"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. ROLL CALL. N. G. SHEPHERD. "Corporal Green!" the Orderly cried; The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood, And crimson-dyed was the river's flood. 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!" THE DEATH-BED. THOMAS HOOD. 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, For when the morn came, dim and sad, Her quiet eyelids closed-she had MISS MOONSHINE. Miss Moonshine's years are twenty-two, She bears her hands and feet sedately. 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 sits in medieval 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 her brains ANON. 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, Of shining forth in stars and lilies. Are worth a wilderness of Hallés. But something dull and euphuistic. To wish the ways of time were straighter; Her song of life's as high in key As those of Astrafiammante. Her talent out at better usance; MARCO BOZZARIS. At midnight, in his guarded tent, FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. The Turk lay dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, In dreams, through camp and court he bore In dreams his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet ring Then pressed that monarch's throne-a king! As Eden's garden bird. An hour passed on--the Turk awoke— "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" "Strike till the last armed foe expires! They fought like brave men, long and well; Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rung their proud hurrah, Then saw in death his eyelids close Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! That close the pestilence are broke, With banquet song, and dance, and wine, |