I afterward was informed that the Indian path I had more than once passed was a portion of the great Delaware trail which crosses the whole American continent, from Erie, in Pennsylvania, to California, and which marks the migration of those American Gitanos from the homes where the white man found them to the chief seat of the tribe on the Missouri River, to the outposts on the Red River and on the Pacific. Along it they still go, and not unfrequently two of their well-armed and gallant braves will fight their way through hordes of hostile and degenerate Indians of the prairie. It will be found always to cross the streams at the most fordable point, and he who strays from it to avoid travel, will generally find that the longest way round is the nearest way home. After my arrival at Fort Gibson I did not regret my mistake, which had made me acquainted with so beautiful a country; and I hope my reader is weary neither of the Illinois River or the Ozark Mountains. ----- [1] C. F. Hoffman, of New York. * * * * * EXTRACT. BY HENRY S. HAGERT. So die the young, ere yet the bud has burst Its leafy prison-house—perchance, ’tis best— The flower may pine and perish with the thirst For dew and moisture, but the dead will rest, Heedless of storm and sunshine; on their breast The modest violet at Spring will bloom, And speak their noteless epitaph—the west May blow too rudely in an hour of gloom, But still it clings to thee, lone tenant of the tomb. It clings to thee! ’Twas a most lovely creed, That taught within a flower might dwell the soul Of a lost friend—wronged one, does it not breed Within thee quiet thoughts of a green knoll, Bedecked with daisies, though no sculptured scroll Be there to tell thy virtues? O! ’Tis sweet To know that when the dews from heaven have stole Down to the earth, those penciled lips shall meet, The cold sod of thy grave and love’s long kiss repeat! Then gird thy loins with patience—from the crowd Be thou a willing exile—but if Fate Hath otherwise decreed it, if the proud Should sneer upon thee, or the rich and great Laugh at thy misery, do thou await The coming of that hour which shall decide The issue of the game; and then, with state, Wrapping thy robe around thee, do thou glide Away to thy long rest and sleep in regal pride. * * * * * THE UNFINISHED PICTURE. BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL. CHAPTER I.