MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
MAY 4 
MY FIRST LION HUNT. 
but, weary and dispirited as he was, wrote 
his word of cheer to reach her far-off home; 
or on eomo gloomy march, in the midst of 
privation and distress, when he forgot him¬ 
self, to tell her of the poor fellows so much 
worse off. She grieved for his hardships 
more than if they were hor’s, yet counted 
them as nothing us she thought of her 
thanksgiving, when the wound that she mag¬ 
nified into a death-stroke euded only in a 
two weeks’ confinement. 
One afternoon in March, Ruth was going 
home from tbo office, with a pleased, merry 
look in her face, as if some bright thought 
were bearing her so far away that she did 
not mind the bleak, blustering w ind that 
swept down the street, quickeuiug her slow 
pace. In truth, she had sent a mveot sur¬ 
prise to her soldier, and was enjoying his 
wonderment, as he found no scrap of a let¬ 
ter with it. That was to go on to-inorrow, 
but to-day, the envelope only held the pic¬ 
ture he bad begged for so often—a face half- 
sad. half-joyful, with a far-off, expectant 
look in the great gray eyes, and a wealth of 
dark-brown curls his hands had touched. 
On the back was written:—“ Mein Lieblung 
Franz— R. If.” 
Her father stood waiting for her at the 
gate. There was something In the face that 
broke in upon her absorbing dream with a 
shock that made the present moment an 
eternity to bor. It was that of a man who 
had been through a great oouflict—haggard 
and worn, as if all engage hud left him— 
who had nerved himself to tell the grief, 
and yet could not hide his dread and shrink¬ 
ing. 
“ What is it, father? Is there any news— 
Fbanz?” she said slowly, as if the words 
were forced from her. 
An expression of impatience changed the 
fixed outline of his mouth as Mr. Kino said 
quickly: “Dunbar is well enough, I sup¬ 
pose. Do you think there is nothing else 
in the world but your lover, child? I do 
not mean that, Ruthie; bear with your 
poor fat her, for a great misfortune has come 
to us.” 
Then ho told her briefly that the company 
iu which he hud put all his wealth had failed 
—one of those sudden swamps as disastrous 
to large as to small holders—so little saved 
from the wreck that it was as nothing- 
even his broad lauds and old homestead 
gone; for he had counted so entirely on 
success t hat those were mortgaged to one 
who would drive bis claim to the very last 
dollar. 
“I was wild to do it,” he added. “Mr. 
Dunbar advised me not. Yet It. was for 
you, too, little girl—I thought 'twould bo 
grand to give you such a dowry on your 
wedding day—and now wo may not spend 
another New Year’s here.” 
Ruth, knowing the worst, did not think 
this the greatest sorrow that might have 
fallen to them—did not realize how hard it 
was for a man who had come to the place of 
rest after the long labor of his youth, to be 
once more cast adrift upon the tide without 
the strength and energy and hope that had 
buoyed him up at first. So she and her 
mother told of brighter days to come—that 
they could do much—and that, surely a way 
would be made for them so that they need 
not leave the dear old home. 
A few woeks went by, and Rutii shook 
hor head gaily as her father hinted that 
Franz's affection would grow cold when ho 
thought he might have the whole family to 
take care of, when he came back from the 
war. She had written him all about the 
trouble, and that instantly a place hud 
opened for her, and sho was teaching, while 
her father had turned farmer in very deed; 
and with the rioli crop they would have 
this year, and all the work they did, they 
would soon own the homestead again and 
not feel their other losses. She did not 
even hint at his loving her less, ae people 
did in all the novels sho had ever read. She 
would not wrong him by the ungenerous 
words. 
Yet as the accustomed letter did not 
come, sho was grieved, anxious; any other 
feeling, of suspicion or distrust, she would 
not cherish, spite of her father’s worldly- 
wise maxims, and her mother's wouid-bc 
consolatory looks. It could not be possible 
—she could not be mistaken—she told over 
and over to herself. The letter may be lost, 
going through so many bunds, before it 
reaches him, now when dispatches are in¬ 
tercepted so ofteu, railways destroyed and 
mails robbed. What can be trusted in time 
of war? Yet why this particular one, when 
every other has gone right ? He may be 
wounded or a prisoner; and then how cruel 
he w ould think me not to write again! Yet, 
if he was, his father would tell it, and we 
should know. Franz does not wait for me 
and I ought to get his letter even if mine is 
lost. 
Ruth went over her weary course of rea¬ 
soning every day, and waited in vain for 
some word. Three months had gone; her 
first term at school was finished; she had 
worked with u will if not with her heart, 
and was very proud of the hundred dollars 
earned by herself alone. She laid it in her 
mother’s hand that night with a little sigh 
that he to whom she might have told it so 
exultantly would know nothing now of all 
her brave efforts. Then she spoke her sud¬ 
den resolution boldly: 
“ Mother, I must write to Franz again. I 
know the letter did not reach him. Some¬ 
thing is the matter. There are so many 
miserable misunderstaudiugB from lost let¬ 
ters— if you knew how he loved me, you 
could not doubt him.” 
“Ruth,” exclaimed her father, “I forbid 
it. If he cared for you as you think, he 
would write again. Ho is not W'orthy of 
you, child. Something is wrong, I know; 
but ’ti« nothing that he wishes to remedy. 
The Squire used to be very friendly with 
us, and at first he offered me any aid iu his 
power, even to take the mortgage into his 
own hands, so that I need not hurry about 
it; but when bethought I might claim some 
of his oilers, he suddenly grew cold—and it 
is * like father like son.’ He moans to show 
ns that he no longer covets alliance with 
our fallen house. The poor hath few friends, 
Ruth. Promise me, dear, you will not 
write. It is for yourself, i know best.” 
“ If that is your wish, I will not, father,” 
said Ruth, in a low tone, and the subject 
dropped. 
Summer passed into autumn, and autumn 
wore to winter, and still Ruth taught her 
school, grew pale and heavy-eyed over her 
close confinement, while her father toiled 
early and late, and tried to think out some 
better way to clear the house of debt. It was 
a dark prospect for the Kings. And all this 
time where was Dunbar? 
Now advanced to the rank of Colonel, 
following Grant in his steady, onward 
march to triumph ; always in the thickest 
of the danger; honored and beloved, but 
more desperate and reckless than of old, as 
If it was all one to him that he should rush 
headlong into the jaws of death. His com¬ 
rades saw the change, and on the long 
march, sorely missed the bright, cheerful 
spirit that was wont to raise their drooping 
courage in the dullest time, by glad words 
and prophecies of good. He had grown so 
silcDt and gloomy, that they seldom knew 
that ho was near them now; and it all dated 
from oue miserable day in March, when ho 
lost faith iu what was holiest on earth to 
him. 
lie was on duty of inspection through the 
quarters, and in passing his friend Frank 
Mayne’s tent stepped iu to speak with 
him. Thoi o was no one there, but as Franz 
turned away his eye lighted on a picture 
that lay on the open page of “Our Mutual 
Friend.” Ho carelessly bent down to see 
the faoe and started as if stung, as Ruth 
smiled back at him with the same tender 
look he had watched so often. Meob3nioally 
he lifted the curd, and read on the back, in 
her delicate, unmistakable hand, “ Mein 
Lieblung Franz. —R. K;” then replacing 
it, found his way back to his tent in a sort 
of maze. 
What did it mean? How could it be? 
She should ha ve told him she kuew Frank, 
if he was so dear a friend, when he had 
again and again written of his brother offi¬ 
cer in such high terms. Dunbar was a 
proud man, and as the thought came that 
her devotion to him was all a farce, and for 
reason, she loved the other, and kept it 
from him, his mouth closed with a bitter 
vow that from henceforth she should be 
nothing to him, unless the mystery was 
solved. 
By and by he grew more patient, and 
said to himself, “her next letter will tell 
me, dear little Ruth. It will all be right.” 
Then he read over her last well-worn sheet, 
and thought, “ I could sooner doubt an au- 
gel. I will wait.” But it was in vain. That 
long letter full of the sad changes at farmer 
King’s, and all Ruth was doing and hoped 
to do, and her merry mischief over the pic¬ 
ture. by some strange turn of fate never 
reached Col. Dunbar’s hands; aud so he 
gave her credit for some consciencioua scru¬ 
ples that would not let her carry on the 
double treachery longer. lie avoided his 
friend for weeks, and when at last he gath¬ 
ered icsolution to ask him something about 
Ruth, he found he had gone to another 
regiment without one word of farewell. 
Oue sentence in a letter Squire Dunbar 
reoeived about this time from his son, was 
a pu-.de to him, but he did as it said, 
“Never mention my name to the Kings, 
nor Ruth’s to me,” aud so the breach wid- 
enrfed. 
It was the night before New Year’s, and 
the train from Washington was, as usual, 
crowded with Government officials, disabled 
soldiers, officers on furlough, anxious-faced 
women—all hurrying North. At the last 
station, a tall, tine-looking man, iu Cap¬ 
tain’s uniform, limped in on his crutch, al¬ 
most falling over iu his eagerness to greet a 
brother officer whose eye he caught as lie 
entered. 
“ Why, Dunbar, old fellow, you on the 
list of halt and lam©?” he exclaimed, as he 
wrung his hand. “ We are friends in woe 
then." 
“ Yes, Frank,” replied our Colonel, “ my 
last charge was too much for me. It is 
rather hard, when I hoped to serve Uncle 
Sam to the end. I am pronounced unfit for 
service for some time.;’ 
“Well, it’s a good thing to go home to 
your ‘lady© luvc’ with some horrible scars; 
there’s a consolation,” said Frank gaily. 
“ For you, may hfr; not for me,” was the 
grave answer. 
“1? No indeed, Dunbar; I cannot plead 
guilty to the soft impeachment. The only 
love I am devoted to is a pictured one, that 
I have carried with mo through so many 
dangers. I am uow building quite a ro¬ 
mance upon it.” 
Dunbar visibly Btarted. “ Don’t you 
know the original? Let me see the face, 
will you ?” 
“ I ? No,” said the other, fumbling in his 
waist-coat. “It was very odd how I found 
it. 1 was going to tell you at the time, but 
I remember you were so deuced cool to me 
all of a sudden that I went off to my new 
command without seeing you. Here it is.” 
Dunbar held tho card in his hand, looking 
dimly at it, as he said : — “ Tell me now.” 
“Oh. well it was only this: 1 found it one 
day itt camp, near tho sutler’s wagon, iu 
an open envelope—the outside one was gone. 
I suppose it was loRt from tho mail, and 
I thought ’twas a pity some unappreciative 
soul should get it, so 1 quietly put it 111 my 
pocket. The name was ‘ Franz.’ on the 
back, but there were so many among the 
recruits who bore Mint honored coguomen, 
I knew ’twas no use to ask; so I added a 
proper quirl to make my ‘k ’ and it was 
all right. I kuew a second could come from 
the same place.” 
“But it did not, Frank. I would give 
worlds, if I had them, to undo your work," 
was the low, quick reply. 
Captain Mayne looked into his friend’s 
face iu utter bewilderment a moment; then 
ill# truth came to him. 
“My dear fellow," he stammered, “I 
didn’t know it. How stupid of me! Yotir 
list always went iu ‘F. Dunbar.’ I never 
once thought of you. What can I Bay?” 
His heartfelt, regret was too genuine for 
Franz to speak tho reproaches that rose to 
his lips. He forgave entirely, as he hoped 
to be forgiven. 
It was a glad welcoming home at the 
Squire's, spite of the sling which held the 
Colonel's right arm; and when the Kings’ 
misfortune and Captain Ma ynk’s story were 
all told, tho mutual troubles made the fa¬ 
ther so uneasy he could not rest till he had 
sent his soldier-boy right away to the farm. 
“Give that to Mr, King*” he said, hand¬ 
ing Franz n paper. “'Twill give them 
lighter hearts.” 
It proved to be a transfer of the mortgage 
to Mr. Dunbar, cancelled him, in Mr. 
King’s name. 
The house was all their own once more; 
and they who had mutually doubted each 
other, forgot the past ere the long explana¬ 
tion came. 
Ruin had always waited, trusting that 
all would be right some day, aud so her 
faith was crowned; and with it came chari¬ 
ty that cherishes no remembrance of wrong. 
She only said:—“Ah, Franz! who would 
have thought one little letter could make 
so much sorrow for us?" 
“ It is all over uow, dear.” he whispered. 
“ We are beginning anew.” 
- — — — 
SAND8 OF GOLD. 
Pleasure is precarious, but virtue is im¬ 
mortal. 
Fair dealing is the bond and cement of so¬ 
ciety. 
Hard words have never taught wisdom, 
nor does truth require them. 
A passionate man scourgeth himself with 
his own scorpions. 
Good oompany and good conversation are 
the sinews of virtue 
The virtue of prosperity is temperance; 
the virtue of adversity is fortitude. 
We should not retain t he memory of faults 
we once have forgiven. 
Slander is the revenge of a coward, aud 
dissimulation his defense. 
A writer In a London magazine thus 
graphically describes his first adventure in 
hunting lions: 
On coming in sight of the natives, who 
had been left to watch the animal, I at 
once saw that it would be a case of close 
quarters, as the men only made signs aud 
would not speak; ami on onr quietly asking 
where our expected foe was hanging oat, 
they pointed to a large tree, certainly not 
more than forty yards distant from us. 
Taking a good look at the caps of my rifle, 
aud feeling with the rod that both balls were 
close down, I took up a position iu front of 
the tree just iu the line of road the natives 
said the beast was in the habit of taking 
when going abroad, and placed a native 
with my second gun close behind me; the 
rest of our party and the native hunters 
distributing themselves in a circle round 
the tree, so as to bo ready for whichever 
side she broke cover. All being ready, a 
signal was made to a number of natives 
stationed in the adjacent trees, and they 
began to shout at the top of their voices; 
aud in an instant we heard a noise like the 
growling of a mastiff, increasing in sound 
and intensity. My readers must not fancy 
that the noise they hear from the Ivingly 
beast In captivity is anything like that 
which he makes when in his native walks. 
Placing his mouth near the ground, the 
monster gives a prolonged growl, which re¬ 
verberates around in a volume of sound 
which can be heard for miles, striking every 
living thing with terror. 
Such was the sound which uow broke, the 
stillness of the air. The native behind me 
pressed my arm, and told me she was very 
angry. Immediately after this she got up, 
and we saw her for the first time u« >be be¬ 
gan walking up and down under the tree, ns 
you see the animals In the Zoo do In their 
cages, lashing her sides with her tail and 
sometimes throwing it right over her back. 
All at once she saw me, rather stooped the 
fore part of her body, put back her ears, 
opened her mouth, gave three or four heavy 
growls, and showed the whitest teeth I ever 
saw in my life. At that moment I fired my 
right-hand barrel direct at the dent between 
her eyes, and no sooner had 1 done so than, 
with a frightful roar of agony aud rage, 
down she came full upon me. 
Thank God, I am steady ami cool, and let 
her have the second barrel full in the chest ; 
but it failed to stop her. I lia<d just, t ime to 
seize my second gun from the native, who, 
fortunately, stood like a rock; and not be¬ 
ing able to get it to my shoulder. I fired 
both barrels from hip straight into her 
chest; but that did uot stop the infuriated 
beast, for with a plunge she threw me Hat 
on my hack and lay on me, with oue paw on 
each side of my chest. She then put her 
head down with that kind of growling noise 
with which a bull terrier worries any kind 
of varmint, right over my throat and chest. 
To attempt to describe the horrors of the 
situation 1 was in wmiid b«- simply an im¬ 
possibility. My friends and the natives 
were transfixed with fear, utterly unable 
to I’ender me the slightest assistance^ 
But one little accidental circumstance 
saved my life. In being thrown down, I had 
providentially kept hold of my second gun, 
and on the brute stopping to worry ine I 
thrust it up in involuntary self-defence. 
Laying hold of it in her massive teeth ahe 
took it out of my bauds like a straw, and 
for some moments contented herself with 
venting her rage upon it, and broke it all 
to pieces. During all this time my friends, 
though but a few yards from me, feared to 
fire upon her lest their shots should strike 
me. Presently she seized me by the shoul¬ 
der and shook me as a puppy does a ball of 
cotton, fearfully mangling aud crushing the 
arm; and then for a time lay perfectly still, 
keeping her teeth in my shoulder. Sudden¬ 
ly she let go, rose slowly to her feet, stag¬ 
gered away a few yards, and fell dead. My 
friends, on coming to lift up what they fully 
believed to be my dead body, could hardly 
credit their senses at finding me still alive, 
and, with the exception of a badly mangled 
shoulder and arm, comparatively unhurt, 
the more so as 1 was perfectly drenched 
with the animal’s blood. 
It had long been the wish of my heart to 
have a huud-to-band encounter with the 
“lord of the forest," and 1 certainly had it 
gratified with a vengeance. I have shot 
others sinoe, but have never had so near a 
shave; and frequently, when I wrap myself 
up in her skin, now doing duty as a rug, I 
think to myself, with a shudder, how near 
death I was in obtaining it. 
-- 
A St. Louis woman, over six feet in hight, 
recentlv married a man who is but four feet 
nine. When she wishes to kiss him she has 
to stand him on a chair. 
