“My brother has told you of the Yankee scalps,” he commenced.  “He says they are many.  He says there ought to be fewer.  He did not remember who sat so near him.  Perhaps he does not know that there are three less now than there were a moon since.  Crowsfeather took three at Chicago.  Many scalps were taken there.  The Yankees must be plentier than the buffaloes on the great prairies, if they can lose so many scalps often, and send forth their warriors.  I am a Pottawattamie.  My brothers know that tribe.  It is not a tribe of Jews, but a tribe of Injins.  It is a great tribe.  It never was lost. It cannot be lost.  No tribe better knows all the paths, and all the best routes to every point where it wishes to go.  It is foolish to say you can lose a Pottawattamie.  A duck would be as likely to lose itself as a Pottawattamie.  I do not speak for the Ottawas:  I speak for the Pottawattamies.  We are not Jews.  We do not wish to be Jews; and what we do not wish to be, we will not be.  Our father who has come so far to tell us that we are not Injins, but Jews, is mistaken.  I never heard of these Jews before.  I do not wish to hear of them again.  When a man has heard enough, he does not keep his ears open willingly.  It is then best for the speaker to sit down.  The Pottawattamies have shut their ears to the great medicine-priest of the pale-faces.  What he says may be true of other tribes, but it is not true of the Pottawatttamies.  We are not lost; we are not Jews.  I have done.”

This speech was received with general favor.  The notion that the Indians were not Indians, but Jews, was far from being agreeable to those who had heard what had been said on the subject; and the opinions of Crowsfeather possessed the great advantage of reflecting the common sentiment on this interesting subject.  When this is the case, a very little eloquence or logic goes a great way; and, on the whole, the address of the last speaker was somewhat better received than that of the first.

It was now confidently believed that Peter would rise.  But he did not.  That mysterious chief was not yet prepared to speak, or he was judiciously exciting expectation by keeping back.  There were at least ten minutes of silent smoking, ere a chief, whose name rendered into English was Bough of the Oak, arose, evidently with a desire to help the time along.  Taking his cue from the success of Crows-feather, he followed up the advantage obtained by that chief, assailing the theory of the missionary from another quarter.

“I am an Injin,” said Bough of the Oak; “my father was an Injin, and my mother was the daughter of an Injin.  All my fathers were red men, and all their sons.  Why should I wish to be anything else?  I asked my brother, the medicine-priest, and he owned that Jews are pale-faces.  This he should not have owned if he wished the Injins to be Jews.  My skin is red.  The Manitou of my fathers so painted it, and their child will not