The Chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother-eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes: "You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, Sire !" And his Chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead.

(By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.)

THE WIFE'S DREAM.

DR. GEORGE ASPINALL.

"O DONALD, go not forth!
Though the sky be blue and bright,

Yet, Donald, set not sail,

Go not to sea to-night."

"Twas a fair young wife who spake,
Whose face was wet with tears,
And whose heart was warm with love,
Though heavy with her fears.

And round his sun-burnt neck
Her lily arms she twined,
As though such fragile things
His brawny strength could bind!

For with early manhood's pith,
Full flush'd and charged was he,
As he stood with oar in hand,
Like a bridegroom of the sea!

"O Donald, go not forth,

Though calm be yonder deep, Yet, Donald, bide to ben,

For I dream'd last night in sleep.

"Three times I dream'd our boat
Lay tossing on the main,
With my Donald on her deck;
And she sank-nor rose again."

Thus said that braw young wife,
But his brow wore ne'er a trace
Of terror, as he kissed

The tears from off her face.

"Hoot, Jean, what skirl is this,
Thy dream is but a dream,
To heed it were to be
Myself a girl, I deem.

"Nay, lassie, hold me not,
The tide is on the turn,
Give no more mind to dreams,
But to be braver learn.

"The morn shall prove it false,
As my love for thee is true.”
Then he laugh'd a merry laugh,
And vanish'd from her view.

That eve the sun went down
In dark and dusky red,

And all the distant sky

With clouds was overspread!

That night the tempest raged,

Like a demon mad for prey, And she heard the wail of death In the offing far away!

She heard it as she watch'd,

With a light in the casement sill Of the fisher's hut, and her heart Grew cold and deadly still!

And her dream the morn proved true,

For the boat was wash'd ashore,
And Donald and his mates

Were seen, nor heard of more!

(Copyright-Contributed.)

BEFORE VICKSBURG.

G. H. BOKER.

WHEN Sherman stood beneath the hottest fire
That from the lines of Vicksburg gleamed,
And bomb-shells tumbled in their smoky gyre,
And grape-shot hissed, and case-shot screamed;
Back from the front there came,

Weeping and sorely lame,

The merest child, the youngest face
Man ever saw in such a fearful place.

Stifling his tears, he limped his chief to meet;
But when he paused, and tottering stood,
Around the circle of his little feet

There spread a pool of bright young blood.
Shocked at his doleful case,

Sherman cried, "Halt! front face!

Who are you? Speak, my gallant boy!" "A drummer, sir, Fifty-fifth Illinois."

"Are you not hit?" "That's nothing. Only send

Some cartridges: our men are out;

And the foe press us."

66 But, my

little friend-"

"Don't mind me! Did you hear that shout?

What if our men be driven?

Oh, for the love of Heaven,

Send to my colonel, general dear!"

"But

you?
1?" "Oh! I shall easily find the rear."

"I'll see to that," cried Sherman; and a drop
Angels might envy dimmed his eye,

As the boy, toiling toward the hill's hard top, Turned round, and with his shrill child's cry Shouted, "Oh, don't forget!

We'll win the battle yet!

But let our soldiers have some more,
More cartridges, sir-calibre fifty-four!"

THE BASHFUL MAN.

HENRY MACKENZIE.

I

AMONG the various good and bad qualities incident to our nature, I am unfortunately that being overstocked with the one called bashfulness: for you must know, inherit such an extreme susceptibility of shame, that on the smallest subject of confusion, my blood rushes into my cheeks, and I appear a perfect full-blown rose; in short, I am commonly known by the appellation of "The Bashful Man." The consciousness of this unhappy failing, made me formerly avoid that social company I should otherwise have been ambitious to appear in; till at length becoming possessed of an ample fortune by the death of an old rich uncle, and vainly supposing "that money makes the man," I was now determined to shake off my natural timidity, and join the gay throng. With this view I accepted of an invitation to dine with one whose open, easy manner left me no room to doubt of a cordial welcome. Sir Thomas Friendly, an intimate acquaintance of my late uncle's, with two sons and five daughters, all grown up, and living with their mother and a maiden sister of Sir Thomas's. Conscious of my unpolished gait, I for some time took private lessons of a professor, who teaches "grown gentlemen to dance.” Having, by his means, acquired the art of walking without tottering, and learned to make a bow, I boldly ventured to obey the baronet's invitation to a family dinner, not doubting

but my new acquirements would enable me to see the ladies with tolerable intrepidity; but alas! how vain are all the hopes of theory when unsupported by habitual practice. As I approached the house a dinnerbell alarmed my fears, lest I had spoiled the dinner by want of punctuality; impressed with this idea I blushed the deepest crimson, as my name was repeatedly announced by the several livery servants who ushered me into the library, hardly knowing what or whom I saw. At my first entrance I summoned all my fortitude, and made my new-learned bow to Lady Friendly; but unfortunately in bringing my left foot to the third position, I trod upon the gouty toe of poor Sir Thomas, who had followed close to my heels, to be the Nomenclator of the family. The confusion this occasioned in me is hardly to be conceived, since none but bashful men can judge of my distress; and of that description, the number I believe is very small. The baronet's politeness by degrees dissipated my concern, and I was astonished to see how far good breeding could enable him to support his feelings, and to appear with perfect ease after so painful an accident.

The cheerfulness of her ladyship, and the familiar chat of the young ladies, insensibly led me to throw off my reserve and sheepishness, till at length I ventured to join in conversation, and even to start fresh subjects. The library being richly furnished with books in elegant bindings, and observing an edition of "Xenophon," in sixteen volumes, which (as I had never before heard of) greatly excited my curiosity, I rose up to examine what it could be. Sir Thomas saw what I was about, and (as I suppose) willing to save me trouble, rose to take down the book, which made me more eager to prevent him; and hastily laying my hand on the first volume, I pulled it forcibly: but lo! instead of books, a board, which by leather and gilding had been made to look like sixteen volumes, came tumbling down, and unluckily pitched upon a Wedgwood ink-stand on the table under it. In vain did Sir Thomas assure me there