What is that object which floats so steadily down the middle of the stream, and leaves so bright a line in its wake ?--it is a noble stag.

Look at the broad chest, with which he breasts the water so gallantly; see how proudly he carries his antlered head; he has no fear in those lonely solitudes--he has never heard the crack of the hunter's rifle--he heeds not the sharp twang of that bowstring, till the arrow rankles in his neck, and the crimson flood dyes the water around him--he turns, but it is only to present a surer mark for the arrow of the old hunter's bow; and now the noble beast turns to bay, and the canoe is rapidly launched by the hand of the Indian girl--her eye flashes with the excitement--her whole soul is in the chase--she stands up in the canoe, and steers it full upon the wounded buck, while a shower of blows are dealt upon his head and neck with the paddle.

Catharine buries her face in her hands--she cannot bear to look upon the sufferings of the noble animal.

She will never make a huntress--her heart is cast in too soft a mould.

See they have towed the deer ashore, and Jacob is in all his glory,--the little squaw is an Indian at heart--see with what expertness she helps the old man; and now the great business is completed, and the venison is stowed away at the bottom of the canoe--they wash their hands in the river and come at Catharine's summons to eat her breakfast.
The sun is now rising high above the pine-trees, the morning mist is also rising and rolling off like a golden veil as it catches those glorious rays--the whole earth seems wakening into new life--the dew has brightened every leaf and washed each tiny flower-cup--the pines and balsams give out their resinous fragrance--the aspens flutter and dance in the morning breeze and return a mimic shower of dew-drops to the stream--the shores become lower and flatter--the trees less lofty and more mossy--the stream expands and wide beds of rushes spread out on either side--what beds of snowy water-lilies--how splendid the rose tint of those perseicarias that glow so brightly in the morning sun--the rushes look like a green meadow, but the treacherous water lies deep below their grassy leaves--the deer delights in these verdant aquatic fields, and see what flocks of red-wings rise from among them as the canoe passes near--their bright shoulder-knots glance like flashes of lightning in the sun-beams.
This low swampy island, filled with driftwood, these grey hoary trees, half choked and killed with grey moss and lichens--those straggling alders and black ash look melancholy--they are like premature old age, grey-headed youths.