The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907, September 04, 1875, Image 3

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[For The Sunny South.] “LOVE’S YOtXG DREAM.” (A Wreath of Rhymes Around the Memory of two Poets.) BY J. A. STEWART. When under the pressure of feelings forlorn. Or sorrow too deep for his feelings to scan. Burns fWt that man's fate was in sadness to mourn, Unaided by heaven, uncared lor by man. His burdens were transient; their visits were brief, For hope like a star thro* the darkness would burn, And light in his soul this bright glow of relief— A feeling that man waa not placed here to mourn. A shadow may darken, like coming of night. Yet day will return to him hopeful and bright; When young and entranced by emotions of love Or joy, in the moonlight or starlight above. He feels that his Mary's asleep by the stream. And charges the lapwing disturb not her dream; While the rapture of genius shiues out in his face. And dreams full of tenderness, beauty and grace Awake in his spirit like stars in the sky. Or like flowers that unfold when morning is nigh. Of fill tlie themes that fascinate and charm, none ever awaken so lively an interest or touch our sympathies with a power so potent as the theme of love; and none can so well describe this witching power as Burns and Moore. Moore’s sweetest song was: Of days, then gone, “when beauty bright His heart’s chain wove; When his dream of life, from morn till night, Was love—still love. New hope may bloom, and days may come Of brighter, calmer beam; Yet there's nothing half so sweet in life Ah love's young dream.” The morning of life - how unclouded with cares, how filled with delight and wonder! We gaze with rapture at the clear sky, the bright dawn of morning, the gilded east, the sparkling dew; we love the calm white clouds that float above us, or, as the day expires, are filled with the red wine of sunset; we love the birds that sing amid the foliage of bowers and trees; we sympathize with the last rose of summer, as its “mates of the garden lie scentless and dead;” we watch with delight the blue smoke that so gracefully curls above the green elms where the cottage stands, or note the unfolding of the dew- filled flowers, and the flight of their bright woo ers, the bees and butterflies! • We love the dark shadows of forest or dell, The Bunlight that shiues on the nioss-covered well; And yet in our loves there is nothing so sweet As the heart's mutual flame when kindred loves meet. The dawn of the east or the tints of the west May serve man awhile as a subject or theme; Yet nought can awaken a feeling so blest As the tender emotion of love's young dream. The poet with nature and fancy may sport; He may count the bright ripples of lakelet or stream, Or the foam-crested biliows that roll into port, But none will entrance him like love's young dream. He may climb the long slopes, and may view from the crest Of the mountain's grand summit the morning's first gleam; Y'et nothing of feeling with which man is blest Compares with the rapture of love’s young dream. All things human - all human emotions, how ever witching the charm—are horn to die. Birth, growth and decay are common to all,—'tis the story they all tell; and “whilst love, and hope, and beauty’s bloom,” are blossoms fading, we find, on looking back, no brighter spot “on memory’s waste than love’s young dream.” diun let go of his paddle, drew his tomahawk, and moved towards her. Callie had carried out only half her plan when she cried out. She had a hand on either edge of the canoe, and swaying her body to the left, she upset it like a flash. There was a curse from Laskins and an excla mation from the Indian. The movement was so sudden that neither of them could do anything to prevent As soon as the water closed over her, C'allie allowed herself to sink to the bottom, thus escaping the dash of the villains, each of whom strove to clutch her. The current was running swift and strong, and when she was compelled to rise to the sur face, Laskins and the Indian were forty or fitty feet below her, swimming here and there, call ing to each other and seeking to find her. Callie struggled quietly but vigorously' to pre vent being carried down too swiftly, and after two or three minutes, she struck out for the Vir ginia shore, making no noise and having only her head above water. “Callie! Callie! where are you!” called her father; but she dared not reply. Her two cap- tors could be Heard splashing around a few yards below, and she would have betrayed her position by a return shout. Going down slowly in spite of her struggles, but still working toward the shore, she was out of the channel in ten minutes, and found bottom with her feet. As soon as she could get a foot hold and brace against the current, she halted. The Indian swam up the stream near the point where the canoe had been upset, but finding no signs of the girl, he rejoined the renegade. See ing nothing of her after the canoe went over, they were forced to the conclusion that she had been drowned, and by and by she heard them making for the sliore. The girl was a hundred and fifty yards below the flat-boat, and in her confusion she could not say whether it was on that side of the channel or the other. She started up the river, but had not progressed far when the Indians opened fire on the boat, and the pioneers replied. The flashes of their guns showed her that they were on the other side of the channel. Her wet cloth ing weighed her down, and she dared not at tempt to swim across. Tue battle might last for hours, and it was quite likely that the canoes would be hovering around. Callie turned and made for the Virginia shore, planning to reach the bank and get above the flat-boat and float down, as she was about to do when captured. The Indians seemed to have congregated on the shore opposite the boat, j and they fired with such rapidity that the forest I echoed and roared with the reports. Once or twice before reaching the shore the girl had to swim a short distance, and she was \ nearly exhausted when she rested on the bank. If any one was moving in the forest, the noise of [ the battle drowned their footsteps. She listened closely, and finally rose and moved up the river, j She was nearly opposite the boat, when a cruel laugh broke on her ear, and Boyce Laskins and j three or four savages confronted her again. “I am glad to see you—indeed I am,” he laughed, as he laid his hand on her shoulder. “ I see you are determined to rejoin your ] friends!” More Indians came crowding up, and she saw ond cry!” whispered old Carson, his face look ing ghastly white in the darkness. “But we can do nothing.” They listened a long time, but eye and ear alike fail d to make out anything further. Half an hour after the cry, the Indians opened a hot fire on the boat, and it was only then that the men discovered M ill Ross’ absence. The wounded man was below, and there were but four of them on deck. “ I fear lie has thrown his life away," said Car- son. “We did not see him. but I know he went over the side when he heard that cry, and has been on shore this quarter of an hour.” During the afternoon the men had bored port holes along the bulwarks, so that they could use their rifles without exposing their heads above the planks, and now, as the Indians opened tire, two or three rifles returned a few shots to show the red-skins that the boat’s crew were on the alert. By and by, firing commenced on the other shore, and the boat was every instant struck by three or four bullets. This was, however, only a waste of powder and lead. The boat was bul let-proof from bottom to rail, and so long as the men did not expose themselves they were safe. “They are making all this noise to cover some infernal scheme!” whispered old Carson, when the double fusilade had been maintained for nearly half an hour. Creeping along the deck, he found that the fire of the Indians had been concentrated on the stern and the down-stream side of the boat. All the weapons were carried to the other side, five or six axes passed up from the cabin, and raising his head above the rail, despite the great risk, the old man betrayed the plan. Twelve or fifteen Indians were on the bar, close to the boat, ready to board ! The boat had careened over a little, so that it would be easy work for them to clamber up her side. “Wait for the signal,” whispered Carson, as the three others :rept to his side. “They’ll make a rush when the firing ceases, but we can beat them off. Give ’em all the bullets you have and then use the axes.” In two or three minutes the firing commenced to slacken, and all at once there was dead silence. Then, uttering a wild, fierce yell, the dozen red skins on the bar made a rush up the side of the boat, believing that they woul 1 make a complete surprise. The pioneers sent back the yell as they rose up, rifles in hand, and the flash of their guns dashed into the faces of the first sav ages. The empty rifles were exchanged in a sec ond for extra ones, and the fight was over in two minutes. A third volley was fired at the half dozen red-skins wading and swimming away, and then forest and river were as silent as death. “They won’t try that again !” said old Carson, as he peered down upon the six or seven bullet- riddled corpses on the bar. It was expected that the Indians would reopen the tire from the banks, but they did not. Not a shot was fired or a yell heard after the fight on the bar. While the pioneers were elated at their easy victory, they did not forget their situation The night was not yet half gone, and the demons on shore would doubtless invent something else be fore daylight. “It’s my opinion that they’ll try floating tire on us,” replied old Carson, as one of the men that the band had separated, and that there was i questioned him. “I only wonder that they [Written for The Sunny South.] Callie Carson’s Lovers; OK, FLAT-BOAT, RIVER AND RIFLE. BY M. <tlTAI>. CHAPTER XIII. The sleuth-hounds had followed the gild’s trail here nnd there, on shore and river, until they had at last captured her. The renegade had hardly spoken when half a dozen Indians stepped out from behind the trees which con cealed them. There seemed to be a great satisfaction over Cnllie’s capture, and none of them offered her any violence. Surprise made her dumb for a moment, and alter that she would not speak, be cause she felt such a contempt for the white man who had turned liis rifle against his own race nnd linked his fortunes to those of the murder ous red-skins. “ You are pretty sharp,” said the renegade, as the Indians gathered around, “but you could not throw ns off the trail. What made you leave the boat?” She treated the inquiry with silent contempt, and he asked: “Why did they send you ashore? Are you braver than all the men?" She still maintained silence, and he contin ued : •• I shall take great pleasure in letting them know that we have found you !” Tue Indians began talking among themselves, drawing away so that the girl could not catch their words, and she was left alone for two or three minutes. She had no chance to escape them by dashing into the woods, and the water at her feet was too shallow to permit her leaping into the river and seeking to outwit them in that manner. The renegade finally came hack, and laughing coarsely, he said: “Now, then, my dear girl. I am going to treat you to an excursion on the river. Please come this way to the canoe.” Resistance would only enrage the savages. Three orfour of their number had fallen beneath her aim, and the living could not but feel ma licious and revengeful. Flinging the renegade’s hand oft' her arm. she followed him down the bank a few rods to where a canoe was drawn upon shore. One of the Indians accompanied t.iem, and as they were readj to enter the canoe, Laskins said: “.See here, now, I want to give you a word of warning. I am going to take you down the river about two miles, and leave you until we have captured the flat-boat. We shall pass the boat, which is fast aground, and if you cry out or at tempt to give them any warning, thelndian will sink his tomahawk into your skull! They have no love for you; even now t.iey are threatening to burn you at the stake !" She entered the boat without making any reply. Death would be no worse than remain ing a prisoner in the hands of the renegade and his fiendish friends, anil before the canoe left the bank she had her mind made up what to do. Laskins took the bow of the craft, thelndian the stern, and she sat near the centre. The paddles sent the light craft spinning along easily and rapidly for five minutes, and were then lifted from the water, and the canoe was allowed to float with the current. Peering through the darkness, Callie made out a great black object on the water, and she knew that it was the flat-boat. Her father and lover would be watching and listening, and now was her time. Drawing in a full breath, she cried out: “ Father—Will—I am here. The Indians have captured me!” Her voice could have been heard clear across the river on such a still night. The words were hardly out of her mouth when a shout was raised on the flat-boat, showing that her friends had heard and understood. Curse you,—curse you!” growled the rene- and with an exclamation of anger, the In- a party on each side of the river to prevent the pioneers from escaping to either shore. “I wanted to tomahawk you an hourago, "con tinued the renegade, “but now I'm rather glad that you called out and informed your friends of your situation. I’m thinking the knowledge of your position won't encourage them any. We thought you at the bottom of the river, and I thank you for coming back to us. It shows that you do love me a little. If you did not, you would not seek my society as you do.” The Indians muttered and threatened, seeming desirous of securing revenge then and there; but the renegade took them aside and made some appeal which quieted them. Coming back to Callie, he said: “There’s an Indian encampment about a mile below here, and I’m going to send you there. Two of the warriors will accompany you, and I need not warn you that they will murder you on the slightest provocation. I can save your life if yon mind me, but every soul aboard of the flat-boat will be dead before sunrise ! They are fast aground, and the Indians are preparing to float down upon the boat and capture or burn it!” The two Indians stepped out and signified that they were ready, and with one on either side, she moved down the bank. .She was hardly clear of the crowd before they also opened fire on the boat, and then forty or fifty rifles were blazing away and sending their bul lets at the little band" of brave pioneers, who kept up a slow fire in answer, showing that they were neither discouraged nor appalled. The woods shook with the sharp reports, and the frightened birds left their roosts and flew scream ing away. “Every soul aboard of the flat-boat will be dead before morning," Royce Laskins had said. CHAPTER XIV. Old Carson remembered that his daughter was standing near him when the flat-boat struck the snag, and having heard no cry from her. it was believed that she was thrown overboard by the shock and drowned. This theory was accepted by all, and no one had the least idea when daylight broke that she was surveying the boat from the Ohio shore. The situation of the boat was perilous, and soon after daylight the old man made another effort to float her. But for the Indians the craft could have been worked into the channel in half an hour. As soon as the pioneers showed them selves over the side, the red-skins on the shore opened fire, and one of the men was wounded in the left arm before he could regain the shelter of the bulwarks. It was plain that they could not get the boat afloat as long as the Indians were vigilant, an 1 old Carson called the people around him and told them that they could only wait and hope. All the fire-arms were put in good order, the en trance to the cabin so fixed that it could be bet ter defended, and then the men had nothing to do but watch for and be prepared to checkmate any plan which their wily foes might invent for the destruction of the boat. There was grief in every heart at Callie's un fortunate accident. The women and children wept and sorrowed, and father and lover carried pale faces and heavy hearts. “They shall pay for her death!” whispered the old man to Wiil. •• Let me see the boat out of this, and I'll take the trail, and they shall find me drinking blood every day !” After the fusilades of the morning, the Indians were very quiet ail day. It was to be expecied that they would make a night attack, and the pioneers were as ready for it as they could be when darkness came. They were standing to gether. exchanging whispered words, when Cal- lie’s voice, as she was being taken past in the canoe, reached their ears. Her words explained her situation, and while some of the men re turned an answering shout, other- ran up and down, as if there was a way to " i w. All was quiet after her call, and the men al most wondered if she had really cried out. The voice had come from the river, and each man understood that she was passing up or down. They would have tired a volley but for fear of wounding her. and as silence ame ipon boat, forest and river, the men leaned .".ir out over the bulwarks and strained their eyes to pierce the darkness. “ They may have killed her to prevent a see- , have not yet been smart enough to see that trick.” He at once had all pails and utensils which would hold water brought on deck, and by means of a pail and rope cast over the side, everything was soon full. The last pail was being drawn, when the Indians on shore set up a great yelling and whooping, and reopened their fire. The pio neers had to crouch down to avoid the bullets, but all were watching and listening to catch the first developments of the new plan which was to be attempted. It suddenly commenced to grow light. The men knew that it was not an hour past midnight, and for a moment they rubbed their eyes in astonishment. Then tire glare of fire was re flected on the black sky, and river and forest were lighted up as with the rising sun. The fire-rafts were coming ! Looking from a port hole, old Carson counted ten great blazing heaps of logs and brush bearing down upon them. They covered half the river, and one or more could not fail to strike the boat. It was quickly arranged that two of the four men should guard the down-river side of the boat to prevent a surprise, and the vessels hold ing the water were all moved to the threatened point. The Indians cheered and yelled like lu natics, and their rifles rang out every instant. They were determined that the pioneers should have no chance against the rafts. Slowly the burning heaps drifted down. Some turned into the channel and passed the boat yards distant, but the largest raft of all floated as straight down upon the grounded craft as if guided by human hand. It struck the boat amidships, ami the dame leaped three feet over the rail, while the smoke was so dense that the men could not see each other - . Old Carson raised his head up among the fly ing bullets, poised a five-pail kettle of water on the rail for an instant, then sent its contents down upon the centre of the burning mass. The flame fell to nothing in an instant, and with the remaining three or four pails at his leet. he quickly destroyed the burning heap and sank down untouched and unharmed. All the other rafts floated to right or left, hissing, snapping and tossing waves of flame into the darkness, and the red-skins had failed again. They ceased wasting ammunition when they saw their failure, and after a few yells of Risappintment the forest was quiet again. It was another victory for the pioneers, but there was no exulting over it. One of their num ber was in the cabin badly wounded, Will was gone, and the boat was still fast on the bar. one hundred lodges in the village, and women, children, horses and dogs were greatly excited over the firing up the river. All the adult males, with the exception of half a dozen old men, were absent from the village, but the women and chil dren were running about, and Will saw that he could not ent-r the village without being discov ered. He crept as near the lodges as the bushes would shelter him. and settled down and lis tened to the excited words of the old men and the squaws. They seemed sanguine that the, flat-boat would be captured before morning, and stakes had already been driven and fagots gath ered to torture the prisoners. The scout was impatient to discover the where abouts of Callie, and although failing to catch a word to prove that she was in the village, he waited and hoped. When she entered the vil lage. accompanied by the two Indians sent by the renegade, the trio passed within twenty feet of where the scout was hiding. The arrival of the prisoner added fuel to the excitement. All gathered around her, and but for the old men, the squaws would have fiercely attacked her. “Wait! wait!” they shouted; “we will have others here before morning, and all shall be put to the torture Will restrained his desire to rush in on the villagers and fight them single-handed only be cause he knew that Callie would likely be mur dered before his eyes. With bated breath he waited to see if the two Indians would go back to their companions rip the river. They seemed in no hurry to do so until the firing meant to detract attention from the Indians wading out to the boat commenced. Then they became ex cited and hurried away. When they had gone, Will crept closer and discovered that the girl was a prisoner in one of the lodges, and that three of the old men were acting as sentinels, each having a rifle. There were a dozen boys of from fifteen to eighteen years old around the lodge, and the scout found the odds so heavily against him that he gave up his plan of a bold rescue. There was hope that the excitement in the village would soon abate, and that the women and children would seek their lodges; but the firing up the river continued, and finally the re ports became a grand roar. This was when old Carson and his men repulsed the attack of the Indians on the bar, anil recognizing the echoes of their rifles, Will trembled as he waited for the tiring to cease. If the Indians won a victory they would cheer. The firing finally ceased, and when three or four minutes had passed without bringing any shouts, the scout knew that his friends had repulsed the attack. The villagers seemed to understand it as well, and their shouts of exultation changed to wails of sorrow, as the firing had been so heavy that con siderable loss of life might be expected. When the village grew quiet, Will changed his position, calculating that daylight was not far off. He would remain around the village until he had found some way to rescue Callie, or until discovered and obliged to share her cap tivity. In making a half circle to strike around the village into the heavy timber on the other side, a footstep alarmed him. It was so dark in the woods that he could hardly avoid the trees, and he stopped in his tracks to listen. The foot steps came nearer, and he made out a dark form before him. There could be no white men in the forest. Drawing his knife, the scout struck the unknown foe without moving out of his tracks. It was an Indian, returning from the hank of the river on some errand or with some message. The knife struck him in the throat, half severing his head from his body, and he sank down without a cry or groan. “One less!” whispered Will, as he bent over his victim and passed his hand over the body to identify it by its dress. The warrior’s life poured out of the ghastly wound in the throat, and working with great swiftness, the scout soon had the body disrobed, even removing the moccasins. Like a flash of lightning a plan had come to him. Leaving the naked body on the leaves, where it would cer tainly be stumbled over before noon, he contin ued his way. The earth was covered with a heavy bed of leaves and deer-grass, and being so near camp, the red-skins could not follow his trail even if they struck it at all. Day was dawning as the scout approached the village from either side.' Creeping down within ten rods of the first lodges, he forced his way into a dense mass of briars and vines at the foot of a tree, and in a few minutes he had removed his own clothing and donned those of the dead war rior. There had been no tiring up the .ri ver for the past two hours, and it was likely that a con siderable number of the red-skins would return during the day. The hiding-place was dangerously near, espe cially as the village was overrun with dogs; but Will wanted to be where he could post himself by ear and eye. After making the change of clothing, he crept back and straightened the bushes to blind any signs of his passage. The squaws and children had not slept any during the night, and were still in a state of great ex citement. About eight o'clock, several Indians entered the camp. The scout heard a low buzz of voices, and caught words enough to inform him that the crew of the flat-boat still held out, and that quite a number of tae attacking party had been killed during the night. Some of the women and chil dren began howling and lamenting, but their wails were interrupted by a fierce shout from the woods beyond the village. “ That means they have found the bod}' of that Indian!” muttered the scout; and he listened with bounding heart to hear what would follow. Some of the Indians, coming or going, had stumbled over the body, and the cry had been one of horror and indignation. (TO BE CONTINUED.) CHAPTER XV. It was true that Will Ross left the boat in an swer to the call from Callie. He had mourned her as dead, and when her voice reached him. his amazement and anxiety were about equal. Without stopping to think or waiting to consult, he lifted his rifle up and dropped over the side of the boat into the shallow water. He had no means of following the girl on the river, but he headed for the shore and had reached it before he realized his danger. Shouts from Indians above and below proved that his situation was full of peril, and his natural craft took the place of his impatience and anxiety. He reasoned that Callie was passng down the river when she called out, and he climbed the bank and turned that way. The Indians were traveling up and down, mak ing ready to surprise the boat, and Will had to use the utmost caution to prevent an encounter with some of them. Unknown to him, of course, he passed the girl as she sat on the bank after wading to the shore, and keeping his course down the river, he at length discovered, by the barking of dogs, that he was near an Indian en campment. ^nly three or four of the Indians planning ttie c;..>iure of the boat were of the party attack ing the settlement at Ahe Landing. The rene gade had determined to follow the flat-boat to the mouth of the river if he could not sooner secure revenge, and two or three of his Indian friends had accompanied him thus far. War had been declared all along the river, and every Indian was anxious to shed blood. As soon as he discovered the presence of a vil lage. Will felt certain that Callie had been taken there. It was situated about half a mile back from the river, and the continued barking of the dogs made the route plain. He found about [For The Sonny South.] A NIGHT OF TERROR. I was visiting an old school friend for the first time since her marriage. Her home was the an cestral mansion that had been inherited by her husband—a picturesque building slightly out of repair, but encircled by beautiful grounds and commanding a fine view of the rolling country' around, with the domes and steeples of the pretty neighboring town peeping over the pur ple rim of the hills. We had driven out that afternoon beyond the fields and ronn 1 through the town, returning late; had taken seats in the portico to enjoy the cool breeze and await the mail, which reached us between ten an l eleven o'clock. Ma-1-dogs and the cause of their affliction were freely discussed, one having bitten several hogs anjd a milch cow that afternoon, and escaped un harmed, as was believed, from the many shots tired at him, taking shelter back of the premises in a briar and plum thicket. The mail having come, we bid good-night to the family and sought our room. It was a large chamber to the right of the entrance, with win dows reaching nearly to the floor, and to our dismay, only the front windows had blinds. We were parleying whether we would risk the windows up without any protection from outside intrusion, or put them down and envelop our self in a furnace heat, when the kind hostess came in. “You found your room quite ready. It is large and——” “Delightful, rnon cher madame; but we are afraid of those windows. A half-grown child can step in from the ground—yea, an ox can come through them !” “Nonsense ! there is not the least danger. Be sides. I thought you were brave. I have heard often of your exploits with fire-arms, and there lies your own seven-shooter upon the mantle, and I will bring you another if yon desire it.” “Well enough said; but I don't want to be throttled in my sleep, or scared to death on awakening to find some one standing over me with a knife at my throat! The very thought of it, here in the light and in your presence, almost takes my breath away. Ugh ! only think of the poor maniac that slept under the cedars on the tan-bark walk just one week age !” and down I put the windows. “ She might come again, and think it better to sleep under a roof and in a bed next time.” “Well.” said the hostess, laughingly, “ I hope you will not find a worse enemy in the heat than in the poor, harmless, love-stricken Mota, and that I shall not find you in the morning suffoca ted, glaring at me from your pillow with sight less eyes.” “Better risk the heat, uton ami. Your words suggest such thoughts as ‘ make us rather bear these ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of.’” * - The au revoir was said, and in our haste to read the letters upon our table, we retired, for getting to place the pistol under our pillow. It was the first neglect for many years. Drawing the table to the bedside, I opened first my letters and read them, some of them twice; then opened the newspapers, read th£ locals and the general news. Long before I was through, everything was silent in the house and the hall clock was pealing out the hour of twelve. Feeling my eyes drooping, I turned out the light, and lulled by the katydids, had scarcely’ fallen in “tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep,” ere I was as fully aroused as if seven thunders had pealed above the roof. My heart gave a leap as if it would burst from its embodiment. My flesh felt as though it were creeping and shrinking into a mere nothing ness ! Audibly and acutely came to my ears the breathing of a living being, and close to me. I was powerless to move, and soon returning sense admonished me not to attempt it, for fear I should arouse what seemed from the sound to be a snoring, sleeping Hercules. For oyce in my life, I had omitted, nay, for gotten, to look under the bed for the man all women look for (seldom finding) before retiring, and now a dire calamity for this neglect had overtaken me. The family were sleeping in a distant room, and the pistol lay upon the mantle. Thoughts the most ghastly flashed through my brain like lightning. I tried to pray, but the awful terror crouched so close to me the words faded from my memory before they fairly as sumed shape. The hours, leaden-footed, crept by, and the clock struck two. I opened my eyes upon blackest darkness, and imagination conjured up a blacker hand, more hideous with its threatening grasp near my throat than the fearful and portentous one which superstition saw rising from out the “Sea of Darkness,” sending lightnings, thunders and shipwrecks to the mariners. My poor, tortured body—tortured by the one immovable position—felt as if lying upon a bed of rocks, and sinking each moment deeper upon their ragged edge. Yet I dare not move or scarcely breathe, lest I rouse the sleeper. My throat became parched and dry as the des-. ert over which the simoon had swept with its scorching breath, and years seemed to come and go, marking their passage each with a gravestone set upon my dying body. The clock struck the hour of three. A slight move, the tossing of an arm, a low murmur as of one muttering in their sleep, comes from the occupant under the bed, and a stream of ice seems to flow through my veins. The parting words of the hostess came in that hour of darkness and terror luminously, like the ‘prophetic handwriting upon the wall,’—“Shall find you in the morning suffocated, glaring at me with sightless eyes !” Four o’clock! As the strokes echo through the house, there is a movement of the thing under my bed—a low growl, a short, gurgling bark—unmistakable canine.sounds. The thought flashes over me, it is the wounded mad-dog who yesterday escaped from his pursuers, and has without doubt found ingress throngh the win dow and taken refuge. I have escaped from Scylla to fall upon Cha- rybdis. I dare not step from the bed to fly from the room, lest he seize upon me before I can un lock the door. It grows lighter. My tormenter stirs, stretches and growls. Evidently, he is bent upon recon- noitering his surroundings. Good heavens! Perhaps he has scented me! ! He will spring upon the bed ! And in an instant ' a horrible vision of frothing madness, lingering death and bound limbs twitching in convulsions makes me shiver with dread. Death from hy drophobia—most fearful of human exits ! With these dark thoughts came strength and determination to save myself from such a fate. There was a chair standing at the corner of the mantle, just where the pistol lay, with its back against an old-fashioned bureau that was placed triangularly across the corner. I took in its po sition at a glance, and rose slowly and stealthily to a standing posture. Gathering my drapery in one hand, I made a leap to the middle of the floor, then another to the chair, and from the chair to the top of the bufean, every limb quak ing with fear and horror. Seizing my pistol, I determined, if need be, “to die with harness on my back!” And now, oh ! ye gods, he comes from under his cover to face me! Quick my trembling arm is raised, and click goes the pis tol, ready for the bloody work. Am I prepared, in my tremor and distressed nervous condition, to look upon the greenish, blood-shot eyes, the half-opened mouth, with the foam and blood mingling dropping to the floor from the mad monster? No ! and he wasn’t there, but a placid, good-for-nothing little black- and-tan terrier, hardly as big as a cat, stood looking up into my wan and terror-stricken face! He stared a second in wonder, and then sniffed contemptuously. Without douht, he concluded that the ghastly-white scarecrow on the mantle had been perched up there by the mistress to frighten him from taking up his com fortable quarters in the spare bed-room with the best carpet. Wagging his tail scornfully, he trotted off' to the door. “Not yet, my tine fellow !”and the white scare crow swooped upon him, cuffed his ears, and sent him whirling through the window (opened for the purpose) before he could yelp forth his indignant amazement. So much by way of re venge for the night of terror the little beast had cost me. Then, mortified and chagrined, I crept back to bed and.evolved from my uncomfortable experience this bit of moral: Never cross the river before you get to it. A stoey is told of a Catholic woman who used her tongue freely to the scandal of others, and made confession of it to her priest. He gave her a ripe thistle, and bade her go in various direc tions and scatter the seed one by one. She re turned to her confessor after having done so. “Now go back,” said he, “and gather up the scattered seed.” And when she objected that this would be impossible, he replied: “It will be still more impossible to destroy all the evil reports you have circulated about others.” Moral: Beware of sowing thistle seed. Educate bees. Every time they are disturbed, give them food. They will learn when they get a puff of smoke or feel a jar of the gum to expect food.