e of rare loveliness.

"Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self."

None were there to flatter the young girl, and to awaken that uneasy
vanity which fills the mind with the consciousness of observation, and
gives awkwardness to the timid, and affectation to the self-possessed.
Seeing herself so different from those she loved the best, the fair
Water-Lily often wished she could darken her skin and hair, that she
might more resemble others. Nor think that Orikama was totally
unaccomplished; her kind mother Ponawtan taught her all she herself
knew--to fear and love the Great Spirit; to be obedient, kind, and
patient; to speak the truth, and to bear pain without a murmur. She
learned that important part of the Indian woman's duty, to raise the
vegetables needed for their simple repasts, and to prepare savory dishes
of venison and other game; to fabricate their garments, ornamenting them
with uncommon skill and taste, and to manufacture baskets of exquisite
workmanship. These were her tasks: and when they were accomplished, how
joyfully did she bound off to the woods, or up the hills, to gather
herbs and barks, such as observation and tradition taught the children
of the forest to employ in the cure of diseases: she knew all the
trees, shrubs, and roots which grew in that region, and was skilled in
domestic surgery, such as woman has ever practised where medical
colleges are unknown. In her frequent and distant excursions for this
purpose, she had attained one accomplishment not to be taught in
schools; her voice was one of exquisite tone and great compass,
peculiarly rich and mellow; and she had learned to imitate the birds in
their varied warblings, so that frequently answers would be returned to
her from the deceived songsters of the wood. Then, louder still would
ring the notes, and the feathered tribe were excited to emulation by the
young girl, singing in the gayety of her heart.

Thus passed the early youth of Orikama, in intercourse with sweet
nature, under the kind protection of two of the best specimens of the
Indian tribes, and almost debarred from any other society. Seldom did a
moccasined hunter enter their wigwam, yet seldomer did a squaw pass
through that lonely valley; and a white man, never. When she had
attained the age of thirteen, a change occurred, which threw a shadow
over her young life, and was greatly regretted by Towandahoc and
Ponawtan. A detachment of their tribe having determined