balls through his body, sprang to his feet, the blood streaming from his head, and uttering a hideous howl. An old squaw, possibly his mother, stopped and looked back from the mountain-side she was climbing, threatening and lamenting. The frightful spectacle appalled the stout hearts of our men; but they did what humanity required, and quickly terminated the agonies of the gory savage.

They were now masters of the camp, which was a pretty little recess in the mountain, with a fine spring, and apparently safe from invasion. Great preparations. had been made to feast a large party, for it was a very proper place to rendezvous, and for the celebration of such orgies as robbers of the desert would delight in. Several of the best horses had been killed, skinned, and cut up; for the Indians, living in the mountains, and only coming into the plains to rob, and murder, make no other uses of horses than to eat them. Large earthen vessels were on the fire, boiling and stewing the horse beef; and several baskets, containing fifty or sixty pairs. of moccasins, indicated the presence, or expectation, of a considerable party. They released the boy, who had given strong evidence of the stoicism, or something else, of the savage character, in commencing his breakfast upon a horse's head, as soon as he found that he was not to be killed, but only tied as a prisoner. Their object accomplished, our men gathered up all the surviving horses, fifteen in number, returned upon their trail, and rejoined us at our camp in the afternoon of the same day. They had ridden about one hundred miles, in the pursuit and return, and all in thirty hours.

The time, place, object, and numbers considered, this expedition of Carson and Godey may be considered among the boldest and most disinterested which the annals of Western adventure, so full of daring deeds, can present. Two men, in a savage desert, pursue day and night an unknown body of Indians into a defile of an unknown mountain; attack them on sight, without counting numbers, and defeat them in an instant — and for what? To punish the robbers of the desert, and to avenge

the wrongs of Mexicans whom they did not know. I repeat: It was Carson and Godey who did this: the former an American, born in Boonslick County, Missouri, the latter a Frenchman, born in St. Louis, and both trained to Western enterprise from early life.- Memoirs, Chap. X.

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This second exploring expedition started from the little town of Kansas, near the junction of the Kansas River with the Missouri," in May, 1843. In September, 1844, Frémont returned to Washington, and set himself to the work of preparing his official Report of that expedition, most of which is embodied in the Memoirs.

Mr. Frémont also published a detailed narrative of his third expedition, 1845-46, which involved more adventure than either of the previous ones, and resulted in the taking possession of California by the United States. The concluding act of this series of transactions is thus described:

THE TREATY OF COUENGA.

We entered the Pass of San Bernardino on the morning of the 12th of January, 1847, expecting to find the enemy there in force; but the Californians had fallen back before our advance, and the Pass was undisputed. In the afternoon we encamped at the Mission of San Fernando, the residence of Don Andres Pico, who was at present in chief command of the California troops. Their encampment was within two miles of the Mission, and in the evening Don Jesus Pico, a cousin of Don Andres, with a message from me, made a visit to Don Andres. The next morning, accompanied only by Don Jesus, I rode over to the camp of the Californians; and, in a conference with Don Andres, the important features of a treaty of capitulation were agreed upon. A truce was ordered; commissioners on each side appointed, and the

same day a capitulation agreed upon. This was approved by myself, as Military Commandant representing the United States, and Don Andres Pico, Commander-in-Chief of the Californians. With this treaty of Couenga hostilities ended, and California was left peaceably in our possession, to be finally secured to us by the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, in 1848.— Memoirs, Chap. XV.

RENCH, ALICE ("OCTAVE THANET"), an American novelist; born at Andover, Mass., March 19, 1850. Her descent goes back to Sir William French, who came to the Massachusetts colonies in the seventeenth century; and on her mother's side to Nathaniel Morton, who married Governor Bradford's sister. She has spent much time in the South, especially in Arkansas. Economic and social topics have especially interested her and prompted the writing of articles in the magazines. Among her works are Knitters in the Sun (1887); Expiation (1890); We All, and Best Letters of Lady Mary Montague (1891); Stories of a Western Town (1893); A Book of True Lovers (1893); The Heart of Toil (1894); Man and His Neighbors (1895); The Missionary Sheriff (1899); and The Man of the Hour (1905).

"In Octave Thanet's Knitters in the Sun," says the Critic, "we have a collection of fine short stories deep, frequent, and beautiful. We have read and admired them already in the magazines, but they are worthy of a permanent place in any library. Perhaps the best of them is The Bishop's Vagabond, so full of exhilarating humor and sympathetic perception, with

a touch of tenderness; but all of them are far above the average short story in originality, wit, and insight into human nature."

TWO LOST AND FOUND.

They rode along, Ruffner furtively watching Bud, until finally the elder man spoke, with the directness of primitive natures and strong excitement:

"Whut's come ter ye, Bud Quinn? Ye seem all broke up 'beout this yere losin' yo' little trick [child]; yit ye did'nt useter set no gre't store by 'er-least, looked like -"

"I knaw," answered Bud, lifting his heavy eyes, too numb himself with weariness and misery to be surprised, "I knaw; an' 't ar curi's ter me too. I didn't set no store by 'er w'en I had 'er. I taken a gredge agin 'er kase she hadn't no good sense, an' you all throwed it up to me fur a jedgment. An' knawin' how I hadn't done a thing to hurt Zed, it looked cl'ar agin right an' natur fur the Lord ter pester me that a-way; so someways I taken the notion 'twar the devil, and that he got inter Ma' Bowlin', an' I mos' cudn't b'ar the sight er that pore little critter. But the day she got lost kase er tryin' ter meet up with me, I 'lowed mabbe he tolled 'er off, an' I sorter felt bad fur 'er; an' w'en I seen them little tracks er her'n, some ways all them mean feelin's I got they jes broked off short insider me like a string mought snap. They done so. An' I wanted thet chile bader'n I ever wanted anything."

'Law me!" said Ruffner, quite puzzled.

Bud, ef ye want 'er so bad's all thet, ye warn't wanter mad the Lord by lyin', kase He are yo' on'y show now. Bud Quinn, did ye hurt my boy?" He had pushed his face close to Bud's, and his mild eyes were glowing like live coals.

"Naw, Mr. Ruffner," answered Bud, quietly, "I never tetched a ha'r er 'is head!"

Ruffner kept his eager and almost fierce scrutiny a moment; then he drew a long, gasping sigh, crying,

"Blame my skin ef I don' b'lieve ye! I've 'lowed, fur a right smart, we all used ye mighty rough."

""Tain't no differ," said Bud, dully. Nothing mattered now, the poor fellow thought; Ma' Bowlin' was dead, and Sukey hated him.

Ruffner whistled slowly and dolefully; that was his way of expressing sympathy; but the whistle died on his lips, for Bud smote his shoulder, then pointed toward the trees.

"Look a-thar!" whispered Bud, with a ghastly face and dilating eyeballs: "Oh, Lord A'mighty! thar's her an' him!"

Ruffner saw a boat leisurely propelled by a long pole approaching from the river-side; a black-haired young man in the bow with the pole, a fair-haired litle girl in the stern. The little girl jumped up, and at the same instant a shower of water from light, flying heels blinded the young man.

"Paw! paw!" screamed the little girl; "Maw tole Ma' Bowlin'- meet up— paw!"

He had her in his arms now; he was patting her shoulder, and stroking her hair with a trembling hand. Her face looked like an angel's to him in its cloud of shining hair; her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were red, but there was something else which in the intense emotion of the moment Bud dimly perceived the familiar, dazed look was gone. How the blur came over that innocent soul, why it went, are alike mysteries. The struggle for life wherein, amid anguish and darkness, the poor baby intellect somehow went astray, and the struggle for life wherein it groped its way back to light, both are the secrets of the swamp, their witnesses; but however obscurely, none the less surely, the dormant soul had awakened and claimed its rights, and Ma' Bowlin' had ceased to be the baby, forever.

Meanwhile, if possible, the other actors in the scene were equally agitated. The old man choked, and the young man exclaimed, huskily, "Paw! ye ain't dead, then?"

"Wall, I don't guess I be," said Ruffner, struggling