LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2394, 5 December 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

A TALE OF FLORIDA.

It was not often that Rosamund Ray saw the great spectacular show of sunrise. Just from New York, freshly emerged from the hot bed of a fashionable boarding school, all tho picturesque marvels of Floridian life were like a delicious dream to her. The birds whistling in tho swamps ; the rosea blossoming in the pink wilderness ; the creamy clouds of the magnolia swamps ; the pretty, verandah-circled old msnsions on the hills ; the cottages, around which orange groves blossomed as luxuriantly as do the apples and pears of staunch old New England on the edge of weather beaten, brown farm-honses—all wore like the pages of a novel in her eyes. To be sore, Maurice Chartley was none of the dwellers, fn those colonnaded houses’ where Venetian awnings fluttered in the breeze, fountains sparkled like a dream of the Alhambra, the colored servants flitted to and fro with trays of iced wines and tropic fruits. Ho was only an enterprising farmer, who had sold out his Northern acres of rock and mullein stslks, and invested his capital in a flourishing little orchard, finding in the meantime, a temporary home in a pretty cabin edge of a strip of almost tropical wood?, where a transparent little river sang over the pebbles, and nightingales warbled as soon as the approaching sanest veiled tho secluded nook in shadow.

Maurice bad risen long before daylight, upon this particular morning, to carry a load of fruit to the distant city, and his sister Nell and Miss Rosamund Ray had been up to pour out the strong coffee and serve the beaten biscuit and omelette for his early breakfast; and now, as the golden flood of sunshine crept up over the woods, the two girls sat together under the tangled sweetness of the clematis vines, watching the rosy glow as it overspread the river. *lt is an earthly paradise!’ cried enthusiastic Nell. If only— ’ Rosamund looked up quickly. * Well,’ said she, * what is the if V ‘ If only it wasn’t for the Indiana 1’ Rosamund gave a start ‘The—lndians 1' said she. ‘Ob, Nell, and we are all alone in the house!’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Nell, laughing. * Maurice made me promise, before yon came, never to breathe a syllable about the Indians, bat the words elipp el out unawares, and—’

‘ Are they hostile tribes ? ’ gasped Rosamund, the color fading out of her round cheeks. ‘ Are they very barbarous 7 Do they lurk in these swamps and spring ont with glittering tomahawks 7 ’ ‘ What nonsense !’ said Nell. * Nothing of the kind. It’s only a few tramps that Infest the everglades, and sell baskets and steal whatever they can lay their hands on. The authorities will roach them after a while. In the meantime, it is not such a terrible thing to keep the doors locked while Maurice la away.’ But all her hostess’ reassuring words failed to qniet Rosamund’s newly awakened terrors. The beauty of the golden summer mornirg was all destroyed ; the birds no longer sang sweetness ; the rosy river tides were turned to blood ; and all because unoautlons Nell had divulged the Floridian grievance—the mystery of the red.browned sons of the denounced race.

‘ I wish you hadn’t told me! ’ said she, with a quivering lip. ‘So oo I,’ laughed Nell. ‘But never mind, Maurice will be here by sunset, and I don’t believe there’s an Indian within ten miles of here I ’ So Neil went about her household tasks, and Bocalind took sketching tablets and wandered out to the gnarled trees bordering the river, secretly fancying every mysterious bush to be an ambuscade, every sparkling dew-drop the reconnoitering eye of a hidden savage with bow and tomahawk, war-paint and nodding plumes. Until at last, wooed by the secret influences of nature, quieted by the ripple of the river, and soothed by the dreamy twitter of the wild birds, she wandered on and on, sketching here a twisted tree trunk, there trying to reproduce the picturesque druop of a festoon of wild vines, of the crimson glow of the swamp pinks, until the far away whistle of the St. Margherita factory proclaimed the honr to be high noon, Bosamnnd sprang to her feet, ‘Twelve o’clock already,’she said, aloud, ‘and 1 full half a mile away from home! And I promised Nell to help her with the blackberries, and to make an omelette souffle for dinner, just like those I ate at Delmonioo’s. And, good gracious I I had forgotten all about the Indians.’ With a little shriek, she caught up the sketching book and stool and fled precipitately out of the woods, scarcely pausing until she was in sight of the long, low cabin, with its vail of crimson Michigan roses, and the two great Dapenes, which Nell Chartley had brought from her N orthern home, in their tuba of blue paiutrd wood. , ‘Nell,’ she cried out, vainly trying to recover her breathr * Nell I where are yon ?’ But no answer came to her shrill, young call.

The door stood wide open ; the muslin curtains fluttered to and fro in tho wind ; the canary was singing la its cage ; and—oh, horror of horrors I’—there, along the top of the picket fence, ostentatiously spread forth, floated the long hair of at least six women—jet black, flaxen, and various shades of brown 1

• Scalps! ’ scalps I ’ shrieked poor Rosamund, flinging aside her sketching materials, and taking refuge in mad flight. 4 And poor Nell is killed ! And, oh, what will Maurice do?’

Spurred on by frantic terror, she never paused until she had nearly run into the very arms of Mr Algernon Elsley, the rector’s assistant, who was walking leisurely up the road, with a white umbrella over his head and a folio volume under his arm.

• 11 h ! ’ said that young sprout of theology. * It !a Miaa Bay, or I am very much mistaken ! ’

‘ Oh, Mr El ey, come quick ! ’ gasped Rosamund, wi ! dly clutching at his arm. ‘The Indians are here, and N ell Chartley is scalped, and—and I don’t know how many more are butchered ! Oh, do come quickly ! ’ • Scalped I ’ wildly repeated Mr Elsley. 1 But really you must be under a misapprehension, my dear Mias Ray.’

4 I saw it myself—her yellow hair blowing about on tho fence ! ’ wailed Rosamund to whom it seemed ages before she could make Mr Elsley comprehend her terror, and the whole horror of the tragedy, 4 Oh, come, come! ’

Mr Elsley laid down his book, and closing his umbrella, put it acro-s his shoulder after the manner of an implement of warfare, while he took his jack-knife out of his pocket. 4 I can not say,’ he said, that I am exactly prepared to wage battle with tho hostile sons of the red man, but we read in Scripture that the battle is not always to the strong, and it shall go hard but that I will make what effort in ms lies for the protection of this desolate neighborhood.’ Rosamund looked timidly at him. Up to the present time she had always regarded Mr Algernon Elsley with a little secret contempt, as a near-sighted young man with a lisp, and no very astounding depth of intellect, but this was an entirely new phase of hla character —this quiet dignity and resolute courage, which would have marched up to the mouth of a cannon itself if need were.

Side by side they hurried along, keeping well sheltered by the shadow of the trees, nntil at last they reached the little cabin under the red Michigan roses. 4 There—there !’ cried breathless Rosamund, pointing with her finger. 4 Do yon see the scalps ?’ Mr Elsley peered Intently through his glasses, iu a near sighted way. * I see something !’ raid ho ; ' but— ’ ‘ Hair, hair 1 It’s hair!’ exclaimed Rosamund.

‘ Six Boalpa—l can count six ! Oh, is there any end to the horrors of this dreadfnl day ?’ She caught her breath and grew deadly pale, as if she was about to faint. Mr Elsley mildly took her hand, and led her forward.

* Let us go in,’ said he. * To look upon her dead body ?’ gapped Rosamund, covering her eyes with her scarf. ‘ Jt is u-eloes to stand here,’ reasoned the young clergyman. l lf we are to do any good, it must bo at once.’ With a slight shudder, Rosamund Eay allowed herself to be led into the cottage, through the empty sitting-room to the kitchen beyond. ‘fclhe is not hero I* she faltered, ‘Good heavens ! what have they done with her corpse V At that self-same moment, however, the door that led to the tiny chambers up stairs opened, and IS’ell Chartley stood in their presence, with a little, crooked dwarf of a woman close behind her—Nell rosy and blooming, with yellow hair fastened up into a net, safe and sound, and the pink glow of perfect health upon her oheek. Mies Ray uttered a little cry of mingled relief and delight. ‘Dear me!’ said Nell; ‘what Is the matter ? And what on earth has made yon so late to dinner? And where did you find Mr Elsley ?’ ‘Nell,’ cried Rosamund, spasmodically, ‘whose are those —those scalps?’

‘ Scalps I’ repeated Nell. Is the girl mad? What scalps ? Where? * Out there on the garden fence,’ breathlessly explained Rosamund, gesturing with her hand toward the railing, above whiah the tall hollyhocks were nodding their regal heads.

‘ Oh,’ said Nell, bursting Into uncontrollable laughter as she comprehended the other’s meaning, ‘ those aren’t scalps at all ! Those Fare only switches of hair which old Miss Pawson has been buying down in the Hitlands. Miss Pawson goes through the country every year, buying up long hair for the New Orleans maket ind iha couit'y girls are glad of the chance to make a little money, poor things ! And I told her she might wash and dry them here, if she would stay and help me with the fig preserving this afternoon. Miss Pawson,’ introducing the dwarfish woman with a little flourish of the hand, * this is Miss Bay, and this gentleman is the Reverend Mr Elsley.’ Old Miss Pawson, who was one of those universally handy personages who are equally useful at a birth, death, marriage or housecleaning, courtsied smilingly, ‘ But I never would have hung them hairs on the fence if I’d a’poaod the young lady was so easy scared, said she. ‘ I do allow they look awful spooky to them as ain’t used to the hair business ’

And that was the end of Rosamund Ray’s fear of the Indians. But it was a very real terror while it lasted. The Reverend Mr Elsley can corroborate that.