se. Poverty is great; in a Christian community, or a
thriving village, it is equal to "martial law," in suppressing moral
rebellion and keeping down the "dander!" And how faithful, too, is
poverty, says Dr. Litterage, for it sticks to a man after all his
friends and the rest of mankind have deserted him!

The Story of Capt. Paul.

I love to speak, I love to write of the mighty West. I have passed ten
happy and partly pleasant years travelling over the immense tracts of
land of the West and South. I have, during that time, garnered up
endless themes for my pen. It was my custom, during my travels, to keep
a "log," as the mariners have it, and at the close of the day I always
noted the occurrences that transpired with me or others, when of
interest, and opportunities were favorable to do so.

Several years ago I was stopping at Vevay, Indiana, a small village on
the Ohio river, waiting for a steamboat to touch there and take me up to
Louisville, Ky. It was in the fall of the year, water was very low, and
but few boats running. Shortly after breakfast, I took my rifle and
ammunition and started down along the river to amuse myself, and kill
time by hunting. Game was scarce, and after strolling along until noon,
I got tired and came out to the river to see if any boats were in sight,
as well as take shelter from a heavy shower of rain that had come on. I
sought an immense old tree, whose broad crown and thick foliage made my
shelter as dry as though under a roof, and here I sat down, bending my
eyes along the placid, quiet and noble river, until I was quite lost in
silent reverie. The rain poured down, and presently I heard a footstep
approaching from the woods behind, and at the same moment a rough, curly
dog came smelling along towards me. The dog came up to within a few rods
of me and stopped, took a grin at me and then disappeared again. But
my further anxiety was soon relieved by the appearance of a tall,
gaunt man, dressed in the usual costume of a western woodsman, jean
trowsers, hunting shirt, old slouched felt hat, rifle, powder horn,
bullet pouch, and sheath knife. He was an old man, face sallow and
wrinkled, and hair quite a steelish hue.

"Mornin', stranger," said he; "rayther a wet day for game?"

I replied in the affirmative, and welcomed him to my shelter. Having
taken a seat near me, on the fallen trunk of a small tree, the old man,
half to himself and partly to me, sighed--

"Ah! yes, yes, _ou