The preparations were soon made, and the hunters returned to the wigwam, explained to the mother the course they were about to pursue, and demanded the body of the maiden. She gave it up, but was dissatisfied that the burial was to be a silent one, and, in her kindness, suggested the propriety of hiring some Indians to come and weep over the dead. Earth explained to her, that to hire persons to mourn, was not customary with the whites; “and her spirit will not rest easy,” continued he, “if the Ingens sit howling and yelling over her grave.” These reasons seemed to satisfy the mother, and she left the hunters to wait upon her son. The spot, as I before mentioned, having been selected, a grave was dug, and the hunters leaving the mother, bore along, shrouded in skins, the last remains of the stranger maiden. She was, no one knows who;—she came, no one knows whence, and now rests in a strange land. Yes, on a little knoll, which rose hard by, and which receives the full beams of the morning sun, broken only by the wild vines which creep over it, sleep the last remains of the stranger maiden!—No tell-tale stone is reared where she rests; yet she lives in story, and many a dusky maid has sung her fate in the following lines: Indian maidens, come and weep O'er this lowly mound; Let your grief within be deep,— Whoop not, howl not, for the sleep Of the pale face is not sound. No mother watched her parting hour, No sister cheered the “Drooping Flower.” Know ye whence the rippling stream, Whence the wintry blast, Whence the mad storm-spirit's scream, Whence the vivid lightning's beam, Or whither it has past?— Thus was the maiden to us borne, Thus from us has her spirit gone. For as she droop'd, and ere she fell, She said her spirit did not love With her below on earth to dwell, And oft times has been heard to tell, That it would soar above. It claim'd no home on earth below— It would not stay—it long'd to go. Great Spirit! lend thy gracious ear, Tho' not for dusky maid we pray, Let thy protecting care be here, Let the pale face know no fear,— Guide her spirit on its way. Far beyond the Eagle's flight, To the realms that know no night. Indian maidens, weave the vine, Weave the sweetest blooms among; Plant the rose and eglantine, And a shady bower we'll twine; While each morn shall hear our song:— Blow softly breezes,—gently wave The wild flowers o'er the stranger's grave. CHAPTER VIII. “With various converse thus they whiled the way, Till lengthening shadows marked the closing day.” PARNELL.