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. "Let him now
listen. Are the acorns of the mountain sweeter than the esculent
and nutritious bean of the Pale Face miner? Does my brother prize
the edible qualities of the snail above that of the crisp and
oleaginous bacon? Delicious are the grasshoppers that sport on the
hillside,--are they better than the dried apples of the Pale Faces?
Pleasant is the gurgle of the torrent, Kish-Kish, but is it better
than the cluck-cluck of old Bourbon from the old stone bottle?"
"Ugh!" said the Indian,--"ugh! good.
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