The wolf they hold in great contempt, and scarcely deign to consider him as an enemy.  Peter Nogan assured me that he never was near enough to one in his life to shoot it; that, except in large companies, and when greatly pressed by hunger, they rarely attack men.  They hold the lynx, or wolverine, in much dread, as they often spring from trees upon their prey, fastening upon the throat with their sharp teeth and claws, from which a person in the dark could scarcely free himself without first receiving a dangerous wound.  The cry of this animal is very terrifying, resembling the shrieks of a human creature in mortal agony.

My husband was anxious to collect some of the native Indian airs, as they all sing well, and have a fine ear for music, but all his efforts proved abortive.  “John,” he said to young Nogan (who played very creditably on the flute, and had just concluded the popular air of “Sweet Home"), “cannot you play me one of your own songs?”

“Yes,—­but no good.”

“Leave me to be the judge of that.  Cannot you give me a war-song?”

“Yes,—­but no good,” with an ominous shake of the head.

“A hunting-song?”

“No fit for white man,”—­with an air of contempt.  “No good, no good!”

“Do, John, sing us a love-song,” said I, laughing, “if you have such a thing in your language.”

“Oh! much love-song—­very much—­bad—­bad—­no good for Christian man.  Indian song no good for white ears.”  This was very tantalising, as their songs sounded very sweetly from the lips of their squaws, and I had a great desire and curiosity to get some of them rendered into English.

To my husband they gave the name of “the musician,” but I have forgotten the Indian word.  It signified the maker of sweet sounds.  They listened with intense delight to the notes of his flute, maintaining a breathless silence during the performance; their dark eyes flashing into fierce light at a martial strain, or softening with the plaintive and tender.

The cunning which they display in their contests with their enemies, in their hunting, and in making bargains with the whites (who are too apt to impose on their ignorance), seems to spring more from a law of necessity, forced upon them by their isolated position and precarious mode of life, than from any innate wish to betray.  The Indian’s face, after all, is a perfect index of his mind.  The eye chances its expression with every impulse and passion, and shows what is passing within as clearly as the lightning in a dark night betrays the course of the stream.  I cannot think that deceit forms any prominent trait in the Indian’s character.  They invariably act with the strictest honour towards those who never attempt to impose upon them.  It is natural for a deceitful person to take advantage of the credulity of others.  The genuine Indian never utters a falsehood, and never employs flattery (that powerful weapon in the hands of the insidious), in his communications with the whites.