The relic said: 

“An’ is it mesilf, Dennis Hooligan, that ye’d be takon’ for a dirty Injin, ye drawlin’, lantern-jawed, spider-legged divil!  By the piper that played before Moses, I’ll ate ye!”

I went away from there.

By and by, in the neighborhood of the Terrapin Tower, I came upon a gentle daughter of the aborigines in fringed and beaded buckskin moccasins and leggins, seated on a bench with her pretty wares about her.  She had just carved out a wooden chief that had a strong family resemblance to a clothes-pin, and was now boring a hole through his abdomen to put his bow through.  I hesitated a moment, and then addressed her: 

“Is the heart of the forest maiden heavy?  Is the Laughing Tadpole lonely?  Does she mourn over the extinguished council-fires of her race, and the vanished glory of her ancestors?  Or does her sad spirit wander afar toward the hunting-grounds whither her brave Gobbler-of-the-Lightnings is gone?  Why is my daughter silent?  Has she ought against the paleface stranger?”

The maiden said: 

“Faix, an’ is it Biddy Malone ye dare to be callin’ names?  Lave this, or I’ll shy your lean carcass over the cataract, ye sniveling blaggard!”

I adjourned from there also.

“Confound these Indians!” I said.  “They told me they were tame; but, if appearances go for anything, I should say they were all on the warpath.”

I made one more attempt to fraternize with them, and only one.  I came upon a camp of them gathered in the shade of a great tree, making wampum and moccasins, and addressed them in the language of friendship: 

“Noble Red Men, Braves, Grand Sachems, War Chiefs, Squaws, and High Muck-a-Mucks, the paleface from the land of the setting sun greets you!  You, Beneficent Polecat—­you, Devourer of Mountains—­you, Roaring Thundergust —­you, Bully Boy with a Glass eye—­the paleface from beyond the great waters greets you all!  War and pestilence have thinned your ranks and destroyed your once proud nation.  Poker and seven-up, and a vain modern expense for soap, unknown to your glorious ancestors, have depleted your purses.  Appropriating, in your simplicity, the property of others has gotten you into trouble.  Misrepresenting facts, in your simple innocence, has damaged your reputation with the soulless usurper.  Trading for forty-rod whisky, to enable you to get drunk and happy and tomahawk your families, has played the everlasting mischief with the picturesque pomp of your dress, and here you are, in the broad light of the nineteenth century, gotten up like the ragtag and bobtail of the purlieus of New York.  For shame!  Remember your ancestors!  Recall their mighty deeds!  Remember Uncas!—­and Red jacket! and Hole in the Day!—­and Whoopdedoodledo!  Emulate their achievements!  Unfurl yourselves under my banner, noble savages, illustrious guttersnipes—­”

“Down wid him!” “Scoop the blaggard!” “Burn him!” “Bang him!” “Dhround him!”