Just here, I am reminded to say a few words with regard to a certain trait in our hero's character--a trait not unfrequently to be noticed in men of his color, but which, so far as I am aware, has never been made matter of particular comment. Viewing himself from a point within himself, Big Black Burl was wont to look at himself as made up of two distinct individuals, who though having their home in the same body, using the same limbs, and taking their observations of the outward world through the same senses, were yet in his eyes quite different each from the other. One of these individuals was called the "Fighting Nigger," the other went by the name of "Burlman Reynolds." The Fighting Nigger was a man of great distinction, Burlman Reynolds a fellow of small repute. When the two distinguished themselves, the Fighting Nigger claimed the lion's share of the glory; but when they disgraced themselves, then Burlman Reynolds must take the dog's share of the blame. Now, this petting and humoring had spoiled the Fighting Nigger not a little, making him arrogant and overbearing with his humbler self, even to the extent at times of a threat to kick him bodily out-of-doors. But Burlman Reynolds, the best-natured fellow in the world, perfectly understood what all this fuming and puffing meant, and only laughed in his sleeve thereat, knowing as well as anybody that after all the Fighting Nigger was very much of a big humbug. Hardly had they recovered their wonted balance after this, the mere shade of an adventure, when the Fighting Nigger and Burlman Reynolds were again brought to a stand by an apparition of quite a different complexion. Less than twenty yards above them, on the side of a hill they were now ascending, stood a dense thicket of low bushes, the ragged edge of which showed in dim relief against the sky. Suddenly had risen and vanished, and now suddenly rose and vanished again, what appeared to be the plumed crests of three Indians, who were watching the black hunter's approach, by fitful glimpses, from behind their place of ambush. Dodging to one side behind a tree, the black giant cocked his gun and planted himself firm and square on his moccasins, this time as strong and sturdy from head to foot as a black-jack oak. These real dangers, that might be met and vanquished with powder, lead, and steel, had far less terrors for the Fighting Nigger than such empty shades of the night as but now had sprung out at him from the foggy fancy of Burlman Reynolds. But quickly bethinking himself again of his dog, his touch-stone in every emergency where his own senses were at fault, he cautiously peeped out from behind the tree. Perceiving again that Grumbo was waiting for him with wonted composure, as if there was nothing in the wind to sniff at, the Fighting Nigger was reaessured, convinced that the eyes and fancy of Burlman Reynolds had played him another trick. What he had seen proved in reality nothing more than a leafy shrub,