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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