to give mankind a true and proper description of them, thou
must not destroy a third through wantonness, or to show what a good
marksman thou art; that would only blot the picture thou art finishing,
not colour it.

Though retired from the haunts of men, and even without a friend with
thee, thou wouldst not find it solitary. The crowing of the hannaquoi
will sound in thine ears like the daybreak town-clock; and the wren and
the thrush will join with thee in thy matin hymn to thy Creator, to thank
Him for thy night's rest.

At noon the Genius will lead thee to the troely, one leaf of which will
defend thee from both sun and rain. And if, in the cool of the evening,
thou hast been tempted to stray too far from thy place of abode, and art
deprived of light to write down the information thou hast collected, the
firefly, which thou wilt see in almost every bush around thee, will be
thy candle. Hold it over thy pocket-book, in any position which thou
knowest will not hurt it, and it will afford thee ample light. And when
thou hast done with it, put it kindly back again on the next branch to
thee. It will want no other reward for its services.

When in thy hammock, should the thought of thy little crosses and
disappointments, in thy ups and downs through life, break in upon thee,
and throw thee into a pensive mood, the owl will bear thee company. She
will tell thee that hard has been her fate too; and, at intervals,
"Whip-poor-Will" and "Willy come go" will take up the tale of sorrow.
Ovid has told thee how the owl once boasted the human form, and lost it
for a very small offence; and were the poet alive now, he would inform
thee that "Whip-poor-Will," and "Willy come go," are the shades of those
poor African and Indian slaves, who died worn out and broken-hearted.
They wail and cry, "Whip-poor-Will," "Willy come go," all night long; and
often when the moon shines you see them sitting on the green turf, near
the houses of those whose ancestors tore them from the bosom of their
helpless families, which all probably perished through grief and want
after their support was gone.

About an hour above the rock of Saba stands the habitation of an Indian,
called Simon, on the top of a hill. The side next the river is almost
perpendicular, and you may easily throw a stone over to the opposite
bank. Here there was an opportunity of seeing man in his rudest state.
The Indians who frequented this habitation, though living in th