But the frail flower from the Platte had drooped and died on the return, and it was his wish now to leave the child in charge of some one to whom it might be safely intrusted. Jean related the circumstances to the wife of one of the company’s officers, who immediately adopted the infant until the chief should return to claim it. Thus it was that Wah (snow) had surprised us by the correctness of her English in the chief’s lodge; for even after he had become once more a powerful chief, he contented himself with occasional and secret visits to the station, and did not carry her home until about a year previous to our visit. The rest of the story may be told in a few words. Ta-his-ka crossed the river and wandered on until he arrived at a village of the Ioways. These people pleased him, and they were equally gratified by the presence of a warrior whose feats in their hunts or games appeared every day more marvelous; for, until the Pawnees, who had traced the fugitive to his retreat, claimed his person with threats, they were ignorant of the renown of their guest. The Ioways were too proud of their acquisition to pay much heed to the repeated menaces of the ambassadors, and their principal chief dying about that time, they chose the Sioux by acclamation to lead them against the Pawnees of the Platte. The old fire now returned to Ta-his-ka’s breast—he was once more the terrible _medicine_ chief, (“Wakon,”) and the scourge of his old enemies, who, losing more scalps in each skirmish than they could hope to regain while the White-Buffalo led on, presently petitioned that the hatchet might be buried, and conducted themselves with a crafty obsequiousness Ta-his-ka took no pains to conceal his contempt of; and, in fact, as in the instance occurring the night of our stay in his village, by stern opposition to their evil plottings, occasionally brought to light the smouldering hate lurking in their breasts. The story of _Wah_—the snow-flake—which I heard nearly two years afterward, if less wild than that of her mother, the young Ka-morse, was more touching, and more tinged with delicate romance—one of those gentle episodes in the stir of prairie life, like the soft down under the bristling feathers of the fierce war-eagle’s wings. ----- [4] Mandan. * * * * * THE MIGHT OF SONG. An extract from a Poem delivered by W. H. C. HOSMER before the Literary Societies of Hamilton College, July, 1848. IF we were chained forever to the Real, God’s benison would be indeed withdrawn; Without rich glimpses of the bright Ideal In vain would morning dawn. Upward, on pinions of sublime devotion, The soul would cleave its native sky no more, But loathsome grow—a pool devoid of motion, Foul to its weedy floor.