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Ash he wiped his ploody sabre,
“ Now, poys, count oop your dead ! "
O small had peen our shoutin
For shoy, if ve had known,
Lay dyin all alone;
Look dumbly on him down,
Vhile fightin 's goin on?"
Und dreams coom o'er de soldier,
Slow dyin on de eart,
Of his mutter, und nople birt
Vhich drofe him like de windUnd he sighed : "Ach weh, for de lofed ones
Who wait so far pehind !”
“ Wohl auf, my soul o'er de moundains !
Wohl auf-well ofer de sea!
Und shpins, und dinks of me.
Und sings a liddle hymn,
Und learns to shpeak a fader's name
Dat she nefer will shpeak to him.
" But mordal life ends shortly,
Und Heafen's life is longWo bist du, Breitmann ?-glaub'es
Gott suffers no ding wrong. Now I die like a Christian soldier ;
My head oopon my sword :In nomine Domine!"
Vas Stossenheim his word.
O, dere vas bitter wailen
Vhen Stossenheim vas found, Efen from dose dere lyin
Fast dyin on de grount. Boot time vas short for vaiten,
De shades vere gadderin dim ;
De hour ve puried him.
Vas all de funeral knell,
Vas all de sacrin bell.
Dey digged de grave a span;
De holy water ran.
Mit moss-grown shticks und bark-thong
De plessed cross ve made,
Toward Germany vas laid.
De cross is gone afay,
Oopon de Youngest Day.
Und dinkin of de fightin,
Und dinkin of de dead, Und dinkin of de Organ,
To Nashville Breitmann led. Boot long dat rough oldt Hanserl
Vas ernsthaft, grim und kalt, Shtill dinkin of de heart's friend,
He'd left im gruenen Wald.
De verses of dis boem
In Heidelberg I write.
De shtars apove are bright.
Make singen many a song,
Ach Zeit !-wie bist du lang!
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.'
(BORN, 1824-DIED, 1892.)
FROM THE SUMMER DIARY OF MINERVA
understand French; but he ought not to pretend to. It does put one in such uncomfortable situations occasionally. In fact, I think it would be quite as well if we could sometimes “sink the paternal," as Timon Creesus says. I suppose everybody has heard of the awful speech pa made in the parlor at Saratoga. My dearest friend, Tabby Dormouse, told me she had heard of it everywhere, and that it was ten times as absurd each time it was repeated. Bythe-bye, Tabby is a dear creature, is n't she? It's so nice to have a spy in the enemy's camp, as it were, and to hear every thing that everybody says about you. She is not handsome, poor, dear Tabby! There's no denying it, but she can't help it. I was obliged to tell young See Biographical Sketch, p.
Downe so, quite decidedly, for I really think he had an idea she was good-looking. The idea of Tabby Dormouse being handsome! But she is a useful little thing in her way; one of my intimates.
The true story is this.
Ma and I had persuaded pa to take us to Saratoga, for we heard the English party were to be there, and we were anxious they should see some good society, at least. It seems such a pity they should n't know what handsome dresses we really do have in this country! And I mentioned to some of the most English of our young men, that there might be something to be done at Saratoga. But they shrugged their shoulders, especially Timon Cræsus and Gauche Boosey, and said,
“Well, really, the fact is, Miss Tattle, all the Englishmen I have ever met are—in fact-a little snobbish. However."
That was about what they said. But I thought, considering their fondness of the English model in dress and manner, that they might have been more willing to meet some genuine aristocracy. Yet, perhaps, that handsome Col. Abattew is right in saying with his grand military air,