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106
in having my son in the close connection of class
mate and room-mate with him.”
Mrs. Mitten returned the compliment by re
peating what she said upon hearing that her son
had fallen into the same room and class with
the Doctor’s son, only changing the terms of the
compliment so far as to accommodate it to the
Doctor’s ear.
“And now,” continued Doctor Hay, “you must
tarry with me to-morrow night on your way
home. Let us go over to Petersburg this after
noon, stay there to-night, take an early start in
the morning, and (barring accidents) we will
reach my house by dinner time or a little alter.
There rest until the next morning, when if I
can't prevail on you to stay longer, I will give you
an early breakfast and set you on your way in
time to get home, without traveling much in the
heat of the day.”
The invitation was cordially accepted, and as
soon as one of ’William’s small trunks could
be packed with selections from his ward
robe for the summer vacation, and Mrs. Mitten
could renew her invitations and promises to the
few ladies who had not left, and return her
thanksgiving to Mr. and Mrs. Newby for their
kindness to her son, and their hospitality to
herself, and kiss Miss Thompson because she
bore the family namo and both knew they must
be related, though neither could tell how, and
give each of the house-servants a quarter of a
dollar apiece for being willing to do for her all
that Tom did, and a dollar to the wash-woman
for extra services, and a half dollar (sent) to
the ostler for tear that he might bo disappointed
aud her brother forget him—Mrs. Mitten was
ready to depart.
While all this was transacting.the chaise was
at the fence, Doctor Hay was sitting in his sulky,
Gilbert was mounted on his father’s horse Silver
heels, William on Snap-dragon, and Captain
Thompson at the door getting. comfortable fast.
The Captain escorted his sister to the chaise,
she took her seat, the Captain took his, and off
went the happiest company that ever moved
from Willington. Nothing of interest occurred
on the way to Petersburg; for Mrs. Mitten,
having to send back for her veil just as she
reached Doctor Waddel’s,was not even attended
with inconvenience, as she declared that she
could not think of passing by Mr. Waddel’s door
without lighting aud bidding him good-bye and
thanking him for his kindness to her son.—
These little duties consumed exactly the time
needful for recovering the veil. It gave the
Captain, too, an opportunity of charging William
and Tom to notice well the road, so that either
of them might fiud it without difficulty on their
return. Doctor Hay’s servant, Quash, went back
for the missing article, and strange to say, found
it readily. The dusk of the evening found the
companv at Mrs. Ragland’s, in Petersburg.
The reader will naturally enquire where the
immense throng which attended Doctor Wad
del's Exhibitions found accommodation. We
answer, at all the houses within six or seven
miles of Willington, and at the four villages of
’ Lisbon, Petersburg, Vienna, and Richmond.—
The three first were tolerably thrifty little vil
lages at the time of which we are speaking.
Petersburg was quite an active, busy, commer
cial little town. It was situated in the fork of
the Savannah and Broad Rivers, and contained
some eight or ten stores, with the usual supple
ment of grog-shops, and the very unusual sup
plement, of a billiard-table. Notwithstan
ding these last, the citizens of the place were
generally remarkable -for their refinement, re
spectability, intelligence and hospitality. The
dwelling houses far outnumbered the stores and
shops. It was separated from Lisbon by Broad
River, and from V ienna by the Savannah. Lis
bon wo believe could never boast of more than
two stores and a groggery.and as many dwellings.
Vienna surpassed Lisbon in every tiling, but ex
actly how far, and in what we are not able to say,
e veept in John Glover’s house and store, which had
no match in Lisbon. The road leading to Willing’
ton from Vienna ascended a hill, about a mile
from the latter place, which was crowned with
Richmond. This town was very compactly
built. It consisted of one dwelling house, one
doctor’s shop, one kitchen, one stable, one corn
crib, and one smoke house. Its white popula
tion consisted of Doctor Thomas Casey, his wife,
one or two children, and Warter (or Walter)
Beckly, a student of medicine.
Neither of the four towns surpassed this in
hospitality. Doctor Casey’s house was open to
all, and his heart was as open. as his house—so
was his wife's. It was a great resort of the beaux
and belles of the neighboring villages; here they
were always made welcome and happy. In
these villages, the remotest «f which was not
over seven miles from Willington, was ample en
tertainment for all who attended the Exhibition,
and could not procure it elsewhere.
Captain Thompson and Mrs. Mitten spent a
happy night at Doctor Hay’s, and were at home
the next day by five in the afternoon. As they
stopped at Mrs. M.’s door, the Captain inquired
of William how he liked Snap-dragon.
“Oh! lam delighted with him, Uncle. I think
lie’s the finest horse I ever saw."
“Well, he’s yours, my son. So you see if your
Uncle scolds when you do ill, lie rewards
handsomely when you do well”
“Oh! thank you, thank you, Uncle, a thousand
times. You never will find me doing ill again,
I promise you. lam so glad that you sent me to
Mr. Waddel’s. lam so glad that you would not
allow me to leave there when I wanted to—you
have been, you are a father to me, and the very
best of fatli ”
“Well, that’ll do, my son—you paid me for
him before I gave him to yon. Remember your
pledges, as often as you ride him!”
Alas, Captain! where was your usual fore
cast when you made this present ? *
[to be continued.]
—♦♦♦ -mm—
Wiiat a Good Periodical May Do. —Show
us an intelligent family of boys and girls, and
we will show you a family where newspapers
and periodicals are plentiful. Nobody who lias
been without these silent private tutors can
know their educating power for good or evil.—
Have you never thought of the innumerable
topics of discussion wfiich they suggest at the
breakfast table, the important public measures
with which, thus early, our children become fa
miliarly acquainted: great philanthropic ques
tions of the day, to which unconsciously their
attention is awakened, and the general spirit of
intelligence which is evoked by these quiet visi
. tors? Anything that makes home pleasant,
cheerful and chatty, thins the haunts of vice
and the thousand and one avenues of tempt ition,
should certainly be regarded, when we considf r
its influence on the minds of the young, as a great
moral and social blessing.— Emerson.
The new Light-House of the first class, for
Cape Charles, Va., for which the sum of $35 -
000 was appropriated in March, 1856, has been
commenced, and will lie pushed forward to
completion with all despatch. This superb tow
er will be one hundred and fifty feet in height,
and will warn the mariner of his approach to
the Chesapeake at a distance of eighteen to
twenty miles.
best of fatli ”
sotrtHK&M aras&a em© rauuttM.
[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
TEE KATY DID’S SONG.
BY M. Ml OP WALNUT GBOVK.
The Katy-dids song in the evening hour.
My spirit comes o’er with witching power:
Though shrill and harsh be the notes to some.
'Tis sadly and sweetly to me They come!
They carry me back to the old homestead.
Where the lored and lost, and the early dead
All live again, and I seem to dwell
In the childhood's home that I loved so well.
Its notes are the same, that were sung of yore.
In the tall old trees by onr cottage door,
While the gray-haired sire sat listening by.
To the harsh shrill notes of its evening cry.
And a gentle mother is sitting near—
And the soft blue eyes of a sister dear
Are beaming upon me with looks of love,
Such as angels wear in their home above!
The tremulous moonbeams softly fall
On the oaken floor, in the wide old hall.
Where no sound is heard in the twilight hour,
Save the Katy-did's note from her leafy bower.
The fire-fly’s fitful light is seen
Anon, through the deep’ning leaves of green,
And the glow-worm lies like a fallen star
Dropped from its place in the sky afar.
Oh! ’tis to the simplest homely things.
That memory ever most fondly clings!
And I love the Katy-did's evening song,
For the memories dear that with it throng!
Lone years have passed! The cypress waves
Its drooping boughs over three dear graves,—
And the simple jessamine, planted nlgb, ,
Weeps perfumed dew where the loved ones lie.
And ever, now, when the Katy-did sings,
And the evening hour'its twilight brings,
I go back in dreams to the old homestead,
Where the loved and lost, and the early dead.
All live once more, and I seem todwell.
In the childhood's home, that I loved so well 1
July 10th, 1859.
——w-
[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
ALIENE,
OK
THE RECOVERED TREASURE.
A PRIZE TALE.
BY
MAtJD MORETON.
“Time at last makt-s all things even.
For if we do but bide the hour.
There never yet was human power
That could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search, and vigil long.
Os him, who treasures up a wrong!’’
A year had now passed since the painful trag
edy of tho little Indian’s death, and, except by
the immediate family of Mr. Moreland, the sad
event was almost forgotten. It was always with
powerful feelings that it was ever alluded to,
and so exciting was it to the tender sympathies
of the gentle-hearted mother, that gradually the
subject was allowed to rest in unbroken silence.
One morning Mr. Moreland remarked, looking
up from his paper:
“Wife, did you know that Bald Eagle has
sold off the whole of his broad acres, and in a
spirit of utter disgust, and intense exasperation,
is preparing to follow his tribe to their new
home, beyond the mountains, in tho extreme
west ?”
“No, I did not know he was going, but, poor
man, I don’t wonder at it, for if I feel so much
when I think of little Tenawkea’s sad fate, what
must be his feelings ? But I am sorry for the
sake of his son Yula, that he means to remove
so far from any chance of civilizing, or what is
more important, christianizing the young boy.”
‘Christianizing!’ oh! you ladies are so ro
mantic in your notions. Indians repel all such
ideas with disdain. But lam really sorry for
the Indian, for he has naturally some fine traits,
but this last misfortune has distorted his better
qualities, and I really fear he meditates us an
injury, his manners are so changed, so cold,
and uncertain.”
“Oh! I expect not; we have never intention
ally wronged him.”
The conversation dropped, but an uncomfor
table feeling rested with Mrs. Moreland, as she
pondered her husband's last words.
Yula had never once been seen near his
old haunts. His light figure reclined no more
on the grassy banks of tlie dashing stream, or
guided his drifting canoe over its sparkling wa
ters. His fleet foot never again threaded the
mazy windings of the forest, or bounded lightly
upon the distant hills.
The country around was gradually receiving
tho impress of civilization. The graceful grain
waved over gently undulating fields—the nod
ding plumes of the gteen corn swayed in the
summer wind—unbroken rows of the young
cotton plant stretched in long lines, and glittered
with blossoms of paly gold, as far as eye could
reach. The lowing of cattle was heard on the
hills, where lately resounded the wild yell of
the Indians, who lately roamed masters of the
wide domain. The whole air was vocal with
sounds of industry—the teeming earth smiled, a
glowiug picture of peace aud prosperity.
Substantial farm houses dotted the plains,
thriving villages and flourishing towns sprang
up as if by magic, in the midst of the forest so
lately the hunting grounds of the receding red
man. Stately mansions and simple cottages
afforded refuge to the lofty and the humble, the
proud possessor of far stretching tracts, and the
lowly cultivator of fewer acres.
One morning Mr. Moreland left home upon
business, to the neighboring town, and calling
Aliene to his side, said:
“1 am going into town; what shall I bring my
little daughter, when I come back?"
“Oh! briug me something pretty, papa, no
toys, for I have a plenty, but I do want a pretty
bird that can sing—please bring me one.”
“ Well, ifyou are good and obey mamma, I will
bring you something that will please you, but I
cannot promise it will be a bird.”
“ I will try and be ever so good, but you must
be sure not to forget, papa.”
“ Well, good bye, Aliene, I shall see you soon
again. Watch for mo at the gate, this evening.”
He left her at the door, of liis home, with his
fond kisses still warm on her cheek, and the
bright tear-drop moistening her soft lashes, as
she watched his retreating form, moving slowly
away in the distance.
The morning fleeted swiftly and happily to
the little circle at home, engaged in their pleas
ant labors of love for the comfort and happiness
of the household. Mrs. Moreland, moving quiet
ly, in her unobtrusive,but useful life, was cheer
ful and occupied. The little girl roved around,
with a pleased anticipation of her father’s re
turn ; and wild conjectures as to the welcome
he was to bring her, chased through her busy
little brain. The most improbable suggestions—
the wildest guesses—the strangest fancies, fell
from her voluble little tongue, and diverted in-
to smiles the listening mother. Merrily, but
all too slowly, passed the morning to the happy
child, swiftly and pleasantly to the much enga
ged parent The dinner hour came at length,
ane half the day was over— then seemed the
minutes lengthening into hours, —the hours ex
panding interminably to the watching little girl.
The noontide weariness of that long summer
day induced Mrs. Moreland to seek a few mo
ments’ repose, and placing her infant beside her,
she lay down upon tho couch, in her shaded and
quiet room. Tying on her little girl’s hat, —she
said, “Alione, you may go out to play, but be
sure to keep will tin sight, and under shelter of tho
trees, and on no account leave the premises.—
Daphne, go with her. and let nothing harm her,
do not leave her for a moment. Kiss me, my
darling, and now run out to play, while I lie
down for a while.”
The stillness and quiet of the hour, when all
nature seems to pause and rest, and invite to
repose, and the lassitude of her frame, induced
a lengthened sleep. The few moments stretch
ed into hours, and still the worn mother slept
on—the little child by her side, moving restless
ly, and again falling gently into slumber.
With a start she at length awoke, and beheld
the departing rays of the golden sunset, lighting
up lawn and woods, sky and stream. She
rose hastily,and leaving the still sleeping infant,
she left her chamber, and descended to the piaz
za, upon which was streaming a perfect flood of
the purple and golden glory that illumined the
western sky.
Meantime the little Aliene, wearied with the
quietude around and forgetful of the caution of
her mother, left her nurse and strolled out upon
tho lawn, intending to watch for her father,
and the promised gift so eagerly anticipated.—
Heedless of her mother’s parting words, she
rambled thoughtlessly into the woods, that so
temptingly invited her roving little feet and rest
less young spirit into their embowering shade
and breezy coolness. The birds, the flowers,
the glancing waters of the babbling stream, all
seemed to lure her on, unconscious of danger,—
for how could danger reach her annd so peaceful
a scene. She rambled_on, and on, —her child’s
voice ringing out its glad music, in gushes of
untaught melody, and her free spirit reveling in
the ravishing beauty and wealth of a bounteous
and lavish nature.
A sombre shadow fell athwart the sunny
pathway—a tall form glided from the woods —a
noiseless step drew near to the careless little
wanderer, aud a strong brown hand was laid oq
the fair shoulder, of the happy and unconscious
child. She turned, and looking up, saw the
dark face of a red man, flashing forth fierce
looks of mingled resentment and triumph. She
did not scream, for no fear appalled the bravo
heart of the little girl. Long accustomed to the
sight of the Indians in tho neighborhood of her
home, she had no apprehensions of their pres
ence, no distrust of their good feeling. Look
ing up, with a fearless expression, she frankly
held out her baby hand, and when he lifted her
up in his strong arms, she felt no emotion of fear,
but prattled on volubly to the stern figure, who,
with rapid tread, was bearing her on, and still
on, into the deepening forest.
CHAPTER VI.
“I have raised thee from the grave sod,
By the white man's |>ath defiled;
On to th'ancestral wilderness,
I bear thy dust, my child!”
The parting rays of the setting sun were
casting their lengthening shadows upon woods
and lawn, and distant hills, as Mr. Moreland
drew near his home. Alighting at the gate, ho
called aloud, “Aliene, Alieue, come hither,”
and approaching the house, he looked around,
expecting to see her little figure bounding from
the door, in glad expectation and delight.
“ Aliene, Aliene,” again called OHt Mr. More
land, and “Aliene, Aliene,” was echoed in low
guttural tones, by a voice proceeding from the
small cage that was swinging from his arm.—
The bright green plumage of a parrot, with
sparkling eyes, and head curiously aslant, turn
ing from one side to another, with singular and
speculating look, fluttered in the cage. This
was tlie intended gift of the fond father to the
glancing little fairy of his home.
The mother came out to receive her husband,
and to examine the brilliant plumage of the im
prisoned bird, and to listen to the guttural enun
ciation of the loved name. Mr. Moreland had
amused himself on his way home in teaching
the bird to call her name, as a surprise and de
light to his little girl.
“Where is Aliene?” said Mr. Moreland, “I
thought she would have been the first to wel
come me home.”
“ She is playing about somewhere,” said her
mother. “Daphne" turning to the little sable
maid, “call Aliene; w r here is she ?”
“ I don’t know ma’m,” said the girl, “I thought
she was with you."
“Bring her here, then,” quietly said her mo
ther. “Tell her, papa has come and brought her
a little bird that can talk.”
“Miss Aliene ! Miss Aliene !” called aloud the
ebony Daphne,—and “Aliene, Aliene” was re
peated by the parrot, apparently delighted with
the music of the sweet name, and charmed with
his acquisition of a new sound.
But still no Aliene answered to the repeated
call, and an expression of unuttered anxiety
began to gather on the features of the fond pa
rents. Not caring to give utterance to fears that
seemed too dreadful for comprehension, they
entered the house, and called again on the little
girl; but no sweet voice responded, no light fig
ure appeared in the door-way, to relieve the fears
which began to stir secretly in their hearts.
The servants were called up, and dispatched
in every direction, in search of the missing child.
Her soft name was given back, in prolonged
echoes, from tho surrounding hills, as it rose, and
floated in quivering notes, from the trembling
voice of parental love. Fear was startled into
agonizing certainty of brooding ill. Mr. More
land left the house, remounted his horse, and
dashed off m quest of the little wanderer.
The panic-stricken mother, with an intolera
ble agony clutching at her heart-strings, wrung
her hands in helpless misery, and darted to and
fro ‘through the house, through garden and
grounds, through lawn and grove, calling aloud.
Anguish and horror were stamped upon her fea
tures, and dismay and terror sickened her soul.
In the last half hour, fear had pressed ages on
her brow ; and her dilated eye, her blanched
cheek and quivering lip told of the agony bat
tling within.
But night was closing in, and still no Aliene
appeared. Lights glanced from the open win
dows out upon the lawn and the surrounding
gloom—the brooding of a coming ill seemed to
settle upon the heavy atmosphere. The dis
tracted household flew about without aim or
purpose. Neighbors called in, and joining in the
now developed apprehension, offered their ser
vices, and touchingly testified their sympathy.
The woods were searched, lights glanced
through the darkened depths of the forest—
voices called aloud—active feet roamed untrod
den paths—sharp eyes penetrated the misty
gloom of thickening woods. The banks of the
dashing steam were visited —its sparkling wa
ters dragged. Its ever murmuring voice, in soft
lullaby, went singing on—its music telling no
tales, revealing no secrets, of its hidden depths.
The whole night was passed in fruitless
search —but no trace of the missing child, no
clue to her wanderings, rewarded their efforts, or
relieved their anxieties. At early dawn, miles
away from his home, upon an old Indian trail,
Mr. Moreland picked up a tiny slipper, and fur
ther on, in tho damp grass, lay a little straw hat
with its floating ribbon, which, with a fearful
pang, the fond father recognized as belonging to
his little girl. Like a crashing bolt of thunder
in a serene sky, came the dreadful apprehension
that now paralyzed his heart The Indian, with
his dogged revengeful nature, seemed to glare
upon him with flashing eyes, from the gloom of
the misty forest —his unquenchable thirst for
vengeance seemed to be lapping his heart’s
blood, as he gazed upon the tiny slipper and held
up the hat with its drooping ribbon.
Upon consultation with his friends, he deter
mined to retrace his steps, and banding together,
with reinforced strength, to hunt the savage red
man into the deepest recesses of the forest.
On his way home, he turned aside to the old
home of “Bald Eagle,” not many miles off. As
he drew near, fear almost became reality as he
looked upon the dilapidated appearance of all
around.
The mde wigwam was without fire, or other
sign of having been lately occupied. The ashes
were dead and cold upon the hearth-stone, —the
doors flapped heavily in the wind—broken arti
cles of rude furniture and coarse earthern ware
lay in fragments around, —and not a vestige of
life remained; all was desolation and decay. He
turned with a sick heart. A conviction of the
fearful truth seemed to fasten its fangs upon his
scorched brain.
On leaving this scene of desolation, he passed
by a large tumulus, or mound, sacred with the
Indians as tho resting place of their fathers,
who now roamed the “happy hunting grounds”
in the presence of the Great Spirit, Manitou.—
He saw a fresh opening at the side, as if some
object had been recently disinterred. He re
membered the spot instantly. Here had been
laid the little form of tho poor boy who fell a
victim to the too faithful guardianship, of the
watchful dog. This sight gave added confirma
tion of his worst fears. His little girl was in
the hands of his merciless foe—the ruthless red
man.
His course was now plain, and his plans, to be
effective, must be immediate. Not an hour was
to be lost —not a moment spent in vain lamenta
tions, or fruitless repinings. Swiftly he moved
to their consummation, and before another day
dawned upon the stricken household, he, with a
stout band, of pledged friends, was in rapid pur
suit of the retreating footsteps of his supposed
enemy.
CHAPTER VII.
“Gloom is upon tliy lonely hearth,
O silent house! once filled with mirth;
Sorrow is in the breezy sound
Os thy tall poplars, whispering sound.
The shadow of departed hours,
Hangs dim upon thine early flowers;
Even in thy sunshine, seems to brood,
Something more deep, than solitude 1”
“They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling,mourn.”
Days and weeks had dragged on, and every
thing that means and influence, and anxious,
restless energy, could effect, had been done.—
Forests had been tracked, through pathless, al
most impenetrable wilds—woods around, and
distant, had been scoured—streams had been
dragged—deserted wigwams had been visited,
—mountains and hills, with their almost inacces
sible heights and ravines, had been explored—
but all, all in vain. Alas! no trace ot tho loved
little one could be discovered.
When, saddened and desponding, Mr. More
land returned, alter this fruitless search of
weeks, for the lost darling of his home, he found
his beloved wife prostrate in the raving delirium
of brain fever—grief and anxiety had done the
fearful work upon her distracted feelings and
exhausted frame, and for many, many days, life
and death battled for tho victory,—reason and
lunacy wrestled for the mastery.
All language were faint to portray the black
shadows which now settled in terrible darkness
over the desolate abode. The dry, sleepless,
speechless agony of the father, was fearful to
contemplate—its anguish was deep and unseen.
The shaft was left broken in the wound, and the
heart was bleeding inly—
“ The grief which does not speak,
Whispers the o'er wrought hcnrt,and bids it break."
Slowly, at length, stole back the light of rea
son to the eye of the bereft mother—languidly
came returning strength to the broken frame—
faintly resumed the hue of health its place on
the pallid cheek. The overstrained mind and
feelings recovered their balance—the tightened
nerves relaxed their tension and convalescence
crept slowly on the exhausted powers. Her
feeble step moved once more among forgotten
duties—but how wearily, how painfully 1 The
spring of life was broken—the elasticity of ex
pectation was gone. Her crushed heart lay
bruised and mangled under the weight of her
heavy sorrow.
Weeks had done the work of years upon her
appearance. Her dark glossy hair was now all
streaked with gray—silver lines, drawn there
by griefs unmistakable pale fingers, and her
bent form drooped as some' slender tree from
the shock of a terrible tempest. Life indeed was
there, but hope itself was dead.
Time, to that smitten household, dragged
slowly on, with sure, unflagging, unstaying step;
his tread knows no pausing, no retracing—
whether he bears along in his onward march
the happy and rejoicing, or the wretched and
hope-forsaken pilgrim of this dreary wilderness
of life. •
There are some periods in our being long be
fore the last and dreaded hour comes, when life,
with its exquisite anguish, becomes a burden too
intolerable to be borne. Overwhelmed by the
crushing weight of her calamity, tho stricken
heart of Mrs. Moreland never again rebounded
into life and hope. The past had left her no
memory but agony, the future stored for her
nothing but despair. How often, now, in tho
seclusion of her home, would the unfinished
work glide from her listless fingers, and a shade
of unutterable dejection darken the soft beauty
of her gentle face. How often, when twilight
summoned round her painful memories of the
past, would her sad heart mourn her lost dar
ling with acutest anguish. To her excited fancy,
how would the soft eyes of her child look plead
ingly into her own—the sweet melody of her
voice, with bewitching cadence, vibrate upon
her ear, and her light figure move before her in
its childish grace.
Oh! the sadness, the unspeakablo despon
dence, of the lone hours, when her secret sor
row, with nothing to interpose, wrung her heart
with intensest agony! Where was now the lit
tle form that had first nestled in her bosom,
that had first awakened that deathless mother's
love that was now gushing with such unuttera
ble tenderness, and now, throbbing with intoler
able anguish, over her uncertain fate? How
gladly, how gratefully , would she have folded
her little hands on her breast, and laid her gent
ly to rest in a long, unbroken slumber! With
what peaceful feelings, what tranquil resigna
tion, would she have yielded her back to the
bosom of Infinite Love! In vain Faith whispered
her, that an Almighty eye was watching over
her, an Almighty hand was guiding her wander
ing footsteps with an unerring wisdom, and a
limitless love. The sick heart had now no
strength to believe, the fainting soul no power
of trust. What to that smitten heart was now
the pleasant sunshine, the unclouded heavens,
the balmy breath of coming spring ? What, alas 1
was even the joyous laughter, the ringing mu
sic of happy childhood's mirth, that again echoed
through her saddened home ?
Still the dejection was not morbidly fed and
encouraged, but, true to her woman’s instinct of
unselfishness, with a constant effort at self-con
trol, she would endeavor to break the unvarying
gloom of her clouded feelings—and as she gazed *
with shattered heart, and the gathered brow of
care, upon the little prattler at her knee, the old
smile would sometimes light the eye of the
mourning mother, and awaken the gentle play
fulness of her lip.
CHAPTER VIII.
“Alas for them, their day Is o’er,
Their fires are out from shore to shore ;
No more for them the wild deer bounds,
The plow is on their hunting grounds;
The palo man's axe rings through the woods,
The pale man’s sail skims o’er the floods;
Their pleasant springs are dry ;
Their children—look, by power oppress'd,
Beyond the mountains of the W est—
Their children go to die I”
When the Indian, “Bald Eagle,” had, in his
stride through the forest,swooped down upon his
prey, it was with no premeditated malice, no
preconcerted plan of revenge, although triumph
flashed from his eye, and a gratified vindictive
ness awoke into life the sleeping demon in his
heart. He had returned from some days journey,
leaving his wife and young son to await his re
appearing, while he made a farewell visit to
the homes and graves of his fathers. With his
feelings excited, and his vindictive nature unduly
exasperated, as he brooded over thedeath of his
son, the consequent abandonment of his val
uable possessions, and forced departure to seek
a new home in the western wilderness, ho met
the little girl, who, in her innocent and irrepres
sible happiness, was caroling glad music out on
j the summer air.
The sight of the child awoke almost into fren
! zy the smothered rage of his bosom, and lift
■ ing her up in his arms, he stalked moodily on,
! dwelling upon his wrongs, and exulting in # the
i retaliation so temptingly offered him. He con-
I templated not murder, for he had dwelt too long
in the vicinity of the “pale faces,” not to recog
i nize the majesty of the law, and to fear the cer
tain retribution that would follow so daring a
deed—besides, his own nature revolted from so
dastardly an act as the cold-blooded murder of
an innocent child, and her dauntless disposition
strongly impressed his rude character with an
instinct of admiration.
He strode on then with her young voice warb
ling sweet notes in his ear, her soft arms clasp
ing his neck, and her cheek resting in glowing
beauty upon his swarthy breast. Her words
died away in gentle cadence, as sleep, that falls
so calmly upon the sinless brow of childhood,
folded its wings over her young spirit, and
the words “Take me home, now, take me home,”
! fell murmuringly from her lips.
As she nestled there, with lowering brow and
► angry spirit he revolved various plans of ven-
I geanee upon those whom ho deemed had so
cruelly despoiled him, and he determined to re
tain the child in his possession, retaliating
thus upon her parents the sufferings that had
wrung his own heart. He muttered as he
stalked moodily on, “My nest has been robbed
of its young eaglet, their bower shall be plucked
of its fairest blossom."
Approaching his temporary home, a rude shel
ter in the depths of an almost inaccessible wood,
he presented himself to his wife and son, bear
ing on his breast the little wanderer, as calmly
pillowed there as in her own soft couch, heed
less of danger and unconscious of discou.'brt.
When the morning sun streamed through the
almost impenetrable interstices of the forest,
and pierced the crevices of the rude wig
warn, it fell with a shower of light upon the
! little bed, in a remote corner, composed of dried
leaves, over which was thrown a coarse blanket,
! where rested the little captive in her iuuocence
i and unconsciousness. The glare falling upon her
face aroused the little sleeper, and she unclosed
her eyes and gazed wonderingly around upon
the unwonted roughness of her present resting
place. For the first time a secret fear began to
stir uneasily in her child’s-heart, but with a self
control, which would have done no discredit to
one of riper years, she refrained from any out
ward expression, and lay quietly, and with earn
est eye watched the movements of several fig
ures who moved silently around.
A tall form stood in the door-way, which she
instantly recognized as that of her dusky bear
er through the forest, in their many days tramp,
and whose lowering eye and harsh aspect now
filled her with an undefined fear and anxiety.
Moving quietly around, apparently busied
with preparation for some simple repast, was a
female, whose dark robe was thrown around her
in graceful folds, concealing her person, but dis
playing her slender ankle and small foot, which,
without shoe or sandal, fell noiselessly upon the
i rough board floor of her cabin. Her complexion
! was a clear olive; her long silken hair—the ar
! rangement of which had evidently cost her no
little trouble—was braided in a number of small
strands, and cotifiued in a knot at the back of
her head with a large silver pin; her only or
naments, of the sinie metal, were suspended
from her ears and clasped her bare arms. Her
easy carriage was that of a true child of nature
ignorant of forms, but whose native refinement
softened into grace her untutored movements.
Her clear dark eye, beaming with kindliness
and simplicity, was in striking contrast to the
haughty and defiant expression of her husband.
She suspended her operations at the rude
heart h stone, as the light figure of a young In
dian boy bounded through the doorway and
approached her side. After a few moments con
sultation, they drew near to the corner where
nestled in her rough couch the little wanderer.
Their kind looks and gentle tones reassured
the fluttering heart of the child. The Indian
mother displayed none of the coldness so pecu
liar to her race, towards the child of the white
man, and her woman’s heart stretched out with
involuntary tenderness towards the innocent
and helpless girl.
Days and weeks passed; and although uncon
scious, to the full extent, of the wretched change
in her young life, sho felt keenly its present ex
treme of contrast and discomfort Her child’s
heart pined for her home and parents, and she
passed hours in low wails of sobbing or passion
ate bursts of tears. Their effect told upon her
health, and a slow nervous fever prostrated her
for weeks. The kindly nature of the Indian
mother, still suffering from her own recent loss,