Puslapio vaizdai
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"Hola! Senor," very near me,

Cries a voice of stern command.

And a stalwart caballero

Comes upon me with a stride, On his head a slouched sombrero, A toledo by his side.

From his breast he flung his capa With a stately Spanish air[On the whole, he looked the chap a Man to slight would scarcely dare.] "Will your worship have the goodness To release that lady's hand ?”— "Senor," I replied, "this rudeness I am not prepared to stand, "Magdalena, say "-the maiden, With a cry of wild surprise, As with secret sorrow laden, Fainting sank before my eyes.

Then the Spanish caballero

Bowed with haughty courtesy,
Solemn as a tragic hero,

And announced himself to me.
"Senor, I am Don Camillo
Guzman Miguel Pedrillo
De Xymenes y Ribera
Y Santallos y Herrera
Y de Rivas y Mendoza
Y Quintana y de Rosa
Y Zorilla y

"No more, sir,

"Tis as good as twenty score, sir," Said I to him, with a frown;

"Mucha bulla para nada,

No palabras, draw your 'spada;

If you're up for a duello

You will find I'm just your fellow

Senor, I am Peter Brown!"

By the river's bank that night,
Foot to foot in strife,

Fought we in the dubious light
A fight of death or life.
Don Camillo slashed my shoulder,
With the pain I grew the bolder,

Close, and closer still I pressed;
Fortune favored me at last,

I broke his guard, my weapon passed Through the caballero's breast

Down to the earth went Don Camillo
Guzman Miguel Pedrillo

De Xymenes y Ribera

Y Santallos y Herrera
Y de Rivas y Mendoza
Y Quintana y de Rosa
Y Zorilla y-One groan,

And he lay motionless as stone.
The man of many names went down,
Pierced by the sword of Peter Brown!

Kneeling down, I raised his head;
The caballero faintly said,
"Senor Ingles, fly from Spain
With all speed, for you have slain
A Spanish noble, Don Camillo
Guzman Miguel Pedrillo
De Xymenes y Ribera
Y Santallos y Herrera
Y de Rivas y Mendoza
Y Quintana y de Rosa

Y Zorilla y "-He swooned
With the bleeding from his wound.
If he be living still, or dead,

I never knew, I ne'er shall know. That night from Spain in haste I fled, Years and years ago.

Oft when autumn eve is closing,
Pensive, puffing a cigar,
In my chamber lone reposing,
Musing half, and half a-dozing,
Comes a vision from afar
Of that lady of the villa
In her satin, fringed mantilla,
And that haughty caballero
With his capa and sombrero,
Vainly in my mind revolving

That long, jointed, endless name;

'Tis a riddle past my solving,

Who he was or whence he came. Was he that brother home returned? Was he some former lover spurned?

Or some family fiance

That the lady did not fancy?

Was he any one of those?

Sabe Dios. Ah! God knows.

Sadly smoking my manilla,
Much I long to know

How fares the lady of the villa
That once charmed me so,

When I visited Sevilla

Years and years ago.
Has she married a Hidalgo?
Gone the way that ladies all go
In those drowsy Spanish cities,
Wasting life-a thousand pities-
Waking up for a fiesta

From an afternoon siesta,
To" Giralda" now repairing,
Or the Plaza for an airing;
At the shaded reja flirting,
At a bull-fight now disporting;
Does she walk at evenings ever
Through the gardens by the river?
Guarded by an old duenna
Fierce and sharp as a hyena,
With her goggles and her fan
Warning off each wicked man?
Is she dead, or is she living?
Is she for my absence grieving?
Is she wretched, is she happy?
Widow, wife, or maid?

Quien sabe?

A COURTEOUS MOTHER.-HELEN HUNT.

During the whole of one of last summer's hottest days, 1 had the good fortune to be seated in a railway car near a mother and four children, whose relations with each other were so beautiful that the pleasure of watching them was quite enough to make one forget the discomforts of the journey. It was plain that they were poor; their clothes were coarse and old, and had been made by inexperienced hands. The mother's bonnet alone would have been enough to have condemned the whole party on any of the world's thoroughfares; but her face was one which gave you a sense of rest to look upon-it was so earnest, tender, true, and strong. The children-two boys and two girls-were all under the age of twelve, and the youngest could not speak plainly.

They had had a rare treat. They had been visiting the mountains, and they were talking over all the wonders they had seen with a glow of enthusiastic delight which was to be envied. In the course of the day, there were many occasions when it was necessary for her to deny requests, and

to ask services, especially from the oldest boy; but no young girl, anxious to please a lover, could have done either with a more tender courtesy. She had her reward; for no lover could have been more tender and manly than was this boy of twelve.

Their lunch was simple and scanty; but it had the graces of a royal banquet. At the last the mother produced three apples and an orange, of which the children had not known. All eyes fastened on the orange. It was evidently a great rarity. I watched to see if this test would bring out selfishness. There was a little silence-just the shade of a cloud. The mother said: "How shall I divide this? There is one for each of you; and I shall be best off of all, for I expect big tastes from each." "Oh, give Annie the orange; Annic loves oranges," spoke out the oldest boy, with the sudden air of a conqueror, at the same time taking the smallest and worst apple himself. "Oh, yes, let Annie have the orange," echoed the second boy, nine years old. "Yes, Annie may have the orange, because that is nicer than the apples, and she is a lady, and her brothers are gentlemen," said the mother, quietly.

Then there was a merry contest as to who should feed the mother with the largest and most frequent mouthfuls. An.... nie pretended to want apple, and exchanged thin, golden strips of orange for bites out of the cheeks of Baldwins. As I sat watching her intently, she sprang over to me saying: "Don't you want a taste, too?" The mother smiled understandingly, when I said: "No, I thank you, you dear, generous little girl; I don't care about oranges."

At noon, we had a tedious interval of waiting at a dreary station. We sat for two hours on a narrow platforin, which the sun had scorched till it smelt of heat. The oldest boy held the youngest child, and talked to her, while the tired mother closed her eyes and rested. The two other children were toiling up and down the banks of the railroad track picking ox-eye daisies, buttercups, and sorrel. They worked. like beavers, and soon the bunches were almost too big for their little hands. Then they came running to give them to their mother. "Oh, dear," thought I, "how that poor, tired woman will hate to open her eyes! She never can take

those great bunches of common, fading flowers, in addition to all her bundles and bags." I was mistaken. “Oh, thank you, my darlings! How kind you are! Poor, hot, tired little flowers-how thirsty they look! If they will only keep alive till we get home, we will make them very happy in some water, won't we? And you shall put one bunch by papa's plate and one by mine."

She took great trouble to get a string and tie up the flowers; and then the train came, and we were whirling along again. Soon it grew dark, and little Annie's head nodded. Then I heard the mother say to the oldest boy: "Dear, are you too tired to let little Annie put her head on your shoulder and take a nap? We shall get her home in much better case to see papa, if we can manage to give her a little sleep." How many boys of twelve hear such words as these from tired, overburdened mothers? Soon came the city, the final station, with its bustle and noise. I lingered to watch my happy family, hoping to see the father. "Why, papa isn't here!" exclaimed one disappointed voice after another. "Never mind," said the mother, with a still deeper disappointment in her tone; "perhaps he had to go to see some poor body who is sick."

In the hurry of picking up all the parcels, the poor daisies and buttercups were left forgotten in a corner of the rack. I wondered if the mother had not intended this. May I be forgiven for the injustice! A few minutes after, I passed the little group, standing still, just outside the station, and heard the mother say: "Oh, my darlings, I have forgotten your pretty flowers. I am so sorry! I wonder if I could find them, if I went back. Will you all stand still and not stir from this spot, if I go?" "Oh, mamma, don't go, don't go. We will get you some more. Don't go," cried all the children. Here are your flowers, madam," said I. "I saw that you had forgotten them, and I took them as mementos of you and your sweet children." She blushed and looked disconcerted. She was evidently unused to people, and shy with all but her children. However, she thanked me sweetly, and said: “I was very sorry about them. The children took such trouble to get them; and I think they will revive in water. They cannot be quite dead." "They will never

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