another year's supplies — he kept in tomato cans on the table of his cabin with impunity. There was not one strong box for the safe-keeping of the daily harvest of thousands on all of the creeks. The bags of dust were kept in the little cellars which the miners had excavated under their cabins for the preservation of their food.

When he went away from home on a journey to some other creek he left his latchstring out. On the very evening of his absence, while his cabin was occupied by another, he was, perhaps, sleeping in some one else's without an invitation. By the unwritten law of the land he enjoyed whatever luxuries of food and rest the cabin afforded; but, likewise by the unwritten law of the land, he washed any dishes that he had used and put them and all other things that he had disturbed back where they belonged, folded the blankets on the bunk, cut firewood in place of that which he had burned, and laid kindlings by the stove, ready to make warmth and cheer for the owner when he should return, cold and weary.

When the Cheechawkos, as the Indians call strangers, came, however, all this was quickly changed. As an old miner said, "Civilization's here, and it's a case of locking up yer dust after this. But, young man, ye can't be an old-timer, never! Ye can't be an old-timer, 'less ye 've lived in the camps in the old days when a man was a man and his neighbor's brother."

THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY.

GEORGE W. Patten.

BLAZE, with your serried columns!
I will not bend the knee!
The shackles ne'er again shall bind
The arm which now is free.
I've mail'd it with the thunder,

When the tempest mutter'd low; And, where it falls, ye well may dread The lightning of its blow!

I've scared ye in the city,

I've scalp'd ye on the plain;

Go, count your chosen, where they fell
Beneath my leaden rain!

I scorn your proffer'd treaty!
The pale-face I defy!

Revenge is stamp'd upon my spear,
And blood's my battle cry!

Some strike for hope of booty,
Some to defend their all;
I battle for the joy I have
To see the white man fall:
I love, among the wounded,

To hear his dying moan,

And catch, while chanting at his side, The music of his groan.

Ye've trail'd me through the forest,
Ye've track'd me o'er the stream;
And, struggling through the everglade,
Your bristling bayonets gleam ;
But I stand as should the warrior,
With his rifle and his spear;

The scalp of vengeance still is red,

I loathe ye in my bosom,

I scorn ye with mine eye,

And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath, And fight ye,- till I die!

I ne'er will ask ye quarter,

And I ne'er will be your slave; But I'll swim the sea of slaughter, Till I sink beneath its wave!

A LEAP FOR LIFE.

WALTER COLTON.

OLD IRONSIDES at anchor lay
In the harbor of Mahon;

A dead calm rested on the bay,
The waves to sleep had gone;
When little Hal, the Captain's son,
A lad both brave. and good,
In sport up shroud and rigging ran,
And on the main truck stood!

A shudder shot through every vein,
All eyes were turn'd on high!
There stood the boy, with dizzy brain,
Between the sea and sky;

No hold had he above, below;
Alone he stood in air;

To that far height none dared to go,
No aid could reach him there.

We gazed, but not a man could speak;
With horror all aghast;

In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,
We watch'd the quivering mast ;
The atmosphere grew thick and hot,
And of a lurid hue;

As riveted unto the spot,

Stood officers and crew.

The father came on deck: he gasp'd,
"O God! thy will be done!"
Then suddenly a rifle grasp'd

And aim'd it at his son.

"Jump far out, boy, into the wave! Jump or I fire," he said;

"That only chance your life can save;

Jump, jump!" The boy obey'd.

He sunk, he rose, he lived, he moved, —

And, for the ship struck out:

On board we hail'd the lad beloved

With many a manly shout.

His father drew, in silent joy,
Those wet arms round his neck,
And folded to his heart his boy,
Then fainted on the deck.

THE RIDE OF JENNIE MCNEAL.1

WILL CARLETON.

PAUL REVERE was a rider bold -
Well has his valorous deed been told;
Sheridan's ride was a glorious one-
Often it has been dwelt upon.

But why should men do all the deeds
On which the love of a patriot feeds?
Hearken to me, while I reveal
The dashing ride of Jennie McNeal.

On a spot as pretty as might be found

In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground,
In a cottage cosy, and all their own,

She and her mother lived alone.

Safe were the two, with their frugal store,

From all of the many who passed their door;
For Jennie's mother was strange to fears,

And Jennie was large for fifteen years.

1 From Centennial Rhymes. Pages 35-44. Copyright by Harper & Brothers.