text: AM, 11 fc ff y< »1 HwIB. VOL.XXII SWAMPY; A Tale of the “Black Cypress.” By Kirk Munroe, Author of Doryinnles, Comquisitions, Etc. From a dense thicket of brambles, over which a yellow jasmine had clambered so luxuriantly, and hung such a wreath of sweet scented flowers, as to form a screen almost impervious to light, a crouching figure peered eagerly out. The form was that of a boy perhaps sixteen years of age, but with a face so thin and shrewd that it might have belonged to a man of sixty. It was tanned, freckled, and weather-beaten; and was shadowed by a thatch of sun-bleached hair, that the boy every now and then pushed back from his eyes with an impatient gesture. The gray eyes had a stealthy and hunted look like those of a wild animal. The boy was barefooted and bare-headed, while his only garments were a blue cotton shirt, a pair of coarse trousers much too large for him and turned up at the bottoms. They were supported by a leather belt, still showing patches of tawny hair, and into this was thrust a knife. This boy was known far and wide as “Swampy,” and if he had ever borne any other name, he, as well as others, had forgotten it. He was the outcast of that thinly settled southern neighborhood, his band was against all men and to him was credited till the mischief and deceit of the community. The light was rarely seen by daylight; but at night he prowled about the countryside and shadowy glimpses of him were always followed by the discovery of looted chicken coops, springhouses, or melon patches. Fruit was set for him, and he had eluded many a hot chase. He laughed to scorn all efforts to bring him to justice, and defied his pursuers from the trackless fastnesses of the great swamp, in which he always found a secure retreat. It was generally known that somewhere within its black depths, amid whose tangled canebrakes panthers, bears, and wildcats roamed unmolested, where water moccasins and alligators abounded, and where tempting beds of greenest moss concealed deadly bits of shiny ooze, old Lake Minders had for years maintained a moonshine still, though no living man had ever visited or seen it; and that here his son, the boy only known as “Swampy,” had remained alone ever since the disappearance of the old man who, either dead or a fugitive from justice, had been missing for many months. How Swampy lived, none knew nor cared. His neighbors only swore whenever they spoke of him, and vowed that he would cease to live at all or would follow his father to parts unknown. Even Swampy wondered why he stayed where he did. The only reason he could give to himself was that he knew and loved the Black Cypress, with a knowledge and love belonging only to those who have passed their lives in a single house. Amid its gloomy shadows he had dwelt ever since he could remember, and for aught he knew he had been born in the swamp. Fils life was as cheerless and lonely as can well be conceived, but although he never worked and knew not the meaning of the word “study,” it was a fairly busy one. He had a living to get as well as tiny one else, and he got it by hunting, trapping, fishing and stealing, all of which were to him perfectly legitimate occupations. He had never been taught that stealing was wrong, though he had received from his father many lessons of a nature that he was not likely to forget on the enormity and disgrace of being caught at it. Thus when the boy was thrown upon his own resources he stole whatever he considered necessary to his comfort as naturally as he breathed or slept, and was more than proud of the knowledge that he had never been caught at it. The principal scene of Swampy’s depredations was Cypress Knoll, a plantation that bordered on the swamp in which he made his home. It was near by, abounded in the very things he most needed, and was less carefully guarded than other places whose owners lived on them. Its owner, whose name was Addis, was compelled by business to spend most of his time in a distant city, but the plantation was left in the charge of an overseer, was kept up after a fashion, principally, so Swampy was pleased to fancy, for his especial benefit. Although there was much thieving on this plantation of which Swampy was both innocent and ignorant, it was all credited to him in the reports made to its proprietor. About a week after the time with which this story begins, Mr. Addis, accompanied by his wife and their only child, a little five-year-old daughter, arrived unexpectedly at Cypress Knoll, on a visit of inspection. The preparations soon showed that he had been systematically robbed on all sides, but as far as he knew, everyone was honest and innocent except "That devil," young double of a Swampy. "Tell your sister," he said, "him so known to steal; he steals the death out of your head, and nobody gets enough of your air to look out. Yes, sah! It seems like him plotting to carry off the whole plantation before him dark got through!" So against Swampy was the proprietor's wrath directed, and vowing to bring the young rascal to justice before he left the neighborhood, he laid many plans for the lad's capture. Of all this the boy remained in such ignorance that he found no reason for ceasing his stealthy visits to Cypress Knoll, whenever his hunger or other necessities seemed to demand them. He even began to visit the place by daylight and more frequently than ever, for he had learned that it possessed a new attraction for him, and one so fascinating that he could not resist it. Dainty little Mildred Addis, with her happy laughter, and bewitching ways, was a revelation to the young outcast of the swamps, and to lie hidden in some tangled thicket from which he could watch her became his greatest pleasure. He soon discovered the favorite haunts to which Mrs. Addis, always accompanied by Mildred, took her work or book on warm, drowsy afternoons. Near one of these he would wait for hours, and when they appeared, would watch with almost breathless delight the butterfly-like movements of the child. Swampy had never heard of angels; but he was intimately acquainted with birds, and to his untutored mind, the little one, with her brightness, daintiness, and incessant motion, was like one of the exquisite ruby-throated hummingbirds that flashed to and fro among the jasmine flowers. To himself, he called her “hummingbird.” On this particular afternoon, Mrs. Addis had sought the shade of a giant live oak, beneath which she sat absorbed in a book, while Mildred played near her, and Swampy, from the thicket in which, crouched like a wild animal, he had long waited for their appearance, watched her with a swelling heart and a strange longing to be in some way different from what he was and more like the people whom this child could know and love. At times, the child came so close to gather the yellow flowers that hung about him that he could have touched her, but he crouched low and she did not discover his presence. Suddenly, on one of those occasions, a half-grown Newfoundland pup appeared from behind a clump of shrubbery, and with awkward gambolings and loud barkings made straight for the little kid. With a frightened cry, she ran toward her mother. An instant later, Swampy, fancying that the child was in danger and naturally hating dogs because they were always set onto him, had sprung from his concealment, seized the animal’s throat in his sinewy young bands, and would have choked it to death had he not in turn been grasped from behind and forced to loose his hold. Mr. Addis and the owner of an adjacent plantation who had been but a few steps behind the dog, and who misunderstood the cause of Swampy’s attack on him, had sprung to his aid. “Who are you? You young villain! What are you doing here? And what do you mean by this outrage?” demanded Mr. Addis sternly, as he tightened his clutch on the lad's arm and slightly shook him. To these questions, Swampy, angry and sullen, made no reply. It is that young cub of old Jake Minders's," exclaimed the other gentleman, with a keen look at the boy's face. "The most audacious young scoundrel in all these parts, and one who ought to have been sent to the chain gang long ago. Swampy, they call him, and —" "Swampy!" interrupted Mr. Addis, "why, that is the name of the thief who has been robbing me right and left for some years past. I was going to ask you to help me organize it hunt for him. Well, this is a bit of luck. Aha, you young villain! So you thought you'd kill my dog, did you, for fear he'd interfere with your thieving? His services won’t be needed now, though, for tomorrow I’ll put you in a place where you won't have a chance to steal anything more for some years to come. In the meantime, I'll have the smokehouse will be a good enough place for you to spend the night in." and feeling humiliated as never before in his life, was pushed away and turned into the darkness of the stout leg smokehouse, the heavy door of which was securely padlocked behind him. For the rest of the afternoon he remained there, and at night the negro who carried him a supper of cornbread and a jug of water reported that he was still safe. In the morning when they came to take him to the county jail he had disappeared. A hole burrowed as though by a fox through the solidly packed earth underneath one of the walls showed how he had escaped. Not only had he departed, but every ham and side of bacon that had hung in the smokehouse had gone with him. When this was reported to Mr. Addis that gentleman's chagrin knew no bounds, and he vowed he would not rest until Swampy was again a prisoner. By noon messengers sent far and wide had summoned to Cypress Knoll half a dozen neighboring landowners, as many servants and a score of dogs. With this assistance, Mr. Addis proposed to draw the swamp covers and hoped to speedily run this human fox to earth. After lunch as the hunt was about to start the shouting men, neighing horses, and loud tongued dogs created a merry confusion on the broad lawn that sloped down from the house to the very edge of the great swamp. “Remember,” called Mr. Addis, “the thief must surely be taken this time. He is the curse of this community, and deserves no more mercy at our hands than the beasts with which he shares his hiding place.” “Aye, aye! We’ll have the young catamount before night, never fear!” was shouted in reply as the noisy cavalcade dashed away. Their leader was the last to mount; and as he did so, little Mildred, joyously excited by the confusion which had no meaning to her beyond that of a frolic, darted from her mother’s side and begged her papa to take her with him. Laughing at the child’s request and in spite of her mother’s protesting exclamation, the indulgent father swung his darling up onto the saddle in front of him, put spurs to his horse and was off like a shot. At the bottom of the lawn he set the little one gently down and bidding her run back to her mother plunged into the gloomy shadows of the swamp, amid which his companions had already disappeared. It was dusk ere the weary hunters, angered by failure, began to straggle back from the dim glades among which their unsuccessful quest had been made. Men, horses and dogs were alike covered with the ooze and slime of the swamp. All wore scratched and torn by the thorns of briars and ty-ty bushes, wait-a-bit and wild, rattan. Mr. Addis was among the first to emerge into the open, and as he did so he was met by a group of frightened women, one of whom sprang forward crying, “Mildred! Mr. Addis, your daughter! Look!” The others, shrilling at one another with blanched faces. “What do you mean?” demanded their leader, huskily. “The child has not been with us. I sent her back from this very spot hours ago.” He had hardly spoken, and had no time to spring to her aid, ere his wife fell senseless to the ground. Quickly and far the dread news spread. Mildred Addis was lost! Fearful concerning her fate, dismayed and helpless as they were, they were also prompt to act. And as quickly as torches could be brought they plunged again into the weird darkness of the vast swamp. Within an hour, and less than a mile away, they found the child, sitting between two buttresses of a great, moss-hung cypress and sobbing as though her little heart would break. Her dainty dress was torn, but otherwise she was mud-stained and thickly spattered with blood, although she herself was as safe and unharmed as when last held in her mother’s arm. Directly in front of her, and barring the recess formed by the projecting buttresses of the tree, lay a confused mass, which, as the torches were held lower for a closer inspection, resolved itself into two dead bodies. One was that of a huge panther, bleeding from a dozen wounds and with the knife that had dealt them driven deep into his heart. The other, horribly, frightfully torn and mangled, but with a hand still gripping the death-dealing knife, was that of a mere lad. As one of the men turned it over and revealed the white set face, he started back with an oath. “By me, it's Swampy! and we’ve been hunting him, while he’s been here fighting to the death to save the child!” They laid Swampy away the next day in the family burying ground of Cypress Kroll. The place from which he had been driven was proud to receive him. From those who had scorned him, he had won the homage one only such as are willing to lay down their lives for their fellows. All this happened many years ago. But to this day, no stranger is allowed to pass through that section without listening to the story of Swampy, the young outcast of the Black Cypress. Anxiety at New Orleans for the missing steamer Stara is increasing. She is now 113 days overdue. MY CHUM. From The Cincinnati Commercial Gazette. There might have been two hundred of us at Tribulation Gulch when Johnny Clem arrived, every miner was free to come and go as he liked, but at the gulch we kept a written record of the claims staked out. That record was a miner's warranty deed as long as he chose to remain, and a new arrival who should attempt to “jump” him would have the whole camp on his back. I was keeping the book of record, and the entry in the case of Johnny Clem read: "April 14, 1858 —Johnny Clem, first 30 feet front west of Jack Davis." The new arrival was a young man about twenty years old. He was short and light and his hands were small, though sun-browned and calloused. There wasn't anything unusual in the sight of a boy among the diggers, but this young chap was a bit different from the common run. He was quiet-spoken, had no cuss words to throw around and didn’t seem to want to mix up much. I took a sort of liking to him from the very start, and it was at my suggestion that he entered the claim he did. There was room on the high ground for another tent, and I had him pitch his nest to mine. Indeed, I asked him to bring his traps and share my shelter, but the offer was declined. Every man in a mining camp has a partner unless he happens to be a mighty mean man. I had lost mine by death, and it soon came about that Johnny and I were known as “pards.” That means more than appears on the surface. It means a fair divide of work and income; a confidence in each other; strict loyalty. If you injure a miner, you also injure his "pard." If you kill one, the other is bound to hunt you down. In the old days, when every camp was a law unto itself and civilization was a thousand miles away, the ties were stronger than now. Johnny Clem was an enigma to me from the very outset. His quiet ways and his gentleness struck me as peculiarly strange. He had handy ways about, cooking and a "knack" about arranging his tent and repairing his clothing which were new to me. He wasn’t given to story-telling or joking, and now and then, when I coaxed him to sing, his songs were all sad ones, and there was something in his voice that made me homesick, and brought a craving to throw away pick and shovel and head for the states. I often wanted to ask him to tell me of his past, but that was a license even a "partner" dared not assume without encouragement. So much as you wished to tell was listened to and kept sacred. Beyond that, you were asked no questions unless you wanted to tell. Some of the miners were rough and rude fellows, and there were five or six in camp who were always chaffing at Johnny on account of his stature and weight, and because he was a bit awkward with his working tools. The boy never seemed much put out at the sarcastic flings, but on two or three occasions I picked up the challenges and battered the heads of the challengers. They were my enemies after that, though hiding their real feelings behind a mask of companionship. One day along in November I went up to a store at Pawnee Bend to buy flour. When I got back, about 4 o'clock in the afternoon, I found all the men in camp in a circle and inside the circle were Johnny Clem and a burly, big fellow called "Boss" Skinner. Each had a knife in his hand, and it was to be a fight until one or the other was down. I would have broken into the ring like a wild buffalo, for my box partner was no match for that burly ruffian, but they held me back. I realized almost at once, too, that if Johnny had any earthly show, I should spoil it by raising a ruckus and getting him rattled. They told me that as soon as I had gone, the "Boss" began flinging out his taunts and trying to pick a fuss. The boy made no reply until the man began to ridicule and insult me. Then he flared up and defied the other to a fair fight with knives. A part of the men cried out against it, but the majority favored a fight, and it was about to begin as I arrived. Both men were stripped down to shirt and pants. The “Boss” loomed up like a giant, while Johnny Clem appeared like a child in comparison. Poor boy! I stood there with my heart in my mouth, not even daring to call out to him, and the only consolation I had was in the knowledge that the “Boss” would have to fight me next, and that I stood a pretty even show with him. When the word was given and they sprang forward I shut my eyes and groaned. I heard them moving about and I caught the “ohs!” and “ahs!” of the men, but I saw no more than if I had been blinded. It lasted about three minutes, as they told me. Then someone shrieked out the voice of a woman, not a shriek of pain, but of fear and horror, and it brought me to myself. The “Boss” was down with a knife in his heart and Johnny Clem was sitting down with his hands over his eyes. “He's a woman—he's a woman!” shouted fifty men in chorus as they rushed forward, and they were right. That shriek had betrayed my partner. She had fought the “Boss” as a man, but when her knife struck home she had given way to her feelings as a woman. What more? Very little. On my honor as a man, I had never suspected such a thing. I asked for her story, but she would not give it. Brom a word dropped here and there. I concluded that she had come out to the mines in search of a lover and had thus far failed to find him. But she was very close-mouthed. We took up a collection and sent her away to Sacramento and I never heard of her after she left camp. She couldn't go without a "thank you" and a handshake, but she was shy and dignified. Even in her parting with me, who had been "pards" with her for long weeks, she simply said: "You have been square and honest and kind. God bless you!" The boys had many a sly dig at me after I told you about "Johnny Clem," but I have to tell you how it was. While his ways puzzled me and while he always kept me wondering where he differed from a man, the idea of his belonging to the other sex never entered my mind. A "Romance of the War." From the New York Herald. With General E. Kirby Smith, who died on Tuesday at his home in Tennessee, the last of the full generals of the Confederacy passes away. He was a thoroughly equipped soldier and rose with amazing rapidity from the rank of lieutenant to the eminent position occupied by him soon after the battle of Lynchburg. There is a romance in his eventful career which ought not to be forgotten—his wound gave him his wife. When the battle of Bull Run began, Smith was full thirty miles away. On receipt of the news, he covered the distance with his troops by a forced march and arrived just in time to be of signal service to the southern troops. While making a charge at the head of his force, he was so severely wounded that little hope was entertained of his recovery. He was carried, however, to the house of Colonel McDaniel where he received the attention which his desperate case required. It is more than probable that he would have succumbed but for the careful nursing of the colonel’s daughter. She watched him night and day and her efforts were repaid at last by the patient's full recovery. Of course, there could be but one denouement to this little drama. The soldier and his nurse fell in love with each other. He signed a marriage certificate and received his commission as major general on the same day, and, as the fairy tales go, “the couple lived happily forever after.” There were scores of such instances during the war and they are all interesting. SHE WAS FAITHFUL. From Short Stories. On the right bank of the James River stands the ruin of an old church draped thick with ivy and rank, wild vines, while behind lies a churchyard where weather-stained tombstones are half hidden by tangled briars. This is all that remains of the first English settlement in America. By the door of this church on a Sunday of 1676, a man and a woman met. The evening service was over and the congregation dispersed, but the maiden had lingered long at her prayers, and the man had waived outside until the short spring twilight was merging into night. As the girl stepped from the low arched door, the man removed his high-crowned broad-brimmed hat and approached her with an air of deep respect. “Sweet Mistress Nan, the humblest of your servants craves a word with you. I have waited long for the chance.” “I know not what Master Bacon could say to Governor Berkeley’s daughter that should justify this unseemly interruption on the Sabbath eve,” she answered, with great stateliness. “I pray you, sir, to keep your conversation for more appreciative ears and let me pass.” “Not until you have heard me,” returned the man passionately. "Madam, your father’s injustice I have borne with much patience as I might, but yours, I swear, I will not and cannot bear. You shall hear me and do me right before we part.” “Patience! Truly, you have borne yourself with right, rare patience and humility!” cried the girl, with bitter emphasis. “A rebel in arms against the royal governor, the representative of your king!” “A rebel your father hath proclaimed me, but that maketh me not one verily. I am in arms to protect the women and children of this settlement, whom your father's weak and wavering policy would deliver to the torch and scalping knife of the merciless savage. To protect you yourself, Mistress Anne—” "Enough, sir." she interrupted haughtily. “Sir William Berkeley’s daughter wants no protection from her father’s enemy. "Oh," she continued, with sudden passion, stretching her arms toward him, "now I weep, how I pleaded, for the sake of our love, for the hope of our happiness, not to thwart my father, to bear with the forwardness of the proud old man, even because he was my father! But you prized ambition more than love, and therefore we are strangers. Farewell, Master Bacon. Never more may Anne Berkeley's lips speak words to you. And so—God keep you." "By heaven, we part not thus," said Bacon, throwing his arms about her. The girl struggled violently and would have screamed, but her wimple was wrapped so closely around her face that she could scarcely breathe, and raised in the strong arms of her captor, she was borne rapidly away. They passed through the churchyard behind the church, and almost immediately the forest shades received them. They had not gone far before a man advanced from behind the trees and challenged. Bacon gave the countersign, then added: "How goes it?" "Famously, captain. We have followed your orders to the letter." "How many have you taken?" "Twenty at least. Come and see." Bacon followed him and they soon reached the rebel camp. About one hundred stalwart youths of the province were bivouacked under the trees. These hardy woodsmen had no tents and needed none. Under a spreading oak was gathered a forlorn group of women, some twenty of the wives and daughters of the principal burgesses of Jamestown. Toward those Bacon advanced and sat down, Anne in the midst. “Fair mistress,” he said, removing the wimple from her flushed face and disorderly hair with a gentle courtesy strangely at variance with his recent violence, “and you, fair dames and damosels, pardon me, pray you, the rude deeds which nothing but extremity of need could justify, I will keep your sons as hostages only until our moderate demands are satisfied by the governor and council, and then return them in till honor and safety to your homes.” Flushed and disheveled as he was, Anne Berkeley had lost none of her high spirit. She looked her father’s true daughter as she faced her captor with flashing eyes. "Others may forgive, Nathaniel Bacon; I never will. For former love receives my hate and scorn. And if my father avenges not this outrage, his daughter will." Bacon strove humbly but vainly to mitigate her displeasure. Before he had spoken long, a scout came in hot haste to announce the governor's approach. “We may not fear this army of greybeards, eh, my lads?" cried Bacon scornfully. “The lusty strength and spirit of the province are with us; the governor has but the less. But we must meet them and perchance defeat them.” A guard was detailed for the prisoners and the rest hastened to repel the coming foe. Soon musket shots and shouts of angry combatants were ringing through the wood. But the sound grew gradually fainter, proving that Bacon was driving the royalists back. Suddenly it red light shown on the horizon. It spread, it deepened till the whole heavens were a crimson dye. Jamestown was burning. The din of battle had long died away, the red glow had faded from the sky, when in the pale light of dawn a band of men came slowly through the wood bearing a burden which they laid silently at Ann Berkeley's feet. An agonized face looked up to hers, weak hands were clasped imploringly and lips whereon the death dew gathered fast whispered "Forgive!" And where was now Mistress Berkeley's angry pride? Gone! She was no longer an insulted lady. She was no longer Sir William Berkeley's daughter. She was a woman; simply a woman, who saw her heart's best love lying at her feet. Forgetting alike her station and the lookers on, she knelt on the ground beside him, laid his head upon her breast, wiped with her simple the death dew from his brow and the bloody froth from his lips, lavished on him kisses and words of fond endearment. Not all in vain. No mortal hand might stay the coming death, but she had robbed death of its sting. A smile of exceeding peace lit up the pale face as the brave, if erring, spirit passed to its own place. The seat of government was moved to Williamsburg and there in after years Anne Berkeley shone the bright star of her father's court. But though many rich and noble suitors, English and colonial, sought her hand, she remained forever faithful to the first wild love of her youth. Declined the Test. From The Washington Star. During the war, a contractor made to Secretary Cameron a proposition to supply breastplates to the union soldiers at so much a thousand. After he had used up much valuable time in expatiating on the merits of his protective armor, the secretary said: "You will guarantee it bulletproof?" replied the applicant for a contract. "Absolutely so," replied the applicant for a contract. "Very well, then," said Mr. Cameron, "just put on the sample you have been showing me, and stand on the other side of the room while I try a few shots at you with this pistol. If you remain unhurt, I shall be convinced of the usefulness of your breastplate." Strange to say, the contractor refused to accede to the suggestion, and no armor was provided for the federal soldiers. PROSPERITY TO POVERTY. Statistics Showing the Extent to Which the South Was Crippled by the Civil War. In 1861, the assessed value of property in the south was $5,200,000,000 out of a total of $8,120,000,000 in the entire country, or 44 per cent. In ten years there was a startling change. In 1870, the south had only $3,000,000,000 of assessed value, while the total of the whole country was $14,170,000,000. While the south grew poor, the north and west grew rich as never before. In 1860, the assessed value of property in Massachusetts was $7,125,000,000 compared with $8,230,000,000 in the south. In 1870, Massachusetts had $11,000,000,000 of property and the south $3,000,000,000,000. Such was the poverty of the south that the one state, Massachusetts, listed for taxes more than one-half as much property as the fourteen states of that section could show. The assessed value of property in New York and Pennsylvania alone in 1870 was greater than in the whole south. South Carolina, which in 1860 had been third in rank in wealth, in proportion to the number of her inhabitants, had dropped to be the thirteenth; Georgia had dropped from the seventh to the thirty-ninth; Mississippi, from the fourth place to the thirty-fourth; Alabama, from the eleventh to the forty-fourth; Kentucky, from the tenth to eighty-eighth; and the other southern states had gone down in the same way, while the northern and western states had steadily increased in wealth. In 1860, the assessed value of property in South Carolina, according to the census, was $1,100,000,000, while the combined values in Rhode Island and New Jersey aggregated to $121,600,000, or $65,300,000 less than South Carolina's: of course, the true value is always greater than the assessed value. In 1876, the combined value in Rhode Island and New Jersey amounted to $868,000,000, and the value in South Carolina was $183,000,000. Thus, while South Carolina had $68,000,000 more assessed property in 1860, in 1870 their wealth exceeded South Carolina’s by $685,000,000. Notwithstanding the mighty industrial advance in the south during the last ten years, the building of 20,000 miles of railroad, and the increase in agricultural production, the assessed value of property is not yet as great as it was thirty years ago, and Maryland—a border state—and Florida, and Texas are the only states which have as much assessed wealth now as in 1860. Slow but steady progress. Discovering no bear, I advanced slowly and cautiously. Suddenly I perceived a rank peculiar odor; it reminded me of that I encountered at the zoo in Philadelphia, in 1858, while I stood contemplating some bears in the pen below. I now knew I was very close to a bear, and that from the location it must be a grizzly. Oh, how frightened I was. I had never met a grizzly; what I should do I hardly knew. The thought of being alone, too, out of sight and hearing of the bank, all made me quiver and shake like an aspen. While thus meditating, and looking in every direction, and trembling from head to foot, I soon saw the cause of the odor, standing on all fours with its tail toward me quietly digging in a hillsides. My heart went like a trip hammer, I could hear the blood rushing up through my carotids, and feel its impact against the base of my brain; my throat was dry, and my hands trembled as I grasped my rifle. I surveyed the huge brute a few seconds and saw that he was about eighty yards away. I stood on a hog-back, or ridge, and between the bear and myself was a ravine thirty feet deep and filled with a thicket of underbrush. The grizzly stood on clear ground. It did not take me long to see that I had the advantage; it was the head of the canyon; to my right was a black thicket of pine, in front was the animal, to my left stretched away to the lake. A small sapling grew where I stood; I let myself down on my knees and toes, and projected a piece over a branch of the sapling. I was waiting for the bear to give me an exposure of its side. The wind blowing briskly from it to me gave it no opportunity to scent me. My sensations were those of resignation to my fate. I felt as I imagine a soldier feels on the eve of his first battle - only more so. I realized fully what a small thing I should be in hand-to-hand conflict with that wounded and infuriated monster; but I was determined to fight if it cost me my life. I remembered my ten weeks of typhoid fever at Garfield hospital in Washington, D.C., when I thought my time had come. By this time, I had become more composed; my nerves had resumed their usual tranquility; I was thinking of what an everlasting shame it would be to my conscience to steal away and let that magnificent beast get off with its life; and while thus cogitating, the bear slowly moved into the position I desired, and when there, with a steady nerve, I glanced along the shiny barrel of steel and fixed the sights on a line with a spot about where I thought its heart lay, held it there a second, and pulled the trigger. Bang! went the magnificent arm, and simultaneously the grizzly leaped into the air, uttering a loud, prolonged cry of pain. Through the smoke, I saw it fall on one side and quickly recover. It was facing me; its head was toward me; with mouth wide open and ears erect, it began the charge. I threw another cartridge into the barrel. I looked, and it had reached the bottom of the canyon and was making its way through the brush, blowing and snarling. I coolly awaited its emergence, but it never came out. Midway through the thicket, I could see some of its branches quivering, but I could not see the bear. At this juncture, another grizzly, larger than the one shot, came out of the pine thicket to my right and bounded down to the spot of the quivering hushes in the bottom of the canyon, and was almost lost to sight; I did not have time or opportunity to shoot it. Immediately behind me in the timber, I heard the cry or wail of still another bear. This again terrified me beyond expression. I saw there gazing at that thicket one hour by the watch, 12:30 to 1:30 p.m., October 19, 1812, and no bear appeared. All was still as death, and from inaction, I began to get chilly. No amount of money could have induced me to venture down to those two mammoth brutes in that canyon. I did not even know that one was dead, and was painfully aware that one at least was untouched. So believing that a skillful retreat is as good or better than a poor victory, I decided to return and get reinforcements in the shape of bank. We did so, and when we reached the spot, we advanced abreast, queen in terror at our heels, into the thicket. We found one bear stone dead, but the other had gone. Whiskers Cost Something. From The Philadelphia Call. “Stamps, please,” curtly said the young lady. "With or without?” queried the facetious drug clerk. “With or without! Without what?” was the indignant inquiry. "Whiskers, in other words, One-centers has no whiskers on Columbus. The two-centers have whiskers." 