dress—­an ornamented kepi, or a scarlet sash, or big golden epaulets, or a military coat braided with yellow.  The leader, who was a giant, and carried the smallest instrument, outshone all the others in his incongruous splendor.  No sooner had they found seats at one end of the car than they unlimbered, and began through their various reluctant instruments to deploy a tune.  Although the tune did not get well into line, the effect was marvelous.  The car was instantly filled to bursting.  Miss Lamont, who was reading at the other end of the car, gave a nervous start, and looked up in alarm.  King and Forbes promptly opened windows, but this gave little relief.  The trombone pumped and growled, the trumpet blared, the big brass instrument with a calyx like the monstrous tropical water-lily quivered and howled, and the drum, banging into the discord, smashed every tympanum in the car.  The Indians looked pleased.  No sooner had they broken one tune into fragments than they took up another, and the car roared and rattled and jarred all the way to the lonely station where the band debarked, and was last seen convoying a straggling Odd-Fellows’ picnic down a country road.

The incident, trivial in itself, gave rise to serious reflections touching the capacity and use of the red man in modern life.  Here is a peaceful outlet for all his wild instincts.  Let the government turn all the hostiles on the frontier into brass bands, and we shall hear no more of the Indian question.

The railway along the shore of Lake Ontario is for the most part monotonous.  After leaving the picturesque highlands about Lewiston, the country is flat, and although the view over the lovely sheet of blue water is always pleasing, there is something bleak even in summer in this vast level expanse from which the timber has been cut away.  It may have been mere fancy, but to the tourists the air seemed thin, and the scene, artistically speaking, was cold and colorless.  With every desire to do justice to the pretty town of Oswego, which lies on a gentle slope by the lake, it had to them an out-of-doors, unprotected, remote aspect.  Seen from the station, it did not appear what it is, the handsomest city on Lake Ontario, with the largest starch factory in the world.

It was towards evening when the train reached Cape Vincent, where the steamer waited to transport passengers down the St. Lawrence.  The weather had turned cool; the broad river, the low shores, the long islands which here divide its lake-like expanse, wanted atmospheric warmth, and the tourists could not escape the feeling of lonesomeness, as if they were on the other side of civilization, rather than in one of the great streams of summer frolic and gayety.  It was therefore a very agreeable surprise to them when a traveling party alighted from one of the cars, which had come from Rome, among whom they recognized Mrs. Farquhar.

“I knew my education never could be complete,” said that lady as she shook hands, “and you never would consider me perfectly in the Union until I had seen the Thousand Islands; and here I am, after many Yankee tribulations.”