and hollow.  Yet a little way before us, a bright verdant line of grass was winding along the plain, and here and there throughout its course water was glistening darkly.  We went down to it, kindled a fire, and turned our horses loose to feed.  It was a little trickling brook, that for some yards on either bank turned the barren prairie into fertility, and here and there it spread into deep pools, where the beaver had dammed it up.

We placed our last remaining piece of the antelope before a scanty fire, mournfully reflecting on our exhausted stock of provisions.  Just then an enormous gray hare, peculiar to these prairies, came jumping along, and seated himself within fifty yards to look at us.  I thoughtlessly raised my rifle to shoot him, but Raymond called out to me not to fire for fear the report should reach the ears of the Indians.  That night for the first time we considered that the danger to which we were exposed was of a somewhat serious character; and to those who are unacquainted with Indians, it may seem strange that our chief apprehensions arose from the supposed proximity of the people whom we intended to visit.  Had any straggling party of these faithful friends caught sight of us from the hill-top, they would probably have returned in the night to plunder us of our horses and perhaps of our scalps.  But we were on the prairie, where the genius loci is at war with all nervous apprehensions; and I presume that neither Raymond nor I thought twice of the matter that evening.

While he was looking after the animals, I sat by the fire engaged in the novel task of baking bread.  The utensils were of the most simple and primitive kind, consisting of two sticks inclining over the bed of coals, one end thrust into the ground while the dough was twisted in a spiral form round the other.  Under such circumstances all the epicurean in a man’s nature is apt to awaken within him.  I revisited in fancy the far distant abodes of good fare, not indeed Frascati’s, or the Trois Freres Provencaux, for that were too extreme a flight; but no other than the homely table of my old friend and host, Tom Crawford, of the White Mountains.  By a singular revulsion, Tom himself, whom I well remember to have looked upon as the impersonation of all that is wild and backwoodsman-like, now appeared before me as the ministering angel of comfort and good living.  Being fatigued and drowsy I began to doze, and my thoughts, following the same train of association, assumed another form.  Half-dreaming, I saw myself surrounded with the mountains of New England, alive with water-falls, their black crags tinctured with milk-white mists.  For this reverie I paid a speedy penalty; for the bread was black on one side and soft on the other.