isdom, we already know something from Smith's narrative, which I wish
every boy and girl might read; and of Logan's noble spirit we have had
a glimpse in the story of Kenton's captivity. He was the son of
Shikellimy, a Cayuga chief who lived at Shamokin, Pennsylvania, and who
named him after James Logan, the Secretary of the Province. Shikellimy
was a convert of the Moravian preachers, and it is thought that Logan
himself was baptized in the Christian faith. He spent the greater
portion of his early life in Pennsylvania, and he took no part in the
war between the French and English, except to do what he could for
peace. When he came to Ohio, he dwelt for a time at Mingo Bottom in
Jefferson County, the rendezvous of the assassins who marched against
Gnadenhiitten under Williamson, and of the assassins who were beaten
back from Sandusky under Crawford. Here, as before, Logan was the friend
of the white man, and it was not till the murder of his father, brother,
and sister, cried to him for vengeance, that he made war upon them.

His kindred were of a small party of Indians whom some Virginians lured
across the Ohio near the mouth of Yellow Creek in 1774. On the Virginia
side the murderers made three of the Indians drunk and tomahawked them,
and when they had tricked the others into discharging their guns at
a mark, and so had them defenseless, they ruthlessly shot them down.
Logan's sister, who was the only woman in the party, tried to escape,
but a bullet cut short her flight, and she died praying her murderers to
have mercy on the babe she held in her arms. They spared it, and he
who tells the cruel tale saw it the next day in his own mother's arms
smiling up into her face, while she fed and fondled it.

The news came to Logan while he was speaking at a council of the
Indians, and urging them to make peace with the whites. He instantly
changed his plea; he lifted up his hatchet, and yowed never to lay it
down till he had avenged himself tenfold. He kept his word, and that
summer thirty scalps and prisoners bore witness to his fury.

But it was a short-lived impulse of a nature essentially so good that it
could not long keep the memory of even such an injury. In this very war,
or this out-Durst of the long Indian war, Logan showed himself as before
the friend of the white men. He had pity on many of the captives he
made, and when he could he tried to move other captors to pity. Major
William Robinson, who was one of Log