Turned head to the Brazos in a red race with death,
Turned head to the Brazos with a breath in the hair
Blowing hot from a king leaving death in his course;
Turned head to the Brazos with a sound in the air
Like the rush of an army, and a flash in the eye
Of a red wall of fire reaching up to the sky,
Stretching fierce in pursuit of a black rolling sea
Rushing fast upon us, as the wind sweeping free
And afar from the desert blew hollow and hoarse.

Gray nose to gray nose, and each steady mustang Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the arid earth

rang,

And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck. Twenty miles? . . . thirty miles . . . a dim distant speck

Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos in sight,

And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight.

I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right—

But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulder
And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head drooping
Hard down on his breast, and his naked breast stooping
Low down to the mane, as so swifter and bolder
Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire.

To right and to left the black buffalo came,

A terrible surf on a red sea of flame

Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher.
And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull,

The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full
Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire
Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud

And unearthly, and up through its lowering cloud

Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire,

While his keen crooked horns, through the storm of his

mane,

Like black lances lifted and lifted again;

And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through, And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two.

I looked to my left then and nose, neck, and shoulder
Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs;
And up through the black blowing veil of her hair
Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes,
With a longing and love, yet a look of despair
And of pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her,
And flames reaching far for her glorious hair.
Her sinking steed faltered, his eager eyes fell
To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck's swell
Did subside and recede, and the nerves fall as dead.
Then she saw sturdy Paché still lorded his head,
With a look of delight; for nor courage nor bride,
Nor naught but my bride, could have brought him to me.
For he was her father's, and at South Santa Fé

Had once won a whole herd, sweeping everything down
In a race where the world came to run for the crown.
And so when I won the true heart of my bride-

My neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child,

And child of the kingly war chief of his tribe
She brought me this steed to the border the night
She met Revels and me in her perilous flight

From the lodge of the chief to the North Brazos side;

And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled,

As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride

The fleet-footed Paché, so if kin should pursue

I should surely escape without other ado

Than to ride, without blood, to the North Brazos side,
And await her and wait till the next hollow moon
Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon
And swift she would join me, and all would be well
Without bloodshed or word. And now, as she fell
From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire,
The last that I saw was a look of delight

Yet never a word, not one look of appeal,

Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel One instant for her in my terrible flight.

Then the rushing of fire around me and under,
And the howling of beasts, and a sound as of thunder
Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over,
As the passionate flame reached around them, and wove
her

Red hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died—
Till they died with a wild and desolate moan,

As a sea heartbroken on the hard brown stone. .
And into the Brazos . . . I rode all alone

All alone, save only a horse long-limbed
And blind and bare and burnt to the skin.

Then, just as the terrible sea came in

And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide,

Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmed In eddies, we struck on the opposite side.

DEFINITIONS.-Ma cheers', tăp i dă'rōş, ca te'naş, ser'apes, ornaments or articles of clothing worn or carried by the frontiersmen of the Southwest. Cōlts, a revolver, so-called from its inventor.

RIP VAN WINKLE.

BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

I.

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson, must remember the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains; and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!) and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having

latticed windows and gabled fronts, surmounted with weathercocks.

In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors.

I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was moreover a kind neighbor, and an obedient henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports,