short time before he went among them, some white people had seized two Indians, who had given them some trifling offence, and had put them to death; and the Indians, indignant at the outrage, determined to take revenge whenever the opportunity offered. The appearance of Colonel Bird presented the wished-for opportunity, and consultations were held as to the most effectual means of getting him into their power, and of making him the sacrifice.

Colonel Bird perceived their intentions, and felt that he had just cause for alarm, as he was in their country, without the means of escape. Among the neighboring Cherokees, was one named Silouee, celebrated as a chief and pow-wow, or medicine man. He had known Colonel Bird for some time, had eaten with him, and felt a deep friendship for him. Silouee told Colonel Bird not to be alarmed, and even assured him that the Indians should not injure him. At length, in a general council of the chiefs and old men of the tribe, it was determined in spite of Silouee's earnest remonstrances, that Colonel Bird should be put to death in revenge for the loss of their countrymen.

Two warriors were despatched to Colonel Bird's tent, to execute the cruel sentence. Silouee insisted on accompanying them. On reaching the tent, Silouee rushed in before them, threw himself on the bosom of his friend, and as the warriors approached, he exclaimed, "This man is my friend; before you take him, you must kill me."

Awed by Silouee's determined magnanimity, the warriors returned to the council, and related what had occurred. Indians generally respect a faithful friend as much as they esteem one who is implacable in his revenge. The consultation was reversed. Silouee's noble conduct altered their purpose. They therefore released Colonel Bird, and bade him go to his home in peace. Silouee acted as his guide and protector until Colonel Bird came in sight of his tent. As they parted, the Indian's last words to his friend were, "When you see poor Indian in fear of death from cruel white men, remember Silouee."

Some years after Colonel Bird's life had been saved by Silouee, he became a Virginia planter, and took up his residence near the James river. Silouee retained his friendship for him, becoming his near neighbor. Like many of his nation, he had, by intercourse with the whites, acquired a great taste for "strong waters," or ardent spirits, and the dignity of the chief was frequently lowered by drunkenness. On one occasion, Colonel Bird had gone to another part of the country, on business, and had left the care of his plantation to his overseer. The tobacco had obtained some size, and a long drought coming on, there was a prospect that the crop would be much injured. We have stated that Silouee was a pow-wow, or Indian medicineman and conjurer. One day when he came to the plantation, the overseer expressed his opinion that the tobacco crop would be entirely lost, if rain did not soon fall.

"Well," said the Indian, "what will you give me if I bring rain?"

"You bring rain," said the overseer, laughing.

"Me can," said the Indian. "Give me two bottles of rum—only two, and me bring rain enough."

The overseer cast his eye towards the heavens, but could discern no appearance that foretold rain. To gratify the Indian, he promised to give him the two bottles of rum when Colonel Bird arrived, in case the rain should come speedily and save the crop of tobacco.

Silouee now fell to pow-wowing with all his might, making grimaces, contorting his body, and uttering strange, unintelligible ejaculations.

It was a hot, close day, and it so happened that towards evening, the sky, which had been clear for some weeks, clouded over, and the appearance of the heavens was strongly in favor of rain. Before midnight thunder was heard, and heavy showers of rain watered the colonel's plantation thoroughly; while it was remarked that the showers were so partial that the neighboring plantations were left almost as dry as they were before. The Indian waited quietly till the rain was over, and then walked away. A few days after, the colonel returned to the plantation, and, when Silouee heard of his arrival, he went immediately to visit him.

"Master Bird," said he, "me come for my two bottles of rum."

"Your two bottles of rum," exclaimed the colonel, pretending not to know any thing of the matter; "pray do I owe you two bottles of rum?"

"You do," replied the Indian.

"How so?" inquired the colonel.

"Me bring you rain—me save your crop," said the Indian.

"You bring rain," said the colonel; "no such thing."

"Me did," persisted the Indian; "me loved you; me tell overseer to give me two bottles of rum, and then me bring rain. Overseer say he would; me bring cloud, then rain; now me want rum."

"You saw the cloud," said Colonel Bird; "you are a sad cheat."

"Me no cheat," said the Indian; "me saw no cloud; me bring cloud."

"Well, well," said the colonel, "you are an old friend, and you shall have the rum, since you beg so hard for it. But mind you, it is not for the rain. The Great Spirit sent the rain, not you."

"Well," said the Indian, "your tobacco had rain upon it—why others have none? Answer that, colonel, if you can."

Original

Original

THE CAPTIVE SISTER.

Original

NSTANCES are recorded in which white children have been captured and brought up by the Indians, and have so far forgotten early associations as to become identified in habits and manners with their red captors. In most of these cases, the adopted Indian could not be induced to return to the haunts of civilization and the friends of his or her race; which fact would seem to prove that, either the life of the Indian is happier than that of the civilized white man, or, the qualities of our nature may be altered by the power of habit.

Original

In 1778, the family of Mr. Jonathan Slocum, near Wilkesbarre, (Campbell's Wyoming,) Pennsylvania, was attacked by Indians. Within the house were two girls, aged nine and five years, a son of thirteen, a little boy of two and a half, and their mother. The men were working in the field, and two youths were in the porch grinding a knife. One of the latter was shot and scalped with his own knife. The eldest sister seized the little boy and ran with him towards the fort. The Indians took the boy who had been turning the grindstone, young Slocum, and his sister Frances, and prepared to depart. Little Slocum being lame, they set him down, and proceeded on their way. One of the Indians threw the little girl over his shoulder, and her weeping face was the last object of the mother's gaze.

About a month afterwards, the savages returned, murdered the aged grandfather, shot a ball into the leg of the lame boy,