"I am about to die, my brothers, and must speak my mind. To be fortunate in war is your chief ambition, and because I have been successful you are unhappy. Is this right? Have you acted like men? I despise you for your meanness, and I intend to prove to you this night that I am the bravest man in the nation. The task will cost me my life, but I am anxious that my nature should be changed and I shall be satisfied. I intend to enter the Crow village alone, but before departing, I have one favor to command. If I succeed in destroying that village, and lose my life, I want you, when I am dead, to cut off my head and protect it with care. You must then kill one of the largest buffaloes in the country and cut off his head. You must then bring his body and my head together, and breathe upon them, when I shall be free to roam in the Spirit-land at all times, and over our great Prairie-land wherever I please. And when your hearts are troubled with wickedness remember the Lone Buffalo." The attack upon the Crow village was successful, but according to his prophecy the Lone Buffalo received his death wound, and his brother warriors remembered his parting request. The fate of the hero's mother is unknown, but the Indians believe that it is she who annually sends from the Spirit-land the warm winds of spring, which cover the prairies with grass for the sustenance of the Buffalo race. As to the Lone Buffalo, he is never seen even by the most cunning hunter, excepting when the moon is at its full. At such times he is invariably alone, cropping his food in some remote part of the prairies; and whenever the heavens resound with the moanings of the thunder, the red-man banishes from his breast every feeling of jealousy, for he believes it to be the warning voice of the Lone Buffalo. THE ADOPTED CHILD. BY MRS. FRANCES B. M. BROTHERSON. "And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day Turned from its door away? While through its chambers wandering, weary hearted, I languish for thy voice which passed me still, Even as a singing rill." My gentle child--my own sweet May-- Come sit thee by my side, Thy wonted place in by-gone years, Whatever might betide. Come--I would press that cloudless brow, And gaze into those eyes, Whose azure hue and brilliancy Seemed borrowed from the skies. Thou ne'er hast known a mother's love, Save what my heart hath given; Thy fair young mother--long years since-- Found rest in yonder Heaven. Where waves and dashing spray ran high We took thee from her grasp; All vainly had the Tyrant striven To rend that loving clasp.