The future disposition of the Indians of the State of Minnesota is one of the most perplexing minor questions of the day. In their present location, the feud of race engendered by the insurrection will only die with the generation that witnessed its beginning. Humanitarian impulses and humanitarian duties are forgotten in the fierce thirst for private vengeance. With one voice, the people of that State demand the removal or threaten the extermination of their dangerous neighbors. But whither shall they go? The swallowing tides of civilization encompass them on the east, the north, and the south; and the only other avenue, the west, is guarded by the gaunt wolf starvation. It is proposed by some to colonize them on the island of Isle Royale, in Lake Superior; by others, to purchase some small West India island, and transport them there, where tropical nature will feed them without expense to the Government. Perhaps the more practical measure would be to gather all that remains of the red race within the United States into one Territory, to establish a more thorough guardianship over them, and to subject them to a stricter and more absolute government, which should compel them to assume gradually the duties and customs of civilized life. 'DEAD!' With chilling breath it comes: Again--and yet again! on every gale, America! from thy great battle field! Our hearts are hushed, and desolate our homes-- Our lids are heavy, and our cheeks are pale-- While thus we yield Our loved ones up to thee! Dead! dying at their posts! The young, the noble, and the loving ones! The widow's all! the gray-haired father's hope-- All thine, my country! take the treasured hosts: Hold in thy faithful keeping all thy sons! We give them up-- To thee and liberty! Oh, keep our honored dead Within the folds of thy great-pulsing heart! Entwine their memory with thy polished lore: Cherish the sacred dust above _their_ bed Who sprang to shield thee from the traitor's dart! Bless evermore The dead who died for thee! Silent the teardrops fall Down the pale mother's cheek at close of day; For sorrow sitteth at the widow's gate: Dark are the shadows gathered on the wall, And where the mourner bendeth low to pray-- No more to wait The coming of her free! For thee--'dear native land!' What precious hopes are severed one by one! What hearts lie crushed and sick by 'hope deferred!' How many dear ones, stretched along the sand, Bleed out their lives beneath a blighting sun-- With but a word-- 'Mother!' for plaint or prayer!