The sagacious reader will doubtless not fail here to ask himself the question, whether it is wise in man to create in himself an unnatural and totally unnecessary appetite, which may, and often does, entail hours—­ay, sometimes months—­of exceeding discomfort; but we would not for a moment presume to suggest such a question to him.  We have a distinct objection to the ordinary method of what is called “drawing a moral.”  It is much better to leave wise men to do this for themselves.

Next morning Dick rose with the sun, and started without breakfast, preferring to take his chance of finding a bird or animal of some kind before long, to feeding again on sour berries.  He was disappointed, however, in finding the tracks of his companions.  The ground here was hard and sandy, so that little or no impression of a distinct kind was made on it; and as buffaloes had traversed it in all directions, he was soon utterly bewildered.  He thought it possible that, by running out for several miles in a straight line, and then taking a wide circuit round, he might find the tracks emerging from the confusion made by the buffaloes.  But he was again disappointed, for the buffalo tracks still continued, and the ground became less capable of showing a footprint.

Soon Dick began to feel so ill and weak from eating such poor fare, that he gave up all hope of discovering the tracks, and was compelled to push forward at his utmost speed in order to reach a less barren district, where he might procure fresh meat; but the farther he advanced the worse and more sandy did the district become.  For several days he pushed on over this arid waste without seeing bird or beast, and, to add to his misery, he failed at last to find water.  For a day and a night he wandered about in a burning fever, and his throat so parched that he was almost suffocated.  Towards the close of the second day he saw a slight line of bushes away down in a hollow on his right.  With eager steps he staggered towards them, and, on drawing near, beheld—­blessed sight!—­a stream of water glancing in the beams of the setting sun.

Dick tried to shout for joy, but his parched throat refused to give utterance to the voice.  It mattered not.  Exerting all his remaining strength he rushed down the bank, dropped his rifle, and plunged headforemost into the stream.

The first mouthful sent a thrill of horror to his heart; it was salt as brine!

The poor youth’s cup of bitterness was now full to overflowing.  Crawling out of the stream, he sank down on the bank in a species of lethargic torpor, from which, he awakened next morning in a raging fever.  Delirium soon rendered him insensible to his sufferings.  The sun rose like a ball of fire, and shone down with scorching power on the arid plain.  What mattered it to Dick?  He was far away in the shady groves of the Mustang Valley, chasing the deer at times, but more frequently cooling his limbs and sporting with