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" The Apostle Paul says_"
" There's a fly in the butter !” shrieked the youngest hopeful of the family, and a general laugh followed. When silence was restored the eldest daughter, with an air of curiosity, said :
“ Well, but, pa, I really would like to know what the Apostle Paul said.”
“Pass me the mustard," said the pastor, absently.
Then the committee rose and the senate went into executive session and soon after adjourned.
X. G. SHEPHERD.
“Here!" was the answer, loud and clear,
From the lips of the soldier who stood near-
This time no answer followed the call;
Only his rear-man had seen him fall,
These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plain to be read as open books,
And down in the corn where the poppies grew
That day, in the face of a murderous fire
That swept them down in its terrible ire-
Two stalwart. soldiers into the line,
Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. “Ezra Kerr !"--and a voice answered, “Here !"
“ Hiram Kerr !”—but no man replied.
They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed, And a shudder crept through the corn-field near. " Ephraim Deane !” —then a soldier spoke: . “Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said;
“Where our ensign was shot I left him dead, Just after the enemy wavered and broke. Close to the road-side his body lies;
I paused a moment and gave him drink; He murmured his mother's name, I think, And Death came with it and closed his eyes." 'Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear
For that company's roll, when called at night,
Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered “Here !"
Her breathing soft and low-
Kept heaving to and fro.
So slowly moved about,
To eke her living out.
Our fears our hopes belied-
And sleeping when she died.
And chill with early showers,
Another morn than ours.
Her ashen hair's austerely braided.
With hueless lashes scantly shaded. Her lips are pink, her tints are frail,
Her nose is long and sentimental. She never laughs. Her smile is pale,
Mysterious, nervous, rather dental. Her waist is straight, her figure flat,
Her limbs are long and slight and stately; She wouldn't for the world be fat,
She bears her hands and feet sedately. Her gowns are narrow, limp and plain;
They seldom please the brutal critic. She wears a little look of pain
In fact, she's quite pre-Raphaelitic. She doesn't care for life in town;
She loves the sea, the brook that babbles,
So in æsthetics deep she dabbles.
She gleams with quaint and curious ouches;
And dreams on mediæval couches.
She values merely as historic;
With “ Yeas,” and “Los,” and “Peradventures," With “ruined roses," "perfect pains,"
“Shadows of sound,” and “sharp indentures.” She raves of Leonard, and is keen
For Botticelli's budding glories; She sympathizes with Faustine,
She thinks she understands Dolores.
She knows Gudrun and Pharamond,
Their poppies and their daffodillies, And, with the Damozel, is fond
Of shining forth in stars and lilies.
Her virgin self as Saint Cecilia,
Of Robert Browning and Pompilia.
Rossini's but a thing of ballets, And Essipoff and Rubinstein
Are worth a wilderness of Hallés. She flirts with science just enough
To make her mildly atheistic; She deems the Bible splendid stuff,
But something dull and euphuistic. She's all too prone to muse and sigh,
To wish the ways of time were straighter; To weep that glad and sad must die,
To quote the works of Walter Pater. Her song of life's as high in key
As those of Astrafiammante. Her aim is good ; she burns to be
The Beatrice of a later Dante. Perhaps the Fairy Prince may lay
Her talent out at better usance; Meanwhile she fritters it away
A harmless, necessary nuisance.
The Turk lay dreaming of the hour
Should tremble at his power;
In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring-
As Eden's garden bird.
That bright dream was his last;
“To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek !" He woke-to die, midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band
“Strike till the last armed foe expires ! Strike for your altars and your fires ! Strike for the green graves of your sires !
God, and your native land!"
They piled that ground with Moslem slain ;
Bleeding at every vein.
And the red field was won;
Like Aowers at set of sun.
Come to the mother, when she feels,
Come when the blessed seals
With banquet song, and dance, and wine,