When the April sun of 1878 was high in the heavens, we bid farewell to our valley friends and wound merrily down the river. The _green grass_ had begun to show itself, and the valley was _lovely_; and the little birds sported and sung in the bushes and little trees along the river-banks. As the houses became more and more numerous, we began to realize that we were going _east_ to where _somebody lived_. Following the river on down, we passed through the _Creek_ and _Cherokee_ agencies, and also the _Chocktaw_ country, and were very much interested in our Indian observations. The _Cherokees_ are far advanced in civilization, and are _by far_ the most intelligent tribe. They have _school-houses_, and _churches_, and pretty villages; and some have carpet upon their floors. They appear to _enjoy_ their new mode of living, and take pride in their pretty homes. I may also state that there are some very _pretty girls_ among them. All the agency lands that we passed through were the best that the sun ever warmed. Though Uncle Sam reaches forth his bountiful hand whenever the weakest red man asks, most of the tribes appear restless; and though there is much game in the territory, and notwithstanding that they are let out of the agency once a year to hunt over the wide wild country, their eyes are restless, their faces itch for the war-paint, and they long to sally forth beneath the white-eagle plume, to ring the valleys with their wild war-whoop, and wash the hatchet in the white man’s blood. The farming implements furnished them are left to rust, and they indolently exist upon the nation’s bounty.