Old Peter went afield with us that day.  There he stood, like a striking monument of a past that was still so recent and wonderful.  On that very prairie, which was now teeming with the appliances of civilization, he had hunted and held his savage councils.  On that prairie had he meditated, or consented to the deaths of the young couple, whose descendants were now dwelling there, amid abundance, and happy.  Nothing but the prayers of the dying missionary, in behalf of his destroyers, had prevented the dire consummation.

We were still in the field, when General Boden’s attention was drawn toward the person of another guest.  This, too, was an Indian, old like himself, but not clad like Peter, in the vestments of the whites.  The attire of this sinewy old man was a mixture of that of the two races.  He wore a hunting-shirt, moccasins, and a belt; but he also wore trousers, and otherwise had brought himself within the habits of conventional decency.  It was Pigeonswing, the Chippewa, come to pay his annual visit to his friend, the bee-hunter, The meeting was cordial, and we afterward ascertained that when the old man departed, he went away loaded with gifts that would render him comfortable for a twelvemonth.

But Peter, after all, was the great centre of interest with us.  We could admire the General’s bee-hives, which were numerous and ingenious; could admire his still handsome Margery, and all their blooming descendants; and were glad when we discovered that our old friend—­made so by means of a knowledge of his character, if not by actual acquaintance—­was much improved in mind, was a sincere Christian, and had been a Senator of his own State; respected and esteemed by all who knew him.  Such a career, however, has nothing peculiar in America; it is one of every-day occurrence, and shows the power of man when left free to make his own exertions; while that of the Scalping Peter indicated the power of God.  There he was, living in the midst of the hated race, loving and beloved; wishing naught but blessings on all colors alike; looking back upon his traditions and superstitions with a sort of melancholy interest, as we all portray in our memories the scenes, legends, and feelings of an erring childhood.

We were walking in the garden, after dinner, and looking at the hives.  There were the general, Margery, Peter, and ourselves.  The first was loud in praise of his buzzing friends, for whom it was plain he still entertained a lively regard.  The old Indian, at first, was sad.  Then he smiled, and, turning to us, he spoke earnestly and with some of his ancient fire and eloquence.

“Tell me you make a book,” he said.  “In dat book tell trut’.  You see me—­poor old Injin.  My fadder was chief—­I was great chief, but we was children.  Knowed nuttin’.  Like little child, dough great chief.  Believe tradition.  T’ink dis ’arth flat—­t’ink Injin could scalp all pale-face—­t’ink tomahawk, and war-path, and rifle, bess t’ings in whole