The long chain of rocky mountains which, reaching from the Oregon to New
York, forms a natural boundary to the prairies on the Canada side of the
Mississippi, is more than once crossed by rugged tracks, left by the
early emigrants to the far west shores of the continent. These are here
and there dotted with villages, whose buildings bear traces of their
Dutch origin, and watered by streams flowing through the hunting grounds
of the Pawnee and Webfooted Indians, until they mingle with the roar of
Niagara, above Buffalo.
[_Having settled your scene in this locality, you go on about the
Indians as follows:_—]
"That's the crack of a tarnal rifle from them Mingoes," said the Scamp,
as he listened to the report; "why on 'arth they're not shot off like
nat'ral animals is just above my comprension."
His Indian companion looked to the ground with a low expressive "Hugh!"
and picked up a shell.
"The Huron is a coward," he said: "his squaw is idle in his wigwam; and
his mocassins are weak. The Ojibbeway will have his scalp."
"The creetur is right," replied the Scamp: "I'd back the downey cove's
rifle against any blazer them infarnal Mingoes ever struck fire into."
[_The Indians should always speak in the third person: "fire-water,"
"great spirit," "pale-faces," "wampum," &c., will add to the effect; and
the general habits may be ground up from recollections of the Egyptian
Hall._]