on a hunt with White Buffalo. He said they were a lawless set, some of them half-breeds, and they would get the Indians drunk on rum and then literally rob them of their pelts. I shouldn’t be surprised if the Indians rose up some time and wiped them all out in revenge.”

“If the French traders are that sort do you think they will bring trouble to father?”

“They are not all that sort. Here and there you will find a good-enough fellow. As to bringing trouble, though, that’s another question. You know when an Indian goes on the warpath he is apt to get excited and then perhaps one trader will look just as black to him as another. But your father didn’t go to trade in rum, and he expected to give the redskins honest value for their hides, so they may remain his friends even if they do rise.”

“I think war is a dreadful thing, Uncle Joe, and I can’t see why civilized nations should fight each other. It’s bad enough for the redskins to do that.”

“True enough, Dave, but I imagine there will be fighting to the end of time. It’s a sort of court of last resort, you know; first folks argue, then they make demands, and at last they fight, and there doesn’t seem to be any help for it. But it’s truly a pity England and France can’t agree--they’ve pitched into each other so many times.”

The pair had now reached the end of the trail beside the creek and for the time being the conversation came to an end. There was a small brook to ford and then the side of a hill to climb. Here the giant trees sent their roots sprawling in all directions and they had to proceed with care lest one of the steeds might stumble and break a leg. The forest was dense, for a woodman’s axe had never yet entered it, and in some spots the gloom was intense while at others the faint rays of sunshine piercing the boughs above served only to intensify the darkness. In spots the trail was very damp and the trees covered with fungi, in other places there were patches of green moss as soft as the most delicate carpet. Here and there the boughs hung so low they had to lift them to get past.

“What a solitude!” remarked Joseph Morris, as they came to a halt in a glade surrounded by stately walnuts. They held up their heads to listen. Not a sound broke the stillness close around them. From afar came the songs of birds and the chant of some swamp frogs. Around them floated butterflies of various hues, and presently came a cluster of honey bees, heading for an old tree they had just passed. At once all else was forgotten by 

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