unsophisticated mind; and as for leaving his “colors” in barracks, while he goes in the field himself, he would disdain it--nay, cannot practise it; for the obvious reason that his head would have to be left with them. Thus it was with Pigeonswing. He had made his toilet for the war-path, and was fierce in his paint, but honest and fair-dealing in other particulars. If he could terrify his enemies by looking like a skeleton, or a demon, it was well; his enemy would terrify him, if possible, by similar means. But neither would dream, or did dream, of curtailing, by a single hair, that which might be termed the flag-staff of his scalp. If the enemy could seize it, he was welcome to the prize; but if he could seize that of the enemy, no scruples on the score of refinement, or delicacy, would be apt to interfere with his movements. It was in this spirit, then, that Pigeonswing came to the canoe, where le Bourdon was holding a little private discourse with Margery, and gave utterance to what was passing in his mind. “Good time, now, get more scalps, Bourdon,” said the Chippewa, in his clipping, sententious English. “It is a good time, too, to keep our own, Chippewa,” was the answer. “Your scalp-lock is too long, to be put before Pottawattamie eyes without good looking after it.” “Nebber mind him--if go, go; if stay, stay. Always good for warrior to bring home scalp.” “Yes; I know your customs in this respect, Pigeonswing, but ours are different. We are satisfied if we can keep out of harm's way, when we have our squaws and pappooses with us.” “No pappooses here,” returned the Indian, looking around him--“dat your squaw, eh?” The reader can readily imagine that this abrupt question brought blushes into the cheeks of pretty Margery, making her appear ten times more handsome than before; while even le Bourdon did not take the interrogatory wholly undisturbed. Still, the latter answered manfully, as became his sex. “I am not so fortunate as to have a squaw, and least of all to have this” said le Bourdon. “Why no hab her--she good squaw,” returned the literal-minded Indian--“han'some 'nough for chief. You ask; she hab--now squaw well--always like warrior to ask him fuss; den say, yes.” “Aye, that may do with your red-skin squaws,” le Bourdon hastily replied; for he saw that Margery was not only distressed, but a little displeased--“but not with the young women of the pale-faces. I never saw Margery before last evening; and it takes time for a pale-face girl to know a youth.” “Just so wid red-skin--sometime don't know, till too late! See plenty dat, in wigwam.” “Then it is very much in the wigwams as it is in the houses. I have heard this before.” “Why not same?--skin make no difference--pale-face spile squaw, too--make too much of her.” “That can never be!” exclaimed le Bourdon, earnestly. “When a pretty, modest, warm-hearted young woman accepts a youth for a husband, he can never make enough of her!”