The father fires again and again, dropping his peccary
each time, till five lie dead upon the ground; but the rage of the
rest only becomes more and more furious--and the marksman is at his
last bullet. Here we shall leave him; and such of our readers as may
be interested in his fate--who form, we suspect, a very handsome
percentage on the whole--may make inquiries for themselves at his
Desert Home.
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Or the Adventures of a Lost Family in the Wilderness. By Captain
Mayne Reid. London: Bogue. 1852.
THE VATTEVILLE RUBY.
The clock of the church of Besancon had struck nine, when a woman
about fifty years of age, wrapped in a cotton shawl and carrying a
small basket on her arm, knocked at the door of a house in the Rue St
Vincent, which, however, at the period we refer to, bore the name of
Rue de la Liberte. The door opened. 'It is you, Dame Margaret,' said
the porter, with a very cross look. 'It is high time for you. All my
lodgers have come home long since; you are always the last, and'----
'That is not my fault, I assure you, my dear M.
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