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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