down of the walls of Vera Cruz, though the breach opened a direct road into San Juan de Ulloa.  In the eyes of the same profound moralists, the garitas of Mexico ought to have been respected, as so many doors opening into the boudoirs of the beautiful dames of that fine capital; it being a monstrous thing to fire a shot into the streets of a town, no matter how many came out of them.  We are happy, therefore, to have it in our power to add these touches of philosophy that came from Pigeonswing to those of the sages of the old world, by way of completing a code of international morals on this interesting subject, in which the student shall be at a loss to say which he most admires—­that which comes from the schools, or that which comes direct from the wilderness.

“So best,” answered the bee-hunter.  “I wish I could persuade you to throw away that disgusting thing at your belt.  Remember, Chippewa, you are now among Christians, and ought to do as Christians wish.”

“What Christians do, eh?” returned the Indian, with a sneer, “get drunk like Whiskey Centre, dere?  Cheat poor red man; den get down on knee and look up at Manitou?  Dat what Christian do, eh?”

“They who do such things are Christian but in name—­you must think better of such as are Christians in fact.”

“Ebberybody call himself Christian, tell you—­all pale-face Christian, dey say.  Now, listen to Chippewa.  Once talk long talk wit’ missionary—­tell all about Christian—­what Christian do—­what Christian say—­how he eat, how he sleep, how he drink!—­all good—­ wish Pigeonwing Christian—­den ’member so’ger at garrison—­no eat, no sleep, no drink Christian fashion—­do ebbery t’ing so’ger fashion—­swear, fight, cheat, get drunk—­wuss dan Injin—­dat Christian, eh?”

“No, that is not acting like a Christian; and I fear very few of us who call ourselves by that name, act as if we were Christians, in truth,” said le Bourdon, conscious of the justice of the Chippewa’s accusation.

“Just dat—­now, I get him—­ask missionary, one day, where all Christian go to, so dat Injin can’t find him—­none in woods—­none on prairie—­none in garrison—­none in Mack’naw—­none at Detroit—­where all go to, den, so Injin can’t find him, on’y in missionary talk?”

“I am curious to know what answer your missionary made to that question.”

“Well, tell you—­say, on’y one in ten t’ousant RAAL Christians ’mong pale-face, dough all call himself Christian!  Dat what Injin t’ink queer, eh?”

“It is not easy to make a red man understand all the ways of the pale-faces, Pigeonswing; but we will talk of these things another time, when we are more at our ease.  Just now, I wish to learn all I can of the manner in which you fell into the hands of the Pottawattamies.”