The deplorable want of chastity that exists among the Indian women of this tribe seems to have been more the result of their intercourse with the settlers in the country than from any previous disposition to this vice.  The jealousy of their husbands has often been exercised in a terrible manner against the offending squaws; but this has not happened of late years.  The men wink at these derelictions in their wives, and share with them the price of their shame.

The mixture of European blood adds greatly to the physical beauty of the half-race, but produces a sad falling-off from the original integrity of the Indian character.  The half-caste is generally a lying, vicious rogue, possessing the worst qualities of both parents in an eminent degree.  We have many of these half-Indians in the penitentiary, for crimes of the blackest dye.

The skill of the Indian in procuring his game, either by land or water, has been too well described by better writers than I could ever hope to be to need any illustration from my pen, and I will close this long chapter with a droll anecdote which is told of a gentleman in this neighbourhood.

The early loss of his hair obliged Mr. —–­ to procure the substitute of a wig.  This was such a good imitation of nature, that none but his intimate friends and neighbours were aware of the fact.

It happened that he had had some quarrel with an Indian, which had to be settled in one of the petty courts.  The case was decided in favour of Mr. —–­, which so aggrieved the savage, who considered himself the injured party, that he sprang upon him with a furious yell, tomahawk in hand, with the intention of depriving him of his scalp.  He twisted his hand in the looks which adorned the cranium of his adversary, when—­horror of horrors!—­the treacherous wig came off in his hand, “Owgh! owgh!” exclaimed the affrighted savage, flinging it from him, and rushing from the court as if he had been bitten by a rattlesnake.  His sudden exit was followed by peals of laughter from the crowd, while Mr. —–­ coolly picked up his wig, and drily remarked that it had saved his head.

THE INDIAN FISHERMAN’S LIGHT

  The air is still, the night is dark,
    No ripple breaks the dusky tide;
  From isle to isle the fisher’s bark
    Like fairy meteor seems to glide;
  Now lost in shade—­now flashing bright
    On sleeping wave and forest tree;
  We hail with joy the ruddy light,
  Which far into the darksome night
    Shines red and cheerily!

  With spear high poised, and steady hand,
    The centre of that fiery ray,
  Behold the Indian fisher stand
    Prepared to strike the finny prey;
  Hurrah! the shaft has sped below—­
    Transfix’d the shining prize I see;
  On swiftly darts the birch canoe;
  Yon black rock shrouding from my view
    Its red light gleaming cheerily!