I ain't one myself, and I think all the better of him for it.
"Ah, here we are! Look at that! Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith.
Isn't that just gorgeous?
See how she kneels over him and sticks out her hands while he lays on the ground and that big fellow with a club tries to hammer him up.

Talk about woman's love! There it is.

Modocs, I believe.

Anyway, some Indians out West there somewheres; and the publisher tells me that Shacknasty, or whatever his name is, there, was going to bang old Smith over the head with that log of wood, and this girl here, she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she broke loose and jumped forward, and says to the man with the stick, 'Why don't you let John alone?
Me and him are going to marry; and if you kill him, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live,' or words like them; and so the man, he give it up, and both of them hunted up a preacher and were married, and lived happily ever afterward.

Beautiful story, ain't it?
A good wife she made him, too, I bet, if she _was_ a little copper-colored.