Camden commercial courier. (Camden, S.C.) 1837-1838, July 29, 1837, Image 1
agggggggs ' ? ?=gg-ggBHi. i asgas^gggg^
L. M. JQNES, 6l Co. Publishers. "at tiie public good we aim." M. M. LEVY, Editor.
, ' 1 . '
VOL. I. CAMDEN, SOUTH CAROLINA, SATURDAY JULY SO, 1837. NO. 13.
TMIRJTIS
OF THE
' dOMM3BB3LA.il dOITF.IBBj
Published weekly every Saturday morning
at 83 per annum it paid in advance, or '
$1 if not paid until the expiration of the
year.
Advertisements inserted at 81 per square
tor the first insertion, and 30 cts. for every
continuance.
Persons subscribing: out of the State, are
required to pay in advance.
Advertisements that do not have the number
of insertions marked on the margin I
will be published until forbid, and char-j
gcd accordingly.
No subscription received for less than one
year. I
WUIIllIIUUIOilUUUS U1IISI OP pOSl P 31 * I.
From the Portland Transriipt.
THE COTTAGE ON THE CAPE.
BY CIIAULBS P. ILSLF.Y.
'Put the large lamp in the window, wife?
it is a dismal night, and hard will it he for
the poor sailor if he has no beacon to guide
hiin through its darkness.* |
Hard indeed, James, unless the Almighty
should watch over him and guide his ves
sel. Terrible?terrible storm! may God
have the poor seamen in his keeping!' solemnly
ejaculated the woman as she hung a
large brilliant lamp in the window of the
Cottage facing the sea. i
'Amen?amen!' was the hearty response'
of her husband.
At the time of which wc are writing, light-'
houses were not so plenty as at present.?
Beacon lights are now gleaming all along
our coasts, so that the mariner proceeds on
his course in the night season with as much
safetv. nearly ns lm tlima ?n il>? .1....
Then rarely was (he sailor blessed with the
sight of a'light:'and it was the custom of
those who lived by the sea side, when the
night was unusually dark, or stormy, to .put
a bright light iu their window facing the sea,
in case any vessel should be passing. Where
now the revolving ?the colored, and the
double Mights' are seen, directing the mariner
which way lies his course, and warning
him of dangerous points and sunken ledges,.
then a few scattered house lamps gave forth
their feeble rays, which were rarely seen in
the distance in nights when the atmosphere
was thick.
James Richards lived 011 Cape *??*?**?.
II is.house, a neat one story building, was
situated on the furthermost part of the cape
toward the sea. lie was an old sailor, and
had followed the sea until ho was three score
Voars of affp when ho h??ii?rUt iliio
? - -e> -1 ? ci|n? uuu
built him a house. It was a dangerous part
of the coast: and this was one great reason,
he said, why he settled there. 'For he meant
to keep a bright light burning in a dark
night to light his brother tars on heir way.'
And so he did while he lived, insomuch, that
'Richards' light* was proveibial for being
the brightest and the most const int of any
along shore. Another reason why he liked
the place was. he had so long, lie said, been
used to the roar of the sea. that lie was like
a child who could not sleep unless its accustomed
lullaby was sounded in its cars: and
here the sea kept up a perpetual roar. It
was never so calm that the surf did not give
out its sullen echo. But when the storm had
stirred up the deep, and the wind came from
seaward, then did the lashing of the waves
against the rocks come like full thunder to
your cars. And then would the look of
anxiety be visible upon the features of the
old sailor, as he sat in his chair listening to
the dash of the spray, forced by the hi<fh
winds hard against the side of his dwelling:
and then loo would the well-trimmed lamp
.send from his window its bright rays, which,
if they benefitted no one, showed the b nevolence
and good heart of the - Id man.
Richards' family consisted <>f himself,
wife and two sons, the eldest thirty and the
youngest twenty-five years of age. " And
smart active boys they arc loo," the Id
man would say, " as any about these parts.
CM '
oiiuw iiie out: stronger at, mo oar man John,
or quicker at (he line than Samuel! For
catching fish I'll put them two boys agin
any the Ca]>e ca i produce; mid for (-leaning
'em, Sam Steobjns is no touch to them!' In
truth this was not all a parent's boast; for
John and Sam Richards were noted from
**** Island to Capo********, for being the
smartest hands at an oar or a line ol any in
that neighborhood: and this was no moan
praise in these days. :
The afternoon of the day on which our j
story opens had been lowery, and appear-!
an jos betokened a tempest. The two young
moii lifirl l\i>An o ?? - "?I
r nwu vvvii uusi;iii ft UOUI a WW It UII a
Ibmng cruise. They were therefore anxi-1
ously looked for all the afternoon by their pa- J
rents; more especially, as they had th^n outstayed
their usual time of absence. As the
day wore away, and the appearances of a ,
storm increased, the mother's fears arose j
proportionally; although th? father wan too
much of a sailor to be frightened, as ha ex- 1
pressed himself, at a bla?.k cloud, '.lowever,
as the day drew near its close, and the 1
wind began to increase, the old man became (
uneasy, and his eye was directed oftener than
usual seaward. The sun went down luridly
in the west, and the large waves began to
heave in with their feathery tops. The old
man left the house and proceeded to the
phore. There was a smooth sandy cove)
which made a snug little harbor; but save i
this, the Cape was lined with high jugged i
and shelving rocks. Mr. Richards seated i
himself on the highest eminence?Broad*
stone it is called, directly on the pitch of
the Ca-pe, from whence he could overlook i
the sea at all points.
Here, as he sat gazing off, he would mutter
to himself?'I don't like that white i
streak in the east; it is a wether-lifter ami
bodes no good; and the scud there in the
south looks badly skimming over the water
at such a rate. It will be an ugly night, this. <
The plague is in the boys that they don't
come home?they ought to know better than
to be abroad in such weather as this!' Time!
and again as the dusk crept on, he would
vis.t broadsto e, and throw anxious glances
about in hopes of detecting an approaching |
mil, and then he would give vent to his spleen
lor their absenting themselves, in which,1
however, fear, as could be easily seen, rather
than anger was pcrdommant. Darkness set- <
tied down on earth and ocean, stil! nothing i
met the eyes of the anxious watchers, but
the dark green waves, rolling turbidly to the i
shore with a sullen fearful murmur. Thc'?
wind blew fuiiously and the rain cnine with
a heavy plash to the earth. The light had i
been put to the window of the cottage, and I
the solemn *God have the seamen in his
keeping,* said by Mrs. Richards, yet neither i
the husband nor wife had said a word to oacli i
other about the peril of their absent sons.? i
They seemed to hold back with fear from i
from speaking of them as in danger, an-'
wondered only at their long stay, and hoped I
ihey would soon come. As the hour grew
late, and the heavy gusts of wind swept by,
and Mr. Richards had b?-en once or twice '
to the shore without any signs of their ap- I
proach, their anxiety became too great for t
silence, and impassioned prayers were put 1
up by the mother tor her sous' safety; while
the father ill a voice slightly trembling tried i
to comfort her, by saying?'Fear not, wife?
the boys are strong, and a belter sea boat
never swam; they are well acquainted with
the coast. Besides, God will have them in '
his keeping, and will not leave us childless in ;
our old age. Cheer up, and put your trust '
in Him, at whose bidding?'peace, be still!' J
?the waves cannot harin.' ,
'Fen o'clock came ai.d went by. The t
boys came not. The storm Was at its height
After walking the room a while, Mr. Richards
asked bis wife to prepare a lan'hern.?
'I am going' said he, in answer to his wife's
enqiueries, 'to kindle a fire on Broad.stone,
if possible. Keep a good heart- trust in
God and all will be well/ So Saying he
left the house. It was but a short time before
he had a bright fire kindled on Broadstone,
which ihrt-w its light far on to the
troubled waters?'Pray God the youngsters
may see it!' the old man uttered to himself i
as he heaped on the brush. *He will not I
Lave me desolate in my old <gc! Take me, <
Father Almighty,' dropping on his knees i
and raising his arms on high in a prayerful i
attituee?'take me, but spire my children! I
lake me who am nothing worth?a worn out !
hulk, hut spare the hoys to comfort and sup- i
port i heir a^ed moiher!' A hand this moment
was laid on his shoulder, and a trembling
voice, said hastily?'James, James?His 1
will, 1101 ours be done/ i
'Wife, how came you here? You should ]
not be out in this? tempest " I
411 ark! there it is again?I was sure i 1
heard it!'
4ileard what!'said her husband in astonishment.
*11 ark?listen!' said the woman pointing
her arm seaward
Hero was a fine scene for n painter. By
the fitful glare of the fire, now blazing high
in the air and now quivering low to the
earth, as the wind hilled and increased, the 1
old man might be seen with his head hent,
and his body placed in that attitude which i
denote the seines of the man entirely fixed <
on i?nc object. Mis wife stood beside him,
with one ai in resting on his sh uldcr and i
the other stretched toward the turbulent sea, <
dashing and foaming around, and her whole I
appearance exhibiting the same intense at- '
tention. Her head being bare, her long grey I
hair hung loose about her neck and gave her I
an air of peculiar wilderness. i
It was but a moment when a bright Hash t
was seen and a faint report was borne on ;
.1.^1 A
use ureeze irorn seaward. i
'They are coming?the boys are coming!' i
burst simultaneously from the aged pair. 1 <
'They see the light,'said the wife hurriedly?'let
us heap on more wood, James-praise |
God!'
'We have reason to praise Him. wife, and '
may He who has protected them thus far
restore them to uu in safety!* ? 6
'He will?He will,' 6aid the agitated wife *
as she heaped large quantities of brush on '
to the fire. As the flames shot up in the air, *
and were curled about bv the wind, the old 1
man and his wife seated themselves to await
A UA A IW/V ifajadl tUfti J <*11 t
me elf/pi uiiiyiiiu^ fcoDtij mai uumaiiJUU clll
that waa dear lo them. Their eyes were r
strai'icd toward the cove in the hope of see- r
ing her in that direction; but happening to r
turn their eyes, they saw the little schooner 1
dashing over the waves right towards the 1
high rocky part of the Cape. They both *
uttered a cry of horror. Death?inevitable f
death seemed the doom of those on board.
Onward she came, now rising high on a
towerieg wave, flutterring on its top like a p
frightened bird?and now plunging down in t
the gulf of foaming waters, as if to dcstrucI
ion then slowly rising again, still struggling 4
towards the rocks. The aged pair stood for t
a moment like statues gazing 011 the scene I'
before them, until the little bark shot into the t
shade made by the cliff and .^as lost to sight i
Instead of running franticty about, accomplishing
nothing, as is too often the case ir> I
scenes of alarm and danger, the 'old sailor' I
was put on. Bidding his wife advance to I
the edge of the cliff with the lunthcrn, Mr. t
Richards, with the speed of one some two t
scores younger, went to the honsc, procured c
a coil of rope and a fishing line, and was 6
back to the cliff nearly as soon as his wife.
At this place the ciiff rose forty feet, perhaps,
above the level of the sea. About two 1
thirds or more of the way down was a shelf,' a
projecting out three or four feet. It was j <
horn lha KaoI <r?n Oi/* nnU/\?>n I
kwiw iiiv* i/uui vtiiiiu tniiui c ?
'Husband!' said Mrs. R. wringing licr 1
hands in agony?'what shall he done?what a
can be done! Father in Heaven, couldst ?
ihou not have spared them to usl' t
'Peace?wife, peace!?wouldst thou chide 1
thy maker! say not a word, but attend to me t
?it is no place to bo womanish here. Now, ?
wife, pitch your voice to its shrillest tone, '
above that of the wind, and see if the poor I
boys arc alive to make answer.' 1
The woman did as she was bid; and bend- <
tug over the clilT, screamed in a high sharp *
tone?'John?Samuel! my children!' I
llcr voice rang shrilly nbove the dash of^
the waves and the blasts of the gale. j I
'Mother!'came faintly up with the foar ol a
the sea. ?
-Quick ?the light?there is hope!' said t
Mr. Richards. Immediately the lantheru *
was lowered down by the line, and by its fee- '1
ble light the oldest son could he seen 011 the (
shell leaning back against the jagged rocks I
looking upwards.
'There is but one?it is John!' said the old
man wildly, as he bent in his eagerness fearfully
over the edge of the cliff.?'The rope,
wife?the rope!'shouted he. In a second it I
was lowered down, swayed to and fro by the I
wind. John was not lontr in possessing him
jelf of it. Hut what was the man's horror,
when he saw his son ca*t off Ins jacket, and
rasping the end of the rope, walk to the .
sdge of the shelf, as if to jump into the wa- [ ^
icra mai loomed at ms teat. 1
'What is lie doing?lie is leaping into the'
sea! Merciful parent!?bov?-hoy, will you !
leave me childless in my old ajie!' shouted!
he, in a voice hoarse with emotion, as hei
saw his son dive into the sea. ile stood I
transfixed with horror. In a few minutes, I
however, John appeared on the shell' antl
made signs for those above to pull the rope.
The old man commenced, giving directions
to his wife to watch the motions of John - He
soon made signs to stop hauling, and
then was seen to lift the apparently lifeless j
body of his brother on to the shelf. After |
examining the rope he made signs for them
to hoist again. It was a sad sight to witness J j
that old man, hy the uncertain light of the (
fire?the rain beating upon his grey head? t
straining himself to raise the corpse of his ^
own son from the dark depths below:?-and
when the body was raised to the cliff", to sec |
the aged mother clasp it in her arms, and t
hear her voice, thick with agony? 'Samuel,!
my son?would to (jJ^d I could have died for ; u
fou!'?the wind and the heavy rain the while j
AO'itinrr tlAit/n nrtMii hnr nn/?.kVnrn/l lionrl si rwi I .
tunning her grey and langlod tresses wildly
lo the air!
The old man's attention was now directed {
toward rescuing his other son, who was in : j
irnminet danger, as the tide was setting in,!
and ere long would probably wash him of]', j'
the force ol the wind having raised it to more I (
than its usual hoight. lie made fast the rope
to a neighboring tree, and bending over the
c 1 iIT. gave diiections to his son to avoid the f
sharp r>>cks that jutted out, as lie attempted
the pcnloiis ascent, steadying the rope and
encouraging him the while. r
'Father, your hand!' said John, breath- j j(
ing thickly, lifting hi< arm to the edge of the t
cliff, well nigh exhausted. At the moment ^
he uttered these words, the rope, which had ^
worn against the sharp roeks, parted, leaving ^
h'tn dangling over the horrid depth below, t
holding by one hand to the edge of the cliff, j '
and by the other to the tired arm of hi^ fa- t
lher . v
'Wife! wile!' shouted the old man, in a j,
roice hoarse with agony; 'leave the deadly
and 'attend to the living.' His wife was so ?
P
ibsorbed iri grief she paid no attention.? j'Woman!'
shouted he in a voice of des- ^
?air, 'will ye sac- ifice the living to tho dead?' J j]
Will ye see your first-born perish? Quick- j
y, for my stength lailsl'
'What?what would ye, my husband?' said
ihc, starting up, and seeing the situation of r
tcr husband, stretched on the ground at full tj
ength, holding one arm of her son, 6he ,j
sprung forward, and bending down, grasped tj
he other hand, and with almost supernatural
itrength, by one effort lifted her son safe on ^
o the cliflf, and then sunk beside him with j,
io more strength iban a child. She soonljj
eeovered. and the excitement of ihe mo- a
nent being over, their attention was turned M
o the younger eon, who he stretched out op ^
he wet ground without sense or motion, ex- -|
nbiting a pale ?nd ghastly fare as the light w
rom the faat expiring fire occasionally flash- ^
id over it. ^
4< Is he dead, father?" said John, as he E
fazed wildly in his faco. 44 It was an ugly t]
>!ow the main boom gave him as we 6truck.' a
44 Heaven be praised," said the father,
' that we have one left?and thankful am I
hat the waters did not devour him. Wife,
et us be comforted that his grave will be on
he land, and that lie was not fated to float
n the cold caverns of the deep."
44 Father?mother!" said John, who had
>ent beside his brother?44 he lives! I feel
lis heart beat!" and truly enough it did
>cat with returning life, and by midnight
hey were all gathered, a happy group, in
he front room of the cottage, congratulating
sach other, and thanking God for their
;afety.
Where stood the humble cottage of Jamrs
tichards, a brilliant lighthouse now stands;
ind it is the 44 best light" on the eastern
mast. Old John Richards is tli? kppnpr r?f
. - - " ? 1?
t. Visit him, and he will tell you the st ?ry j
i have related, far better than 1 have done;1
ind will show you the graves of his father
md mother; and will tell, how he and Sain
vorkcd for them and made them eomforla-j
)!c in their old age: how, after they wercj
lead, Sam Went to sea and found a'\er all,;
t grave, in 14 the cold caverns of the deep;" |
md that he never lights the lamps in the!
ighthouso, without thinking how anxiously
le watched the fire, kindled by his father,
>n 'Broadstone,' in the night of the tempest
vhen he was olV in the boat tumbling about!
>v the waves: and how, upon the dark and
mgry waters, he vowed, if God spared his
ile, he would consecrate it to him, foreVer
md ever, and try to sin no more; how;
5am broke his vow that he made on his knees 1
)esidc him ai the same terrible hour-?ever!
ince which the word went hard with him,
intil he was punished l>y a drowning death; i
>f his own vow bespeaks not, but from ap- j I
icarances he has not forgotten it.
WONDERFUL ESCAPE FROM INDIANS. 1
A HISTORICAL NARRATIVE. J
. . I
James Morgan, a native of Maryland, ;
narried at an early age, and soon after :
iettlcd himself near Bryant's Station, in i
he wilds of Kentucky. Like most pio- (
icerS of the West, he had cut down the ]
:anc, built a cabin, deadened the timber, i
inclosed a field with a worm fence, and \
danied some corn. I
It was on the 15th day of August, 17^52;
he sun had descended ; a pleasant breeze ,
was playing through the surrounding
wood ; the cane bowed under its influence,
and the broad green leaves of the corn
waved in the air; Morgan had seated himself
in the door of his cabin, with his infant
on his kiipc ; his young and happy
wife had laid aside her spinning wheel
.. I !l? i -
<iiju iviis uusiiv riigiigpu in jtrijinriiiif uie
frugal meal. That afternoon he had accidentally
found a bundle of letters, which
lie had finished reading to his wife before
he had taken his seat in the door. It was
i correspondence in which they had acknowledged
an early and ardent attachment
for each other, and the perusal left
evident traces of jov on the countenance
if both ; the little infant, too, seemed to
isrtakc of its parent's feelings, by its',
dicerful smiles, playful humor, and in- 1J
antile caresses. While thus agreeably |
mploycd, the report of a rille was heard, t
nother and another followed in quick (
ucccssion. Morgan sprang to his feet, t
lis wife ran to the door, and they simulla- 1
leoualy exclaimed, " Indians'." ,j
The door was immediately barred, and i
lie next moment their fears were realized
>y a bold and spirted attack of a small ,
larty of Indians. The cabin could not be
successfully defended, and time was pre- j
'ions. Morgan?cool, brave and prompt, .
;o??n decided. While he was in the art i
?f concealing his wife under the floor, a
nother's feelings overcame her?she arose j
?seized her infant, but was afraid that its I
ries would betray her place of conceal- c
ncnt. She hesitated?gazed silently upon j
t?a momentary struggle between aflec- j
ion and duty took place. She once more i
tressed her child to her agitated bosom, j
gain and again kissed it with impassion- t
d tenderness. The infant, alarmed at |
he profusion of tears that fell upon its ; i
heek, looked up in its mother's face, j j
hrew its little arms around her neck, and j j
/ept aloud. "In the name of Heaven, 't
'liza, release the child, or we shall be J j
ust," said the distracted husband, in a c
oft imploring voice, as he forced the in- jc
ant from his wife, hastily took up his gun, r
nife and hatchet, ran up the ladder that (
bcI to the garret, and drew it after him. t
n a moment the door was burst open, and (,
he savages entered. I
By this time Morgan had secured his J
hi Id in a hag, and lashed it to his hack ; j
'ten throwing off some clapboards from j
lie roof of bis cabin, resolutely leaped to
lie ground. He was instantly assailed by j
wo Indians. As the first approached, he |
nocked him down with the butt end of <
in gun. The other advanced with up- t
fled tomihawk ; Morgan let fall his gun P
nd closed in. The savage fnadc a blow, |lissed
aim, but severed the cord that v
I'und the infant to his hack, and it fell, p
he contest over the child now became p
'arm and fierce, and was carried on with a
nives only. The robust and athletic |
lorgan at length got the ascendancy.
loth were badly cut and bled freely, but *r
he 6tabs of the white man were better \
imed and deeper, ape] the savage ?pon ,
sunk to the earth in death. Morgan haftlily
took up his child and hurrfod off.
The Indians in the house, busily engaged
in drinking and plundering, were not
apprized of the contest in the yard, until
the one who had been knocked down gave
signs of returning life, and called them to
the scene of action. Morgan was discovered,
immediately pursued, and a dog put
on his trail. Operated upon by nil the
feelings of a husband and a father, he
moved with all the speed of a hunted
stag, and soon outstripped the Indians, but
the dog kept in close pursuit. Finding it
impossible to outrun or elude the cunning
animal, trained to hunts of this kind, he
halted and waited un'il it came within a
few yards of him, fired, and brought him
down?reloaded his gun, an'd pushed forward.
In a short time he reached the
house of his brother, who resided between
Bryant's Station und Lexington, where he
felt trie child, and the two brothers set out
for his (Jwelling1. As they approached, a
light broke upon his view?his speed
quickened, his fears increased, and the
most agonizing apprehensions crowded
upon his mind, lie emerged from the
cancbrake, beheld his house in (lames,
and almost burnt to the ground. 44 My
wife !" he exclaimed, as he pressed one
hand to his forehead, and grasped the
fence with the other, to support his tottering
frame. He gazed for some time on
the ruin and desolation before him, advanced
a few paces, and sunk exhausted
to the earth.
Morning came?the bright luminary of
Heaven arose, and still found him seated
near the almost expiring embers. In his
right hand lie held a small slick, with
which he was tracing the name of 44 Eliza**
on the ground ; his left hand was thrown
1.:? c .1 i i
uii ma lavwruu ?"g? inuv lay uy ins siur,
looking first on the ruin and then on his
master, with evident signs of grief. Morgan
arose. The two brothers now made
a search, and found some bones, burnt to
ashes, which they carefully gathered, and
silently consigned to their mother earth,
beneath the wide-spread branches of a venerable
oak, consecrated by the purest and
holiest recollections.
Several days after this, Morgan was cn
gaged in a desperate battle at the lowct
Blue Licks. The Indians came off victors,
and the surviving whites retreated
across the Licking, but were pursued by
the enemy tor a distance of six and thirty
mile?.
! James Morgan was amongst the last
that crossed the river, and was in the rear
until the hill was decendrd. As soon as
he beheld the Indians re-appear on the.
ridge, he felt anew his wrongs, and recollected
the lovely object of his early affections.
He urged on his horse, and pressed
to the front. While in the act of leaping
from his saddle, he received a rifle
bail in his thigh, and fell: an Indian
sprang upon him, seized him by the hair,
and applied the scalping knife. At this
moment, Morgan cast up his eyes and recognized
the handkerchief that hound the
head of the savaue, and which he knew to
l?e his wife's. This added new strength
o his body, and increased activity to his
ury He quickly threw his left arm around
he Indian, and, with a death-like grasp,
sugged him to his bosom, plunged his
knife into his side, and he expired in his
arms. Releasing himself from the savage
Morgan crawled under a small oak, on an
elevated piece of ground, a short distance
4* l. . cpt r _? a . j
irom nun. i no sceno 01 action simica,
and ho remained undiscovered and tinscalped,
an anxious spectator of the battie.
It was now midnight. The savage band
titer taking all the scalps they could (ind,
eft the battle ground. Morgan was seated
at the foot ?f the oak ; its trunk sup>ortcd
his head. The rugged and uneven
ground that surrounded him was covered
vilh the slain ; the once white and proectcd
rock, bleached with the rain and
tun of centuries, were rrimsofned with
alood that had warmed the heart and animated
the bosom of the patriot and the
soldier. The pale glimmering of the
noon occasionally threw a faint light upon
he mangled bodies of the dead, then a
massing cloud enveloped all in darkness,
tnd gave additional horror to the feeble
;ries of a few still lingering in the last
tgonies of protracted death, rendered
louhly appalling by the coarse growl of
he bear, the loud howl of the wolf, the
ihrill and varied notes of the wild cat and
^anther, feeding on the dead and dying.
VIorgan beheld the nceno with heart-rendng
sensation?, and looked forward with
he apathy of despair to his own end.
A large ferocious looking hear, covered
til over with blood, now approached him ;
le threw himsolf on the ground, silently
commended his soul to Heaven, and in
)reathless anxiety awaited his fate. The
atiated animal slowly passed on without
toticing him. Morgan raised his head?
ras about offering thanks for his unex*
'I-1. ?ru IIICBI I ?BUUII, Wlltu me VIJT UI
>ack 01 wolves opened upon him, gnd
gain awakened him to a sense of danger,
le placed hi? hands over his eyes?;fell
>n his face, and in silent agony awaited
lis fate. He now heard a rustling in thct
lushes?steps approached?a cold ch^ll
rau ever him. Imagination?creative, by*