An Indian council-fire was lighted on the banks of Seneca lake; the flames streamed up cold and white in the radiance of the setting sun, and the heavy clouds of smoke, tinged like rainbows by its beams, rolled away over the forest and floated in transparent mist over the Iroquois village built on a picturesque curve of the shore. The glory of midsummer lighted up the woods and lay warm and bright on the beautiful lake. It was the season when all that was poetical and picturesque in savage life wore its richest charms—when those rude natives forgot all the hardships of the cold, stern winter, and yielded themselves to the indolent enjoyment of the long, sunny days.
A great stillness lay over the Seneca village; the people had come out of their wigwams and were gathered as near the council-fire as they dared approach, their picturesque dresses lighting up the background until they looked like a flock of strange tropical birds hovering around the flames which they dared not approach. About the council-fire were grouped the leading chiefs of the Six Nations’ tribes, who, for several weeks past, had been participants in the unusual feasting and merriment which had made the old forest joyous.

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