Malaeska: The Indian Wife of the White Hunter

The brake hung low on the rifted rock With sweet and holy dread, The wild-flowers trembled to the shock Of the red man's stealthy tread; And all around fell a fitful gleam Throu...

The sunset fell to the deep, deep stream, Ruddy as gold could be, While russet brown and a crimson gleam Slept in each forest-tree; But the heart of the Indian wife was sad As s...

The next afternoon old Mr. Danforth was absent from home. A municipal meeting, or something of that kind, was to be attended, and he was always prompt in the performance of publ...

The point of land, which we have described in the early part of this story, as hedging in the outlet of Catskill Creek, gently ascends from the juncture of the two streams and r...

Sarah Jones had been absent several months, when a rumor got abroad in the village, that the school-girl had made a proud conquest in Manhattan. It was said that Squire Jones ha...

'Twas a dear, old fashion'd garden, Half sunshine and half shade, Where all day long the birds and breeze A pleasant music made; And hosts of bright and glowing flower Their per...

Years before the scene of our story returns to Catskill, Arthur Jones and the pretty Martha fellows had married and settled down in life. The kind-hearted old man died soon afte...

Again Malaeska took to her boat and, all alone, began her mournful journey to the forest. After the fight at Catskill, her brethren had retreated into the interior. The great tr...

He lay upon the trampled ground, She knelt beside him there, While a crimson stream gush'd slowly 'Neath the parting of his hair. His head was on her bosom thrown-- She sobb'd h...

It was a holiday with Sarah; there were no lessons to study; no exercises to practice; no duty more irksome than that of reading the newspaper aloud to the old gentleman, who pa...

It would have been an unnatural thing had that picturesque young mother abandoned the woods, and prisoned herself in a quaint old Dutch house, under the best circumstances. The...

"Mid forests and meadow lands, though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; Home, home, sweet, sweet home, There's no place like home; There's no place...

"Poor woman, she must have been very lonely," she murmured, more than once, when the golden blossoms of a spice-bush, or the tendrils of a vine trailing over the path, told how...

"She long'd for her mother's loving kiss, And her father's tender words, And her little sister's joyous mirth, Like the song of summer birds. Her heart went back to the olden ho...