this powerful tribe
cease to be a nation on the earth? Will their mysterious origin never be
ascertained? And must their religion and superstitions, their customs
and feasts pass away from memory as if they had never been?

Who can look upon them without interest? hardly the philosopher--surely
not the Christian. The image of God is defaced in the hearts of the
savage. Cain-like does the child of the forest put forth his hand and
stain it with a brother's blood. But are there no deeds of darkness done
in our own favored land?

But the country of the Dahcotah,--let it be new to those who fly at the
beckon of gain--who would speculate in the blood of their
fellow-creatures, who for gold would, aye do, sell their own souls,--it
is an old country to me. What say the boundless prairies? how many
generations have roamed over them? when did the buffalo first yield to
the arrow of the hunter? And look at the worn bases of the rocks that
are washed by the Father of waters. Hear the Dahcotah maiden as she
tells of the lover's leap--and the warrior as he boasts of the victories
of his forefathers over his enemies, long, long before the hated white
man had intruded upon their lands, or taught them the fatal secret of
intoxicating drink.

The Dahcotahs feel their own weakness--they know they cannot contend
with the power of the white man. Yet there are times when the passion
and vehemence of the warriors in the neighborhood of Fort Snelling can
hardly be brought to yield to the necessity of control; and were there a
possibility of success, how soon would the pipe of peace be thrown
aside, and the yell and whoop of war be heard instead! And who would
blame them? Has not the blood of our bravest and best been poured out
like water for a small portion of a country--when the whole could never
make up for the loss sustained by one desolate widow or
fatherless child?

The sky was without a cloud when the sun rose on the Mississippi. The
morning mists passed slowly away as if they loved to linger round the
hills. Pilot Knob rose above them, proud to be the burial place of her
warrior children, while on the opposite side of the Mine Soto [Footnote:
Mine Soto, or Whitish Water, the name that the Sioux give to the St.
Peter's River. The mud or clay in the water has a whitish look.] the
frowning walls of Fort Snelling; told of the power of their enemies. Not
a breath disturbed the repose of nature, till the voice of the song
birds rose i