Near a little road-side grocery, supported by a post and flanked by an empty cask, stood a Noble Red Man. Indifferent to his tattered clothing, which afforded no protection from the sharp, wintry nights -- with his long black locks flying in the wind -- his whole soul was wrapped in a whisky bottle. He regarded it with a fixed stare, in which satisfaction at the quality of its contents and pensive regret at their diminishing quantity were ludicrously blended. Mr. Cooper died too early. I think one glimpse at this Aboriginal would have saved his pen much labor, and early American literature many Indian heroes.
[Bliss and the American Publishing Company re-used this second illustration in Roughing It, to illustrate MT's remarks on the Goshoot Indians.]