“Wiccónsat was the son of an aged chief of the Youcómacoes. He was tall and elegantly formed, and straight as an arrow from his quiver. Mild and contemplative, he became a favorite among the settlers, from whom he learned not only to read and write, but many of their useful arts. But he had listened to the breathings of Rosalie’s harp, as he lingered near her dwelling, and had gazed after her fair form, as she wandered in the forest, until the Indian’s life had lost all charms for him. The smile of happy youth had fled, and when he sought his father’s wigwam, his eye was sad and restless. The old chief saw with sorrow the change. “‘A spell hath come o’er thee, Wiccónsat,’ he kindly said; ‘my son is no longer the same. When in childhood I first saw thy little hands bend the bow, I fondly thought thou would’st rival the hunting fame of thy father, and, when age had weakened my strength, should danger threaten our tribe, thou would’st head the chiefs in combat. The locks of Orrouiska are now gray, and his hand feeble. The supplies of his wigwam are scanty, for his son lingers among the better habitations of strangers. But I know thy secret. Thy hopeless love is placed on the fairest of the white fawns, one as far above thy reach as was the rainbow of yesterday. For though the son of a once powerful chief, the poorest of the pale faces would reject thy alliance. Then arouse thee, Wiccónsat, and despise their pride. The Great Spirit made us all equal, and the brightest of our Indian maidens would be proud of thy love. If thou dost prefer the plough of the white man to the bow of the hunter, ’tis well, but turn the furrow in thy own fields.’ “The youth answered not, but with a deep sigh, taking his quiver full of arrows, went out to the chase. He wandered on through the forest, forgetful of his first intention, until he found himself near the river’s bank, and by the dwelling of Rosalie, and soon beheld the maiden, with her little brother, in a small boat, which they had contrived to move out a few yards into the deep water. As she arose to reach some blossoms from the overhanging trees, her balance was lost, and she fell into the stream. In a moment the young Indian had plunged in to her relief, and bore her in safety to the bank. The cries of her brother had alarmed the family, who hurried to the river, and Wiccónsat, yielding his lovely burthen to her parents’ arms, hastened to escape from their grateful acknowledgments, to enjoy in solitude the delightful feelings that crowded his heart. It seemed a new era in his existence, and fairy dreams floated in his imagination. With buoyant and unwearied footsteps he pursued the chase, and returned to his father’s cabin loaded with the choicest game, the reward of his toil. “‘Come, dear Oskwena,’ said he to his young sister, who ran to welcome him, ‘prepare a feast for our father, while I dress these skins, to make a softer couch for his aged limbs.’