“To the east, they dwell in villages; they live well; but they drink the muddy water of the Missouri—­that is bad.  A Crow’s dog would not drink such water.

“About the forks of the Missouri is a fine country; good water; good grass; plenty of buffalo.  In summer, it is almost as good as the Crow country; but in winter it is cold; the grass is gone; and there is no salt weed for the horses.

“The Crow country is exactly in the right place.  It has snowy mountains and sunny plains; all kinds of climates and good things for every season.  When the summer heats scorch the prairies, you can draw up under the mountains, where the air is sweet and cool, the grass fresh, and the bright streams come tumbling out of the snow-banks.  There you can hunt the elk, the deer, and the antelope, when their skins are fit for dressing; there you will find plenty of white bears and mountain sheep.

“In the autumn, when your horses are fat and strong from the mountain pastures, you can go down into the plains and hunt the buffalo, or trap beaver on the streams.  And when winter comes on, you can take shelter in the woody bottoms along the rivers; there you will find buffalo meat for yourselves, and cotton-wood bark for your horses:  or you may winter in the Wind River valley, where there is salt weed in abundance.

“The Crow country is exactly in the right place.  Everything good is to be found there.  There is no country like the Crow country.”

Such is the eulogium on his country by Arapooish.

We have had repeated occasions to speak of the restless and predatory habits of the Crows.  They can muster fifteen hundred fighting men, but their incessant wars with the Blackfeet, and their vagabond, predatory habits, are gradually wearing them out.

In a recent work, we related the circumstance of a white man named Rose, an outlaw, and a designing vagabond, who acted as guide and interpreter to Mr. Hunt and his party, on their journey across the mountains to Astoria, who came near betraying them into the hands of the Crows, and who remained among the tribe, marrying one of their women, and adopting their congenial habits.  A few anecdotes of the subsequent fortunes of that renegade may not be uninteresting, especially as they are connected with the fortunes of the tribe.

Rose was powerful in frame and fearless in spirit; and soon by his daring deeds took his rank among the first braves of the tribe.  He aspired to command, and knew it was only to be attained by desperate exploits.  He distinguished himself in repeated actions with Blackfeet.  On one occasion, a band of those savages had fortified themselves within a breastwork, and could not be harmed.  Rose proposed to storm the work.  “Who will take the lead?” was the demand.  “I!” cried he; and putting himself at their head, rushed forward.  The first Blackfoot that opposed him he shot down with his rifle, and, snatching up the