will be observed, bear no resemblance to | desperate battle. This movement on their part, as may be imagined, generally creates considerable excitement; still as it is never resorted to until a leaden messenger has been felt, the gallant bearing of the animal is of but short duration. The venison of California is pronounced the finest in the world. the horse. A most striking peculiarity of the California Bucks, and one which has doubtless been observed by hunters, is their savage disposition after being wounded. After being pursued for hours, and arrested at length by a bullet, they turn suddenly upon their pursuers, and make With all her wonders, there are few persons at a distance who will be willing to believe that California produces an animal like that represented in the above engraving; yet, strange and remarkable as it may appear, it is true. A veritable Lion, of which the above is a correct sketch, is found within the limits of our State. Hence, we choose to refer to it as the California Lion. We have seen one of them, and a splendid fellow he was, too. In point of size, strength, or beauty, we hesitate not to pronounce the California Lion equal, if not superior, to any that we have ever met in the famous menageries of the Atlantic States. It will be observed that they differ greatly in appearance from the Lions of other countries, resembling more the ferocious tiger of the old world. A gentleman who passed through the northern portion of the State in the fall of '50, describes a fight which he witnessed between a Grizzly Bear and Lion. Upon facing each other, the Bear showed signs of distress, and commenced "backing out." The Lion at the same time drew himself forward very cautiously, until within ten or fifteen feet of his adversary, when coiling his tail under his body, he made a spring, with a hissing noise. He missed his object, but suddenly gathering his energies, he made a second leap, landing full upon the Bear's back. The result of the struggle soon became apparent. The Bear fought with desperation, but was finally compelled to yield beneath the huge jaws of his antagonist. The fight lasted about half an hour. The Lion was considerably bruised. DID I LOVE HER? BY AN OLD BACHELOR. Many years ago—so very many that it almost makes me dizzy to look back at them-I was in love; so, at least, I fancied, though older heads insisted that it was some other feeling. Well, I'll tell you the story, and, when I have closed, I may again have occasion to ask the question: "Did I love her?" It was, by all odds, the loveliest village in all Pennsylvania-the place where I was born. I can see it now, with its fine old trees and comfortable houses; its hardy old people and healthy children; its neat, tidy, handsome girls, and strong, active young men. The reader will observe that I indulge in none of the usual fancy pictures here, for the purpose of winning attention. When I say that the old people were hardy, the children healthy, the girls handsome, and the young men hearty and active, I mean it. I desire to present them in no other shape. I had the reputation of being the wildest, most reckless boy in that quiet, beautiful, Heaven-favored village. Though I never, in all my life, did any member of the community an intentional injury, or even had the remotest idea of doing so, I continued (why, I know not,) to keep up the reputation just alluded to; and until, perhaps, up to within the last year of my residence there, the very children, as they clustered around the blazing family hearth, in the cold wintry evenings, were frightened half to death by senseless, unfounded stories, in which I was, as a matter of course, the terrible hero. As before remarked, I was not what might be called a bad boy-neither am I considered a very bad man. It is true that, during my boyhood days, I was always full of life, and that I occasionally loved as dearly to invent a little fun as to enjoy it after it was invented. It is equally true that I was compelled to own up to every wicked thing that transpired in town; and, this being a position from which it was impossible for me to back out, why, I very naturally stuck my hands deeper and firmer than ever in my pantaloons pockets, and whistled much louder than I might under ordinary circumstances. But, what has all this to do with our story? I will endeavor to show how a misunderstanding, produced by the bad name unjustly fastened upon me in the village, hurried two innocent beings to an untimely grave, and embittered the life of a third, which might otherwise have been sweet. I will not attempt, nor is it particularly necessary that I enumerate all the charges laid at my door. I will simply say that the Great Judge knows how innocent I was. The old people were too hard on me; but, as they now sleep beneath the dear old trees that sheltered me in the spring-time of life, I have not a harsh or unkind word to utter. May they rest in peace! Among the many girls in my list of acquaintances, was one whom I at a certain period of life loved. I was going to say I thought I loved her; but that would hardly do. I knew too well-she knew too well-God and the Angels knew too well, I loved her as man seldom loves. A little patience, reader, and I will proceed. This is the love I spoke of at the start. The good old time, with all its sunny days, is upon me again, and my torn, lascerated heart, that has bled so long, feels just as if it were about to melt. There, that will do! I feel much better. Well, as I was saying, I loved the girl. There certainly could be no mistake about that, though you have but my word for it. She, I believe, never doubted it; and I have reason to know, gave me a good, pure heart in return. 66 We were children together-my Mary and I. We had sat close together on the same old bench at the village school had rejoiced at each other's triumph over the "hard words," as they were given out by the fierce teacher-and had taken 'great big bites" from the same slice of bread and butter, over and over again. We had climbed the long hills togetherhad chased butterflies together had sang pretty songs together, and picked berries together. Why, our little cheeks and lips had been pressed together as often as we had fingers and toes." And thus the years rolled on. Thus we grew up. She was ever ready to defend me. She understood me perfectly. 66 poor mother, borne down with grief at my distress, sank into her grave. In despair, I returned to the village. It was in mid-winter, and the scene was as cheerless as can well be imagined. With the exception of several kind friends -whom I will ever remember with delight-I was pointed at as that "wild, reckless, bad young man." I bore up bravely beneath all this, for I knew how little I deserved the treatment; but when I sought an interview with her in whom my dearest affections were centered— when I asked to see my Mary, and was This was more than I could bear. She, refused-my heart and voice failed me. at least, I supposed-and that was enough. too, had been poisoned against me. So, There is no longer need of detail. Being the only surviving member of my family, I turned the dear old homestead into money, and, bidding adieu to the place of my birth, wandered off to the then "Far West." I at once settled down in business, and endeavored to banish from my mind all thought of my former life. But that was out of the question. I could not forget how deeply I had been wronged. I could not but think how little they knew my heart, who declared I did not love my Mary. My days and nights were long, and heavy, and bitter, though the years, after all, crowded fast upon me. Indeed, I sometimes felt that I was a very, very old man. One day, long after I had concluded to outlive it all, I was startled by the reception of a letter, bearing the post At length the shock, from which my soul never recovered, came. I had reached the age of twenty-three. Mary was eighteen. I proposed marriage. So far as Mary herself was concerned, there was no difficulty. She had long been preparing for the event. We had long enjoyed the most blissful dreams of the future. But, ah! how little do we know what a day may bring forth! How suddenly is the sweet current of one's life turned into a dreary, desolate waste! Such was our fate. The shock came. Mary's parents and friends objected to me, in the strong-mark of the village in which I had spent est and most positive manner. I did not love her, said they, and could not make her happy! So obstinate and furious, indeed, became their opposition, after my intention was made known, that I concluded to absent myself for a time, in order, if possible, to bring about a change in their feelings. But things only grew worse for me. In less than a year my so many pleasant hours. I had been absent so long, it was impossible for me to recognize the superscription. This I did not attempt, though while gazing upon it I indulged in some very strange conjectures. Who could have thought of me, the "wild, reckless, bad man," after so long a separation? It proved to be from a very dear old lady friend, who informed me that my Mary, too, after withering away like the tender flower beneath the rude blasts, had gently sank to rest! The letter closed as follows: "Her last breath sounded your name, and when they told her, the day before she took her departure from earth, that it must be, she smiled contentedly, and only requested that her body be laid near your mother, who, like herself, knew and loved you so well." Reader, all this happened many years ago. I have since visited the old village, and faced those whose conduct caused so much anguish. I looked about me, and my eyes met many changes and strange faces. There stood the same old trees, still blooming, with the return of spring. The old school house, where Mary and I spelled the hard words, and rejoiced in each other's triumphs, was there; new faces occupied the long, pine benches. The tall hills we used to climb appeared as high and as fresh as ever; but with my eyes, just then, I could see nothing beautiful about me-not even the butterflies Mary and I used to chase! He who visits the old-fashioned village about which I have been talking, will doubtless find somebody who will remember the main features of this story. He will, I dare say, hear more than I have told-much more. He will hear how that 'wild, reckless young man" faced those who had injured him, and how, on a certain occasion, with one hand pointing to two newly-made graves, and the other towards Heaven, he forgave them all! The visitor will hear more than this. He will hear how, up to the hour of their death, that bad young man supported and consoled the aged parents of Mary. I never married. I never expect to marry. But one word more of my Mary: "Did I love her?" Marysville, June 1, 1858. |