The Humbler Poets

For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain;
And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm
Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer days grew cold and late,

He went for the cows, when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one,

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,

Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass But who was it following close behind?

Loosely swung in the idle air

The empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair
Looked out a face that the father knew.

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead unto life again;
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn
In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes;
For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb,
And under the silent evening skies

Together they followed the cattle home.

KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD

ROLL-CALL.

"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 falling 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 hillsides 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 cornfield near.

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 roadside 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."

'T was 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!"
San Francisco Argonaut.

N. G. SHEPARD,

THE COUNTERSIGN WAS MARY.

'T WAS near the break of day, but still
The moon was shining brightly;
The west wind as it passed the flowers
Set each one swaying lightly;

The sentry slow paced to and fro,
A faithful night-watch keeping,

While in the tents behind him stretched

Slow to and fro the sentry paced,
His musket on his shoulder;
But not a thought of death or war
Was with the brave young soldier.

Ah, no! his heart was far away
Where, on a Western prairie,

A rose-twined cottage stood. That night
The countersign was "Mary."

And there his own true love he saw,
Her blue eyes kindly beaming,
Above them, on her sun-kissed brow,
Her curls like sunshine gleaming :
He heard her singing, as she churned
The butter in the dairy,

The song he loved the best. That night
The countersign was "Mary."

“Oh, for one kiss from her!" he sighed, When, up the lone road glancing,

He spied a form, a little form,

With faltering steps advancing; And as it neared him, silently

He gazed at it in wonder;

Then dropped his musket to his hand,

And challenged,

"Who goes yonder?

Still on it came. "Not one step more,

'Tis Mary,"

Be you man, child, or fairy,
Unless you give the countersign;
Halt who goes there!"—
A sweet voice cried, and in his arms
The girl he 'd left behind him
Half fainting fell. O'er many miles
She'd bravely toiled to find him.

"I heard that you were wounded, dear," She sobbed. "My heart was breaking; I could not stay a moment, but,

All other ties forsaking,

I travelled, by my grief made strong,

Kind Heaven watching o'er me,

Until - unhurt and well?" "Yes, love

me."

At last you stood before me.

They told me that I could not pass

The lines to seek my lover

Before day fairly came; but I

Pressed on ere night was over,

And, as I told my name, I found

The way free as our prairie."

"Because, thank God! to-night," he said, "The countersign is 'Mary.'

MARGARET EYTINGE

OUR LAST TOAST.

WE meet 'neath the sounding rafter,
And the walls around are bare;
As they shout to our peals of laughter,
It seems that the dead are there.
But stand to your glasses, steady!
We drink to our comrades' eyes,
Quaff a cup to the dead already,

And hurrah for the next that dies!

Not here are the goblets glowing-
Not here is the vintage sweet;
'Tis cold as our hearts are growing,
And dark as the doom we meet.
But stand to your glasses, steady!
And soon shall our pulses rise, -
A cup to the dead already,