A few steps from Congress Spring, directly past the Saratoga Club-House, leads you to a wicket gate marked "Circular, Railway and, Indian, Camp."The Indians are not such as figure conspicuously in the early annals of our country and in our favorite romances—as Eli Perkins says—"far different!" They are simply a Canadian Gypsy band, part low French and part low Indian blood. They come here annually with an eye to business, and open their weird camp to the public simply as a speculation, offering for sale the various trinkets to which their labor is directed.

The white tents glistening among the green hemlocks, and the rustic lodges displaying the gayly decorated bow and quiver, make a picture somewhat attractive; but the Indians themselves are dirty and homely, and far from inviting in their appearance. The slim, blackeyed, barefooted boys, who pester you with petitions to "set up a cent," as a mark for their arrows, have a sort of Gypsy picturesqueness, however; and as one walks down the little street between the huts—half tent and half house—he may get an occasional glimpse of a pappoose swinging in a hammock, and thank his stars for even such a fractional view of the pristine life.