The wolf they hold in great contempt, and scarcely deign to consider him as an enemy. Peter Nogan assured me that he never was near enough to one in his life to shoot it; that, except in large companies, and when greatly pressed by hunger, they rarely attack men. They hold the lynx, or wolverine, in much dread, as they often spring from trees upon their prey, fastening upon the throat with their sharp teeth and claws, from which a person in the dark could scarcely free himself without first receiving a dangerous wound. The cry of this animal is very terrifying, resembling the shrieks of a human creature in mortal agony. My husband was anxious to collect some of the native Indian airs, as they all sing weil, and have a fine ear for music, but all his efforts proved abortive. “John,” he said to young Nogan (who played very creditably on the flute, and had just concluded the popular air of “Sweet Home”), “cannot you play me one of jour own songs?” “Yes,--but no good.” “Leave me to be the judge of that. Cannot you give me a war-song?” “Yes,--but no good,” with an ominous shake of the head. “A hunting-song?” “No fit for white man.”--with an air of contempt.--“No good, no good!” “Do, John, sing us a love-song,” said I, laughing, “if you have such a thing in your language.” “Oh! much love-song--very much--bad--bad--no good for Christian man. Indian song no good for white ears.” This was very tantalizing, as their songs sounded very sweet from the lips of their squaws, and I had a great desire and curiosity to get some of them rendered into English. To my husband they gave the name of “the musician,” but I have forgotten the Indian word. It signified the maker of sweet sounds. They listened with intense delight to the notes of his flute, maintained a breathless silence during the performance; their dark eyes flashing in fierce light at a martial strain, or softening with the plaintive and tender. The affection of Indian parents to their children, and the deference which they pay to the aged, is a beautiful and touching trait in their character. One extremely cold, wintry day, as I was huddled with my little ones over the stove, the door softly unclosed, and the moccasined foot of an Indian crossed the floor. I raised my head, for I was too much accustomed to their sudden appearance at any hour to feel alarmed, and perceived a tall woman standing silently and respectfully before me, wrapped in a large blanket. The moment she caught my eye she dropped the folds of her covering from around her, and laid at my feet the attenuated figure of a boy, about twelve years of age, who was in the last stage of consumption. “Papouse die,” she said, mournfully, clasping her hands against her breast, and looking down upon the suffering lad with the most heartfelt expression of maternal love, while large tears trickled down her dark face. “Moodie's squaw save papouse--poor Indian woman much glad.”