WILDS OF NORTH AMERICA: ELK LAKE.

ELK or Itasca Lake is the fountain head of the Mississippi. It is thought to be almost three thousand miles from the Gulf of Mexico, and two thousand feet above the level of the Atlantic. It is a small sheet of water, about five miles long one to two miles wide, and contains only one island, which lies directly in the centre. On the south side is a ridge of woodcrowned hills, which give birth to tiny streams, that eventually empty their waters into the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. The whole region on the north is woody, low, and marshy. The water is clear, deep, and full of fish, the bottom gravelly; and the entire shore covered with reeds and rushes. The trees which abound here are the pine, oak, elm, maple, birch, and poplar; and the fish are principally the trout, pike, and black bass. The Mississippi when it leaves this lake is only about twenty feet wide, but after passing through a great number of lakes it spreads itself to the width of one hundred and fifty feet, and falls into Red Cedar Lake. This portion of the Great River might well be likened to the infant Hercules, for it is the master of everything around it, and rambles onward as if conscious of its dawning power.

me.

On the summits of those hills I spent a number of days, pondering upon the strange wild scenery which surrounded On one occasion I revelled over a morning landscape. The sun had just risen above an ocean of forests, and the air was echoing with a thousand strains of melody. Earth was awake, and clothed in her fresh green garment. The mists had left the long, low valleys, and revealed to the open sky winding rivers and lakes of surpassing loveliness. Every thing was laughing with joy under the glorious influence of the summer sun. The elk and the deer were cropping their morning repast, with the dew-showers trickling from their

glossy sides. Gracefully did the smoke curl upward from an Indian village. The hunters were preparing for the chase. I saw them enter their canoes, silently glide down a river, and finally lose themselves among the islands of a vast swamp. None were left in the village but women and children. While the former busied themselves in their rude occupations, the latter were sporting in the sunshine, some shooting at a target, some leaping, some swimming, and others dancing. A rushing sound now fell upon my ear from a neighbouring thicket. It was a wounded moose, that had sought refuge from a hunter. The arrow had pierced his heart, and, like an exiled monarch, he had come here to die. He writhed and bounded in agory. One effort more, and all was still. The noisy raven was now to feed upon those delicately formed limbs, and pluck from their sockets those eyes, which were of late so brilliant and full of fire.

At another time I gazed upon a noontide panorama. Not a breath of air was stirring, and the atmosphere was hot and sultry. The leaves and the green waves of the distant prairie were motionless. The birds were tired of singing and had sought the shadowy recesses of the wood.. The deer was quenching his thirst in some nameless stream, or panting with heat in some secluded dell. On an old dry tree, whose giant arms stretched upward as if to grasp the clouds, a solitary eagle had perched himself. It was too hot even for him to enjoy a bath in the upper air; but presently, as if smitten with a new thought, he spread out his broad pinions, and slowly ascended to the zenith,— whence I fancied that the glance of his keen eyes could almost rest upon the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans.

The butterfly and wild bee were resting on the full-blown flowers, and silence reigned in the Indian village. The children, exhausted with heat and play, had gone to lie down, some in their cabins, and some in the cool shadow of the trees. Earth and air were so tranquil, that it seemed as if nature was offering up a prayer. Winding far away

to the south was the Mississippi, fading away to the bending sky.

Towards evening a cloud obscured the sky. The wind arose, and was followed by a roaring sound,-and now a storm was spending its fury upon forest and prairie. Loud thunder echoed through the firmament, and the fiercest lightnings flashed forth their fire. The forests were bending as if every tree would break. An old oak, which stood in its grandeur upon the plain, now lay prostrate. parched soil was deluged with rain. But finally the storm spent its fury, and the clouds, like a routed army, were passing away in dire confusion. A rainbow then arched the heavens, and a fresh but gentle breeze was pleasantly fanning my cheek.

The

I also looked upon this wilderness landscape at a later hour. As the sun descended, the clouds came out to meet him, decked in their most gorgeous hues, while the evening star smiled at his approach. He had left the valleys in twilight, and I knew that his last beams were gilding with gold the Rocky Mountains. The moon ascended to her throne, and the whip-poor-will commenced her evening hymn. On heavy wings a swan flew past me! she was going perhaps to her home on the margin of Hudson's Bay.

A stir was in the Indian village, for they had returned with their canoes loaded with game. The customary festival had commenced, and most strangely did their wild music sound, as it broke on the surrounding solitude.

The

It was now midnight, and I stood in the centre of an apparently boundless wilderness of forests and prairies; while far away to the north-west reposed a range of hills. moon had compassed the heavens, and was near her setting. A thousand stars were by her side. She flooded with her silver beams the leaves, the waves, and distant hills. Every voice within the Indian village was hushed. The warrior, asleep upon his mat, was dreaming of a new huntingground; the youth, of the dark-eyed maiden whom he

loved; and the child of the toys of yesterday. The pale face had not yet trespassed upon their rights; and, as they were at peace with the Great Spirit, they were contented and happy.

SCENE IN AN INDIAN VILLAGE: THE SIOUX. GAINING a mound on the upland prairie, I had a charming view of the Lac qui Parle * and its whole neighbourhood. The valley, about two miles wide, lay before me to the south. To the west was the lake, about eight miles long, all the lowlands adjacent to it being very well wooded, with the upland prairie in the distance. In front of the height where I stood was the alluvial land with the fort and the village, this last consisting of forty-eight Nacotah skin lodges, and twelve large bark-covered wigwams, with Indians strolling about in every direction. Whilst I was sketching the scene, I observed several Indian women with bags on their heads and shoulders. They appeared heavily laden, as they did not raise their faces from the path they were upon. I never saw individuals contend more with a load that almost mastered them than did some of these females. Following them a short distance to a place where they stopped, I found they were making a cache of the ripe maize of that season. A sort of cave had been hollowed out of the side of the hill, about eight feet in diameter at the bottom, and not more than two or three at the top. To this cache the women were bringing the corn a distance of about two miles, and some very young girls were in the cave stowing it away.

From the upland I strolled down to the village, and found that I was free to go wherever I chose. I therefore entered the huts of the chiefs, and lost no time in coming to a good understanding with the ladies—a piece of policy it is good to observe in all situations. To their wives I pre* Lac qui (pron. kee) Parle, lit. the lake that speaks.

sented handsome new calico handkerchiefs, with the flags of all nations printed upon them. To the young girls I gave handsome necklaces of beads, and rings ornamented with paste sapphires, emeralds, diamonds, rubies, &c.,—all manufactured for Indian commerce. I ventured also to sport some phrases in their own tongue, and was not laughed at; indeed, the Indians never criticise or laugh at you- they are not civilised enough for that—but pay great attention to what you say, that they may understand what you mean. In the evening I went to a scalp-dance, some wild young fellows having come in with three scalps they had just taken from some Ojibaways, near Elk Lake. A circle was formed of twenty warriors painted and bedaubed in the usual manner, and thirty women arrayed in blankets, a few of the younger ladies having the red beauty spot painted on their cheeks. In the centre of the ring three poles were held up, each with a hairy scalp depending from it, stretched out and gaily ornamented. The men who held the poles up were the Indians themselves who had taken the scalps. These chanted a song of self-glorification for themselves, the burden of which was, that "they were the bravest of all brave men." This song was varied twice, and the second time the first words were, "I have the proud Ojibaway in my power, he cannot escape me."

But there were other songs in which all the circle bore a part, and more pleasing and animating Indian music I never heard. It was a loud strain of self-praise accompanied with a sort of drum or tambourine.

The music rose and fell, and was loud and low, both sexes singing in the most exact concert. Sometimes the men, after a bold, sustained strain, would let it die away; and as their voices began to sink, the women, at a signal from the drum, would take the melody up with their soft and sweet voices, continuing it until the men relieved them once more. Then the women would give from time to time a curious cluck; and the whole would suddenly be brought to a close by a