My dear reader, I am afraid I shall tire you with my Indian stories; but you must bear with me patiently whilst I give you a few more.  The real character of a people can be more truly gathered from such seemingly trifling incidents than from any ideas we may form of them from the great facts in their history, and this is my reason for detailing events which might otherwise appear insignificant and unimportant.

A friend was staying with us, who wished much to obtain a likeness of Old Peter.  I promised to try and make a sketch of the old man the next time he paid us a visit.  That very afternoon he brought us some ducks in exchange for pork, and Moodie asked him to stay and take a glass of whiskey with him and his friend Mr. K—–.  The old man had arrayed himself in a new blanket-coat, bound with red, and the seams all decorated with the same gay material.  His leggings and moccasins were new, and elaborately fringed; and, to cap the climax of the whole, he had a blue cloth conical cap upon his head, ornamented with a deer’s tail dyed blue, and several cock’s feathers.

He was evidently very much taken up with the magnificence of his own appearance, for he often glanced at himself in a small shaving-glass that hung opposite, with a look of grave satisfaction.  Sitting apart, that I might not attract his observation, I got a tolerably faithful likeness of the old man, which after slightly colouring, to show more plainly his Indian finery, I quietly handed over to Mr. K—–.  Sly as I thought myself, my occupation and the object of it had not escaped the keen eye of the old man.  He rose, came behind Mr. K—–­’s chair, and regarded the picture with a most affectionate eye.  I was afraid that he would be angry at the liberty I had taken.  No such thing!  He was as pleased as Punch.

“That Peter?” he grunted.  “Give me—­put up in wigwam—­make dog too!  Owgh! owgh!” and he rubbed his hands together, and chuckled with delight.  Mr. K—–­ had some difficulty in coaxing the picture from the old chief; so pleased was he with this rude representation of himself.  He pointed to every particular article of his dress, and dwelt with peculiar glee on the cap and blue deer’s tail.

A few days after this, I was painting a beautiful little snow-bird, that our man had shot out of a large flock that alighted near the door.  I was so intent upon my task, to which I was putting the finishing strokes, that I did not observe the stealthy entrance (for they all walk like cats) of a stern-looking red man, till a slender, dark hand was extended over my paper to grasp the dead bird from which I was copying, and which as rapidly transferred it to the side of the painted one, accompanying the act with the deep guttural note of approbation, the unmusical, savage “Owgh.”

My guest then seated himself with the utmost gravity in a rocking-chair, directly fronting me, and made the modest demand that I should paint a likeness of him, after the following quaint fashion:—­