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                MIS-SE-JAR-GA;
              OR, THE ANGEL GUIDE.
         ELL," I asked of an old Indian of nearly
         one hundred winters, who sat over a camp
fire, smoking his well-worn pipe, " \hat legend do you
know of a body of water recognized by the white man
as Lake of the Loons?"  He gave a grunt, emptied
the ashes from his pipe, refilled it with kinnikinick,
puffed away for a few moments, and then said:
  "Many moons long since gone, when my hair was
black and my face was smooth, away off to the east,
where the bright spirit the sun -rises and washes its
face in the morning dews, dwelt my forefathers, and
the friends of my youth. Just on the border of our
reservation settled a paleface and his family, which at
first made our hearts bad, but they were so good and so
kind that we came to esteem them, and they lived
among us respected.  His family consisted of three
boys, and a golden-hairecd girl of five summers. This
child was as fair as Minnehalha, beautiful as sunset,
happy as a bird, gentle as a lamb, sweet as the Great
Spirit. Her winning ways, her golden, curly hair, her
great blue eyes, her innocent prattle, her confidence in
the red man, as she climbed on his knee and toyed with
his long black hair-the contrast between the sa cet lily
face and the tawny complexion of our tribe, won for her
the name of Mis-se-jar-ga, or the angel guide."
  The old Indian paused, dropped his head upon his
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