stump. I've no doubt but that we could have done it if it hadn't been Sunday. As it was Sunday, we didn't wet a line. Honest.

Moving on from our resting place, we began to meet more and more Indians in Sunday dress, the squaws with a very decided fancy for red, the bucks in ordinary store clothes, and very good clothes, too. Panier and Blanc bitterly complained of me that I exchanged my sombre tie for a cravat of fiery red, as we entered the reservation. It made them deeply envious to see the young squaws of female persuasion gaze at me with admiring eyes.

We stopped and talked to most of the redskins, the men usually talking as a preface to requests for tobacco, and then shutting up like clams and relapsing into Cherokee. The young men were reticent, except when the canteen was brought out. The squaws affected to be ignorant of English, and wouldn't talk at all. Not even my flaming necktie would draw them out. I think this was on account of Blanc and Panier, for they generally gazed at me with mute admiration.

The natives had been to service, held by David Crow, a native preacher.

At last we came to about fifty braves at a creek crossing, engaged in conversation before separating for their homes. As they stood jabbering Cherokee by the roadside, I addressed one portly fellow, who looked like a man in authority. He told us that corn was scarce, but that oats were abundant, and we should have feed. He directed a young buck to go with us, and furnish oats. Our taciturn friend tapped the canteen vigorously, and finally brought us to both oats and corn. It was time, for Jim lay down at this point and declined to make further effort; so that we had to send Jehu Africanus on Frank to bring back the corn. He left us with a look which said plainly: "When you see me again, this scalp lock of mine will be dangling at some wild brave's wampum belt." Ootsie-tootsie sent back the corn and oats, and came himself to see how James and the canteen were getting on.

Taking advantage of our rest to plunge into the creek, we were surprised by a bevy

of dusky maidens; but they didn't seem to be at all surprised.

After feeding and rest we were able to move on over the round, well-timbered hills of the beautiful Ocona-Luftee, a shallow, but broad, clear, lovely stream, far more beautiful than the famed "blue Juniata" of Campbell. Our crossing is in full view of Yellow Hills, the capital of Qualla Reservation, a vile American name substituted for the beautiful Indian name of Qualla. It is a picturesque village, set in amongst high hills, with neat cottages and large, convenient school buildings and store houses extended along the banks of the Ocona-Luftee. large white house of the Superintendent sits upon a lovely knoll, where the United States flag is flying. Further up and higher is the residence of the Chief of the Qualla branch of the Cherokee tribe, Col. N. J. Smith.

The

As we cross the river a long line of Indian boys and girls files over a high foot log from a Sunday jaunt upon the lofty hill overlooking the village. As we draw near all faces

wear signs of growing culture, satisfaction, and happiness.

I reserve for the next chapter some account of this rarely visited, quaint, and curious bit of barbarism and slowly dissipating savagery, set here in the midst of civilization-a mere speck upon the vast country east of the Mississippi, a lost atom, so insignificant that few people have ever heard or know that there is a Cherokee settlement and a tribe dwelling in North Carolina.