tion at this late period, had all the fascination of an old habit, with the additional zest of being enjoyed in company.

How long we had wandered I can by no means accurately state, perhaps two hours and a half, to be within bounds, when a halt was called. As a wanderer in the pathless forest, with the first snow-flake spitting in his face, draws close to his bosom his only hope, the tinderbox; so our first impulse was to gather together, into one case, the few cigars that still remained to us. A light flashed across our path as we were thus engaged, and when our eyes saw through the glare, we perceived that we stood upon the very brink of a-small café. To enter, to demand coffee, and our way home, was the work of a moment: not so speedy was the satisfaction of our demands. Coffee there was, but no sugar; the way doubtless existed, but no one knew it, or, as one of the party after rescue maliciously observed, no one knew how to ask it in the vernacular-but that's slander; so out we went again, and tramped on as before. All things terrestrial, of which I consider walking the streets at night most decidedly one, have an end, saith the philosopher; so had we, and my end was to find the feather bed of No. 6 positively delicious, just as a small mantle clock struck the second of the small hours.

DANIEL BOONE.

(Concluded.)

WE left Colonel Boone pursuing his favorite pastime in the woods of Kentucky. But he longed to be with his family, and determined that they too should have a home in this Eden. Having chosen a spot for their settlement, on the banks of the Kentucky river, he and his brother turned their faces homeward, and after an absence of nearly two years, reached North Carolina. After a brief period, with five families besides his own, Boone set out a second time for Kentucky. The party was soon joined by another, consisting of forty men. They traveled on in high spirits, but, alas! a sad fate awaited this happy band. On the tenth of October, while passing through a narrow gap of the Alleganies, the shrill war-cry of the savage suddenly burst upon their ears. The work of destruction commenced. Six of the whites were slain, among whom was the oldest son of Daniel Boone. The party was now dispirited, and when the last sad office for the dead had been performed, they retraced their steps to the nearest settlement, which was forty miles back, on Clinch river. Boone remained here with his family eight months, and then accepted an appointment from Governor Dunmore, of Virginia, to conduct a party of surveyors into the country which he had discovered. The duties of this mission were performed with such unexpected success and safety, that His Excellency was induced to repose still more confidence in our pioneer, and therefore appointed him, with the rank of Captain, to take command of the garrisons. These garrisons had been raised to protect the Virginia frontiers from the incursions of the Shawnees, whom, it will be remembered, the wanton butchery of the friendly chief Logan, by Colonel Cresop, had driven into a bloody war. Thus, in spite of himself, the fame of "the man of the woods" was beginning to spread abroad, and we soon find him acting in a more dignified capacity. At the solicitation of a company of North Carolina gentlemen, of whom Colonel Richard Henderson was the principal man, Boone attended an Indian council, at Watauga, and purchased from the Cherokees a tract of land, lying on the south side of the Kentucky river. Having furnished him with an armed band of brave and prudent men, and having given him discretionary powers, the company next solicited him to make a road to the Kentucky river. While performing this laborious task, four of his best men fell victims to savage cruelty, and five were wounded. No sooner had he reached the destined point, than he commenced a fort. While this was being constructed, he was attacked several times by the Indians, but only one of his men was killed. In honor to the great and fearless pioneer, the party called this first settlement in the western wilderness Boonesborough.

Boone returned, as soon as his business would permit, to Clinch river, and removed his family to this place. His heart's desire was

now attained he had a home in Kentucky. "My wife and daughter," he tells us with pride and exultation, "were the first white women that ever stood on the banks of the Kentucky river." The settlers were soon gladdened by the arrival of Colonel Calaway and family, from North Carolina. It was now spring, and the men were busily engaged in clearing land and planting corn. Colonel Calaway's two daughters and Boone's were accustomed to walk out around the fort and gather flowers to adorn their humble homes. One pleasant afternoon in July, while rambling through the woods, they were tempted, by the beautiful flowers, to wander away farther than usual. They were spied by a party of Indians, suddenly made captive and hurried away. Night came, but the young ladies did not return-perhaps they were lost! they might be prisoners! The alarm was given and Boone, with eight chosen men-of whom Col. Calaway was one-instantly set out in pursuit. The savages had adopted every precaution to prevent the whites from tracking them. But the girls, no less cunning than their captors, had the presence of mind to drop (not "scarfs, laces, and furbelows,"-trappings of modern date, but) shreds of their handkerchiefs and pieces of their garments by the way. This enabled the pursuers to find and keep the trail. At the close of the second day, on reaching a slight eminence, our hero sees in the dim distance the Indian camp-fire. The plan for rescuing the girls is left entirely to Boone's judgment. He selects Colonel Calaway from the party, to accompany him, and stations one other at a favorable position for giving the signal. The remaining six he conceals under the brow of a neighboring hill. With noiseless tread and in breathless silence the two anxious parents approach the camp. About twenty Indians are seen sleeping. But where are their children? On creeping a little further through the bushes they espy another camp, and in it their daughters "sleeping in each other's arms." Two ablebodied warriors guard them,-one apparently asleep. Calaway is to shoot him if he awakes, while Boone seizes and strangles the other. But most unfortunately, our hero had for once made a miscalculation. The guards were both wide awake; and as he approached they suddenly sprang forth, and the keen savage war-hoop echoed and rang through the forest. Boone and Calaway were instantly seized and their hands tied behind them. An Indian council was immediately called by the blowing of a horn, and it was resolved that the prisoners should suffer the penalty of death. But as to the manner in which this was to be inflicted, the Indians disagreed. Some were for burning them at the stake. Some for blind-folding and shooting them off the block. Others thought they should be made to run the gauntlet; while others still proposed hanging them, and were even stripping bark off the trees, and making ropes with which to consummate their hellish intentions. But such a death was thought too ignominious for the daring fathers of beautiful maidens. It was therefore unanimously agreed that they should be tomahawked. In pursuance of their plan the Indians now lash the helpless prisoners to trees. Two "big warriors" with tomahawks in hand are stationed before them, while the rest are singing

their war-songs and dancing, as is their custom. At length, the critical time arrives-the signal for execution is given, the tomahawks are playing about their heads, and death seems at last to have arrived. At this instant the crack of rifles rings through the forest. The two warriors fall dead. Another and yet another rifle is discharged, and as many more Indians fall, while the remainder are put to flight. The cords are loosed from Boone and Calaway-the young ladies are rescued and soon in their fathers' arms. At the expiration of another forty-eight hours we find the happy company around their own pleasant fire-side at Boonesborough.

The Indians now seeing houses built and the forests cleared, suspected that the whites intended to drive them away, and became more violent in their animosities than ever. A series of conflicts more or less bloody ensued, and in the spring of 1777 a party of one hundred savages attacked Boonesborough. Though repulsed on their first assault with considerable loss, they retired only to reinforce their numbers and make a more determined attack. A constant fire was kept up for forty-eight hours; but finding all their efforts fruitless, they suddenly raised a yell and departed, having suffered severely. In the fort, but one man was slain and two wounded.

It was shortly after this that an incident in Boone's history occurred which has been deemed worthy of a distinguished memorial. Having gone with a party to the Bluelicks, (a spot nearly opposite the present site of Cincinnati, and now frequented by the burghers of that city as a fashionable watering place,) in order to replenish the supply of salt at the fort, he strayed alone into the woods with his rifle, and suddenly encountered two Indian warriors armed with muskets. Retreat being impossible, the keen hunter sprang behind a large tree. As the Indians approached he exposed himself on the side of the tree, and one of them fired at him, but he dodged the ball. The other was induced to discharge his musket in the same way and with as little effect. Our hero then stepping from behind the tree shot one of them down in the act of reloading; but seeing the other almost ready to fire, he drew his hunting-knife, sprang forward, and with his left hand warding off the blow of the tomahawk, with his right he plunged the blade into the heart of his infuriated foe. The two Indians lay dead at his feet. No one who visits Washington City, fails to notice over the southern door of the rotunda of the Capitol the memorial of this daring deed.

Our hero, however, was not so successful in all his encounters. A day of captivity was at hand. Early the next year, while out on a hunting excursion, he was seized by a party of Frenchmen and Indians, and with him a number of his men. They were carried first to Old Chilicothe-an Indian town situated on the Little Miami-and thence to Detroit; where they were kindly received by Gov. Hamilton, the British commander at that post. All the prisoners were released for a small sum except Boone, but for him the Indians would receive no ransom, whether it was that they had become attached to him or that they feared him as too dangerous an enemy. The party who had charge

of him soon commenced their march back to Old Chilicothe. In the suburbs of the village they halted, showed the head of their prisoner, painted his face with their war-paint, and placed in his hand a long white staff ornamented with the tails of wild animals.

In this half-savage attire he was led into the village and conducted to a dirty hut, where sat a squaw bewailing the death of her son, a young brave of the tribe. According to a custom of the nation, it was her province to decide the fate of the captive. She was propitiousadopted him as her son, and his life was saved. Having now by Indian custom become one of the tribe, he exerted himself, from motives of policy, to secure their respect and confidence. He soon rose to a seat in their council, and as they were assembled one morning he heard with surprise a plan proposed for a general attack on Boonesborough. Determined now to escape at all hazards, though entering with apparent zeal into their preparations, he was, in a few days, with a large party of warriors, in full march for his devoted home. In vain did he watch for an opportunity to effect his purpose, till one morning a deer dashed across their path, and our hunter, true to his nature, gave chase. He was soon out of sight of his savage companions, and by forced marches reached Boonesborough soon enough to put the fort in readiness for the intended attack. The Indians, after delaying a few days for reinforcements, appeared in front of the fort, under the command of twelve renegade Frenchmen, of whom Duquesne was the principal. They demanded of Boone, in the name of His Britanic Majesty, to surrender the station; and their summons was backed by a formidable array of five hundred chosen warriors. To his comrades Boone said, "death is better than captivity;" and to the enemy he firmly replied, (6 we shall defend our fort while a man of us lives. We laugh at your preparations: we are ready for you, and thank you for the time you have given us. Try your shoulders upon our gates as soon as you please-they will hardly give you admittance." Having failed to terrify, the enemy attempted to deceive the garrison. An Indian chief advanced under a flag of truce, declaring that since it was impossible to make them prisoners, as Governor Hamilton had ordered, they were willing to make a treaty for peace, if nine of Boone's men would come out for this purpose. To this Boone agreed, on condition that the conference should be held within rifle shot of the fort. He suspected some treachery; so having selected eight men, distinguished for their strength and activity, and having instructed those who remained to fire upon the foe if necessary, he sallied forth to meet the thirty Indian chiefs. After a friendly interview, the terms of the treaty were agreed upon, papers drawn up, signed, and delivered. "And now," said the chiefs, "it is customary with us, on all such occasions, for two Indians to shake the hands of each white man that signs the treaty, as a token of the warmest friendship."

The shaking of hands commenced, but the gripe of friendship proved a grapple to make them prisoners, and a swarm of savages rushed upon them. Some of the assailants were shot by men in the fort-others