indian's rifle from where it had lain with the others in the rifle-hooks against his cabin wall, and having cleaned and loaded it with care, returned it to its owner, along with his powder-horn and ammunition-pouch, liberally re?nforced with ammunition from his own store. Then he arrayed himself from top to toe in his martial rigging, proposing, as it was Sunday, to escort his captive guest some miles into the wilderness, till he had seen him safe across the border. Having, through Burl's influence, gained his mother's permission to accompany them, Bushie, likewise in honor of the occasion, had put on a clean homespun cotton shirt and a pair of buckskin moccasins, which, with the eagle feathers in his coon-skin cap and his white stone pipe worn tomahawk-wise in his girdle, lent him quite a holiday appearance. All being ready, the three then went to Mrs. Reynolds's door, that Kumshakah might bid farewell to his kind hostess.

"Farewell, Kumshakah," said the good woman, extending her hand. "May the Great Father of us all, whom you call the Great Spirit, have you now and have you ever in his holy keeping, and reward you according to your wondrous kindness to my poor helpless boy in his hour of need."

With deep respect the young brave approached and took the proffered hand, which, with delicate emphasis, he shook just once, and there was a shining in his bright, wild eyes, as eloquent of gratitude as had it been the glistening of a tear. In further answer to her words, the purport whereof he had read in her face and voice, he made a brief speech in his own language, which, spoken in tones deep, melodious, and earnest, and delivered with singular grace and dignity, ever after lived in the white mother's remembrance like a strain of music, which, though unintelligible to the ear, is understood and echoed by the heart. Then the young Indian turned and, followed by Burl and Bushie, walked slowly and thoughtfully away.

As side by side they pursued their tramp through the green entanglements of the forest, the black hunter was far less talkative than usual, and the red hunter scarcely spoke at all, though, Indian-like, listening with respectful attention whenever his companion seemed to be addressing him in particular. But, as if reserving all his regrets for the parting moment, Bushie--now mounted on Burl's shoulder, now walking hand in hand with Kumshakah--kept up a lively prattle which never ceased, and to which the others listened with pleased ears. Sometimes, while riding aloft, he would amuse himself by catching at the slender, pliant branches of the trees brought within his reach, which he would draw after him as far as he could bend them, then letting them fly back, leave them swinging to and fro. At length, as if this amusement had suggested it to his mind, the boy struck up a cadence from one of Burl's songs, singing in a clear, piping voice:

An' de jay-bird flew away-- De jay-bird flew away-- An' lef' de lim' a-swingin'-- A-swingin'.

"Mus'n't sing sich songs on Sunday, Bushie--sing hymns on Sunday. So, j'ine in wid me an' help me sing Caneyan's Happy Sho' for Kumshy, pore Kumshy, who's gwine to leabe us, neber to come no mo'. It'll do him good."

O dat will be joyful, joyful, joyful, O dat will be joyful, to meet to part no more; To meet to part no more, On Caneyan's happy shore; An' dar we'll meet at Jesus' feet, An' meet to part no more.

But something more remained yet to be done. Taking the white stone pipe which he had carved for Shekee-thepatee and filling its virgin bowl with tobacco, Kumshakah lighted it, and slowly, with great solemnity, drew a few whiffs therefrom, then offered it to Mish-mugwa. This the young Indian did in token of his earnest wish that the peace and friendship now existing between them should endure from that day forth, let come what might, and that the sentiment, thus consecrated, should be cherished as in some sort a solemn and religious duty. Poor Burl did not know that Indians had any ceremonies at all; nor, until his acquaintance with Kumshakah, that they had any thing in common with the human race, excepting the art of fighting, and, to a limited degree, as it seemed to him, the power of speech. So, till he had gone home that night and told the white hunters of the circumstance, he could but vaguely guess at the sentiment to which this simple ceremony of smoking the peace-pipe gave expression. Nevertheless, with that facility at entering, for the time being, into the feelings, thoughts, and ways of others peculiar to his race, and which is due to self-unconscious imitation rather than to self-determined adaptability, Mish-mugwa took the proffered symbol of peace and friendship, and with a solemnity that would have seemed ludicrous to any one but a black man or a red man, gave just as many whiffs as he had seen Kumshakah give, then, with the air of one who knew as well as anybody what he was doing, returned the pipe to Kumshakah.

The peace-pipe emptied of its ashes and returned to its owner, the young brave rose at once and silently extended his hand. Burl seized it with a huge, devouring grip that would have made any one but an Indian wince, and with a big, round, stag-like tear in either big, round, ox-like eye, thus bid farewell: "Good-by, Kumshy. De good Lord go wid you all yo' days. Come an' see us ag'in--Miss Jemimy an' Mishy-muggy an' Sheky-depatty; Mishy-muggy's me, you know, an' Sheky-depatty's Bushie. Come an' see us all ag'in. Good-by."

Then going up to Bushie, Kumshakah shook him, likewise, by the hand; the dear little fellow, without saying a word, gazing up wistfully into the young Indian's face, his blue eyes brimming over with tears. But when he saw his red friend going at last, then did the affectionate Shekee-thepatee lift up his voice and weep aloud.

"Come back, Kumshakah!" he cried; "come back, and live with us, and never leave us, Kumshakah!"

The young Indian wheeled about and returned, took the chubby hand again in his, and with tender gravity shook it gently, very gently. As he did so, a mistiness came over his bright, wild eyes, which, when he had turned again to go, must--if ever Indian warrior weeps--have gathered into a tear. With wistful eyes, Burl and Bushie followed the swiftly receding form of their red friend, who never turned to look at them till he had gained the crest of a distant hill to the north. Here he faced about and remained for many moments gazing back at them; his graceful figure, his wild dress, and his rifle in sharp relief against a patch of blue sky, gleaming through an opening in the forest beyond. In final farewell Burl waved his cap. Kumshakah answered with a wide wave of the hand; then, turning, quickly vanished behind the hill, to be seen no more. With sorrowful hearts, Burl and Bushie turned likewise, and retraced their steps to Fort Reynolds.

From that day forward, never again did Captain Reynolds, the Fighting Nigger, the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head, Mish-mugwa, lay the bloody hand on the scalp-lock of a fallen foe.

HOW THE GLORY OF HIS RACE FIGURED IN HIS RISING.

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