“If thou hadst remained amongst us, dear babe, with what grace thy hand might have bent the bow! Thy arm might have tamed the furious bear, and thy steps might have outrun the flying kid on the summit of the mountain. White ermine of the rock, to go so young to the land of souls! How wilt thou manage to live there? Thy father is not there to feed thee with the produce of his chase. Thou wilt be cold, and no Spirit will give thee skins to cover thyself. Oh! I must hasten to rejoin thee, to sing songs to thee and to give thee my breast.” And the young mother sang with a trembling voice, rocked the child upon her knees, wetted its lips with her maternal milk, and bestowed upon the dead all those cares which are usually given to the living. According to the Indian custom, the woman desired to dry the body of her son upon the branches of a tree before taking it away to the tomb of its ancestors. She therefore undressed the new-born babe, and, after breathing some instants upon its mouth, uncovered its breast, and embraced the icy remains, which would certainly have been re-animated by the fire of that maternal heart, if God had not reserved to Himself the breath that imparts life. She rose, and looked about for a tree upon which she might lay her child. She selected a maple with red flowers, festooned with garlands of apios, that emitted the sweetest perfumes. With one hand she pulled down the lowest branch, and with the other she placed the body thereon; then loosing the branch, it returned to its natural position, with the remains of innocence concealed in its ordoriforous foliage. Oh, how touching is this Indian custom! Pompous monuments of the Crassi and of the Cæsars, I have seen you in your desolated plains; but I by far prefer those aërian tombs of the savages, those mausoleums of flowers and verdure, perfumed by the bee and waved by the zephyr, wherein the nightingale builds its nest and warbles its plaintive melody. When the mortal remains are those of a young maiden suspended by the hand of a lover to the tree of death, or of a beloved child placed by a fond mother in the dwelling of the little birds, the charm is still greater. I approached her who was groaning at the foot of the maple-tree, and placed my hands upon her head as I uttered the three cries of grief. Afterwards, without speaking to the young mother, I imitated her by taking a bough and driving away the insects that were buzzing about the child’s body. But I was careful not to disturb a neighboring dove. The Indian woman said to it: “Dove, if thou art not the soul of my departed son, thou art doubtless a mother seeking for something to make a nest. Take these hairs, which I shall no more wash in scented water; take them for a bed for thy little ones, and may the Great Spirit preserve them to thee!” * The Iroquois,