promises of hell which the good man dealt out to them so liberally, that at last quite overcome, either by his threats or Peleg's firewater, they one by one rolled down upon the ground in a most undeniable state of dumbfoundrification.

Who shall describe the mighty chiefs whose forms that day grievously disappointed my expectant eyes? Suffice to say, that dirt, and misery, and poverty, seemed equally the common lot of all, the chiefs being only to be recognised by a fox's brush hung to their girdles or an eagle's feather stuck in their heads, as well as by their more ready impudence in begging firewater. Here is a sketch of three, two chieftains and a squaw, the most respectable I could pick out of such a crowd of ragamuffins.

As night drew on, the scene assumed somewhat of an imposing character. Fires lighted before the dwellings were now thronged by the inmates anxious for the evening meal. The uproar was in no wise lessened; but, on the contrary, as the darkness deepened, it appeared to be on the increase. The minister was still as loud as ever in his wrath, and Peleg's visitors were somewhat louder; whilst the Squaws, screaming for their husbands, and the "papooses," squalling for their mothers, soon made confusion worse confounded. Meanwhile the figures flitting to and fro, now in the ruddy glow of the fires, now in the pale moonlight, filled up a most unearthly but diverting spectacle. But where is Gumbo all this time?-scarce had the thought written

itself upon the tablet of my mind, when, from the dusky woods in the rear of Peleg's Store, broke forth a din enough to wake the dead.

Screams, curses, cries of anger and dismay, laughter, and shouts of rage, seemed all as uttered by one voice, and every noise was at once drowned in the new clamour, save and excepting that of the "papooses," who, being frightened, only screamed the more.

Another moment, and the mystery was solved. Through the deep gloom of the adjacent forest, burst a dark form, which I immediately recognised as that of Mister Gumbo, flying, at the top of his speed, from an immense crowd of Indians, men, women, and children. The men flourishing huge sticks, the women whirling pinewood torches in the air, whilst the children kept up an incessant fire on the fugitive with the blunt arrows from their sturdy bows.

"Oh! Massa! Massa!" screamed out Mr. Johnson, as he scudded "lightly o'er the lea"-"Oh! Golly Gol! they'll flabbergasterem! they'll flabbergasterem !"

And indeed, it did seem as if they would "flabbergasterem"-in less time than it takes to tell. Already some of the foremost had seized upon the roaring fugitive, and commenced an active belabourment of his body, whilst the smaller fry, throwing themselves upon the prostrate enemy, diligently kicked, and pinched, and thumped him into a beautiful blue black; in which state he was extricated from his unpleasant position by Peleg, the Missionary, and a party which I had raised to the rescue.

The origin of all this "much ado about nothing," was laconically explained by Mr. Johnson, by the monosyllable "Lub;" and we shortly discovered that a young Ottawa, having found blackey in rather closer conference than he approved of, with his copper-coloured "lovey," had raised the population on the poacher, and revenged the tresspass on his reserved rights by an application of the "hickory argument" to the black beauties of his rival.

"Well, Gumbo,-what do you think of the red men?" inquired I of my attendant, as we set out, the following morning, on our return to Detroit. "You seem fond of a copper skin, Mr. Johnson."

"Oh! cus 'em copper-devils!" growled Gumbo-" Don't like 'em at all no how. Dam nasty culler, copper, any how. Now wite-wite ain't alto-de-gedder nice culler, no how-but wite bedder den dam copper-culler any how-after all, Massa, no culler like black any how --magnificent culler black!-nothin' like black at all-budifullglossy-imposin' culler black-an' den he hide de dirt so-Oh! lummy culler-black!"

WILDRAKE.

one of

HAVING no wish to be accused of interfering with our friend George Robins's monopoly of the article "puff;" and fearing that such offence might perchance be laid to our charge were we to say all the good that we think of a work bearing the adopted name of " us;" we shall abstain from saying more of this work, than that it will be found to be a very complete history of the transactions of the turf during the last ten years, very well thrown together, and copiously illustrated with portraits of our leading sporting characters, as well as of their crack nags. The woodcuts are capital, here is

THE SQUIRE'S MATCH AGAINST TIME.

in which said match "old Time was beaten hollow."

The portrait of old Buckle is "too full of feature." Such a proboscis would often enable a jockey to win "by a nose."

The tailpiece to "Dangerous," is at once appropriate and spirited.

We should think that the "booths" would give them anything but a cordial reception.

We cannot conclude better, than with the accompanying beautiful sketch of

TOM ACORN,

A SKETCH BY "A COUNTRY SQUIRE."

"Mark yonder, Robert! What's that black thing creeping along the dark side of the fence? Now, in the glare of moonlight on the snow.".

"'Tis but a calf, Shotbelt-That Farmer Higgins's stock are always breaking bounds."

"If that's a calf, Robert, call me jackass, that's all. Yonder's no calf on four legs, at any odds. See-how he branches out beneath the shadow of the wood-now he steps forward-now, back-now, he traverses. My word on it, he's setting snares-now he jobs out into the light again—that figure !—I should know it—it must be-Yes-it is Tom Acorn, at his work again."

Born of a humble couple in our village-his father, an industrious and honest labourer for their daily bread-his mother thrifty and hardworking; Tom Acorn was as well brought up as their small means afforded; and taught the duties of a humble but a virtuous life.

Poor parents have, however, but too little time to spare from their necessities for the instruction and improvement of their children; and Tom soon managed to escape from the parental eye to mix his gambols in companionship of his own age.

In childhood, all the seeds of wilfulness and wrong-doing-not to say, sin-abound. By tender watching and incessant care alone, these thorns can be eradicated, and the good grain raised; and this attention Tom had got no friends to give to him. His parents had no time. Thus, he grew up to be a man-and thus, his mind, untutored to the rules of order, and the trammels of society, sought idle spirits kindred with his own. They were soon found—the public-house was their resort-the church, their scoff-the dice, their daily bread.

His father with reproof abashed the reprobate. His mother with her tears besought him. Then, for a while, he would return to his poor home, and share their frugal fare-their homely couch. But this returning resolution vanished soon again before the burning force of vicious habits, and soon again he sought the pothouse and the profligate.

The path of wrong, and crime, and violence, is headlong, hurrying on the victim to his fall. Excesses soon impoverished the scanty means of Tom. But then the fiend was at his elbow-His ready skill was universally acknowledged-his courage, brutal and indomitable-his endurance great. Here were the requisites for rustic enterprise, and Tom became a poacher.

With all his vaunted bravery, and brute insensibility of heart, Tom