" 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.


“ Corporal Green !” the Orderly cried;

“Here!" was the answer, loud and clear,

From the lips of the soldier who stood near-
And “Here!" was the word the next replied.
“Cyrus Drew !"then a silence fell-

This time no answer followed the call;

Only his rear-man had seen him fall,
Killed or wounded, he could not tell.
There they stood in the failing light,

These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,

As plain to be read as open books,
While slowly gathered the shades of night.
The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood,

And down in the corn where the poppies grew
Were redder stains than the poppies knew;
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.
For the foe had crossed from the other side

That day, in the face of a murderous fire

That swept them down in its terrible ire-
And their life-blood went to color the tide.
“Herbert Kline!” At the call there came

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 !"


We watched her breathing through the night

Her breathing soft and low-
As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,

So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers,

To eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied-
We thought her dying when she slept,

And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came, dim and sad,

And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed-she had

Another morn than ours.


Miss Moonshine's years are twenty-two,

Her ashen hair's austerely braided.
Her eyes are large and Cambridge blue,

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,
The autumn woods, the windy down,

So in æsthetics deep she dabbles.
The sunflower round her sprawls and stares;

She gleams with quaint and curious ouches;
She sits in mediæval chairs,

And dreams on mediæval couches.
The simpler moods of art and song

She values merely as historic;
Her school's the subtle, splendid, strong-

The Phallo-Neuro-Allegoric.
The cult of it has filled ber brains

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.
She plays because she likes to pose

Her virgin self as Saint Cecilia,
She longs to clothe in sounds the woes

Of Robert Browning and Pompilia.
And while her Wagner's all divine,

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.


At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk lay dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,

Should tremble at his power;
In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;

Then wore his monarch's signet ring-
Then pressed that monarch's throne-a king !
As wild his thoughts and gay of wing

As Eden's garden bird.
An hour passed on--the Turk awoke-

That bright dream was his last;
He woke-to hear his sentry's shriek,

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 fought like brave men, long and well ;

They piled that ground with Moslem slain ;
They conquered --but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile when rung their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won;
Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly as to a night's repose,

Like Aowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death !

Come to the mother, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;

Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in Consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake's shock, the ocean's storm ;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet song, and dance, and wine,

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