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by the smoother surfaces of their fields, the greater growth and more bountiful yield of their orchards, and by the general appearance of a more finished civilization, and of greater age. Here and there, a hamlet had sprung up; and isolated places, like Cherry Valley and Wyoming, were found, that have since become known to the general history of the country.

      Our present tale now leads us to the description of one of those early, personal, or family settlements, that had grown up, in what was then a very remote part of the territory in question, under the care and supervision of an ancient officer of the name of Willoughby. Captain Willoughby, after serving many years, had married an American wife, and continuing his services until a son and daughter were born, he sold his commission, procured a grant of land, and determined to retire to his new possessions, in order to pass the close of his life in the tranquil pursuits of agriculture, and in the bosom of his family. An adopted child was also added to his cares. Being an educated as well as a provident man, Captain Willoughby had set about the execution of this scheme with deliberation, prudence, and intelligence. On the frontiers, or lines, as it is the custom to term the American boundaries, he had become acquainted with a Tuscarora, known by the English sobriquet of “Saucy Nick.” This fellow, a sort of half-outcast from his own people, had early attached himself to the whites, had acquired their language, and owing to a singular mixture of good and bad qualities, blended with great native shrewdness, he had wormed himself into the confidence of several commanders of small garrisons, among whom was our captain. No sooner was the mind of the latter made up, concerning his future course, than he sent for Nick, who was then in the fort; when the following conversation took place:

      “Nick,” commenced the captain, passing his hand over his brow, as was his wont when in a reflecting mood; “Nick, I have an important movement in view, in which you can be of some service to me.”

      The Tuscarora, fastening his dark basilisk-like eyes on the soldier, gazed a moment, as if to read his soul; then he jerked a thumb backward, over his own shoulder, and said, with a grave smile—

      “Nick understand. Want six, two, scalp off Frenchman’s head; wife and child; out yonder, over dere, up in Canada. Nick do him—what you give?”

      “No, you red rascal, I want nothing of the sort—it is peace now, (this conversation took place in 1764), and you know I never bought a scalp, in time of war. Let me hear no more of this.”

      “What you want, den?” asked Nick, like one who was a good deal puzzled.

      “I want land—good land—little, but good. I am about to get a grant—a patent—”

      “Yes,” interrupted Nick, nodding; “I know him—paper to take away Indian’s hunting-ground.”

      “Why, I have no wish to do that—I am willing to pay the red men reasonably for their right, first.”

      “Buy Nick’s land, den—better dan any oder.”

      “Your land, knave!—You own no land—belong to no tribe—have no rights to sell.”

      “What for ask Nick help, den?”

      “What for?—Why because you know a good deal, though you own literally nothing. That’s what for.”

      “Buy Nick know, den. Better dan he great fader know, down at York.”

      “That is just what I do wish to purchase. I will pay you well, Nick, if you will start to-morrow, with your rifle and a pocket-compass, off here towards the head-waters of the Susquehannah and Delaware, where the streams run rapidly, and where there are no fevers, and bring me an account of three or four thousand acres of rich bottom-land, in such a way as a surveyor can find it, and I can get a patent for it. What say you, Nick; will you go?”

      “He not wanted. Nick sell ‘e captain, his own land: here in ‘e fort.”

      “Knave, do you not know me well enough not to trifle, when I am serious?”

      “Nick ser’ous too—Moravian priest no ser’ouser more dan Nick at dis moment. Got land to sell.”

      Captain Willoughby had found occasion to punish the Tuscarora, in the course of his services; and as the parties understood each other perfectly well, the former saw the improbability of the latter’s daring to trifle with him.

      “Where is this land of yours, Nick,” he inquired, after studying the Indian’s countenance for a moment. “Where does it lie, what is it like, how much is there of it, and how came you to own it?”

      “Ask him just so, ag’in,” said Nick, taking up four twigs, to note down the questions, seriatim.

      The captain repeated his inquiries, the Tuscarora laying down a stick at each separate interrogatory.

      “Where he be?” answered Nick, taking up a twig, as a memorandum. “He out dere—where he want him—where he say.—One day’s march from Susquehanna.”

      “Well; proceed.”

      “What he like?—Like land, to be sure. T’ink he like water! Got some water—no too much—got some land—got no tree—got some tree. Got good sugar-bush—got place for wheat and corn.”

      “Proceed.”

      “How much of him?” continued Nick, taking up another twig; “much as he want—want little, got him—want more, got him. Want none at all, got none at all—got what he want.”

      “Go on.”

      “To be sure. How came to own him?—How a pale face come to own America? Discover him—ha!—Well, Nick discover land down yonder, up dere, over here.”

      “Nick, what the devil do you mean by all this?”

      “No mean devil, at all—mean land—good land. Discover him—know where he is—catch beaver dere, three, two year. All Nick say, true as word of honour; much more too.”

      “Do you mean it is an old beaver-dam destroyed?” asked the captain, pricking up his ears; for he was too familiar with the woods, not to understand the value of such a thing.

      “No destroy—stand up yet—good as ever.—Nick dere, last season.”

      “Why, then, do you tell of it? Are not the beaver of more value to you, than any price you may receive for the land?”

      “Cotch him all, four, two year ago—rest run away. No find beaver to stay long, when Indian once know, two time, where to set he trap. Beaver cunninger ‘an pale face—cunning as bear.”

      “I begin to comprehend you, Nick. How large do you suppose this pond to be?”

      “He ‘m not as big as Lake Ontario. S’pose him smaller, what den? Big enough for farm.”

      “Does it cover one or two hundred acres, think you?—Is it as large as the clearing around the fort?”

      “Big as two, six, four of him. Take forty skin, dere one season. Little lake; all ‘e tree gone.”

      “And the land around it—is it mountainous and rough, or will it be good for corn?”

      “All sugar-bush—what you want better? S’pose you want corn; plant him. S’pose you want sugar; make him.”

      Captain Willoughby was struck with this description, and he returned to the subject, again and again. At length, after extracting all the information he could get from Nick, he struck a bargain with the fellow. A surveyor was engaged, and he started for the place, under the guidance of the Tuscarora. The result showed that Nick had not exaggerated. The pond was found, as he had described it to be, covering at least four hundred acres of low bottom-land; while near three thousand acres of higher river-flat, covered with beach and maple, spread around it for a considerable distance. The adjacent mountains too, were arable, though bold, and promised, in time, to become a fertile and manageable district. Calculating his distances with judgment, the surveyor laid out his metes and bounds in

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