THE SIOUX CHIEF'S DAUGHTER.

TWO gray hawks ride the rising blast;

Dark cloven clouds drive to and fro

By peaks pre-eminent in snow;
A sounding river rushes past,
So wild, so vortex-like, and vast.

A lone lodge tops the windy hill ;
A tawny maiden, mute and still,
Stands waiting at the river's brink,
As weird and wild as you can think.

A mighty chief is at her feet;
She does not heed him wooing so-
She hears the dark, wild waters flow;
She waits her lover, tall and fleet,
From far gold fields of Idaho,
Beyond the beaming hills of snow.

He comes! The grim chief springs in air-
His brawny arm, his blade is bare.

She turns; she lifts her round, dark hand;
She looks him fairly in the face;

She moves her foot a little pace

And says, with coldness and command,
"There's blood enough in this lorn land.
But see! a test of strength and skill,
Of courage and fierce fortitude;

To breast and wrestle with the rude
And storm-born waters, now I will
Bestow you both.

Take you my left, tall Idaho;

Stand either sido!

And you, my burly chief, I know

Would choose my right. Now peer you low

Across the waters wild and wide.
See! leaning so this morn, I spied
Red berries dip yon farther side.
See, dipping, dripping in the stream,
Twin boughs of autumn berries gleam!

"Now, this, brave men, shall be the test:
Plunge in the stream, bear knife in teeth
To cut yon bough for bridal wreath.
Plunge in! and he who bears him best,
And brings yon ruddy fruit to land
The first, shall have both heart and hand."

Then one threw robes with sullen air,
And wound red fox tails in his hair.
But one with face of proud delight
Entwined a crest of snowy white.
She sudden gave

The sign, and each impatient brave
Shot sudden in the sounding wave;
The startled waters gurgled round,
Their stubborn strokes kept sullen sound.
Now side by side the rivals plied,
Yet no man wasted word or breath;
All was as still as stream of death.

Now side by side their strength was tried,
They near the shore at last; and now
The foam flies spouting from a face
That laughing lifts from out the race.

The race is won, the work is done!
She sees the climbing crest of snow;
She knows her tall, brown Idaho.
She cries aloud, she laughing cries,
And tears are streaming from her eyes:

"O splendid, kingly Idaho, I kiss his lifted crest of snow; I see him clutch the bended bough! 'Tis cleft-he turns! is coming now My tall and tawny king, come back! Come swift, O sweet! Why falter so? Come! Come! What thing has crossed your track? kneel to all the gods I know.

O come, my manly Idaho!

Great Spirit, what is this I dread?

Why, there is blood! the wave is red!
That wrinkled chief, outstripped in race,
Dives down, and, hiding from my face,
Strikes underneath!

He rises now!

Now plucks my hero's berry bough,
And lifts aloft his red fox head,

And signals he has won for me.
Hist! Softly! Let him come and see.

"O come! my white crowned hero, come!
O come! and I will be your bride,
Despite yon chieftain's craft and might.
Come back to me! my lips are dumb,
My hands are helpless with despair:
The hair you kissed, my long, strong hair,
Is reaching to the ruddy tide,
That you may clutch it when you come.

"How slow he buffets back the wave!
O God, he sinks! O heaven! save
My brave, brave boy. He rises! See!
Hold fast, my boy! Strike! strike for me!
Strike straight this way! Strike firm and strong!
Hold fast your strength. It is not long-

O God, he sinks! He sinks! Is gone!
His face has perished from my sight!

"And did I dream, and do I wake?
Or did I wake and now but dream?
And what is this crawls from the stream?
O here is some mad, mad, mistake!
What you! The red fox at my feet?

You first, and failing from a race?

What! you have brought me berries red?
What! You have brought your bride a wreath?

You sly red fox with wrinkled face-
That blade has blood, between your teeth!

"Lie still! lie still! till I lean o'er

And clutch your red blade to the shore.
Ha! Ha! Take that! and that! and that!
Ha! Ha! So, through your coward throat

The full day shines! . . . Two fox tails float
And drift and drive adown the stream.

"But what is this? What snowy crest
Climbs out the willows of the west,
All weary, wounded, bent, and slow,
And dripping from his streaming hair?
It is! it is my Idaho!

His feet are on the land, and fair

His face is lifting to my face,

For who shall now dispute the race?

66 The gray hawks pass, O love! two doves
O'er yonder lodge shall coo their loves.
My love shall heal your wounded breast,
And in yon tall lodge two shall rest."

JOAQUIN MILLER.

THE

THE BALD-HEADED MAN.

HE other day a lady, accompanied by her son, a very small boy, boarded a train at Little Rock. The woman had a careworn expression hanging over her face like a tattered veil, and many of the rapid questions asked by the boy were answered by unconscious sighs.

66

"Ma," said the boy, "that man's like a baby, ain't he?" pointing to a bald-headed man sitting just in front of them.

After a few moments silence; "Ma, what's the matter with that man's head?"

"Hush, I tell you. He's bald."

"What's bald?"

"His head hasn't got any hair on it."

"Did it come off?"

After another silence, the boy exclaimed: Ma, look

at that fly on that man's head."

"If you don't hush, I'll whip you when we geè home." "Look! There's another fly. Look at 'em fight; look at 'em!"

"Madam," said the man, putting aside a newspaper and looking around," what's the matter with that young hyena?"