A SONG OF HER LOVE.
O hills, iu glory lean
And bathe your brows iu light;
0 velvet valleys, soft between.
Dream gently to the night:
For she hath said: “I love," and she
Hh given all that love to me.
O birds, with thrilling throats.
Glad let your music be:
O rivers, where the splendor floats.
Flow singing to the sea!
For she hath said: "I love." and she
Hath made that love a crown for me!
O world, how green to greet
The joy that comes apace;
Your roses for her footsteps sweet—
Your sunlight for her face!
For she hath said: “I love," and she
Hath made that love a heaven for me!
—Frank L. Stanton, in St. Louis Re
publican.
jndian tradition,
A hundred years ago the immense
deserts extending from the declivity
ot the Rocky mountains to the Red
river were peopled by numerous bar
barous tribes, always at war with one
another.
The following is a little story re
lated by an old missionary who passed
thirty years iu the midst of these
Italians iu the northwest.
One day toward the end of the month
of July. IS—, while the Blackfeet were
at war with the Crow tribes, and each
was watching to surprise the other,
fifty of the latter were scattered over
the prairie, gathering wild berries. Not
suspecting the presence of their ene
mies in the neighborhood, they had
dispersed themselves here and there,
without any anxiety, in the places
where the fruit most abounded. Their
horses were fastened to trees, and the
women, furnished with kettles, hur
ried with their fruit to the carts as
soon as their vessels were tilled.
