a-patriots must have felt to behold the live-oak of the Floridas
and the pines of green Maine built into the oaken walls of Old England!
But, to some of the sailors, there was a counterbalancing thought, as
grateful as the other was galling, and that was, that somewhere,
sailing under the stars and stripes, was the frigate Macedonian, a
British-born craft which had once sported the battle-banner of Britain.

It has ever been the custom to spend almost any amount of money in
repairing a captured vessel, in order that she may long survive to
commemorate the heroism of the conqueror. Thus, in the English Navy,
there are many Monsieurs of seventy-fours won from the Gaul. But we
Americans can show but few similar trophies, though, no doubt, we would
much like to be able so to do.

But I never have beheld any of thee floating trophies without being
reminded of a scene once witnessed in a pioneer village on the western
bank of the Mississippi. Not far from this village, where the stumps of
aboriginal trees yet stand in the market-place, some years ago lived a
portion of the remnant tribes of the Sioux Indians, who frequently
visited the white settlements to purchase trinkets and cloths.

One florid crimson evening in July, when the red-hot sun was going down
in a blaze, and I was leaning against a corner in my huntsman's frock,
lo! there came stalking out of the crimson West a gigantic red-man,
erect as a pine, with his glittering tomahawk, big as a broad-ax,
folded in martial repose across his chest, Moodily wrapped in his
blanket, and striding like a king on the stage, he promenaded up and
down the rustic streets, exhibiting on the back of his blanket a crowd
of human hands, rudely delineated in red; one of them seemed recently
drawn.

"Who is this warrior?" asked I; "and why marches he here? and for what
are these bloody hands?"

"That warrior is the _Red-Hot Coal_," said a pioneer in moccasins, by
my side. "He marches here to show-off his last trophy; every one of
those hands attests a foe scalped by his tomahawk; and he has just
emerged from Ben Brown's, the painter, who has sketched the last red
hand that you see; for last night this _Red-Hot Coal_ outburned the
_Yellow Torch_, the chief of a band of the Foxes."

Poor savage thought I; and is this the cause of your lofty gait? Do you
straighten yourself to think that you have committed a murder, when a
chance-falling stone has often done the same? Is it a proud thi