"Quad's odds"; . ds, until Idfeel like murdering one whod harm a hair of your not running away from you—Im only dying! Imgetting rid of these hurts and bruises and limps—thesegray hairs and trembling limbs—these heart-aches andsorrows and wanderings. The human soul does not die,Brixs, and I believe that the door which opens to me willswing back for you ! Youve been faithful and true, andthats what no human being ever was ! The dog raised his head, and his howl was so full ofgrief and loneliness that I hurried away, racing with theshadows to see who should pass the corner first. When I
"Quad's odds"; . ds, until Idfeel like murdering one whod harm a hair of your not running away from you—Im only dying! Imgetting rid of these hurts and bruises and limps—thesegray hairs and trembling limbs—these heart-aches andsorrows and wanderings. The human soul does not die,Brixs, and I believe that the door which opens to me willswing back for you ! Youve been faithful and true, andthats what no human being ever was ! The dog raised his head, and his howl was so full ofgrief and loneliness that I hurried away, racing with theshadows to see who should pass the corner first. When I passed the stair-way next morning a dog sat onthe curb-stone, looking anxiously into the face of everypasser-by. It was Brixs. They had found a dead body onthe landing—the corpse of an old man. Brixs was alone in the world, and the world had not onekind word for him. I called to him, but he disappearedaround the corner, moving slowly—walking like a humanbeing who had not one hope left. THE LAST HAVE just returned from interview- the last Indian warrior left in Michigan. I feel sad. Once they were plenty—now they are scarce. Less than a hundred years ago the forests echoed the whoops of thousands of noble red men, and the valleys were dotted with their lodges. Now there is nary nary found the last warrior proppedg up against a coal-shed near the river—the river which was once cov-ered with the canoes of his ancestors,and which sang soft, sad songs in theears of the sleeping Indian didnt seem inclined to talk. Perhaps hismind was overburdened with the bitter memories of thepast, and he was only waiting for the shadow of deathto come and touch him and gather him to the happyhunting-grounds of his fathers. Renowned Wild Hoss, Big Moon, Setting Sun, Roar-ing Chipmunk, Howling Rabbit, or whatever your nameis, dont you feel sad? I asked as I stood before him. He didnt say. 159 160 wouldnt even sigh.
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Keywords: ., bookauthorquadm184, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookyear1875
