It needed but a glance at the new-comer to detect at once the form and features of the haughty aborigine,--the untaught and untrammelled son of the forest.

Over one shoulder a blanket, negligently but gracefully thrown, disclosed a bare and powerful breast, decorated with a quantity of three-cent postage-stamps which he had despoiled from an Overland Mail stage a few weeks previous.

A cast-off beaver of Judge Tompkins's, adorned by a simple feather, covered his erect head, from beneath which his straight locks descended.

His right hand hung lightly by his side, while his left was engaged in holding on a pair of pantaloons, which the lawless grace and freedom of his lower limbs evidently could not brook.
"Why," said the Indian, in a low sweet tone,--"why does the Pale Face still follow the track of the Red Man?
Why does he pursue him, even as O-kee-chow, the wild-cat, chases Ka-ka, the skunk?
Why are the feet of Sorrel-top, the white chief, among the acorns of Muck-a-muck, the mountain forest?
Why," he repeated, quietly but firmly abstracting a silver spoon from the table,--"why do you seek to drive him from the wigwams of his fathers?
His brothers are already gone to the happy hunting-grounds.

Will the Pale Face seek him there ?" And, averting his face from the Judge, he hastily slipped a silver cake-basket beneath his blanket, to conceal his emotion.
"Muck-a-Muck has spoken," said Genevra, softly.