The following is a love song written in this way, and curious only as showing the amount they could communicate and the sentiments they could express by picture writing: “It is my form and person that makes me great. Hear the voice of my song—it is my voice; I shield myself with secret coverings. All your thoughts are known to me; blush! I could draw you hence were you on a distant island; Though you were in another hemisphere; I speak to your naked heart!” The following seems to be an imaginary address of the frogs to the snow flakes and ice in spring, when they are weary of being imprisoned, and long to burst their bonds, and commence their rejoicings, for the return of the warm sun and the sweet breath of spring. They are interesting only as specimens of Indian imagination and poetry: SONG OF THE OKOGISS, OR FROGS, IN SPRING. See how the white spirit presses— Presses us—presses us, heavy and long; Presses us down to the frost-bitten earth; Alas! ye are heavy, ye spirits so white; Alas! you are cold—you are cold, you are cold. Ah! cease shining spirits that fell from the skies; Ah! cease to crush us and keep us in dread; Ah! when will ye vanish and Seegwin return? HAWK CHANT OF THE SAGINAWS. The hawks turn their heads nimbly around; They turn to look back on their flight; The spirits of sunplace have whispered the words. They fly with their messages swift; They look as they fearfully go; They look to the farthermost end of the world, Their eyes glancing bright and their beaks boding harm. Their war songs, as translated, do not convey to us any just idea of what they were to the Indian. It is true of every thing national of whatever people, that those alone can understand its true import who have the same associations; who have been subject to the same influences, and whose enthusiasm is awakened by the same suggestions. To the Indian in his wild home, with his national costume, surrounded by warriors ready to go forth to battle, and young men panting for fame, their war songs were soul-inspiring, and kindled an enthusiasm which can scarcely be imagined by those who have not witnessed a war-dance and listened to a war song. The following is a specimen, but tame indeed compared with the original: But who are my foes? they shall die. They shall fly o’er the plains like a fox; They shall shake like a leaf in the storm, Perfidious dogs—they roast our sons with fire. Five winters in hunting we’ll spend, While mourning our warriors slain, Till our youth grown to men For the battle path trained, Our days like our father’s we’ll end. Ye are dead noble men! ye are gone My brother—my fellow—my friend!—— On the death path where brave men must go; But we live to revenge you! we haste To die as our forefathers died.