Then out spoke a negro sailor, Firmly he rose, and fearlessly Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets, As the boat swung clear and free; St. Augustine, Fla. ST. AUGUSTINE. Phoebe Carey. ST. AUGUSTINE, Fla., was founded by the Spaniards in the year 1565. During the past three centuries it has been the scene of many sieges, and has been many times ravaged by the French, Indians, and Spanish. But little of the old city now remains; time and war have done their work. But its picturesque appearance and historic associations, added to its being the oldest town in North America, still invest it with great interest. IN the realm of flowers, a perfumed land, Stands the quaint old Spanish city. The scene of many a hard-fought fight, Was o'er the land in its decay It hath a beauty to live alway, That quaint old Spanish city. There's a charm in the ancient narrow street, Where lovely dames erst walked to meet When strife of valor and love ran high In the quaint old Spanish city. * There's a charm in the convent's crumbling wall; In old cathedral with turret tall, With moss-grown roof and merry chime, Man outliving, defying time, In the quaint old Spanish city. * Anonymous. DOLORES. ER old boat loaded with oranges, HER Her baby tied on her breast, Minorcan Dolores bends to her oars, Noting each reed on the slow-moving shores; Four little walls of coquina-stone, Rude thatch of palmetto leaves; There have they nestled, like birds in a tree, Taking from earth their small need, but no more, No thought of the morrow, no laying in store, Alone in their Southern island-home, Through the year of summer days, Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown, With dreamy, passionate eyes, Far in the past, lured by Saxon wiles, A simple folk came from the Spanish sea-isles, Now, tinged with the blood of the Creole quadroon, Their children live idly along the lagoon, Under the Florida skies. Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown, Ah, their blossoming life of love! So, her old boat loaded with oranges, Dolores rows off to the ancient town, Where the blue-eyed soldiers come marching down From the far cold North; they are men who know Thus Dolores thinks how to cure all woe; But the northern soldiers move steadily on, The last blue rank has passed down the street, She sees but the dust of their marching feet; They are gone--O despair! she turns to the church, "Perhaps the old saint, who is always there, If he would but wake up, and listen to me: She enters; the church is filled with men, Each dingy old pew is a sick man's bed, For vials and knives in shining array, And a new saint is stepping forth! He must be a saint, for he comes from the shrine, A saint of a Northern creed, Clad in a uniform, army blue, But surely the saints may wear any hue Dolores thinks, as he takes her hands An orange he gives to each weary man, Then forth they go down the old sea-wall, And the boat glides fast to the south. A healing touch and a holy drink, A bright little heavenly knife, And this strange Northern saint, who prays no prayers, Constance Fenimore Woolson. St. Catherine's, the Island, Ga. ST. CATHERINE'S. E that would wish to rove awhile HE In forests green and gay, From Charleston Bar to Catharine's Isle |