That swept them down in its terrible ireAnd 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 corn-field near.

"Ephraim Deane!" -then a soldier spoke:

"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 road-side 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."

'Twas 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!"

N. G. SHEPHERD.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugies sang truce,--for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night, on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain;

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again.

Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:
'T was autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating alost,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup; and fondly I swore,

From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart.

'Stay, stay with us, rest, thou art weary and worn;"
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;-

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

HANDY ANDY AT THE POST OFFICE.

"Ride into the town and see if there's a letter for me," said the

squire one day to our hero.

"Yes, sir."

"You know where to go?"

"To the town, sir."

"But do you know where to go in the town?"

"No, sir."

"And why don't you ask, you stupid thief?"

"Sure I'd find out, sir."

"Didn't I often tell you to ask what you're to do, when you don't know?”

"Yes, sir."

"And why don't you?"

I don't like to be throublesome, sir."

“Confound you!" said the squire: though he could not help laughing at Andy's excuse for remaining in ignorance.

"Well," continued he, "go to the postoffice.

postoffice, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir, where they sell gunpowder.”

You know the

"You're right for once," said the squire; for His Majesty's postmaster was the person who had the privilege of dealing in the aforesaid combustible. "Go then, to the postoffice, and ask for a letter for me. Remember-not gunpowder, but a letter."

"Yes, sir," said Andy, who got astride of his hack, and trotted away to the postoffice. On arriving at the shop of the postmaster (for that person carried on a brisk trade in groceries, gimlets, broadcloth, and linen-drapery) Andy presented himself at the counter, and said, “I want a letther, sir, if you plaze.”

"Who do you want it for?" said the postmaster, in a tone which Andy considered an aggression upon the sacredness of private life; so Andy thought the coolest contempt he could throw upon the prying impertinence of the postmaster, was to repeat his question.

"I want a letther, sir, if you plaze."

"And who do you want it for?" repeated the postmaster.
"What's that to you?" said Andy.

The postmaster, laughing at his simplicity, told him he could not tell what letter to give him, unless he told him the direction.

"The directions I got was to get a letther here-that's the directions."

"Who gave you those directions?"

"The masther."

"And who's your master?"

"What consarn is that o`yours?”

"Why, you stupid rascal! if you don't tell me his name, how can I give you a letter?"

"You could give it if you liked; but you're fond of axin' impident questions, bekase you think I'm simple."

"Go along out o' this! Your master must be as great a goose as yourself, to send such a messenger."

"Bid luck to your impidence," said Andy, "is it Squire Egan you dar to say goose to?"

"Oh, Squire Egan's your master, then?"