When I came round again, I said:
"Excuse the seemingly impertinent curiosity of a drowning man, but will you explain this singular conduct of yours?" "With pleasure. I am the coroner. Don't hurry on my account. I can wait for you. But I wish I had a match." I said, "Take my place, and I'll go and get you one." He declined. This lack of confidence on his part created a coolness between us, and from that time forward I avoided him. It was my idea, in case anything happened to me, to so time the occurrence as to throw my custom into the hands of the opposition coroner over on the American side. At last a policeman came along and arrested me for disturbing the peace by yelling at people on shore for help. The judge fined me, but I had the advantage of him. My money was with my pantaloons, and my pantaloons were with the Indians.
Thus I escaped. I am now lying in a very critical condition. At least I am lying, any way--critical or not critical.
I am hurt all over, but I cannot tell the full extent yet, because the doctor is not done taking the inventory. He will make out my manifest this evening. However, thus far, he thinks only six of my wounds are fatal. I don't mind the others.
I shall not be able to finish my remarks about Niagara Falls until I get better.
THE TOAST.-MARY KYLE DALLAS.
Pop! went the gay cork flying,
Sparkled the gay champagne; By the light of a day that was dying He filled up their goblets again. "Let the last, best toast be 'Woman- Woman, dear woman!" said he : "Empty your glass, my darling,
When you drink to your sex with me."
But she caught his strong brown fingers, And held him tight as in fear,
And through the gathering twilight Her voice fell on his ear:
"Nay, ere you drink, I implore you, By all that you hold divine, Pledge a woman in tear-drops
Rather by far than in wine!
"By the woes of the drunkard's mother, By his children who beg for bread, By the fate of her whose beloved one Looks on the wine when 'tis red, By the kisses changed to curses,
By the tears more bitter than brine, By many a fond heart broken- Pledge no woman in wine.
"What has wine brought to woman? Nothing but tears and pain.
It has torn from her heart her love, And proven her prayers in vain ; And her household goods, all scattered, Lie tangled up in vine.
Oh! I prithee, pledge no woman
In the curse of so many-wine!"
THE DUKITE SNAKE.-J. BOYLE O'REILLY.
AN AUSTRALIAN BUSHMAN'S STORY.
Well, mate, you've asked me about a fellow You met to-day, in a black-and-yellow Chain-gang suit, with a peddler's pack,
Or with some such burden, strapped to his back. Did you meet him square? No, passed you by? Well, if you had, and had looked in his eye, You'd have felt for your irons then and there; For the light in his eye is a madman's glare. Ay, mad, poor fellow! I know him well, And if you're not tired just yet, I'll tell His story, a strange one as you ever heard Or read; but I'll vouch for it, every word.
Through the bush with the pack and the convict's clothes Has been mad for years; but he does no harm,
And our lonely settlers feel no alarm
When they see or meet him. Poor Dave Sloane Was a settler once, and a friend of my own.
Some eight years back, in the spring of the year, Dave came from Scotland, and settled here. A splendid young fellow he was just then, And one of the bravest and truest men
That I ever met: he was kind as a woman To all who needed a friend, and no man- Not even a convict-met with his scorn, For David Sloane was a gentleman born. Ay, friend, a gentleman, though it sounds queer: There's plenty of blue blood flowing out here. Well, Sloane came here with an axe and a gun; He bought four miles of a sandal-wood run. This bush at that time was a lonesome place, So lonesome the sight of a white man's face Was a blessing, unless it came at night,
And peered in your hut, with the cunning fright Of a runaway convict; and even they
Were welcome, for talk's sake, while they could stay.
Dave lived with me here for a while, and learned The tricks of the bush,-how the snare was laid In the wallaby track, how traps were made, How 'possums and kangaroo rats were killed; And when that was learned, I helped him to build From mahogany slabs a good bush hut,
And showed him how sandal-wood logs were cut. I lived up there with him, days and days,
For I loved the lad for his honest ways.
I had only one fault to find: at first
Dave worked too hard; for a lad who was nursed, As he was, in idleness, it was strange How he cleared that sandal-wood off his range. From the morning light till the light expired He was always working, be never tired; Till at length I began to think his will Was too much settled on wealth, and still When I looked at the lad's brown face, and eye Clear, open, my heart gave such thought the lie. But one day-for he read my mind-he laid His hand on my shoulder: "Don't be afraid," Said he, "that I'm seeking alone for pelf. I work hard, friend: but 'tis not for myself." And he told me, then, in his quiet tone, Of a girl in Scotland, who was his own,- His wife, 't was for her: 't was all he could say, And his clear eye brimmed as he turned away. After that he told me the simple tale: They had married for love, and she was to sail For Australia when he wrote home and told The oft-watched-for story of finding gold.
In a year he wrote, and his news was good: He had bought some cattle and sold his wood. He said, "Darling, I've only a hut,-but come." Friend, a husband's heart is a true wife's home;
And he knew she'd come. Then he turned his hand To make neat the house, and prepare the land For his crops and vines; and he made that place Put on such a smiling and homelike face, That when she came, and he showed her round His sandal-wood and his crops in the ground, And spoke of the future, they cried for joy, The husband's arm clasping his wife and boy. Well, friend, if a little of heaven's best bliss Ever comes from the upper world to this, It came into that manly bushman's life, And circled him round with the arms of his wife. God bless that bright memory! Even to me, A rough, lonely man, did she seem to be, While living, an angel of God's pure love, And now I could pray to her face above. And David he loved her as only a man With a heart as large as was his heart can. I wondered how they could have lived apart, For he was her idol, and she his heart.
Friend, there isn't much more of the tale to tell: I was talking of angels a while since. Well, Now I'll change to a devil,-ay, to a devil! You needn't start: if a spirit of evil Ever came to this world its hate to slake On mankind, it came as a dukite snake. Like? Like the pictures you've seen of sin, A long red snake,- -as if what was within
Was fire that gleamed through his glistening skin. And his eyes!-if you could go down to hell And come back to your fellows here and tell What the fire was like, you could find no thing, Here below on the earth, or up in the sky, To compare it to but a dukite's eye! Now, mark you, these dukites don't go alone: There's another near when you see but one; And beware you of killing that one you see Without finding the other; for you may be More than twenty miles from the spot that night, When camped, but you're tracked by the lone dukite, That will follow your trail like death or fate, And kill you as sure as you killed its mate!
Well, poor Dave Sloane had his young wife here Three months,-'twas just this time of the year. He had teamed some sandal-wood to the Vasse, And was homeward bound, when he saw in the grass .A long red snake: he had never been told Of the dukite's ways,-he jumped to the road, And smashed its flat head with the bullock-goad!
He was proud of the red skin, so he tied Its tail to the cart, and the snake's blood dyed The bush on the path he followed that night. He was early home, and the dead dukite Was flung at the door to be skinned next day. At sunrise next morning he started away To hunt up his cattle. A three hours' ride
Brought him back: he gazed on his home with pride And joy in his heart; he jumped from his horse And entered-to look on his young wife's corse, And his dead child clutching its mother's clothes As in fright; and there, as he gazed, arose
From her breast, where 'twas resting, the gleaming head Of the terrible dukite, as if it said,
"I've had vengeance, my foe: you took all I had.” And so had the snake-David Sloane was mad!
I rode to his hut just by chance that night, And there on the threshold the clear moonlight Showed the two snakes dead. I pushed in the door With an awful feeling of coming woe:
The dead were stretched on the moonlit floor, The man held the hand of his wife, his pride, His poor life's treasure, and crouched by her side. O God! I sank with the weight of the blow. I touched and called him: he heeded me not, So I dug her grave in a quiet spot,
And lifted them both,-her boy on her breast,— And laid them down in the shade to rest. Then I tried to take my poor friend away, But he cried so wofully, "Let me stay Till she comes again!" that I had no heart To try to persuade him then to part From all that was left to him here,-her grave; So I stayed by his side that night, and save One heart-cutting cry, he uttered no sound,- O God! that wail-like the wail of a hound! 'Tis six long years since I heard that cry, But 'twill ring in my ears till the day I die. Since that fearful night no one has heard Poor David Sloane utter sound or word. You have seen to-day how he always goes: He's been given that suit of convict's clothes By some prison officer. On his back
You noticed a load like a peddler's pack?
Well, that's what he lives for: when reason went, Still memory lived, for his days are spent In searching for dukites; and year by year That bundle of skins is growing. Tis clear That the Lord out of evil some good still takes; For he's clearing this bush of the dukite snakes.
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