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Southern Field and Fireside. VOL. 2. [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] BLACK BAYOU. . BY MA 1T E. BIYAK. It is dark down where Block Bayou runs. The oak and the sycamore shadows are there, And the reed bends downward its bristled spear, And the long moss droops like plumes on a bier, So that nerer the autumn's suns Do more than glance with a slclyly glare On the deep waters, that black and drear, Are flowing so noiselessly far down there. It was very dark there one night. One autumn night, a twelve-month ago. The owl remembers it well I trow,— The old grey owl that is hooting so,— For he sat in the dim moonlight And looked through the darkness dow n below On what happened there twelve moons ago; He was very still all that night through. A woman's faint, half-stifled scream, ' Tis so like the prowling panther's cry That any belated passer-by Would hurry onward, nor care to hie T g the spot whence it came, I deem. And the life-blood followed this sharp cry, But only the grey owl, pcrchod on high, Heard the fearful sound, saw the agony. But the next morning's sun ahone pule On a woman's dead, white face that was seen, Floating there where the rank rushes lean, Turned up to the sun with its rigid mien. It was a sight to make one qnail. $ V * «Al tiu> Mnong their green n ußhst dead flaw, and mwt a queen * -' E God! that mu should be so base At to win t woman's love sway, With her soft ringlets snd buds to play, And hear her murmur love-words all day, Then, when tired of her fading face, Whose roses the tears have washed away, To plena the breast that was his for aye, Nor give the poor victim time to pray. Do not go at dead of the night, Down to the glen where Black Bayou flows; There nor deer, nor hunter ever goes, There sings no bird and blossoms no rose, And they say that the blue moonlight Shines In ona spot on the face that rose Up to the surface in dead repose— Shines there all night till the red cock crows. Red River, La. [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] THE PRIDE OF FALLING-WATER. • . A TALE OF THE Old French War of 1755. BY JOHN ESTER COOKE. LXXXV. HOW BEAUBIRE AND CAPTAIN WAGNER TOOK A NIGHT GALLOP. Such is the state of things at Falling Water. Is the sky as cloudless at Wagner’s Roost, where the lord of that domain sits, after a com fortable breakfast, with his feet against the mantel-piece, smoking his ' pipe, and pursuing idly his recollections and his dreams? The worthy frontiersman puffs Niway at his corncob pipo, and thinks his thoughts, looking through the western window of his mansion on the undulating fields which stretch away to ward the great hill leaning over “Glengary.” For the moment, silent and • inert, his mental vision wanders vaguely over the far scenes of his boyhood, or comes with a bound to the pres ent hour—to pass thence, curious and roving, into the yet undiscovered realms of the Future. [The writer of these lines would Tain dream, too, for a moment, as he looks, in thought, upon those “sweet fields” of the far away'past. Lost in a reverie, half sad, half smiling, he sees again the hills and valleys, the forests and mea dows, the rivulet stealing through grass and flowers, and the blooming locusts on the emer ald slopes. He salutes, in fancy, the old manor house.“ Glengary ” —the enchanted realm of his sunny childhood, the fairy land of his youth; and, as the murmur of the oaks comes back to him, could shed some idle tears, as he thinks of brighter days and the dearly loved ones who were then beside him, but are now beyond the stars. Alas’! the old country house has disap peared, even as the forms of those who made it dear, have gone into the dust. One day a month of fire was wrapped about it, and a few discol oured walls alone remained —some towering ga bles, which a child looked on with dreamy in terest and awe, as he wandered under the great trees, and sang his idle songs—holding a hand which will clasp his own no more in this world. The murmur of the trees comes to him even now, and he will hear it always—until it mingles with the winds whieh blow forever from another j land—the breezes of eternity. 1 I J A TIES G ARDNER, I I Proprietor. f AUGUSTA, GA., SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20^1860. But we linger unduly. Let us come back to our narrative. Kvents crowd on us, and the pages which remain must be filled with other matter than idle dreams.] Captain Wagner is musing still, and smoking, when he hears tho sound of wheels without. He rises, knocks the ashes from his pipe, and issues forth, with all tho curiosity of a dweller on the borders of civilization who sees nn ap proaching traveller, that is to say, the means of gathering the “ latest intelligence.” His eye fell upon Colonel Harcourt and Tom, who occupy tho light traveling carriage of Ma jor Stockton, and aro proceeding toward Win chester. The Captaiu hails them in a friendly tone, and they stop to converse. The Cdlonel and his son are going to pay their long-promised visit to Lord Fairfax at Greonway Court, and ask the borderer if he cannot accompany them. To this, Captain Wagner returns a reluctant negative. No, he must remain whero he is for the moment —his services are needed at the Fort in Win chester, where the cannon are about being mounted; aud he must*decline the proposed ex pedition. To this decision lie adheres, aud so, after some more conversation, the Colonel and his son, with courteous bows to the worthy Captain, continue their journey. Captain Wagner having finished his after breakfast evoke, and attended to the .'flair* of his household, mounts his horse and .proceeds toward Winchester. As he does so, ho turns his head frequently, for, on this morning he ex pects a visit from Beausire. Colonel Washing ton had expresaed a strong desire to have the view* of the hunter upon military affairs gen erally, and as it was impossible for him then to i’rav« ’,Vinci...: .h Contain Wngner had sug gested to Beausirepll vis.f*to tl„4f‘<w. -ai'-s* suggestion had been accepted, and on tlia morn ing when we again present Wagner to the read er, the young hunter was to make his appear ance at Fort Loudon. One of Beausirc's characteristics was a fixed habit of keeping any promise which he made, however unimportant it might scorn. Thus Wagner counted upon him, and he did not count in vain. About noon tiie young man made his appearance at the Fort, and dismounting pro ceeded to the apartment over the southern gate way, the commandant's quarters, where ho found Colonel Washington and Captain Wagner im mersed in the calculation of angles, aud the dis cussion of matters and things in general, con nected with the fortification. Throughout the entire day the three soldiers consulted upon the military condition of the fron tier, the means of organizing thoroughly tlte scattered forces in the region, and the best man ner of meeting the Indian inroad which Beau • sire declared to be impending. With these consultations and discussions our narrative lias nothing to do, and we leave to the historian of this wonderful period in the life of a heroic leader, the detailed account of the dif ficulties with which ho had to contend there at Winchester. Some day that picture will be painted, and the world will know that George Washington bore the burden of the public care, at twenty-three, as calmly as he did at twice the age,-in the great Revolution. Beausire and the commandant parted in the evening, with many mutual expressions of re spect and the hunter accompanied Wagner to his mansion, where he had promised to spend the night. They reached Wagner's Roost just ’as night drew on, and were soon seated in front of the great fire-place, where some logs of wood were blazing cheerfully. The ruddy light fell gaily upon the rude apartment, with its rough pine furniture, its raftersajecorated with old swords, worn trooper's saddles, rusty fire-locks, and a thousand heterogeneous objects. The old servant, of whom, as we have said, the worthy Captain Wagner was mortally afraid, placed an excellent supper on the board; and to this meal the good companions did the fullest justice. Having finished, they commenced smoking, and conversing tranquilly. The picture is a pleasant one to gaze upon. Tho worthy Captain half reclines in his huge chair, like a prostrate Goliath, and from time to time sends forth, from beneath his ebon mus tache, snowy clouds of smoke, which lie watches curling upward, with a musing eye, and an ex pression of the deepest philosophic interest. Beausire, placed opposite, is equally absoibed in the luxurious occupation, and smooths, uncon sciously, with his slender hand, the rough neck of a deer hound which has accompanied him upon his journey. This hound is an old friend —the same, indeed, who saved Beausire's life on the last night of his journey with Isabel to the valley, when they slept beneath the stars, above the South Branch of the Potomac, and Loup Noir made his audacious attack. The hound has been with Beausire ever since—has walked beside him when he was borne well nigh lifeless from the bloody field of Luquesne —ana again has traversed, with his master, the great wilderness, and re-appeared at Falling | Water. As Beausire passes his hand now over tho ! powerful neck of the faithful animal. Killdeer, I for that is his name, wiiines gently, rises, and looking with his grave inte.l -nt eyes into his master’s face, again lies'd* in. and rests his muzzle on his paws. Tho companion* conver ■, iron many things, and the loug hours like minutes. Tho autumn uight takes • -g. and flies before the jests, the wild and the grim, low laughter of the Captain, w< . Is full of “ high dis course,” and Bmokes inter mrible pipes to ao company his interminable nories. But as midnight approach i *, this mood changes. Captain Wagner becomes tf.ent and an indefin able uneasiness seems to t*i# possession of him. Indeed, throughout the w,h'e evening, a vague disquiet has at times passed ever his brow. He has talked incessantly to i awah this unwonted gloom, you might suppose—hut, as midnight draws near, the shadow to deepen, the Captain grows more ret-uri*, and it is plain that an unconscious foreboding agitates him. He walks from his chair to t' e window, through which he looks uneasily: ! muses in the midst of his chance-uttered vu ■to listen; and is so absorbed in thought that he scarcely hoars the words addressed to hhn : y his companion. Beausire witnesses tin • *“-»■ cupation of the soldier, with great surprise, aud says at last: “You seem uneasy, Copn.li" “ Uneasy? Well, I ana, ■' '<% Wagner, gloom ily,” I feel" as if someth ng vis going to liap “ Something going tp-ffC e jL “Or happening, which f e fworse. Yes, Beau sire, I'm much mistake, H something is not going to take place win /*. ve are concerned in.” ' “ What osn v » ipg-te r This is certainly a rather my*t-dtou«'»F-rf nol ftement, C. ptain.” “ Mav’x, ,40— he' wateS 1 way I tav*; this t '.JR«r like r Jho frigHu-wwAwp every thing' ««>'* *’ “ Why, what can iir.ppfp to make you un easy?” l “Injuns can happen, Bfausire— bloodthirsty devils, with knives wl.etted for women and children.” s “ True, but what grounds have you to be lieve that we are in danger of an Indian at tack ?" “ I did not fear for you. or myself." “ For whom then ?” “ Can't you thick?" “Ah 1” “ Well, I see you understand at last.” “ You fear for the famhy yonder at Falling Water.” “ Just so." Beausire knit his brows, and reflected. Then he said: “ Has anything occurred to make you fear au attack ?” “ No.” “ Why, then ?” “Go about growling to myself, aud croak ing? Is that your meaning, comrade ? Well, I have only to reply, that that same growling and croaking is away of mine at certain times, and I have rarely known my fears to be un founded. You sec. sir, I'm a hunting dog— born with a nose that smells an Injun as a fox- j hound does a fox, or the devil take it! Did you never hear an old watch-dog growling in his kennel, on a quiet uight, when yov. could dis tinguish nothing—because he heard the sound of approaching feet before it caught your ear ? Well, I'm a fox-hound, a watch-dog, anything you will—for I have heard!" The soldier uttered these words so gloomily, and with an earnestness so deep, that Beausire lelt a chill invade his heart. Ho tried to smile, and utter a jest in reply, but the attempt was a miserable failure. Suddenly, in tho niidst of. the deep silence which followed his forlorn endeavour, Killdeer, j the staghound, rose quickly to his feet, aud with ! his black muzzle turned toward the door, uttered j a deep growl. “See there 1” said Wagner, “ what did I tell ! you? It's coming!” “ What is coming ?” cried Beausire, starting to his feet unconsciously. “The news!” muttered Wagner, with a su perstitious glance, which seemed strange in the dark, bold eyes. “ I hear nothing 1" A “Wait!” •' At the same moment the houpd growled again, and, had not Beausire restrained him, would have rushed to the door. “ Down!” he said, and as the dog crouched, fiery but obedient, the sound of a galloping horse was heard upon the highway. “Listen!” said Wagner, laying bis heavy' hand on Beausire’s shoulder, and bending down j as. the forester does when he hears the ap- ' pr’oaehing step of a wild animal—" listen, Beau- 1 sire I” “I hear!” was the muttered reply; and, now. wholly under the influence of his companion's j apprehensions. Beausire fell into a seat. ‘ As he did so, the clatter of hoofs suddenly ceased. The rider had evidently drawn reia at tho door of Wagner’s Roost. “ Good! as I thought J" cried Wagner, and seizing from the fireplace 6 flaming brand, lie , threw, open the door, aid. followed by Beausire, ! lushed out to the highroad. Beforo them appeared a negro servant, mounted upon an animal which was panting heavily, foaming at the mouth, and in spite of the chill night, steamiug with sweat. The uc gro was nearly speechless from fright, and it was some moments before his stammered words conveyed any sense to the listeners. “Speak plainly, and to the point!” cried Beausire, seizing the trembling negro by the arm, and nearly dragging him from the saddle, “ what has happened—out with it?" The lips of tho servant turned ashy pale, but the hoarse voice awed him into obedience, and he managed to make himself understood. A few words explained all. Just after nightfall, on that evening, Falling Water had been attacked by a band of savages, at least a hundred in number, who were in pos session of the house before any one dreamed of their vicinity. Major Stockton, Will, and Mynheer Von Brom, were the only men present to oppose them, and Von Brom had yielded without a struggle. The Major and his son re sisted desperately, and were lying mortally wounded. The house had been ransacked, and Von Brom and all the ladies carried off. He, the messenger, had been ordered by his master who was bleeding and seemed about to die, to ride and tell Captain Wagner and Beausire of what had occurred. Such was the intelligence communicated by the negro, with many gasps and pauses; and the quick, stern cross-examination of Wagner extracted nothing more. It was obvious that Falling Water had been attacked by some wily foe, who knew of the ab sence of several of its defenders—most proba bly by the savage chief who had been repeat edly pursued in the neighbouring woods—that (lie household had been over-lowered, the ser into the fores*- %d the females far, iraWtu s— ■*' V ‘ Well, that’s afi toleraß, - f soldier, coolly, “ and, now, cof&wie. you see I was not wrong in my fears.” “No, where are the horses?” Beausire was as cool as Wagner, but the steady flame which burned in the dark eyes, and the deadly pallour of the cheek, sufficiently indicated the volcano under this ice. “All in good time,” returned Wagner, “ they’re in the stable.” "We will go at once!" “ No, and I beg, Beausire, that you’ll remem ber your bringing up. It’s melancholy to see a great Injun fighter, like you, lose his wits be cause his sweetheart’s in danger. lam going in the opposite direction from Falling Water, comrade—to get a few friends from the Fort, yonder.” “Is it necessary?” growled Beausire, “and the time !” “ The time is nothing, and I, for one, am not going like a knight errant by myself. I’m not over afraid of Injuns, Beausire, but I doubt if I , can take charge of more ’n fifteen or twenty at j once. Now. there are about a hundred, and I ! want a few friends." Beausire yielded with a muttered protest, and ; quickly buckling on the belt containing his knife 1 hastened to get his horse. Captain Wagner bade the negro continue his way to Greenway Court, and inform Lord Fair fax, Colonel Harcourt, and his son, of the events of the evening; and ten minutes afterward was on the highway to Winchester, accompanied by Beausire, muttering feverishly. The league which' separated them from the ] town was speedily traversed, and Wagner gal loped to the doorway of the Fort, at which he I thundered with the hilt of his sabre. The sentinel challenged, but, hearing the well* j ! known voice, quickly opened the gate: and j j Wagner was soon communicating his intelli- j i gence to the youthful commandant, who slept 1 upon a rough camp bed in the room above the 1 j main entrance. A few minutes sufficed. Colonel Washington 1 who bad speedily risen and donned his military dress, ordered the drum to be beat; and the in | terior of the Fort suddenly swarmed with men. j Captain Wagner selected twenty or thirty, ' who were ordered to act under his command — and then exchanging a few additional words with the young Colonel, and directing the men to procure horses wherever they could, and fol low immediately to Falling Water, he and Beau- ! sire made the military salute, and struck the l spur into the horses, who started forward with good will over the dark road. Behind came the tall hound. Killdeer. keeping > ! abreast of his master without difficulty, and evi- i : dentlv enjoying the night journey. [to BE CONTIXCED IK 01-R NEXT.] Charles Dickens is reported to be at work on j I a new novel, to make its appearance iu the usual j : monthlv shilling form, which is found to be the j I most profitable after all, as it would bo difficult ! to make any serial pay £40,000 profit in twenty j months, by running a novel through it. This j i sum was netted by Bleak House. i ■ > -«■»■— — —• “Brows Study" is a corruption of brow-study, ; brow being derived from the old German bram, 1 in its comoound from mtj-braun, an eye-brow. I Two Dollars Per Annum, [ | Always in Advance* » , THE INDIAN SUMMES. *• Look forth on the forest ere autumn wind scatters 1 Its fromlage of scarlet, and purple, and gold: * That forest through which the great * Father of Waters t For thousands of years his broad current has rolled! Gaze over that forest of opaline hue, With a heaven above it of glorious blue. And say is there scene, in this beautiful world. I Where nature more gaily her flag has unfurled? > Or think'st thou that eon in the region of bliss, i There's a landscape more truly Elysian than this? i I Behold the dark smnac in crimson arrayed, ; Whose veins with the deadliest poison are rife! [ I And side by her side, on the edge of the glade, I The sassafras laurel, restorer of life! Behold the tall maples turned red in their hue, And the muscadine vine, with its clusters of blue; And the lotus, whose leaves have scarce time to unfold, Ere they drop to discover its gold; And the bay-tree, perfumed, never chamflng its sheen, But forever enrobed in its mantle of green! And list to the music borne over the trees! It falls on the ear giving pleasure ecstatic — The song of the h*rds and the hum of the bees Commingling their tones with the ripples erratic. Hark! hear you the red-crested cardinal's call From the groves of annona?—from tulip tree tall? The mock-bird responding?—below in Hie glade, The dove softly cooing in mellower shade? While the oriole answers in accents of mirth— Oh, where Is there melody aweetcr on earth ? In infamy now the bold slanderer slumbers. Who falsely declared ’twasa land without song! Had he listened as I .to those musical numbers That liven its woods through the summer day long— Had he slept in the shade us its blossoming trees, Ur tahnierf tiUhk sweet fcrttn <v»*r loading the breeae, He would scarcely have ventured sa statements so wrong— ‘Her plants without perfume, her birds without song.’ Ah I closet-philosopher, snre. in that hour, You had never beheld the magnolia's flower! . Surely here the Hesperian gardens were found— For how coaid such land to the gods be unknown ? And where is there spot upon African ground So like to a garden a goddess would own? And the dragon so carelessly guarding the tree, Wh*c£ Lhe hero, whose guide was a god of the sea. < i '-'xL I Sure that rcgToirof old was thVD&nd of u*« t> «Y?<fc [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] ANNIE MORETON; 08, LOVE’S CHANGES AND CHANCES. CHAPTEB V. Whene’er I see those smiling eyes. All Ailed with hope and joy and light. As It' no cloud could erer rise To dim a heaven so purely bright, I sigh to think how soon that brow In grief must lose its every ray, And that young heart, so joyous now, Almost forget it or.ee was gay. [Moose. It was a genial, autumnal day. The glorious sun “in unapproachable divinity careered.” kindling with benignant ray the vast expanse, till the shining heavens were resplendent in sil very sheen. The earth, bathed m the effulgence aud clad in its mantle of yellow, glowed with j “ beauty aud life and joyance from above, ” looking gay and even gorgeous in its garniture ;of gold. The air was soft and scarcely less de | licious than when fanned by the fragrant zephyrs of spring. In a window of Mr. Lawton's splendid man sion, situated in a retired part of a large and picturesque town of middle Georgia, might be j seen two youthful maidens, arrayed in riding ; costume, and on the lower skirting of the house : two mettled steeds, pawing the earth in seeming | impatience. The fair equestrians, Ida and An ! nie, are awaiting their respective cavaliers. The > former is attired in a closely fitting, black riding I habit, with jaunty hat and waving plumes, which ! display to great advantage her ['early edru i plexion, while the dress discloses the graceful symmetry of her form. i Annie is arrayed in a dark green habit, with 1 hat and plumes to harmonize. Her dress is ad- I mirably adapted to reveal the full, but light and I elegant proportions of her figure, and never did I she appear more radiant and captivating. | The girls had waited with commendable pa tience a full half hour, when Mr. Longwood ap | peared alone. Apologizing for the delay, he said, he had been momently expecting his friend, I who finally despatched him a note, explaining I that he had been called suddenly to attend a i dying relation, aud hoped Miss Morton w ould excuse the unintentional omission of a eiwility j he would have been only too happy to render. *■ You shall not be defrauded of your ride, coz. | You must go with us," said Ida, good naturedly. j .“Do not mind me," answered Annie. "I I shall change my dress and take a walk, and i thus enjoy equally with you this fine and gio ! rious sunshine." j Mr. Longwood added his persuasions to those i of Ida to induce Annie to change her resolution. She mistrusted herself. Unwooed she had been i won. All the priceless gems of feeling that. ! should have been buried in the deeps of her ! heart, were scattered in wild profusion at his feet, and she feared in some incautious moment he would discover the gift. “ I would rather die than be thus humbled," was her indignant l ought. “But what has my coward heart to NO. 22.