And so the "set" proceeds—its length
Determined by the dancers' strength;
And all agree to yield the palm

For grace and skill, to "Georgy Sam,"
Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high,
"Des watch him!" is the wond'ring cry-
"De nigger mus' be, for a fac',

Own cousin to a jumpin'-jack!"
On, on, the restless fiddle sounds-
Still chorused by the curs and hounds-
Dance after dance succeeding fast,
Till supper is announced at last.

That scene-but why attempt to show it?
The most inventive modern poet,

In fine new words, whose hope and trust is,
Could form no phrase to do it justice!
When supper ends-that is not soon-
The fiddle strikes the same old tune;
The dancers pound the floor again,
With all they have of might and main;
Old gossips, almost turning pale,
Attend Aunt Cassy's gruesome tale
Of conjurors, and ghosts, and devils,
That in the smoke-house hold their revels;
Each drowsy baby droops its head,
Yet scorns the very thought of bed :-
So wears the night; and wears so fast,
All wonder when they find it passed,
And hear the signal sound, to go,
From whai few cocks are left to crow.
Then, one and all, you hear them shout:
"Hi! Booker! fotch de banjo out,
And gib us one song 'fore we goes→
One ob de berry bes' you knows!"
Responding to the welcome call,

He takes the banjo from the wall,

And tunes the strings with skill and care-
Then strikes them with a master's air;
And tells in melody and rhyme,

This legend of the olden time:

Go'way, fiddle!-folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'.
Keep silence fur yo' betters-don't yo' heah de banjo talkin'-
About de 'possums tail she's goin' to lecter-ladies, listen!-
About de ha'r what isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin'.

"Dar's gwine to be a oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn
Fur Noah took de Herald, an' he read de ribber column-
An' so he sot his hands to work a'clarin' timber-patches,

An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah "Natchez."

Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin', an' a-chippin', an' a-sawin';

An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin, an' a-pshawin';
But Noah didn't min' 'em-knowin' whut wuz gwine to happen :
An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-droppin.'

Now, Noah had done catched a lot ob eb'ry sort o' beas'es-
Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces!

He had a Morgan colt, an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle

An' drew 'em board de ark as soon's he heered de thunder rattle.

Den sech anoder fall ob rain!-it come so awful hebby,

De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee;

De people all wuz drownded out-'cep' Noah an' de critters,
An' men he'd hired to work de boat-an' one to mix de bitters.

De ark she kep' a-sailin', an' a-sailin', an' a-sailin';

De lion got his dander up, an like to bruk de palin'

De sarpints hissed-de painters yelled-tell, what wid all de fussin,' You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' roun' an' cussin'.

Now, Ham, de only nigger what was runnin' on de packet,
Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de racket;
An' so, for to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it,
An' soon he had a banjo made-de fust dat wuz invented.

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge, an' screws, an' apron ; An' fitted in a proper neck-'twas berry long an' tap'rin';

He tuk some tin, and twisted him a thimble for to ring it;

An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

De possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin';

De ha'rs so long, an' thick an' strong,-des fit for banjo-stringin';
Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces!
An' sorted ob 'em by de size, from little E's to basses.

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig-'twuz "Nebber min' de wedder"

She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder;

Some went to pattin'; some to dancin'; Noah called de figgersAn' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!

Now, sence dat time-it's mighty strange-dere's not de slightes' showin'

Ob any ha'r at all upon de possum's tail a-growin';

An' curi's, too,-dat nigger's ways: his people nebber los' 'em-
For whar you finds de nigger-dar's de banjo an' de' possum.

The night is spent; and as the day
Throws up the first faint flash of gray,
The guests pursue their homeward way;
And through the field beyond the gin,
Just as the stars are going in,

See Santa Claus departing-grieving-
His own dear Land of Cotton leaving.
His work is done-he fain would rest,
Where people know and love him best-
He pauses-listens-looks about—
But go he must his pass is out;
So, coughing down the rising tears,
He climbs the fence and disappears.
And thus, observes a colored youth-
(The common sentiment, in sooth):
"Oh, what a blessin' 'tw'u'd ha' been
Ef Santy had been born a twin!
We'd hab two Chrismusses a yeah-
Or p'r'aps one brudder 'd settle heah!"

IRWIN RUSSELL.

ON THE ICE.

[Purely conversational. Impersonate the several characters, and let the interruptions be sudden and wholly unexpected.]

Mary Ann went to the front door, last evening, to see if the paper had come. She had been delivering a short address to me concerning what she is pleased to term my "cold molasses style" of moving around. As she had opened the door she remarked, "I like to see a body move quickly, prompt, emphatic,"-that was all; but I heard some one bumping down the steps in a most prompt and emphatic manner, and I reached the door just in time to see my better half sliding across the sidewalk, in a sitting posture. I suggested, as she limped back to the door, that there might be such a thing as too much celerity; but she did not seem inclined to carry on the conversation, and I started for my office.

Right in front of me on the slippery sidewalk, strode two independent knights of St. Crispin. They were talking over their plans for the future, and as I overtook them, I heard one of them say: "I have only my two hands to depend on; but that is fortune enough for any man who is not afraid to work. I intend to paddle my

own canoe.

I believe I can make my own way through the world"-his feet slipped out from under him, and he came down in the shape of a big V. I told him he could never make his way through the world in that direction, unless he came down harder, and that if he did he would come through among the "heathen Chinee," and he was grateful for the interest I manifested. He invited me to a place where ice never forms on the sidewalk.

Then I slid along behind a loving couple on their way to hear Madame Anna Bishop. Their hands were frozen together. Their hearts beat as one. Said he: "My own, I shall think nothing of hard work if I can make you happy. It shall be my only aim to surround you with comfort. My sympathy shall lighten every sorrow, and through the path of life I will be your stay and support; your" he stopped. His speech was too flowery for this climate; and as I passed by she was trying to lift him up.

66

Two lawyers coming from the court-house next attracted my attention. 'Ah,” said one, "Judge Foster would rule that out. We must concede the two first points. We can afford to do it if evidence sustains us in the third, but on this position we must make our firm stand, and—” his time was up. I left him moving for a new trial.

I mused. What a lesson the ice teaches us. How easily is humanity controlled by circumstances—and the attraction of gravitation. What a sermon might be based -I got up and took the middle of the street to prevent further accidents.

SOMEBODY'S DARLING.

[Effusive-gentle force-slow time.]

Into a ward of the whitewashed halls
Where the dead and dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day.
Somebody's darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,

The lingering light of his boyhood grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Pale are the lips, of delicate mould—
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow,
Brush all the wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now,
Somebody's darling is stiff and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer, soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take,
They were somebody's pride you know.
Somebody's hand hath rested there;

Was it a mother's, soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in the waves of light?

God knows best! He was somebody's love,
Somebody's heart enshrined him there;
Somebody wafted his name above,

Night and noon on the wings of prayer.
Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave and grand,
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,

Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's waiting and watching for him,
Yearning to hold him again to her heart,
And there be lies, with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling, childlike lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear,
Carve on the wooden slab at his head,
"Somebody's darling slumbers here."

WAR LYRICS OF THE SOUTH

APPLE BLOSSOMS.

[A prize poem. When used as a recitation, a sprig of blossoms in the hand will heighten the effect.]

I.

Hush the world is in a dream,

All her winter grief forgetting;
Faintly sighs the hidden stream,
Through the orchard-grasses fretting.