RHYME AND STORY. 



SPAMSH-AMERICAN 

 SKETCHES. 



II. Guadalupe. 



iBY "VIATOR." 



I never knew her age, Guada- 

 luppe, or Lupe, as she was com- 

 monly called, but, though her pres- 

 ence has long since become only a 

 memory, the recollection of her 

 witching popularity is yet more 

 vivid than the impression of many 

 an actual face and figure, forming 

 one of the grateful visions which 

 occasionally permeate the subtle 

 region of our day-dreams, linger- 

 ing in imagination and ever rea- 

 wakening the quiet delight in- 

 spired by retrospective happiness. 



Our corps was stationed along 

 the lower Rio Grande during the 

 closing years of the late Rebellion, 

 and apart from official duties, the 

 usual routine of which became a 

 wearying monotony, there was 

 little to while away the time save 

 strolling about the scattered town, 

 near the outskirts of which our 

 regiment lay encamped. My own 

 excursions frequently took me fur- 

 ther away, and notwithstanding 

 the danger of wandering far in 

 those tempestuous days for from 

 time to time the bloodthirstiness 

 of the natives was terribly brought 

 home to us, and we had lately 

 hanged four of the desperadoes 

 upon one gibbet it had become 

 my habit to ramble through the 

 adjacent chaparral in the long Oc- 

 tober afternoons, when the air was 



full of Indian summer indolence,, 

 and existence alone seemed suffi- 

 cient luxury after trying campaign 

 in Virginia. 



It was upon one of these oc- 

 casions that a sudden turn in the 

 grassy wood -road led me to a ver- 

 dant clearing, bordered by delicate 

 shrubbery, now vocal with the 

 wayward ecstasy of the mocking- 

 bird's song, and canopied by a sky 

 whose azure I thought must rival 

 the hue of an Italian heaven. A 

 herd of goats fed tranquilly within 

 the enclosure, or dozed in the pure 

 sunshine, apparently untended, al- 

 though they showed no inclination 

 to stray. Beyond the open space 

 I could discern a path winding 

 amid the copses, and over the 

 fringes of acacia pencilled against 

 the eastern horizon loomed sof 

 masses of clouds tinged with fain, 

 rose-color, towering into the balmj 

 pellucid atmosphere the guiding 

 "pillar" of Exodus, fit throne of 

 saints and cherubs such as Raphael 

 and Correggio loved to portray. 

 Yielding to the influences around 

 me, I lay down upon a bank of 

 bright turf, dotted with wood sor- 

 rel and the purple blossoms of the 

 sensitive plant, and was soon lost 

 in half-conscious reverie, in which 

 all accidents of life were fused in 

 the placid sense of being, while- 

 yet mortal, utterly at rest. 



My meditations were rudely dis- 

 pelled by feeling my hat suddenly 

 withdrawn from my forehead, 

 while a blaze of warm sunlight 



