I have received, so far, no letter from Claudia in reply. But Lord Stirling tells me that she reigns a belle in New York; and that she hath wrought havoc among the Queen's Rangers, and particularly in De Lancy's Horse and the gay cavalry of Colonel Tarleton. I pray her pretty, restless wings may not be singed or broken, or flutter, dying, in the web of Fate. Nick Stoner's father, Henry, that grim old giant with his two earhoops in his leathery ears, and with all his brawn, and mighty strength, and the lurking scowl deep bitten betwixt his tiger eyes,--old Henry Stoner is dead and scalped. Nick, who is now fife-major, has writ me this in a letter full of oaths and curses for the Iroquois who have done this shame to him and his. For every hair on old Henry's mangled head, said he, an Iroquois should spit out his death-yell. He tells me that he means to quit the army and enter the business of tanning Iroquois hides to make boots and moccasins; and says that Tim Murphy has knee moccasins as fine as ever he saw, and made out o' leather skinned off an Indian's legs! Faugh! Grief and shame have made Nick blood-mad.... Yet, I know not what I should do, or how conduct, if she who is nearest to my heart should ever suffer from an Indian. * * * * * This sweet April day, taking the air near Lord Stirling's marquee, I see the first white butterflies a-fluttering like windblown bits o' paper across the new grass.... In the North the woodlands should be soft with snow; and, in warm places, perhaps the butterfly we call the beauty of Camberwell may sit sipping the first drops o' maple sap.... And there should be a scent of pink arbutus in the breeze, if winds be soft.... Lord--Lord--I am become sick for home.... And would see my glebe again in Fonda's Bush; and hear the spring roaring of the Kennyetto between melting banks.... And listen to the fairy thunder of the cock partridge drumming on his log. My neighbours are all dead or gone away, they say. My house is a heap of wind-stirred ashes,--as are all houses in Fonda's Bush save only Stoner's. My cleared land sprouts young forests; my fences are gone; wolves travel my paths; deer pasture my hill; and my new orchard stands dead and girdled by wood-mouse and rabbit.... And still I be sick for a sight of it that was once my home,--and ever shall be while I possess a handful of mother earth to call mine own. It is near the end of April and I seem sick, but would not have Billy Alexander think I mope. I have a letter from Penelope. She lately saw a small scout on the Mohawk, it being a part of M'Kean's corps; and she recognized and conversed with several men who once composed my first war party--Jean de Silver, Benjamin De Luysnes, Joe de Golyer of Frenchman's Creek, and Godfrey Shew of Fish House.