absolute truths of any creed whence, as a natural consequence, proceeds that profound fixedness of belief which needs must make itself manifest in the persistent exemplification of every Christian virtue. Had they enjoyed these inestimable advantages, the Blacks—depend upon it—would have denied themselves so barbarous a luxury, and set a more Christian example to the unchristian Whites then dwelling in the Paradise. The glory of such a manifestation was reserved to the nineteenth century, when the lovers of the great brotherhood of man should discover and proclaim to the listening earth the latent saint inherent in the nature of ebony, from Ham, the favorite son of Noah, down to Uncle Tom, the best man that ever lived.

In the corn-field, barefooted and shirt-sleeved, Burl was like the patient, plodding, slow-paced ox; but let the alarm-cry of "Indians! Indians!" ring along the border, and in a trice, with moccasins on feet, war-cap on head, rifle on shoulder, tomahawk and limiting-knife in belt, he was out upon the war-path—a roaring lion, thirsting for scalps and glory. Indeed, so famous did he in time become for his martial exploits as to win for himself among Whites a distinguished title of "The Fighting Nigger;" while among the Reds, by whom he was regarded as a sort of Okeeheedee—half man and half devil—he grew to be known as "The Big Black Brave of the Bushy Head." When out on his "Injun" hunts, the Fighting Nigger usually chose to be alone. His instinct told him—and that monitor rarely spoke to Big Black Burl in vain—that he must not presume too far upon that fellowship into which, in virtue of his great achievements, the White hunters had condescended to admit him; lest familiarity, which breeds contempt, might incur him the risk of being snubbed, or thrust out altogether as an impertinent intruder, who had forgotten where he stood in the social scale. Whereas, by the general observance of this prudent policy, not only should he win additional commendations from his White superiors for additional deservings, but secure to himself the undivided honor of the scalps—the trophies of victory—taken by his own hand in battle. For, colored though he was, with a nose inclining neither to the Roman nor Grecian, our hero showed that he cherished a genuine, therefore jealous, love of glory. In this respect, we may liken the Fighting Nigger to such godlike specimens of our race as Alexander the Great; to Napoleon the Great; or, perhaps more fitly still, to Mumbo Jumbo the Great, the far-famed giant-king of Congo.

But if there was one thing in the Paradise that Big Black Burl loved more than scalps and glory, it was his little master, Bushie—or, as the name had been written down in the Good Book, some eight or nine years before, Bushrod Reynolds, jr. Bushrod Reynolds, sr., the father, and Jemima Reynolds, the mother, were natives of the Old Dominion, whence they had migrated but a few months prior to the birth of their little son; Bushrod, with his whole worldly estate across his shoulder, in the shape of rifle and ax; Jemima, with her whole paternal inheritance close at her heels, in the shape of an unshapely, gigantic negro youth, destined in after years to win for himself among the Red warriors of the wilderness the high-sounding title of "The Big Black Brave of the Bushy Head." With brave and cheerful hearts, which the pioneer must maintain, or sink, they had gone to work, and cutting out a broad green patch from the vine-inwoven forest, had erelong, in the midst of the sunshine thus let in, built them a rustic home. Here, in the due course of nature, a playful little pioneer made his appearance, whom they bundled up in red flannel and christened Bushrod, and called Bushie—Burl's household idol.

Now, as a hunter and Indian fighter, Bushrod Reynolds had few equals, even in the Paradise—a land prolific beyond precedence of the heroic in that line. Hence it naturally followed that he should take the lead of the other pioneers, who made Fort Reynolds—as in compliment to him the station was called—their place of refuge from the incursions of the Indians, or their rallying-point for repelling the invaders. Thus on a certain day it so befell that an Indian chase was started near Fort Reynolds—a band of the Red marauders having made a bloody, burning pounce upon the settlements the previous night, and now, loaded with booty and scalps, were making all speed for the Ohio River, to throw that broad barrier between themselves and danger.

The chase had been kept up for several miles, and the pursuers as yet had failed to catch a glimpse of the fugitives. Swifter of foot than his comrades, Captain Reynolds had imprudently, perhaps unconsciously, pushed on far in advance, when on a sudden he found himself waylaid and set upon by four or five of the savages, who, bolder than their fellows, had dared to be the hindermost and cover the retreat. These, having caught sight of their foremost pursuer, and marking that he ran quite alone, had agreed among themselves to waylay and capture him; a prisoner being a more coveted prize than a scalp, since, while yet alive, he could be both scalped and roasted. But he resisted so desperately, dealing about their heads such ugly blows with the butt of his rifle, as quickly to convince them that he was not to be taken alive; and aware that the rest of their pursuers should soon be upon them, and exasperated by the bruises he had given them, they shot him down on the spot—nor turned to renew their flight till they had scalped him, though still alive and conscious. The Red dastards were yet in sight when the other hunters gained the spot, where they found their leader wounded and dying. With a commanding gesture, he sternly bid them forward, nor mar the chase for him, who had but a few moments to live. Fortunately, it so chanced that on the present occasion Big Black Burl was with the White hunters; therefore they left him to minister to his dying master, and again pushed on in hotter, fiercer pursuit.

For many a weary mile of bush-entangled forest and grass-entangled glade, of rocky dell and precipitous hill, the chase for life and death went on—nor ceased till it had brought pursued and pursuer to the banks of the broad Ohio. Here they who had dared to be the hindermost found themselves reduced to desperate straits, whether to fight or swim—their comrades, unmindful of them, having pushed off in all the canoes, and being by this time far out upon the river. Needing but a glance to tell them where their chances lay, with a loud yell of defiance, they leaped from the high bank into the deep stream and swam for dear life. The instant after, the rifles of the White hunters rang out from among the trees along the shore: there was a stain of blood upon the water, and the next moment they who but now had stemmed the current with desperate sinews floated lifeless with it—all who dared to be the hindermost.

Meanwhile, the faithful Burl had borne his wounded master to the banks of a forest brook which ran hard by, and had set him down, reclined against the trunk of a tree. Then he took his powder-horn, having emptied its contents into his ammunition-pouch, and filling it from the stream, gave his master to drink—the clear, cool, sparkling water, so refreshing to the tired and thirsty, but to the wounded man sweet and grateful beyond expression. When he had drained the flask and revived a little, that hapless hunter thus addressed his slave: "Burl, you have ever been faithful to me. Have I been as kind to you?"

A big sob was the only answer, but it came from the depths of the heart, and said "Yes" a hundred times.

"Then, be faithful still. You have a brave heart and a strong arm, and to your support and protection must I, in some sort, leave my poor wife and child. Then give me your word, your solemn promise, that you will be as faithful to Miss Jemima as you have been to me; and that you will take good care of her fatherless boy, till he be old and strong enough to shift for himself and for his mother, too. Do you give me your