One day we ladies gave, under the guidance of our host, to visiting all the beauties of the adjacent lakes—­Nomabbin, Silver, and Pine Lakes.  On the shore of Nomabbin had formerly been one of the finest Indian villages.  Our host said that, one day, as he was lying there beneath the bank, he saw a tall Indian standing at gaze on the knoll.  He lay a long time, curious to see how long the figure would maintain its statue-like absorption.  But, at last, his patience yielded, and, in moving, he made a slight noise.  The Indian saw him, gave a wild, snorting sound of indignation and pain, and strode away.

What feelings must consume their heart at such moments!  I scarcely see how they can forbear to shoot the white man where he stands.

But the power of fate is with the white man, and the Indian feels it.  This same gentleman told of his travelling through the wilderness with an Indian guide.  He had with him a bottle of spirit which he meant to give him in small quantities, but the Indian, once excited, wanted the whole at once.  I would not, said Mr.——­, give it him, for I thought if he got really drunk, there was an end to his services as a guide.  But he persisted, and at last tried to take it from me.  I was not armed; he was, and twice as strong as I. But I knew an Indian could not resist the look of a white man, and I fixed my eye steadily on his.  He bore it for a moment, then his eye fell; he let go the bottle.  I took his gun and threw it to a distance.  After a few moments’ pause, I told him to go and fetch it, and left it in his hands.  From that moment he was quite obedient, even servile, all the rest of the way.

This gentleman, though in other respects of most kindly and liberal heart, showed the aversion that the white man soon learns to feel for the Indian on whom he encroaches, the aversion of the injurer for him he has degraded.  After telling the anecdote of his seeing the Indian gazing at the seat of his former home,

         “A thing for human feelings the most trying,”

and which, one would think, would have awakened soft compassion—­almost remorse—­in the present owner of that fair hill, which contained for the exile the bones of his dead, the ashes of his hopes,—­he observed, “They cannot be prevented from straggling back here to their old haunts.  I wish they could.  They ought not to permitted to drive away our game.”  OUR game—­just heavens!

The same gentleman showed, on a slight occasion, the true spirit of the sportsman, or, perhaps I might say of Man, when engaged in any kind of chase.  Showing us some antlers, he said, “This one belonged to a majestic creature.  But this other was the beauty.  I had been lying a long time at watch, when at last I heard them come crackling along.  I lifted my head cautiously, as they burst through the trees.  The first was a magnificent fellow; but then I saw coming one, the prettiest, the most graceful I ever beheld—­there was something so soft and beseeching in its look.  I chose him at once; took aim, and shot him dead.  You see the antlers are not very large; it was young, but the prettiest creature!”