And I wished to God, as I saw him pass,
That more were "peculiar" to-day.

One morn, when the sun shone clear and bright,

There came a knock at his door;

But all was still, though the sunlight fell

Over the cottage floor.

Said one, "Is the old man asleep or dumb?
Does he know it's the noon of day?"

But another shrugged his shoulders, and said:
"It's his odd, peculiar way.”

They passed up the rickety attic stair,

Where, with never a sob or a moan,

The old man lay in his final rest,

With his hands close folded, alone.

Was he sleeping? Yes! for his eyes were closed;
His dreams were sweet, for he smiled;

And the smile that lay on his lips was as fair

As that of a little child.

Then they said, ah, never a thoughtless word,

But bore him tenderly down,

With a whispered prayer, to the churchyard small,

Just out of the noisy town.

They missed him then who had never borne

In their selfish lives a part;

But God knew all, and had not forgot

That good, "peculiar" heart.

HARRIET M. SPALDING.

THE OLD CANTEEN.

Send it up to the garret? Well, no; what's the harm
If it hangs like a horseshoe to serve as a charm?
Had its day, to be sure: matches ill with things here;
Shall I sack the old friend just because it is queer?
Thing of beauty 'tis not, but a joy none the less,
As my hot lips remember its old-time caress,

And I think on the solace once gurgling between
My lips from that old battered tin canteen.

It has hung by my side in the long, weary tramp,
Been my friend in the bivouac, barrack, and camp,
In the triumph, the capture, advance and retreat,
More than light to my path, more than guide to my feet.
Sweeter nectar ne'er flowed, howe'er sparkling and cold,
From out chalice of silver or goblet of gold,
For a king or an emperor. princess or queen,
Than to me from the mouth of that old canteen.

It has cheered the desponding on many a night,

Till their laughing eyes gleamed in the camp-fire light.
Whether guns stood in silence, or boomed at short range,
It was always on duty; though 'twould not be strange
If in somnolent periods just after "taps"
Some colonel or captain, disturbed at his naps,
May have felt a suspicion that “spirits" unseen
Had somehow bedeviled that old canteen.

But I think on the time when in lulls of the strife
It has called the far look in dim eyes back to life:
Helped to stanch the quick blood just beginning to pour,
Softened broad, gaping wounds that were stiffened and sore,
Moistened thin, livid lips, so despairing of breath

They could only speak thanks in the quiver of death;

If an angel of mercy e'er hovered between

This world and the next, 'twas that old canteen.

Then banish it not as a profitless thing,

Were it hung in a palace it well might swing
To tell in its mute, allegorical way
How the citizen volunteer won the day:
How he bravely, unflinchingly, grandly won,
And how, when the death-dealing work was done,
'Twas as easy his passion from war to wean
As his mouth from the lips of that old canteen.

By and by. when all hate for the rags with the bars
Is forgotten in love for the "stripes and the stars"

When Columbia rules everything solid and sole,
From her own ship canal to the ice at the pole:
When the Grand Army men have obeyed the last call,
And the May flowers and violets bloom for us all:
Then away in some garret the cobwebs may screen
My battered, old, cloth-covered tin canteen!

G. M. WHITE,

HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.

FROM "KING HENRY IV," PART I.

But I remember when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped,
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home;

He was perfumed like a milliner;

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held

A pouncet box, which ever and anon

He gave his nose, and took 't away again;—
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff:-and still he smiled and talked;
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,

He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse

Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He questioned me; among the rest, demanded

My prisoners in your majesty's behalf.

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,

To be so pestered with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience,

Answered neglectingly, I know not what,

He should, or he should not; for he made me mad

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,

Of guns, and drums, and wounds.-God save the mark!And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth

Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;

And that it was great pity, so it was,

That villainous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.

WM. SHAKESPEARE.

THE MAIN TRUCK.

Old Ironsides at anchor lay,

In the harbor of Mahon;
A dead calm rested on the bay,-
The waves to sleep had gone;
When little Hal, the Captain's son,
A lad both brave and good,
In sport, up shroud and rigging ran,
And on the main truck stood!

A shudder shot through every vein,—
All eyes were turned on high!
There stood the boy, with dizzy brain,
Between the sea and sky;

No hold had he above, below;

Alone he stood in air:

To that far height none dared to go,―

No aid could reach him there.

We gazed, but not a man could speak!
With horror all aghast,—

In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,
We watched the quivering mast.
The atmosphere grew thick and hot,
And of a lurid hue;--

As riveted unto the spot,

Stood officers and crew.

The father came on deck:-he gasped,
"O, God! thy will be done!"

Then suddenly a rifle grasped,
And aimed it at his son.

"Jump, far out, boy, into the wave!

Jump, or I fire,” he said,

"That only chance your life can save; Jump, jump, boy!" He obeyed.

He sunk,-he rose,-he lived,―he moved,—
And for the ship struck out.

On board we hailed the lad beloved,

With many a manly shout.

His father drew, in silent joy,

Those wet arms round his neck,

And folded to his heart his boy,

Then fainted on the deck.

WALTER COLTON.

MONA'S WATERS.

O Mona's waters are blue and bright

When the sun shines out like a gay young lover; But Mona's waves are dark as night

When the face of heaven is clouded over.

The wild wind drives the crested foam

Far up the steep and rocky mountain,

And booming echoes drown the voice,
The silvery voice, of Mona's fountain.

Wild, wild, against that mountain's side

The wrathful waves were up and beating, When stern Glenvarloch's chieftain came; With anxious brow, and hurried greeting, He bade the widowed mother send,

(While loud the tempest's voice was raging,) Her fair young son across the flood,

Where winds and waves their strife were waging.