rouse him by the cry of "Fire!" "What's that to me? My house is safe!" is his answer. "The day's breaking," said Boots, rousing the sleeping merchant at an inn, betimes in the morning. "Let it break," quoth he, lurching round in his bed; "it owes me nothing! Don't Care is never more annoyed than by discussions got up about the poverty, or ignorance, or suffering, endured by others. "What have I to do with that?" he says. "Let them work; why should I keep them? Their children not taught? That's no business of mine! Suffering, are they? Well, what would you have? There will always be suffering in the world. Let them help themselves-that's their look-out. What is it to me?" "But you will have the heavier poor-rates to pay, more crime to punish, more distress to witness?" "I don't care!" It is a short answer. True, Don't Care may not always speak so plainly as this, it would look heartless, and he does not care to be obnoxious to this imputation. But this is the drift, the English, the short and the long, of his indifference. Don't Care is indifferent alike to small things and great, from his 'horse's shoe nail to a national bankruptcy-provided, that is to say, his meat and drink are not affected. He will not stir his little fingernot he -to lighten any man's load, to relieve anybody's cares. They are nothing to him. Has he not his "own concerns to look after?" and are they not "enough for him?" He is very philosophic in his indifference about everybody. Don't Care is generally so much engrossed by considerations about himself, that he will give no heed to the feelings or the wants of others; sometimes even the wants of his own family, and provision for them in after life, are entirely neglected. Don't Care could scarcely be roused by a voice from the dead. The sloth is an energetic animal compared with him. "We remember," says the author of Poor Scotch Old Maids, "an anecdote of a clergyman who dwelt, some thirty years ago, in a quiet rural district, where laziness was then apt to grow upon a man, which exemplifies that canna-be-fashed spirit that enthralls many, even in these stirring times. His excellent spouse remarked to him at breakfast, 'Minister, there's a bit of butter on your neckcloth.' 'Weel, weel, Janet, my dear,' slowly responded the worthy pastor,' when I get up it 'll fa' off! But Don't Care is not always let off so easily as one would imagine. The man who does not care for others, who does not sympathize with and help them, is very often pursued even in this life with a just retribution. He does not care for the foul, pestilential air breathed by the inhabitants a few streets off; but the fever which has been bred there at length comes into his own household, and snatches away those whom he loves the dearest. He does not care for the criminality, ignorance, and poverty nursed there; but the burglar and the thief find him out in his seclusion. He does not care for pauperism; but the heavy poors'-rates compel him to pay for it half-yearly. He does not care for politics-pooh, pooh! what has he to do with them? but lo! there is an income tax, or an assessed tax, or a war tax, and then he finds Don't Care is not such cheap policy after all. Don't Care was the man who was to blame for the well-known catastrophe, thus popularly related-"For want of a nail the shoe was lost, for want of a shoe the horse was lost, and for want of a horse the man was lost." Gallio was a Don't Care, of whom the Scriptures say, "He cared for none of these things." And of Don't Cares, like Gallio, it may he added in the words of the well-known maxim, that "They come to a bad end." "TIS NOT FINE FEATHERS MAKE FINE BIRDS. BY J. E. CARPENTER. A PEACOCK came, with his plumage gay, But the small bird sung in his own sweet words, The peacock strutted,- While the small bird hung at a cottage door,- He wasn't contented, he tried to sing! Then prithee take warning, maidens fair, Or else poor beauty is left behind! While the small birds sing in their own true words, "'Tis not fine feathers make fine birds !” NOTE.-This Song has been set to a beautiful melody by Mr. Sporle, and will shortly be published with the Music. To judge men by the amount of their success is not so unfair as it seems, for failure is an evidence that there is a flaw somewhere. If men have a want of facility to conform themselves to the actual circumstances in which they are placed they will break down on all occasions, they will succeed in nothing; but to a man of resources, and who can keep his will erect and firm, nothing is impossible. Just Published, price Two Shillings, postage free. DEAD LEAVES, A Ballad; the Words and Music by ELIZA Cook. London: Charles Cook, Office of "Eliza Cook's Journal." And may be ordered of all Music-sellers in the Kingdom. The next Number will contain, THE SEVEN TREES; OR, A CHRISTMAS IN THE BACK-WOODS, By Percy B. St. John; and UNDER THE MISLETOE, A CHRISTMAS SONG, By Eliza Cook. Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street. THE SEVEN TREES; OR, A CHRISTMAS IN THE BACK-WOODS. BY PERCY B. ST. JOHN. I CANNOT easily understand a warm Christmas, that is, the time-honoured and solemn festival, season of religious joy and delight for every young and youthful heart-two very different things-spent in a hot country. Christmas is a time for frost and snow, for furs, great-coats, boas, and wrappers; for huge logs of wood, and fires fit to roast an ox; a time when cold without makes warm within; when, if the wind howls, if strange sounds are heard up the great yawning chimney, when, if the shutters slam, if the windows shake, we care not, because we have: wherewith to make our bodies warm, our hearts elate, and because we have around us and near us those we love. It is this makes Christmas so delightful. Life's talisman is love, and on that day we have a habit, and wonderful to tell, a good habit, of loving one another. But Christmas wants improving. There are thousands-hundreds of thousands-millions, who have no Christmas-day. I do not speak of blacks, of savages, of Turks, Jews, and Infidels, but of persons almost as badly off, and in general as little respected,-the poor, the humble, the suffering, the working classes. Christmas will be what it should be, only, when every man, woman, and child, in a Christian country, shall have his pudding and his joint of beef in his own house, surrounded by his clean, his happy, smiling children, not only on that great day-the first when the bread was cast upon the waters, which one day shall feed the universal world, but on all days. How soon would that bright morn be heralded, how soon might every human being hold out the glad hand of fellowship to every other human being, and all quarrels and squabbles of race, and class, and nation, be ended, if all who spend a happy, joyous twelve hours on that memorable anniversary, would make up their minds to be practically what they profess to be on that day! If you would see the nearest approach to such a state of things which exists in the world, you must take a trip with me across the Atlantic, where, with PRICE 1d. rare exceptions, it is a man's own fault if he does not spend his Christmas by his own fireside. I have said that I have a weakness for cold Christmases. But I have seen warm ones. The perspicacious reader will perceive that I am about to take him to Texas. I hope he will follow me with more pleasure than John Waters was followed by his wife and children, when, after a failure in England, he took a long farewell of his native land, and sailed for Texas. He reached the promised land in November, avoiding thus the summer heats, and spent the rest of the year in preparing his location. A rough and unsatisfactory Christmas did John Waters spend this time, and good Jane Waters grumbled, and the children asked for plum-pudding and did not get it, and John Waters himself missed his strong old ale, and fifty other things the emigrant must make up his mind to do without. But years passed, and with years came great changes. In the year 1842, John Waters, a jolly, hearty, positive man, very industrious, and expecting industry in others, solidly educated-he was a younger son of a great house, who had turned farmer to marry a farmer's daughter, with his homely, good, sweet wife Jane, a charming woman of forty, still handsome, and looking, John would facetiously declare, only the eldest sister of her seven children, were quite settled in their farm of Elscoate. They had a substantial frame house, of two stories, many log huts, one a very elegant erection, numerous out-houses, barns, dove-cots, &c. ; many acres of land under cultivation, and were in a fair way to be prosperous and happy. John looked a different man to what he did in England. There his seven children, dearly loved as they were, were still a cause of fear for the future, here of joy. They were surely provided for. Land lay around him asking to be cultivated; the sons could have farms when they liked, and the girls were sure to find husbands. Edward Bruce Waters, the eldest son, was twentyone; there were three others, of whom the youngest was five, and three girls, Alice, Fanny, and Sophia. Below these stood numerous farm labourers, hunters, &c., and two blacks, supposed to be slaves to conform to the laws of the country, but who were as free as the air they breathed, for John Waters was a Christian, and no Christian ever owned a slave. Elscoate, so vainly called from Lord Elscoate, John Waters' eldest brother, was situated on the banks of a delicious stream. To the right and left, up and down, was the dark foliage of a cedar grove, while behind was a clearing, fenced in, and where was seen the rich yellow of maize and other harvests. The river was fringed by a dense mass of peccan bushes, cedars, live oaks, and other deep green trees, with tall grass, and some old stumps, all covered by Spanish moss and creeping plants, except where about twenty yards had been cleared away as a port or landing. On the opposite side of the stream, about a dozen yards wide, was a grassy verdant slope. Half-way up was a charming log hut, a tworoomed dwelling, the united chef-d'œuvre of the children and servants, executed on high days and holidays, but known as Ned's Folly, for it was ever considered, not the house that Jack, but that Ned built. As soon as the house was finished, and Ned began to make the furniture, and pay visits to Galveston, bringing back mysterious parcels, he was noticed to absent himself every evening, he never said where, for Ned was a serious youth in his way, a singular combination of courage and bashfulness, and the boys and girls would somehow connect his absence with the little log-hut. Ned used to take his gun after dinner, his dog Hop, and go down towards the port. There he took to his dug-out, and sailed away nobody knew whither; but the children thought to some wild glen where a magician of potent name kept enchained some lady fair, whom Edward was striving to rescue. And they often asked him questions, but Ned always laughed and blushed, and said they should know some day. But Mr. and Mrs. Waters began after a while to have serious thoughts about these absences, and would sometimes sit up after the children were gone to bed and talk about them, but they never asked Edward any questions. He was their eldest boy, their first proudly-welcomed child, and they could not find in their hearts to invade the secresy of his evenings. It was in the month of November, a pleasant time of year in Texas, when you keep away from swamps and sea-coast, and Ned had made his house quite comfortable it would have been charming to have lived in it. But Ned would not allow it. It was with him quite a temple. There was a beautiful bedstead of maple-wood, with bedding and milkwhite sheets, and curtains a Parisian coquette might have envied, and there was a mirror, and a dressingtable,-awful enormities in the backwoods; and then in the parlour next the luxurious bed-room, all carpeted with furs, were neatly made chairs, red curtains, a table, and ornaments on the chimney-piece, chiefly brought from England. On Edward's birthday which was on the first of November, the others in the family further decorated the house with little home-made things, and Mr. John Waters himself planted seven trees in front of the house, surrounding a grass-plot, and these trees were called by the names of the seven children, and it was further decided, that on high days and holidays, they should henceforth be gaily adorned by ribbons and flowers. Jane, the fond mother, resisted awhile this act, because, she said with a shudder, that perhaps some day, they might be glad to cut down one of the trees, which would be very dreadful. But John Waters reassured her, and drove all gloomy thoughts from her head, like a right good hearty man as he was, with very proper confidence in God, and in his children's good constitutions and habits. So the seven trees were planted, and they were called by the names of the seven children. John Waters and Jane, and all the boys and girls, were some days afterwards sitting together in their goodly dining room, preparing for their evening, which was spent in sewing, in talking, in reading, in playing chess, and in various other ways, when Edward rose as usual and prepared to go out. His gun was already taken down from the wall, and he was moving away when his father spoke. "Ned, my boy," said he, "couldn't you stay at home for once, and read out to us. I see you have a book in your pocket." There was a dead silence. All the children looked curiously towards Edward. "My dear father," replied the young man quietly, "I will if you particularly desire it; but I wished to go out." "You go out every evening, and alone," said his father very gravely. "I like wandering," continued Edward, turning very red. "So it seems," said his father, "and so do I, but not alone." "But I was going down to the Oak Point," observed Edward. "To old Thiel's!" said his father, astounded. that where you spend your evenings?" "Yes, father," replied Edward. 66 "Is Why what can you find in a drunken old Dutchman to charm you, Edward,- -an ex-pirate, a waterrat?" "Old Thiel is a steady hardworking old 'fellow. But I do not go to see him." "Who then ? asked John Waters, a little anxiously, while mother, daughters, and sons, and serving-men, all listened gravely. "His daughter, Caterina," said Edward, holding down his head. "And pray, sir," exclaimed John Waters,— mother smiled, and sisters giggled, and brothers stared" with what object do you go to see old Thiel's daughter?" "Because I hope to marry her," replied Edward, speaking very lowly, but very firmly. "Never, sir!" roared John Waters, "never shall son of mine marry a pirate's daughter. I am surprised that such an idea should have entered the head of a nephew of the Earl of Elscoate." "My dear father, brought up in the new world, we have I hope no old world prejudices. Because I am an English earl's nephew, I am none the less a working farmer, and Caterina Thiel the sweetest girl in all Harris county." "Edward, I have spoken," said the emigrant, positively; "I care not what she is, I will never receive her as my daughter-in-law." There was a dead silence in that room, where usually was heard nothing but cheerful words and jocund laughter. Jane looked surprised and pained; the girls and boys raised their eyes kindly to Edward, but not a word was spoken, for John Waters, though a good husband and a kind fond father, was master in his own house. Edward said not a word. He shouldered his gun, he motioned to his dog, and out he went, afraid to stop a minute, lest he should betray his deeply-wounded feelings, and the tempest of passion which might have prompted him to reply quickly to his father. Out he went, another victim to pride and prejudice. John Waters knew nothing of Caterina Thiel; she might be one of heaven's own angels, for what he knew, but she was the daughter of a Dutchman reputed, said, to be drunken and low. And yet John Waters professed himself and believed himself a Christian. Poor John Waters! a Christian, and condemn a young girl as unfit to be his son's wife, because she was a little lower in that artificial scale, which John Waters, an extreme radical in politics, was striving to destroy! But who ever yet was consistent, who ever yet acted up to his professions? "My dear John," said Jane very mildly, "that boy will not return. Your positive tone has alarmed him, and he will think you mean what you say." "I do mean what I say," replied John Waters, gravely, taking up his book. 66 "Well, my dear," observed Jane with her unvarying sweetness, we will talk of that by-and-by." What a change in all! Sisters and brothers spoke in whispers for some time,-they all loved Edward so well, and then by general consent they went forth to walk, leaving their parents alone. They all knew, by experience, the influence of Jane with their father, and they hoped much; but whatever their hope might have been, it was not fulfilled. Edward did not return that night, and next morning at breakfast no one spoke of his absence, for John Waters said not a word about it. Everybody, however, felt the absence of the eldest-born, the leader of the band in all hunting, boating frolics, the protector of his sisters, the chief guide of his brothers. Everything seemed to go on all the same in that house; the farm work was attended to, Fred and William and Thomas went out fishing and hunting, the mother and girls spun and sewed, but the house was changed. Nobody ever laughed or joked now. John Waters at meal times and of an evening would crack a joke, or say something funny, or begin a conversation, but no one encouraged him. Nobody, it is true, ventured openly to oppose his will, nobody suggested that Edward should be sent for, except Jane in secret, when they were alone at night; but all entered into a tacit conspiracy to make John Waters miserable, and though he would not let it be seen, though he never said a word about it, yet he was miserable, for he had sent away his eldestborn, his beloved son, he knew not where, he scarcely knew for what. Time fled, the autumn rapidly passed away, and December came round, not the cold bracing December, with frost and snow, and wind and sleet and hail of the British isle, but a jolly December, with green fields, green trees, and at times a sun as warm as that of our summer. But there were some cold days and nights, just to let people know that winter could be rude and rough if he liked, but chose on the whole to revel here in warmth and sunshine. Still December to the English family was English, because on its twenty-fifth day came Christmas, that day big with delicious memories of the past, with delightful prospects for the future. Now the Waters had all the year made up their minds to have a grand time of it on this particular anniversary of the great birthday. But now, though John Waters spoke of having a glorious festival, none seconded him, and the morning of the twenty-fourth came with little preparation that looked like that Christmas Day being cheerful and glad. In the morning, pretty early, the boys and girls went forth towards the log-hut known as Ned's Folly, and there remained some hours. Mr. and Mrs. Waters had no conception of what they were at, and at last, their curiosity excited, went forth to see. They had passed the threshold of their house and turned towards the path which led to the hut, when John started. Leaning against a tree close at hand, were two Indians, a warrior and a girl. The man had all the grave mien, the solemn reflective manner of a chief, the girl all the calm submissive aspect of a young Indian squaw. She was very pleasing in face, despite her red skin, with light hair in great abundance, drawn in tight bands across her temples; she had deep blue eyes, a small mouth, a tiny pretty nose, and she wore a handsome tunic of deerskin, leggings of the same, mocassins, and was covered by pretty ornaments composed of beads. The chief was clothed in a very similar manner, but he carried a short rifle in his hand, and wore, besides, a huntingknife and a tomahawk. "Where do these Indians come from?" said John in an amazed tone to his wife, who was speechless with terror and astonishment. "Indian-friend," replied the chief in deep guttural tones, "Tuscarora." "You are welcome," exclaimed the emigrant quickly, knowing the importance of conciliating an Indian at once, at the same time holding out his hand. "What can I do for you?" "Indian-going down to great Salt Lake, want to rest a day," said the Tuscarora. "Rest," replied John, pointing to the house; "you and yours are welcome.' "No leave house," continued the Indian, standing before him and placing his hand on his shoulder; "one, two, tree,-fifty bad red-skins in wood." "My children," half-shrieked Jane, clasping her hands. "Indian," said John solemnly, "is this true, speak girl?" The warrior looked somewhat offended, the girl raised her mild blue eyes to the face of Mrs. Waters, and then spoke. "One, two, tree, plenty-fifty, twenty bad Indians in wood,-attack pale faces to night," she said in tones very seductive from their mingled sweetness and sadness. "Come John," cried Jane convulsively. "Ah! where is Edward?" Away they went, followed by the Indian and the squaw, down to the port. Scarcely had they reached the edge of the stream, when they heard singing and laughter. Much surprised at sounds so unusual for two months past, they listened, while unmooring a boat. It was the negroes singing. They had just begun what Zip-short for Scipio-called a Christmas quarrel : As I sat on a soony bank, soony bank, soony bank, I spied tree ships come sailing by, a Christmas Day in de mornin. Who should be in dese tree ships, dese tree ships, dese tree ships, Who should be in dese tree ships, but Joseph and him fair lady. Him did whistle and she did sing, she did sing, she did sing, Him did whistle and she did sing, and all the bells in the earth did ring, A Christmas Day in de mornin'. "How very shocking," said Jane, looking really very much horrified, while both the Indian and the squaw were unable to repress a grin. "Not at all, my dear," replied John, "the blacks are a very peculiar people, and that song is no doubt well meant. But we have something else to think of now." They were, as he spoke, on the edge of the green in front of Ned's Folly, and a dark frown passed over the face of John, while Jane turned pale and trembled. The children, servants, and blacks, were congregated on the grassy plot, and were resting after their morning's work. They had been ornamenting the seven trees, six of which were all gaily adorned by bright flowers, red, pink, and white ribbons, while the seventh, flanked on each side by three gaudy companions, was hung with crape, and surrounded by all the gloomy plants, picked in the forest, they could find. Without appearing to notice this act of rebellion, John addressed the group. "Children and servants cease all mirth. The bloody Indians are upon us. These two friendly red-skins, of a tribe rare in Texas, have given us warning. Follow me and to arms.' A silence, solemn as that of death, at once prevailed, and then the boys took up the cry to arms, and followed by the servants, rushed to the stream. The girls curiously surrounded the young and pretty squaw, terrified and alarmed as they were, and pressing close to their mother, followed the males. The first thing done after crossing the stream, was to stow away the boats in an outhouse, which was covered by the rifles of those in the framehouse. Then all took to the farm, and preparations were made for an obstinate and serious defence. There were eleven men in all, including the Indian, thus distributed :-John, the Indian, his three boys, and two farm servants, were appointed to defend the residence, while four (two white and two black) men took to the log-hut a dozen yards distant. All were well armed and well provided with ammunition. It was three o'clock in the afternoon when a black gave the signal that the Indians were in sight. John was on the roof of his house which was flat, and surrounded by a parapet, and could thence see everywhere around. The Indians issued from the wood with the air of men who had no hostile intentions. They were fifty at least in number, and came on towards the house as if friendly. But John had heard too much of the cunning of the red-skins to allow a surprise, he therefore checked them at once. "Back!" he cried "or we fire on you; friends or foes, keep your distance." The Indians halted, very much surprised, for they evidently had calculated on taking Elscoate by storm; and then the air resounded with the hideous war-cry, and on that Christmas Eve the glad stillness was broken by the crack of rifles, the reports of muskets and fusils, and the shrill yell of the wounded. Away scampered the Waccos, unable to comprehend this warm reception, and took to the cover of the woods. All that afternoon was spent in exchanging shots, but without injury to those in the farm and log-house, John Waters having ordered the strictest caution to be observed, and seeing personally that every one obeyed him. About dusk the firing ceased on both sides, and the pale faces took advantage of this to sit down to their Christmas Eve dinner. "All joy in our new home is gone from me now," said Jane sadly, as she helped the children. "Tush! wife dear," exclaimed John Waters, keeping down deep emotion with great difficulty, an Indian visit is rare in this part of Texas, and I hope to give these red-skins a lesson which they will not forget." "Ah, John! John!" cried his wife, sobbing wildly, unable any longer to repress her feelings, "I should not fear the Indians much with a good house and gallant men and boys around me, had I all I loved here. But where is my eldest-born, my boy, my Edward? How know I that he is free from the hands of these terrible men." John Waters held down his head and made no reply, but struggle as he would, with his pride and his manly strength to back him, his tears fell upon his plate. In that hour of tribulation, in that day of trouble, his nerves were stretched to their highest pitch, and his feelings over-wrought acted upon him with extreme violence. "A song is singing in the woods, and the bird that sings it, says that the son of the grey-beard is safe," said the Indian girl in her sweet and musical tones, after exchanging a curious look with her father. "Thank you, girl," exclaimed the mother, warmly; a word of comfort is delightful, and Jane Waters dearly blesses the Indian girl who saved her family from slaughter by her generous warning, and who now would seek to console." 66 "God bless you, girl," repeated John, we owe you all much. When this day of tribulation is past, John Waters will not be slow to show his gratitude.' The Indian girl smiled sweetly and took a hand of each so prettily, so childishly, that all were charmed at this little act, and Fred, a good-looking boy of nineteen, thought within himself that she was the most beautiful lady he had ever dreamed of, and made up his mind on the spot, to ask his father's consent, as soon as the fight was over, to beg the hand of the Indian girl. So little do we take warning in this world by the faults and misfortunes of others. The rest of the dinner was spent in laying plans for the night. All the rooms had thick shutters, which had been closed ever since the morning, and it was arranged that all the females should take up their quarters for the night in an upper room, while the men were to make a guardhouse of the general parlour. One sentinel was to be placed upon the roof on the look-out, while those in the log-house were also to be wary. John Waters directed that all but one should lie down at an early hour. In the mean time, however, the males went up to the roof. It was a beautiful night. The sky was clear and cloudless, and the moon hung about a foot above the summit of the deep cedars, silvering the tips of the trees, and casting all beneath into deep black shadows, except where here and there came a gap in the wood, which allowed the pale cold rays of the minor planet to penetrate below the surface. To the right could be seen, where John stood with the Indian, the opening in the forest, where lay the fields, with behind the prairie, the tall green grass and reeds trembling, waved by the wind, silvered by the moon, while to the left the waters of the lazy stream, and all streams in Texas are lazy,-shook, rippled, and broke upon the sedgy bank, beautified by the same influence, a sparkling sheet of molten lead. It was a night for joy and peace and love. It was a night fit to herald the wondrous birth of the next day, a grand Christmas Eve, and all who gazed felt it so. John stood apart in a corner with the Indian. He was very grave. "What my brother think about?" said the Tuscarora, in low cautious tones. "Indian, this is Christmas Eve. Do you know what it means?" "To-morrow Christ born,-Tuscarora Christian,name John," replied the other in his guttural tone. "Ah! " said John Waters with considerable animation. "Then let me have a talk with you. Could we walk to the Oak Point to-night?" "Yes, but say presently," replied the Indian; "no talk now, fight, red-skins coming, see." John looked curiously forth, and truly, along the skirt of the wood, he saw a moving column of Indians. John sighed. There was a stillness in the air, a serene and sacred tone in the atmosphere, his thoughts were so attuned to harmony and love, that combat, war, violent death, always abhorrent to the feelings of the good man, was now peculiarly so. But there was no alternative. His wife and little ones, his serving-men, were all there depending on his coolness, courage, and vigilance, and he levelled his gun simultaneously with the Indian, and fired. Scarcely did the echoes of their two rifles awaken all nature around, then those in the log followed, and then the rest of the garrison. Loud were the yells of the red-skins as the shot fell from above like |