scene. THE FIRE. (Drawn by J. Bell.) mercy shoot me first-put an end to me before I see her burned." upon the side-wall of the house, nearly naked: | you hope to meet a just God; or, if you don't, in his figure, as he stood against the sky in horrible relief, was so finished a picture of woe-begone agony and supplication that it is yet as distinct in my memory as if I were again present at the Every muscle, now in motion by the powerful agitation of his sufferings, stood out upon his limbs and neck, giving him an appear ance of desperate strength. to which by this time he must have been wrought; the perspiration poured from his frame, and the veins and arteries of his neck were inflated to a surprising thickness. Every moment he looked down into the thick flames which were rising to where he stood; and, The captain approached him coolly and deliberately. "You will prosecute no one now, you miserable informer," said he; "you will convict no more boys for taking an ould rusty gun an' pistol from you, or for givin' you a neighbourly knock or two into the bargain." Just then from a window opposite him proceeded the shrieks of a woman, who appeared at it with the infant in her arms. She herself was almost scorched to death, but, with the presence of mind and humanity of her sex, she was about to thrust the little babe out of our discomfort, there was a snowfall, through which we blundered off the track. Ollendorff, however, flattered himself that his brain was capable of distinguishing the bearings in any weather, and we let him do the piloting. It was a lottery with all blanks. Suddenly we came upon some hoof marks, and that brightened us up; for the travellers by the freshness of these traces could not be far off now. But the tracks still multiplied, and we began to think the platoon of soldiers were miraculously expanding into a regiment-Ballou said they had already increased to five hundred! presently he stopped his horse and said immediate returns of bullion, but was only afflicted with regular and constant " assessments" insteaddemands for money wherewith to develop the said mines. These assessments had grown so oppressive that it seemed necessary to look into the matter personally. Therefore I projected a pilgrimage to Carson, and thence to Esmeralda. I bought a horse, and started, in company with Mr. Ballou and a Prussian gentleman named Ollendorff. We rode through a snow-storm for two or three days, and arrived at "Honey Lake Smith's," a sort of isolated inn on the Carson river. It was a two-storey log house, situated on a small knoll in the midst of the vast basin or desert through which the sickly Carson winds its melancholy way. Close "Boys, these are our own tracks, and we've to the house were the Overland stage stables, built actually been circussing round and round in a of sun-dried bricks. There was not another build-circle for more than two hours, out here in this ing within several leagues of the place. Towards blind desert! By George! this is perfectly sunset about twenty hay-waggons arrived and hydraulic !" camped around the house, and all the teamsters came in to supper-a very, very rough set. There were one or two Overland stage drivers there, also, and half a dozen vagabonds and stragglers; consequently the house was well crowded. We walked out after supper and visited a small Indian camp in the vicinity. The Indians were in a great hurry about something, and were packing up and getting away as fast as they could. In their broken English they said "By'mby heap water!" and by the help of signs made us understand that in their opinion a flood was coming. The weather was perfectly clear, and this was not the rainy season. There was about a foot of water in the insignificant river-or may-be two feet; the stream was not wider than a back alley in a village, and its banks were scarcely higher than a man's head. So, where was the flood to come from? We canvassed the subject a while, and then concluded it was a ruse, and that the Indians had some better reason for leaving in a hurry than fears of a flood in such an excedingly dry time. Then the old man waxed wroth and abusive. He called Ollendorff all manner of hard names-said he never saw such a fool as he was, and ended with the peculiarly venomous opinion that he "did not know as much as a logarithm!", We certainly had been following our own tracks. Ollendorff and his "mental compass" were in disgrace from that moment. After all our hard travel, here we were on the bank of the stream again, with the inn beyond dimly outlined through the driving snow-fall. Presently the Overland stage forded the now fast receding stream and started towards Carson on its first trip since the flood came. We hesitated no longer, now, but took up our march in its wake, and trotted merrily along, for we had good confidence in the driver's bump of locality. But our horses. were no match for the fresh stage team. soon left out of sight; but it was no matter, for we had the deep ruts the wheels made for a guide. We were By this time it was three in the afternoon, and consequently it was not very long before night At seven in the evening we went to bed in the came on-and not with a lingering twilight, but second storey-with our clothes on, as usual, and with a sudden shutting down like a cellar door, as all three in the same bed, for every available space is its habit in that country. The snow-fall was on the floors, chairs, &c., was in request, and even still as thick as ever, and of course we could not then there was barely room for the housing of the see fifteen steps before us; but all about us the inn's guests. An hour later we were awakened by white glare of the snow-bed enabled us to discern a great turmoil, and springing out of bed we picked the smooth sugar-loaf mounds made by the covered our way nimbly among the ranks of snoring team-sage bushes, and just in front of us the two faint sters on the floor, and got to the front windows of grooves which we knew were the steadily filling the long room. A glance revealed a strange and slowly disappearing wheel tracks. spectacle under the moonlight. The crooked Carson was full to the brim, and its waters were raging and foaming in the wildest way-sweeping around the sharp bends at a furious speed, and bearing on their surface a chaos of logs, brush, and all sorts of rubbish. Like the trees in spring, our instinct prompted us it was time to leave, and leave we did. To add to Now those sage bushes were all about the same height-three or four feet; they stood just about seven feet apart, all over the vast desert; each of them was a mere snow-mound now; in any direction that you proceeded (the same as in a well laidout orchard) you would find yourself moving down a distinctly defined avenue, with a row of these snow-mounds on either side of it--an avenue the WA alt that was no proof. this by walking off in various direction--the reclar Snow-monds and the rendar avernes between them convinced each man that had found the true road, and that the others had found only false ones. Plainly the situation was desperate We were cold and stiff, and the horses were tired. We decided to build a sage-brush fire and camp out till morning. This was wise, because if we were wandering from the right road, and if the snow-storm continued another day, our case would be the next thing to hopeless if we kept on. wel their patient heads over us; and while the Hike eddied down and turned us into a white statuary, we proceeded with the us experiment. We broke twigs from a bush and piled them on a little cleared space in the shelter of our bodies. In the course of ten r fifteen minutes all was ready, and then, while conversation ceased, and our pulses beat low with anxious suspense, Ollendorff applied his revolver, pulled the trigger and-blew the pile clear out of the county! It was the flattest failure that ever WAS This was distressing, but it paled before a greater horror-the horses were gone! I had been appointed to hold the bridles, but in my absorbing anxiety over the pistol experiment I had unconsciously dropped them, and the released animals had walked off in the storm. We were miserable enough before; we felt still more forlorn now. Patiently, but with blighted hope, we broke more sticks and piled them, and once more the Prussian shot them into annihilation. Plainly, to light a fire with a pistol was an art requiring practice and experience, and the middle of a desert at midnight in a snow-storm was not a good place or time for the acquiring of the accomplishment. We gave it up and tried the other. Each man took a couple of sticks and fell to chafing them together. At the end of half an hour we were thoroughly chilled, and so were the sticks. We bitterly execrated the Indians, the hunters, and the books that had betrayed us with the silly device, and wondered dismally what was next to be done. At this critical moment Mr. Ballou fished out four matches from the rubbish of an overlooked pocket. To have found four gold bars would seemed poor and cheap good luck compared to this. One cannot think how good a match looks under such circumstances or how lovable and precious, and sacredly beautiful to the eye. This time we gathered sticks with higher hopes; and when Mr. Ballou prepared to strike the first match, there was an amount of interest centred upon him that even these pages do not elicit. The match burned hopefully a moment, and then went out. It could not have carried more regret with it if it had been a human life. The next match simply flashed and died. The wind puffed the third one out just as it was on the imminent verge of success. We gathered together closer than ever, and developed a solicitude that was wrapt and painful, as Mr. Ballou scratched our last hope on his leg. It lit, burned blue and sickly, and then budded into a robust flame. Shading it with his hands, the old gentleman bent gradually down, and every heart went with him-every body too, for that matter-and blood and breath stood still. -- The flame touched the sticks at last, took gradual hold upon them-hesitated-took a stronger hold hesitated again - held its breath five heartbreaking seconds, then gave a sort of human gasp and went out. It was Nobody said a word for several minutes. a solemn sort of silence? even the wind put on a stealthy, sinister quiet, and made no more noise than the falling flakes of snow. I do not know how long I was in a state of forgetfulness, but it seemed an age. A vague consciousness came on me by degrees, and then came a gathering anguish of pain in all my limbs and through all my body. I shuddered. The thought flitted through my brain, "This is deaththis is the hereafter." Then came a white upheaval at my side, and a voice said with bitterness "Will some gentleman be so good as to kick me?" It was Ballou-at least it was a towzled snow image in a sitting posture, with Ballou's voice. I rose up, and there in the grey dawn, not fifteen steps from us, were the frame buildings of the stage station, and under a shed stood our still saddled and bridled horses. THE TIRED JESTER. [By WILLIAM SAWYER.] HE West was a tangle of throbbing gold, A cloud-skein ravell'd against the blue, The fresh wind loosen'd it fold from fold, And the jewel of Hesper glitter'd through. Only the scimitar rim of the sun Flash'd as it sank in a golden mere, And the glory of mountain and plain was one, In refluent splendour shining clear. In a rosy halo the palace stood, Many column'd and terraced wide; Behind it the glow of the autumn wood, And round it the garden rainbow-dyed. Within were revel and riotous glee, Wine-born laughter and bubble of song, And a reed voice piping shrilly and free, A voice out-shrilling the screaming throng. A bout with the jester!" it sang-“a bout! Whose the sword for the peacock feather? Have a care, whipster! Out, sword, out! Down go beauty and brains together!" So for a season the mirth ran high, So, till its turbulent force was spent ; Then forth stole one 'neath the cooling sky, Weary and tottering, worn and bent. The jester's garb of orange-and-red, Stain'd with revel and wine, he wore; The hood thrown back from the shaven head, The face that writhing for laughter bore. The wind was rising, the poplars sway'd, Athwart the terrace the leaves were blown ; "In a motley mocking my own array'd," He thought as he dropp'd with a hollow moan. |