Puslapio vaizdai

saw the girl, for the people in the stockade observed them looking at her; but for some reason they did not fire at her. Why they did not, it is difficult to say.

They may have supposed she was only running to the house to get her clothes, or a hair-brush, or some other article which girls like to have; and as the Indians loved fun under all their cruelty, they may have laughed to see the young lady running, with her skirts flying behind her, toward the house.

It was just as likely, however, that they thought it would be only throwing away a load of gunpowder to fire at a girl, who was of no use to anybody. As they felt certain that they should take the fort, they could easily kill her afterward by dashing her brains out with a tomahawk. So they quietly looked at her as she ran across to the house, and not a shot was fired at her.

As they were so anxious to capture Fort Henry, it would have been better for them to have killed that girl, for she was destined to save it.

She hastened into the house, found the keg of gunpowder -which was probably small- and holding her precious load close to her breast, darted out again, and ran with it in the direction of the fort.

As she ran the Indians saw her, and understood what she had come for. Uttering a wild yell, they leveled their guns and sent a shower of bullets at


her, but all flew wide of the mark. They whistled to the right and left, but did not strike her; and with the keg still hugged to her bosom, she reached the fort, and the gate closed as the bullets buried themselves in the thick panels behind her.

A weak girl had thus saved a dozen men and their wives and children. It was a brave act, and Americans should never forget to honor the name of Elizabeth Zane. JOHN ESTEN COOKE.


Robins in the tree-tops,

Blossoms in the grass;
Green things a-growing

Everywhere you pass;
Sudden little breezes;

Showers of silver dew;
Black bough and bent twig
Budding out anew;

Pine tree and willow tree,

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Many years ago there stood, at the southeastern corner of the square of the Bastille, an enormous plaster cast of an elephant.

It was forty feet high, constructed of carpentry and masonry, bearing on its back a castle, once painted green by some plasterer, now painted black by the

weather and time.

In that deserted and uncovered corner of the square the wide forehead of this colossus, its trunk, its tusks, its enormous back, and its four legs like columns, produced at night a surprising and terrible outline.

It stood in its corner, gloomy, crumbling away, surrounded by rotten palings. It was to this corner of

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