The idea was for some time opposed by Henry, but when he beheld the savages so soundly asleep, and listened to his brother's plan of executing his wish, he finally consented to act the part prescribed him. The only gun which the Indians had was resting against a tree, at the foot of which lay their tomahawks. John placed it on a log, with the muzzle near to the head of one of the savages, and, leaving Henry with his finger on the trigger, ready to pull on the signal being given, he repaired to his own station. Holding in his hand one of their tomahawks, he stood astride of the other Indian, and, as he raised his arm to deal death to the sleeping savage, Henry fired, and, shooting off the lower part of the Indian's jaw, called to his brother, "_Lay on; for I've done for this one_," seized up the gun and ran off. The first blow of the tomahawk took effect on the back of the neck and was not fatal. The Indian attempted to spring up, but John repeated his strokes with such force and so quickly that he soon brought him again to the ground, and leaving him dead proceeded on after his brother. They presently came to a path which they recollected to have traveled the preceding evening, and, keeping along it, arrived at the station awhile before day. The inhabitants were, however, all up, and in much uneasiness for the fate of the boys; and when they came near, and heard a well-known voice exclaim, in accents of deep distress, "_Poor little fellows! they are either killed or taken prisoners_," John called aloud, "No, mother, we are here again." When the tale of their captivity and the means by which they escaped, were told, they did not receive full belief, upon which John said, "You had better go and see." "But can you again find the spot?" said one; "Yes," he said, "I hung my cap up at the place where we turned into the path." So, with a number of men, John led the way, and when they came to the fire they found the Indian who had been tomahawked, dead, while they tracked the one who had been shot, by his blood, until they found him, not quite dead yet, but so weak that he would die, so they left him. * * * * * I am positive I have a Soul; nor can all the books with which materialists have pestered the world ever convince me to the contrary. STERNE. [Illustration] [Illustration] THE FLIGHT OF YEARS. GEORGE D. PRENTICE. Gone! gone for ever!--like a rushing wave Another year has burst upon the shore Of earthly being--and its last low tones, Wandering in broken accents on the air, Are dying to an echo.