"Yes; gal sing—gal love sing; warrior like to listen."
"And the song? In what language were the words?"
"Onondago," answered the Indian, in a low tone.
"I had no idea the music of the red people was so sweet. It is many a day since I have heard a song that went so near to my heart, though I could not understand what was said."
"Bird, pretty bird—sing like wren."
"And is there much of this music in your family, Susquesus? If so, I shall come often to listen."
"Why not come? Path got no briar; short path, too. Gal sing, when you want."
"Then I shall certainly be your guest, some day, soon. Where do you live, now? Are you Sureflint, or Trackless, to-day? I see you are armed, but not painted."
"Hatchet buried berry deep, dis time. No dig him up, in great many year. Mohawk make peace; Oneida make peace; Onondago make peace—all bury 'e hatchet."
"Well, so much the better for us landholders. I have come to sell and lease my lands; perhaps you can tell me if many young men are out hunting for farms this summer?"