One of the most interesting towns I ever visited is New Braunfels, Texas.  It was founded by a colony of Germans, and experienced the most distressing trials during its early days; but it is now a picture of thrift and industry.  The cowboy who attempts to ride through New Braunfels, with his revolvers displayed, is promptly pulled off his mustang and compelled to pay a round fine for violating a city ordinance.  If he undertakes to “kick,” it won’t help him a bit, and probably will increase the penalty imposed.  Our German cousins propose to run that town to suit themselves, and they succeed quite well.

The rivers of Texas are subjected to violent rises, often as great as twenty feet in an hour or less.  Such sudden floods play havoc with the bridges along the bank, but I noticed in riding into New Braunfels an ingenious arrangement of the wooden structure by which, no matter how high the stream may rise, the bridge accommodates itself, and floats on the surface, while securely held from being carried away by the current.

But I set out to tell you a true incident of what happened a few years since, to a bright, lively youngster, sixteen years old, who lives in New Braunfels, and is brimful of pluck.  His name is Lee Hemingway; he is an orphan, and if his life is spared, he is certain to be heard from when he reaches man’s estate.

Prof.  McInery, the well-known naturalist, spent several weeks last spring in the neighborhood of New Braunfels, hunting ornithological specimens for his collection, and he offered fifty dollars to any one who would bring him an eagle’s nest, with living eaglets or with eggs in it.

When Lee Hemingway learned of the offer, he determined to earn it.  It was rather early in the season for our emblematical birds to hatch their young, but, by carefully watching a pair, he succeeded in finding where their nest was made.  It was on the summit of an almost insurmountable bowlder, rising nearly a hundred and twenty-five feet in the valley of the Guadaloupe.

The bravest man might well shrink from attempting to scale the perpendicular sides of this mass of rock, but as young Hemingway gazed longingly up the side to the nest, he noticed that the stone had become coated, in the course of time, with earth, which was covered with tangled vines and stunted vegetation.

“I believe I can climb that,” thought the sturdy lad, after scrutinizing the herculean task, and watching one of the eagles soaring far above the summit.  “I think there is enough foothold, and I can use the vines to help pull me up; but, if the eagles should catch me at it, they would make music.”

It was the birds that caused him more dread than the forty odd yards of rock.  We knew their fierce nature, and, if they discovered his designs against their home, as they were almost certain to do, they would assail him with a fury that must be resistless in his cramped position.