THE STRANGER'S EVIDENCE.*-E A BLOUNT, JR.

Tell all I know about the case, about the dead man there?
Well, listen, coroner, listen and I'll tell you plain and clear,
For brooding fancy's made the scene as vivid to my sight
As when we acted it upon that dark November's night.
Don't heed me if I wipe my eyes; I'm chilled just through
and through;

I was out upon the plain last night where the fiercest blizzard blew.

Many a weary year 't 'as been since first I saw John MayThen I was in the prime of life but now my hair's turned

gray.

I met him on the Texas plains; 'twas way out there he fell From off his horse and broke his leg, I nursed him through the spell;

And from that time our friendship grew till we were more than friends,

Such friends as never can exist-save love its ardor lends. Wherever you saw me right there you always saw John

May,

Till he was like my shadow as the boys all used to say.

We very seldom touched the cards, but once a game we played;

And I had got the whisky down, "to liven up" I said;
And as we played our interest grew; we quaffed the deadly
drink

I was a heavy winner, sirs, and John had lost, I think.
The night was dark and drear and wild, the candle flickered

low,

Yet still we played; the wild coyote was howling o'er the

snow,

The norther's breath was sharp and chill, the dugout's roof was thin,

Yet still we played, nor heeded we the freezing cold within; We held the cards with feverish grasp, and burnt like fire my face,

Yet still we played-the stake was large and I threw down

an ace.

I won his every dollar, sirs; his share in our small claim; Then up he sprang with bloodshot eyes, "A-ha, is that your game?"

I saw his deadly weapon gleam, I saw the blinding flash;

I seemed to feel the bullet strike, with dull and heavy crash. *Written expressly for this Collection.

And then there came a long, long blank, how long I have forgot,

But when I came to life again 'twas in a herdsman's cot. They said that John had told them where a man was lying

dead,

That he had brought them where I was and that same night had fled;

That I was tenderly cared for by the herdsman and his wife Who by their long and weary work had won me back to life.

I paid them for their trouble and then started out to find The friend who thought he'd murdered me, to ease his guilty mind:

And I've been searching ever since, I've searched this country o'er

From the far Atlantic's roaring tide to the wild Pacific shore; And yet 'twas only on last night that fate had brought me

here,

And here I found my ancient friend,—the man that's lying there!

'Twas where the road and railway cross, and down the level track

I saw the light of a coming train that pierced the night's deep black;

There was an old man standing there, his hair and beard turned gray,

I touched his stooping figure for I wished to know the way. He turned a furrowed care worn face, then sprang in terror

back

Until his aged figure stood upon the nearer track;

And then I saw it was my friend, though years had blanched

his face,

For the eager glance of those brown eyes no time could e'er

erase.

"Back, back," he cried, " Back to thy grave upon the dreary plain,

Oh, have I lived this weary life and prayed so long in vain!" A shuddering wave crept o'er my frame that made my spirit

quail;

I saw the fiery demon rush adown the glistening rail,

I strove to warn him from his fate but awe had stilled my

tongue,

And the engine shrieked its warning till the hills about us

rung;

Yet there he stood as carved from stone full in the vivid

light

That towered high above his head with flood of radiance

bright.

And then the giant swept him down beneath the greedy

wheel,

And ground his aged form to--that, and stained with red the steel.

A fearful sight, a sickening sight, and one to fright the brave, To see a once dear friend struck down, yet powerless to save. E'en now I fel upon my brow that engine's humid breath, E'en now I hear that clanging cry, of "Death-DeathDeath!"

Ah yes, I knew the dead man; he was my oldest friend. But let this sad tale to your hearts some ray of pity send; Judge not too harsh lest ye be judged, and who is there can That what he suffered cannot atone for the crime of poor John May.

say

HEROES OF INKERMAN.-ROBERT OVERTON.*

At the time of the outbreak of the Crimean War I was sergeant in her majesty's th foot, and with me were a goodly number of old comrades with whom I had fought under the burning sun of the tropics; and, taken all around, men and equipments, few better regiments ever took the field than our gallant lot (though I say it), when, soon after the declaration, we wore told off for duty in the East. I sha'n't forget how we were cheered when we embarked for the seat of war, how proudly and hopefully we set out, but, alas! how few of us ever returned to the dear old country. I said all my good-byes before we left London, but many of our fellows had to say the word to father; mother, wife, sweetheart, brother, sister, friends-just before we sailed; and there was many a tearful parting between those who were never to meet again.

Amongst the last to say the final good-bye I noticed our young ensign, a bright noble young fellow, not many years past twenty. He stood between father and mother,an old white-headed couple who might well fear their

*A very superior reading by Mr. Overton, entitled "The Three Parsons," will be found in No. 25 of this Series. "Me and Bill," (on which is founded the author's popular nautical drama, "Hearts of Oak.") is in No. 26, "Turning the Points," in No. 27, and "Juberlo Tom," in No. 29 Each of these presents a pe culiar blending of quaint humor, strong pathos aud stirring dramatic effect.

eyes would never behold him again. I saw the old man look upward for a moment with joined hands, and silently bless his boy; and then the last embrace was given and the shore-bell rang out its loud unwelcome signal.

We landed safely, and took part in most of the work our friends the enemy gave us to do, till the memorable day of Inkerman arrived. Cold and gloomy broke the dawn of that fifth of November. A thick fog hung over the camp, and we could scarcely see from tent to tent. Almost before the bugles woke us from our brief slumber, the booming of the enemy's guns gave warning of the approaching struggle. Then loud over the foggy field echoed the blast of our trumpets, and from tent to tent, from man to man, rang the cry, "The Russians are upon us!"

Scarcely had we time to arm and form before we heard the solid tramp of quickly marching men, and saw, through the yellow mist, closing in around us, the graycoated legions of the foe. And then began in terrible earnest that fearful fight, the tradition of which will never die out from the heart of the British nation, or fade from the memory of the British army. Man to man, bayonet to bayonet, sword to sword! How long the fight had continued when the incident I am going to speak of occurred I do not know. Ever since the commencement of the fray our regiment had been incessantly engaged; and we had managed to keep pretty well together, close to the colors held by poor Ensign Gray. As the hours went on, however, our number grew less and less, many a brave comrade falling never to rise again, and many being gradually beaten back. At last only eighty or a hundred remained together, when suddenly a mounted officer dashed up, exclaiming-

"Look out,--th, the enemy's cavalry is upon you! Even as he shouted we heard the thud of hoofs upon the turf, and the jingling of spurs and bits. A moment afterwards they were close on us, a small but solid square, kneeling round the flag. A volley from each side emp

tied many a saddle and laid many of our gallant com. rades on the ground, never to "receive cavalry charge" any more. Our square was troken, and the Russian troops rode in upon us. Sword in one hand and the colors in the other, his fair curly hair falling around his bared forehead, and a brave passionate light glaring on his face, stood poor Ensign Gray. But only for a second, for like a lightning flash fell a sabre, cutting a ghastly wound across his head. He fell, and the colors he had defended so bravely were carried off by the trooper who smote him!

'Good God!" he groaned and I shall never forget the terrible anguish of his voice-"they've got the colors! On, lads, on-bring me back the colors or die!"

66

'Bring me back the colors!" None but a soldier can realize fully how such an appeal must influence a soldier's heart, filling it with a burning, desperate, wrathful courage, which shot and shell and steel, and the certainty of death, cannot daunt. "Bring me back the colors!" But alas! the dying man seemed speaking only to the dead and the dying; faithful fellows who would have shed their blood to place that flag in his hand again, had met already a glorious death around it. Only one man remained unwounded of the square over which the Russian horsemen had ridden,-that man myself. Again the cry, with the same accent of bitter agony and despair, "Bring me back the colors." But before the words were finished I had leaped upon a riderless steed hard by, and thrust the jagged point of a broken sword into his side. On, on, after the flying troops, a mad, wild chase to win the colors back or die. A sudden volley from the French guns (for our allies were now in the field) played upon the Russian horsemen, and the sight of a British cavalry regiment, preparing to charge, dispersed them in every direction, and the man who had taken the colors-our colors-was cut off from his comrades. Wild with hope, I tore on (bullets flying thickly about me), getting nearer and nearer, inch by inch, to