It was a fine bright morning in October.

The sun was shining on the tops of the mountains; we climbed Mount Holyoke, through the woods, and ascended a high rock, from which we could see a beautiful valley far below us, in the centre of which was the little town of Northampton, much smaller than it is now.
[Illustration] "Do you see those houses ?" said the Indian to me, "When my grandfather was a boy, there was not a house where you see so many: that valley which now belongs to white men, belonged to red men." "Then the red men were rich and happy; now they are poor and wretched.
Then that beautiful river which you see running through the valley, and which is called the Connecticut, was theirs.

They owned these fine mountains too, they hunted in these woods, and fished in that river, and were numerous and powerful,--now they are few and weak." "But how has this change happened ?" said I, "who has taken your lands from you, and made you so miserable ?" "I will tell you all about that to-night," said he, "when we return home." We proceeded cautiously through the woods, and had not gone far when the Indian beckoned us all to stop.

"Look yonder," said he to me, "on that high rock above us!" I did so, but could see nothing.

"Look again," said he; I did, and saw a young hind standing upon the point of a rock which hung over the valley; she was a beautiful little animal, full of spirit, with large black eyes, slender legs and of a reddish brown colour.
He now selected a choice arrow, placed it on the bow, and sent it whizzing through the air.