THE VIGILANTS.-I. EDGAR JONES. Deep down within a mountain vale, where guardian peaks arise In glittering snow-tipped spears which pierce the azure of the skies, Just as the pioneers began their pleasures of the night, And sunset glorified the hills with crimson-tinted light, The moon, full-orbed, its magic spread o'er landscapes grand and bold, And wove its threads of silver light mid sunset's bars of gold, A type of that which lured these men from firesides far away To beat at Nature's treasure vaults undaunted day by day; Strange groups were there, unkempt and rude, wild-eyed, steel-hearted men, When, loudly calling as he rode, there galloped through the glen, Gray-haired, gray-eyed, cool, stern and grim, their leader, Broncho Ben. "Quick! to your saddles, Vigilants! They're running off our stock!" And echoes caught and tossed the stern commands from rock to rock; "Those Indian demons once again have found our herds at grass, We'll ride straight through the lower park, and meet them at the pass!" Swift words, swift deeds. They dashed away, led on by Captain Ben, And vanished down the vale toward the entrance of the glen. A short half hour and they had neared the green vale's rocky gate The Indian bandits rushing on in headlong race with fate; The miners sighting every gun through eyes aflame with hate. Out flash the rifle's notes of death, in emphasis of fire, Out rang the shouts and answering yells, in tones of deadly ire, While many a warrior kissed the earth as border rifles flashed, And many a steed, its rider gone, in wild abandon dashed. "Quick, men! There go the leader and his son!" cried Cap tain Ben; "Shoot down the dogs! By heaven, they're gone! You've missed them once again! Give me that Winchester, McCook, I'll bring them down to dust Before they reach yon bowlder piles and heaped up lava crust! There! Those shots dropped them! What! Not gone? The youngster not yet dead? Bring water here from yonder brook to bathe his face and head, Tear off that hunting-shirt and find the wound from which he bled. " “Well, who'd have thought it? Here's a go! Just see that rippling hair. Poor child! That face, without the paint, is beautiful and fair. That greaser devil after all was mated with a dove By Jove! What won't these women do, and dare it all for love? Some mother's sunbeam, father's pet, lured off to share a life Of hardship, plunder, blood-stained crime, of peril, gore and strife. I'd give this hand to change that shot! If I had only known That I was shooting at a girl, that man had died alone. What's that you say? 'A white man, too?' Wash off that Spanish brown. Ah! now I know that handsome face. It's gambler Sam McKown, Who knifed those fellows from the States, last year and skipped the town. "Who knows the girl? Light up some brush, we'll save her if we can To live repentant of the past and cheer some better man." Up flashed the fire. With weird effect it lit the curious scene The group of roughly costumed men, the wounded girl be tween And as its ruddy glow revealed the maiden's youthful grace, Reflected in those dark eyes fixed upon the leader's face, There stole o'er his a veil of gray, a dread and awesome change, The stern eyes melting into love, emotions deep and strange. With one deep groan he sank to earth, and, kneeling at her side, His tears were mingled with her blood, her life's low ebbing tide. She kissed him, murmured some low word, smiled softly once, and died. They buried her there where the pines and towering mountain height Look down upon the lonely grave, as many a moonlit night A gray-haired man with silent mien rides down the pass alone And kneels beside the rough-hewn shaft of gray, unlettered stone. They questioned him at first, but he in accents hoarse and strained Asked but their silence, turned aside, and never once explained. So life flows on its turbid course in camp at Diggers' Glen, And still the vigilants are led by stern-eyed Broncho Ben. "Who was the maiden?" One man knows, but seals it in his breast. These incidents are solemn truths,-God only knows the rest, Another romance, scarlet-stamped, upon the border West, Traced out in blood, in strange events, in consecrated tears, In heart-throbs timing with life-beats the marching of the years, These trails of freedom by our bold and hardy pioneers. TEN POUND TEN.-GEORGE W. BUNGAY. "Ten pound ten" is the interpretation of the changes rung upon the anvil by the blacksmith's hammers. He's a blacksmith, proud of his lot, Strike again, Ten pound ten! When working well with iron will, Ten pound ten! He strikes for wages, and he gets And more, for he keeps his hammer swinging; In vain, for he keeps his anvil ringing. Strike again, Ten pound ten! His anvil solo every day Awakes the sleepers over the way, Ten pound ten! Amid a shower of sparks he stands, Strike again, Ten pound ten! When he grows old and bent and gray, Ten pound ten! THE COMPOSITION.-LULU C. HILLYER. Written expressly for this collection. Ellen seated in a chair on stage idly toying with scratchpaper and pencil. Enter Mary, also with scratch-book and pencil. Mary. O Ellen, do pray tell me,-what did Miss Brown say about our writing compositions? You know I was not at school, and Susan White says we are to have them ready by Monday-and I was going to a picnic, too; I think it's real mean. But what subject did she give? Ellen. Well, for my part, I was in the room when Miss Brown explained the subject, but I guess you know about as much as I do. She said we were to write about "Famous Apples." Mary. "Famous Apples!" Why who ever heard of such a thing! Ellen. Oh, don't you know? First of all, she told us there was the apple Eve ate, and I think that would cover the whole subject, for, heigh! ho! if it had not been for that apple, perhaps there would be no such evil as writing compositions. Mary (beginning to scratch with her pencil). Come on, let's write and get through. Wait a moment. (Writes rapidly on her scratch-book.) See how this sounds: (Reads.) "Since the morning stars first sang together in their nightly watch over Eden, where our first parents, beguiled by the serpent, ate of that forbidden fruit which brought death and all our woe into the world, apples have ever taken a prominent part in the history, mythology, and literature of the world." Now let me see (biting her pencil and looking thoughtfully), what other apples are there? Ellen. Well, there was the Apple of Discord. Miss Brown said one time a man gave a party and invited everybody but Discord, and this made her very angry, so she threw an apple in the crowd. They all fussed over it ever so long, because Julia and Melvina andand-what was the other girl's name? I have heard that name before somewhere. Oh, now I have it,-it was Venus. Oh, yes! Charley Fisher said I had a profile like Venus, that's how I came to remember the name. Any way, they all three claimed the apple, till at last they agreed that they would go to France and ask a lady who lived in Paris, and whose name was Ida, to settle the question for them. Ida gave it to Venus, and somehow or other, I don't know how, but it brought on a big war. Mary (writing). Let me dot down some of those points |