“All on a sudden,” he says, describing their visit, “we heard some musket-shot, which announced a very interesting scene. The whole prairie was covered with scattered Indians, whose numerous dogs drew their sledges with the baggage; a close body of warriors, about 250 in number, had formed themselves in the centre, in the manner of two bodies of infantry, and advanced in quick time toward the fort. The whole troop commenced a song consisting of many broken, abrupt tones, like those of the war-whoop, and resembling the song which we heard in 1814 from the Russian soldiers. Many of these warriors had their faces painted all over with vermillion, others quite black. In their heads they wore feathers of eagles, or other birds of prey; some had wolf-skin caps; others had fastened green leaves around their heads; and long wolves’ tails were hanging down to their heels, as marks of honor for enemies they had slain.” We continue the extract to afford our readers a description of the manner in which the Assiniboins erect their rude dwellings. “At noon a band of Indians had arrived, and twenty-five tents were set up near the fort. The women, their faces painted red, soon finished this work, and dug up with their instruments the clods of turf which lay around the lower part of the hut. One of these huts, (see the plate in the present number of “Graham,”) the dwelling of a chief, was distinguished from the rest. It was painted of the color of yellow ochre, had a broad, reddish-brown border below, and on its sides a large black bear was painted, (something of a caricature, it must be confessed,) to the head of which, just above the nose, a piece of red cloth, that fluttered in the wind, was fastened; doubtless a medicine. We now saw the women returning in all directions from the forest, panting under the weight of large bundles of wood, which were fastened to their backs.” The scene, brief as it is, affords a characteristic view of the life of the children of the prairie. * * * * * THE AUTUMN WIND. BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL. The Autumn wind is rushing by, And in its wild career It beareth on its mighty wings The beauty of the year; And mournfully its deep dirge rings Upon the spirit’s ear. How drear the sound that sweeps along The forest and the vale, Those solemn tones, they chill the heart, Like plaintive funeral wail. I’ll sit me down on these dead leaves, And question of its tale. “What tidings hast thou—where hast been Since last thy voice I heard, Since last the quivering of thy wings The leafless branches stirred, And frighted from its moss-clad home Each gentle nestling bird?