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concussion. Opening their startled they found themselves in a heap on the ground. They had fallen off as the old ox jumped over a fallen tree. It was broad daylight.

They glanced fearfully back on the trail, expecting to see their pursuers upon their track. They concluded they were within about five miles of the summit, where the first halt was made after their capture, and all of thirty-five miles from home. Realizing that there was no time to lose, each secured a "tail hold," and the journey continued. The oxen could hardly be urged forward, stopping continually to crop the luxuriant grass beside the trail. Just after sunrise, when they had proceeded up the trail not more than a half mile from where they had fallen off, their blood was almost curdled by hearing, from back upon the trail, the exultant yell of their savage pursuers, who had evidently just discovered the boys' tracks. Boy-like, their first impulse was to run; but after a few steps this plan was abandoned, realizing that they would soon be overtaken. Looking hurridly about, they saw near by an overhanging cliff, with some large pieces of rock that had split off and stood two or three feet high in front, making a natural breast work. "Quick Billy, here's our place!" said Karl. "We'll get behind these rocks and shoot them when they come in sight!" "But they'll kill us if we stop!" objected Billy. "Well, they will soon catch us if we run! We may just as well be killed here as farther on!" Billy was quickly forced behind the barricade, where they crouched down and waited with fluttering hearts for the appearance of the Indians. Both pistols were cocked, one in Billy's hand, the other on a rock just in front. The rifle was cocked and both were ready to pour a broadside upon the advancing foe.

"Now, Billy, just as soon as the Indians come in sight around that big tree, point straight at the head one and pull the trigger. Remember they havn't any guns-only bows and arrows." This fact made the boys feel quite confident of their ability to withstand their red foeThe anxious watchers hadn't long

men.

to wait for the enemy was soon in sight, within fifty paces of the breast-work; their tufted heads bent low, carefully scrutinizing the ground. They were within thirty steps of the masked battery, when the command came in quick aspirate: "Now let them have it Billy—

fire!" Two shots rang out, and one of the trailers came to the ground, the other bounding nimbly into the thicket.

"Keep you head down, Billy, or the Indian will shoot you with his arrow!" said Karl, as Billy peeped over, anxiously waiting for further development.

"Where's the one we hit?" excitedly whispered Billy. "He's crawled off out of sight," was the reply "Look out!" said Karl, as an arrow whizzed within a few inches of Billy's head, which he had cautiously elevated above the rock. Bang! rang out the rifle in Karl's hand, as he caught a glimpse of an Indian's crest above the brush, which helped the sable warrior to beat a hasty retreat. After another interval Karl peeped over the works, when instantly an arrow struck the rock very near him, coming from the vacinity of the wounded brave. Billy seized the remaining pistol and fired point blank into the brush, the only result being a rustling of the bushes as the wounded Indian crawled away.

"I can't shoot any more," said Billy; "for my pistols are empty, and the Indians have our powder and balls. I wish we had the cannon here they shoot off on the Fourth of July, I'd make that Indian hop!" The beleaguered boys lay very close for an hour, when faintly they heard from toward the summit, the tramping of horses feet. Nearer and nearer they came; when suddenly there burst into view a band of horsemen, and foremost among them rode their father. A glad shout burst from the exhausted boys and they were soon in their father's arms. The surrounding thicket was searched for the wounded Indian, but no trace of him was found, excepting a pool of blood where he had fallen. The story is soon closed. The boys not returning in proper time, their father rode up the cañon to their camp, and finding it plundered, rode

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quickly home, where the alarm was The recognition was mutual. One of the Indians still limped from the effects of the shot received at the rocky fort. He came up to the boys and patting them on the head, said in a tone of admiration: "Brave boys, heap brave!" D. C. Johnson.

spread and a party organized, with the result above narrated. Two years afterwards, when peace had been restored, a party of natives came to the town, and among them were the two Indians who had captured our boys at the lonely camp-fire.

A DAY IN ROME.

Thou art the garden of the world, the home
Of all art yields, and nature can decree;
E'en in thy desert, what is like to thee!
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste
More rich than other climes' fertility;
Thy wreck a glory and thy ruin graced
With an immaculate charm which cannot
Be defaced.-Byron

A day in Rome is crowded so full of mixed and varied scenes, that when I sit down to write what I have seen and where I have been, I know not where to begin nor where to end. "The four and twenty hours extend and dilate into a well-filled existence," and the shifting scenes carry one abruptly from divine to sacrilegious, heavenly to earthly, exquisite to revolting. There are but few cities in the world where, as in Rome, one can plunge from this work-a-day modern world into the oblivious past with but a stride; or witness, as the case may be, the present and the past "meet, clash, or harmonize." The "Eternal City," offers us all a splendid field, no matter what our tastes may be, and all phases of life are jumbled up together, as it were, in a heterogeneous mass, each engrossing-enticing. It is the home of the painter, the sculptor, the antiquarian, the doctor, the statesman, the lawyer and the soldier. Under the azure blue of dreamy Italy, the poet, loves to while away his leisure hours-to live on the threshold of the present and the past. Here, too, the musician finds his way, to refresh his soul with draughts from Apollo's Spring. 'Tis here the deciple of Catholicism comes, prostrating himself before el padro santo to relieve his soul and purchase forgiveness, or climb the Scala Santa (holy stairs) on his bare knees and thus obtain a six (?) years absolution!

Strangers from every quarter of the globe "here do congregate," some to spend their time in idleness, some to say they've seen, others to study and understand, and some in the true spirit of earnest inquiry and research. And Rome in "her multiplication of resources" unendless, varied, fascinating, satisfies us all and gives to each his compass in which to operate.

Enough for prelude! A ride of twenty minutes from our Pension brought us to the object of our visit-the Vatican. This building and the great church of St. Peters', stand side by side on somewhat of an eminence called the Borgo, across the Tiber, and form at present the main possessions of the Pope. Upon inquiry, we were directed to the entrance under the left wing of the immense semicircular facade which extends like mighty arms from the Church of St. Peter on either side, thus forming an imposing piazza. A large fountain, with a towering obelisk in the middle adorns the centre. At the entrance we were greeted by the Swiss guards oddly, yet tastefully uniformed. Accosting one of these he directed us to proceed up the Scala Regia -a magnificent flight of steps,-to the first floor. A turn to the right and thence up a second flight landed us at the door of the "Raphael's Stanza and Loggie" where we presented our Permesso and were allowed to enter. Here begins the task which I am entirely unable to perform, viz―the describing of what I saw. I am no student of art-never was, and even in my youth it was with some difficulty I could delineate a pig or a cow, therefore I will not presume to offer criticism; however, I hope it will be allowed me to praise all I see fit to..

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This gallery can rightly lay claim to be one of the very choicest in existence, due to the vigilance of the Popes, whose pride it has been for centuries, and who have endeavored to make a collection of paintings the parallel of which does not exist. In my judgment their efforts have been a grand success. We traversed room after room, gallery after gallery. To the end? No, there is none—every wall hung with productions from the brush of such masters as Raphael Perugino Udine Michael Angelo-Romano-Leonardo di Vinci Geurcino Bellini PoussinVeronese-Domenchino- Carregio-and so many other of alike ability that I cannot here give space to enumerate them. The ceiling of every chamber is frescoed with historical and religious productions, all works of the choicest order; in fact, many of them from Raphael's and Perugino's own brushes or under their direct supervision.

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After some hours strolling through the great halls, admiring and studying treasures which excite the admiration of the most untutored, we came to the chamber where that famous painting hangs, probably the greatest of all, viz: "The Transfiguration" by Raphael. This was his last great work. The design is a wonder of itself. The upper part of the picture consists of Christ accompanied by Moses and Elias descending in the clouds of heaven toward the earth, while lying prostrate on an elevation are Peter, James and John. To the left emerging from a bush are St. Lawrence and St. Stephen in attitude of adoration. The lower half of this wonderful work represents others of the disciples as being importuned to heal a sick boy. In its striking vigor, impressive design and individuality, it gives the beholder the impression that it is a scene passing before his very eyes and not merely a painting several hundred years old. There is a truth and propriety about the works of this great master that at once endeared them to me, and the more of his paintings and designs I see the more am I forced to believe he was inspired by a divine power. He most assuredly possessed every attribute, every characteris

tic to constitute a great painter. Individuality, force, coloring, tact, judgment, learning, harmony and composition were all at his command, and to study his efforts one cannot but be impressed with the prudence with which his endowments were used.

It would occupy an unlimited space to give even a passing notice of the contents of the gallery, therefore it is useless for me to attempt here a portrayal of the art-treasures that enchanted me. I can give no idea of its size by comparison because I know of none other of such prodigious dimensions; but probably a conception may be given when I say that the palace possesses twenty courts and eleven thousand halls, chapels, saloons and private apartments. The greater number of these are occupied by picture and sculpture galleries and museums, containing every conceivable thing; while a comparatively small portion of the mammoth structure is used by the Pope, or set apart for the use of the Papal Court. For many years it has been the residence of the Pope and it is very seldom that his majesty is seen without its walls. He sometimes visits St. Peter's, but I am informed even this, of late, is a great rarity.

The Vatican has no splendid exterior, simply a medley of buildings "without form and void" extending in all directions covering an immense area of ground; but the outside is entirely forgotten when one crosses the threshold and loses himself amongst its labyrinthine galleries, corridors and cortiles and one, to see it all, would be necessitated to take up his residence, with the Pope and devote a goodly portion of each day during an ordinary lifetime to his task.

The afternoon we spent at the Forum and the Coliseum. After the sun had passed the meridian of his sweltering glow we passed into the street, one armed with the glasses and the other the guide book. Here we descended a flight of stone steps to Trajan's Forumthe spot where Constantine fifteen centuries ago proclaimed "Christianity the religion of the world, and exhorted all to abjure the errors of a superstition the off

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spring of ignorance, folly and vice." associations, legendary and historical, which linger over it, 'twould I fear, cause no more interest than any other spot in Rome, for its aspect today is decidedly modern.

Thence through a foul, dark, crooked alley-for we chose the nearest waypublic busy street or by-way, it mattered little which, so long as it lay in our direction. It was in such as the latter where we saw Italian life to good advantage, and queer enough, too, were the scenes we witnessed and the folks we saw. The walk was of some length, but time passed quickly and distance shortened when such oddities were ever and anon interspersed to attract our attention and amuse us; for the like is nowhere to be seen in the whole wide world except in Italy.

On emerging from a narrow street, the Capitoline Hill burst full into view. We labored up the great marble stairway to the grand piazza. The piazza is a quadrangle of some dimensions, bounded on the right and left by the gallery and museum respectively, while at the rear facing the grand stair, rises the Palazzo del Senatoro. This is the historical plazza Campidoglio after the plans of the renowned Michael Angelo. A large equestrian statute of Marcus Aurelius adorns the centre-the same which once stood in the Roman Forum by the side of the arch of Septimius Severus.

The Capitoline Hill is the smallest but historically the most important of the seven hills of Rome (if such they may be termed, but I would term them mere elevations; the capitol I would call a mound and think I did it every justice). But a few steps to the right in the "area Capitolina" once stood the asylum of Romulus, and it was just here that popular assemblies were afterwards vened. In the year 133 B. C., on the occasion of the revolt of Tiberius Gracchus, the blood of the citizens flowed for the first time in civil warfare. 'Twas here also the magnificent Temple of Jupiter once reared its proud head but not a vestige of it remains, save its memory. In short this eminence may be termed the centre of the once great Roman Empire, the hub around which the whole world at one time revolved; where misery and glory have alike flourished-and passed away, each in its turn. Were it not for the

Across the piazza and descending an ancient flight of steps, brought us to the Roman Forum. But what a picture of devastation and ruin!-An unbroken waste of confusion-a wilderness of stones and broken pillars! Oh, man, how vain thy works-how irrevocable thy mutability!

At the end of the Forum next to the Tabularium and much below the modern road, deep excavations under the base of the hill display the remains of various Temples, jumbles of stone, antiquated foundations, broken marble pillars, capitals, bits of mosaic piled at the bases of the still remaining pillars—of which there are about a dozen-mementoes of past greatBeneath the shadow of the Tabularium stands all that remains of the Temple of Vespasian-three lone pillars surmounted by the entablature, and though of excellent workmanship, what idea can these convey to us of the magnificence of that splendid pile!

ness.

I thoroughly agree

We passed along the right hand side of the Forum a short distance, and descended a little flight of wooden steps so that we could offer a closer observation to that wreck of glory. We soon found it difficult work to find beginning or end. A dive into our guide-book would result in little satisfaction. with that writer who says "by books alone and deep research and antiquarian knowledge aided by strong powers of imagination" would make a visit to the Forum a satisfactory success. Yes, and one's imagination should be as fertile as a woman's, for he continually tries to rebuild those fallen temples, and "lend form and symmetry" and splendor to them. But nothing short of a woman's fanciful head could reanimate the repulsive scene and build it into pristine life again. I found myself trying, but what a hopeless mess I made of it! No sooner would I get one temple complete and start the second, than the former would totter and fall, and mingle with the dust

again. Thus ended several futile at tempts, so I gave up in despair and was obliged to content myself to see it as it is, and leave the reconstructing, repeopling to more fertile brains.

Walking across the Forum on the Via Sacra (sacred way) a few stones of which still remain, we come to the triumphal arch of Septimius Severus. It is certainly an imposing thing and so rich in bass-relief, carvings and cuttings, that though battered and marred by cruel hands, it still stands there a wonder to all beholders,- -a link that binds the present to the past. Half its majesty is lost in that it stands far below the common surface in a great depression; in fact the whole Forum lies some feet below the surrounding base, which latter, without a doubt, has gradually been lifted to its present altitude by the accumulation of debris for centuries past. But a step or two to the right, once stood the Rostrum, which oft echoed the footsteps of the Cæsars and orators of past greatness. Bordering the "sacred way" farther on to the right, the ruins of the palace of the Cæsars rise abruptly aloft, dark, ominous, and gloomy on the shadowed slope of the Palatine, Indeed, the very odor is ancient, and we almost expected to meet the spectres of the honored dead stalking through those vast, dismal chambers, chilling my blood as we groped our way through the darkened passages. Still farther along on the opposite side, we neared the majestic ruins of the Temple of Peace, of which but three arches re main. In the words of Elliott "all that remains in evidence of its former splendor, is one beautiful Corinthian column, cruelly removed from the spot and placed in front of the basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore. It was originally one of the eight marble pillars which decorated the interior temple. In these latter days the ruin is known as the Basilica, begun by Maxentius, and finished by Constantine, after the battle of Ponto Molto had ended that tyrant's life and reign. According to the present version, we must consider this lofty structure only as belonging to "Modern Rome," for in that interminable chain of centuries that unlink before one

in examining the historic antiquities of Rome, the third or fourth century counts but as yesterday. I for myself prefer the Catholic account, as being the most poetic. According to that, the edifice was built by Augustus, in memory of the peace, given to the world by the battle of Actium. Wishing to know how long the solid walls would stand, he consulted the oracle, which replied; Quoadusque virgo pariot." ("Until a virgin bears a son.") The Romans considered this a promise of immortality, and anticipated an eternal existence for the new Temple of Peace; but the same night that saw the Savior's birth in Bethlehem, the walls of the Pagan Temple shook and fell; fire suddenly and mysteriously issued from the ground, and the sumptuous pile was consumed."

Next in order comes the Temple of Santa Francesco Romano partly built over the remains of the Temple of Venus and Kome, and hard by, on a gentle eminence stands the arch of Titus in com. memoration of that general's victories over the Jews. It is a work of merit and indicates clearly a period previous to the decline of art. The bass-reliefs, finely and distinctly cut, represent Titus himself seated on a triumphal car attended by Victory crowning him with laurels; and opposite this, in bass-relief also, are the spoils of the Temple at Jerusalem-"the table of shewbread, the seven branched candlestick; the jubilee trumpets and the incense vessels." It is said that a Jew would rather die than pass under that arch, and this accounts for a little footpath we find on either side; “but it is in vain to dispute the Almighty will; the monument of their servitude is not to be ignored, nor the prophecy forgotten which was wrung from our Lord by the hard impiety of the Jewish nation: "Verily, I say unto you, there shall not be here one stone left upon another, that shall not be thrown down."

But on to the Coliseum! Ah, the Coliseum! What a history, pathetic, brilliant, yet deplorable! What words of mine can do it justice and what a train of thought these sombre walls evoke! What crimes-what deeds-what em

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