Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 3, Number 13, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 28 September 1872 — Page 8

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Belle,

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"SUPPLEMENT TO THE BELLS."

To aU the roguish ffirls in the trowkl, but particularly to a certain awful JmM,

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Hear the clamor oi the bella— Isftbcls What a world of mischief from tlielr merry heart* upswells,

From the dawning of the light Until far Into the night. .&&£ How they All the house with laughter

And uproar!

Shaking wall and raising rafter With the roar! How they chatter, chatter, chatter, How they clatter, clatter, clatter, How they batter, butter, butter, .' Here and there

Till llie clangor* und the clamors, Like the ring of fifty hummers How thev thunder, thunder, thunder, Splitting people'* ear* u.suider, Till It the t-lglitli world's wonder

I

They're not hoarse!

And the while they chatter, clmttcr, And the while they batter, shatter, How thev xcatter

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In their course! it. $'•

Here a glove and there bonnet^. Out of place,depend upou it, While the loving, palleiil mother, Picks up one thing and another, Never feeling any nnger At the litter and the clangor •sv For the mother loves her daughter If she Is an Js bel, If she is a careless, noisy, naughty, laughing Isabel.

Anddld a frown a moment dwell, On her features. Isubt-1 Knows full well That she can the frown dispel And, instead, a smile compel Ere the llrs can shape a syllable of blame deserved so ^rell. 8o they keep up their uproar,

Scatter things on chair and floor, Laugh and Irollc all the more. But'tis well, .ft Hplte of all the fault* about them, Who would have the world without them

Who would dwell

In a world that had uo BellIsabel

Like a day without a sun r.~l I Like a night wtthoura moon *«*•.« All gloom, gloom, gloom, and aw dreary as a tomb,

Were our dull existence here W I a With no sprightly Isabel, With no noisy Isabel, With no irelesH Isabel, *4 With no naughty Isabel, With no laughing Iiabt'l, With no roguish Isabel, With no Hclle, Belle, Belle, Belle, Belle,

With no charming, care-disarm lug Isabel.

[From Overland Monthly.]

Manuel.| I '|.

The long, hot September day was drawing to a close, at last, and the llcrce sun of the desert sinkingdown on the horizon, when our little cavalcade wound round tlie bend in the trail, and we sighted the little abode inclosuro— half fort, half corral—called by courtesy "The Station," near the Picaho, on the old overland road, between Tusconand San Xavier del Bac, in southern Arizona, and tho 1'iina villages on the »ila.

We had led llie upper valley of the Itlo Grande too early in the season by a month at least and our trip thus far, on the road to California, had been a hard one. The coarse, dry bunch-grass or gaieta, never abundant on this route, was unusually scarce thissummer and as we wero forced to guard our animals night and day, to prevent a surprise and capture by the Adaches, they got scarcely enough of it to koep life within them. Wo were hurrying on as rap idly as possible for tho Gila, where we could purchaso corn-fodder and barley from tho lriendly Indians, and proposed to camp for some time and recruit oar worn down stock, before turning westward toward the Colorado and the Pacific Coast. As we were unpacking that evening on the Picacho, I missed a package containing a valuable set of mathematical and drawing instruments, and some important papers, which I could not afford to lose, 'lhey had been put, with other articles, on a

ftack-mule,

in the morning but, hav-

ng been carelessly corded, had worked loose and fallen off on the road, without being noticed. Finding I could borrow a fresh horse at the station, I determined to ride back up the trail in the cool ot the evening—preferring to trust the chances of being captured by the Apaches to losing the package. The night was clear, and the lull uioon lightod up the landscape so that every thing ol any size for miles around was almost as distinctly visible as at midday. I had ridden at a gallop some ten or twelve miles, when I saw the package, lying beside tho road, under a scrub mm/uife treo, which had raked it off as tho mule r.»n under it. Dismounting, I secured the package ujon the back of my saddle, and, having tightened tho cinch, was just mounting again (or the return to tho station, when my horse gave a loud snort and jumped backward, looktng,up the road toward Tuscon, with staring eyes, distended nostrils and ears pricked sharply forward. I knew what this meant in Apache Land, and was ou his back in an instant, and out into an open space beyond the reach of arrows, which might be shot from behind any shrub or rock. Death haunts your stops day and night in that land ot blood ami man and horse acquire habtts of tho most intense vigilance. Looking up tho road in the direction indicated, I saw something moving along tho trail, about a fourth of a mile distant, which looked like a small boy. Proper caution would have prompted me to turu and ride straight back to the station, but just then I remembered that we had seen, some distance back upon the trail, the footprints of a human being—apparently those of a little boy—in ho dust of the road, and noticed that they Anally left tho track and turned away into the chaparral. Thov were no other footprints with them and this fact, in such a locality, had caused us to indulge In considerable speculation and conjecture as to who made them. Remembering all this, my curiosity was excited and, after a few moments' hesitation, seeing that the object, whatever it was, had stepped and crouched down, having apparently noticed me just then tor the tirat lime, 1 rode cautiously up the road toward it. 1 had reached within ten or fifteen feet otthe otyeet, when it sprang up an 1 darted Into the ehapparalj ana, as it did so, 1 saw what appeared to be young Indian—dressed in Mexican costume—looae shirt and wide panto of cotton goods, and a broad 4ombrero. All.was quiet for a moment, and then I cnlanout, in English, "Who is there?" Twit) came no response. 1 then repeated the question In Spanish. A little, weak, frightened voice replied, in

the same language, this time: "Only a poor Ckristimo tenor} you are not an Apache?" "No 1 am a (fiend/* iTeplled. "Thanks be to God I am saved!" was the devout spouse and the little fellow ran out from his hiding-place, and, coming directly up to me, seised luy hand and covered it with kisses, praying and uttering thanks, and crying hysterically, all at once.

#,*MU W*» w" •#».**•

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Slathered

And

He was a bay of apparently twelve or tbl rteen years of age, amali and slender, and dressed in clothe* mtrnh too large for him* It took me some minutes to

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I always lored chiidren, though I had none of my own and my heart's warmest sympathy was enlisted for this poor, suffering boy. I had some water with me, in my canteen, and, by the greatest good luck imaginable, a handiul of dry soda crackers in my pocket—the remains of my afternoon lunch, lleswallowed the water with trembling eag9rness, and munched the the dry crackers, sore mouth, swollen tongue, and blteding lips, as he rode Lack to the station behind me on my horse, telling his story, little by little, as be could collect his thoughts and call to mind the incidents.

He was a half-orphan, his mother having died avear bel'oreat Hermosillo, His father had gone to Alta, California, three years before, leaving him and his mother in Sonora, to follow when his circumstances would warrant sending lor them and on his mother's death, he had written lor the boy to come with the first party of friends who might be going over the road, to join him at Los Angeles. The party which had been murdered were not relatives, but kind friends and, Spanish-like, he had become so attached to them that he mourned their fate so-deeply as to almost forget his own fearful peril and and helpless, lonely condition when he spoke of it, with tears coursing down his sun-burned, blistered face, and sobs and sighs choking bis utterance. Before we reched the station I had come to look upon him as my peculiar charge—a waif thrown in my way by Providence, which I was bound to care for and protect and the idea of adopting him into my family, in case I could not find his father at Los Angeles, more than once occurred to ine.

All my travelling companions, save one—a big, rough brute, known as Waco Bill—took a kindly interest in the little unfortunate, and consented to my adding him to the party. That night we succeeded in finding him a pair of shoes, which would keep bis teot from the sun and the rough rocks ot the road, and a blanket to wrap around his shoulders when traveling: and, after a hearty meal of the best we could prepare for him in camp, he fell asleep. I had a large black dog—half hound, half mastiff—which had accompanied us on the trip, and was very useful in watching the camp, and guarding us against surprise by the Indians. He was as savage as a tiger, and could scent an Apache a mile away. Butcher went up to little Manuel—the boy's uame was Manuel de la Cruz—as soon as I brought him into camp, and, to the surprise of everybody, immediately manifested the warmest friendship for him. Thenceforth the boy and dog wero almost inseparable companions. That night Manuel slept near me, with Butcher lying watchfully at his feet and, time after time, the little fellow would start up, suddenly reach out his hand to touch ine, and make sure that I was still there, then, re-assured, curl down again under his ample blanket and close his eyes in slumber. Next morning I rigged a temporary saddle for my protege, and, mounting him on one ot my pack mules, installed hitnas a member of the expedition, as we took up our line of march again for the Gila. Big Waco Bill was a thorough Texan outlaw, who had joined our party more because none of us cared to insist on denying him permission to do so than because any of us really wanted 'him along, lie despised everything Mexican, and frequently alluded in no lriendly manner to "that little Greaser" which I had picked up on the road and was taking with me to California. Butcher, who had taken to Manuel, had hated Bill from the start, and this fact served still more to awaken his enmity to the boy. However, we got on pretty well Air several days. Manuel—though, curious enough for a Mexican boy, a poor rider, and not at all skilled in packing horses, lassoing mules, or similar accomplishments, on which his countrymen generally pride themselves—showed a genuine anxiety to make himself useful he was a capital cook, ingeniously adding a number of dishes hitherto unknown to our bill of fare in camp, and with a needle he was as good as any woman, cheerfully setting hitfwelf to work to sew on buttons. patch and repair oar tattered clothing, whenever he had a moment's leisure. To uie he was completely devoted. and there was nothing he woula not try to do, it I asked. On the other hand, be seemed to shrink instinctlvoly from the presence of Bill, and repaid all the hatred and contempt ot that worthy with interest, in his own quiet way. His com, his skin was aoorchec exposure to the savage desert sun, was much lighter than that of moat Mexi cans of the lower class, and his features indicated descent. timid and the presence of actual danger, would suddenly develop genuine pluck and oouragf such as constitutes the hero in life. After we resebed the Gila, we camped near the Pima Villages, with the intention of remaining there some ten days or two weeks, to thoroughly recrnit our animals. One day 1 had been oat with my shot gun after quails and rabbit*, leaving Manuel and Butcher in charge of the camp, and, rstnrnins Just baton* nightfkll, heard, while stili some disUnoe away, a noisy alter-

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that h) hud been on his way

rom Hermosllto, in Sonora, to Los An-

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Califirnia, with a party of am friends, consisting of a man and his wife another boy, and two motos. Thoy h\d turned out froin the road to camp, where there was some grass and while preparing for the night, thay had been jumped by the Apaches, and all shot down but himself. He had happened to be a few yards away from ibe camp when the attack was made and, concealing himself, had escaped detection. The Apaches had only remained at tho camp, alter committing the massacre, but a few minutes, being evidently afraid of having drawn the attention of some stronger partv by the iirlng and, after scalping their victims, rode away in baste upon the captured animals. The poor boy had wandered away from the road, in his terror and dispair, and for three days had been travelling around at random, endeavoring to regain the trail, or discover a station where he would find shelter and protectiou. Late that day he had found the trail, and followed it several miles but, becoming fuint ahd exhausted from exposure, and the want of food, he had turned out to lie down for a rest under a tree and, having fallen asleep, had mi3sed ua entirely as we passed, only a few hundred yards from him. He had lound water oncc, and bad oaten a few mcsquite bean-pods, which had fallen iti his way, thus sustaining life. His clothing was torn to shreds by the thorny shrubs through which he had passed his feet were swollen from long walking on tho hot, dry earth, and tilled with cactus-spines and, between weariness, hunger, and thirst,he was so noarly dead that it is doubtful it he would have had strength enough to reach the station, had he not fallen in with me, almost by a miracle, as he did.

exion, though and burned by

bad returned late, half drunk, and in a quarrelsome mood. On coming luto camp, he had ordered Manuel to go to the river for a pall of water ana the boy. who would have brought it instantly had I but intimated a wish for him to do so. instead of complying with the command, resented it, and kept on with the sewing upon my clothing, at which he was busy, showing only by the flashing of bis large, lustrous, dark eyes, and the quivering of his red lips over his snow-white teeth, that he bad heard what was said to him. Bill, infuriated at this, ran toward the boy to seize and punish him, when the latter sprang to his feet, and, catching the coffee-pot from the coals, where it stood simmering, threw it full at him, a portion of the scalding contents striking him on tho arms, the breast and neck, and causing him fairly to howl with rage and pain. As I came in sight, the boy stood a few yards from the nre with the butchtr knife, which he used for cutting bacon, in his hand, prepared to defend himself to the death, though trembling from head to foot like a leaf from excitement, while Bill was coming out of the tent with his big Colt's six-shooter in his hand, and maliee which would stop nothing short of murder convulsing his Countenance. Butcher, the dog, as if comprehending at a glance the condition of affairs, dashed forward at Bill as he came oul, and the latter stumbling over him, both rolled on the ground. Bill was on his feet again in an instant, more fairly beside himself than ever but I had by this time reached within striking distance, and seeing that he meant mischief of the murderous description, without a moment's reflec tion dealt him a blow with my full strength with the butt of my gun, and he went down like a bullock. The blow took effect partly on his neck, and, though it brought him down, did not disable him, and he, still holding his revolver in his hand, almost regained his feet before I could repeat it. The second blow broke his right arm near the elbow, causing the pistol to drop from his now powerless hand and at the same time the dog, which had mad several savage snaps at him, fastened his teeth firmly in the muscles of his leg, to which he hung for several minutes with a grip like a vise,before I could break his hold and release the now helpless and h^lf dead bully.

When the row was all over, and Bill's wounds dressed as well as possible under the circumstances, quiet settled down on the camp. Then Manuel came, and croaching down on the ground by my side, seized my hand and kissed it, and his voice hal('choked with sobs, exclaimed, over and over again: "Oh, my father, my friend, my benefactor, why did not the Apaches kill me before I brought this trouble upon you I would have died for you—I would, in truth—and here I have put your lile in peril! But, lather of my heart, don't drive me away from you! I will go through tire to serve you let me have the opportunity to prove to you my devotion, my eternal gratitude!"

I was not angry with the boy how could I be? I told him so again and again, and, having quieted him at last, went and consulted with my partners on the situation. They agreed with me that it was best I should leave the party and push on to California ahead. Waco Bill was disposed of for the time being, but he might recover in a few days sufficiently to do me mischief and we all felt sure that it was in his nature to stop at nothing in the way of obtaining revenge. The party could not move for some two weeks, tneir animals being far more worn out than mine so I determined to go sn alone the next day with Manuel, and trust to luck to fall in with another party on the trail to Fort Yuma. It was a risky venture, but the best we could do under the circumstances. We were off bright and early next morning. As soon as we were out of sight of the party Manuel gave a sigh or relief, and asked, with affecting earnestness, "Will you always be my friend Oapitan?" He asked me the question a hundred times in the coarse of our journey down the Gila, receiving the same answer every time. Alone with me, his shyness, which had been so marked while with the party, disappeared his spirits rose, day by day, and he seemed to have almost wholly recovered from the terrible shock caused by the butchery of his friends. I had found somecheaprclothing at the Pima Villages, which he bad quickly razeed to fit hlin and with tpis, and with his glossy black hair— which, when I lound him, had the appearanco of having been backed ottwitb a dull knife—neatly cut, bis appearance changed wonderfully. A neater little figure than he now presented you would have to go far to see. We slept every night at or near one of the old stage stations, and by care and good fortune escaped attack by the Apaches, through the whole trip down the Gila to Fort Yuma. At the latter place we stopped some days to rest and recruit, and wait for a party which was bound ''inside," like ourselves.

There were quite a number of Manuel's countrymen and countrywomen here, but he seemed to avoid them all so far as possible, never leaving my company for a moment it he could help it. A priest, who happened to be at the post, was to say mass thereon Sunday and Manuel told me, with satisfaction beaming on bis countenance, that we could now say our prayers, and thank God and the saints for our escape from the many dangers of our journey. He looked both surprised and pained when I told him that 1 was not a Catholic, and could not foin biui in his devotions but after a moment remarked, ''Then, with your permission, (riend of my heart, I will pray fbr you I" and I am sure that be did so with the earnestness of a sim-

Enewtrusting

le, soul, and a faith which no shadow of doubt. From Fort Yuma to the settlements near Los Angeles, our journey was devoid of special danger or excitement, as we were out of the hostile Indian oounand had little to fear from horse eves, even, with sach indifferent stock as we traveled with. As we drew near oar joarney'send, Manuel's spirits began to sink again, and I saw that he looked upon the fast approaching hoar when we must separate with sadness and apprehension. As we rode along he talked with me of my family, and my prospects in life. He was particularly anxious to know bow he could always be certain of reaching me or hearing from me. When I gave him my address. minutely written out, he immediately sewed it Into bis jacket, so that it oould not work oat ana be lost, and I saw him pressing his hand against it, over and over again, to be sore that he was not mistaken, and had it safe. He would, indeed, like to go to the great city of San Francisco with me, and always be my son, but then bis tether was old. and would, now that his mother wss aesd, And it bard to part with him and his sister—of whom he knew little, as he bad not seen her foryeats— would need his protection. So be oould not so with me to the great city, but he would never ossse to pray for me, and if ever I needed his company or assist asee, he would lme ffctbert and sister.

Y',if

TF,TfT?F,-HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAI Fa. SEPTEMBER 28, 1872.

ing, tearful eyes, and was sure or it, and felt more kindly and charitably toward all the world lor the assurance. On the last day's journey toward Los AHgelos, Manuel hardly talked at all. His mind seemed to be filled with sad thoughts which his tongue could not utter.

It was nightfall when wo came in sight of the~"Clty of the Angels," and I realized that my long journey of thousands of miles on horseback, from Texas to the shore of the Pacific, would soon be over, and I should, in a lew minutes more, be in communication with home, and wife and friends In San Francisco. Just then Manuel called me back to the rear of the party, and, with quivering voice, told me that I must not think hnrd of him if he left me immediately on arriving in Los Angeles. His father had not seen him for so long a time that he was in duty bound to seek him out at once. As be said this he held my hand with an eager, trembling grasp in both his own, and looked up, with a longing, mournful expression into my face. I understood and respected his feelings. He wished to bid me good-bye, then and there, when no one was looking at us. I bent down from my saddle, and, throwing his arras around my neck, he kissed ine with passionate energy then, with the exclamation, "Ob, Capitali, Capilan, and I am going to see you no more released me, commenced sobbing convulsively, stopped it with a strong effort, then rode forward and rejoined the train, without another word. 1 had no sooner arrived in Los Angeles than I went to the express office and got my letters. Everything was going wrong. My poor wife, whose health had been declining for years, was growing steadily worse my business was suffering iront neglect and the need of money, which my partners hoped I would bring from Texas. My trip to Texas had been a failure, for I had found it impossible to sell the greater portion otthe lands froin which I had expected to realize a handsome sum, and what money I had obtained had nearly all been absorbed in paying taxes on the lands unsold, and the expenses of the trip. The steamer would sail from San Pedro the next morning for San Francisco, and I determiued to lose no time, but go at once, leaving my horses to be sold by a friend as soon as they had so far recovered from the effects of the trip as to be salable. Manuel had disappeared as soon as we arrived at tne hotel, but I felt sure 1ft would come around in good time in the morning to bid me a last good-by. Morning came, but no Manuel. No one had seen him since we rode up to the door ot the hotel.

The stage for San Pedro was ready, and I reluctantly got upon the box, wondering all the time why Manuel neither came nor sent me any word. Tho hostler from the stable came at the last moment to tell me that the dog Butcher was also missing. He bad howled and acted like a mad creature from tho moment that Manuel left, and, sometime during the night, had gnawed into the rope by which he bad been tied in the stable and ran away, no one knew where. They thought he must have gone to find the boy, but no one knew the family of De la Cruz, and so they did not know where to look for him. There was no time to wait, and I left, feeling more disappointed than I cared to admit. I had believed that Manuel was a living and triumphant contradiction of the vulgar theory that gratitude had no place in the Spanish heart and yet he had deserted me at the first opportunity, when there was nothing more to be gained from my friendship, and even seduced my faith" ful dog from his allegiance to me. Re flection would suffice to dispel such ideas for the moment, but they came back again and again with redoubled force, and at last I came to acquiesce in them, and doabt that such things as disinterested friendship and real grati tudo were to be found on earth.

My business, by pationt care and attention, became prosperous once more but my dear wife grew daily weaker and more wan, despite all that loving kindness could do for her and a year aftei'my return I stosd by a new made grave, alone in the world, still under the middle age, a childless, downcast, disappointed man.

Once only during all this time had I heard from Manuel. A Spanish lady, well advanced in years—for whose children I bad once used my influence with some success, and who thereafter always regarded mo both as a friend and a son—returning from Los Angeles, called at my house and said to me: "Oapitan, I met the sister of your little protege, Manuel, at Los Angeles, and Drought your message from her. She is very grateful to you for what you did for Manuel, and begs you to accept a little gift in token of her regard." In the package I found a pair ol fine handkerchiefs, delicately and elaborately embroidered, and bearing the initials, "M. De la C." and a note in a neat little hand, but indifferent English:

Don't think too much hardly of your little Manuel, who will never forget that you were his friend and benefac tor, and will pray for you always. He did not wished for leave you, and some time you will know why he did. He would not if be could help it.—Manuela de la Cruz."

I was too much occupied with other thoughts and considerations then to pay much attention to this, but I felt glad to learn than Manuel was not ungrateful, and was sorry—probably ashamed—for having left me so abruptly.

After my great loss, I was much alone, and my mind reverted to the subject manv times and the more I thought of them the more satisfied I became that there was some mystery at the bottom of the whole affair which I had never fathomed. Two more years passed away, and I heard no more of Manuel and bis sister. I drank at the club, gambled now and then in a small way at cards, and, in short, tried—as lonely, disappointed men will try—to forget the past, kill time in the present, and avoid thinking of the future.

One day I was oat riding on the San Brano Koad, In company with a friend. We had both been drinking a little, but only enough to make as feel like driving a trifle more recklessly than ususal. As we were coming home slong the bay beyond the aaven-mile House, we came up with party who had also a fast team, and a trial of speed ensued. Just ss we were passing them we rounded a sbsrp turn in the rosd, snd 1 saw another team coming from the oppposite direction, right before us, not twenty feet off. I had time to see no more. When I regained consciousness, I was lying in bed in my room on Stockton Street, in San Francisco, my leg broken, three ribs fractured. snd terrible gash in my scalp, which extended hair way across my hesd. Thev said I had narrowly missed instant death, snd it might—probably would—take me six months to recover. As good fortune wouldfbave it, my old Spanish lady friend had seen me brought in, and was attending me

ft

-4

distempered

1,

rest or relief. One day I was lying half asleep, half unconscious, with my head as it were on fire, and my ideas all distorted and confused by the fever-heat which ran through my brain like molten metal, when I lelt, or fancied I feltv a cool, soft band upon my burning forehead, and the touch of moist, velvety lips on mine. It was some seconds before I was fully awakened to consciousness and then, when I turned my head painfully on my pillow, I saw that there was no one else in the room. I was sure that I oould not have been wholly mistaken and reaching the bell, I rang it for my kind volunteer nurse, who came at once.

There was somebody else in this room a moment since I said, with a positiveness I did not wholly feel, but with a determination to know the truth. "Yes, Oapitan, you are right!" Then, coming to me, she shook my hand, and said, "If you promise me not to to be angry, I will tell you something."

I gave the promise. "Well, then, I have taken a liberty. Manuela, the sister of the boy you found upop the desert, has come to attend upon you, now that you are in trouble ana need loving care and assistance." "But I never saw ber in my life J" I said. "You have seen her brother, and been his friend and for his sake, she is devoted to you." "But why did not Manuel come?" I ftsked* "Their father died recently and he was detained at home."

Hardly knowing what I did, I said, "Call Manuela in, then The girl came in, and stood, with cheeks suffused and downcast eyes, quietly by my bedside. She was taller than Manuel,and of lighter complexion, but had the same glorious eyes of liquid black, the same dark hair with the tinge ot purple when the sunlight rested upon it, the same bright, expressive countenance, and quick, graceful movement of the little taper hands when speaking. She was very fair to look upon—as the young palm-tree by the desert spring—and there was goodness, as well as Deauty, in ber face.

From that day I began to mend. Manuela stopped with my nurse, and was ever at inv bedside, or ready to come at my call. Neatness and taste were in all she did, and at her touch all things grew beautiful. She practised reading English, hour after hour, every day, to amuse me, profiting, at the same time, by the lessons. Her hand prepared little dulees and other dishes to tempt my returning appetite. Her hand arranged the flowers that filled my room with fragrance and her hand bathed my aching brow, and arranged mv pillows when sleep graw heavy on my eyelids. You can guess the rest.

When I was able to sit up once more, and begin to bear my weight npon the broken limb and move about the room with the aid ot a crutch and the cbaira, I was madly, hopelessly in love—despite thedesparity of our years—with Manuela, and determined that she should not leave me, if I coulU prevent it. The time came when she told me that she must go home that I did not need her oare and assistance any longer. Then I poured forth all that was in my heart toH her that I should always need her care and sympathy and assistance, and made her the offer of my hand and heart, in all good faith and sincerity, confident of acceptance. "And she accepted you, ot course?"

No she did not. She broke from me wjth a startled look, as if something she bad long dreaded had come upon her at last, unexpectedly and answered me, proudly, but sadly: Love me? Yes she could love me—did love me —would always love me. She was proud to receive a true man's love, and own that she returned it. But she was an orphan—their father had died since I left Manuel at Los Angeles poor almost uneducated, and lacking all ot what we call the necessary accomplishments. She could not do me credit in society and would not risk the chance ot seeing me regret my follv, and feeling ashamed of my hasty choice. She loved me too much to make me miserable for life but would pray lor me, night and day, as the dearest and truest friend she had ever found on earth, and would ask me to love ber as a sister, or daughter (If I preferred it), and believe her worthy of my affection. She had come to prove her gratitude to me and do her duty, not to entrap me Into a marriage beneath me and she wished me to believe it.

All this, and more, she told mo then broke down wholly, and wept passionately, rejecting all my attempts to comfort ber. She must, and would, go at once, now that this bad happened and she left me—half stunned, bewildered and utterlv downcast at this crushing blow—to make the arrangements for her journey back to Los Angeles.

My other nurse came in soon after, with ber eyes full of tears but I could not talk, even to her, of the great sorrow which had come upon me it was too sacred for others than Manuela and I to speak of, even though, as I expected, she knew It all. That night I never closed my eyes in sleep. I formed a thousand plans, but abandoned each, in turn, as impracticable, feeling that, if Manuela had decided on her course, nothing would turn her from it. Manuela came, in the afternoon, to bid me good by. She was pale, sad and silent. She took my hand and I, no longer able to suppress my emotion, turned my head away, in speechless agony. She stood a moment, irresolute, and then, in an instant, a wondrous change swept over her. Her arms were around my neck, her head was upon my bosom, and her warm tears falling thick and fast apon tny bands. When, at last, she looked up Into my face, she said: "I thought that I was doing my duty, and had the strength to bear it, and go away alone but I bad not. I can not part with you again!" "Again?" I repeated Inquiringly.

Yes—my true, my only friendagain The first time was at Los Angeles. I am the little Manuel whom you found on the Arizona desert, and cared for and protected at the risk of your life. God brought us together then,, and now asain, for some good purpose and I will not leave you more! You know all now I will be your loving wife, to honor and serve you si ways if you still desire it!"

She said this with trembling eagerness. In truth I wished it. Then she explained bow she bad come to deceive in Arizona, and so long kept up the deception. There was a boy in the party, somewhat older then herself— she was fourteen then—and when the Indians charged upon the camp, ahe was sitting in the shade, a little distance away, mending some of his clothing. When she realized that ber companions snd protectors were no more, snd the full horror oi ber situa-

tion broke upon her mind, instinct told ber that her chances of safety would be better with whoever she might if she donned the costume of the

V- A ,*

meet, other

ried away to«meet her father before the secret of her sex should be discovered by others, and succeeded in assuming again her proper costume, without the story becomiug known to any one but him. Meeting our mutual friend—my old Spanish nurse—she had confided the whole story to hor. and she had kept the secret well. God bless her!

The dog Butcher was hunting for Manuel for two days, and recognized Manuela in his place the moment that he lound her. He was with her still he is with us now. That is his bark— the noble old fellow! This is my ranch that is our house, under the madronotrees up there at the entrance of the canon yonder and that is Manuela—» God bless her!—coming down to the gate-way to meet us, with little Manuel and Manuela by ber side. I tell you what it is, old friend, I am just the happiest man in all California, and the most contented, you may believe me!

I went in with him, and there, in the quiet summer evening, when the whole air was fragrant with the breath of flowers, saw him sitting beneath his own vine and fig-tree, with his brighteyed, laughing children on bis knees and Manuela, whose fair face was radiant with love and pride, leaning trustingly on his shoulder, as one who knows whence comes the strength which, through all trials, shall sustain her and I did not believe him.

SALLIETSBEDTIME.

The Woes of a Fond Father.

A father, not very far from here, says a writer under the cognomen of Daad in the Norristown, Pr., Herald, read in the paper the other morning that tho "Utfca girls who want their beaux to go home the same night they call, pull a string at the proper hour which reverses a picture, on the back of which appear thes*. words Ten o'clock is my bedtime.

This father, who has a daughter given to late houre when a certain youth sits up and helps her to keep them, thought he would try this Utica plan, so he wrote in large characters, on the back of a huge portrait of George Washington this inscription:

TEN O'CLOCK IS SALLIE'S HE DTI G. I Then he arranged the picture so that when he attached a string to the frame, he could reverse it lrom his bed chamber. But when Sallio entered the room an hour later, her aistbctic eye was outraged by observing tho portrait of George hangiug slightly out of plumb, so to speak, and in adjusting it her father's little game was revealed in all its subtleingenuity.

Sallio was not a Utica girl, however, so she just went to work nnd noarly effaced the figuro 0, leaving tho 1 standing solitary and uprifcht, which, you will observe, made a fow hours difference in her bedtime. That night, as usual, Sallie received a visit from her young man—which his front name it was Henry—and her paternal parent attached bis string to G. W.'s portrait and retired to his downy couch.

About 10 o'clock, while Henry and Sallie were engaged in the same knotty problem, with their heads socontigious that you couldn't insert a piece of tissue paper between them, the Father of his Country suddenly turned his face to the wall, as if he was ashamed to gaze npon such doings. Ilenry, with a sudden start, glanced at the picture, and saw the handwriting on the wall, as it were, which read "1 o'clock is Sallie's bedtime." Then Henry looked at Sallie with an interargation in bis eye, which was partially dispelled by tbt fair maid murmuring "It's all right.'

Henry said of course It was all rightthat he had long known 1 o'clock was her bedtime, and he thought it wan plenty late enough, too, for a young girl to be oat of bed, but what business he said, bad George Washington's portrait to be flopping about that way? Then Sallie explained—and the twain resumed work on the problem, Henry putting his arm around Sallie to prevent her falling off the chair.

Meanwhile the old man WAS listening for the front door to open, and thiH would-be son-in-law's footsteps pattering over the pavement with the toes or his boots pointing froin the house. These sounds not rilling on his ears, and thinking maybe tho old thing didn't work right, he gavo the string another pull, and George W. again faced the audience. Then he listened, but ho heard no footsteps—nothing but a peculiar sound, something resembling the popping of champagne corks.

Then be grew cross, and gavo the string another jerk, causing G. W. to turn about with violent suddenness, Just as if he was out of humor too.

And still all is aulet below—except that popping sound. Then the string was pulled again— and again—and again—indicating that the old fellow was just ready toexplodo with rage. And for fully fifteen minutes dia he have the portrait of the man who could not tell a lie turning excited flip-flaps and things on the wall, like a bewitched gymnast, until he fell asleep exhausted—Sallie's father fell asleep, not the portrait.

Henry kissed Sallie good night at one o'clock A. M., remarking, as he did so, that it would seem like a long, weary year ere he would see lier again—because, you know, he didn't expect to see her again until tho exening of that day.

Tho next morning her father examined that portrait, and when be fully understood the situation ho was pained. He shed a silent tear, detached the string, sponged out the inscription, and walked away with the weight of forty-five years on his shoulders—that being his age. He says a girl who would go back on hor father that way would ju"t as lief as not disgrace ber parents by marrying a Congressman.

GOLDEN PARAGRAPHS.

Love swings on little binges. Hard datles often save from burtft^ courses.

Second thoughts are the adopted children of experience. We live in deeds, not in years in thoughts, not in breaths.

A slowness to applaud betrays a celd temper and an envious spirit. Our own heart, and not other men's opinions, forms our true honor.

Care to our coffin adds a nail, no doubt. And every grlo, to merry, draws one oui. Tell not your secrets to your servant, for he will then be your master.

We should not retain the remembrance of a fuilf- w» h-ir« once lorglyen. ,a)

It was a fruitful iaylng of Thoreau, Be not not simply good be good lor something

The passionate are like men standing on their beads tbey see all things the wrong way.—[Plato.

Perfect virtue is to do unwitnessed