All Quiet along the Potomac and other poems

Front matter

All Quiet Along the Potomac,

AND

OTHER POEMS.

All Quiet along the Potomac

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC.

ALL quiet along the Potomac," they say, "Except, now and then, a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 'Tis nothing—a private or two now and then Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost—only one of the men Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle." | All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping, While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. | There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread As he traps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep— For their mother; may Heaven defend her! | The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips—when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place, As if to keep down the heart-swelling. | He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree, The footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light, Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle—"Ha! Mary, good-bye!" The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing. | All quiet along the Potomac to-night, No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead— The picket's off duty for ever!

On the Shores of Tennessee

ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.

MOVE my arm-chair, faithful Pompey, In the sunshine bright and strong, For this world is fading, Pompey— Massa won't be with you long; And I fain would hear the south wind Bring once more the sound to me Of the wavelets softly breaking On the shores of Tennessee.

"Mournful though the ripples murmur As they still the story tell, How no vessels float the banner That I've loved so long and well, I shall listen to their music, Dreaming that again I see Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop Sailing up the Tennessee.

"And, Pompey, while old massa's waiting For Death's last despatch to come, If that exiled starry banner Should come proudly sailing home, You shall greet it, slave no longer; Voice and hand shall both be free That shout and point to Union colors On the waves of Tennessee."

"Massa's berry kind to Pompey, But ole darkey's happy here,

Where he's tended corn and cotton For dese many a long-gone year. Over yonder missis' sleeping— No one tends her grave like me: Mebbe she would miss the flowers She used to love in Tennessee.

"'Pears like she was watching massa; If Pompey should beside him stay, Mebbe she'd remember better How for him she used to pray— Telling him that 'way up yonder White as snow his soul would be, Ransomed by the Lord of heaven, Out of life in Tennessee."

Silently the tears were rolling Down the poor old dusky face, As he stepped behind his master, In his long-accustomed place. Then a silence fell around them As they gazed on rock and tree, Pictured in the placid waters Of the rolling Tennessee.

Master, dreaming of the battle Where he fought by Marion's side, When he bid the haughty Tarleton Stoop his lordly crest of pride; Man, remembering how yon sleeper Once he held upon his knee,

Ere she loved the gallant soldier, Ralph Vervain of Tennessee.

Still the south wind fondly lingers 'Mid the veteran's silver hair; Still the bondman, close beside him, Stands behind the old arm-chair; With his dark-hued hand uplifted, Shading eyes, he bends to see Where the woodland, boldly jutting, Turns aside the Tennessee.

Thus he watches; cloud-born shadows Glide from tree to mountain-crest, Softly creeping, aye and ever, To the river's yielding breast. Ha! above the foliage yonder, Something flutters wild and free! "Massa! Massa! Hallelujah! The flag's come back to Tennessee!"

"Pompey, hold me on your shoulder, Help me stand on foot once more, That I may salute the colors As they pass my cabin-door. Here's the paper signed that frees you,— Give a freeman's shout with me! 'God and Union!' be our watchword Evermore in Tennessee!

Then the trembling voice grew fainter, And the limbs refused to stand;

One prayer to Jesus—and the soldier Glided to that better land. When the flag went down the river Man and master both were free, While the ring-dove's note was mingled With the rippling Tennessee.

Whisper Softly, stainless Lilies

WHISPER SOFTLY, STAINLESS LILIES.

WHISPER softly, stainless Lilies, As you fold each snowy cup Over soldiers who are sleeping, With their war-tents folded up.

Bear to them our loving message, In thy sweet unwritten speech; Chime, white bells, above them softly, Echoes only angels teach.

Tell them, Roses, as you wither, Tho' their dust shall heed you not; Still by song and flag and blossom We would prove them unforgot.

Show them, Pansy's purple shadow, Through thy heart of golden bloom, How the light of deeds heroic Overlies the darkened tomb.

Passion-flow'r with mystic meaning, Lordly, bannered Fleur-de-Lis,

Mignonette and pale Narcissus, Soldier dust, we give to thee.

Myrtle crown and Laurel chaplet, Fragrant things that bloom and die,— These, O camp of silent sleepers! Over every outpost lie.

These we leave with loving message— Crowns, the faithful Earth will keep, While the sacred dust of heroes Still she softly holds asleep.

Company K

COMPANY K.

THERE'S a cap in the closet, Old, tattered, and blue, That would be little value, It may be, to you; But a crown jewel-studded Could not buy it to-day, With its letters of honor, Brave "Company K."

The head that it sheltered Needs shelter no more; Dead heroes make holy The trifles they wore; So a wreath better winning Than laurel and bay Seems the cap of the soldier, Marked "Company K."

For eyes have looked steady Its visor beneath O'er the work of the reaper, Whose harvest is Death. Let the muster-roll meagre So mournfully say How foremost in danger Went "Company K "—

Whose footstep unbroken Came up to the town, Where rampart and bastion Looked fearfully down— Who, closing up breaches, Yet kept on their way, Till guns downward pointing Faced "Company K."

Like cameras fearful Stood cannon aloof, Till the signal was given To strike off a proof Of the soul of the soldier, To send up to Him. (Pray God that he knew them, Though bloody and dim!)

Who faltered or shivered? Who shunned battle-smoke? Whose fire was uncertain? Whose battle-line broke? Go ask it of History Years from to-day, And the record shall tell you, Not "Company K."

Tho' my darling is sleeping To-day with the dead, And daisies and clover Bloom over his head, I smile, tho' I'm crying As I lay it away, That battle-worn cap Lettered "Company K."

Our Folks

OUR FOLKS.

HI! Harry Holly! Halt! and tell A fellow just a thing or two; You've had a furlough—been to see How all the folks in Jersey do. It's months agone since I was there— I, and a bullet from Fair Oaks. When you were home, old comrade, say, Did you see any of our folks?

"You did? Shake hands. Oh, ain't I glad? For if I do look grim and rough, I've got some feelin'. People think A soldier's heart is mighty tough;

But, Harry, when the bullets fly, And hot saltpetre flames and smokes, While whole battalions lie afield, One's apt to think about his folks.

"And so you saw them? When? and where? The old man—is he lively yet? And mother—does she fade at all, Or does she seem to pine and fret For me? And Sis—has she grown tall? And did you see her friend—you know That Annie Moss? (How this pipe chokes!) Where did you see her? Tell me, Hal, A lot of news about our folks.

"You saw them in the church, you say; It's likely, for they're always there." "Not Sunday." "No? A fun'ral? Who? Why, Harry, how you shake and stare! 'All well,' you say, and all were out. What ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax? Why don't you tell me, like a man, What is the matter with our folks?"

"I said all well, old comrade, true; I say all well, for He knows best Who takes the young ones in his arms Before the sun goes to the west. The axe-man Death deals right and left, And flowers fall as well as oaks;

And so—fair Annie blooms no more! And that's the matter with your folks.

"See, this long curl was kept for you; And this white blossom from her breast; And here, your sister Bessie wrote A letter telling all the rest. Bear up, old friend." Nobody speaks; Only the old camp-raven croaks, And soldiers whisper: "Boys, be still; There's some bad news from Granger's folks."

He turns his back (the only foe That ever saw it) on this grief, And, as men will, keeps down the tears Kind Nature sends to Woe's relief. Then answers he: "Ay, Hal, I'll try; But in my throat there's something chokes, Because, you see, I've thought so long To count her in among our folks.

"I s'pose she must be happy now, But still I will keep thinking too I could have kept all trouble off By being tender, kind, and true. But maybe not. She's safe up there; And when the Hand deals other strokes, She'll stand by heaven's gate, I know, And wait to welcome in our folks."

Picking Hops

PICKING HOPS

ON the hills of old Otsego, By her brightly gleaming lake, Where the sound of horn and hunter Sylvan echoes love to wake, Where the wreaths of twining verdure Clamber to the saplings' tops, I sat beside sweet Minnie Wilder In the great field picking hops.

Then the clusters green and golden Binding in her sunny hair, Half afraid, yet very earnest, Looking in her face so fair; Speaking low, while Squire Von Lager Talked of past and coming crops, Said I, "Minnie, should a soldier Stay at home here, picking hops?

"While the country, torn asunder, Calls for men like me to fight, And the voice of patriots pleading Asks for hands to guard the right; While from hearts of heroes slaughtered Still the life-blood slowly drops, Can I—shall I stay beside you, Minnie darling, picking hops?"

Very pale the cheek was growing, And the hand I held was cold;

But the eye was bright and glowing, While my troubled thought was told; Yet her voice was clear and steady, Without sigh, or tear, or stops, When she answered, speaking quickly, "'Tis women's work, this picking hops.

"Men should be where duty calls them— Women stay at home and pray For the gallant absent soldier, Proud to know he would not stay." "Bravely spoken, darling Minnie!" Then I kissed her golden locks, Breathed anew a soldier's promise, As we sat there picking hops.

"Now I go away to-morrow, And I'll dare to do or die, Win a leader's straps and sword, love, Or 'mid fallen heroes lie. Then, when all of earth is fading, And the fluttering life-pulse stops, Still, 'mid thoughts of home and heaven, I'll remember picking hops."

On Guard

ON GUARD.

OPEN your eyes, my darling; Gather the snowy lid Off from the sleeping glory Under the lashes hid.

How can I tell, my darling, What you would choose to say, If the bright brown eyes were open, The white lid drawn away?

Never was doorway barred So close as the blue-veined gate; Wake! I am here, my darling; I would, but I cannot, wait.

Softly the shining glory Lifts in the waking eyes, And a flash like summer lightning Tells of a glad surprise.

Then, with a lover's craving, I ask of the eyes again If their tale is true for ever, And find, with a jealous pain,

That behind their brightest glitter Lies that I cannot see, And thoughts may crouch behind them That speak no word to me.

O human soul so near me, Still with thy visor barred, When shall I know thee truly, Without thy starry guard?—

Never to read thee better, Never to read aright,

Till blots and blanks and errors The world beyond makes right?

So shut your eyes, my darling; My heart is beating true, But what your soul is thinking I'll guess the white lids through;

And so escape the knowing There lies a subtle mist Across the eyes wide open My loving lips have kissed.

Fire-Proof

FIRE-PROOF.

THERE'S a house burned down! Only, gaunt and black, Stands the smoky shaft Of the chimney-stack; And the fireplace small, Where we sat together, Cannot hide us now From the wind and weather. But the twilight talk And the childish chat By yon blistered hearth,— What can burn up that?

All the tender dreams Over hands entwined;

All the parting words Of the souls now shrined; All the faces turned To the firelight red— Faces furrowed now By the Reaper's tread; All the cradle songs To the babies sung; All the girlish mirth On its embers flung, As a gay good-night Promised glad good-morrow, And the happy sleep Had no waking sorrow.

Ah! the falling wall And the flame's hot breath Has for these no doom— Has for these no death.

There's a fire-proof safe None can mar or make, Where we keep them close, For their own dear sake.

So the house may burn, And the chimney fall; In our hearts they lie, Safe and guarded all.

Given, not Hired

GIVEN, NOT HIRED.

WE hire the roof above our heads, And walls to gird us round, The garden-walk, the drooping vine, The rose, and blossom-mound; But, oh that streak of sunset sky Between the budding trees, The moonlight on the little porch,— Whom shall we pay for these?

We have musicians too all day, Whose flutes we did not bring; An oriole trills all the while, And saucy robins sing; While in the bush of evergreen A cat-bird, gray and shy, A solo gives. Who pays the birds For all these songs ? Not I.

Just when the twilight turns to dusk, And reveries are sweet, A piping voice, exceeding small, Sounds by my idle feet, And bids me listen to its tale Of home and household fire— Our cricket that we did not bring, The song we did not hire.

The summer wind that lifts the leaves, To whisper soft and low

How roses and syringas bloom, How sweet acacias blow, With memories of childish hours In garden pathways sweet— Who sends the south wind to my door, With soft, unshodden feet?

Nay, these are gifts one cannot buy, Nor pay in market gold; One debt uncancelled evermore When cycles shall have rolled. So, lifting up a thankful heart To God, who gives, I cry, "Thou knowest, Lord, I cannot pay For all these things; not I."

Three Scenes in One Woman's Life

THREE SCENES IN ONE WOMAN'S LIFE.

THE gay sun looked on a goodly show As the hunt swept by royal Fontainebleau; The song was hushed which the wild bird sang, While the sylvan sounds through the alleys rang.

There were statesmen grave, there were ladies fair, There were knightly names such as heroes wear, While the hand which held loyal France in check Rested prone and gloved on a horse's neck.

But the sunshine glanced from the regal crest To a curl wind-blown on a woman's breast,

Where the fair "Montijo" a picture stood— Far the fairest thing in the royal wood;

And it touched her cap with its plume of snow, Lit the golden wealth of the tress below, Showed the hunting-suit all of courtly green, With the royal "N" on the buttons' sheen;

Then it softly kissed, with a tender grace, The lifted glance of her lovely face. O maiden fair, both the bird and sun Know a woman s heart and an empire won.

Where the mould'ring dust of the Pharaohs slept, And the desert sand over temples crept, Came a barge ablaze with the fleur-de-lis To the bridal-rite of the wedded sea.

Once again the sun with his tropic stare, Looking fondly down on her face so fair, Underneath the folds of the banners bright, Saw a royal form in its robe of white—

Saw the wealth and pomp of an empire shed On the jewelled locks of Eugénie's head— Saw the queenly wave of the snowy hand As the courtiers bent to the burning sand.

A stripling pale and sad and worn, From love and hope and kingdom torn,

On English soil waits wearily The next strange page of history, Which may be turned with bayonet, Whose pictures are with red blood wet, Thinking, poor boy! of struggling France; When, lo! an idle lifted glance Sees strangers, all in convent guise, Pass doubtingly before his eyes.

No sunshine now. Through shadow pale, A fugitive in hood and veil Asks for the prince. There is a cry, A sudden lifting of the eye, Then folded arms and smothered speech One lesson, old as Calv'ry, teach: Though empires die and kingdoms fall, Sweet mother-love outlives them all.

No crown lies on her folded hair, But silver threads are shining there, While merry birds sing soft and low The song they sang in Fontainebleau.

Midnight

MIDNIGHT.

OH, the solemn, silent midnight! Oh, the hush of sleeping things, When the hours above the sleepers Softly shake their dusky wings!

Then the watchers by the dying, Stepping softly, whisper low, For they've heard that waiting angels Best at midnight love to go.

To the eye of the All-seeing, Doth a cloud of souls arise From the blackness of night-nooning Toward the lights of Paradise?

Oh, the solemn, silent midnight! When a host of baby souls Come to tenant new-made mansions Far and near between the poles—

Come with wailing cry and protest, Dimly conscious of the strife, Wee, unwilling, helpless tenants, Loath to meet the tax of life.

Oh, the solemn, silent midnight! When the sins the daylight kissed Turn, and stalk like ghosts before us, Sure to keep unwelcome tryst.

Then the good deeds, counted giants In the sunshine's golden gleam, Underneath the starry zenith Only shrunken pigmies seem.

Oh, the blessed, silent midnight! When the smoke of battle, blown

Aside a moment, shows us angels Nearest when we seem alone.

Faithful spirits, true and tender, Tethered only by the stars, Walk far down the plains of heaven, To meet us at the midnight's bars.

No Name

NO NAME.

WHAT shall we call our baby, wife? The queer, wee mortal thing, With battling hand and restless foot, And ear like midge's wing.

We'll give her chrism sweet and small, A word that's soft and low, A sound to hear from lips of love As days of earth-life go.

Pansy, or Rose, or Daisy, dear? Helen, or Grace, or Fay? We've called her "Baby" long enough; 'Tis near her christ'ning-day.

You don't care, do you, Baby dear? You'll gabble, cry, and crow If we should call you Polly Ann, If we but speak it low.

But by and by, my woman-child, For tones you love to hear Your name shall be a fairy boat To bear sweet loves-notes near.

And so it shall be soft and sweet, As wood-bird's matin shy; So, sweet, I can't decide to-day— I'll find one by and by.

Ice-cold, and like a waxen thing, The quiet sleeper lies, With hands upfolded on its breast, And soul gone home to Paradise.

Its small life lived, its sheaf of tears Bound in a bundle small, It folded thus its waxen hands At some Almighty call.

Our list'ning ear no accents caught No name like earth-born word But still methinks an angel called "Baby!" and Baby heard.

Out of Style

OUT OF STYLE.

LADY LESTER sighed—such a well-bred sigh!— As her daughter passed the piazza by, Slender, and pallid, and drooping over, Like the burdened bloom of the dewy clover, Holding a volume, in childish wise, Close to her eager and solemn eyes, Till stumbling feet had betrayed their trust, And, shuffling, stirred the unpolished dust.

"No style at all,"Lady Lester spoke, As another sigh on the silence broke. "Not a bit of style—just her pa again; He's a clumsy soul, though the best of men. Straighter, Rosie! straight! hold your shoulders low! Keep your toes turned out, and your head up—so!"

There was lifting up of the great gray eyes, With an earnest glance, full of strange surprise That the legend sweet of the dream-lit land Was a vision only within her hand, Where the princes lived only wrongs to right, And the brownies wrought through the summer night.

"Ah! yes, mamma." With her loving smile Rosie raised her head. For a little while Proudly trod the path like a grenadier; Then the story grew so exceeding queer She forgot the charge, and the time and place, And relapsed at once into deep disgrace.

Lady Lester saw and decided then To appeal once more to "the best of men" Whether masters, gold, and the closest care Could not give their Rosie "a better air." So a new departure was planned and made, With her soul left out of the plan they laid.

Braces and arguments, daily walks, Wise emulation and worldly talks, With all the polishing tools now used, Were thus in a wonderful system fused.

They trained her brain, in the highest school; They trained her feet, till she stepped by rule; They trained her tongue, till her heart was mute Like idle walls of a soundless lute. All through, her soul, looking out afar, Fought underneath golden bolt and bar, Asked higher themes for itself the while Than new demands of the latest style.

It loved and longed for the better things Here daily touched by the angels' wings; From daisy buds, as they droop and nod, To the round of stars and their hymn of God. In dim green woods, on the sounding shore, 'Mid songs of birds, 'mid the torrent's roar, In churchyards dim, in the sunset glow, Through autumn winds or the winter snow, She listened still, for she heard the while Old-fashioned words that are out of style—

Words rarely spoken at Lester Hall, Forgotten soon when they fell at all; Of grand old themes—of the world to be— Of the Open Door—and the Crystal Sea— Or tender words that were set afloat On the faithful air from a fisher's boat— Of the lilies, safe in the better Care Than the shining gems of a monarch are.—

Then the hungry soul from its harbor slipped For a better port, and its Master shipped, Through the Open Door to the Crystal Sea, On the sunless light of the "time to be;" Out of discord, pain, and misplaced endeavor, Out of worldly care, "out of style," for ever.

Then the wounded hearts, as they saw her go, Lighter held the earth and its shining show, Learning all too late, as they weep to-day, That an angel tarried, but could not stay.

The Evergreen's Moan

THE EVERGREEN'S MOAN.

I THOUGHT, in early spring, how fair 'Twould be to bloom for ever— To wear my gallant Lincoln green Untouched by time or weather.

I saw the maples' golden gown About her cold feet lying,

The oak tree's dark and tattered cloak Off on the wild wind flying.

The crimson knots fell one by one Off from the rose tree's shoulder, And so untied its robe of green Ere autumn nights grew colder.

The ripened grain waved me adieu; The bird stopped, southward going, Then went his way. I watch alone, The north wind coldly blowing.

I would that I too with the rest Had been content to slumber; The robe of life I coveted Now clothes me but to cumber.

There would have then been some regrets, Some whisper softly sighing, When loit'ring lovers homeward went Through leaves about me dying.

And this is why to wintry winds I tell my thrice-told story: Life, lonely life, when friends have gone, Is but a doubtful glory.

The November Garden

THE NOVEMBER GARDEN.

POOR old weeping, faded garden! Hear her moaning: "Well-a-day! I had friends and wooing lovers In the merry month of May. Now I'm lonely, With me only Lingers dark and drear decay.

"Roses, with their lips of velvet, Kissed me into summer's noon; Dahlias promised faithful friendship 'Neath the yellow harvest-moon. Fair and fleeting Was each greeting; Kiss and promise failed me soon.

"Artemisia, scorned in summer, With her quaint and thrifty ways, Only she has not forsaken Through the dark November days. But to cheer me Still keeps near me, Cheerful in the white sun-rays.

"Yonder forest glows in splendor; Poets, artists, women fair, Kneel before it, like an altar, Heavenly-lighted, blazing there,

And its glory Gilds the story, Tints the picture, wreathes the hair."

"O wailing, worn, forsaken garden," Artemisia softly said, "Know you not there's glory waiting When these autumn days have sped— A sequel glory To Life s story, A crown of crystal for the head?"

O'er the waiting, silent garden Came, one starry, frosty night, Strange new robes of shining splendor, Crystalline and strangely bright. So morning found The garden crowned, And robed in mystic robe of white.

Each leaf, and bough, and carved capsule, Seeded plume, grass-blade, and stone, With curious screen of spiders' weaving, In a resplendent rainbow shone. So, ere the morn To earth was born, The King redeemed her for his own.

By the Cottonwood Tree

BY THE COTTONWOOD TREE.

THEN why do I sell it?" you ask me again, "Big cabin an' clearin, an' all?" Well, stranger, I'll tell you, though maybe you'll think It ain't any reason at all.

There's plenty of hardship in pioneer-life— A hard-workin' stint, at the best— But I'd stick to it yet if it wasn't for this, A heart like a log in my breast.

D'ye see, over there by the cottonwood tree, A climbin' rose, close by a mound, Inside of a fence made of rough cedar boughs?— Prairie wolves ain't too good to come round—

Well, Hetty, my darling old woman, lies there; Not very old either, you see; She wa'n't more'n twenty the year we come West; She'd ha' been—comin' grass—thirty-three.

What a round little face an' a cheek like a peach She had, little Hetty, be sure! What courage to take me! She knew all the while I was friendless and terrible poor.

How she worked with a will at our first little hut, In the field, and among garden stuff,

Till her forehead was burned, and her poor little hand, Through its hardships, got rugged and rough!

But many a time, when I come in the door Quite sudden, I've found her just there, With eyelids all red an' her face to the East— You see, all her own folks was there.

I cheered her, an' told her we'd go by and by, When the clearin' and ploughin was through; And then came the baby—he wa'n't very strong— So that Hetty had plenty to do.

But after a while she got gloomy again; She would hide in the cornfield to cry; We hadn't no meetin' to speak of, you see, No woman to talk to was nigh.

An' she wanted to show little Joe to the folks; She was hungry, I s'pose, for the sight Of faces she'd seen all the days of her life: That was nat'ral, stranger, an' right.

But just when she thought to go over the Plains The devils of Sioux was about; So poor Hetty waited a harvest or two, Through the summer of locusts and drought.

That left us poor people. The next coming spring Such a wearisome fever come round;

An', stranger—hold on till I tell you; there now!— It laid little Joe in the ground.

I know'd then I'd got to send Hetty off East If I cared about keepin' her here; She pined to a shadder, an' moped by his grave, Though her eyes brighter grew, and more clear.

If you'd seen her poor face when I told her I'd go And take her home visitin'! Well, I'll never forget how she put out her hands Into mine, an', fur joy, cried a spell.

She didn't feel strong, though, that week or the next, An' the cough an' the fever increased; While softly she whispered—she couldn't speak loud— "You'll take me by'm by, to the East?"

She never got East; any further than that (And a hand pointed off to the mound); But I'm goin' to take her and Joe, when I go, To her father's old buryin'-ground.

This, stranger, 's the reason I'm willin' to sell; You can buy at a bargain, you see; It's mighty good land fur a settler to own, But it looks like a graveyard to me.

The Birds Camp-meeting

THE BIRDS' CAMP-MEETING.

DID you ever hear of the bird's camp-meeting? It was held the loveliest day of June; Brother Blackbird wisely led the preaching, And Bob-o'-Lincoln led off each tune.

The Magpie, out on a circuit going, Declared himself a repentant sinner, And then flew off and purloined a spoon That was lying close by a poor man's dinner.

The Parrot spoke with a claw uplifted, And told them a story as old as sin, And exceeding dull; so the brethren whispered, And voted it an unmeaning din.

Kingfisher came from the reedy meadow, Piping a measure that nobody knew, Till Robert-o'-Lincoln was quite discouraged Before the singer was halfway through.