THER

`HERE were waving hands and banners, as the crowded car rolled by, There were shouts from merry children, ringing to the summer sky;

Then a strain of music rose and swelled and pealed along the street,

As their gay, tumultuous clamor melted in a chorus sweet:

"Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light.

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?—

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,

O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming !"

Ah! the starry flag is glorious, and the children love it, too;

And the land is safe and happy where the children's hearts are true.

How their youthful ardor thrilled me, as the revelation came

That the guard is ever changing, but the flag remains the same.

We were born too late for glory, but we still in memory keep

Stirring echoes from the battle-fields where warrior fathers sleep.

We have held the flag as ours, but, lo! the years are passing by,

And a newer generation waves the stars and stripes on high.

Better thus! for now the rancors of the

BY MRS. M. L. RAYNE.

I`ALK 'bout 'lopements," said a man, to a crowd gathered in a country grocery-store, "there ain't never been sich excitement in this part of the country before, or since, as there was the time old Deacon Adams's gal Susy 'loped with the book-agent."

"Tell us about it, won't you?" said a stranger in the corner.

'Don't mind if I do, thankee. Well, Susy was the belle of Nebrasky, least wise of this part of the State, and the book-agent was a long jointed cuss that liked to hunt catamount better nor to sell books, though he did pass in a few red-covered picturebooks with a lot of stuff in 'em 'bout not eatin' with yer knife, as if a knife warn't made on purpose to eat with, an' finally the feller jest settled down to makin' love to Susy, an' that made the deacon mad an' he up an' turned him out, an' told Susy not to dare to think of him marryin', or lovin', or anythin', another minute."

64

And did she?" asked the stranger.

Yes, she did. You can jest bet yer bottom dollar that if you want to make a girl think of a feller that's the way to do it. The book-agent didn't amount to a row of pins, but he was bound to get the gal 'cause her pa forbid him. So one Saturday night

what did the feller do but steal the old deacon's mare an' buggy an' run the gal off."

"Well?" queried the crowd.

"Well," retorted the speaker, "ain't that enough?"

46

Tell the rest of it," said the stranger. "Didn't the old man show fight? You said that there was great excitement over the elopement."

So there was, but all I know is that the miserable, no-account agent run off with the gal, an' no one ain't seen either of 'em since."

The stranger reached over and took his rifle from the counter.

"Speak with respect of the book-agent," he said, curtly; "I'll tell the rest of the story myself. Miss Susy took the mare, that was her namesake, and hitched it to the buggy with her own hands. Then she met her lover down by the fork of the two roads and they took the road for Omaha ;

his duck gun and I knew the old man well enough to feel pretty sure he was equal to keeping his word, and just then Susy called out, Shoot away, pa,' and I gave the mare another clip and called back to him, 'Shoot if you dare.'

"He hollered, Whoa, Susy,' in a voice of thunder, and the old mare stopped in her tracks so suddenly it nearly pitched us both over the dashboard. The next minute he was alongside, and before you could say 'Jack Robinson' he had the mare out of the shafts leaving us lopped down in the prairie. Good luck to you,' he shouted, as he rode off. You can keep the gal, but you can't have old Susy. I'd 'a' killed her fust.''

So strange, unto the rule of Rome returned.

On that rich marble pavement throned in gold,

The Roman sat and looked upon the king, When lo! a youthful page is seen to come,

Placing white tablets in his master's hand, Who, reading, trembles, flushes, frowns and pales. "" Husband, Of thyself beware! for a dream I had, A wild, dark dream in early hours to-day. With that just man, with that great son of

A message from his Claudia.

man,

Rome.

Claudia, tell me of thy dream to-day."
"O Pontius, a dreadful deed is done!
And so I warned thee from that horrid act.
It was a wild and awful dream; and yet

"It had a glory of this king of kings-
I saw His triumph and I saw thy doom
So sure, so dark. Blood will be shed to-day,
To sadly stain and yet the nations save.

I saw with flashing swords the dreadful forms

Of angry angels o'er this Zion's hill;
And each one died apart in chorus, too.
Woe! woe! alas, for they the king have
slain.

"I saw the temple fall, and shrieks I heard, And crosses I saw here, there, and everywhere.

A crimson cross was on thy hand which would

Not wash away. Thy corpse I saw, one night

Before those days, brought from a dismal

For so they all said, and so said they all;
The holy days as chapel bells would ring
Until the end. At last I saw thee rise,

Rise from the dead, and stand before this king,

With that same crimson cross upon thy hand,

Before his burning throne.

"And then I woke and tablets seized at once, And sent my page, for then I had no time This dreadful, dark, wild dream in full to write."

And then he cried in bitterness of soul, The Roman ruler cried-the cry of all Remorseful souls-" O Claudia! I would Give worlds to have but yesterday again!"

WE

XI.

A SECRET.

E stood alone upon the deck one night, The moon had spread a flood of silver light

Upon the rippling waves. We neither spoke, For neither wished the enchanting reverie broke.

We watched the waters dance around the keel

And saw the waves that made the steamer reel.

I dared not say the words I would, for fear Her dimpled hand might fall upon my ear. Had you been there your words would have beer plenty,

But you know well we all are fools at twenty; And I was one, so there in bliss I tarried,What did I do? No matter now, we're married.

XII.

THE OAK AND THE SHRUBS.

A

WAY in forests deep there grew
A tall and stately oak.

The shrubs, the thorns, the briers, all
Assailing him, thus spoke:

"Thou smotherest and vexest us.
What demon put thee there?
Of sunbeams thou deprivest us.
Thou robbest us of air.

"Beneath thy carcass vast and vile
We waste, we perish thus.
Thou wilt not let us higher grow.
'Tis plain thou enviest us.

"Tut-tut, keep still, unfortunates,"
Replied the noble oak.

'Mere thorns you are,-acknowledge it. What use to fret and croak?

'Tis vain, my dears, to fret and fuss.
Acknowledge this you must-
That you are doomed to grow and be
The neighbors of the dust.

"To twitch and scratch on every path
The passing beast or man,

To scratch and pluck, to prick and sting, Is all you do or can.

SOM

Never smelt powder in battle, nor went to the front in the war;

They brazenly tell us our roster bears only the names of those

Who paused at the roar of conflict and northward pointed their toes,

They say that the true, brave soldiers have never entered our ranks;

That we never were known to muster but a lot of political cranks.

As one of the papers put it, we are but the weeds of the crop,-

But loafers and shirkers and cowards, who never heard muskets pop.

Pray who are these traitorous writers, who are casting their venomous slime O'er the men who gave all to their country, at that trying and terrible time? They are the poor cringing cowards who never dared go to the front

And stand with our brave, fearless soldiers, and help bear the battle's brunt. They clung to the skirts of the women and as soon as our backs we had turned, Our flag and our cause and our country the cowardly miscreants spurned. Let us pause on a shaded corner, and see a procession pass

At a great Grand Army reunion, when the

veterans form in mass.

Just note the dismembered bodies, the crutches and canes and the scars. That mutely tell the sad story of the bloodiest of wars.

See the tattered flags they are bearing, all riddled with shot and with shell, The flags they carried undaunted right into the gateway of hell.

See the bodies bent and disabled, made so in the battle's fierce blast

Are these the weeds of the army at whom these insults are cast?

Brave Garfield, our honored martyr, wore the badge of the boys in blue, And Hancock, the mighty soldier, was a comrade, tried and true;

And Logan, our own loved Logan, undaunted in peace or in war, Was proud to be called a member in the ranks of the G. A. R.

And Grant, that intrepid chieftain, who was honored in every land,

Stood up in the ranks of veterans, a comrade noble and grand.

Go search o'er the whole broad country for the heroes who fought in the war, And you'll find on each notable bosom the eagle, and flag, and star;

'Tis worn as a badge of honor, o'er hearts that were loyal and true,

And is borne by the greatest soldiers, who ever the bright sword drew. Just glance o'er the mighty roster, and pause at each honored name And reflect for a passing moment o'er each hero's deathless fame;

Then answer me this one question, if you find it is in your power,

If those are the weeds of the army, please tell me where is the flower?

H

XIV.

À OUTRANCE.

BY ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS.

France, 17th Century.

EIGHO! Why the plague did you wake me

It's barely an hour after four?

My head, too,-is-ah! I remember,-
That little affair at the shore.

Well, I had forgotten completely;

I must have been drinking last nightRapiers, terrace, and sunrise

But whom, by the way, do I fight?

De Genlis! Ah, now I recall it

He started it all, did he not?

I drank to his wife-but the mischief!
He needn't have gotten so hot.
Just see what a ruffler that man is
To give me a challenge to fight-
And only for pledging milady

A half-dozen times in the night.

Ah, well, it's a beautiful morning,
The sun is beginning to rise-
A glorious day for one's spirit

To pilgrimage off to the skies-
God keep mine from any such notion-
This duel à outrance, you see-

I haven't confessed for a month back,
And haven't had breakfast, tant pis!

Well, here we are, first at the terrace !
'The tide is well out-and how red
The sunrise is painting the ocean-
Is that a sea-gull overhead!
And here comes De Genlis and Virron-
Monsieurs, we were waiting for you
To complete, with the sea and the sunrise,
The charming effect of the view.

Are we ready? Indeed, we were waiting
Your orders, Marigny and I!

On guard, then, it is; we must hasten,
The sun is already quite high.
Where, now, would you like me to pink you?
I've no choice at all, don't you see,
And any spot you may desire

Will be convenable for me.

From this hand-shake, I judge I was drinking
Last night with the thirst of a fish-
I've vigor enough, though, to kill you,
Mon ami, and that's all I wish.
Keep cool, keep your temper, I beg you—
Don't fret yourself. Now, by your leave,
I'll finish you off-help, Marigny!

His sword's in my heart, I believe.

God! God! What a mortification !
The Amontillado last night-

Was drinking, you know, and my hand shook;

My head, too, was dizzy and light. And I the best swordsman in Paris! No priest, please, for such as I amI'm going--good-by, my Marigny; De Genlis, my love to madam.

XV.

MRS. C. She has a charming fresh color. LADY T. [crosses, C.]. Yes, when it is fresh put on.

MRS. C. Oh, fie! I'll swear her color is natural; I have seen it come and go.

LADY T. I dare swear you have, ma'am; it goes off at night, and comes again in the morning.

MRS. C. Ha-ha-ha! how I hate to hear you talk so! But surely now, her sister is, or was, very handsome.

CRAB. Who? Mrs. Evergreen? Oh, she's six and fifty if she's an hour.

MRS. C. Now, positively you wrong her; fifty-two or fifty-three is the utmost-and I don't think she looks more.

SIR BENJAMIN Ah! there's no judging by her looks, unless one could see her face.

LADY S. Well, well, if Mrs. Evergreen does take some pains to repair the ravages of time, you must allow she effects it with great ingenuity; and surely that's better than the careless manner in which the Widow Ochre calks her wrinkles.

SIR B. Nay, now, Lady Sneerwell, you are severe upon the widow. Come, come, 'tis not that she paints so ill-but when she has finished her face, she joins it on so badly to her neck that she looks like a mended statue in which the connoisseur may see at once that the head is modern though the trunk is antique.

MRS. C. Ha-ha-ha! Well, you make me laugh; but I vow I hate you for it. What do you think of Miss Simper?

SIR B. Why she has very pretty teeth. LADY T. Yes, and on that account, when she is neither speaking nor laughing (which very seldom happens), she never absolutely shuts her mouth, but leaves it always ajar, as it were-thus. [Shows her teeth.] Nay, I allow even that's better than the pains Mrs. Prim takes to conceal her losses in front. She draws her mouth till it positively resembles the aperture of a poor's box, and all her words appear to slide out edgewise, as it were-thus-"How do you do, madam? Yes, madam." [Mimics.] But here comes Sir Peter to spoil our pleasantry. [Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE.]

MRS. C. I am rejoiced you are come, Sir Peter. They have been so censorious— they'll allow good qualities to nobody.

SIR PETER TEAZLE. That must be very distressing to you, indeed, Mrs. Candor.

MRS. C. Not even good nature to our friend Mrs. Pursy.

LADY T. What, the fat dowager who was at Mrs. Quadrille's last night?

MRS. C. Nay, but her bulk is her misfortune; and when she takes such pains to get rid of it, you ought not to reflect on her.

LADY T. Yes, I know she almost lives on acids and on small whey; laces herself by pullies; and often in the hottest noon in summer, you may see her on a little pony, with her hair plaited up behind, puffing round the ring on a full trot.

MRS. C. I thank you, Lady Teazle, for defending her.

SIR P. Yes, a good defence truly! MRS. C. But, Sir Benjamin is as censorious as Miss Sallow.

CRAB. Yes, and she is a curious being to pretend to be censorious-an awkward gawky, without any one good point under heaven.

MRS. C. Positively, you shall not be so severe. Miss Sallow is a near relation of mine by marriage, and as for her person, great allowance is to be made, for, let me tell you, a woman labors under many disadvantages who tries to pass for a girl at six-and thirty.

LADY S. Though surely she is handsome still-and for the weakness in her eyes, considering how much she reads by candlelight, it is not to be wondered at.

MRS. C. True, and then as to her manner; upon my word, I think it is particularly graceful, considering she never had the least education, for you know her mother was a milliner, and her father a sugar-baker. SIR B. Ah! you are both of you too goodnatured.

SIR P. Yes, deuced good-natured! This their own relation! mercy on me! [Aside.]

SIR B. Mrs. Candor is of so moral a turn. MRS. C. Well, I will never join ridiculing a friend; and SO I constantly tell my cousin. Ogle; and you all know what pretensions she has to be critical on beauty.

CRAB. Oh, to be sure! she has herself the oddest countenance that ever was seen. 'Tis a collection of features from all the different countries of the globe.

SIR B. So she has, indeed-an Irish front

CRAB.

SIR B.

CRAB. SIR B. CRAB.

Caledonian locks

Dutch nose

Austrian lips

Complexion of a Spaniard—
And teeth à la Chinois-

SIR B. In short, her face resembles a table d'hôte at Spa-where no two guests are of a nation

CRAB. Or a congress at the close of a general war-wherein all the members, even to her eyes, appear to have a different interest, and her nose and chin are the only parties likely to join issue.

SIR P. Mercy on my life!-a person they dine with twice a week. [Aside]

MRS. C. Nay, but I vow you shall not carry the laugh off so, for, give me leave to say that, Mrs. Ogle

SIR P. [crosses to MRS. CANDOR]. Madam, madam, I beg your pardonthere's no stopping these good gentlemen's tongues; but when I tell you, Mrs. Candor, that the lady they are abusing is a particular friend of mine, I hope you'll not take her part. [MRS. CANDOR turns up stage.]

LADY S. Ha-ha-ha! Well said, Sir Peter! but you are a cruel creature,-too phlegmatic yourself for a jest, and too peevish to allow wit in others.

SIR P. Ah! madam, true wit is more nearly allied to good-nature than your ladyship is aware of.

LADY T. True, Sir Peter; they are so near akin that they can never be united.

SIR B. Or suppose them man and wife, because one so seldom sees them together.

LADY T. But Sir Peter is such an enemy to scandal, I believe he would have it put down by parliament,

SIR P. 'Fore heaven, madam, if they were to consider the sporting with reputation of as much importance as poaching on manors, and pass an act for the preservation of fame, as well as of game, I believe many would thank them for the bill.

LADY S. O Sir Peter! Would you deprive us of our privileges?

SIR P. Ay, madam; and then no person should be permitted to kill characters and run down reputation but qualified old maids and disappointed widows.

MRS. C. But, surely, you would not be quite so severe on those who only report what they hear?

SIR P. Yes, madam, I would have law merchant for them, too; and in all cases of slander currency, whenever the drawer of the lie was not to be found, the injured parties should have a right to come on any of the indorsers. But I must now hasten away. I am called away by particular business, but I leave my character behind. [Exit.]