ing, they rolled off the bank into the water, but not even the certainty of immediate fate, could unlock their death grapple. The river splashed and closed over them. Three times they rose to the surface, and were each time seen striving for the mastery. At last they sank, and the current swept them downward.

Both parties were now raising the war whoop, and running to their lodges for weapons, which were too readily procured. Then was heard the twang of the bow, and the hissing of the shaft. Five of the Te Zahpahtah fell, and double that number of Sussetons. The damage would have been greater, but that intoxication had taken away the steadiness of the combatants, though not their courage or ferocity. Chundopah strode over the field, regardless of the arrows that where whizzing around him, exerting his voice and his limbs to the utmost, to restore peace. Seeing one of his nephews about to transfix a Susseton, he stood before him just as the weapon parted. The point entered his breast, and passed out behind his back. He fell, but still raised his voice, entreating and commanding a cessation of hostilities.

The fall of this good man, who was loved and respected by both parties, astounded the warriors. They dropped their weapons and gathered round him. While he reproached them with their folly, he

persuaded them to forget and forgive. He told them that not they, but the liquor had sinned; that a drunk. en man was not accountable for what he might do. He said that he knew he must die, but if his death should bring his tribe to a just sense of the sin and folly of intemperance, he rejoiced in having been the victim. Then he sung his death song, and the next morning expired.

Contrition had completely taken the place of hate and fury, in the breasts of the Dahcotahs. They remembered no other instance of civil strife in their nation since their separation from the Hohays. They placed the dead upon scaffolds at the Lake of Swans, a short distance from the field of battle, and mourned long and bitterly for them. Yet, as an Indian can never suffer loss or wrong without thinking of revenge, they resolved that La Roque should suffer for the mischief he had occasioned, on the very spot where he had offended.

Hearing that the Indians had assembled on the Field of the Unfortunate Battle, he surmised their intentions at once, and took measures to counteract them. He might have escaped in another direction very easily, but in that case he would have lost his boat, and could never have traded with them again. Perhaps too, for he was a bois brulé, he shared the Indian principle of honor, and scorned to shun his

fate. He bought a canoe, and taking one man only with him, floated down the river, a little in advance of his boat.

When within a mile of the camp, he went on shore, stripped, and painted his face and body black. Then, reembarking, he ordered his men to follow in a quarter of an hour. Standing upright in the prow of his canoe, he began to sing his death song, and his man paddling directly to the camp, he landed and walked into the midst of his armed and scowling foes, without faltering.

'I am onsheekah (worthy of pity),' he said; 'I am a dog, and I have caused the death of my kin and brethren. I am come to die;' and, sitting on the ground, he added, as he covered his face, and turned his back to them, 'Strike me now, I cannot see, and I make no resistance.'

They could not strike; by casting himself on their mercy, he evaded the fate that would otherwise have been inevitable. They washed the black of revenge from their faces, shook hands with, and feasted him. When his boat came up, he 'showed charity to the dead; that is, he gave blankets, and other articles, to be placed on their scaffolds.

He died several years after, and his children are now all Indian Traders.

RETURN TO CONNECTICUT.

BY MRS SIGOURNEY.

HAIL, native earth!-from brighter climes returning, From richer scenes the ravished eye that cheer, From palace roofs, and skies with glory burning, Where changeless Summer decks the joyous year With golden fruits, and verdure never sere,

Still leaps my heart to mark thy rugged crest, Thy village spires, and mansions rude though dear; Still to my lip thy sprinkled sod is pressed,

As the weaned infant clings close to its mother's breast.

Thou hast no mountain peering to the cloud,
No boundless river for the poet's lyre,
Nor mighty cataract thundering far and loud,
Nor red volcano opening through its pyre
A safety-valve to earth's deep, central fire,

Nor dread glacier, nor forest's awful frown. Yet turn thy sons to thee with fond desire,

And from Niagara's pride, or Andes' crown, In thy scant, noteless vales delight to lay them down.

Thou art a Spartan mother, and thy sons

From their sweet sleep at early dawn dost call, Mindless of wintry blast or sultry suns,

Some goodly task proportioning to all— Warning to fly from sloth and folly's thrall,

And patient meet the tempest or the thorn,—
Nor ermine robe thou givest, nor silken pall,

Nor gilded boon of bloated luxury born,
To bid the pampered soul its lowly brother scorn.

Yet hath bold Science in thy sterile bed

Struck a deep root; and, though wild blasts recoil, The Arts their winged and feathery seeds have spread, For hardened hands, embrowned with peasant toil, To pluck their delicate flowers; and, while the soil Their plough hath broken, some the Muse have hailed,

Smit with her love 'mid poverty's turmoil

And, like the Seer by angel might assailed,

Wrestled till break of day, and then like him pre