than two hundred years ago.

Indeed it is a wonderful, a most delightful book, known to the world as
"The Compleat Angler," in which, to be sure, one may read something of
fish and fishing, but more about old Izaac's lovable self, his sunny
streams and shady pools, his buxom milkmaids, and sequestered inns, and
his kindly animadversions upon men and things in general. Yet, as I
say, he does occasionally speak of fish and fishing, and amongst other
matters, concerning live frogs as bait, after describing the properest
method of impaling one upon the hook, he ends with this injunction:

Treat it as though you loved it, that it may live the longer!

Up till now the frog had preserved his polite attentiveness in a manner
highly creditable to his upbringing, but this proved too much; his
over-charged feelings burst from him in a hoarse croak, and he
disappeared into the river with a splash.

"Good-afternoon, Uncle Dick!" said a voice at my elbow, and looking
round, I beheld Dorothy. Beneath one arm she carried the fluffy
kitten, and in the other hand a scrap of paper.

"I promised Reginald to give you this," she continued, "and--oh yes--I
was to say 'Hist!' first."

"Really! And why were you to say 'Hist'?"

"Oh, because all Indians always say 'Hist!' you know."

"To be sure they do," I answered; "but am I to understand that you are
an Indian?"

"Not ta-day," replied Dorothy, shaking her head. "Last time Reginald
painted me Auntie was awfull' angry--it took her and nurse ages to get
it all off--the war-paint, I mean--so I'm afraid I can't be an Indian
again!"

"That's very unfortunate!" I said.

"Yes, isn't it; but nobody can be an Indian chief without any
war-paint, can they?"

"Certainly not," I answered. "You seem to know a great deal about it."

"Oh, yes," nodded Dorothy. "Reginald has a book all about Indians and
full of pictures--and here's the letter," she ended, and slipped it
into my hand.

Smoothing out its many folds and creases, I read as follows:

To my pail-face brother:

Ere another moon, Spotted Snaik will be upon the war-path, and red goar
shall flo in buckkit-fulls.

"It sounds dreadful, doesn't it?" said Dorothy, hugging her kitten.

"Horrible!" I returned.

"He got it out of the book, you know," she went on, "but I put in the
part about the buckets--a bucket holds such an awful lot, don't you
think? But there's some more on the other page." Obediently I turned,
and read: