sorrow of these wild children of the forest, on one side, and, on the other, the ecstatic joy of the white mother as she folded her long-lost child in her arms, and the deep emotion of the husband as he strained his recovered wife to his bosom, combined to form one of the most moving, novel spectacles ever witnessed in the American wilderness. One of the captive women had an infant, three months old, at her breast, born in the Indian's wigwam. A Virginia volunteer instantly recognized her as his wife, stolen from his log-cabin six months previous, and rushing forward he snatched her to his bosom, and flew with her to his tent, where, tearing off the savage costumes of both, he clothed them in their proper garments. After the first burst of joy was over, he inquired after his little boy, two years old, who was carried off at the same time she was made prisoner; but his wife could give no tidings of him. A few days after, another party of prisoners arrived, in which was a child whose appearance answered to the description of this little fugitive. The woman was sent for and the child placed before her. She looked at it a moment and shook her head. But the next instant the powerful maternal instinct triumphed, and, recognizing in the little savage before her her lost darling, she dropped her babe, and snatching him to her bosom, burst into a torrent of tears. The husband caught the babe from the ground, and the couple hurried away to his tent. The poor Indian mother watched their retreating forms, and then burying her head in her blanket, sobbed aloud. A scene equally affecting occurred between an aged mother and her daughter, who had been carried off nine years before, and adopted in a distant tribe. Though the latter had passed from childhood to womanhood in the forest, differing from other young squaws only in the tint of her skin, which her wild life could not wholly bronze, the eyes of the parent detected the features of her child in the handsome young savage, and calling her by name, she rushed forward to embrace her. The latter, having forgotten her name and language, and all her childhood's life, looked on wondering, and turned, frightened, to her Indian parent. The true mother tried in every way to recall the memory of her child, and awaken recognition, but in vain. At length, despairing of success, she gave way to the most passionate grief. Boquet had been a silent witness of the painful interview. Moved at the grief of the mother, he approached her, and asked if she could not recall some song with which she used to sing her child to sleep. Brightening at the suggestion, she looked up through her tears, and struck a familiar strain, with which she used to quiet her babe. The moment the ears of the maiden caught the sound, her countenance changed, and as the strain proceeded, a strange light stole over her features. All stood hushed as death, as that simple melody floated out through the