and another minute past,-- Then safe and sound to the solid ground he drew Phil Blood, at last!! Saved? True for you, by an Injin too!--and the man he meant to kill! There, all alone, on the brink of stone, I see them standing still; Phil Blood gone white, with the struggle and fright, like a great mad bull at bay, And the Injin meanwhile, with a half skeer'd smile, ready to spring away. What did Phil do? Well I watched the two, and I saw Phil Blood turn back, Bend over the brink and take a blink right down the chasm black, Then stooping low for a moment or so, he sheath'd his bowie bright, Spat slowly down, and watch'd with a frown, as the spittle sank from sight! Hands in his pockets, eyes downcast, silent, thoughtful, and grim, While the Panther, grinning as he passed, still kept his eyes on him, Phil Blood strolled slow to his mates below, down by the mountain track, With his lips set tight, and his face all white, and the Panther at his back. I reckon they stared when the two appeared! but never a word Phil spoke; Some of them laughed and others jeered,--but he let them have their joke; He seemed amazed, like a man gone dazed, the sun in his eyes too bright, And for many a week, in spite of their cheek, he never offered to fight. And after that day he changed his play, and kept a civiller tongue, And whenever an Injin came that way, his con- trary head he hung; But whenever he heard the lying word, 'It's a Lie!' Phil Blood would groan; '_A Snake is a Snake, make no mistake! but an Injin's flesh and bone!_'" ----R. Buchanan. THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR |Among the hills of India Dwelt warriors fierce and bold, The sons of robber chieftains Who, in the days of old, Fought for their mountain freedom, And, if by Fate laid low, Fell ever crowned with honour-- Their faces to the foe. Now'twas an ancient custom Among those hillsmen brave, When thus they found their kinsman, To dig for him no grave; But the torn blood-stained garments They stripped from off the dead, And then his wrist they circled With green or crimson thread. Many the green-decked warriors, But only for a few Was kept that highest honour, The thread of sanguine hue; For'twas alone the bravest Of those who nobly shed Their life-blood in the battle Whose wrists were bound with red. And when they thus had graced them Who fell before the foe, They hurled their lifeless bodies Into the plain below. The earth did ne'er imprison Those hillsmen brave and free, The sky alone should cover The warriors of Trukkee. There came a time of conflict, And a great armed throng Of England's bravest soldiers,-- Avengers of the wrong,-- Marched through the gloomy gorges,