ut eighty Indians in all at this encampment, a very small
portion of which number are women. A hostile tribe in the valley made a
Sabine-like invasion upon the settlement a few months since, and stole
away all the young and fair muchachas, leaving them but a few old
squaws. These poor withered creatures, who are seldom seen far from the
encampment, do all the drudgery. Their entire wardrobe consists of a
fringe about two feet in length, which is formed of the branch or
root--I cannot ascertain exactly which--of a peculiar species of shrub
shredded into threads. This scanty costume they festoon several times
about the person, fastening it just above the hips, and they generally
appear in a startlingly unsophisticated state of almost entire nudity.
They are very filthy in their habits, and my informant said that if one
of them should venture out into the rain, grass would grow on her neck
and arms. The men, unhappy martyrs! are compelled to be a little more
cleanly, from their custom of hunting and fishing, for the wind _will_
blow off _some_ of the dirt, and the water washes off more.

Their infants are fastened to a framework of light wood, in the same
manner as those of the North American Indians. When a squaw has
anything to do, she very composedly sets this frame up against the side
of the house as a civilized housewife would an umbrella or broom.

Some of their modes of fishing are very curious. One is as follows.
These primitive anglers will seek a quiet deep spot in the river, where
they know fish most do congregate, and throw therein a large quantity
of stones. This, of course, frightens the fish, which dive to the
bottom of the stream, and Mr. Indian, plunging head foremost into the
water, beneath which he sometimes remains several minutes, will
presently reappear, holding triumphantly in each hand one of the finny
tribe, which he kills by giving it a single bite in the head or neck
with his sharp, knife-like teeth.

Hardly a day passes during which there are not three or four of them on
this Bar. They often come into the cabin, and I never order them away,
as most others do, for their childish curiosity amuses me, and as yet
they have not been troublesome. There is one beautiful little boy,
about eight years old, who generally accompanies them. We call him Wild
Bird, for he is as shy as a partridge, and we have never yet been able
to coax him into the cabin. He always wears a large red shirt, which,
trailing