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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,
Dat de Stossenheim im oaken Wald

Lay dyin all alone;
Vhile his oldt white horse mit droopin het

Look dumbly on him down,
Ash if he dinked, “ Vy lyest dou here

Vhile fightin 's goin on?"

Und dreams coom o'er de soldier,

Slow dyin on de eart,
Of a Schloss afar in Baden,

Of his mutter, und nople birt
Of poverty und sorrow

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!
Dere 's a frau dat sits in de Odenwald,

Und shpins, und dinks of me.
Dere's a shild ash blays in de greenin grass,

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 ;
Und I nefer shall forget it,

De hour ve puried him.
De tramp of horse und soldiers

Vas all de funeral knell,
De ring of sporn und carpine

Vas all de sacrin bell.
Mit hoontin knife und sabre

Dey digged de grave a span;
From German eyes blue gleamin

De holy water ran.

Mit moss-grown shticks und bark-thong

De plessed cross ve made,
Und put it vhere de soldier's head

Toward Germany vas laid.
Dat grave is lost mid dead leafs,

De cross is gone afay,
Boot Gott will find der reiter

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 night is dark around me,

De shtars apove are bright.
Studenten im den Gassen

Make singen many a song,
Ach Faderland !- wie bist du weit!

Ach Zeit !-wie bist du lang!

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.'

(BORN, 1824-DIED, 1892.)

FROM THE SUMMER DIARY OF MINERVA

TATTLE.

NEWPORT, August.
T certainly is not papa's fault that he does n't

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.

xxiii.

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,

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