“Oh! they took her and her poor little gal and boy, that wa'n't no older than you be, and went off with 'em to Canada. The troubles them poor critters went through! Her husband he was away that night; and well he was, else they'd a tied him to a tree and stuck pine slivers into him and sot 'em afire, and cut gret pieces out'o his flesh, and filled the places with hot coals and ashes, and all sich kind o' things they did to them men prisoners, when they catched 'em. Delily was thankful enough he was away; but they took her and the children off through the ice and snow, jest half clothed and shiverin'; and when her baby cried and worried, as it nat'rally would, the old Indian jest took it by its heels, and dashed its brains out agin a tree, and threw it into the crotch of a tree, and left it dangling there; and then they would mock and laugh at her, and mimic her baby's crying, and try every way they could to aggravate her. They used to beat and torment her children right before her eyes, and pull their hair out, and make believe that they was goin' to burn 'em alive, jest for nothin' but to frighten and worry her.” “I wonder,” said I, “she ever got back alive.” “Wal, the wimmen in them times hed a sight o' wear in 'em. They was resolute, strong, hard-workin' wimmen. They could all tackle a hoss, or load and fire a gun. They was brought up hard, and they was used to troubles and dangers. It's jest as folks gets used to things how they takes 'em. In them days folks was brought up to spect trouble; they didn't look for no less. Why, in them days the men allers took their guns into the field when they went to hoe corn, and took their guns with 'em to meetin' Sundays; and the wimmen they kep' a gun loaded where they knew where to find it; and when trouble come it was jest what they spected, and they was put even with it. That's the sort o' wimmen they was. Wal, Delily and her children was brought safe through at last, but they hed a hard time on't.” “Tell us some more stories about Indians, Sam,” we said, with the usual hungry impatience of boys for a story. “Wal, let me see,” said Sam, with his hat pushed back and his eyes fixed dreamily on the top of Eliot's oak, which was now yellow with the sunset glory,--“let me see. I hain't never told ye about Col. Eph Miller, hev I?” “No, indeed. What about him?” “Wal, he was took prisoner by the Indians; and they was goin' to roast him alive arter their fashion, and he gin 'em the slip.” “Do tell us all about it.”