CHAPTEK X. 



THE FLOKIDA POCAHONTAS. 



"Their memory liveth on your hills, 

 Their baptism on your shore, 

 Your everlasting rivers speak 

 Their dialect of yore." 



Sigoubney. 



The evening meal was ended; the planter's family and the 

 hunters were circled around the fire, weary with the day's fatigues 

 and enjoying rest as none but the weary may. Pipes and home- 

 made cigars were lit, and the negroes crowded the doorway, while, 

 as in many a hunting-lodge before, 



1 ' The stag-hounds, weary with the chase, 

 Lay stretched upon the rushy floor, 

 And urged in dreams the forest race 

 From Teviot Stone to Eskdale Moor." 



" Now for a story, Mike," said Miss Jackson. 



" No, 'taint my turn. Doctor, slide along with a yarn." 



" No, no ; stories are dealt like cards, always to the left. It is 

 your turn, Jackson." 



" Well, sir, what shall it be ? — anything from a fight to a foot- 

 race." 



" Let my lady name the subject," I suggested. 



" Tell us a tale of woman*; we have the chase in reality every 

 day." 



" As you will — woman for ever. Throw on another log, boys." 



The fire belched up a million sparks to the dark sky. The 

 flames started out afresh, and Jackson, putting his pipe in its 

 buckskin cover, and drawing himself up by his elbows to the 

 convenient support of a log, where he could face the whole of 

 his auditors, in a deep voice, and with occasional gesture, as he 



