In the vicinity of “Starved Rock”—so the legend runs—there once lived two small tribes of Indians, the Coriaks and Pinxies. They were friendly toward each other, and often leagued together for mutual defence, or to destroy some common foe. On the return of the warriors of both tribes from an expedition in which they had proved victorious, and had taken an unusual number of prisoners, a feast was given by the Coriaks, to celebrate the event; and the braves of each tribe met to dance about their victims, to throw with unerring aim their sharp-pointed arrows into their defenceless bodies, and to drown the death-song of expiring foes in unearthly shouts and loud boasts of their own bloody deeds. At this feast Canabo, one of the Pinxie braves, saw and loved the beautiful Anacaona, who was to be the wife of Wyamoke, a chief of her own (the Coriak) tribe, as soon as he had with his own hand obtained deer-skins enough to furnish his wigwam, and a sufficient number of scalps to ornament his girdle. Anacaona, or the “Golden Flower,” as her name signified, was tall, graceful and dignified—her dark, brilliant eyes were shaded by drooping lids and long silken lashes—her long, black, glossy hair fell over her smooth neck and shoulders; indeed the stream that flowed past her wigwam door never reflected from its bright bosom so lovely an object as it did when the “Golden Flower” looked in its depths and dressed her hair. Canabo joined in the feast, the wild song and the dance, but he thought only of the beautiful Anacaona; his keen eye soon detected the love glances that passed between her and Wyamoke—he saw the color deepen in her cheek when that brave approached—he saw that her eye flashed and her head was thrown back with pride when he sang of the victims he had slain, and the captives he had made; and there sprung up in his heart, and grew side by side, the deadly night-shade of hate and the sweet flower of love—hate, never ending hate, of his rival; and love, deep and wild, for the Indian girl. Canabo felt that it would be in vain to try and win away her love with daring deeds or soft winning words, for Wyamoke was bold and brave as himself, and his voice was gentle and sweet as the sighing wind when he spoke to Anacaona, and called her his wild rose-bud, or his gentle fawn. The feast was ended, and Canabo, who with true Indian cunning had refrained from the mention or exhibition of his love or his hate, returned with his tribe to their own camp.