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34
Written for Burke’s Weekly.
Baby's Poem.
f WONDER where the fairies get
All those pretty things, my pet.
In pink, and pearl, and violet 1
? Coming like the honey-bees,
Bringing from the summer seas
The coral and the spiceries!
Out of what peculiar clay
Do they dig these dimples, say t
Dig more dimples in a day
Than a week could kiss away.
That must be a distaff rare
That can spin this sort of hair,
Sun-lit silk and—none to spare I
What old dainty Brownie, in
Her benevolence, has been
“Illuminating” baby’s skin.
With these veinlets like a vine,
Traced in violet of wine
On vellum of a nectarine I
Bless you, Brownies I never let
Your cradle-charities upset—
There are “ orders” for you yet!
“Eyes like these I—and lips like those! —
A little straighter in the nosel —
Less of pink and more of rose!”
Time to stop him!—here’s a quiz,
Thinks he’s wiser than he is,
Teaching fairy-land its “ biz!”
Torch Hill.
Written for Burke’s Weekly.
THE YOUNG EXPLORERS;
OR, BOY-RIPE IN TEXAS.
BY JOHN C. DUYAI.,
Author of “ Jack Dobell ; or, A Boy's Ad
ventures in Texas f “ The Adventures
of Big-Foot Wallace f etc.
CHAPTER IV.
The Scene of Fannin’s Last Fight—A Discovery
Mr. Pitt’s Grief —Goliad Suspicious
Firing What can it Mean? —“ St. Pat
rick’s Day in the Morning"—The Tonkawa
Indians—A Novel Deer-hunt.
ICO M the Colorado on, the
country was almost totally un
settled, and we kept a sharp
look-out for Indians, but saw none; and
nothing further in the way of hair-breadth
escapes happened to us. In a short
time we came to the spot where Colonel
Fannin and his little band had made a
desperate stand in the prairie against
an overwhelming foi’ce of the enemy.
Two years previous, when I was last on
this spot, the scene was a very different
one from that presented now. Then,
all was bustle, hurry, confusion aiid
noise—the trampling of squadrons, the
roaring of cannon, the rattle of muske
try, and the braying of trumpets. Now,
all was peaceful and quiet. Not a sound
was audible, except the monotonous
drumming of the prairie chicken; and
not a living thing was visible, except a
flock of deer in the distance, and a soli
tary Mexican eagle circling in the air
above us. The ditches we had dug the
night after the battle were now filled
BURKE’S WEEKLY FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.
with water from recent rains. Then,
they were dry and dusty, and not a drop
of water could be had to relieve the
burning thirst of our wounded men.
Thiough that long night their piteous
cries of “ Water, water! ” rang in my
ears. Those of our men who had been
killed in the battle had been disinterred
either by the Mexicans or Indians, and
their bones were now bleaching on the
surface of the ground.
We hurried away, as soon as possible,
from a spot so suggestive of melancholy
reflections. When about six or eight
miles still distant from Goliad, we stop
ped in a thick “mot” of timber, a little
distance from the road, for the purpose
of resting a while, and making a cup of
coffee. Staking our horses on the out
side, we entered the “ mot,” and whilst
looking around for a suitable place in
which to build a fire, we came across the
skeleton of a human being. It was ly
ing extended at full length upon the
ground, and from some cause seemed
never to have been disturbed by wolves
or other animals, for the skeleton was
entire —not a single bone was missing.
The moment my friend Pitt’s eyes fell
upon this melanchoty looking object,
he turned deadly pale, and kneeling
down by the side of it, he covered his
face with his hands, and wept like a
child. I said nothing to him, for I knew
what thoughts were passing through his
mind. He had lost his eldest brother,
to whom he was devotedly attached, at
the massacre of Fannin’s men, which
had occurred two years previously at
Goliad. He had heard from someone
who escaped from that “slaughter-pen,”
that his brother was seen several hours
after the massacre on the east side of
the river ; and I have no doubt the idea
occurred to him, when we came across
this skeleton in the “mot,” that in all
probability it was that of his long-lost
brother.
When his grief had somewhat abated,
he got up and collected a number of
the fallen limbs and branches of trees
scattered about the “ mot,” with which
he proceeded to cover what he evidently
supposed were the remains of his bro
ther. I assisted him in his sorowful
task, and as soon as we had completed
it to his satisfaction, we mounted our
horses, and took the road for Goliad.
Up to this time, my friend Pitt had che
rished a secret hope that his brother
had not fallen at the massacre, but had
been taken prisoner and carried into
Mexico (perhaps into the mines), and
that some day tidings would be heard
of him. But, after the discovery of
the skeleton, I think he gave up all
hope of ever hearing from him again.
Night had closed in before we reached
the hill east of Goliad, from which I
knew the town was plainly visible in
the day-time. When we got to the top
of the hill, we were astonished to hear
repeated vollies of musketry in that di
rection. We drew up our horses, and
listened attentively. The firing still cou-
tinued at intervals; and at length Pitt
said to me,
“Dobell, what do yon suppose is the
meaning of that ‘fusilade’ over in the
town ? ”
“I don’t know,” I replied l . “Two
years ago, I left this place in rather a
hurried manner, and the last thing I
heard was the firing of musketry. On
my return now, after two years absence,
the first thing that greets my ears is the
same old sound. For all I know, they
have been keeping it up ever since I
left.”
Pitt laughed heartily at the idea of
the two years “fusilade,” and remarked
that the Mexicans must have had a good
supply of ammunition to keep it up for
so long a time. “Nevertheless,” said
he, “I can’t understand it, unless the
place has been beleagured by the Mexi
cans or Indians. What do you think we
had best do?”
“Well,” said I, “I was once in a
very ugly scrape in that same town of
Goliad, and I have no desire to go
blindfold into another; so I think the
best thing we can do, under the circum
stances, is to leave the road, and en
camp in some safe place until morning,
and we can then reconnoitre the town
from the hill on this side of the river,
and ascertain what the ‘row’ is before
we venture in.”
Pitt thought the course I advised was
a good one; and we therefore left the
road, and followed a dim trail along
the brow of the hill, which led us, in
about half-a-mile, to the ruins of an old
Spanish mansion. It was thickly sur
rounded by dense chaparral, which we
thought would conceal us from the pry
ing eyes of any Mexican or Indian who
might be prowling around ; and staking
our horses in a little open space, just
large enough to afford them room for
grazing, we spread our blankets, and
laid down upon them without kindling
a fire.
All night long, whenever we were
awake, we could see the flashes and
hear the reports of guns over in the
town, and were both fully under the
impression that it was beleagured by
some maraudiug force of Mexicans or
Indians. Nothing, however, disturbed
us in our quarters, and as soon as day
light fairly appeared, leaving Pitt still
soundly asleep on his blanket, I walked
off to a point on the ridge from which
I knew an unobstructed view of the
town could be hact. The guns had
ceased firing, and everything seemed
quiet over in the village ; and 1 scanned
the open country round closely, but
could see no signs of the presence of In
dians or Mexicans. Satisfied, at length,
that there was no enemy in the vicinity,
I returned to reported to Pitt
the result of my reconnoisance.
Saddling up our horses, we mounted,
and soon regained the road we had left
the evening before, which carried us to
the ford about half-a-mile below the
town. Crossing the San Antonio river,
j we came, just on the opposite side, to
the well-beaten road leading from Car
los Ranch to Goliad, which we took,
and in a few moments entered the
suburbs of the village. Seeing a man
standing at the door of a shanty, we
rode up to him, and inquired, “ What
all that shooting was about last night?”
The fellow laughed, for he knew we
had “laid out” somewhere in the vi
cinity, and then replied, in the richest
brogue:
“An didn’t you know, me young mon,
that this is ‘Saint Pathrick’s day in the
mornin’ ?’ Faith ! an we were jist cile*
bratin it a bit; that’s all. I s*pose ye
thought the Maxicans were giving us a
round ; an ye didn’t like to venture in,
jist?”
At that time, the Irish element largely
predominated at Goliad ; and we subse
quently learned that, as this fellow told
us, the firing we heard during the night,
was in honor of “ St. Patrick’s day in
the mornin’ !”
A portion of the Tonkawa tribe of
Indians were encamped near Goliad,
who at that time claimed to be friendly
towards the Americans—though a soli
tary wayfarer encountering them on the
prairies would in all probability have
had his “hair lifted,” notwithstanding
their professions of friendship for “ Los
Americanos.” They were a treacherous
race, as were all the tribes of Texas
that had held much intercourse with the
Mexicans, and in the course of time,
were pretty well exterminated in their
frequent contests with the frontier set
tlers. The day after our arrival at
Goliad, the warriors of the tribe, to the
number of sixty or seventy, mounted
upon their mustangs, rode into town,
and invited any of the citizens that
chose to do so, to accompany them
upon a big “drive” tor deer, they in
tended to make that day.
As I was anxious to see the hunt, I
saddled my horse, and fell into line.
My friend Pitt declined going, as he
was still rather too weak to take a hand
in such fatiguing sport. The Indians
had no arms with them —neither guns
nor bows and arrows; but each one
carried, coiled up at his saddle bow, a
long pliant rope made of raw hide.
Leaving the town in Indian file, the
Tonkawa warriors started off in the di
rection of the rolling prairies to the
south-west, where they knew the game
they sought was to be found in abund
ance. I followed on in their wake, in
company with several citizens of the
town, who like myself were anxious to
see their method of “lassoing” the
deer, which we had heard of but never
witnessed.
After going about five or six miles,
we came to a locality where the deer
were more numerous than I had ever
seen them elsewhere. Large droves,
sometimes as many as eighty or a hun
dred together, were scattered in every
direction over the prairies. Here the
Indians halted, and divided themselves