HUMOR OF THE HIGHWAY MAN. Judge Myers, and as the evidence was entirely cir cumstantial, but so conclusive as to leave not the shadow of doubt of his guilt, he was convicted of murder in the first degree and on November 24th, 1862, sentenced to be hung on January 9th, 1863. Sheriff Chapman, two days after, near Ringgold, and On the morning of November 27th, 1863, as Mr. lodged in jail. The name of the prisoner was C. W. T. A. Valentine was driving a team on the road be-Smith, his case was tried in the District Court before tween Johntown and Uniontown he was stopped by a highway man, who demanded his money, at the same time presenting a colt's revolver. Mr. Valentine, being unarmed, handed over his money, amounting to twelve dollars, saying he would much rather part with his money than his scalp. The robber politely assured him that he did not intend to hurt him; he stated to Mr. Valentine that he was strapped and had resorted to robbing to make a raise. He returned Valentine a dollar to pay toll across the Uniontown bridge and a bit to buy a drink, remarking that he never took bits anyhow. FRATRICIDE AT GRIZZLY FLAT. Wednesday evening, January 9th, 1878, Constable J. B. Fisher, of Grizzly Flat, delivered David Branthover to Sheriff Theissen, on a charge of having killed his brother, Adam Branthover, near the abovenamed place. The facts are as follows: There was some trouble between them in relation to a partnership in a quartz claim. Tuesday, in company of D. T. Loofbourrow, David went to the cabin of the deceased for the purpose of settling the dispute. While comparing accounts, according to Loof bourrow's testimony before A. J. Graham, Justice of the Peace, David frequently gave Adam the lie, and finally, both being much excited, they clinched. During the struggle, a gun in the hand of David went off, the ball striking Adam in the thigh, coming out at the hip; death ensued in less than an hour. Immediately after the affray, David went to the cabin of Fisher and Morey, stated what had occurred, and said that he expected to shoot Adam through the body, but the deceased knocked the gun down; he was not aware at the time that Adam was mortally wounded. A man by the name of F. L. Smith was murdered on April 23d, 1862, on the Ogilsby road, about 21 miles east of Placerville. A rifle ball broke his spine, passing through his heart. Two young men traveling the same road on foot, heard the report of a gun, hurried to the spot, and arriving where the murdered man fell, saw a man picking up his hat and a rifle. Some dispute arose between the parties, but the two being unarmed left after the murderer threatened to shoot them also. They went to the Goodwin Mountain House, to give the alarm, and on returning to the spot and searching, they discovered the murdered man, who had been dragged about 100 yards below the road into the chapparel. A rope was tied around his body. The body was brought to Placerville for burial. The murderer was arrested by Deputy CAPTAIN DAVIS. A CALIFORNIA BALLAD BY FREDERICK COZZENS. All the heroes that ever were born Who mauled and maltreated the troops of the Czar ; Men who never a fight turned back on ; Know ye the land where the sinking sun Hears Young America, sharp and spry, Fame has blown on his golden bugle, Over the Park and down McDougal ? Hither and thither, and everywhere, In every city its name is known, There is not a grizzly Wall street bear That does not shrink when the blast is blown. There Dives sits on a golden throne, With Lazarus holding his shield before, Charged with a heart of auriferous stone, And a pick-ax and spade on a field of ore. Know ye the land that looks on Ind? There only you'll see a pacific sailor, Its song has been sung by Jenny Lind, And the words were furnished by Bayard Taylor. Seaward stretches a valley there, Seldom frequented by men or women; Its rocks are hung with the prickle-pear, And the golden balls of the wild persimmon; Haunts congenial to wolf and bear, Covered with thickets, are everywhere; There's nothing at all in the place to attract us, Except some grotesque kind of cactus; Glittering beetles with golden rings, Royal lizards with golden wings, And a gorgeous species of poisonous snake, That lets you know when he means to battle By giving his tail a rousing shake, To which is attached a muffled rattle. Captain Davis, (Jonathan R.), With James McDonald, of Alabama, And Dr. Bolivar Sparks were thar, Cracking the rocks with a miner's hammer. Of the valley they'd heard reports "That plenty of gold was there in quartz.” When they sat on the ground, To scrape the blood from their cuts and scratches; For rickety cactus had stripped them bare, And cobbled their hides with crimson patches, Hundreds from San Francisco city; Watches and crosses, pistols and feathers, And wrapping their legs in unpatented leathers; Little they think how close at hand Is that cock of the walk-"the Bold Brigand!" Sudden, and never a word spoke they, But pulled their trigger and blazed away. "Music," says Halleck, "is everywhere," With a certain amount of cultivation. The coffee-mill's breakfast psalm in the cellar, "Home, Sweet Home," or the sweet "Sky Lark," Sung by Mrs. Payne, in "Cinderella ;" Songs, that remind us of days of yore, Curbstone ditties that we have loved to hear, "Brewer's Yeast!" and "Straw, Oat Straw?" "Lily-white corn, a penny an ear?" Rustic music of chanticleer, "Robert the Devil," by Meyerbeer, Played at the "Park" when the Woods were here, Or anything else that an echo brings From those mysterious vibrant strings, That answer at one, like the telegraph line, To notes that were written in "Old Lang Syne." Organ panted, or bugle rung, Not even the horn on the Switzer Alp, Was half so sweet to the Captain's ear As the sound of that bullet that passed his scalp, Come, O Danger! in any form, "The earthquake's shock or the ocean storm;" On they came with a thunderous shout Gorge, or hollow, or some such thing.) Put in his cheek a tremendous chew, Stripped off his waistcoat and coat, and threw Had I Bryant's belligerent skill, Pour out blood like brandy and water; Hit 'em again if they asked for quarter, And clinch and wrestle, and yell and bite, But I never could wield a carniverous pen Like either of those intellectual men. I love a peaceful pastoral scene, With drowsy mountains and meadows green, Covered with daisies, grass, and clover, Mottled with Dorset and Southdown sheep, Better than fields with a red turf over, And men piled up in a Waterloo heap. But notwithstanding, my fate cries out : "Put Captain Davis in song and story! That children hereafter may read about His deeds in the Rocky canyon foray!" Your epic gets smashed with a Paishan gun; But wouldn't I like to spread a few pages On Captain Davis in chain or plate? Long, cross-hilted brand to wield, I tell you now there's a beautiful chance And don't mean to sacrifice truth for rhyme. Never an instant stops the firing; And a velvet jacket is just expiring. For he didn't know how, if he wished, to flinch. Moved as much by those vagrant men As an anvil that stands by a blacksmith's forge. Drop their shooters and clutch their knives, And I've got three barrels and that's three lives !" One! and the nearest steeple-crown Stood aghast, as a minster spire Stand, when the church below is on fire, Then trembles, and totters, and tumbles down. Don Pasquale the name he bore, Near Lecco was reared his ancestral cot. Close by Lago Como's shore For description of which, see Claude Melnotte. Two, and instantly drops, with a crash, An antediluvian sort of mustache; Such as hundreds of years had grown, When scissors and razors were quite unknown. He from the Tuscan city had come, A terrible fellow to pray or fight; Three! and as if his head were cheese, Through Castadiva a bullet cut; Knocked a hole in his os unguis, And bedded itself in his occiput. Daily to mass his widow will go, In that beautiful city, a lovely moaner, Where those supernatural sausages grow, Which we mispronounce when we style “Bellona. As a crowd that near a depot stands, Six feet one, in trowsers and shirt, Is a bird's eye view of the foremost man; |