foot of which lay their tomahawks. John placed it on a log, with the
muzzle near to the head of one of the savages, and, leaving Henry with
his finger on the trigger, ready to pull on the signal being given,
he repaired to his own station. Holding in his hand one of their
tomahawks, he stood astride of the other Indian, and, as he raised his
arm to deal death to the sleeping savage, Henry fired, and, shooting
off the lower part of the Indian's jaw, called to his brother, "_Lay
on; for I've done for this one_," seized up the gun and ran off. The
first blow of the tomahawk took effect on the back of the neck and was
not fatal. The Indian attempted to spring up, but John repeated his
strokes with such force and so quickly that he soon brought him again
to the ground, and leaving him dead proceeded on after his brother.
They presently came to a path which they recollected to have traveled
the preceding evening, and, keeping along it, arrived at the station
awhile before day. The inhabitants were, however, all up, and in much
uneasiness for the fate of the boys; and when they came near, and heard
a well-known voice exclaim, in accents of deep distress, "_Poor little
fellows! they are either killed or taken prisoners_," John called
aloud, "No, mother, we are here again."
When the tale of their captivity and the means by which they escaped,
were told, they did not receive full belief, upon which John said, "You
had better go and see." "But can you again find the spot?" said one;
"Yes," he said, "I hung my cap up at the place where we turned into the
path." So, with a number of men, John led the way, and when they came
to the fire they found the Indian who had been tomahawked, dead, while
they tracked the one who had been shot, by his blood, until they found
him, not quite dead yet, but so weak that he would die, so they left
him.
* * * * *
I am positive I have a Soul; nor can all the books with which
materialists have pestered the world ever convince me to the contrary.
STERNE.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE FLIGHT OF YEARS.
GEORGE D. PRENTICE.
Gone! gone for ever!--like a rushing wave
Another year has burst upon the shore
Of earthly being--and its last low tones,
Wandering in broken accents on the air,
Are dying to an echo.
The gay Spring
With its young charms, has gone--gone with its leaves--
Its atmosphere of roses, its white clouds
Slumbering like seraphs in the air--its birds
Telling their loves in music--and its streams
Leaping and shouting from the up-piled rocks
To make earth echo with the joy of waves.
And Summer, with its dews and showers, has gone--
Its rainbows glowing on the distant cloud
[Illustration: "ITS PEACEFUL LAKES SMILING IN THEIR SWEET SLEEP."]
Like Spirits of the Storm--its peaceful lakes
Smiling in their sweet sleep, as if their dreams
Were of the opening flowers and budding trees
And overhanging sky--and its bright mists
Resting upon the mountain tops, as crowns
Upon the heads of giants.
Autumn too
Has gone, with all its deeper glories--gone
With its green hills like altars of the world
Lifting their rich fruit-offerings to their God--
Its cool winds straying 'mid the forest aisles
To wake their thousand wind-harps--its serene
And holy sunsets hanging o'er the West
Like banners from the battlements of Heaven--
And its still evenings, when the moonlit sea
Was ever throbbing, like the living heart
Of the great Universe--Aye--these are now
But sounds and visions of the past--their deep,
Wild beauty has departed from the Earth,
And they are gathered to the embrace of Death,
Their solemn herald to Eternity.
Nor have they gone alone. High human hearts
Of Passion have gone with them. The fresh dust
Is chill on many a breast, that burned erstwhile
With fires that seemed immortal.
Joys, that leaped
Like angels from the heart, and wandered free
In life's young morn to look upon the flowers,
The poetry of nature, and to list
The woven sounds of breeze, and bird, and stream,
Upon the night-air, have been stricken down
In silence to the dust.
Yet, why muse
Upon the past with sorrow? Though the year
Has gone to blend with the mysterious tide
Of old Eternity, and borne along
Upon its heaving breast a thousand wrecks
Of glory and of beauty--yet, why mourn
That such is destiny? Another year
Succeedeth to the past--in their bright round
The seasons come and go--the same blue arch,
That hath hung o'er us, will hang o'er us yet--
The same pure stars that we have loved to watch,
Will blossom still at twilight's gentle hour
Like lilies on the tomb of Day--and still
Man will remain, to dream as he hath dreamed,
And mark the earth with passion.
Weep not, that Time
Is passing on--it will ere long reveal
A brighter era to the nations.
[Illustration: WHICH WILL GET IT?]
[Illustration: AIRY NOTHINGS.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air--into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with sleep.
SHAKESPEARE.]