Lot's wife, you remember, looked back, (What woman could ever refrain?) And instantly stood in her track A pillar of salt on the plain.
If all were thus cursed for the fault, Who peep when forbidden to look, The feminine pillars of salt Could never be written in book.
Hewgaw was an Indian belle Which no one could ring--she was fickle; Some scores of her lovers there fell (Where she did at last) in a pickle.
Thus salt is the only thing known Entirely certain of keeping Flesh of our flesh, bone of our bone, Out of the habit of peeping.
Unless the tradition has lied, Our maiden may claim, with good reason, That she is a well-preserved bride, And certainly bride of a season.
Wa-bog-aha big was a brave-- The Great Spirit salted him down: Braves seldom get corned in the grave, They 're oftener corned in the town.
My rhyming, you find, is saline, Quite brackish its toning and end; The moral--far better to pine Than wed and get "salted," my friend.
Soon after sunrise we took our way down the river, intending to reach the Sydney farm on the following day, and there spend the necessary time in preparing our specimens for immediate shipment when we should arrive at Solomon City. The Professor made desperate efforts to appear entirely wrapped up in science, and his devotion to geology was something wonderful. Hitherto he had been inclined to urge us forward, but now he made a show of holding us back. Did he do so with a knowledge that our necessities for food and forage would be sufficient spur, and was he simply shielding his weak side from Sachem's attacks?
We had proceeded but a few miles on our journey, when the guide rode back, and reported fresh pony tracks across the road ahead of us. This was an unquestionable Indian sign, but as the trail seemed to be leading north, we took no precaution; our route was over a high divide, where ambushing was impossible.
Approaching Limestone Creek, the road wound down the face of a precipitous bluff, into the valley below. We had just commenced the descent, when the now familiar cry of "Injuns!" came back from the men in front, and following closely on the cry we heard the echoing report of firearms. We looked in the direction of the sound, and saw close to the trees an emigrant wagon, while beyond it, but at fully one hundred yards' distance, four or five Indians were riding back and forth in semi-circles, and firing pistols. The emigrant stood beside his oxen, with rifle in readiness, but apparently reserving his fire.
