BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Far away in one of the fair valleys of the West, where dark forests frown alike in summer, when the richly clad boughs wave to the passing breeze, and in winter, when the bare maple and thick evergreens are covered with snow,—far away, just on the borders of the valley, close by the huge rocks which rear their heads above the bluffs that hang over the water,—an Indian village, with its many-sized lodges rising here and there, reposed, as it were, without fear from storm, or the sun's heat, or the aggressions of enemies. Sometimes, indeed, the mighty thunder rolled angrily towards it, and the streaked lightning called over and over again, to the many hills around, to rouse up the tardy storm-spirits; but they loved not to linger here. Their voices could be heard in angry murmurs, then they would pass on in the river's course, with many a wild shout, to seek some spot less lovely on which to spend their wrath.

A very few miles below the village, an Indian might be seen, slowly paddling his canoe over the placid waters. The dark lines of his face were fixed in deep thought. His countenance was pale, though the hue of his race was there; his nostrils large, and quivering with the remains of passion; his eyes bright and lustrous, as if with fever; but around his mouth might be traced an expression which seemed to indicate that grief as well as passion was struggling with him. As he slowly touched with his paddle the passive waters, he looked around him with a bewildered air.

Suddenly, he started, as his eye fell upon something that lay in the bottom of the canoe; he raised it: 'twas the arrow of his child. How came it there? and why should the father, forgetting all, as he dropped unconsciously the paddle into the waters, cover his face with both his hands, and while the tears forced their way through his fingers, tremble with remembrances too strong even for him, the Iron Heart, to bear?

All was quiet and peace. Not a voice was heard; even nature's was still. No human eye looked upon the warrior as he wept. Silence and solitude surrounded him. The vast prairie that stretched abroad might have recalled to his mind the unending future, which he was to spend in the society of the honoured dead. The soft vapoury clouds of evening that hung over him, might have told him, as they have told many, that it is not far from the wretched to the land of spirits. The waters, on which his canoe rested almost motionless, might have called to his remembrance, that life was a sea, sometimes troubled and sometimes calm, over which the mortal must pass to reach immortality.

But no such tranquillizing thoughts calmed the tempest which was raging in his bosom; his bare chest heaved with emotion; but at length he raised his head, and taking another paddle from the bottom of his canoe in his right hand, with the other he threw the small arrow that had occasioned him so many painful thoughts, and watching till the waters closed over it, he made his way towards the bend in the river, where lowlands and prairies were no more to be seen, and an hour's time brought him in sight of the village, and soon he was clambering over the rocks towards it.

When he met his friends, there was a stern coldness in his manner, and he replied fiercely to the greeting salutations of his younger wives, and called for his daughter Wenona, whose mother had long since been dead, to prepare him some food.

Wenona obeyed with alacrity her father's commands, at the same time glancing uneasily towards her two step-mothers, whose smothered wrath she knew would break forth at some future time. They sat silent on the ground in seeming submission to the will that wrested from them their rights, in favour of the child of a dead rival; but those accustomed to read the writing on a woman's countenance, could see they were rebelliously inclined, but were forced to conceal their vexation under a calm demeanour.

It was in August, "the moon that corn is gathered." Wenona had during the long day paid the penalty of her father's love; she had toiled unceasingly, though the sun scorched her face and bosom; the watchful eyes of her father's wives were upon her, and when he was absent, they hardly allowed her a moment's rest. Her young companions wondered at the little spirit she showed; but Wenona was of a peace-making disposition, and preferred submission to contention. The large bundles of corn she had gathered during the day were hanging outside the wigwam to dry. Not even had she allowed herself time to join the other girls, who were diving at noon in the cool waters, and raising their heads up to call Wenona, looking like mermaids as the water flowed from their long, unbraided hair.

It was not long before she placed before Iron Heart his evening meal, venison and boiled corn—while her face was so good-humoured, and her motions so easy and graceful, that one would suppose the wrath of the evil spirits themselves would have been disarmed, much less the anger of those to whose children she so often sung sweet lullabies. Iron Heart did not relish his food; but tasting the venison, then lighting his pipe, he appeared lost to what passed before him: he often looked in Wenona's face, with a strange repentant look, as if he had done her an injury, but sought to conceal it in his own bosom.

After a while he rose, and joined a group of warriors, who were seated without the wigwam, Wenona following in his protecting shadow, out of the reach of complaint or reproof.

The group that Iron Heart joined was composed of the principal men of the band, who were listening to the words of one of their wisest men. No one interrupted him, as he boasted of the feathers he had won, as he told of the bears and buffaloes he had destroyed; no one showed impatience as he dwelt upon the time when he was young, and all admired his feats of valour and strength. Respect and attention were on every countenance, as the white hair of the old man was lifted from his brow by the evening breeze.

He told them they had long been at peace with the Chippeways; their young men were becoming like women, without the ennobling and exciting employment of war. That the edge of the tomahawk was blunted for want of use. He said the Chippeways had again intruded on their hunting-grounds, and it was time that the war-cry of the Dacotas should be heard, to show their enemies their power.

The old man, who had lived nearly a century, ceased speaking, and The Buffalo, who leaned against a tree near the others, turned towards them, as if he, too, would speak.

"My words are not good, like the words of the aged; my voice is low, like the sound of the waters in a small stream, but the wise speak, and the sound of the Father of many Waters is in your ears. But our brave men say they are at peace with the Chippeways: they promised they would bury the hatchet deeper than the roots of our tallest trees; they said we would live together like friends, and that the war-cry only should be heard when we joined together against our enemies."

The old man prepared to answer him: his limbs shook with rage and excitement; he raised his finger, and pointed towards The Buffalo, then, when the crimson blood dyed his cheeks, he said, "Shame on the coward who fears his enemies: go gather corn with the women, and the old and feeble man will die with his tomahawk raised against those who hate his nation."

In vain The Buffalo essayed to speak: they would not hear him; and he left the council amid the sneers of all.

War was decided upon; and night was fast approaching when Wenona, with pale and agitated looks, pressed forward among the warriors. "My father," said she, "where is my brother?"

Iron Heart started; but recovering himself, he replied, "I know not. Seek him yourself, if you would find him."

"I have sought him," she said, "but the old woman, Flying Cloud, tells me I may seek him no more, for she saw his body floating down the river, as she came up in her canoe. She laughed, too, and said I would see him one day in the land of spirits."

All looked towards Iron Heart, but he made his way among them, and returned to the wigwam. In vain Wenona wept, and besought him to go in search of her brother; not even would he inquire of Flying Cloud.

"I will go, then, and look for him myself," said the girl. "Is he not my brother, my mother's son?"

"Cease your noise," said her father, sternly. "If the Great Spirit have called my son, is he not already a brave warrior in the city of spirits?"

Wenona was quiet at her father's rebuke, but her heart was ill at ease. She hoped he would return in the night. She remembered that Flying Cloud was always bitter and ill-tempered; and besides, was not her brother at home on the water? Could he not swim as easily as he could tread down the grass on the prairie? She reasoned herself into the hope that ChaskÉ had been tired, and had laid down to rest; and she fell asleep with the expectation that his merry voice would arouse her at break of day.

And how did he sleep in whose heart lay the secret of the death of his son? in whose ear was sounding the voice of that son's blood?

In vain might we seek to follow Wenona in her untiring search for her brother—she knew all his accustomed haunts—at one time making her way over rock and crag, to find out the eagle's home; at another, pushing her small canoe up the stream, where the beavers made their houses; weeping, yet hoping too.

Day after day passed thus: and ever as she returned to the village would Flying Cloud tell her she must go beyond the clouds to seek him.

Iron Heart neither assisted in the search for the boy, nor spoke of his loss. He was calm as usual: yet in the last four days he seemed to have lived as many years.

He employed himself sharpening the instruments he was soon to use against the Chippeways, while hanging near the medicine-sack, which was attached to a pole outside the wigwam, was a knife which glittered in the sun, which was only touched or moved by himself.

Days and weeks passed by: Wenona ceased to look for her brother, or hope for his return; yet still she wept. The heart of the motherless girl clung ever in thought to him who had been not only her companion, but her charge from his birth. She had taken him from her mother's bosom when dying; she had watched his childish sports, and sung to him the legends of her people. Could she have closed his eyes, and wept at his feet, her grief would not have been so hopeless. It often occurred to her that her father was not unacquainted with the circumstances of his death.

Strange and solemn was the secret of the death of the Indian boy. Dearly loved by his father, they stood together one day by the river's side. "Did you not say, my father," said the boy, "that we would go to the forest for the deer? Let us go now; my arrows are swift and strong, and to-morrow the girls will come and help us drag them in. Come, my father, your looks have been sad for many days, but you will laugh when you see the red deer fall as we strike them. The old woman, Flying Cloud," continued the boy, "says she knows what is going to happen to me. She says I will never go to war against the Chippeways; that my knife shall never sever the scalps from the head of my enemy; that my voice shall not be heard in the council, nor shall my wife ever stand at the door of her lodge to wait my coming. But I laughed at her: she is old and poor; she loves not the young and happy. See her now, my father, as she stands upon that high rock, waving her arms to me. What have you done to her that she hates you so? She says she has cast a spell upon our race."

"Flying Cloud is not of our clan, my son," replied Iron Heart; "her son died, and she says my mother caused his death. She says she cannot die till my mother is childless like herself. But come, before the night we must kill many deer."

"Is your knife sharp?" said the boy; "you know we must draw the skins off while they are warm. My sister will work our moccasins and leggins. She says she is never so happy as when she is sewing for me."

Shall we follow them—shall we penetrate the deep forests to see the father raise his knife to pierce from side to side the strong, healthy frame of his son!

Not in anger did he take the life that was dearer to him than his own. Was the burden of his sins lying heavily against his heart? Who shall tell his agony when he saw the blood flow! Who shall say how his soul was wrung with grief as the reproachful face of his much-loved child was turned towards him in death!

The wild deer flew past, but he saw them not. The serpent glided by as it did in Paradise, but its stealthy motion was unobserved. The sweet song-birds raised their notes to the sky, but they all fell unheeded on the ear of the father who had taken the life of his son.

Raising the form of the boy in his arms, he bore it carefully to the shore, and casting it where the current hurried impetuously on, the dead boy was borne along to share the lot of many who will rest in their ocean grave, till the land and the sea shall alike give up their dead.

When I reflect on the tradition of the Sioux, that once only has human life been offered in sacrifice, and then a father took the life of his son—when in the quiet night I mind me of those whose destiny seems now to be in our power for good or evil, I remember that when the world was new, Abraham, in holy faith, yet with a breaking heart, led his much-loved child—the child of hope and promise, to sacrifice his life in obedience to the command of God. Can you not see his lip quiver and his cheek turn pale as he lays him on the altar? Can you not hear the throbbings of his heart as he binds him to the wood?

Abraham's son was spared, but I mind me of another sacrifice, where God spared not his own Son, but yielded him, the pure and sinless, a sacrifice for the guilt of all.