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When opportunity offers, on a retreat, the Indian warrior walks in the bed of streams, for he well knows that a savage enemy upon his trail will pursue the traces of man and beast, by observing with acuteness the disposition of the grass and leaves. “Some of the French missionaries have supposed that the Indians are guided by instinct, and have pretended that Indian children can find their way through a forest as easily as a person of mature years; but this is a most absurd notion. It is unquestionably by a close attention to the growth of the trees and position of the sun that they find their way. On the northern side of a tree there is generally the most moss; and the bark on that side, in general, differs from that on the opposite one. The branches toward the south are, for the most part, more luxuriant than those on the other sides of trees; and several other distinctions subsist between the northern and southern sides, conspicuous to Indians, being taught from their infancy to attend to them, which a common observer would, perhaps, never notice. Being accustomed from their infancy likewise to pay great attention to the position of the sun, they learn to make the most accurate allowance for its apparent motion from one part of the heavens to another; and in every hour of the day, they will point to the part of the heavens where it is, although the sky be obscured by clouds or mists.”

The hill referred to in the text, is situated on the banks of the Conesus Creek, and is called “Fort Hill” by the inhabitants. The first settlers of the country say that it was an open place in the heart of the forest, with trench, mound and gateway plainly visible. The sloping sides of the hill are filled with human bones that lie white and undecayed in loose yellow sand. Implements of quaint form, and ornaments in the shape of squares and half moons, marked with hieroglyphics, also an urn-like vessel, were found, after a severe tempest, in a deep hollow, made by the uprooting of an oak. Skulls have been disinterred near by, of sufficient size to encase the head of a full-grown man, and must have belonged to a race of larger proportions even, than the gigantic Indians of Patagonia. In company with his friend Mr. Harry Thomson, who takes a deep interest in the subject of Indian antiquities, the author visited this site of an ancient fortification, after the plough had passed over it, and succeeded in finding many curious beads, some formed from the horns of deer, fragments of pottery and pipes, on the bowls of which the heads of fox, frog and wolf, were ingeniously carved.

There is a favorite place of resort for pic-nic parties, called Long Point, that stretches out into the silvery Conesus, a few miles from Lakeville.

It is covered with oaks of stately growth, and in their shade rustic benches and tables have been erected for the accommodation of visitors. All lovers of the romantic owe a debt of gratitude to the tasteful proprietor,the venerable James Wadsworth, Esq., for preserving this natural park from the desecrating axe.

Aboriginal remains, well worthy of minute examination, may be seen near the lake beach. The face of the ground has evidently been altered by the hand of art; and timber, in a remarkable state of preservation, has been discovered, four or five feet below the surface,in places where the loose soil of the bank has crumbled away. The blue hills in the distance, partly clothed with the primitive forest—the waters kissing the shore with an undertone of melody—the plunge of fish and flap of waterfowl—the pleasant murmur of the wind-swept trees mingling with the carol of sinless birds, are ministers of repose and pleasure to a mind that has been wounded by the “briers of this work-day world.” It is a bright, sequestered spot, and the fabling fancy of Greece peopled haunts less picturesque, with Happy Spirits—a green retreat where the retired poet could wear out life, and which the wayfarer passes by with reluctance, through fear his eye will never rest again on sight so beautiful.

The Indian never forgets the individual who befriends him. Gratitude is as deeply rooted in his breast, as the remembrance of a wrong. In the language of Judge Story, “if he had the vices of savage life, he had the virtues also. He was true to his country, his friends, and his home. If he forgave not injury, neither did he forget kindness If his vengeance was terrible, his fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. His love, like his hate, stopped not on this side of the grave.”

The loon, or great northern diver—“L'imbrim ou grand plongeon de la mer de nord de Buffon,” is regarded, in some parts of the country, as a bird of ill-omen. The loon is said to be restless before a storm; and an experienced master of a coasting vessel informs me, that he always knew when a tempest was approaching, by the cry of this bird, which is very shrill, and may be heard the distance of a mile or more.

Lest the reader might think probability violated by making Wun-nut-hay the stern author of a bloody deed, the following extract from an article on the North American Indians, to be found in vol. I., of the Edinburg Encyclopedia, is introduced:—

“The Algonquins being at war with the Iroquois, a woman of the former nation happened to be made prisoner, and was carried to one of the villages belonging to the latter. Here she was stripped naked; and her hands and feet were bound with ropes in one of their cabins. In this condition she remained for ten days, the savages sleeping around her every night. On the eleventh night, when they were asleep, she found means to disengage one of her hands; and freeing herself from the ropes, she went immediately to the door of the hut where she was lodged. Though she had now an opportunity of escaping unperceived, her revengeful temper could not let slip so favorable an opportunity of killing one of her enemies. The attempt was manifestly at the hazard of her own life; yet, seizing a hatchet, she plunged it into the head of a savage who lay next her, and fled.”

The Indians religiously believe, that their old burial places and battle-fields are visited nightly by the stalking ghosts of the dead; also that the footsteps of the murderer are dogged by the restless shadow of the slain. “Friends,” said the tall chief to his blood-stained tribesmen, “you have killed an Indian in a time of peace, and made the wind hear his groans, and the earth drink his blood. You are bad Indians! Yes, you are very bad Indians; and what can you do? If you go into the woods to live alone, the ghost of John Jemison will follow you, crying, Blood! blood! and will give you no peace! If you go to the land of your nation, there the ghost will attend you, and say to your relatives, See my murderers! If you plant, it will blast your corn; if you hunt, it will scare your game; and when you are asleep, its groans and the sight of an avenging tomahawk will awake you!” On the banks of the bright trout stream that flows through the farm of John McKay, Esq., at Caledonia, was a “place of torture,” called “Can-ce-a-di,” in the Seneca dialect. The Indians have a tradition that groans proceed from this memorable spot at midnight, and that ghastly shapes peering through the leaves, have often frightened the belated hunter.

I was informed by Captain Jones, that the wild glen at Fall Brook, near Geneseo, has been the scene of a tragic story, and that the place is haunted, after night-fall, by a frightful headless spectre. The Indians believe that it is a spot accursed; but the tourist looks with delight upon a scene where beauty contends for mastery with the sublime.