We left Reginald Brandon in the skirt of the forest bounding the Western Prairie, accompanied by Wingenund and War–Eagle. The latter, having taken the lead, conducted his companions through a considerable extent of ground, covered with bushes of alder and scrub–oak, until they reached an open forest glade, where the Indian pointed out to Reginald a large square building, composed of rough logs, and covered with the same material. In the centre of one side was a low aperture, or door, about fifteen inches in height, in front of which was a train of maize laid by Wingenund. On approaching this turkey–pen, or trap, they observed that there were already two prisoners, a large gobbler and a female bird, although not more than an hour had elapsed since the lad had taken out the four turkeys which have been before mentioned. When the captives became aware of the approach of the party, they ran about the pen from side to side, thrusting out their long necks, peering through the crevices in the logs, jumping and flying against the top, in their violent endeavours to escape. “Do they never stoop their heads?” inquired Reginald, “and go out at the same door by which they entered?” “Never,” replied Wingenund. “That is singular,” said Reginald, “for the bird is in general very sagacious and difficult to be taken or killed;—how does it happen that they are so unaccountably stupid as not to go out where they came in?” Before answering the question addressed to him, Wingenund cast a diffident look towards War–Eagle, and on receiving from the chief a sign to reply, he said, “Netis knows that the Great Spirit distributes the gifts of wisdom and cunning like the sunshine and the storm; even the Black Father does not understand all his ways. How can Wingenund tell why the turkey’s eye is so quick, his ear so sharp, his legs so swift?—and yet he is sometimes a fool; when he picks up the maize, his head is low; he walks through the opening; he is in a strange place; he is frightened; and fear takes from him all the sense that the Great Spirit had given him. Wingenund knows no more.” “My young brother speaks truly, and wisely, beyond his years,” said Reginald, kindly. “It is, as you say, fear makes him forget all the capacities of his nature: it is so with men, why should it be otherwise with birds? Does War–Eagle say nothing?” “My brother’s words are true,” replied the chief, gravely; “he has picked out one arrow, but many remain in the quiver.” “My brother speaks riddles,” said Reginald; “I do not understand him.” “Fear is a bad spirit,” replied the chief, raising his arm, and speaking with energy. “It creeps round the heart of a woman, and crawls among the lodges of the Dahcotahs; it makes the deer leap into the river when he would be safer in the thicket; it makes the turkey a fool, and keeps him in the pen: but there are other bad spirits, that make the heart crooked and the eyes blind.”