The Chawanon Indians, inhabiting the lake of Marcotti, and who are considered the most warlike and civilized of the American Indians, have a manner of courtship which we believe to be peculiar to themselves. When such of their young women as have pretensions to beauty, attain their twelfth year, which is the usual period of their marriage, they either keep themselves quite secluded at home, or when they go out muffle themselves up in such a manner, that nothing is seen but their eyes. On these indications of beauty, they are eagerly sought in marriage, and those suitors who have acquired the greatest reputation as warriors or hunters, obtain the consent of the family. After this, the lover repairs to the cabin, where the beauty is lying enveloped on her couch. He gently approaches and uncovers her face, so that his person may be seen, and if this be to her mind, she invites him to lie down by her side; if not, she again conceals her face, and the lover retires. A husband has the privilege of marrying all his wife’s sisters as they arrive at age, so that after, often before, his first wife is thirty, he has married and abandoned at least a dozen. WEATHERFORD. (SEE FRONTISPIECE.) “I come, my Wilwullah! Guide hither our boy! I bring from the forest Its spirit and joy: Why lingereth my soft-eyed?” And dark grew his brow; “Thy hunter returneth— Where, truant, art thou?” He enters his wigwam— What meaneth that cry? His bold form what freezeth? What filmeth his eye? The work of the white men! His mate of the wood, And their fawns, the light-footed, All couched in their blood! Before a cold foeman The Indian is cold; But his heart in his wild-wood Is like molten gold. The warrior has clasped them— He’s red in their gore! Has raved and wept o’er them— But ne’er will weep more! “Ye snow-brow destroyers! Ye false and ye foul! For this, by Manito! For this shall ye howl! I swear that pale thousands Shall weep for this blow; For each drop here wasted, Red rivers shall flow! “When smoke dims the distance, And shrieks fill the air, Then white lips will whisper, ‘_Fly! Weatherford’s there!_’ Your warriors shall perish; We’ll laugh at their shame; And the blood of your loved ones Shall hiss in the flame!” How was that vow answered? Ask Mimms: it will tell! Where the battle was hottest There _his_ hatchet fell; Where the shriek was the loudest, Where freest ran blood, Be sure, mid his victims, There Weatherford stood! But feeble the red men, Though fierce in the fray; Like mists in the morning, They melted away. “Give us peace!” prayed the vanquished; “The white chieftain gives No peace”—was the answer— “While Weatherford lives.” That lion-souled chieftain’s[1] Alone in his tent: ’Tis midnight; still over His toil he is bent.