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Southern Field and Fireside.
VOL. 2.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside,]
WE ABE THREE.
We are three—
Lou and I and little Clare.
Lou is graceful, tall and fair.
As Uaidee.
Brown her curls are, and her eyes
(In whose deeps Love's heaven lies.)
Owe their color to the skies.
We are three.
In his boyish beauty rare
Sits the petted, precions Clare.
On herkhee—
Sits the darling bright-eyed boy,
Papa's pride and mama’s joy; v
Lore his sb* . from all annoy.
Wear© three—
Dimplae, smiles, and flaxen hair,
Large brows eyes—that's master Cjftre,
One may see;
Lover of Uta birds and flowers,
Running brooks and wild-wood bowft^i
Os *m®er hour.. «> I• v .
ml ‘ r — - -
Ton and dofies Clare *' 3
jj# Is cobijmuv. t
1M v dpa« me bj\
Enough to know that they are nista-
Dear to me—
She, ths mother of my boy,
(Womanhood without alloy)
* He of both the pride and joy. *
Jacques du Si/i*.
Bcllevigne, 8. C.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
* THE
PRIDE OF FAILING-WATER.
A TALE
„ OF TIIE
Old French War of 1755.
BT JOHN EBTKN COOKK.
(Continued.)
VIL
THE THRESH HOLD OF CHEAT KVKNTB.
We have seen how May of the good year
1155 proved a notable epoch in the annals of
the Stockton family.
Let us dow, in brief words, trj*to show how
it promised to bo an equally important period in
the history of the country at large.
The long rivalry between France and Eng
land in the new world had reached a crisis.
The great prize at stake was the immense un
settled region beyond the Ohio, and on this
“ debateable ground ’’ the adherents of the two
governments had long contended.
The disastrous affair of the Great Meadows,
in the preceding year, in which Washington had
been compelled to capitulate, had aroused the
British government to the necessity of strong
measures, and a comprehensive campaign was
devised for the year 1155, which aimed at
wresting from France:
1. Her possessions in Nova Scotia.
2. The fortress of Crown Point on Lake Cham
plain.
3. Fort Niagara, between Lake Ontario and
Lake Erie.
4. Fort Duquesne on the frontier of Pennsyl
vania.
By reducing this latter post, the whole terri
tory on the borders of Virginia and Pennsyl
vania, including the rich valley of tbo Ohio,
would fall into the hands of the English, and
two regiments of fire hundred men each, to be
further increased by levies in Virginia and the
surrounding region, were drafted to this field of
operations.
This force was placed under the command of
Major General Braddock, who landed at Hamp
ton in February, proceeded to Williamsburg for
consultation with the Governor, and thence to
Alexandria, where the troops were disembarked.
At*the moment when Beausire entered the
valley, the forces destined to operate against
Fort Duquesne were rapidly concentrating at
Fort Cumberland on the Potomac, and the whole
country was alive with expectation.
General Braddock was daily expected, and
the young men of the borders were enrolling
themselves in volunteer companies to join the
regular force, and take part in the campaign.
It was on business connected with a company
to which he belonged, that Will Stockton had
visited his friend Captain Julius Wagner at
Fort Pleasant, that worthy having been elected,
in view of his great prowess, long experience
and thorough knowledge of all connected with
the trade of war, commandant of the volunteers
enrolled throughout tbe lower part of the valley.
In this military programme, Beausire had also
an important part, which may as well be stated
here. On learning thai tho young hunter was
I JAMES GARDNER, l
I Proprietor. t
about to proceed to the East, tho Half King of
the Delawares and other tribes who were friendly
to the English and hostile to the French, had
entrusted him with a message, to be delivered
in porsou to General Braddock. The Half King
who had succeeded the famous Tanacharissou
as chief of the Delawares, was a valuable ally,
and Beausire had been authorized to pledge a
considerable force of Indians in his rame, to aid
the English in their projected expedition.
Braddock had not arrived, however, and
Beausire, receiving the assurance of Major
Stockton that he would pass directly through
the Opequon region on his way to Fort Cumber
land, determined to delay his departure from
Falling Water until the General made his ap
pearance. We need scarcely assure tho reader
that this further sojourn at the good old home
stead, which sheltered the woman whom he
loved now with an inexpressible affection, was
not very disagreeable to the young man.
He remained, and the blush which came to
: the cheek of Isabel when be announced his de
termination,, was a sufficient intttcatwm.of .the :
f’py hours before ho wefit back'to hjls woods—-be
would bask in the sunlight of thosc-smiles which
were more to him, now, than the very light of
day—hear still that voice which, with every
passing moment, echoed with a sweeter music,
and possessed a more enthralling charm.
Beausire yielded himself to the intoxicating
happiness of a pure, first love, with all the ar
dor of a boy. Already his will was enfeebled,
bis strength undermined. He was do longer the
free hunter of the great wilderness—resolute,
strong, immovable when he bad determined on
his course. Beausire, tho decisive man of ac
tion, trained in the wild life of the West, and
prompt to act against dangerous foes, had be
come weak, infirm of purpose—almost an idle
dreamer.
It was the old, old talc. 'The eyes of a girl
had bent the stubborn resolution—two rosy lips
had whispered “ stay ”, and he remained.
He had not even suspected the depth of his
love for Isabel Stockton in the wilderness. Ho
had experienced for the little “flower of the
pale faces”, as she was called, a serene affec
tion, a protecting tenderness, prompt to shield
her from pain or wrong—but the prospect of
separation had been needed to concentrate these
mild rays of feel’ng into the burning focus of a
man’s love for a woman. The very security
and freedom of their intercourse had dissipated
his passion. He had been constantly beside
her—no gossip of civilized life was near to whis
per, and tattle, and circulate the vague, ambigu
ous jest which so often spurs the lover, or, more
frequently, interrupts kindly friendship and af
fection between youths and maidens. He had
enjoyed serenely the deep happiness of sitting
beside Isabel, of looking with fond smiles into
her large, tender eyes; that this tranquil inter
course would ever be interrupted, he had never
for an instant realized.
But the moment was to come, when the con
viction would be forced upon him. With every
step through the wilderness c.i their journey'
homeward the thought had pressed more and
more heavily upon his heart. We have seen
how on that morning when they came in sight
of Fort Pleasant a shadow had passed over his
forehead—how in the deepening twilight on the
evening of their arrival at the old homestead,
his head had drooped and a weary sigh had is
sued from the melancholy lips.
Thus the moment had arrived at last. Falling
Water had opened its arms to the joy and pride
of the household, all tho dearer for her absence,
and thenceforth the girl was no longer his litttle
woodland friend—she was the daughter of a man
of rank, possessions, and importance —a “young
lady" in a word. And what was he? a mere
nameless stranger: not only poor and humble,
but ignorant of his very origin. What could he
do—what should tie do? a return to the life of
the woods was all that was left to him, whose
very name of L’ Enfant de Bois seemed to indi
cate his destiny.
It was this thought, ever present now, like a
motionless shadow, which made Beausire's lip
curl with proud melancholy, but far more with
hopeless sadness. He was wounded doubly
in his pride and his heart —for the poor young
hunter was as proud as any nobleman that
ever lived. It was the pride of conscious hones
ty. of a heart that had never left a friend unaid
ed or recoiled before a foe. But love conquered
all, even pride. Now when he was about to
leave her, he found his old affection suddenly
become an all-absorbing passion. When he
realized fully that he must lose IsSbel—that he
would hear her voice no more, and look in vain
for the slender figure at his side, through all his
future life, the heart of the young man died
within him; and he felt that he loved her with
the whole strength of his being.
And Isabel? Who knows? Who can fathom
that deep ocean a woman’s heart? so limpid
you would say, bqt concealing so much in its
bosom —such bright pearls and diamonds of true
AUGUSTA, GA., SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 1860.
love, and so many mouldering bones of ship
wrecked hopes, serenely sleeping under the gay
'lfipples, and the smiling sunshine I Her de
meanor had not changed, and the young man
vainly sought in her manner any indication of a
deeper feeling such as he experienced at the
thought of their separation. He gave up the
search with a sigh, and resumed his habitual
calmness. The bronzed face with its tranquil
simplicity showed nothing!—like an Indian
brave, the young hunter smiled auiid all his
pain, and met his misfortunes silently, without
complaint.
IX.
home \u *i>,
Our tale will busy itself ore long with tragic
scenes and “moving accidents.” But let us lin
ger for a moment in this beautiful region, on
whose dancing streams and noble forests the
great pine-clad mountains look serenely down;
over which vast cloud shadows trail their
momentary gloom; and through whose fertile
meadows, the toward the wide
and lost their delicate iHnsWms in the struggles j
of this weary lire. '
The grassy knpll, on which the good old
homestead stood—the spreading oaks alive with
a thousand birds—the lofty “ bell-flower” in tlio
orchard, which was year by year closing more
tightly the broad opening of the cider-press—
the flowers, the shadows of the leaves, the old
dogs that slumbered on the portico—all were ob
jects of delighted interes tto Isabel,who wandered
everywhere, recalling tho dreams of her child
hood.
How could it be otherwise ? How could she
be insensible to that rich perfume, which, float
ing on the breeze like a cloud of incense, seem
ed to speak to her of long-gone springs in the
happy past?—to those jubilant notes which the
oriole, the swallow, and the pewit uttered, as
they darted between tho leaves of the great tu
lip tree, or rocked upon the topmost boughs, or
circled gaily around the low roof of the mansion?
The very bees which hovered over the garden
flowers brought back the days that were dead,
and flushed her cheeks with a nameless happi
ness I
Beausire is by her side during allthese happy
hours, and in spite of their approaching separa
tion, a pensive happiness, arising from her sim
ple presence, fills his heart. Between the pres
ent and the future, a veil seems drawn—he
thinks of nothing but the woman at his side.
They visit all the old familiar scenes, one by
one, and Isabel is like a child, again;—three
years seem blotted from lifer life, and she lives
in a sort of dream.
Then one evening she says to Beausire:
“ I would like to take you to the houso of an
old friend of ours. It is not very far—will you
go with me ?”
“To the world's end,” says the young hunter,
tranquilly.
“Itis not so far as that,” she replied, “and
we can easily return before supper. Will’s boat
is tied to the old willow yonder, and we can eas
ily cross —for it is over the Opequon.”
With these words, Isabel descends the hill
with her companion.
X.
HOW" BEAUSIBE SAW LIUHTNMG IS A BLUE SKV.
The sun is near his setting, as Beausire and
Isabel approach the Opequon, which, fringed
with grass and flowers, and overshadowed by
the boughs of greafelms and sycamores, steals
musically onward into the deep forest.
They pass a tall pinnacle which rises on tho
opposite side of the stream, and is known as “Tho
Lover’s Rook,” and enter a cool grove of great
trees, which only half conceal the stream, red
dened now with the fires of evening. They
converse of a thousand things, hut Beausire
calmly avoids the forbidden topic. The time
has not yet come, if it ever will come—on this
point the young man has made a resolution
whicli will be revealed in the progress of our
narrative.
All at once they reach the bank of the stream,
and before them is a pleasant relief to the lone
ly scene. In a little boat, so light that every
wave seems to lift it into tho air, as it floats like
a leaf of tho spring on the limpid surface, sit
Clara and her devoted chevalier, Will Stock
ton. They are protending to fish, but Will does
not pay much attention to his lines. He is ga
zing into the mild, soft eyes of the child, for
such she is in spite of her fifteen years, and con
sequent near apparent to young ladyhood. *
Clara is pensively passing her bare whtie arm
through the water, not much to the advantage
of the pastime of fishing—but Will does not
seem to feel the least disposition to quarrel with
this amusement.
Fpr Will has been for just a year desperately
in love with his cousin. The fact is not surpris
ing. He is an impulsive, generous-hearted
youth, as the reader may have supposed from
his espousal of Beausire, a stranger’s part,
against the great bully at Fort Pleasant; and
Clara is a lonely little maiden, with her tender
eyes, graceful figure, and glossy brown hair,
which has an inveterate habit of covering her
shoulders with curls.
Suddenly a voice from tho bank startles them,
and Clara raises her head like a startled fawn.
The voioe ia that of Isabel, who asks Will to
come and enrry herself and her companion over,
as they design a visit to “ Uncle Davy Burns."
Will acooidingly pulls up his lines, paddles
“Minnehaha,” as his little skiff is called, to
shore; and lands the party in due time upoi the
opposite side. Then affixing his boat to a pro
jecting root, he follows with Clara, whose hand
he holds under the transparent but sufficient
pretence that she requires assistance m ascend
ing tho steep path.
A few minutes’ walk brings them to a hunter's
cabin in the hills—a sort of sylvan lodge, perch
ed like an eagle’a iyrieon the bt •ow of the high
land above the stream. Toward the water, it
tho crevices of
particular frietKi, Will. are Mowed by
old Davy Burns, in person, a weather-beaten
hunter, with thin gray hair, an amiable face,and
clad in dressed deerskin. He carries in his hand,
as though from habit, a long rifle, which has
slain a hundred deer.
The old hunter has been too busy with his
gun to go of late to Falling Water, where he is
a favorite with all tho household; and the un
expected appearance of Isabel, whom he has
often taken upon his knee in past years, brings
to the honest old face a rush of emotion. The
keen eyes under the shaggy gray brows sud
denly moistcu, and tho girl and Davy Burris bold
out both their hands, and seem almost ready to
embrace.
“ My pretty child I and back agin, hot deadl"
exclaims the hunter; "the Lord bo praised, and
this is a happy day for old Davy Burns I How
ever did it all come true I"
With these impulsivo words, the old man gazes
with deep emotion into the young girl’s face and
murmurs wistfully:
“She's taller and prettier than beforel”
Isabel turns from him with a glad smile, and
laying her ringer on Beausiro's arm, says:
“He brought metoack, Uncle Davy; I should
never have come homo without him.”
And she sat down and briefly related her ad
veutures, which Davy Burns listened to with ab
sorbing attention. When she had finished, he
uttered a low sigh, and gazing at her for some
moments in silence, said:
“It makes my old eyes glad to seo you, my
child, and God be thanked that you are home
agin. The squire, I reckon, is most nigh crazy
with joy to have his ‘pride’ safe back.”
Then, turning to Beausire, and speaking in
a voice so courteous that it would have done
honor to the greatest nobleman :
“ Old Davy Burns is thankful, sir,” he said,
“to the gentleman that brought back his little
frieud, Miss Is’bel. I’m only a poor hunter, but
I’m thankful’s if she was my own dear child.”
“And I, too,” said Beausire, returning the
pressure of the honest hand. “I, too, am a
poor hunter —nothing more. But poor or rich,
we can always do our duty, and I tried to that.”
“ I’d swear it I” returned the old man, warm
ly. “ Yes, I’d trust your face, sir, without
knowing who you are or tho place you came
from.”
These words seemed greatly to gratify Beau
sire, and from that moment a tacit confidence
commenced between himself and the 014 hunter.
They seemed to recognize in each other a true
and loyal nature, and to need no previous ac
quaintance. The conversation then turned to
Davy Bums’ pursuits, and Isabel asked if he
had been hunting much lately.
“Not much,” returned tho old man, “it’s not
the season. But if it was, there’s little chance
with that Injun, The Otter, who is always on
the tramp.”
“ What 1” said Isabel, "is tho Diving Otter
still iu the pino hills ?”
“Yes, u.y child, and it’s my opinion that he’s
no better 'n ho should be. He makes out lie's
a Christian Injun, and a harmless old body, but
I’d as soon trust the devil. My beliet is, that
he has a private understanding witli the French
Injuns, and will bring trouble yet upon the set
tlement. But I'll watch him I and the first time
I catch him iu any of his contraptions 111 make
short work of him.”
Soon after the party from Falling Water bade
their host farewell, and returned, crossing the
Opequon in “ Minnehaha ’’ as before. Beausire
was thoughtful as lie went along beside Isabel,
and ascended the hill toward tho old mansion.
His active and penetrating mind discerned a
source of hidden danger in the vicinity of the
Indian Diving Otter, to Isabel, and ho murmur
ed unconsciously: .......
“LoupNoir! can it be possible that!—will
he dare! he is as subtle and bold as the Kvil
One!”
I Two Dollar* Per Annum, I
| Always In Advance. f
“ What did you say ?” said a gentle voice at
his side; and looking up suddenly, he saw Isa
bel smiling upon him.
“ Nothing, nothing,” he said, “my old bad
habit of thinking aloud.”
“ I heard you utter the name of Loup Noir —
the Black Wolf, who persecuted me with his
hateful ”
There she paused, coloring,
“ With his love —yes, that is true. He loves
you!"
And an expression of superb scorn lit up, so to
speak, by a lurid flash in the proud eyes, ac
companied the words.
“That man loves you, Isabel,’' continued
Beausire, in a low, thoughtful tone, “ and though
I do not believe he is bold enough to come this
far into the settlements, unsupported by his band,
yeti beg you to take care—not to venture far
into the woods —he is equal to any scheme, how
ever daring and desperate. He is wild with
his passion for you, and would stop at nothing
—I think sometimes that he is insane about
you!” ,•*
, Beausire spoke with such energy that a tre
jDsr ran through the girl's frame, and she raised
-AtajUfet eye* W fits taw. -It -was' gloomy -
rfcpS’ttffiWntng. i
u'ijle.l t’fe young man, with a stern nremhis* '
eye; “he would cower before me single-handed,
as he has done in the past—as he did that day
when I bade him leave you and speak no more
to you, unless he wished my knife to be buried
in bis breast. But I must leave you —I must go
away forever, —no, no!" and Beausire’s passion
disappeared, his head drooped—“l will not car
ry that thought with mo to tear my breast like
a wildbeaßt’s claws! Loup Noir will not dare
to venture hither with such designs, and there
is actually no danger—no, none!"
Then gazing wistfully at the girl—
“ I lose my senses, I think,” he said, smiling
sorrowfully. “ Every bush hides a foe, aud
the blue Bky seems filled with lightning that
may strike you.”
The girl's face flushed at the tone of the
speaker, and her bosom heaved. But she made
no reply, and they entered the homestead in
silence.
As Beausire's form appeared iu the doorway"
of the main apartment, an individual who had
been gallantly entertaining Miss Patty, the fe
male head of the establishment, rose suddenly,
and exclaimed: •
“ Why—good evening, companion ! Head up
and eyes front as usual, or I’m a dandy I”
Which words were uttered by no less a per
sonage than Captain Julius Wagner, who had
just arrived at Falling Water.
XI.
WHICH TRKATS OF THE AFFAIRS OF CAPTAIN JULIUS
WAGNER.
Captain Wagner’s visit to Falling Water was
occasioned by an ardent desire which that
worthy had long entertained to induce Miss
Patty to become Mrs. Julius Wagner.
The Captaiu, although not more than forty
five years 'of age, hail been married already
three or four times—always as he declared to
“paragons of their sex.” His last wife had
died two or three years before, and since the
sad bereavement lie Had been pining in his
lonely frontier post with no loving companion
to render life tolerable, no helpmate to share his
sorrows and his joys. This he declared to his
intimate friends was unnatural, aud he would
endure it no longer. Not to be married was
scarcely to exist, and he felt such a diminution
of his martial alacrity that unless Fort Pleasant
was soon supplied with a Mrs. Commandant he
would resign his commission, hang up Ins
sword on the walls of his cabin, and retire from
public life forever.
From this terrible resolution —the execution
of which the Captain modestly declared would
have a fatal effect upon the English campaign,
and indirectly establish the dominion of E ranee
in the western world—he was fortunately di
verted by seeing Miss Patty Fairfield, to whom
he had with soldierly ardor, impetuosity, and
quickness, paid bis addresses.
Miss Patty had blushed, played with the
sleeve of her dress, and declared in hesitating
tones that sho had made up her mind not to
marry, hut to remain at Falling W ater, to look
after the household.
The Captain retired, overwhelmed with de
spair, aud took a sorrowful and eternal leave.
Tnroe weeks afterwards he re-appeared, smiling
and martial as before; and in six hours again
laid his hand and heart at the lady’s feet. They
were again declined, with the same assurance,
and this time as he bade Miss Fairfield farewell
forever, lie groaned, and declared his intention
to commit suicide. Having reconsidered this
determination, however, and decided doubtless
that it was eminently illogical, and would do no
manner of good, ho duly re-appearod at Falling
Water, with unimpaired cheerfulness, aud a de
votion greater than before.
He had been carrying on a tender conversa
tion with Miss Patty, tho Major liaviug ridden
out some time before liis arrival and thus afford
ed him an open field, when Beausire, Isabel, and
their companions entered.
NO. 2. I