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= I = ! 4 V 'i I = - JSOfe 4 . ibw I HO. . •■ aI p^ajVc *iqyy E iWOffnwn JIM I A ' I niriifr UJXfAsW J’lJVlMli' P " ” i. L. MiTCHELL, Publisher. Vol, 7—No. 10. Eor Woman’s Work - -- - p# : ‘_ Zu|uWMLkKot»cXk! Jy jJI ’ kXW.F_ ’’ <* ’ ’"-- -- lESSi y>v jr_* -ft ''''' k@»&A** • '■ z : Wi □sgggi. L—T-t lAL -- ~ <A ~ t *-'- »y; *> Fob Woman's Wonk. The Lady of the Lake. IN PROSE. CHAPTER 11. “In ev’ry government, though terror reign, Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure!’’ I HE downfall of one branch of the ancient and mighty Douglas JL family happened in this way. The widowed queen of James IV. married the second time, Archibald Douglas,Earl of Angus, who, availing himself of the right which he thus acquired, retained the boy king, James V., in a sort of tutelage which approached very near to captivity. High-spirited and chivalrous, the king was exasperated by this treatment; and when he was sixteen,effected his escape to Stirling Castle, which was practically impregnable. There he was supported by the,powerful nobles who were opposed to Douglas; and so the re gency ended, and James assumed the reins of government. He swore in his wrath that while he reigned, no Douglas should find favor or countenance in Scotland. He followed out his revenge with such an inveterate hatred that their nearest friends in the remotest parts of From out the starlit shadows of night, The rising sun sent his golden light, The huge hills stood awaiting the day— Dreamlike the vale in loveliness lay, Silent we stood in the purple light, Watching the shadow’s ignoble flight, Stood by the cave that was once the hold—■ Stood by the home of Flores the bold. Though long the way and early the hour, Another was there with wreath and flower, A small bent form and a face still fair, Was crowned with plaited silvered hair, Bead after bead in an endless round, She told there, kneeling upon the ground, Her faded eyes looked wearily on The years and years that had come and gone. Our thoughts were these : “Can she tell us aught Os scenes enacted in this lone spot— ’Mid these wild mountains towering high In this dear vale ’neath the southern sky— This cloudless, this love-inspiring clime? What story is this we hear of crime?” She answered, “Dead is Juan Jf'lores, O, eyes of mine, did you see that day!” WOMMBWORK- HOME IS THE BEST SCHOOL EVER FOUNDED ON EARTH. JUAN FLORES. A Legend of Southern California. ATHENS, GEORGIA, OCTOBER, 1894. The faded eye dark and brilliant grew, The pale cheek glowed with a rosy hue, The bent form rose to its youthful height, “Could laws of men bind this son of might? The blood that glowed in his veins had run, Ages and ages, from sire to son, This shrine of their god, this golden land— Should it be ploughed by a stranger hand? “In search of prey that day he had gone; The streams were dry, but the rains came on, In torrents the floods through the canyons roar, The river is miles from shore to shore, No help for those braves! no horse could swim Such a torrent wide! They have captured him— The Brave! so often they could not hold, * * • Dead! in the dawn hangs Flores the Bold.” “But the stranger is brave; see the work he has done, In this exquisite valley, this land of the sun, "Where the vaquero sleepily roamed with his sheep; See their beautiful homes where their love-watch they keep, No load is too heavy, all care he defies,” But the wonderful light had, gone out Lom her eyes. • * • • Yet the courage she reverenced is passing away, Giving place to the power and worth of to-day/ I Scotland, did not dare to entertain or shelter them, unless they were in the strictest disguise. To this exiled line belonged the father and daughter who had found a safe retreat in the lonely isle. It was still very early, and the huntsman had seen nothing of the la dies when he stepped into the skiff that was to take him across the lake. All nature was feeling the influence of the reviving day,and the sweet notes of a harp,accompanied by a man’s voice, were ringing over the water as his boat glided down the little bay. To a late period, the bard occupied an important position in the fam ily of a highland Chief. He was the historian and genealogist of the clan, the domestic musician of the Chief, and sometimes the instructor of the young laird. He was universally respected and honored in the household. Just as the stranger stepped ashore on the mainland, the last strains of the song died away, and he paused to cast a lingering look back at the lonely isle where he had met with such a strange adventure; and there on the beach he saw Allan-bane reclining against a blighted tree that seemed as wasted, gray and worn as himself. His hand was still resting on the strings of his harp, but his face was raised upward as if seeking inspiration from the rising sun. He sat so mute and motion less one could easily believe that his soul had fled heavenward on the last sad, sweet notes of the harp. The fair Lady of the Lake sat be side him, smiling to see her spaniel baying at a flock of wild ducks far out on the water beyond his reach. As the stranger loitered, watching them, he thought the lady marked him not; yet he waved a farewell, before turning away; then stopped and waved again. Looking back for the last time just as he passed into the glen, his eyes caughta cour teous, parting sign of adieu from the lovely maiden. He was wont to say, long afterwards, that his heart never swelled so high on a festal day when the prize was given him by the fairest of the fair, as it did at that simple, mute farewell. Ellen, half unconsciously watching his noble form, saw him follow the trusty mountain guide that the care of Sir Roderick had provided, and slowly disappear around the hill, with his dark stag-hounds by his side- She started when he was no longer in sight, and the thought flashed through her mind that Malcolm would never have listened de lighted as she had done to the soft, smooth accents of a southern tongue, nor have so eagerly strained his eyes to watch any form but hers; and upbraiding conscience accused her of selfishness and vanity. Suddenly she laid her hand on the old Minstrel’s shoulder saying, “Arouse thee, Allan-bane, from thy moody dream. I will give thee a heroic theme, worthy of thy harp. Sing of the glory of the Graeme.’’ Scarcely had the words passed her lips than her face was suffused with crimson, for young Malcolm Graeme was the flower of his elan— a clan that was one of the most ancient and powerful in Scotland, "TSWi i j! ►(Oh = I j s =u - != © Bill fill = KATE GARLAND. Editress. 50 Cts. per Year. Hannah E. Taylob.