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Richardson, John, 1796-1852

"Hardscrabble; or, the fall of Chicago. a tale of Indian warfare"

It was
this, that, inducing a certain irresoluteness of thought
and action, had led him into a manifestation of peevish
contradiction in his address to Ephraim Giles. There are
moments, when, without knowing why, the nerves of the
strongest--the purposes of the wisest, are unstrung--and
when it requires all our tact and self-possession to
conceal from others, the momentary weakness we almost
blush to admit to ourselves.
But there was no time for reflection. The approach to
the door was suddenly shaded, and in the next instant
the dark forms of three or four savages, speedily followed
by others, amounting in all to twelve, besides their
chief, who was in the advance, crossed the threshold,
and, without uttering a word, either of anger or salutation,
squatted themselves upon the floor. They were stout,
athletic warriors, the perfect symmetry of whose persons
could not be concealed even by the hideous war-paint with
which they were thickly streaked--inspiring anything but
confidence in the honesty or friendliness of their
intentions. The head of each was shaved and painted as
well as his person, and only on the extreme crown had
been left a tuft of hair, to which were attached feathers,
and small bones, and other fantastic ornaments peculiar
to their race--a few of them carried American rifles--the
majority, the common gun periodically dealt out to the
several tribes, as presents from the British Government,
while all had in addition to their pipe-tomahawks the
formidable and polished war-club.


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