"Talquino had first claim to the girl," he replied fiercely, "and if he had found her in the lodge his knife would have gone quick to the hilt in the heart of the white chief."

"Let us go," said the officer, who had observed with some apprehension the earnest conversation between his companion and the Indian. "Let us go," he repeated, "before some new complications overtake us."

The Lieutenant and his companion then mounted their horses, and once more bidding Kishnawau good bye, rode rapidly away, leaving behind them the animals Talquino had brought to exchange for Satuma.

Returning at once to the wooded valley of the San Juan, the hunters spent several days in searching for game in that great natural feeding ground, and when their led horses could carry no more of the spoils of the chase, they slowly wended their way back to the military station from which they had come.

Scarcely more than a year had elapsed after the close of this memorable trip when the Lieutenant was startled one day as he sat in his quarters at the fort, by the unceremonious entrance of Kishnawau, accompanied by the post interpreter.

"Satuma has come!" cried the Indian as he sprang forward to greet the officer with both hands extended for an embrace. "Satuma has come!" he repeated.

"Heavens!" exclaimed the Lieutenant, springing from his chair as he spoke. "Has the ghost of that cruel maladventure turned up once more to plague me?"

"Talquino is dead," said the Indian. "An Apache shot him with an arrow, and Satuma has no food in the lodge."

"Oh, is that all!" cried the officer with a deep sigh of relief. “I was afraid there still remained some questions of marital obligations in which I was personally concerned. It seems, however," he said, addressing the interpreter, "that they have come simply to ask for some food."

"Yes, sir," replied the man. "The old warrior and his people are hungry," he says, "and he has come to the fort to beg for something to eat."

The appeal of the Indian met with a prompt and liberal response from the officer, who seemed anxious to have the affair speedily concluded, and a few days thereafter the old Ute warrior and his daughter Satuma took their departure for their homes, heavily laden with gifts of clothing and food.

H. R. BRINKERHOFF,

Colonel U. S. Army.

GARCIA.*

A LEGEND OF SAN BERNARDINO VALLEY, CALIFORNIA.

LIKE a painting set in a frame of green
Is the lovely vale of San Bernardine.
There the Santa Ana in beauty flows.
From its icy founts in the distant snows,
And divides the bloom with its waters cold,
Like a silver seam in a disk of gold.
O what bard in song may describe the scene
Of that valley set in its frame of green;
Or what artist soul in its grandest flight
Ever placed on canvas so fair a sight!

There the orange bends with its golden fruit
When the rills of the north with the frosts are mute;

And the lime-tree yieldeth its juicy prize

When the rains congeal in less balmy skies:

There the fig-tree blossoms to cheer the swains

When the snow lies deep on more northern plains;

And a flowery carpet o'erspreads the field
When in ruder climates the fonts are sealed;
And the droning bees on their journeys fill

All the air with sound as on Hybla's hill.

Ah! who could believe to a landscape like this
That Sin ever came with adversity laden;
That Death with his glance ever ended the bliss
Of a lover, or froze the sweet smile of a maiden?
Alas, for a spot on this fair earth of ours,

Untainted by evil where mortals are dwelling;

Where blood may not stain the bright hue of the flowers,
From wounds that are cruel in crimson drops welling!

This earth indeed is full of sadness;
No place below is free from guile;
No heart is always cheered with gladness;
And tears may drown the happiest smile.

And crime hath passed the emerald setting
Of yonder valley, broad and fair;
A bloody deed and sorrow's fretting
Destroyed the loveliest maiden there.

I would the ghostly scene might vanish
From memory's halls, to end my song.
I fain the mournful theme would banish,—
But gloomy thoughts my notes prolong!

Mid rural scenes begins the tale-
Mid rustic joys and rustic hopes-
Where Santa Ana skirts the vale,

And laves the feet of neighboring slopes. Along the river's banks that smile

With willows green and flowerets bright, A Spanish hamlet, mile on mile,

In peaceful beauty cheered the sight.
Long, long ago the town was built.
By hands devout from distant Spain;
Long, long ago the blood was spilt

That cast a gloom o'er yonder plain,—
Ere tempting dreams of wealth untold
Sent eager hearts and eager hands
To California's hills of gold,

To delve among her glittering sands.
Yes, mile on mile the village wound

Its length of shade in years gone by;
Still mile on mile the fruitful ground
In flowery splendor greets the eye.
Midway, an ancient convent threw

Its shadows deep from ivied wall;
Near by, a sombre cypress grew,

To hide its turrets grim and tall. Before the gates, from gallows' beam,

Yet I come not here in priestly guise,
To reveal the depth of priestly art;

But my theme, alas, is of tearful eyes

And the crime that broke a maiden's heart!

With vine-clad porch, a cottage neat

Once stood beyond the convent's height;
A home-like view from village street,—
To stranger eyes a charming sight.
There Garcia dwelt in rustic bliss,

With home and parents doubly blest:
No grander scene on earth than this
Ere gave her virgin thoughts unrest.
And thither Gomez, ardent swain,

To woo the maiden, hied apace

When gathering shades obscured the plain,
And veiled their secret trysting-place.
Thus day by day with whispered vows
This blameless pair renewed their love;
Beneath the sombre cypress-boughs

That bent their friendly arms above.
Once blissful spot! thy joys are fled;

No more the cypress forms thy shade; Those whispering lovers both are dead; The convent walls in dust are laid.

Ah! fain would I sing of the trysting of lovers,

And tell of the vows that once hallowed the shade; But the Angel of Death round the cypress-tree hovers, And woe is the theme of my numbers instead.

One summer's eve in the golden light,

As in western glory the sun went down,
A proud gray steed and a prouder knight
Came slowly up through the Spanish town.
The cavalier with his plume of snow,

In his velvet cloak, with his ringlets curled,
To many a wondering maid, I trow,

Was a fancied prince from the outer world.
The stranger rode by the convent bell,

So queerly hung, and he quickly spied
Those lovers true where the shadows fell
From cypress drear by the convent side.
On the charger's neck as the reins were flung,
By the convent gate near the dusty road,
With a gallant air to the ground he swung;

With a graceful step to the trysting strode.
'Twas a rueful moment, sweet maid, for thee,
For it sealed the doom of thy doting swain,
When to view thy charms by the cypress-tree
The stranger drew on the bridle-rein!
With a lordly pace, in his brilliant gear,

The knight passed over the emerald grass;
With a glance of scorn for her lover near,
Addressed these words to the blushing lass:
"Tell me truly, nymph, in a town like this
If a weary rider may find repose?
Nay, to prove my faith, I bestow a kiss

On those lips of thine, that outbloom the rose."

And his arm enfolded her slender waist.

But a stinging blow from a brawny hand
Gave a stern rebuke to that clasp unchaste,
And denied the kiss that the lordling planned.
Ah! surely then had there blood been shed,

As from the silver scabbard the poniard flew,
But with tears o'erflowing the maiden plead,
As around her lover her arms she threw.
So the stranger turned on his spur-clad heel,
With a muttered curse and a glance of hate;
And slowly sheathing the wounding steel,

With a haughty stride sought the convent gate. A month elapsed: in that blissful spot

Where the shadows fell when the sun went down,