So spake that pensive man-this Thompson, the hero of

Angels,

Bitterly smiled to himself, as he strode through the chapparal musing.

"Why, O why?" echoed the pines in the dark olive depth far resounding.

'Why, indeed?" whispered the sage brush that bent 'neath his feet non-elastic.

Pleasant indeed was that morn that dawned o'er the barroom at Angels,

Where in their manhood's prime was gathered the pride of the hamlet.

Six "took sugar in theirs," and nine to the barkeeper

lightly

Smiled as they said, "Well, Jim, you can give us our regular fusil."

Suddenly as the grey hawk swoops down on the barnyard, alighting

Where, pensively picking their corn, the favourite pullets are gathered,

So in that festive bar-room dropped Thompson, the hero of Angels,

Grasping his weapon dread with his pristine lightness and freedom.

Never a word he spoke; divesting himself of his garments, Danced the war-dance of the playful yet truculent Modoc, Uttered a single whoop, and then, in the accents of challenge,

Spake: "Oh, behold in me a Crested Jay Hawk of the mountain."

Then rose a pallid man—a man sick with fever and ague; Small was he, and his step was tremulous, weak, and un

certain;

Slowly a Derringer drew, and covered the person of Thompson;

Said in his feeblest pipe, "I'm a Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley."

As on its native plains the kangaroo, startled by hunters, Leaps with successive bounds, and hurries away to the thickets,

So leaped the Crested Hawk, and quietly hopping behind him

Ran, and occasionally shot, that Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley.

Vain at the festive bar still lingered the people of Angels, Hearing afar in the woods the petulant pop of the pistol; Never again returned the Crested Jay Hawk of the mountains,

Never again was seen the Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley.

Yet in the hamlet of Angels, when truculent speeches are uttered,

When bloodshed and life alone will atone for some trifling misstatement,

Maidens and men in their prime recall the last hero of Angels,

Think of and vainly regret the Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley!

The Hawk's Dest.

(SIERRAS.)

WE checked our pace, the red road sharply rounding;

We heard the troubled flow

Of the dark olive depths of pines resounding

A thousand feet below.

Above the tumult of the cañon lifted,
The grey hawk breathless hung,
Or on the hill a wingèd shadow drifted
Where furze and thorn-bush clung;

Or where half-way the mountain side was furrowed
With many a seam and scar;

Or some abandoned tunnel dimly burrowed,

A mole-hill seen so far.

We looked in silence down across the distant
Unfathomable reach :

A silence broken by the guide's consistent
And realistic speech.

"Walker of Murphy's blew a hole through Peters

For telling him he lied;

Then up and dusted out of South Hornitos

Across the Long Divide.

"We ran him out of Strong's, and up through Eden,

And 'cross the ford below,

And up this cañon (Peters' brother leadin'),

And me and Clark and Joe.

"He fou't us game: somehow I disremember
Jest how the thing kem round;

Some say 'twas wadding, some a scattered ember
From fires on the ground.

"But in one minute all the hill below him

Was just one sheet of flame;

Guardin' the crest, Sam Clark and I called to him, And,-well, the dog was game!

"He made no sign: the fires of hell were round him, The pit of hell below.

We sat and waited, but never found him ;

And then we turned to go.

"And then-you see that rock that's grown so bristly

With chapparal and tan

Suthin crep' out: it might hev been a grizzly,

It might hev been a man ;

"Suthin that howled, and gnashed its teeth, and shouted

In smoke and dust and flame;

Suthin that sprang into the depths about it,

Grizzly or man,-but game!

"That's all! Well, yes, it does look rather risky,

And kinder makes one queer

And dizzy looking down. A drop of whisky

Ain't a bad thing right here!"

Her Letter.

I'm sitting alone by the fire,

Dressed just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire,—

It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue :
In short, sir, "the belle of the season
Is wasting an hour upon you.

A dozen engagements I've broken;
I left in the midst of a set;
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,

That waits on the stairs-for me yet. They say he'll be rich,-when he grows up,And then he adores me indeed;

And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.

"And how do I like my position ? "

"And what do I think of New York?"

"And now, in my higher ambition,

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?"

"And isn't it nice to have riches,

And diamonds and silks, and all that?” "And aren't it a change to the ditches