O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once

more

On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o'er!"

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest;
Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast;
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said;
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life

away;

But, as tenderly before him, the lorn Ximena knelt,

She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt.

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head; With a sad and bitter feeling, looked she back upon her dead: But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain,

And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again.

Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly

smiled;

Was that pitying face his mother's? Did she watch beside her child?

All her stranger words with meaning her woman's heart sup

plied;

With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured he, anl

died!

"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth

From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping lonely in the North!"

Spake the mournful Mexic woman as she laid him with her

dead,

And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which

bled.

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountain, leaving blood and death behind;

Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded

strive;

Hide your faces, holy angels! Oh, thou Christ of God, forgive!"

Sink, O night, among thy mountains! let the cool gray shadows

fall;

Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all! Through the thickening winter twilight wide apart the battle

rolled;

In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn, faint and lacking

food;

Over weak and suffering brothers with a tender care they hung, And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern

tongue.

Not wholly lost, O Father, is this evil world of ours;

Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden

flowers;

From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their

prayer,

And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air.

The Things in the Bottom Drawer.

T

HERE are whips and tops and pieces of strings,

There are shoes which no little feet wear;

There are bits of ribbon and broken rings

And tresses of golden hair;

There are little dresses folded away

Out of the light of the sunny day.

There are dainty jackets that never are worn,

There are toys and models of ships,

There are books and pictures, all faded and torn,
And marked by the finger tips

Of dimpled hands that have fallen to dust,
Yet I strive to think that the Lord is just.

But a feeling of bitterness fills my soul
Sometimes when I try to pray,

That the reaper has spared so many flowers,

And taken mine away.

And I almost doubt if the Lord can know

That a mother's heart can love them so.

Then I think of the many weary ones
Who are waiting and watching to-night

For the slow return of faltering feet

That have strayed from the paths of right;

Who have darkened their lives by shame and sin, Whom the snares of the tempter have gathered in.

They wander far in distant climes,

They perish by fire and flood,

And their hands are black with the direst crimes

That kindled the wrath of God.

Yet a mother's song has soothed them to rest; She hath lulled them to slumber upon her breast.

And when I think of my children three,

My babies that never grow old,

And know they are waiting and watching for me

In the city with streets of gold,

Safe, safe from the cares of the weary years,
From sorrow and sin and war,

And I thank my God with falling tears

For the things in the bottom drawer.

Home and Mother.

HEAR the patter of childish feet,

Out in the garden fair,

And catch a glimpse of a sunny head,
And I know my boy is there.

But I let him roam at his own sweet will,
For I know he'll come at last,

To the safe retreat of his mother's arms,
When his happy sport is past.

I see through the door of the village school A boyish head bent low,

As he works away at his simple task,

And the hours pass, oh, so slow!

Till I hear a ringing, boyish shout,

And I know it is my boy,

Who again comes home when school is done, And is ever my pride and joy.

I see a youth in his hopeful strength,

Starting out on life's proud highway,

And again when his fortune he's carving out,

Little by little each day,

And when with his work he is wearied out,
His new friends beguile him in vain;
For he turns as he did in boyhood's days,
To home and mother again.