If I can control my emotion long enough to write it, it will be a
big thing for history.
[Illustration: HIAWASAMANTHA, THE DUSKY DAUGHTER OF THE GOLDEN WEST.]
Years ago an Indian chief who lived in a dog tent and caught
rattlesnakes for a side show, had a daughter, a beautiful maiden, about
the color and odor of smoked bacon, and she wore a red blanket cut biased,
and a tilter, under a polonaise made over from her last year's striped
silk. She was the belliest squaw in the hills, and took the premium at all
the county fairs, and she could shoot a deer equal to any buck Indian. Her
name was Hiawasamantha, and she had two lovers, a Frenchman and a young
Indian. In figuring up the returns there was some doubt as to who was
elected, so the father of the girl decided to go behind the returns, and
settle it by a commission. There was an eagle's nest half way up the
rocks, with young eagles in it, and the old chief said that the one that
got there first and brought him a young eagle, should have the squaw. The
Frenchman climbed up the back stairs and got there ahead of the Indian,
when the young Indian drew from his trousers leg a bar of railroad iron
and drove it to the hilt in the breast of the Frenchman, not, however,
till the Frenchman had drawn from his pistol pocket a 300 ton Krupp gun
and sent a solid shot weighing 280 pounds crashing into the skull of the
Indian, and both rolled to the bottom of the bluff, dead.
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