ad no objection he would take them both with him to the
beautiful and romantic country he had so graphically described, after
their marriage, and the Indian chief could come to visit her every fall
and enjoy the Indian summer in hunting deer and procuring furs for
winter.

The Indian replied that if his daughter was pleased with Wolf-hunter's
son, and he was as good a hunter as his father, he would consent. The
Indians had adopted Mayall into the tribe, by the name of Wolf-hunter,
which made Mayall's son equal in rank with the daughter of the Indian
chief.

Mayall now parted with the chief and his family in friendship, and left
the proposed marriage to abide future events. Mayall directed his steps
towards East Canada Creek, where he arrived in safety, and commenced his
journey up the valley which had been scooped out by the stream since the
morning of creation. He soon passed beyond the noisy bustle of
civilization in the Valley of the Mohawk River, and launched into a
solitude which appeared to him as a divine retreat, and was better
fitted for a wild hunter than a civilized man.

Mayall carefully examined the forest along the banks of the stream and
its branches, from its outlet into the Mohawk to its source far away
among the forest hills. He found many traces of beaver and other furred
animals, and plenty of deer.

Mayall said it so nearly resembled the Otego Creek in its wild state,
shaded with the primeval forest, that it made him think of home in
gone-by days. The speckled trout swarmed in the creek and its small
tributaries, the feathered songsters sung their evening and morning
hymn, unmolested by man.

Mayall selected the most beautiful place he could find, on an elevated
spot of ground, near a small rill fed by springs, where the creek formed
a half circle like a new moon, on one side of his cottage. This fertile
spot, lying in the bend, he intended to clear and cultivate.

Breeze of the woodland and breath of the prairie,
Sweet with the fragrance of flower and vine,
Proclaim o'er the hill-tops and deep-shaded glens
That the sweet songsters of spring have returned,
And the little birds chirp, flutter and sing,
And make the groves again with melody ring.

Their music charms me like the voice of love,
And chains me to this wild, uncultivated grove,
Where spring flowers vary their beauty and bloom,
And spread their morning and evening perfume.
How beautiful